Haunted

by Tamara Thorne

  He descended, nervous but happy because he knew that Mephisto Palace would be another bestseller. He sensed that Body House had the potential to scare him worse than anything ever had and he knew the fear was the secret of his success. Once his fears overrode his intellect, he could trip on his endorphins, ride a roller coaster of emotions, and love every minute of it. He was, he thought as he reached the main floor, nothing but a perverted thrill seeker. At least, he told himself, no one can say I don't sacrifice for my art.

  Chapter Seven

  Body House: 8:44 A.M.

  "What are you smiling about?" Amber asked her father as he walked into the parlor.

  "I have a feeling Mephisto Palace is going to be the best book I've ever written, kiddo."

  She laughed. "You always say that at first, then when you finish it, no matter how good it is, you decide it stinks until your editor tells you it doesn't."

  "Of course," he said lightly. "That's how it works."

  Amber rolled her eyes.

  "I smell food, my dear. Let's find it."

  Though she didn't want to run into Mrs. Willard again, Amber was too hungry to disagree. As they entered the dining room, the woman bustled in from the kitchen carrying a carafe of orange juice and glasses.

  Despite her ratty name, she looked like a fat little forest creature right out of Bambi, a grandmotherly rabbit with glasses. The silvery-white hair with its beauty-shop wave and the pale blue print dress and ruffled white apron screamed cookies and milk. She didn’t match her name at all until she opened her mouth, and that was the horror of the rat lady: she could talk you to death. Amber cringed as Willard cleared her throat.

  "Why, hello there, you must be Mr. Masters," she bubbled. "I recognize you from your book jacket photo, oh my, you're so handsome if you don't mind my saying so." She barely paused for a breath. "I've read all your books and I've so been looking forward to meeting you, why, I don't think wild horses could have made me work here in this nasty, nasty house, if Miss Pelinore hadn't told me it was you who were going to be here." She set the juice and glasses down and whisked forward, snaking her arm around Amber's waist before she could get away.

  Oh God, Amber prayed, oh God, strike her with terminal laryngitis.

  "You have such a lovely little girl, I mean young woman, here Mr. Masters. We had such a nice talk, didn't we, honey?"

  Mrs. Willard smiled, staring at her with bright robin's-egg eyes that were magnified through her rimless glasses, until Amber felt compelled to say something. "Yeah, I guess."

  "You must be so happy to have such a famous daddy," she went on as she set Amber free and continued toward Dad, both hands extended. "I'm just pleased as punch to meet you, Mr. Masters! Just so pleased! May I ask you a question?"

  He smiled benevolently. "What is it, Mrs. Willard?"

  "Well, I read all your books and everything, and I've always wondered how you come up with all those awful ideas? I could never think of such things." She barely paused for a breath. "Mr. Masters, something horrible must have happened to you as a child. Am I right?"

  "Nothing out of the ordinary," he replied calmly. "Everybody has an interest of some sort. In grade school, the kids would get to order little paperback books. Arrow Books," he added fondly. "I'd take my list home and check off all the books about ghosts and witches and haunted houses, and Mom would check to make sure I had my math right, then give me the money to buy them."

  "She didn't try to get you to read something else? That seems so morbid for a child--"

  "Of course not. Mom had bookshelves full of books on the Civil War. Dad was a nut for experimental gardening. The man had twenty-three books on grafting fruit trees." He smiled to himself. "I counted them once. They understood that everyone's different. That's what makes the world an interesting place."

  But she just beamed at him and took his hands again. "My, you're such a handsome young man, and talented too. And your daughter, so lovely. It's a shame..." She trailed off, a dreamy expression on her face, then her bright little chipmunk eyes shot back to his face. "Mr. Masters, did your wife divorce you because of all those scary stories you write?"

  Amber stifled a gasp, and turned to see her father's reaction. The first question had been bad enough, but this one was the worst. He hated how people always assumed that his wife must have divorced him, usually for any one of several reasons, number one being that he turned into an egomaniac when he became famous. Number two was that he couldn't keep his hands off his fans. Number three was that, like all writers, when David Masters wasn't drinking, he was shooting up heroin, and number four, Minnie's choice, was that anyone who wrote what he did had to be a psychopathic fiend who sacrificed children and small furry animals to Satan himself.

  The nervous tic in Dad's jaw barely twitched as he said softly, "Carol died in a car accident not long after Amber was born, Mrs. Willard, but I'd like to think that if she were here, she'd be proud of my work."

  The tiny woman's cheeks colored instantly and she let go of his hands and began fussing with her ruffles. "I'm so sorry, I--"

  "That's all right." He smiled gently.

  "My Mickey, that's Mr. Willard, he always tells me, 'Why don't you learn to stop and think before you start talking. That foot of yours is always in your mouth."

  "No harm done, Mrs. Willard."

  "Please call me Minnie. You, too, dear," she added, dimpling up at Amber.

  "Are you sure?" Amber asked before the old lady's mouth could go back into overdrive. "I mean, Miss Pelinore calls you Mrs. Willard and she's a lot older than me." She ignored the look her father was sending and smiled a major shiteater at Minnie.

  "Oh yes, you can call me Minnie, dear. Miss Pelinore has to call me Mrs. Willard."

  "Why?" Amber asked, continuing to ignore her dad.

  Minnie patted Amber's hand "Well, I'm not one to talk out of turn..."

  Oh, yes, you are. Amber smiled sweetly. "You can tell us." She glanced at her father and saw that his warning look had turned to bemusement. "Can't she, Dad?" She added that, knowing he couldn't resist: he always said his two favorite things were Italian food and people who talked too much.

  "Our lips are sealed," he said, right on cue.

  That was true. He could keep secrets as well as she could. If you told him anything, though, if it was good enough, you'd eventually find it twisted and deformed in one of his books. "Sealed," Amber repeated.

  Minnie Willard glanced around, as if she were afraid of eavesdroppers. "Miss Pelinore," she began conspiratorially, "is a hussy!" She blushed again. "Excuse my French. I shouldn't talk that way around a nice young lady like you, dear. I'm so sorry, I--"

  "I read my dad's books," Amber said, suddenly warming to the woman. "Nothing shocks me." Anyone who didn't like Pelinore couldn't be all bad.

  "Theo seems nice enough," Dad said, obviously feeling he should come to her defense.

  "Oh, Mr. Masters, all men think Miss Pelinore's sweet as peach pie." She lowered her voice. "But she's a rotten apple."

  "Why?" he persisted.

  "She's loose."

  Amber giggled.

  "She takes what isn't hers. Miss Greedyguts, that's who she is. Any woman can tell just by looking at her." She gave Amber a knowing nod. "Aren't I right dear?"

  "I couldn't agree with you more, Minnie."

  Minnie lifted her eyebrows above her glasses. "See? Now, you two sit down and I'll bring the rest of your meal out."

  "I told you," Amber hissed as soon as Minnie left. "I told you."

  "She didn't say anything important," her dad whispered back. "Theo warned me that Minnie's a gossip."

  "Oh, Daddy, Pelinore was ready to lick the eyebrows right off your face last night."

  To her surprise, Dad turned as red as punch, but before he could say anything, Minnie was back with plates of scrambled eggs and bacon. She set them down, then snitched a piece of bacon. "Mmm. Just right. That old stove works just as good as new. Well, I'll just go back to work."

&n
bsp; "Minnie?" Dad paused as the woman stole another piece of bacon. "All Miss Pelinore told me was that you agreed to keep house. She didn't mention cooking."

  Minnie snorted. "She didn't, did she? Well, that's just like her." She shook her head. "Once you're settled in and don't need as much help, I thought I'd come in Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays around ten in the morning and stay for two or three hours, or longer if there's something special that needs doing. I'll make your lunch on those days and, as often as you want, put together casseroles or whatever for your suppers." She dimpled up again. "You just have to tell me what you like. I grocery shop on Wednesdays and I'll do yours, too, if you give me a list."

  "That's very nice of you. Where do you shop?"

  "We couldn't find the supermarket last night," Amber chimed in.

  Minnie scratched her chin thoughtfully. "Well, you'd have to go all the way back down to Pismo for a real supermarket. There's a pricey gourmet market up in the hills, it's called Greenaway's, but only people like Theodora Pelinore shop there. The real folks shop at Ferd's market on Main Street, right near my Mickey's hardware store."

  "I know the place. Amber and I met Mr. Cox last night."

  "Well, if you want the town to accept you, shop at Cox's." She lowered her voice. "Then go up the hill to Greenaway's and get your caviar. Just don't let the locals see you. And don't tell Ferd Cox. He about has a conniption fit every time Greenaway's is mentioned."

  "He told us we're going to die in here," Amber chirped.

  "Oh, don't pay any attention to that line of talk. Ferd's okay, he just pretends to be a grouch. In fact, Mr. Masters, Ferd could probably tell you a lot of stories about this place. His granddaddy had his own ship back then and Ferd said he met Miss Lizzie herself."

  "Ferd did?" Amber asked. He looked as old as God, but ...

  "No, sweetie, his daddy did. Ferd wasn't born until the twenties, nor his brother, so he never knew Lizzie."

  Gee, there are two of them? Amber wondered with distaste.

  "There've always been whole herds of Coxes in these parts," Minnie rattled on, "so there were plenty of relatives to pass the stories along. The Coxes are a fine old family. Fishermen and politicians," she added, "and they do love their tales, tall or not."

  Amber was shaking with barely contained laughter, but Minnie and her father seemed oblivious.

  "Ferd didn't seem to care for me," Dad said.

  "Honey, he doesn't seem to like anybody. If Ferd ever cracked a smile, it would break his face. He goes to Barnacle Bob's just about every night. Buy him a beer. He'll talk, him and Andy both, though Andy's less lively than Ferd. They're twins, you know. If you want them to open up, just don't wear anything with designer labels showing." She barely paused for a breath. "If I might ask, Mr. Masters, do you have a lady friend?"

  David looked slightly taken aback. "No."

  "Well, I didn't mean to pry, but I had to know because I know someone you simply must meet. She's sweet as honey and cute as a bug in a rug, isn't that a silly expression, but she is. That cute," she added breathlessly. "And she's a writer, too. Just like you."

  "There's another novelist in town?" he asked, intrigued

  "Oh my, yes. She's written fifteen books!"

  "That's very impressive. Perhaps I've read one," he said.

  "Oh, no, I don't think so. Calla is a lit'ry novelist. She's my daughter, too," she added proudly.

  He smiled thinly. "I read all sorts of books, Minnie, not just horror novels."

  "Oh, no, I didn't mean to imply you weren't well read. You couldn't have read one because Calla hasn't sold any yet, though Lord knows she's tried. She's tried for fifteen years. I know she'd be honored if you'd read them for her, they're very good, so very lit'ry, you know. Maybe you could put in a good word with your publisher." She paused, eyes sparkling. "Or with your agent. She hasn't found the right agent yet. The book she's working on now is wonderful. It's called A Woman’s Purple Onion."

  Amber watched her father try to control the muscle that had begun twitching in his left cheek. She felt sorry for him as he worked to stay composed while Minnie blithely pushed almost every one of his hidden buttons.

  "I'm sorry," he said uncomfortably, "but my, ah, agent has advised me not to read unsold manuscripts."

  "What?" She obviously didn't believe him.

  "It's a legal thing. If an unsold manuscript happens to have something in it similar to something I've written that isn't published yet, an unscrupulous would-be writer might claim I stole his or her idea."

  "Calla would never do such a thing! Not my Calla!"

  He raised his hands. "Of course she wouldn't, but I can't break the rules. Sorry."

  "Well, that's terrible, having your reading censored like that."

  "Yes," he said with false helplessness, "but it's a price I have to pay."

  "Calla gets published all the time, though, in the Guardian. She's their star reporter. She did a story on your moving here that came out yesterday morning. She's going to review your books and she wants to interview you, won't that be nice? Well, I have work to do. Just leave the dishes when you're done. I'll clear them out."

  As soon as Minnie exited, Amber patted her father's hand. He still looked rattled. "How come you didn't ask Minnie Mouth if she'd had any haunting experiences here?"

  He laughed. "I never got the chance."

  "Yeah."

  "Hey, kiddo, do you think we really need a housekeeper? We used to get along just fine without one."

  "We lived in a two-bedroom house, Daddy, and it was a sty, except for when Melanie was there."

  "Yeah." He grimaced humorously. "Melanie and her list of Saturday morning chores that we all had to do."

  "No fun. Anyway, this place is huge and I can't cook any better than you can."

  "It would be nice to get some home cooking, wouldn't it?" He leaned back and stretched.

  "You said it, Dad."

  "Okay." He lowered his voice to a soft whisper. "We'll just have to work together to keep our problems at a minimum."

  "I'll tell her what a monster you are if someone bugs you while you're working," she whispered back.

  "Thanks. Lay it on thick, will you, sweetheart? I'm going to buy new latches for upstairs and locks for your room, my room, and my office today. I'll give you an office key, but you have to keep it hidden." He leaned over and whispered in her ear, "I think Minnie's a snoop."

  "Sure, Daddy, but she's probably not that bad," Amber said, even though she was picturing Minnie on the other side of the door straining to hear their conversation. "You're always a little paranoid about your books."

  "I can't take a chance on her getting into my manuscripts--"

  "She won't," Amber replied, though she wasn't so sure. "I mean, she's nosey and all, but she's nice."

  "You like her?"

  "I didn't at first."

  He smiled slightly. "I saw you when she badmouthed Theo. That's when your attitude changed."

  "And you say you're not psychic." She grinned, then asked in a normal tone, "When are you going into town?"

  "Now, I guess. I want to get back to interview our potential gardener and to oversee the movers while they break all our stuff." He stretched. "Why? Want to come along?"

  Amber smiled sweetly. "I think I'll stay here and look around--"

  "Not the third floor--"

  "If you say that enough times, I'll get so curious that I'll have to go up there, just like the people in your books."

  "Point taken."

  "Daddy?"

  "What?"

  "When you get back, can I take the Bronco and go exploring?"

  "As long as you stay in the general vicinity and get back by four or five in case I need to go out again."

  "It's a deal." She paused. "Did you hear anything last night? After we went to bed?"

  He cleared his throat and asked in a funny voice, "Noises?"

  "Um hum. I thought I heard music."

  "Singing?" he inquired caut
iously.

  "No. Piano music." She shook her head. "I'm not even sure I heard it. I might have dreamed it. Is something wrong, Daddy?"

  He visibly relaxed. "Nothing's wrong, kiddo. What kind of music did you hear?"

  "Old. Kind of like the music from The Sting."

  "Ragtime?"

  "Kind of." She hummed a few notes. "I can't think of the title."

  "Hello, my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime doll," he sang.

  "That's it. Maybe that old piano's got a ghost, huh Dad?"

  He grinned. "We can hope."

  Chapter Eight

  Byron’s Finger: 12:24 P.M.

  When David returned to the house, his Bronco laden with groceries, doorknobs, and shower fittings, the first thing he noticed was his daughter sitting on the tailgate of a beat-up blue pick-up truck with the handsomest man he'd ever laid eyes on.

  Anxious to get back, he'd resisted the urge to stop in at the library, or to try to drag Ferd Cox or the young clerk at the hardware store into conversations and, seeing his daughter swinging her jeans-clad legs and laughing with this stranger, he was suddenly very glad he'd returned so soon.

  Amber saw him and pointed. The man looked at him briefly, then waved. An instant later, the two of them trotted over, the young man only getting better looking as he neared. "Daddy, this is Eric Swenson. He's helping Mr. Willard with the house.

  No he’s not, he’s helping himself to my daughter. David tried to smile. "I've been looking forward to meeting you," he said, giving the boy's hand a strong shake. Eric met his grip firmly, thereby passing the handshake test.

  "Yes, sir. You too, sir." He smiled shyly. Eric Swenson's face possessed the bone structure of a Nordic god and he had the body to go with it. As tall as David, his hair was a wavy thatch of blondness, his smile winning, and his cornflower blue eyes as open and trusting as a child's.