by Edward Lee
“The rep. It bothers me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Who’s going to want to spend big money staying at a country inn with such a reputation?”
Vera knew what she meant; she’d thought about that herself, and quickly came to the conclusion that they needn’t worry. “Forget it, Donna. It’s all a bunch of crap, and even if it isn’t, that stuff supposedly went on fifty years ago.”
“What stuff?” Lee turned around and asked.
Donna seemed enthused. “The Inn used to be a place called Wroxton Hall. It was a sanitarium.”
“What’s a sanitarium?”
“It’s a place where you study sanitation, you dick-brain,” Dan B. laughed. “Didn’t they teach you anything in reform school?”
“They taught me how to lay pipe with your mom,” Lee came back.
“Please, please, stop,” Vera pleaded. ”A sanitarium, for your information, Lee, at least in this case, is an insane asylum. Not like the mental hospitals of today. Back then they pretty much just locked the mentally ill away instead of treating them. That’s where they sent people who were schizophrenics and psychotics.”
“And male virgins, too,” Dan B. added. “So you better be careful.”
“Oh, that’s real funny,” Lee said. “Almost as funny as your last special. Remember? We ran out of veal for the medallion soup, so you used pork.”
“That’s right, skillethead, and you didn’t even know the difference, so blow me.”
“I’d need tweezers and a magnifying glass to bl—”
“And what Donna is just itching to say,” Vera interrupted, “is that this particular asylum ran into a few problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Well,” Vera hesitated. “Evidently, some people died there.”
“They didn’t just die,” Donna augmented. “They were murdered.”
Vera shook her head. “Donna, even if it’s true, no one will remember it. It happened too long ago.”
“Someone must remember it.” Donna held up the book in her lap. The Complete Compendium of Haunted American Mansions, the title read in silly, dripping letters. “This book just came out a few weeks ago. And there’s a whole chapter on Wroxton Hall.”
“Wait a minute,” Dan B. testily jumped in. “What’s the big deal? Some people got murdered in an insane asylum—so what?”
“They were tortured to death,” Donna said. “By the staff. And a lot of the local residents say they’ve seen ghosts walking around in the building at night.”
“Ghosts?” Lee said. “You mean the place is haunted?”
“Aw, relax,” Dan B. chuckled. “There’s no ghosts.
It’s just your mom with a sheet over her head, looking for some free peter.”
Vera rolled her eyes. What am I going to do with these three nuts? she wondered.
««—»»
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Vera,” Dan B. complained. “How much longer?”
“We’re almost there. It’s right up the ridge.” At least she thought it was. The access road wound upward; cracks spiderwebbed the old asphalt. Skeletal branches seemed to reach out, trying to touch them. The tall forest blocked out the light.
They’d passed through Waynesville twenty minutes ago, a sleepy, rustic little town. It looked poor, rundown. A simple turn off, the route brought them into the face of the northern ridge. A haphazard sign signalled them: wroxton hall in hand-painted blue letters, and an arrow. Get a new sign, Vera thought, nearly groaning. And all this brush would need to be cut back, and the access road would have to be patched, and…
That was all Feldspar’s problem. Again, she wondered about these “restorations”; The Inn would have to be more than merely impressive in order to attract patrons through this mess. Surely, Feldspar knew this.
“This can’t be right.” Dan B. whipped his head toward Lee. “If you’d get your hand out of your pants and watch the map, then maybe we’d know where we were going.”
“Relax, Dumbo,” Lee came back. “This is the right road. It says right here on the map, Wroxton Estates.”
The moving truck rumbled behind them up the incline. Farther up, Vera felt some relief. A contractor’s sign, RANDOLPH CARTER EXCAVATORS, INC., had been posted. They were fixing the road and cutting back the overgrowth. Soon, construction vehicles came into view, refuse trucks, chipping machines, tree-trimming crews. At last, the winding, dark road opened into crisp winter daylight.
“Jesus Christ,” Dan B. muttered.
Lee’s face flattened in astonishment. “I don’t believe what I’m seeing.”
The car slowed around a vast, paved court. Vera and Donna gazed over the men’s shoulders. Center of the court was a huge, heated fountain; Sappho in white marble poured twin gushes of water from her elegant hands. Great hedges had been trimmed to the meticulousness of sculpture. And just beyond loomed the immense edifice of Wroxton Hall.
“Somebody pinch me so I wake up,” Donna said in wide-eyed wonder.
“Jesus Christ,” Dan B. repeated.
Lee’s rowdy voice hushed in awe. “This place is gonna kick…butt.”
Vera could only stare. A single glance quelled all her doubts at once. It’s beautiful, she thought.
Huge, high as a castle, Wroxton Hall had been restored to a Gothic masterpiece. Its old bricks had been sandblasted to a new earth-red luster. Sheets of ivy had actually been replanted in the new grout. The first-floor windows stood ten-feet tall, each opening to smooth, granite-edged verandas. The building rose in canted sections. Awninged balconies protruded from the second-and third-floor rooms; garret-suites, like ramparts against the sun, extended along the top floor. The roofs of each story had been laid in genuine slate, with polished stone friezes running the entire length of each. The building, in whole, looked nearly a hundred yards long.
Words occurred to Vera. Magnificent. Gorgeous. Awesome. But none seemed quite good enough to be applied to what stood before her. Palatial. There, that was it.
Wroxton Hall was far more than a restored mansion. It was a palace. Feldspar had retained the beauty of its age while rebuilding the place at the same time. Extraordinary, Vera thought. Feldspar’s a genius.
The four of them got out but could only remain standing speechless in the court. Birds looked down on them from the roof’s fine iron cresting. Each frieze bracket sported a gargoyle’s face, and the corner boards shined in polished granite against the plush red brick outer walls. The new glass of each high, narrow window reflected back at them like mirrors.
Behind them the move-it! truck rumbled up and stopped, discharging two loutish hired hands. “Fuckin’ Dark Shadows, man,” the driver commented through a high gaze. “Some joint, huh?” the other one remarked. “Where’s Trump and Maria?”
This was better than Vera could ever even have conceived. Feldspar was quite right; Wroxton Hall provided a resort of the utmost exclusivity. The remote locale meant nothing now. Once word got around in the trade magazines, people from all over the country would be coming here. People from all over the world.
Her excitement surged so intensely it seemed to arrest her will to move. She attempted to step forward, toward the front steps, but found she could only remain where she stood, her gaze scanning the building’s incomparable exterior. When the reality of what she was seeing set in, her breath grew light, and she actually felt subtly dizzied.
Slate-topped red brick steps led to the double entry doors, sided by great polished-granite blocks which gave perch to lazing stone lions. More articulate friezework underlined the transom’s gray-marble ledge and stained-glass fanlight. Wedged directly center was a small keystone of pure onyx in which was mounted a round, cut amethyst as big around as a silver dollar.
Great brass knockers decorated the high, walnut doors. More gorgeous stained glass filled the sidelights, set into ornate, carved sashes.
“We live here?” Lee mouthed in astonishment.
“Yes,” Vera near
ly croaked.
“Jesus Christ,” Dan B. remarked yet again.
“Are we going to stand here all day like four dopes,” Donna proposed, “or are we going to go in?’
A click resounded. Behind them, the heated fountain gushed. A black line formed in the elegant veneered walnut trim. Then the great front doors pulled slowly apart.
Feldspar stubbily stepped onto the wide stone stoop. He wore a fine heather-gray Italian suit, black shirt, and black silk tie. He let his eyes rove across their upturned faces, pausing. Then he smiled within the fastidiously trimmed goatee.
His voice loomed like the building: expansive, vast. “Welcome to Wroxton Hall,” he greeted. His broad, short hands opened at his sides, as a minister’s might, during the sermon. ‘Or I should say, welcome, my friends…to The Inn.”
— | — | —
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vera’s awe redoubled once she stepped past the inlaid foyer. Tall vases sprung with flowers stood at either side; Feldspar closed the front doors behind them. Dan B., Donna, and Lee all squinted off in different directions while Vera glanced upward at the great crystal chandelier. Its icelike shimmer seemed to hover.
‘‘The atrium,’’ Feldspar remarked, rather dully. “Satisfactory work, but I’ve seen better.”
I haven’t, Vera thought. If anything, The Inn’s interior was more magnificent than its exterior. Paneled walls rose thirty feet, adorned by great framed oil paintings of Victorian theme. A sharp scent of newness hovered, like the chandelier’s shimmer: newly cut wood, fresh shellac and stain, new carpet. Between the twin, curving staircases sat a beautifully veneered oak reception table; all of the atrium’s tables, in fact, were obviously of the exceptional quality, and centered before fine, plushly upholstered armchairs. The atrium had a classy, quiet feel to it, all soft, dark hues and dark wood, more akin to an English men’s club than a mere hotel entry. Statues in dark marble stood upon pedestals ensconced into the atrium’s paneled walls.
“This way,” Feldspar said.
They followed the odd man off to the right, to the lower west wing. A long wall of wooden lattice filled with myriad small glass panes ended at opened French doors. Above the door, off a black iron rung, suspended the mahogany sign in etched letters:
THE CARRIAGE HOUSE
Vera’s excitement strewed. Feldspar had spared no expense; this made The Emerald Room look like a rib shack. Fine, white linens over oak tables, quality wing chairs, plush, dark carpet. A long planter formed an aisle between the dining room and the kitchen entrance, full of a vast medley of fresh flowers. Tastefully framed rustic artwork, all original oils, embellished elegant, gray-paneled walls. Vera slowly wandered among the dining tables, and in rising awe she recognized the best of everything down to the most minute details. Le Perle silverware, Tiffany & Company saucers and cups, Homer Laughlin plates, Luminarc glasses, shakers, and table vases.
“You, of course, have final say on the serviceware inventory,” Feldspar told her, “should this prove insufficient.”
Insufficient? Vera could’ve fainted. She remembered her own inventory procurement when she’d taken over at The Emerald Room—a fortune, but nothing compared to this. If anything, Feldspar had spent more than he’d needed to.
“You gentlemen will want to inspect the kitchen facilities,” he went on, addressing Dan B. and Lee, and to Donna, “and the service bar and waitress stations.” Feldspar faintly smiled. “And I’m happy to say that, as of now, my affiliation with all technical aspects of the restaurant are at an end. In other words, should you find anything unsatisfactory about the facilities, voice your grievances not to me but to Ms. Abbot.”
“Oh, we’re quite used to that,” Donna remarked and laughed.
“Come on, Curley,” Dan B. said to Lee. “Let’s check out our gig.”
“Sure, Shemp,” Lee replied as the three of them made for the swingdoors to the kitchen.
Vera still felt prickly in her excitement. Panning her gaze, she could scarcely believe that this beautiful restaurant was, for all intents and purposes, hers.
“Conclusions? Comments?” Feldspar bid. He seemed suddenly worried. Could he possibly fear that The Inn’s refurbishment did not meet her approval?
“I’m still in shock,” Vera replied. “I couldn’t be more impressed. You’ve done an outstanding job.”
“I’m happy to hear you say that.”
“And we’ll do an outstanding job for you.”
Feldspar unconsciously diddled with his big amethyst pinky ring and the other bright jewelry that adorned his stubby hand. He was a complex man, and Vera could sense that complexity now very clearly. He was a man with a vast mission who, step by step, discharged each of his tasks like machinery. Vera paused to wonder about his direct conception of her. Am I just another gear in his machine, or does he see me as an associate, a real person? Probably the former at this point—this was business. Odd as he was, Feldspar was an extraordinary man, and she admired him. But she knew that she would have to prove her worth quite quickly in order for the admiration to be mutual. You’ll see, buddy, she thought. I’m gonna turn this pretty joint of yours into the best restaurant in the state.
“You’ll probably want to expend some time now on a closer examination of the facility. My office is in the west wing; let me know when you’re done here, and I’ll have someone show you your room.”
Before Vera could reply, Feldspar was moving back toward the atrium—not walking, really, but sort of half-ambling in that peculiar, faltering gait of his. The sudden quiet of his departure focused Vera’s speculations, even her dreams. She felt wistful and exuberant. With a little luck, a little advertising, and more than a little hard work, they would turn The Inn into a money machine.
Something clinked. Almost startled, she turned. A woman was pushing a wheeled cart full of crystal candleholders down the aisle along the planter. Through colorful splays of fresh, potted bluebells and poinsettias, she stopped—as if startled herself—and looked right at Vera.
“Hello,” Vera said. “I’m—”
How rude. The woman trundled away at once, more quickly. She must be one of the housekeeping staff. She better not be one of my staff, Vera thought. Not only was she rude, ignoring Vera’s introduction, but she was…
Gross, Vera determined. Not ugly as much as simply unpleasant-looking. An unattractive bun had been made of her dark, frizzed hair. Though she didn’t appear to be old, she seemed slightly bowed as she walked away, and short, husky. Vera glanced after the odd woman, frowning. I’m upper management, honey. You better start being a lot more cordial than that.
The cart’s casters squealed across the atrium, and the woman briefly gazed back at Vera.
Vera nearly winced.
The woman’s big, jowly face looked pasty as old wax. Large breasts sagged in the pale-blue staff uniform. And her eyes—her close-set and nearly rheumy brown eyes—gave off a very clear message of disdain, or even disgust.
««—»»
“We’re getting down to the wire on that first Kirby piece, boss,” said Brice, the layout director.
Harold Tate glanced up from his desk, which was, appropriately, a mess. Newspaper editors were entitled to have cluttered desks; it was their trademark. Tate was the editor for the City Sun, and his quickened smirk showed the extent of his concern. He’d been in this business long enough to realize the unnecessity of shitting a brick every time a journalist was getting close to a deadline. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered back to Brice. “Kirby’s a pro, he’ll have his copy in on time.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
Tate smirked doubly. “If he doesn’t then I’ll put my foot so far up his ass he’ll be able to taste the dogshit I stepped in on West Street this morning. But don’t worry about it, it ain’t gonna happen. Kirby’s never missed a deadline yet.”
“That’s what I mean, boss. He’s usually a week early with each piece. If I don’t have his copy by tomorrow noon, we’re going to
have to re-lay the entire section. That’s a fifteen hundred word block, plus a three-by-four picture grid. It’s not like we can fill it in with ads at the last minute.”
“Maybe we can fill it in with prints of me kicking you in the ass for bothering me with bullshit,” Tate proposed. “How many times I gotta say it? Don’t worry about Kirby; his copy’ll be in on time.”
“It’s just kind of weird—”
Tate glared. “You’re still here?”
Brice took a hesitant step forward, a lamb straying into the lion’s den. He was a worry wart but he was also a good layout man, so Tate tolerated him. The newspaper business was like any business—give and take. You want good people, you put up with their quirks. “I gave Kirby a call today,” Brice finally said.
“You have a nice little chat?”
“He hung up on me.”
Tate’s smirk quickly dulled. “What do you mean he hung up on you?”
“I was just double-checking, you know. This is the first time he hasn’t had his material in early. I thought maybe he forgot about it or something.”
“He better not have,” Tate remarked. “I’ve already paid him for half the goddamn series. What did he say?”
Brice’s eyes looked distant. “That’s the weird part, boss. He sounded hungover or something, or like I’d just woken him up. Didn’t even sound like he knew who I was.”
“All right, so he was tired. Big deal.”
“I reminded him of the deadline… ”
Tate tapped his blotter with a red pen. “And?”
“He hung up on me. Just like that.”
Tate gave this some thought. God knew he’d met his share of pretentious journalists, people whose egos were bigger than the fucking Sears Tower. But this didn’t sound like Kirby. Kirby was low key and very professional. He never caused a fuss and he didn’t make waves. And he’d never been known to be rude.