by Edward Lee
The protracted climax simmered down later, all her tensions draining at once, and her heels slowly running up and down his back. Her sated smile was bright enough to light the room when she pulled him back up to her and kissed him. Lee was exhausted. Next time bring a snorkel, he thought. But it was fun, it was delightful. He would do this every time from now on, finally adding some mutuality to this bizarre relationship. He’d no longer have to feel guilty about taking advantage of her. Now, the pleasure she gave him he could return in spades.
Her hands were at him again, all over him in their newfound enthusiasm. Lee speculated that it had probably been a long time since anyone had treated her as anything more than an S&M pincushion and whipping post for someone else’s sick fantasies. Lee was probably the first person to ever do anything solely for her. And he would do more! Why not? Her caresses enlivened him; old Uncle Charlie was raring to go again; he was hopping. The woman made to fellate him again, but he pulled her back. “Let’s go all the way this time,” he said. Oral sex was great, but there were other things too, and it was high time they’d moved on to those things.
Suddenly, she slumped in frustration, or despair.
“What’s wrong now?” Lee asked. “We can do it. I even have rubbers.”
She didn’t tell him what was wrong; she couldn’t, and perhaps this only added to her flattened frustration. She couldn’t tell him—
So she showed him.
She grabbed his hand, placed it between her legs, and pushed his middle finger into her sex.
Hooooooooly shiiiiiiiiit, Lee thought.
His finger was not able to penetrate her deeper than an inch. He didn’t need to see, he could feel it, he could easily feel with his fingertip what some sick sadistic monster had done.
A dozen stitches of heavy gauge suture had sewn her vaginal passage shut.
— | — | —
CHAPTER TWENTY
“How about discount coupons in the local papers?” Vera fairly insisted. “It would up business a little at least.”
“No, no,” Feldspar told her in his white silk shirt and tie. Gold cuff links flashed as he raised the champagne flute to his lips, sampling a bottle of their Perrier-Jouet order. “Ah, like sipping from a glass of rainbows,” he smiled. “Why stock DP at all?”
God, he’s infuriating sometimes! Vera thought. “The discounts, Mr. Feldspar. How about it? We’ll run a $19.95 special, choice of entree, appetizer, dessert. It worked great in the city.”
“Really, Ms. Abbot. You worry too much.” Next he poured a snifter of the new Remy, twirling it. “And you forget all I’ve informed you of regarding The Carriage House. It’s only use to Magwyth Enterprises is that of a subordination.”
“So you’ve told me.” Vera slumped behind her desk. “It just doesn’t make sense to me. Why lose money when you don’t have to? With a little ingenuity, I could put The Carriage House in the black, or at least cut down its loss margin.”
“I’ll tell you why I don’t want you to do that, Ms. Abbot, and I would’ve thought that it could have been easily deducted from all I’ve related to you thus far. We don’t want The Carriage House to make a profit. For it to make a profit it would have to attract an influx of business—”
“Yes!” she wanted the shout. “And I can do that. I can get customers in here if—”
“And I reiterate,” Feldspar cut her off. “That’s what we don’t want. I’ve told you time and time again, haven’t I, we intend for The Inn’s profits to be generated from a very exclusive and select clientele. An amplitude of outside restaurant business might only sully The Inn’s overall reputation in their eyes.”
Vera frowned good and hard at that one. Select clientele, the words drifted. What Feldspar meant was he didn’t want townspeople crowding the restaurant for fear that one of his rich, hoity-toity select clientele might see them. It seemed almost a bigotry, Feldspar’s refusal to allow his secretive, wealthy guests to mix company with the middle class. This is useless, she dismissed. One day I’ll learn not to argue with him.
“So, how are things going otherwise?” he inquired next, running a stray, ringed finger along the dark goatee.
“Fine, I suppose. I’m still getting some funny complaints though. Unfriendly housemaids, noisy elevator doors. Some of your suite guests must be partying a little loud. I had some reservations in my rooms, and they complained about noise.”
Feldspar merely shrugged. “Can’t be helped. As they say, you can’t please everyone.” He chuckled slightly, sipping his Remy. “I’d rather your guests be the ones complaining than room service’s.”
This remark was very difficult not to respond to. Vera could almost feel her face pinken.
“I’m sorry,” he noticed. “I’ve offended you. You take things too personally, Ms. Abbot. Room service’s business is purely and simply more important to The Inn than the restaurant’s. As an experienced businesswoman, you should have no qualms with that.”
“I don’t,” she said, leaning back behind her desk. “It’s just frustrating sometimes. I know I could make The Carriage House tick.”
“But what you must understand, Ms. Abbot, is this. You are making it tick. You’ve turned The Carriage House into exactly what we need, and if you are able to maintain that, the rewards will be considerable. I’ve told you in the past, if you can maintain the highest standards of quality at the restaurant, your future with Magwyth Enterprises is virtually limitless.”
It’s not hard to maintain the highest standards of quality when you’ve got a one million dollar business account and your boss doesn’t care how you spend it. Vera wanted to laugh.
“And, as I’ve also told you, when your contract here expires you’ll be free to transfer to any of our other exclusive inns, abroad.”
So you’ve told me, she thought. Over and over.
“Well, I best be off now. A rather lofty New York brokerage is planning to have their anniversary banquet here next month. I’m expecting a call.” Feldspar got up and set down his snifter. Quite abruptly, then, but just as calmly, he asked, “Would you like to go to dinner with me tonight, Ms. Abbot?”
Vera was taken aback. “I—well, yes, of course. But I have to work.”
“A mere formality, since we’ll be dining at your restaurant.” He smiled at her. “Nine o’clock?”
“That would be fine. Dinner’ll be winding down.”
“Until then…” He limped out of her office, presumably back to his own. Vera’s astonishment watched after him; it took a while to kick in. My boss just asked me out, and I said yes. But why shouldn’t she? She sat with chin in hand, reflecting. How weird, she thought. With Kyle, for instance, her feelings—as well as her attractions—were constantly at odds. One minute she’d be condemning him as a cad, the next she’d be hoping he’d make a pass, and the next she’d be disappointed when he didn’t. Feldspar was different. She could not, and never had, deny her attraction to him. It was not physical. It was purely an adult and sophisticated attraction. All along she’d wished that he’d show some interest in her, and now that he had, she felt in a heady quandary. Don’t go overboard here, Vera, she smirked to herself. She’d be getting her hopes up, perhaps, for nothing. What do you want? Do you want to go to bed with him? She couldn’t picture anything less conceivable. He wasn’t even really taking her out; he’d simply be having dinner with her at The Carriage House. It’s business, she suddenly felt convinced. He wanted to appraise the restaurant’s cuisine for himself in Vera’s presence. That’s all, she thought.
Still, her mind wandered, over other, less rational possibilities.
“Excuse me, miss. Can you help me?”
Vera glanced to her open office door. She was about to speak but any response quickly turned to mush.
A cop? she questioned.
Yes, a big hick cop, fiftyish, with a broad shiny face and a VFW haircut. He smiled rather sheepishly, a cowboy-type hat with a badge on it under his arm. He looked huge in the brown, down-filled
jacket, and spoke with a slight drawl. “I’m sorry to interrupt. The name’s Lawrence Mulligan, Chief Lawrence Mulligan. Waynesville Police Department.”
“Please come in,” Vera invited, but all she could think was: What the hell is the chief of police doing here?
“Thanks kindly.” He waddled in and set his hat down. A big pistol hung on his hip through a slit in the jacket. It reminded her of the gun she’d seen in Feldspar’s desk, only because of its size. “Actually, I’m looking for a Mr. Feldspar. It’s my understandin’ that he runs the place,” Mulligan said.
“Oh, well let me call him. I think he’s right over—”
“He’s out, Vera.”
Another surprise. Suddenly Kyle was standing in the doorway, looking at her over Mulligan’s giant shoulder. “He just left for the airport.”
“The airport?” Vera said.
“Yeah, you remember. He had to go to that Historic Inns of America Convention in New York.” And after Kyle said that, he quite deliberately winked.
Vera got the message at once, and this was too spontaneous a situation to question it, though that didn’t mean a flurry of questions did not sweep through her mind. Why’s he lying?
Kyle was gone as quickly as he’d appeared. Vera re-faced the big police chief, a hand diddling at her collar. “Well, so much for that. My name’s Vera, I’m the restaurant manager. Is there a problem?’’
“Well, yes, er, no. Er, I should say kind of,” Mulligan quite elaborately stated. “Actually, I feel sort of silly, but what ya got to understand is that in these parts, chief of police is an elected post.” He paused, exhaled as if winded, and went on. “I’m a tad thirsty, miss. Might I—”
“Would you like me to order you some coffee from room service?”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want you to go to all that trouble on my account. Just anything you might happen to have on hand would be much appreciated.”
Vera smiled at the stereotype. Mulligan cast a glance to the small walnut bar behind the desk. Country bumpkin cop, figures a little nip on duty cain’t do no harm. Vera poured him a snifter of the new Remy. “You were saying something about an elected post.”
Mulligan’s brow rose at the first sip. “Ooo-eee, that’s shore got a kick… Er, uh, yes, Miss Vera, and what I mean is that sometimes we gotta check things out that’re surely nothin’, on account of that’s what the folks who vote want, ya see?”
“Not really,” Vera said.
Mulligan seemed at once uncomfortable, or maybe it was just that he hadn’t taken off the winter jacket. “’sa free country and all, sure, but it don’t make a lot of common sense to build a place like this up here, in Waynesville.”
Now Vera found herself reciting Feldspar’s own business sentiments, almost reflexively. “Actually, it makes quite a bit of sense if you examine our marketing designs. The Inn caters to a very select clientele. There are a lot of very rich business people in this country who enjoy coming to a remote, exclusive facility such as ours, a place where they can enjoy total privacy and serene surroundings, a place where they can get away from it all for a little while.”
Did Mulligan smirk? He didn’t seem to buy this explanation. “Very rich business people, yes,” he said. “And what sort of businesses might these very rich people be involved in?”
Vera didn’t quite know how to answer the question, nor did she know how to interpret it. “Well, I’m not actually sure. Our clients’ business interests are a matter of confidentiality. I don’t see what difference it makes, though.”
“Let’s just say it makes a whole lotta difference if your clients’ business interests aren’t exactly legal.”
What did that mean? Vera peered at him.
“And did you know that Magwyth Enterprises is a holding company?” Mulligan added before she could even reply to his first implication.
Vera hesitated, thinking, then said, “So?”
“Well, I, uh, saw fit ta run a little tad of a check on this holding company of yours, and there don’t seem ta be a whole lot of info on ’em. Shore, they got theirselfs a little listing in the U.S. Department of Small Enterprises Directory, but that’s about all. Cain’t check I.R.S. without a subpoena.”
“Why on earth would you want to subpoena our tax records?”
Mulligan downed the last dram of his Remy. At seventy bucks a shot, it proved a nifty little free pick-me-up. “Well, don’t you think somethin’s a bit off here? And this boss of yours, this Feldspar fella. You know he wired several million dollars into that little bank of ours in town? What’cha think of that?”
Again, Vera hesitated. “Chief Mulligan, it sounds to me like you’re accusing Mr. Feldspar of using The Inn to launder money and to serve as a resort for white-collar criminals.”
“Oh, no, miss, not at all. I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I’m just a bit…mussed is all.”
A bit mussed? Vera thought. Bullshit. You came in here to plant seeds, and now that you have, you’ll probably thank me for my time and leave. This was irredeemable. What right did Mulligan have to imply such things? Moreover, what were his grounds?
Vera brought a finger to her lip. Maybe he’s got grounds that I don’t know about.
“Anyway, thanks for your time,” Mulligan said and got up. “I better leave, get back to the beat. I’m shore this is all nothin’, but I didn’t figure there’d be any harm in me comin’ up here to talk to ya. And please don’t think I’m accusin’ your boss of anything. Just checkin’ things out, ya know.”
“Of course,” Vera said. “It was nice meeting you.”
“And thanks fer the drink.”
Vera bid the large man a cordial good day, and watched him leave. Initially she’d been offended, but only for a moment. Why would he say such things? He must have some reason, she realized. Now she poured herself a drink, a half-flute of the PJ. She watched it fizz. Mulligan’s implications did not mix well with the fact that Kyle had lied about Feldspar’s whereabouts.
And I went along with it, she thought.
Should she say anything, go to Feldspar right now and tell him the chief of police was nosing about? What would Feldspar’s reaction be? Then she remembered their “date,” tonight at The Carriage House.
And a better idea crossed her mind. I’ll wait, bring it up tonight. That way I can catch him off guard.
These feelings fuddled her, though. Why, for instance, should she even want to catch Feldspar “off guard?” He was her employer. He was paying her a lot of money, and had just given her a two hundred thousand dollar automobile to use whenever she liked. Curiosity killed the cat, she considered in afterthought. Might it also not kill the restaurant manager’s job record?
««—»»
Later, she’d finished her trickle of preshift paperwork, mostly stock notices, and the food and beverage orders for next week. All at once there was nothing to do; The Carriage House wouldn’t open for another few hours. She poured herself some more champagne, remembering the figure she’d seen sneaking away from the atrium the other night, and the bottle of rail-brand Scotch. She knew it must be one of Kyle’s people; the liquor supply for The Carriage House was kept locked during off-hours and inventoried daily. Who cares? she thought, drinking herself now. Then she thought back further, to Kyle’s innocent back rub and the brazen fantasies that had accosted her throughout. That had been two nights ago. Last night, however, she’d slept quite soundly. The fantasy of The Hands had eluded her, and she did not dream. Now that she thought of it, last night had been the first night since her arrival that she’d not dreamed or fantasized sexually. By now she’d grown used to the dreams—she even had to admit to herself that she often looked forward to them. The dirty dreams, and the fantasy that seemed to trigger them, felt like an escape to her, her chance to be a naughty little girl behind the curtain of her sudden celibacy. But why should she have the dreams every night but last night? What was it about last night that was different?
Or maybe the dreams are all o
ver now, she nearly regretted. So much for my sexual attraction to Kyle.
Or perhaps that attraction, with time, had supplanted itself with someone more real to her.
Feldspar’s image still lingered, like the scent of his Russian cigarettes and his faint cologne, and the flash of his amethyst ring.
She frowned at herself. Her office was windowless; it felt cramped with hard fluorescent light, which made the fine paneling look sticky. She’d have to change the lights, and hang some pictures. Or was it her mood that made everything look dull? You’re dull, Vera, she came clean with herself. You’re a twenty-nine-year-old spinster, a dull old maid before her time.
The book lay closed at the desk’s veneered corner, The Complete Compendium of American Haunted Mansions. She’d read the Wroxton Hall segment last night, and dismissed the book as a lurid sham. It hadn’t even been scary, it was so ridiculous. Overwritten, sensationalized, and hackneyed. The chapter recounted the takeover of Wroxton Hall in the early nineteen hundreds as a state sanitarium. Apparently the superintendent, a man named Flues, hadn’t placed much priority into the care of his patients. Most of the state funds that maintained the facility were diverted by Flues himself, to support a predilection for the finer things in life: imported gim-cracks, English carriages, opium, and a conclave of young, fiscally demanding mistresses. He therefore left the entirety of the hospital’s logistics and in-patient care to a cadre of ruffians and a pittance of a maintenance allowance. “A majority of the staff,” the author reported, “had not been adequately screened for an aptitude in such intense hospital services. Many were ex-convicts and former mental patients themselves, and some such warders demonstrated ravenous—as well as distinctly aberrant—libidos upon the more desirable female patients, schizophrenia, manic-depression, and acute catatonia notwithstanding. A staff journal, confiscated during the state inquest which would follow, detailed countless acts of unnamable sexual abuse…” The author proceeded to name each unnamable act.