“Your syntax is getting frightfully garbled,” I said pleasantly.
“Never you mind!” she snapped. “Craig’s been brooding about like a regular Heathcliff, all surly and dark looks, and you’ve been quite skittish every time he walks into a room. You’re not fooling anyone, either of you. And as for this foolishness about your leaving for Majorca tomorrow——”
“I’ve already set back the date of departure once——”
“It’s not every day a girl has the chance to trap a genuine, bona fide millionaire, granted, but Craig’s the man for you and you know it. He’s going to be very important after his book comes out, and——”
“Don’t fret so,” I interrupted. “I know all that.”
Aunt Agatha gave a lusty cackle. “Your tactics are rather transparent, Susan, but still quite effective. You’re your mother’s daughter, all right! But don’t keep him dangling too long, dear. He’s about to explode. If you don’t give him an answer soon he’s liable to go berserk.”
“He hasn’t asked,” I said.
“Oh? Then I suggest you get a move on.”
Mary came bustling out onto the terrace. There was a black bow in her short blonde curls, and she wore a fresh organdy apron over the tight black dress she so bountifully filled. Her brow was creased, and she looked quite put out with all and sundry.
“It’s the old lush—it’s Miss Althea, ma’am. She says you’re to get your tai—she says you should come over right away or she’ll never get the portrait finished in time. Right hateful, she was. Said for me to hustle, just like I didn’t have a million things to do.”
“Very well, Mary,” Aunt Agatha replied. “And, by the way, be sure you tell Cook to bring a bottle of good wine up for dinner tonight.”
“Surely,” Mary said, put upon and pouting as she marched back into the house.
“I’m sure all this is wonderful for Althea,” Aunt Agatha said as she got up, “but sometimes I wish she’d go back to gin. Wicked of me, I know, but she was much easier to deal with when she was drinking.”
There had been a harrowing invasion of newsmen and cameramen and magazine reporters and police officials after Paul’s death. Gordonwood had been like a three ring circus for several days afterwards, and somehow or other Althea had managed to make herself the center of attention, posing for photographs with outrageous abandon, collaring every newsman in sight and assailing him with stories of her sleuthing. They had been delighted by her, and, to the surprise of no one, Althea had been the heroine of the case as far as the newspapers were concerned, FORMER ARTIST CATCHES KILLER WITH THE AID OF BINOCULARS, the headlines blazed, and a publicity-conscious gallery in London sent a man down to inquire if Althea would consider giving an exhibition of her paintings. Althea would be delighted. She had been impossible to live with ever since.
“I’m off,” Aunt Agatha said peevishly. “I do hope she finishes that bloody portrait soon. I’m quite eager to start my new project.”
“Oh?”
“Didn’t I tell you, dear? I plan to start merchandising my herbs. I mean, I have to do something. You write books, and Althea’s gone back to her painting, and there’s this divine man in London who’s been begging me for years to put my special remedy on the market. He’s eager to finance, but I’ll give you all the details later.”
Aunt Agatha hurried off, indomitable. Now that the Gordon manuscripts had been found, she had to have something else to occupy her mind and keep her perking, and I could visualize her in a smock, supervising a crew of workers, sticking labels on boxes, going over lists of sales figures. If she employed half her vitality, the new project was sure to be a huge success, and I knew it would be great fun for her. Aunt Agatha was incapable of being bored, and she suffused everything she went into with an electric excitement that affected all around her.
I thought about the Gordon manuscripts. There were two of them: Sir Robert’s autobiography and an anthropological study of mating customs among certain African tribes. The books would create a sensation when they came out, and they were sure to boost the sale of Craig’s biography, which would be published at about the same time. It was all over. The papers had been found, Paul was dead, Vanessa Shaw was in prison awaiting trial for murder. Althea was going to give an exhibition, Aunt Agatha was going into a new business … only one thing remained unsettled, but I felt sure that would be resolved soon.
I was lost in thought and didn’t hear Craig walking up the steps. He was standing a few feet away when I turned, and his face was angry, mouth sullen, blue eyes very dark. I smiled pleasantly, but he merely scowled. He was really quite irresistible with those rich brown locks tumbling over his forehead and his eyebrows lowered so severely.
“That cowboy gone?” he asked in a rumbling voice.
“Why yes, he has as a matter of fact. Everything’s settled. The papers are in a safe in London, and he’s distributed checks to all Aunt Agatha’s charities. Stephen was kind enough to bring the thermafax copies of the manuscripts with him today. They’re on your desk.”
“‘Stephen’ is it? He doesn’t waste much time, does he? I suppose I should be grateful. Did he make a pass?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. He asked me how I’d like Texas.”
“And what did you say?”
“Really, Craig, I don’t see that it’s any of your business. I don’t have to answer all these questions.”
“You’d damned well better,” he said menacingly.
“How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice?”
“I’m getting sick and tired of this bloody cat and mouse game, Susan. It’s time we got down to essentials.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh yes you do. Don’t try to be coy, Susan. It’s not your style. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Night before last when I came to your room——”
“And made an absolute ass of yourself,” I reminded him.
“I thought you wanted me to come,” he protested.
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“You did. There was an invitation in your eyes.”
“What a quaint phrase. I can assure you there was nothing in my eyes but disdain. I’m sure you’ve had raging success in the past with your masterful onslaughts, and I’m sure some women adore being grabbed passionately, but I’m not one of them.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” Maybe I was.
“What do you want me to do? You want me to woo you with tender sentiments and flowers? You want me to act like one of those guys in your silly books and pledge eternal devotion and all that rot——”
“My books aren’t silly! I’ll have you know the last one sold——”
“I’m a man, flesh and blood, not a gallant cavalier, and you’re a woman, even if your head is filled with romantic nonsense.”
“I don’t think we need to discuss it any further.”
“Oh yes we do. That bloody cowboy comes driving up in his vulgar car—it makes me furious! I think we’d better settle things once and for all. You’re not leaving for Majorca tomorrow. You’re staying right here. You’re helping me finish my book. Later on.…”
“Yes?” I prompted.
“First things first,” he retorted, “and if you’ve got any ideas about seeing Mr. Stephen Kirk again you can just put them out of your mind. Where are you going? You can’t just walk away from me when I’m talking to you. I say, Susan——”
I left him standing there on the terrace with a look of utter bewilderment on his handsome face. I went upstairs to my room and put away the suitcases I had laid out earlier. I wouldn’t be going to Majorca after all, but the sun and the sand held no attraction for me now. Smiling thoughtfully, I took down the sexy violet-blue silk cocktail dress. I planned to wear it tonight. Tonight Craig Stanton was going to get an answer to the question he had no idea he was going to ask.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reprod
uce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1971 by Tom Huff
Cover design by Julianna Lee
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9831-4
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Stranger by the Lake Page 21