Into The Darkness

by Kathy

  "That was why I'd thought of some excuse not to go," Meg admitted. "Because it meant a lot to me too. There are so many emotional hurdles to get over . . . but I'm glad I went, glad I could join in celebrating Dan's life with the friends he loved best. Thanks for conning me into it. And now that I've thanked you, kindly tell me whatever prompted you to bring up the subject of blackmail?"

  "I didn't bring it up. Ed did."

  "You practically programmed him. Barby is right, Ed will say anything. It didn't do you any good, though, did it? They didn't tell you anything specific."

  "They won't tell me," Cliff said. "I'm an outsider. I'll always be an outsider, even though my father was born here and my mother was a local girl. I was only seven or eight when I was sent away to school; maybe that's what sets me apart, being away all those years—but you left after high school and hardly ever came back. . . ."

  "I'm an outsider too, in some ways," Meg said, wondering why the approval of a small town should mean so much to him. "At least some of the local citizens think of me that way. Who cares?"

  "Yeah, right. Who cares?" Cliff shrugged. "At least Dan's old buddies accept you. I can't seem to get to first base with them. I thought I had Ed pinned down on the subject of the ring, and then Barby—"

  "She was right. Dan used to say Ed could contradict himself three times in a single sentence. I don't see why you're so obsessed with that cursed ring, Cliff. I've thought of another possibility—a repentant thief."

  "You don't get it, do you?"

  "I guess not. What are you talking about?"

  "That dirty word 'blackmail.' Face it, Meg; that's the only explanation for Dan's generosity to a man he had known for only a few years. He had a strong sense of family; why else would he leave assets as valuable as those to a relative stranger?"

  Unwillingly swayed by the force of his argument, Meg was about to call it what it was—a theory, thus far unsubstantiated by fact—when he went on, "The ring fits only too well into that scenario. Blackmailers don't stop. Dan is beyond such threats now, so a new victim has been selected."

  They turned into the driveway. Sunlight, dappled and diffused by the leaves overhead, made shifting patterns of light across the paving. The distant roar of a lawn mower sounded like a giant insect buzzing.

  "You can't blackmail someone unless they fear disclosure," Meg said. "Are you accusing your own father of being involved with Dan in some crooked deal?"

  "It couldn't have been much of a deal," Cliff said dryly. "Dad only handled Dan's personal finances. But he was close to Dan in a way no hired accountant could ever be; he was, and is, one of the family. Dan was a tight-lipped old devil, he never told anybody any more than was absolutely necessary, but if he had confided in anyone it would be in Dad. And he'd be just as anxious as Dan to avoid scandal—"

  Meg made a wordless sound of disgust and protest. "Could, might, would . . . It's a pretty plot, Cliff; I've read worse. But there is not a single fact to support it. If you really believe this nonsense, you'd better stop bugging Barby and Ed and Mike, and talk to George. He'll tell you the truth, won't he? You're his son, after all."

  She had not set out deliberately to hurt him. The dark color that stained his cheeks brought into sharp focus something she had only suspected until then. The alienation between father and son prevented the mutual trust Cliff wanted, and didn't know how to win. He was going about it the wrong way, but George wasn't entirely blameless; a little more warmth, a little less criticism . . . To apologize would only acknowledge the affront, but her voice softened, and she put a friendly hand on his arm.

  "Cliff, you know I'm as concerned about George as you are. But right now I'm so full and so giddy from all that wine, and so damned tired, I can't think straight. I'm going to go lie down in Dan's hammock and rest, and smell the roses. We'll talk later, okay?"

  He assented with a grunt and a nod; she couldn't tell whether he still harbored resentment, and as she struck off across the sunny lawn she decided she didn't care. She was weary of catering to other people's sensitivities. That was the exhausting aspect of life, not hard work; she could cope with the endless tasks resulting from Dan's death if she didn't have to spend so much time and energy considering everything she said, and apologizing for every wrong word.

  A bright red riding mower buzzed toward her. The man atop it waved; Meg waved back, though she didn't recognize him. The lawn and gardens in which Dan had taken such pride required several full-time workers, but the turnover was great; this man must have been hired since her last visit.

  Walls of brick and stone and antique wrought iron divided the grounds into smaller sections, concealing the utilitarian area of garage and workshops and allowing scope for Dan's enthusiastic eccentricities in regard to landscaping. There were an Italian garden and a wildflower garden and a water garden, complete with lily pond and waterfall; there was even a grotto, with imitation mosaics made out of seashells. The cultivated area ended abruptly at a higher wall, now covered almost entirely with a green curtain of Virginia creeper. Meg glanced curiously at it as she passed by. Apparently the old prohibition still held. She wondered what condition the cottage was in by now—or whether it still stood. To the best of her knowledge no one had entered it or the part of the estate surrounding it for over twenty years.

  Dan's favorite part of the gardens was a small corner walled in by hedges of the old-fashioned roses he loved and shaded by two tall maples. The hammock was strung between them. Meg maneuvered herself into it and lay back with a sigh. Slowly her taut muscles relaxed. The green leaves made a shifting canopy overhead, offering an occasional glimpse of blue sky. Most of the roses were still in bud; only Therese Bugnet, the earliest bloomer, spread crumpled pink blossoms across the branches. Meg took a deep breath, inhaling the rose fragrance. That was one of the reasons why Dan had preferred the old roses; hybrid teas might bloom all summer instead of only once a season, but their waxen perfection held almost no scent.

  The sound of the mower rose and fell as it proceeded on its path. It made a soothing background noise, blending with the rustle of leaves, the hum of bees wooing the roses, and the music of birdsong.

  In Manhattan the pavements would be radiating heat and the air would be thick with smog. By this time she would have drunk half a dozen cups of coffee and lunched on yogurt and a bagel. Her stomach would be churning and her nerves would be jumping and people would be running in and out of the office and the phone would be ringing. . . .

  Phone. Meg realized she had missed Nick's noontime call. She hadn't given it a thought till this minute. She hadn't thought about Nick for hours. She wished she hadn't thought of him now. The surroundings were so seductive, so sickeningly drenched with romance, that her responsive body pictured him lying next to her, his hands holding her, his mouth hard on hers. She pushed him away with a vigorous mental effort. That wasn't what she needed right now. Nick would, of course, claim that was exactly what she needed. He was a great believer in physical therapy.

  Some kind of therapy had had its effect. Here in Dan's favorite retreat, surrounded by memories, for the first time since his death she felt no need to mourn him.

  The rumble of thunder woke her in time to feel the first raindrops slip through the leaves and onto her face. She had slept heavily; drowsy and disoriented, she stared blankly at the wildly waving branches overhead. The next sound of thunder was not a low rumble but a rattling crack, like artillery. She started up, as the drumming of raindrops on the leaves grew louder. Before she reached the house she was soaked to the skin.

  The kitchen door was closest. She stopped just inside, and stood dripping forlornly onto the mat until the cook advanced upon her with towels and sympathy. "Take off those sandals and dry yourself before you move one step, Miss Meg. I just mopped the floor this morning. Then you'd better get on up and change before you catch your death of cold."

  "Good advice indeed," a voice intoned. Frances appeared from the butler's pantry. The housekeeper's long black gown
and gliding walk told Meg—to her intense irritation—that Frances was still Mrs. Danvers. The bunch of keys at her waist jangled discordantly as she moved, and her voice was a mournful baritone. "Another death in this doomed house—"

  "Frances, please!" Meg tossed the damp towel onto a chair and stepped out of her shoes, leaving them by the door. "I'm not going to catch cold, and if I did, I wouldn't die from it. Couldn't you pick another role, just for the next few days? I really don't think I can stand Mrs. Danvers right now."

  Hands folded at her waist, Frances stepped aside to let her pass. "Joke if you like," she said ominously. "Mr. Dan made fun of me too. And you see what happened to him. . . ."

  Meg fled. Frances didn't follow her, but she raised her voice to a shout. "Your grandma's been asking for you. Worried her half to death, you did. And her not strong. She sent me down to look for you. Mooning around out of doors with a tornado coming on. . . ."

  The tirade ended only when Meg slammed the door behind her. Dan had not only laughed at Frances, he had encouraged her fantasies, claiming that she was a great source of comic relief. Dan always did have a weird sense of humor. . . . No doubt a psychologist would say that her role-playing was Frances's way of dealing with emotional crises. Unfortunately, it increased the trauma for the people around her.

  The lights in the drawing room were on, but Mary was not there, though it was ten minutes past the conventional hour for tea. Meg went up the stairs as fast as she dared; her stockinged feet tended to slip on the polished treads. Aside from the personal inconvenience, a fall would only encourage Frances's superstitious fancies.

  The door of her grandmother's room was open; glancing in, Meg saw the familiar form in its familiar position—seated at the dressing table, putting the final touches on her impeccable toilette. Gran saw her reflected in the mirror; without turning, she said placidly, "There you are, darling. Do hurry and change; I'm afraid I'm a little late this evening, but tea will be served in ten minutes."

  Scared half to death was she? Meg cursed Frances as she hastened to her own room.

  Ten minutes. She made it, by curtailing the long hot shower she had hoped for, and by slipping into a long robe of gold brocade instead of trying to slide panty hose over damp skin. Her hair was damp too, despite hasty minutes with a blow-dryer; she twisted it into a knot and pinned it at the nape of her neck, added a jeweled comb and reached, almost at random, for a pair of earrings. It was the gesture that mattered—the rigid maintenance of certain seemingly unimportant standards in the face of tragedy. They were Gran's standards, not hers; all the more reason why she should attempt to match them.

  The others seemed to understand that too. They were already in the drawing room when she arrived, and both men rose punctiliously. Cliff had put on a shirt and tie; George wore his usual three-piece suit.

  "Sorry I'm late," Meg said, taking her place on the love seat next to her grandmother. "And disheveled. I fell asleep in the hammock, and got caught by the rain."

  "You needed the rest," Mary said, handing her a cup. "And you look very nice. Is that a new ring?"

  Meg glanced at her hand. "What a memory you have, Gran. Yes, it is new; I found it at the store this morning, and couldn't resist it. I don't have one that spells 'Margaret.' "

  "Spells? I don't understand."

  Meg explained. Her grandmother's interest in jewels was aesthetic and acquisitive; she loved them for their beauty and gloried in possessing them, but she claimed to be too stupid to understand the technical and historical aspects. Meg had always suspected that was an act, part of the sweet-little-old-dumb-me female image her grandmother's generation affected. Dan must have told her about regard rings.

  If it was an act, it was a good one; her grandmother's amused delight sounded genuine. "Isn't that clever? You have others, that spell different words? Well, I just think that is a darling idea. I can't imagine why Dan never gave me one with my name."

  Meg laughed and patted Mary's wrinkled hand. The fingers looked too frail to bear the weight of the rings that adorned them—a trio of perfectly matched, flawless, blue-white diamonds, and an amethyst so big it reached to the first knuckle. "Moonstones and small amethysts wouldn't suit your style, Gran. Anyway, there is no gemstone starting with a y. "

  "Isn't there? You would know, dear." Mary passed a plate of dainty sandwiches. "Yours is very pretty. Much more suitable for a young girl than diamonds."

  "Diamonds are boring," Cliff said with a smile. "Right, Meg?"

  "Dan thought so. He was mad for color, the more unusual, the better. The different shades of green in tourmaline, emerald, peridot and demantoid garnet, that wonderful apricot color of imperial topaz. I guess his lectures affected me; I feel the same way. And, of course, I thought it was soooo sophisticated to say diamonds were boring." She laughed, and took another sandwich. "These are delicious. I don't know how I can eat after that huge lunch, but I'm starved."

  Mary was still absorbed in the ring. "You must show me some of the others like this, Meg dear."

  The suggestion had been made in all innocence, Meg felt sure, but George was quick to react. "I'd like to have a look too, Meg. I haven't been able to locate an inventory of your personal collection. Do you know where it might be?"

  "I have a copy somewhere." The sandwich suddenly lost its savor. Meg put the rest of it on her plate. "Is there a problem, Uncle George?"

  "No, no." But her uncle frowned. "At least I don't think so. That collection is your private property, it shouldn't be considered part of the estate. And, if I remember correctly, no single item is of great value."

  "I don't remember," Meg said. "I haven't looked at it in years."

  "What inhuman lack of curiosity." Cliff leaned back in his chair. "But I suppose if you own the Koh-i-noor, a mixed lot of zircons and citrines don't thrill you."

  "I don't own the Koh-i-noor," Meg said shortly. She was not about to explain her apparent lack of curiosity to Cliff, or tell him it was not so much disinterest as abhorrence, of everything that reminded her of the business Dan loved and she had learned to hate. The collection did not include individual items of great value, but in its totality it was worth quite a lot—which gave her a reasonable excuse for leaving it in Seldon. A Manhattan apartment wasn't the safest repository for valuables.

  "You haven't had time," George said. "There's been so much to do. I wish I could be more help, Meg, I know how difficult this is for you."

  "You've already helped enormously, Uncle George. I couldn't have managed without you. I'll check my collection first thing tomorrow, I promise. And show Gran the regard rings."

  "Thank you, darling, that's sweet." Mary's face glowed with pleasure. "I'd love to see them. Are you sure there isn't a stone that starts with a y?"

  Meg laughed and started to answer, but her grandmother went on, frowning prettily, "Dan would know. I must ask him, when I talk to him tonight."

  "There is nothing to worry about," George said.

  Meg turned on him, the full skirt of her robe flaring out like a golden bell. "Nothing to worry about? When she's forgotten she buried her husband two days ago?"

  "She hasn't forgotten. Stop pacing, Meg. You're just wearing yourself out."

  Meg flung herself into a chair and stared at her clenched fists. George was being so kind and patient she wanted to scream at him. Because she knew that was unreasonable, she transferred her inimical stare to his son, who was sprawled in the second of the deep leather chairs flanking the fireplace in George's office. Cliff was so relaxed he looked boneless, and the superior smile with which he regarded her didn't make her feel any more kindly toward him.

  "You really are out of it, kid," he said. "Don't you know that death is only a step across the threshold to a better world? For fifty bucks you too can talk to Dan, or George Washington—"

  "That's enough," his father said sharply. "I won't have you jeering at Mary's faith."

  Cliffs smile vanished. "I didn't mean—"

  "All right." Seated
behind his big mahogany desk, George leaned back with a sigh. "I know you'd never speak that way in her presence, but the flippant attitude of your generation angers me sometimes. Meg, your grandmother's faith is deep and sincere. The tenets of that faith assure her that Dan survives, in another, immortal form, and that he is still close to her. If that's senility, then a lot of people, of all ages, suffer from the same thing."

  "But all those questions about the ring," Meg argued. "She behaved as if she had never heard of that type of jewelry. Dan must have told her—"

  George's hearty laugh interrupted her. "Meg, dear, you really are looking for trouble. Dan told her the same jokes, the same stories over and over; she always behaved as if she were hearing them for the first time. Maybe she was at that; the women of her generation probably learned to stop listening in pure self-defense."

  His smile invited her to join him in his affectionate amusement. Badly as she wanted to, Meg was unable to accept his optimistic appraisal of her grandmother's mental condition. Gran's deep, sincere faith in an afterlife—yes, of course, Meg could accept that; many of her friends believed just as sincerely. But none of them carried on conversations with their lost loved ones. Not in public, anyhow. However, she kept her doubts to herself. Her uncle had enough to deal with.

  "I expect you're right, Uncle George," she said. "You really . . . you really think she's okay?"

  "I know she is. I drove her in to the doctor this morning— just as a precaution. He says she's fine."

  Meg went to him and put her arm around his bowed shoulders. "Uncle George, you are a rock at my back. Is there anything I can do for you? You worry about the rest of us, but you're the one who has taken the brunt of all this."

  "It's my job, honey. And my pleasure."