An Evil Guest (14 page)

“Weremen, Gid?” She wondered whether she sounded as puzzled as she felt.

“That would be man-men. But yes, that’s the idea.”

“I’d never even thought of it.”

“It almost never happens because it is much, much easier to go down than to go up. It’s so easy to go down that werewolves have trouble maintaining their human forms at times.”

“I still don’t believe you.” Cassie looked stubborn.

“You’re beautiful like that. Of course all your other expressions are beautiful, too. You must believe me, but that doesn’t worry me. You will.”

“John didn’t.”

“We didn’t even discuss this. He knows that male Wolders can hybridize with lower animals, the males having the ability to alter the DNA in their semen enough to make it acceptable to the female’s reproductive system. Like you, he doesn’t believe that any human has the ability to transform.”

“I should be talking to him. Are you going to tell me you’re a werewolf?”

“Let’s get that out of the way. No, I’m no werewolf. I don’t have the ability to transform at all. Not down, and certainly not up. Those human beings who can transform up find it almost impossibly difficult. In almost every case, they require expert assistance.”

Bewildered, Cassie shook her head. “I don’t get it. Do they become angels? Or—or . . .” She froze, one hand clutching her glass, the other clenched.

“Yes.” With the help of the walking stick, Gideon rose. “I may die today. It’s entirely possible and almost probable. It is easy, terribly easy, for someone who has transformed up to slip back down; and it wouldn’t be right for me to die without having warned you. Without having warned you and without having told you I love you. I have, and now I’ll go.”

N
OT
long afterward, the maintenance man who had repaired Cassie’s wall loaded a large cardboard box into the back of his pickup. Lettering on the
box indicated that it contained a toilet particularly adapted to the needs of invalids and the handicapped. It was clearly heavy; but he was just as clearly strong, lifting it from his cart and sliding it onto the back of his truck with only a small grunt of effort.

When the truck had covered about three and a half miles, Gideon (who was finding the interior of that box almost unbearably stuffy) opened the top and risked a look around. After another quarter mile he had established to his own satisfaction that the truck was bound for the remote suburb of Sweden Hill. For the moment, he had escaped Reis; and he was seized by a presentiment that he would eventually triumph. A song he had heard years ago—a chantey he would have sworn that he had forgotten—slipped back into his consciousness.

“We’re a Liverpool ship with a Liverpool crew.
Yo, ho, blow the man down!”

His clear tenor rose above the hum of the tires.

“A Liverpool mate and a scouse skipper, too.
Give me some time to blow the man down!”

“Please understand, Cassie. Please!”

She felt sure India was striving to sound sympathetic.

“If you don’t sign, the deal will collapse. Everybody will be out of work. All your friends. The whole cast.”

The read-through had wound up a quarter of an hour ago, and they stood upon the darkened stage of the Tiara and conversed in stage whispers. Ghostly echoes of lines spoken long years ago had muted India’s voice and now muted Cassie’s as she said, “Everybody being you and Vince. I’ve got it.”

“A lot more, Cassie. Norma’s already on board, and I’m planning to sign half a dozen other people.”

“Norma’s signed?” Cassie raised a carefully darkened eyebrow.

“Today. Before you came.”

“Before you heard her read the sister. Before you even knew she’d be right for it.”

“No! I know what she can do, and she could play Jane Brownlea with her eyes shut. She’s like Vince. Like you. A natural for her part.”

“Who’s going to play the sailor?”

India shrugged. “Up for grabs. I’ve got feelers out to various agencies.”

“Bruce?” Cassie smiled.

India shook her head. “He’s great for spoiled rich guys. Not for the mate of a whaling ship. I want somebody not too tall, tough-looking, and muscular. Sexy. Bruce is sexy, I admit, but not sexy in the right way.”

“As I am.” The smile had gone inside.

“Exactly. You can get out there and be the reverend’s twenty-year-old daughter, brought up in exciting prayer meetings and hotter ’n hell’s horoscope. It came through in every line you read. I’m pretty damned sure you can be sexy in a dozen other ways, too. Bruce has only got one.”

Cassie considered that, her head tilted to one side. “Tell me something, India. Make it as honest as you can. Woman to woman.”

“At your service. Sisterhood forever.”

“Would you get in bed with him to save the show?”

“With Bruce?” India shook her head.

“Of course not. You know who I mean. Would you?”

“I’m not into men, Cassie, and they’re not into me.”

“That’s a no. You’re expecting me to do something you wouldn’t do.”

“Holy snot, Wanton Woman!” India pushed back a stray wisp of coarse, dark hair. “Cassie, darling, everything you just said was wrong. That wasn’t a no, I was saying it would be harder—I mean tougher for me, and a whole lot less likely. Yes, I would. I wouldn’t enjoy it, but I’d yell and cry on his shoulder and put on the best damned act he ever saw. We’re soul sisters—women together. Right? You said that.”

Cassie’s nod was guarded. “Sometimes we are.”

“Good. This’s one of the times, and I wouldn’t ask my sister to do something I wouldn’t do myself. Only I never asked you to, Cassie darling. I want you to sign on the dotted line, that’s all. I want you to be Mariah Brownlea and give Wally a sporting chance to talk you into the sack. If he does, fine. He won’t be any happier than I will. If he doesn’t, just string him along for a year or so. He’s not the type to give up easily.”

He’s not the type to give up at all
, Cassie thought. Aloud she said, “Somebody’s listening to us. Do you know that?”

“Ghosts.” India shrugged.

“Maybe. But somebody’s listening, somebody who hears every word.”

“We can go somewhere else.”

After a moment, Cassie shook her head.

“All right, keep your voice down and try to forget it. There’s nobody here except us. How many men have you made it with?”

“That’s my business, India. Mind your own.”

India grinned. “You can’t remember.”

“The hell I can’t. I’ve been married twice. How’s that?”

“I’m going to guess. I’m going to say a dozen.”

“Nuts!” Cassie turned away.

“You won’t tell, so I have to guess and that’s mine. What are the odds that Wally will be worse than anybody in the first twelve was? Pretty long, huh? And Cassie dear—” Ponderously, India circled to face her again. “Here’s a sure thing, a lead-pipe cinch. He’ll be richer than the first twelve put together. One hell of a lot richer.”

“Good point.” Cassie’s smile would have etched steel. “When you work, you ask what you’re worth, don’t you? I always do.”

Reluctantly, India nodded.

“Well, I’m worth a whole lot to you. And to—what did you just call him? Our friend?”

“I called him Wally. I call him Wally and he calls me India.”

“I know another name,” Cassie said.

“Really? What is it?”

“Indie.” Cassie smiled again. “Don’t you think Indie would be nicer? Rhymes with undies.”

As India turned and stalked away, Cassie bowed to six hundred twenty-one empty seats. “I hope you liked our little show.”

Applause reached her out of the darkness, the sound of a single pair of hands clapping.

V
ERY
few people can maintain their concentration while reading legal prose, and Cassie was not one of them. On page seven, she discovered that she had just read the same paragraph three times, and still had only the foggiest notion of what it meant.

A knock rescued her. She dropped the sheaf of papers and jumped up to admit Margaret.

“I’m awfully sorry to bother you like this, Miss Casey,” Margaret said as she trotted through Cassie’s doorway, “but Miss Dempster won’t leave me alone.”

“I know how you feel.”

“So I said I’d measure you. You said it would be all right. On the phone?”

Cassie nodded. “I remember.”

“I’ve got my tape measure and my notebook. That’s all I need now, and my little camera. Pictures help sometimes. Take off your slip, Miss Casey? That would be the best.”

“I’m not wearing one.” Cassie demonstrated, dropping her skirt and stepping out of it.

“You can keep on your briefs and bra,” Margaret told her, “but I’ll need you to take off your blouse and those shoes.”

Cassie did.

“Hold your arms out to the sides, please, Miss Casey. Do you know, I never did believe that tiny little waist. But it’s real. How do you do it?”

“I don’t,” Cassie said. For a moment she was tempted to say that Gideon had done it.

“I always measure twice to be sure.” Margaret whipped her yellow tape around Cassie’s waist for the second time. “That’s the best way, and that way I don’t—”

There was a knock and Cassie said, “Get that, will you please?”

Margaret put on the security chain and opened Cassie’s door two and a half inches. “Whom may I—”

“Cassie! It’s me! Have you read the contract yet?”

Cassie picked it up, laid it on the coffee table next to her cell phone, and told Margaret to let Zelda in.

“You’re getting measured for your costumes. That’s great! This show will make you famous.”

“This show sucks.” Cassie held her arms out to let Margaret measure her chest.

“Cassie, Cassie, Cassie!”

“Zelda, Zelda, Zelda. It still sucks.”

“There’ll be beautiful costumes . . .”

Cassie raised a hand. “Stop right there. I play a missionary’s daughter. Gingham. High neck, long sleeves, and a long skirt. What’s anybody going to do with that?”

Margaret muttered, “A lot.”

“Right.” Zelda nodded. “Plus there are two dream sequences. India told me.”

“In other words, you haven’t read it. I heard the readings, Zelda. And it sucks. I told you that.”

“And I told you over and over why you ought to sign.” Zelda dropped heavily onto the sofa. “Let’s have this out here and now. Tell me why it sucks.”

“People make speeches.
Everybody
makes speeches. Brian makes speeches about God. Norma makes speeches about whatever pops into her head. I make speeches about Kansas, and I don’t even get to holler for Auntie Em. Vince makes speeches about coconuts for Pete’s sake! My sailor makes speeches about love. You want more?”

“She needs to measure your hips.” Zelda’s tone was dry. “Stand up straight, hold out your arms, and put your feet together.”

“I know how to do it!” Cassie took a deep breath. “And I don’t think she’s got a tape measure long enough.” She stood up straight, held out her arms, and put her feet together.

“Only thirty-seven and three-eighths, Miss Casey,” Margaret muttered.

“This is a new show, Cassie.” Zelda was firm. “It’s not Shaw, it’s not Ibsen, it’s not
Oklahoma
. It’ll try out here, try out in Chicago and half a dozen other places, and it’ll be fixed. New shows have to grow up. They do, and this one will.”

“I won’t—”

“I’m not through! Shows fold. I’ve seen a few of them fold. They fold here or in Rubesburg—in little towns you’ve never heard of. There are two reasons for folding—just two. Lack of money and lack of talent.”

Margaret muttered, “Stand up straight, please, Miss Casey.”

There was a knock at the door, and Cassie sighed. “Get that, would you, Zelda?”

“All finished, Miss Casey.” Margaret was smiling. “You’re going to get some lovely low-neck costumes. Lovely spring-green outfits that show skin in the middle. You’ll see. All right if I take a few pictures?”

Zelda grinned as she opened the door. “She’ll sell ’em to a tabloid, Cassie. Do you mind?”

“I wouldn’t, Miss Casey.” Margaret sounded shocked. “I’d never do a thing like that.”

“She’s kidding,” Cassie told her. “How do you want me to pose?”

“With your arms above your head, please. I’ll take front, back, and one side.”

From the chained door, Zelda said, “It’s a man from the building. He won’t talk to me. Only you.”

Margaret’s little camera flashed.

“Tell him I’m not dressed. I’ll call him.”

“Want to see how you look, Miss Casey? I can show it to you.”

“Fat. No, spare me the trauma.”

“In back now. Hold still.”

“Fatter,” Cassie said under her breath.

The camera flashed again.

“Sell it to the tabloid, Margaret. It’ll make a great headline—
CASSIE’S CONTROL TOPS
. Then everybody will want to know who Cassie is.”

“Side now, Miss Casey. You wait ’til they see your profile!” The camera flashed a third time.

“Right here,” Zelda murmured; she had taken a gold pen and a little leather-bound notebook from her purse.

“Can I relax?”

“One more, Miss Casey. I let it wiggle a little.”

“Tell him I’ll call him later,” Cassie told Zelda.