Here I Stay (33 page)

Reba was the last to arrive. Andrea thought it might take her a while to work up the necessary courage; she had stationed Jim at the door to watch for Reba and head her off in case she got a last-minute attack of cold feet. Calling, "Here she is," he went out to meet her. When Andrea got to the door he was herding her up the steps, rather like a dog nipping at the heels of a shambling, reluctant black sheep.

"Well, I'm here," she grunted. "But I don't know for how long. My God, Andy, you look gorgeous. Never knew you had it in you."

Andrea took her hands and drew her in. She had made up her mind that she would not refer, even obliquely, to Reba's fears. Acknowledging their existence was tantamount to admitting their reality. "Aren't you going to ask where I got the dress?" she asked gaily.

Reba gave her a reluctant smile. "So I know. You gotta give the guy credit for good taste."

"Go and tell him." She took Reba's coat and handed her over to Jim, who was hovering helpfully. She had felt it necessary to explain to him why it was necessary to keep an eye on Reba, but of course she had played it down. "Some people have funny ideas sometimes." Surely one of the understatements of the year.

As she went about her duties as hostess, she glanced at Reba from time to time. No ominous signs so far, she was glad to observe; Reba was eating and drinking and talking with her usual verve, and Martin, who had been appointed number-two watchdog, had taken over from Jim. He and Reba were the focus of a good-sized group. Sue was
among them, leaning familiarly against Martin; catching Andrea's eye, she grinned and winked.

Hostessing this group wasn't difficult. Most of them knew one another and had a lot to talk about. Avoiding Al Wyckoff, who was bearing down on her with the evident intention of discussing guns, she was captured by another antique dealer who wanted to know if she intended to sell any of her furniture. As she moved from one person to another, and ran out to the kitchen to replenish plates of sandwiches and cookies, she forgot about Reba for a while.

The crowd around the buffet table finally began to thin out. Some people had moved across the hall, into the red parlor, and others had migrated to the library. Andrea congratulated herself. The party was going well. The noise level was still high, always a sign of social success. Jim and Wayne and a few other young people were sitting on the floor talking. Al Wyckoff had literally buttonholed Martin, his hand firmly grasping the other's lapel. Martin was trying tactfully to free himself, without success.

He caught Andrea's eye and grimaced at her, in a signal she had learned to recognize. What was he trying to tell her? Reba, of course. He was supposed to watch out for Reba, and now the old woman was nowhere to be seen.

Andrea made her way through the room, nodding and smiling but managing to avoid being stopped. Reba was not in the library. She retraced her steps, meaning to look in the red parlor.

Crossing the hall, she happened to glance to her right. There was her quarry, standing motionless in front of the desk. Her immobility and the long brown garment she wore, rather like a monk's robe, made her hard to see in the shadows.

"What are you doing here all by yourself?" Andrea asked cheerfully. "Come and give me a hand. I'm going to serve coffee."

Reba's head turned like that of an aged turtle, the rest of her body remaining motionless. Her brow was furrowed, but with puzzlement rather than distress.

"Where'd you get this?" She indicated the picture over the desk.

"I found it." Andrea saw no reason to go into detail. "She was the owner of the house a century ago, when it was a hotel. It's a nice touch, don't you think?"

"Uh-huh."

The portrait looked as if it had always been there, in the place where it was meant to hang. Again Mary watched the door, alert and in command, her cat at her feet.

Reba rubbed her forehead. "Where's the bathroom?"

"This way. Are you..." She didn't want to say it.

"I'm drunk," Reba said. "Did it on purpose. Got drunk as I could fast as I could. Now I've got to pee."

"All right," Andrea said soothingly. "Come on. Lean on me."

"Ha! If I really leaned on you, kiddo, you'd be flat on the floor."

Reba appeared to be perfectly steady on her feet, but Andrea decided not to risk the stairs. She led Reba to her own bathroom, behind the kitchen, and then started the coffee maker. The sandwiches needed replenishing too. She took a plate out of the refrigerator and removed the plastic wrap that covered them.

Satan was asleep—or pretending to be asleep—in the big wingback chair. "Don't bother hanging around, buster," Andrea said vindictively. "You're out of luck this time."

"Who're you talking to?" Reba came in, brushing vaguely at the front of her dress. Crumbs flew up and resettled.

"That damned cat. He's taken to hanging around the kitchen lately. I suppose he thinks I'll forget and leave food out."

Reba looked at Satan. The cat stretched and sat up. Curling his tail neatly around his haunches, he stared intently at Reba. Reba stared back. Then she walked toward the chair, pausing between each step like a participant in a state funeral procession.

"Bertha's cat," she said thickly.

"That's right. He seems to have—"

"Mary's cat."

"What?" Andrea turned. She was just in time to see Reba's body topple. She didn't bend at the knees, but fell stiffly sideways like a felled tree. Lunging, Andrea got a shoulder under her, and tipped her onto the couch.

"What is going on here?" Martin asked, from the doorway.

"She just..." Andrea gestured helplessly. "I guess she passed out."

"I couldn't get away from that stupid ass Wyckoff." Martin bent over Reba, feeling for a pulse, lifting her eyelid. "She's out cold, all right. Pulse is a little slow, but within normal range."

"Where did you go to med school?"

"I was on the police beat in Boston for a year. You pick up quite a lot of useful information watching the ambulance crews...Did she say anything?"

"No, she did not. She was fine. I told you it was
all in her head."

"Got any ammonia handy?"

"Why don't you just let her sleep it off?"

"I don't like the way she's breathing," Martin said, "I've seen a lot of drunks, but this...Get me that ammonia."

Andrea went to the sink, pausing on the way to swat Satan off the table, interrupting a slow but determined progress toward the sandwiches. She handed Martin the bottle. Uncapping it, he waved it under Reba's nose.

At first there was no reaction, and Andrea began to get worried. She had had a few inadvertent whiffs of ammonia over the years, while cleaning with it, and she knew its effects. If Reba was that far gone...Then Reba lifted a big hand and pushed the bottle away. Her eyes were still closed.

"Don't," she said, quietly but distinctly.

"Okay," Martin said, visibly relieved. "Are you—"

"Don't cut it. It's so pretty. Nice flower...oh, damn. I told you...No, don't hold it. Let it go. Can't you feel the thorns? There's blood all over your...Let it go, I tell you!"

Her breathing was definitely abnormal now—a series of harsh, quick gasps. Andrea started forward in alarm. "Try the ammonia again," she urged.

"No. Wait." Martin waved her back. "Reba—can you hear me?"

"I can hear you."

"What do you see now?"

"It's growing," Reba said. Her voice sounded as if it were coming from a great distance. It echoed, hollowly. "Green tendrils, twining, twisting. Oh, my God—it's got him. He's caught, he can't...Why don't you try to get away?"

Her voice rose to a wail. "Who?" Martin demanded. "Who is it, Reba?"

A violent shudder ran through her body. If Martin had not caught hold of her, she would have fallen off the sofa. "Who is it? Who do you see?" he asked.

Reba's eyes opened. "I see a bald, middle-aged reporter," she said. "What the hell are you doing to me, Martin?"

Martin sat back on his heels. "What are you doing to me? You scared the living daylights out of me, you old bat."

Andrea pushed past him and bent over the sofa. "Reba, are you all right?"

"Sure. You better get that cat off the table, Andy. He's after the sandwiches again."

The change of subject and of manner was so startling, Andrea could only stare. Satan took a crab sandwich and left, unmolested.

"I'd better be going now," Reba said. "Tomorrow is a busy day for me. I had a very nice time. Thank you. I hope I didn't spoil the party. I shouldn't drink so much."

Martin steadied her as she got to her feet. "I'll drive you home."

"No. I can drive myself. Look. Steady as a rock." She held out her hand.

"But you just said you—"

"I just said I'd drive myself. Hell, the car can drive that road all by itself. Thanks again, Andy. See you tomorrow?"

"Yes, of course," Andrea said, still staring.

Martin went out with Reba. He was trying to convince her she should let him take her home. He'll lose, Andrea thought; Reba is even more bullheaded than he is.

She appeared to be fully recovered, but she must have had too much to drink; it was the only possible explanation. She had displayed none of the symptoms that had afflicted her on that first disastrous visit.

There was only one thing...Andrea frowned, trying to remember.

Reba had seen the picture. She had observed the cat crouched at its mistress's feet. There was no inscription on or under the portrait; Andrea had not found time as yet to have a plaque engraved. So far as she could recall, she had not told Reba anything except that the subject of the portrait had once owned Springers' Grove Farm.

How had Reba known Mary's name?

Jim seemed pleased at his gifts, but he was more interested in seeing what Andrea and Martin thought of his presents. Martin's response was all he could have wished; stroking the satiny finish of
the box, Martin insisted on a step-by-step description of the construction process, and promised to keep the box for his most valued treasures.

"Love letters?" Jim asked, with a glance at Andrea.

"Checks," Martin said.

Andrea's gift was a frame of carved and polished walnut. The photograph it enclosed was an enlargement of a snapshot Kevin had taken in the fall— she and Jim standing side by side in front of the house. She had protested when Kevin asked her to pose; she was wearing an old shirt and faded jeans, and her hair was a mess.. .But the picture had turned out to be one of her favorites. Jim was smiling, and at the last minute he had reached for her hand. Tears came to her eyes as she looked at it, and Jim said, with satisfaction, "I like people to cry over my presents."

They were engaged to have dinner at Peace and Plenty; but even Jim confessed he didn't think he could do justice to one of Reba's six-course meals and Martin made a sour face when Andrea insisted they would have to eat, hungry or not. Reba was as busy as she had claimed. The dining room was still full when they arrived, and people were waiting for tables. When Reba joined them in her office, where a table had been set for four, she was visibly unsteady on her feet.

"Everybody wants to buy me a drink," she grunted, falling into a chair. "Helluva way to celebrate Christmas, getting poor old Reba bombed."

The only reference made to Andrea's party was a rather grim one. "Al's place got broken into last night," Reba said. "Must have been when he was at your open house."

"Was anything taken?" Andrea asked.

"Cleaned out the cash box. Told Al he should have taken it to the bank, but he said he didn't have time. They figure it must have been an amateur. He didn't touch the stock, not even the silver."

"Any suspects?" Jim asked.

"Somebody saw Gary Joe hanging around—"

"I knew they'd try to pin it on him," Jim said in disgust. "That poor bastard hasn't got a chance."

"Maybe," Reba said. "But he isn't doing anything to help himself. I offered him a job a couple of weeks ago—"

"You would, you old softie," Martin said, smiling. "What did he say?"

"He told me to do something I suspect is physically impossible," Reba said with a chuckle. "Stupid damned kid...Have some more stuffing, Jim."

Andrea, whose chair faced the bookcase, had noticed a new acquisition—pair of bookends, solid pieces of wood simply but beautifully finished. She assumed they must be Jim's gift to Reba, but the latter said nothing about them until her guests were ready to leave.

"Did you guys see these?" she asked, pointing.

"I think I recognize the craftsmanship," Martin said with a smile. "They're beautiful."

"Place of honor," Reba said gruffly.

"Do you like them?" Jim asked.

"It's the best present I ever got. I'll treasure it, Jim."

Jim put out his hand and Reba took it. Her face contorted in a desperate effort at self-control, but without success; the tears poured down her face, turning the thick layer of powder into paste and washing tracks through her wrinkles.

"Hey," Jim said. "There's nothing to cry about, Reba. This isn't a wake. It's a celebration."

"Right. Oh, damn it to hell...Merry Christmas, you guys."