The Midnight Tour (4 page)

So he said, “If I’d known you felt that way, we could’ve done something else. We didn’t have to do this.”

“Well, that’s all right.” She smiled gently and patted his leg. “We’ll get it over with today, and then we’ll have the whole rest of the week for other things.”

Get it over with.

Oh, man.

“We didn’t have to do it at all,” he told her. “If you’d only let me know that you didn’t
want
to...”

“Why
would
I want to? What’s the big attraction of going to some crummy old house where a lot of people got murdered? In fact, I think the whole idea’s a little sick. They shouldn’t even
allow
tours of a place like that. And if they
do
, people ought to have the good sense not to go. It’s perverted.
And
it’s four hours on a damn bus.”

Owen stared at her. He felt as if he’d been bludgeoned.

“Are you calling
me
a pervert?” he asked.

She laughed and said, “Don’t be a dope,” and gave his leg a pat. “I didn’t mean
you
.” Mouth close to his ear, she whispered, “I love you, silly. Do you think I’d love you if you were a pervert?”

“I am, you know.”

“Oh, ho ho. You’re so funny. You’re such a dope. But I love you anyway.” She kissed his ear, then eased away and treated him with her
wanton growl.

God only knows where she’d picked it up. Probably from some movie.

Monica’s wanton growl.

A soft grumble in the throat, accompanied by a slight baring of her teeth and a sultry gaze.

Owen hated it.

He’d hated it from the first time she tried it on him, six months ago.

Like Owen, Monica was a first-year teacher at Crawford Junior High School in Los Angeles. He’d met her .at the start of the fall semester, back in September of the previous year. And he hadn’t liked her one bit. His friend Henry, another teacher starting out at Crawford, hadn’t liked her either. He’d said, “She’s such a fucking know-it-all,” and Owen had agreed. “She acts like she thinks her shit smells like roses.” Owen had agreed with that, too. “Too bad,” Henry had said, “‘cause she’s sort of a fox. I wouldn’t mind playing a little hide-the-salami with her, if you know what I mean.” To that, Owen had responded, “Not me. Hide the salami, it’ll probably freeze and break off. And there you’d be, salamiless-in-Gaza.”

Though conceited, condescending, stiff and humorless and generally annoying, Monica was almost beautiful. She looked very similar to the way Elizabeth Taylor had looked in her early twenties. Similar, but different.

The differences were not to Monica’s advantage.

But nobody ever mentioned them to her.

What they pointed out were the
similarities
.

It had probably been going on since Monica’s early childhood—friends and relatives and teachers and kids in school and strangers stopping her on the street to tell her, “Do you know, you’re the spitting image of Elizabeth Taylor? It’s absolutley uncanny. I can’t believe my eyes.”

It must’ve been constant.

And, of course, she’d bought it.

In spite of the evidence of mirrors.

Owen figured it was little wonder that she’d grown up thinking she was the queen of the universe.

Henry had said, “To know her is to loathe her.”

And Owen had agreed.

During the entire fall semester, he’d done his best to stay out of Monica’s way. He’d wanted nothing to do with her. But they’d often been thrown together by circumstances. Since both were first year English teachers at the same school, it was inevitable.

And Owen just
had
to be nice to her.

Whenever an encounter couldn’t be avoided, he smiled and spoke to her in a friendly way as if he liked her. He was that way with everyone.

She seemed to react with her usual cold disdain.

Until that December morning when she asked him for a ride to the Christmas party. Cornering him in the teacher’s lounge, she said, “Could I ask you a big favor, Owen?”

“Sure, I guess so.”

“Are you planning to go to the faculty Christmas party?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Will you be driving?”

Oh, no.

“Yes.”

“Are you taking a date?”

If only.

“No, probably not.”

“The reason I’m asking, Owen—I simply can’t drive myself to the party. It’s so dangerous for a woman to be out by herself, especially late at night.”

“It sure is. Dangerous for
anybody.”

“But it’s worse for a woman.”

“Sure. I’m sure it is. Worse.”

“And the party probably won’t get over till sometime after midnight. I can’t possibly drive home all by myself at an hour like that. So would you mind terribly taking me to the party? I don’t think I’ll be able to go, otherwise.”

Owen didn’t want to do it. He didn’t
like
her. But he’d already confessed his intention of going to the party without a date—blow—ing his best possible excuse. On the spur of the moment, he could think of no halfway decent reason to turn her down. So he smiled and said, “Sure, I’d be glad to give you a ride.”

It turned out to be more than a ride: it turned out to be a date. After their arrival at the party, she wouldn’t go away. She stayed by Owen’s side. She held on to his arm. She led him here and there, keeping him while she chatted with an assortment of faculty members and their spouses—usually the very teachers Owen liked
least
and would’ve avoided, given the chance.

Finally, Owen managed to sneak away from her. He got himself a cupful of red, potent punch, then spent a few minutes with
his
friends, Henry and Jill and Maureen.

Three minutes, maybe four.

Then Henry, keeping lookout, said, “Oops, here comes trouble. You’re up Shit Creek now, buddy.”

Owen said, “Delightful,” and gulped down his punch.

“If you can’t stand her,” Maureen said, “why not tell her to take a leap?”

“I can’t do that.”

Monica, arriving, greeted everyone with a rigid smile. Then she grabbed Owen’s arm and said to the others, “Will you excuse us, please?”

“Can’t,” Henry said. “You’re inexcuseable.”

“Oh, ho ho. Very amusing.” With that, she led Owen away from his friends. As she hurried him along, she said with a pout, “I thought you’d deserted me. You can’t just bring a girl somewhere and leave her stranded, Owie.”

He hated to be called Owie.

He hated the tone of her voice, as if she were talking to a three year old.

He also hated to dance. But she squeezed his arm and said, “How about tripping the light fantastic for a while?”

“I’m not much of a dancer,” he said.

“That’s all right. I’m a
wonderful
dancer.
And
a wonderful teacher. I’ll have you cutting the rug like Fred Astaire.”

“Fred Astaire’s dead.”

She smiled, shook her head, and said, “Don’t be morbid, darling.”

Darling? Oh, my God.

“I’d really rather not dance,” he said.

He despised dancing in general, but was appalled by the idea of dancing with Monica—especially at the faculty Christmas party, surrounded by teachers, counselors, secretaries, vice principals... the principal himself. People he had to see every working day. People who
knew
him.

“You can’t just bring me here and not dance with me. How would that look?”

You’re not my date!
he wanted to shout.
I gave you a ride!

Say “Thanks for the lift,” and leave me alone!

He thought it, but didn’t say it. Her feelings wouldn’t just be hurt, they’d be trampled.

He finally said, “I guess I can give it a try.”

She led him downstairs to the recreation room. It was decorated with red and green streamers, and dark except for the glow of Christmas tree lights strung across the ceiling. Owen noticed that there were no clear bulbs, no white bulbs. They were all deep, rich colors: blue and red and green and orange.

They looked gawdy and wonderful, but didn’t illuminate much.

Just as well, Owen thought.

The floor was crowded with dancing couples. Half of nearly every pair was somebody Owen knew from school. Many nodded, smiled, or spoke brief greetings as they made their way to the middle of the floor.

Stopping, Moncia turned to him and gazed into his eyes.

She is pretty, Owen thought.

But he suspected that
anyone
would look good in the glow of all those Christmas tree lights. He could see the shine of them in Monica’s hair, their sparkle in her eyes. They softened her face, blurring its harshness, hiding the arrogance and suspicion that could usually be seen in her eyes and lips.

She really did resemble Elizabeth Taylor. For the first time, the similarities seemed to surpass the differences.

And she looked great in her angora sweater. It hugged her body in such a way that each breast swelled out separately—they were twin, fuzzy white mounds with a glen between them.

She might’ve looked great in her pleated plaid skirt, too. It was very short and drifted softly against her thighs. But she’d ruined the skirt’s appeal by wearing tights. The black tights encased her legs, showing off their slender curves but hiding every inch of skin.

“Just do what I do, darling,” she said.

With that, she stepped forward until their bodies met.

She took hold of Owen’s left hand, placed her own left hand on his shoulder, and said, “Put your other hand in the middle of my back.”

He followed her instructions.

“That’s right,” she whispered.

A new tune began to flow from the speakers. “White Christmas,” sung by Bing Crosby.

They started to dance.

It was a slow dance, and they held each other close. Owen followed Monica’s lead. It was easy; she hardly moved at all, just swayed back and forth and took small steps this way and that.

She smelled awfully good—some sort of perfume that filled Owen’s mind with images of balmy nights and soft breezes in the tropics. He’d been smelling it all evening. But now it seemed to radiate off her skin in warm, rich waves.

A wonderful, exotic aroma.

But not nearly as wonderful or exotic as the
feel
of Monica as they danced: her face resting on his shoulder; her hair tickling the side of his face; her left hand caressing his back while her right clasped his hand; her breasts pushing firmly but softly against his chest; her belly pressed to his belly; her crotch rubbing him in a subtle way that seemed almost accidental; her thighs brushing against his with every step she took.

Before Bing was halfway through the song, Owen started getting hard.

Oh, terrific.

Just what I need.

Hoping Monica hadn’t noticed it yet, he bent forward slightly to break contact down there.

“Don’t be a silly,” she said.

Her left hand went down and pulled at his rump until he was tight against her again.

“Ooooh, Owen,” she said. Then she tilted back her head, looked him in the eyes, and let forth with her wanton growl.

Immediately, he hated it. Though it seemed to express approval and lust, its blatant phoniness made it seem like mockery.

She probably thinks it’s a cute thing to do, he told himself. Maybe she even thinks it’s sexy.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Monica said.

“Huh?”

“What’re you daydreaming about?”

“I’m not daydreaming.”

“You’re
always
off in your own little world.”

“I’m here,” he told her, and tried to smile.

“Now
you are.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re such a silly.” She gave his thigh a squeeze. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you please,” he said. Then he leaned forward and looked past Monica to see out her window. Just a few feet beyond the edge of the road, there seemed to be a drop-off. He could see nothing down there except the ocean. “Yikes,” he said.

“A thrill, isn’t it?” She didn’t sound thrilled, but she was smiling as if she were the only person in on a joke. “If we die, guess whose fault it will be?”

“The bus driver’s?”

“Think again.”

“Mine.”

“Ding! You win. You insisted on coming.”

“I didn’t exactly insist. It was more like a suggestion.”

“We could be riding on a cable car right now.”

“We can ride on cable cars tomorrow.”

“If we’re still alive.”

Chapter Three

TUCK AND DANA

Lynn Tucker, sitting at the kitchen table, set down her cup of coffee and smiled when Dana came in. “Hey, hey, look at you.”

Dana grinned and raised her arms. “Just call me Ranger Rick.”

“You look great.”

“Thanks, Tuck. You, too.” Frowning, she said, “I wish my uniform looked like that.” While Dana’s tan shirt and shorts were stiff and creased and dark, Tuck’s looked soft and faded. “Want to trade?”

“Think mine’d fit you?” Tuck asked.

“Probably not.”

“Probably.” She laughed. “What are you, now, about six-nine, seven feet?”

“Just six. But I’m dainty.”

Tuck pushed back her chair and said, “Sit down, Miss Dainty. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

“I can get it.”

“You’re my guest.” Tuck stood up and headed for a cupboard. “Besides, it’s your first day. Tomorrow, I’ll let you get your own coffee.”

“Okay,” Dana said. “Thanks.” She pulled out a chair and sat at the table.

“As for your uniform,” Tuck said, “it’ll be a lot better after a few washings. What you need to do is wash both your uniforms every night whether they need it or not. That’ll get the stiffness out. Before you know it, you’ll look like an old hand.” She took down a cup and turned around. “So, how did you sleep last night?”

“I zonked. I tell you, Tuck... I still can’t believe I’m here. This is such a great place!”

“I thought you might like it.” She picked up the coffee pot and brought the clean cup over to the table. As she filled the cup for Dana, she said, “One thing, okay? Try not to call me Tuck when we’re over at the house. You know, in front of the others.”