Wherever Lynn Goes (23 page)

“You're marvelous, Lynn, just marvelous! You're certain you won't mind? I'll phone tomorrow after the audition, and I'll take the train back tomorrow afternoon. I mean, I know Lloyd will be here, but I don't want to miss anything. Nell Gwynn! I would be perfect in the part. I do a smashing Cockney accent, and—”

Now that the matter was settled, Mandy could hardly contain her excitement. She continued to chatter vivaciously as we packed her things, and I was delighted to see the old Mandy back in full swing again.

The train station was a Victorian monstrosity on the other side of the village, all gingerbread woodwork, faded red tiles, and cupolas. Mandy got out to pick up her ticket while I parked. We met a few minutes later on the old wooden platform. The train made only a brief stop at Cooper's Green. Few passengers were waiting to board. A stout woman in a brown coat sat on the green bench with two restless children, the girl clutching a doll, the little boy licking a large lollipop and casting malicious glances at us. A workman in a gray shirt and thin leather apron was stacking crates at the other end of the platform. A weary-looking porter in a wrinkled dark-blue uniform and leather-brimmed hat leaned against a post with his arms folded.

“It may be late,” I said, peering down the tracks.

“Look, Lynn, you've been a dear. I know you're eager to get back to the house to meet Lloyd. Why don't you go on? There's no need for you to wait.”

“Well, I would like to be there when he arrives—”

“Of course you would! You run along. I'll phone you first thing after the audition. Wish me luck.”

“I'm sure you'll get the part.”

“Herbie says it's a cinch. I'm going to charm that producer right out of his mind.”

The train came chugging in as I left the parking lot. I drove slowly back through the village, and as I passed the inn I saw Bart's car parked in front. I felt a twinge of guilt, remembering how badly I'd treated him. I chewed my lower lip, frowning as I drove on past. He was out of my life, and I was lucky. I realized that deep down inside. I wondered if he had gone to see Clive Hampton yet. That was something else I wouldn't have to bother with. Lloyd would take care of it.

I half expected to see Lloyd's car parked in front of the house, but he hadn't arrived yet. I left the Rolls in the garage and walked around to the front steps. The veranda was shrouded in shadows, the old porch rocker barely visible, the hanging pots dripping with ferns. I was reluctant to go inside, and although I knew it was absurd, I couldn't shake the feeling that the house was watching me, waiting for my return. Now that I was completely alone, it seemed even more sinister. With Mandy at my side, with Bart in the carriage house, I had been able to ignore any reservations I might have had about staying here. It was different now. I was alone, isolated, surrounded by woods.

Standing on the steps, I hesitated.

The day had been bright and sunny, but masses of clouds were building up now, and the sky was gray. The lawns and gardens were drained of all color. A brisk wind caused the treetops to bend and wave. The ferns hanging on the veranda swayed, rustling with a noise like whispers. Something seemed to be warning me not to go inside. I sensed it in the air, all around me, a curious, inaudible warning, an unheard voice urging me to turn back, beware, beware.

I almost lost my nerve. I almost got back into the Rolls to drive to the village, and then I realized how foolish I was being. My nerves were on edge, and the house was hardly welcoming, but there was no reason to feel like a skittish, apprehensive young girl. I was a sensible adult, and I must act like one. Squaring my shoulders, I went inside.

The peculiar atmosphere I had noticed earlier when Mandy and I had returned from the village was even stronger than it had been before. The hall was dim and gloomy, and I stood there for a moment, trying not to look at that spot at the foot of the stairs where the bloodstains still showed. The air seemed to be stirring with ominous undercurrents. I had the distinct impression that I wasn't alone. Someone seemed to be hovering just out of sight, listening to me, watching me, and I glanced uneasily at the stairs. Something stirred there on the landing above, a dark form barely visible. A floorboard creaked. I moved quickly to the foot of the stairs and switched on the light.

There was no one there. It had been my imagination.

More floorboards creaked upstairs, and although it sounded like stealthy footsteps creeping away down the upper hall, I had the sense to realize the noise was perfectly normal. As the wind blew against them, the windows rattled in their frames, and there were low moaning noises as wind whirled down the chimney flues. Standing still, straining to hear, I listened to all the creaks and moans and rustles typical of an old house when there was a high wind. Ordinarily I would have been oblivious to them. Now each noise seemed to be strangely distorted, magnified.

Through sheer willpower I ignored the ominous aura that seemed to hang like an invisible pall over the house. It was growing darker outside. There was a distant rumble of thunder. I turned on the lamps in the hall, the library, the front parlor, and although the light diminished the gloom, it did nothing to alleviate the sinister atmosphere that clung to the walls, stirred in the air. Try though I might, I couldn't rid myself of the sensation that I wasn't alone, that someone else was lurking in the dark halls upstairs, listening to my every movement. Common sense told me it was all in my mind, but that was little comfort.

I knew I had to keep busy, keep my mind occupied. It would do no good to brood about things. Stepping into the library, I sat down at the desk and began to work on the files again, wondering just how much time Mandy and I had spent on them since Bart had so clumsily demolished weeks of labor in one fell swoop. I remembered the foolish grin on his face when he surveyed the mess. I remembered my own cool anger. It seemed such a long time ago. I worked, but although I managed to get several folders back in order, it was difficult to concentrate. Thunder continued to rumble in the distance, and the light outside was fading fast. Glancing at the clock, I was surprised to see it was twenty till seven. What was keeping Lloyd? Had I given him proper directions for reaching the house? Had he taken a wrong turn and gotten lost?

I was growing hungry, and, remembering the food Mandy had brought from the delicatessen, I pushed the files aside and started down the hall to the kitchen. I had almost reached it when I heard someone coming down the back stairs. The footsteps weren't loud. They were cautious, stealthy, as though whoever was coming down paused every step or so to listen. I froze, certain it wasn't my imagination. I hadn't turned on the lights in the back hall, and it was half in darkness. The rear part of the house, where the back stairs were, was totally shrouded with black. I stood very still, my heart beating rapidly, and I watched the shadows stir, heard a curious rustle, saw something moving quickly through the dark.

“Who's there?” I called. My voice was hoarse.

There was no reply. I had expected none. I stumbled forward groping for the light switch on the wall near the kitchen door. I found it, pressed on it. Shadows vanished as light streamed down. There was no one in sight. I stepped to the back stairs and peered up. The stairs were enclosed, tattered blue wallpaper covering the walls. They were quite empty, but as I stood there I had a strong feeling that someone had just left, the air retaining the impressions of his body. There was no place he could have gone unless he had ducked into one of the back rooms, and surely I would have heard him. A window rattled nearby. Thunder rumbled. The incident had unnerved me, and I felt weak, in no mood to linger back here. I returned to the front of the house, food forgotten, wondering what to do.

Then I heard a car pull up in front of the house. Filled with relief, I hurried to the front door and opened it, a joyous smile on my lips. The smile faded when I saw Myrtle Clarkson getting out of an ancient beige Ford.

“Hello, ducky!” she exclaimed, coming up the steps. She was jovial as ever, but she seemed tense, worried. “A storm's brewin' up, sure as shootin'. I borrowed my neighbor's car. Wouldn't want to be out on my bike on a night like this.”

Her words hardly registered, so deep was my disappointment. I led her inside and closed the door and took her into the parlor. Myrtle plopped down on the settee, her eyes alight with excitement. She wore a tan dress, and a fringed multi-colored Spanish shawl that two women had been fighting over at the bazaar was wrapped around her arms and shoulders. For once, her blonde curls were uncovered and, I noticed, slightly lopsided. She looked around the room as though expecting to see someone else.

“Where's your friend, ducky?”

“Mandy? She had to return to London. I drove her to the station earlier this afternoon.”

Myrtle's eyes widened with alarm.

“And young Cooper at the inn! Oh, everyone knows you threw him out, ducky. You—you mean you're
alone
out here?”

“Yes, but—”

“Thank goodness I decided to come! You can't stay out here alone, not now, not with a homicidal maniac on the loose! You'll come straight home with me.”

I gave her a puzzled look.

“I thought you might not've heard. That's why I decided to drive out here, to see if everything was all right. I could've called, but I thought the two of you might want to come home with me, under the circumstances. I have somethin' dreadful to tell you, just dreadful.”

“Indeed?” My voice was calm.

“Lord, ducky, it gives me the trembles just thinkin' about it. My nerves are frazzled, just frazzled. Let me get a chocolate …” She dug into her purse, pulled out a paper sack full of chocolate drops, and popped one into her mouth, her eyes wider than ever. “There's been
another
murder, ducky! The whole village is in an uproar. I don't mind tellin' you, I'm keepin' my shotgun handy tonight!”

I stepped over to the windows and peered through the glass panes. Beyond the veranda railing, the lawn was dark gray, spread with heavy black shadows. As I watched, silver fingers of lightning ripped at the sky. An explosion sounded in the woods. I wondered if a tree had been struck. The lamp flickered behind me, and I could hear Myrtle rattling the paper sack. I knew what she was going to tell me. I was very calm, waiting for the inevitable.

“I've never
been
so upset, I declare. I came home, ducky, absolutely exhausted from the jumble sale—it was a rip-roarin' success, incident'ly. We made more money than we ever have, and there'll be a special sale tomorrow on the items that weren't sold today. Anyway, I came in, my feet killin' me, my whole body bone tired, and I switched on the radio, thinkin' I'd listen to some soothin' music while I made my dinner. Well, when the newscaster broke in with the special report—”

“It was Cassie, wasn't it?” I said quietly, still staring out through the panes.

“How did you know? They found her body this afternoon, while we were just gettin' started with the jumble sale. The report didn't reveal much, didn't give any of the juicy details, but I have other means of gettin' my information. Didn't take me long to find out all the particulars. The poor girl had been dead for hours when they finally found her. Brutally strangled, she was, her throat covered with horrible black bruises. The police think it must've happened last night. Ralph Burton—he's one of the local lads, a real hell-raiser, always after the girls, always in trouble—he went to see her last night and the cottage was all dark and she didn't come to the door when he knocked. Her dog was barkin' somethin' awful …”

The sack rattled again as she dug for another chocolate. I turned away from the windows and went over to one of the chairs. I sat down, my head spinning. I saw the room, lights flickering, saw Myrtle with her vividly hued shawl, but everything seemed to be covered by a shimmering haze. Edges blurred, details went out of focus, colors melted. The spinning stopped. I looked down at the hands in my lap. They might have belonged to someone else.

“Ralph thought she'd stood 'im up, thought she was out with some other fellow.” Her voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. “He didn't think too much about it. The dog barked all night long, barked all morning, and the neighbors finally decided somethin' might be wrong. They called the police, and Sergeant Duncan drove out He found her. Horrible it was. She'd put up quite a struggle. The room was a shambles, furniture knocked over, lamps broken, poor Cassie there on the floor—”

She chattered on, making vivid gestures, her voice growing more and more excited, and I hardly heard her. He had been there. He had been listening. He knew that she could identify him, knew he had to kill her. I remembered the weary, resigned expression on her face when I last saw her. I remembered that limp, defeated gesture she had made. I wanted to cry, but no tears would come. I was numb, unable to feel anything. Myrtle chattered on and on, providing details, describing the horror, but her words were merely background noise.

“—him. I have instincts. I felt it was my duty. Constable Plimpton listened to me, but he seemed distracted. I could tell he thought I was a crackpot, a busybody, but I didn't let that bother me. I told him everything—how that man had pestered poor Daphne, how afraid she was of him, my seein' him come out of the house that night.
They
think Cassie was murdered by one of her boyfriends—she was a scandalous creature, truth to tell, shockin' conduct, all those boys, all those presents. Like I said, I have instincts, and I
know
there's some connection. Cassie must've seen something. Her cottage is right near Reggie's and—”

My numbness vanished. I looked up. “You went to the police?”

“I felt it was my duty. I should have told 'em about that man as soon as Daphne was murdered, but I didn't. Now there's been another murder, and I had to speak up. When I think of the way he came to the jumble sale, bold as brass—the way he stared at you. I told 'em about that, too, but they didn't pay any attention. ‘We're extremely busy, Mrs. Clarkson,' he told me, just like I was wastin' his time! There was a whole mob of coppers at the station. It was a regular beehive, radios blarin', phones ringin', people runnin' in and out. They had poor Ralph Burton there, questionin' him. The lad was sweatin' some-thin' awful, kept sayin' he wanted to see a lawyer. I told 'em, I said, ‘You've got the wrong man.' Then that Sergeant Duncan took hold of my arm and drug me outside. Talk about police brutality! I'm going to file a complaint! No copper's gonna shove
me
around—”