by Ron Chudley
“I realized you were mad at me. You know, for playing that little game with Hal . . .”
“Darling, my only concern is why you think you have to impress him. Anyway, it doesn’t matter right now. Why do you want me to come there?”
He gave a conspiratorial chuckle. “Terry doesn’t get back till Monday. We could sleep up at the big house.”
“You know I don’t like to do that.”
“Whatever. Anyway—what I do have is a surprise for you. I’ve been working on it all night. So you have to come here to see it. Okay?”
“Sure. So—is there anything you need?”
“No. Just bring your sweet self.”
“Okay—see you in a bit.”
She hung up and quickly finished her cleanup, changed out of her uniform, and popped her head into the office to say goodnight to Fran, the owner. Her old VW was parked out back. This late, she was hardly enamoured of the prospect of a half-hour drive to Shawnigan Lake, but resignedly started out. Trust Trent to come up with a mysterious “surprise,” a diversion, no doubt, from his embarrassment of the earlier charade.
She loved Trent, no doubt of it. Though ten years her senior, he was the most exciting, passionate man Stephanie had ever known. He was also brilliant, with a wonderful imagination, fantastic memory and math skills that made her feel humble. Though he’d taken to business rather than the arts, the richness of imagination that had served his brother so well was evident in him too. Finally, he adored her—he was capable of making her feel happier and more desirable than anyone ever had—the snag being that he was also a bit of a flake.
Apparently, the fortune he’d recently lost wasn’t the first. According to his friend Terry Bathgate—who’d told her this in confidence—Trent had been up and down several times over the years. Undoubtedly a whiz-kid, he had trouble staying focused and was easily bored, the final problem being that, though an astute market analyst, he had trouble taking his own advice. His present predicament was the result of just that.
So why had she committed herself to such a man? He had come by chance into her restaurant, a charming but obviously adrift guy, and he’d returned again and again, chatting her up until finally she agreed to go out with him. A year later, she’d come to believe she’d found someone just one small misstep from extraordinary. If he’d just sort himself out and try to be a bit more mature, she was sure that the rare soul she sensed beneath the slightly wacky exterior would one day emerge in triumph.
Or was she just a sentimental fool?
Whatever! She loved the man, which was all that mattered. As for the drive to Shawnigan he’d sprung on her, after the bustle of work she found it soothing. Fifteen minutes from Duncan, she left the Island Highway at the south end of tiny Dougan Lake, heading in the direction of Shawnigan Village. The road was dark and winding but still quite busy. The blinding lights of oncoming cars began to give her a headache. Traffic started to pile up behind, and at one point a giant pickup overtook her with a roar. By the time she reached the village, she was feeling exhausted and somewhat less benign toward the instigator of this late-night odyssey.
The last couple of kilometres around the lake, though even more winding, were less busy. Stephanie reached the familiar entrance to Lake Haven and turned down the drive with relief. The light was on in the lower courtyard, Terry’s Bathgate’s convertible parked off to the left near the rear entrance to the house. Stephanie turned her VW in the opposite direction, on a track that led through the trees to a cabin. Outside there was just room for two vehicles. Trent’s battered Landrover was parked there, and Stephanie edged in beside it. The only way out was to reverse all the way back to the courtyard—but she wasn’t going anywhere tonight.
The porch light was off, making the normally cheery guest cabin look a little mysterious. It was built of logs, with a steep-pitched, shake roof. There were windows to right and left of the front door, one side being the kitchen-living room, the other the bedroom. The bedroom curtains were closed, as—surprisingly—were the drapes to the living room. No light showed behind either, which was odd; Trent usually kept the place bright and cheerful. Stephanie gave a small toot on the horn to announce her arrival, gathered up her handbag, and moved to the front door.
It was locked.
That was odd. She’d never known Trent to lock his door. Stephanie gave it a sharp rap. “Trent!” she called. “Honey?”
No answer. From the lakeside a couple of houses away came a girlish shriek and the sound of high-pitched laughter. A voice cried. “Hey—no way—too fucking cold!” The sound of a splash was followed by more laughter.
Stephanie knocked more loudly. “Trent—it’s me—open up!”
Silence—then the sound of footsteps. Finally, Trent’s voice, muffled and low. “Are you alone?”
“What?”
“I said, are you alone ?”
His voice actually sounded nervous, which was absurd. “Of course I’m alone. What else, you nut? Open the damn door.”
Lights came on in the living room. There was the sound of a key turning, then the door opened. Trent stood there, a dark figure silhouetted by the glow beyond. Stephanie couldn’t see his face, but his stance told her that she hadn’t mistaken the voice tone. Something was wrong. “Trent—what’s the matter?”
“Shhh!” he whispered urgently. “Get in!”
She did as requested and Trent quickly closed and locked the door. Stephanie felt her unease growing. “Honey, what is it? Why are you locking the door?”
“I’ve got to! To stop him?”
“Stop who, for God’s sake?”
“Terry, of course!”
“Terry Bathgate?”
“YES!”
“Stop him doing what ?”
“Throwing me out!”
Trent’s voice was no longer just afraid, it was growing angry, and Stephanie began to feel more than a little nervous herself. “Why would Terry want to do that? Oh, Trent, you two didn’t have a fight . . . Hold on, he’s not even here. Did he just come back? What’s going on?”
Trent put his finger to his lips and hustled her away from the door. His grip was none too gentle, and Stephanie felt her nervousness increase. Half an hour ago her fiancé had been chatting on the phone, sounding perfectly cheerful. Now he seemed to have become totally paranoid. “What’s going on, Trent?” she repeated, trying hard to keep the panic out of her voice.
Trent led her into the kitchen area, and only then did he loosen his grip. “We didn’t have a fight,” he said. “Terry’s not here. But he’ll be coming—coming to throw me out!”
“Darling, why would he do that?”
Trent laughed: the sound was impatient, exasperated—and chilling. “You must know! You must have worked that out!”
“Worked out what, for heaven’s sake?”
Her fiancé’s expression suddenly changed, becoming sly and—yes—suspicious. “Unless you’re in on it too?”
Whatever had happened since they’d known each other, Trent had never shown the smallest negative attitude toward herself. She forced her voice to be calm when she said, “In on what ? Hon—please tell me what you’re talking about?”
He looked at her squarely, his eyes dark and—was this possible?—dangerous. “The conspiracy that Terry and my brother are cooking up.”
“What are you talking about? Terry and Hal have never met!”
“The minute he arrived I knew.”
“Knew what ?”
“That I was really on my uppers. He was just testing me, taunting me, seeing how far I’d go with my pathetic shit—so he could report back to Terry how crazy I am!”
“Trent, that’s ridiculous. You may exaggerate a bit from time to time—tell a few harmless fibs—but one thing you’re definitely not is crazy.” She finished lamely, “Anyway, as I said, Terry doesn’t know your brother.”
Trent chuckled. “That’s what you think.”
“Darling, how could he?”
“Very si
mple.” Trent began to pace. “All those clever bastards know each other. That’s how they get where they are. I’ve been figuring it out and now I understand: oh, yeah!”
“Trent—really !”
“It’s fucking true ! If you can’t see that, you’re either stupider than I thought—or you’re in on it.”
There was no answering this. She knew it very well. She also understood that, if she could believe what she was hearing, she was witnessing something entirely new: Trent was becoming delusional. She was both astonished and afraid—and her immediate concern was not to show it.
“I’m not ‘in’ on anything,” she said swiftly, in as reasonable a voice as she could muster. “Come one, hon, you know that.”
He paused, took a deep breath—and finally smiled. “Yes—I do. So now—I want you to help me.”
Relief washed through her. “Of course I’ll help you. Any way you want. So—why don’t we just relax. Put on some more lights and I’ll put on the kettle—”
“No, no, NO !” he blurted savagely. “That’s not what I meant! What I need is for you to help me to get away !”
“Away?”
“From here ! I’m going to fool them! Do what they’d never suspect. I’ll escape. Go where no one can ever follow, or make me look stupid again. Then I’ll have the last fucking laugh on the lot of them!”
In the light from the single lamp, Trent’s face was drawn, rigid, his eyes aglow with excitement and triumph. Whatever was going on, whatever strange country her fiancé had entered since his mind had apparently become unhinged, he now seemed beyond influence or diversion; Stephanie understood this, and felt real fear. “Darling,” she whispered, “I just don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t!” Trent shouted. “But you will. Come on—it’s time!”
He grabbed her arm, pulling her across the room. “Trent—what are you doing?” Stephanie cried.
“This is why I brought you here. I want you to be the witness!”
They had reached the bedroom. Trent snapped on the light, and flung back the door. The room was neat and tidy, bed made, everything as usual—except for a single item.
Suspended from a beam in the high ceiling was a hangman’s noose.
Stephanie gasped, stumbled sideways as Trent released her and strode ahead. In a single fluid movement, he leaped on a chair, stretched up, and put his neck in the hideous loop.
The other end of the rope had been securely tied off, unreachably high, so that once the noose had begun its work, nothing could be done to stop it.
Head in the noose, Trent looked down at his almost swooning fiancée. His face was now serenely calm. One of his legs lifted, poised to kick away the chair. “Goodbye, darling,” he said softly. “Remember me.”
Stephanie stumbled forward, wanting but not daring to clutch the chair, terrified of precipitating the very action she desired to prevent. “No!” the word echoed like a rattle from the grave. “Trent—sweetheart!—please—DON’T!”
“But I must!” His raised leg shifted, hovered in front of the chair back, pausing before its final, fatal thrust, “You can see I must.”
Her insides convulsed in a frenzied effort not to scream. Agonizingly, she rammed sobs back into her throat, forcing her mouth to make the words that likely would be the last her fiancé would ever hear.
“Oh, Trent,” she whispered, “if you love me—please don’t do this dreadful thing!”
Stillness. Dead silence.
The suspended foot, waiting to perform the last life-ending shove, paused—hovered . . .
Then planted itself firmly back on the chair.
Trent’s hands rose, deftly removing the noose from his neck. He flipped it aside, leaped to the floor—and executed a broad, theatrical bow.
“End of performance. Applause, applause!” He said with a goofy grin. “So—what do you think? Aren’t I as good an actor as my famous brother?”
eleven
On Sunday morning, Mattie woke feeling a lot better. The angle of the sun, dazzling through the east-facing bedroom windows, showed that the hour was more than decent for rising. So she got up, feeling a lightness of spirit which, considering recent events, was remarkable. She headed downstairs and had barely reached the kitchen when the telephone rang.
Sylvie ! Mattie thought, the idea scarcely intuition; her friend had been due to return from a trip, and often called on Sunday mornings. “Hello?”
“Good morning, darling girl,” drawled Sylvia Skeffington’s grand English tones. “Is the coffee on?”
After all these years, Mattie’s heart still warmed at her friend’s voice. “Hi, Sylvie, I thought it might be you.”
“Oh, the joys of being anticipated. Just called to say I’m on my way—but I’m sure you knew that? See you in ten. Ciao, dear!”
Mattie put on coffee and it had scarcely brewed when there came the sound of a vehicle approaching fast: Sylvie piloted her minivan like a rally driver. Then the screen door thwacked and Sylvia appeared, striding in as if concluding a brisk hike. She was five years younger and five inches shorter than Mattie, built like an athlete, brown-limbed and sturdy, with curly blond hair, rosy cheeks, and a perennially cheerful countenance. As usual, she wore a flowing dress and stout boots, a combination she somehow managed to make appear both sensible and stylish. She threw her potter’s well-muscled arms about Mattie and hugged until her friend gasped.
“Whew!” Mattie laughed, as she was released. “It’s good to see you, too, Sylvie. How was Arizona?”
“New Mexico,” Sylvia corrected. “The pueblo potters are something else. Didn’t learn much I didn’t already know, of course. But just being around them was an inspiration.”
From a pocket of her dress, she produced a tiny, beautiful pot, two inches tall by three wide, jet-black, with a sheen so deep it seemed almost to have an internal fire. “For you!”
Mattie took the pot, eyes bright, caressing the delicate surface as if it were alive. “It’s beautiful. Oh, Sylvie—you shouldn’t.”
“Don’t I know it, ducks,” Sylvia grinned. “Scandalously expensive, actually. Those Navajo ladies are scary business women. I only wish I was as good at marketing my old tat.”
Sylvia’s “old tat” was fine and very original pottery. She had great talent and considerable reputation. Working like a slave, with only one assistant, she made a healthy living. “Oh, come on,” Mattie said laughingly. “Your work’s terrific, as everyone knows. But thanks so much for this. It’s lovely.”
Mattie poured coffee and they sat. After a few minutes’ chat, Sylvie rose and refreshed her own cup. Plunking herself back down, she said without ceremony. “All right darling girl, now we’ve done the bullshit. Time to tell mama what’s been going on.”
Mattie raised an eyebrow. “Is it that obvious?”
Sylvia sniffed and laughed simultaneously, an oddly expressive combination. “Darling, how long have we known each other? Have I suddenly grown blind? I think not. Out with it.”
Without further argument, Mattie obeyed. Sylvie already was familiar with her father-in-law’s obsession with his property and the mini-saga that had been going on regarding outside attempts to acquire it. She also knew something about the old man’s history of drinking. But when Mattie got to the part in her story when, just thirty-six hours previously, she’d stood staring down the barrel of a shotgun, then had it go off almost in her face, Sylvie’s face was slack with horror. “My God, Mattie,” she breathed. “How terrifying. What did you do?”
This being the first time she’d told of the experience, Mattie was unprepared for the severity of her reaction in reliving it. Cathartic it might be, but in retrospect its effect—no longer shielded by the numbness of shock—seemed even more distressing than originally. Tears welled up in her eyes and her hands shook by the time she reached the conclusion. “Oh, God, Sylvie, I‘ve never been so scared in my life. Luckily, I did realize that Fitz wasn’t mad. Just drunk and half asleep. And in the glare o
f the lights he didn’t recognize me. After the first shot—so close I swear I felt the wind—instead of running, which probably would have been fatal, I managed to stay still. And finally I made him understand that it was me.”
“Thank the Lord. What did he do?”
“Oh, you know—gasped, swore—dropped the gun. It was all over so quick, it was almost like a bad dream. I was so shocked I didn’t even get angry. Just put him to bed—would you believe?—like a naughty kid.”
“Gracious! I bet you gave him hell when he sobered up next morning.”
“Not really. If fact, we’ve hardly talked about it. I don’t know how much he remembers. Enough that he’s pretty mortified, I think. And he has apologized in a general way. But I don’t believe he’s aware of how near things came to—you know.”
“But that’s no good, ducks. What if he gets smashed and tries it again?”
“He can’t. I’ve buried the gun.”
Sylvie gave a surprised chortle. “Really? Good for you. But what’s to stop him getting another?”
“Unlikely. Despite what happened, guns aren’t Fitz’s thing. That one was an heirloom he’d only recently dug out of the attic. Also . . .”
“What?”
“In spite of everything, in his own way he cares about me. He’s certainly wild about Jennifer, though not too thrilled that she’s—as he puts it—‘run off to Froggieland.’ But he’s already lost a son and . . .” There was a small pause, which was not lost on her friend. “. . . and his only grandson. I’m sure he doesn’t want to add to the toll.”
At some time during the narrative, Sylvie had taken hold of Mattie’s hand. She gave it an encouraging squeeze and let go. “Darling, of course he doesn’t. Stupid of me to suggest otherwise. Fitz may be a cantankerous old fart occasionally, but he’s also a sweet man who’d be lost without you.” Sylvie rose and administered a swift peck to her friend’s cheek. “As would we all, my lamb. So it’s over and everyone survived. We must just thank our lucky stars and carry on. Actually—funny as it may seem, after what you’ve just told me—it was also Fitz I came to see.”
