House of Many Shadows

by Barbara Michaels

  “Maybe we can get in the back door,” Meg said.

  “Maybe. Did you have a fun time? You must have, to stay so long.”

  His tone was milder than she had expected. Meg deduced that his inquiries had gone well. She decided it would be tactful to ask.

  “Negative information only,” Andy said, in answer. “The records are complete for those years and there is definitely no mention of a title transfer.”

  “What about the marriage certificate?”

  “No luck. I checked Emigs—also Stoltzfusses and every other name I could think of, from 1837 to 1840. Even in that day and age girls didn’t marry before they were fourteen, I assume.”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  Andy switched on the headlights. Meg privately felt this was overdue; Andy wanted to put off the fact of night as long as possible. He was driving too fast.

  “I gave your regards to Mrs. Adams,” she said.

  “That’s nice. What did she have to say?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Don’t kid me. Little old ladies never say anything interesting.”

  Meg started to laugh, and then sobered. “Andy, we’ve been ignoring a valuable source of information. Little old ladies like Mrs. Adams have nothing to do but read and gossip and collect old things. She’s an intelligent woman, and family is important to her. I’ll bet if I could get her to sit down and answer questions, she could tell us a lot. Family legends, old stories… Ow! Andy, watch out—” The animal that had darted into the road—cat, rabbit, possum, she couldn’t tell—saved itself by a mighty leap as Andy twisted the wheel. Meg fell against his shoulder and bounced back as he swerved back into his lane. “You were saying?” he asked.

  Meg gulped. “I don’t remember… Oh, yes. It may interest you to know that we are unofficially engaged and that we are fixing up your old ancestral mansion so we can live in it. With, presumably, ten or twelve children.” Andy hooted with laughter.

  “Furthermore,” Meg went on, in a smooth, silky voice, “I was unaware of the fact that you are a best-selling novelist. Who are you really? Norman Mailer? Philip Roth?”

  The car swerved dangerously.

  “Oh, hell,” Andy muttered. “I thought I’d be safe out in the boondocks.”

  “That’s where you aren’t safe. I tell you, the espionage service out here is fantastic—like jungle drums. Mrs. Adams knows everything there is to know about you.”

  “Not everything,” Andy muttered. Then he shrugged. Meg saw the movement in silhouette. It was almost fully dark outside. Only faint streaks of sunset lingered.

  “I wrote one book,” Andy said. “It was a lousy book, but it sold well. And don’t think I’m going to tell you the name of it. I’m working on another one now, and I’m behind schedule, in case you want to know.”

  “And you let me make all those cracks about unpublished writers,” Meg exclaimed. “You must have enjoyed yourself.”

  “I did. Continue; that isn’t all you learned from Mrs. Adams, superspy.”

  “The house is haunted,” Meg said.

  “You’re telling me!” The car leaped forward.

  “I’d rather take a chance with the ghosts than become another highway fatality,” Meg said, through clenched teeth. “Mrs. Adams wouldn’t say much. She doesn’t believe in ghosts and she hates to imply anything that reflects on the honor or the good sense of the old families. But I think your great-aunt saw Anna Maria. ”A pretty lady,“ according to Mrs. Adams. The aberration passed away when she got older.”

  “Maybe we’re emotionally retarded.”

  “The most puzzling thing, though, was the series of hints she threw out that there was some connection between your family and the Hubers. She’s hard to pin down; that’s why I said we wouldn’t get anything out of her unless we could make her answer specific questions. But she doesn’t answer them. She just sort of babbles on and edges around unpleasant subjects, like murder.” “What precisely did she say?”

  “I missed part of it,” Meg admitted. “She really stunned me with the story of your literary success, and then I lost track of what she was saying for a while. But she referred to murder, and then she said she wouldn’t discuss such nasty things with strangers; but that I, as a potential member of the family, had a right to know.” . “Know what?” “That’s what she didn’t say.”

  “You overestimate her. I doubt if she knows anything.” They were silent for a time. Andy drove as if the fiends were on his trail; Meg sat with hands clenched on the edge of the seat and her feet braced. They were in the home stretch, with the gates only a mile away, when the inevitable happened. A car, waiting at a side road, emitted a long wail as they sped past. Looking back, Meg saw the ominous red flasher in hot pursuit.

  “Pull over,” she said resignedly. “You couldn’t outrun a tricycle in this car.”

  “I never race police cars,” Andy said virtuously. He put his foot on the brake and stopped on the shoulder of the road. The police car pulled up behind them. A man got out and walked toward them.

  Andy leaned out the window. “Fred? That you?” “Yep.” In the glow of the headlights Meg saw that the officer was a tall, burly man of about Andy’s age. He was grinning.

  “Caught you this time, Andy. Evening, ma’am. Aren’t you scared to ride with him?” “Yes,” Meg said truthfully.

  “Fred Zook, Meg Rittenhouse. Sylvia’s cousin. Fred and I went to school together,” Andy added. “He’s had it in for me ever since. Watch him; he’s going to claim I was driving twenty miles over the speed limit.”

  “Twenty-five,” Fred said. “I don’t know whether to give you a ticket, or congratulate you; this heap doesn’t look as if it could go that fast.”

  “Just give me the ticket and skip the wisecracks.” “Matter of fact, I was on my way to see you. You were supposed to stop by and sign a complaint against Culver.” “Oh, hell, I forgot.”

  “The town isn’t going to let you forget. They want to nail Culver. Go ahead, I’ll follow you home. Got the papers with me.”

  “Trusting soul,” Andy said.

  He drove the rest of the way at twenty miles an hour. Fred, behind them, kept the flasher going; occasionally he touched the siren. Andy was grinning idiotically as this childish game went on, but Meg had not forgotten what might be waiting for them at the house. She wondered what Fred would do if confronted by three menacing apparitions. Read them their rights before arresting them for trespassing? She suppressed a hysterical giggle, which Andy probably took to be shared amusement. He drove up to the front door and stopped the car.

  The lawn lay dark and empty under starlight. The moon had not risen. If the shadows were there, they were invisibleand unfelt.Megprobed,wincingly,as one touches a tender spot. Nothing.

  “Dark as the inside of a cow out here,” Fred’s voice boomed. “Get on up there and turn on some lights, Andy.”

  In the hall Meg tried to catch Andy’s eye. He avoided looking at her, but she saw that there were drops of sweat on his forehead. If he had felt anything, he had kept it under control.

  Meg was baffled. Did the presence of an outsider, a nonsensitive, prevent the manifestation? Or was it too early in the evening? Some time they ought to stand at the window, watch in hand, and find out when the shadows took shape.

  Fred accepted a cup of coffee and they sat down at the kitchen table while Andy signed the complaint—and received a whopping fine for speeding. Meg was unmoved by his howls of anguish. A rich author didn’t deserve pity.

  “You’re lucky I don’t lift your license for reckless driving,” Fred said severely. “What was the big hurry?” He glanced betrayingly at Meg and then looked quickly away.

  “I’m scared to be out in the dark,” Andy said caustically. “Cut it out, Fred. Here’s your complaint; what are you going to do with it?”

  “Can’t do much now. If you’d come in the same day… Culver seems to’ve left town, unless he’s hiding in the woods someplace. Anyhow, this’ll give m
e an excuse to grab him if he shows up. I’ve been looking for a chance to get that guy for quite a while.”

  They talked about Culver’s iniquities and exchanged gossip about former classmates, and then Fred rose to leave. He refused Meg’s invitation to supper, but promised to take a rain check. She had started dinner when Andy returned from seeing his friend to the door.

  “He’s nice,” she said.

  “A fifty-buck ticket, and you say he’s nice? How long till we eat?”

  “Fifteen minutes, if you peel the potatoes, and chop ‘em up small.”

  “Good. We’ve got a hard evening ahead of us.”

  They worked under the naked light bulbs in the attic until almost midnight. Andy refused to move any more furniture from the room that interested Meg until they had cleared space in the outer rooms. This necessitated carrying things downstairs; there was simply no room in the attic. Meg carried small tables and lamps and chairs; she helped Andy with sofas, chests, and dressers. By the time she made the last trip she was staggering with exhaustion and covered with a paste of dust and perspiration. It was not until she had tumbled into bed that she remembered she had meant to keep an eye on the front windows. If there were shadows outside, she couldn’t care less…

  The next day was even worse. Andy showed unexpected Simon Legree traits; he drove her, and himself, like an overseer. They worked in the yard all morning; the sky was overcast, but no rain was predicted. The thick coating of dead leaves was a hopeless job; they didn’t bother raking, but Andy trimmed the shrubs along the driveway and Meg weeded and gathered up dead branches. At noon Andy decreed that they had done, not enough, but all they could do. They started moving furniture again, and kept it up all afternoon. Meg headed for the library after supper; but when she reached for her embroidery Andy shook his head.

  “Time to clean house,” he said cheerfully. “Come on, Meg, you can relax after tomorrow. Tonight we labor and suffer.”

  The phone rang while they were in the kitchen collecting rags and buckets and brooms. Andy went to answer it. He returned looking pleased.

  “Georgia’s coming out,” he announced. “She said she called all morning, to see if we needed any help. Didn’t get an answer.”

  “We were outside all morning. Why didn’t she call this afternoon? It’s too late for her to come now.”

  “She had a client, I guess. It’s not too late; she can arrange furniture while we mop floors. I told her she might as well spend the night.”

  “For God’s sake, Andy! That means we’ve got to make up a bed, clean the bathroom—”

  “We’re going to clean anyway. Come on, Meg, it makes sense; you said yourself Sylvia will be here at dawn, and she wants Georgia on hand. She can get a ride out from Harry Schlegel, he lives down the road a piece. Also,” he added, with a grin, “she can assure Sylvia that we sleep chastely in separate bedrooms.”

  “Damn it! I wish you hadn’t—”

  “Why, darling, why this sudden desire to be alone with me? I didn’t know you cared.”

  Meg knew why she was annoyed. Andy had outfoxed her the previous night; she was hoping to try for contact tonight. But there would be no psychic shenanigans with Georgia in the house, and Andy knew it.

  She grabbed the vacuum cleaner and dragged it into the hall.

  She had worked off some of her annoyance by the time Georgia arrived and announced her presence by pounding on the door and yelling. She had to admit Georgia was a help. She worked like a Trojan, and she had brought some of her own cleaning materials, waxes and polishes that were better than the commercial products for old furniture. It was after midnight when they stopped. Meg was sitting in a yellow brocade armchair, legs stuck straight out ahead of her; but Georgia, leaning on a dry mop as a medieval knight might have leaned on his lance, looked as fresh as Georgia could look.

  “Not bad,” she said, with a pleased glance around the room. “The carpets make quite a difference. That was a good job, Andy, finding that roll of rugs. Imagine putting Persian carpets away in the attic! This one is a Bokhara and the big one is a Kerman. They’ll look even better after they’ve been cleaned.”

  “Somebody thought enough of them to pack them full of mothballs,” Andy said, wrinkling his nose.

  “They look lovely,” Meg mumbled. Her eyes closed.

  “Wake up, honey, and we’ll have a nightcap,” Georgia said cheerfully. “I’ve sure earned it tonight.”

  She insisted Meg join them in a drink. The alcohol finished the job. Meg was almost asleep as they helped her up the stairs.

  The doorbell rang at six forty-five next morning. Meg opened one reluctant eye; then, realizing what was happening, she leaped out of bed with a speed that made her head swim.The bell rang again, impatiently, as she emerged from her room, tying her robe around her. In the hall she met Andy, fully dressed, on his way downstairs. “Get some clothes on,” he ordered. “Make it fast.” Meg fled back into her room, pausing only long enough to pound on Georgia’s door. She put on jeans and a shirt and ran a comb through her hair; then she went down, to find Andy helping Sylvia take her coat off. It was a leopard this time; Sylvia looked like a tired old cat.

  “You don’t look well,” Meg said impulsively, after the brief, formal embrace Sylvia permitted. “You didn’t have to get here so early, Sylvia.”

  “I’m not tired. It seems I woke you, though.”

  “I was upstairs trying to waken Georgia,” Meg said evasively.

  “She must get up at once. I haven’t much time.”

  “I’ll go yell at her,” Andy said. “You could probably use some coffee, Sylvia, even if you are twice as strong as we are. How about your chauffeur? What time did that poor guy have to get up?”

  “We left Philadelphia at five thirty,” Sylvia said in her precise voice. “Courtenay had breakfast before we started, naturally. I don’t starve my employees. He’ll come in if you want him to help you.”

  Meg never forgot that day. She had never worked so hard in all her life. She had thought Andy a hard taskmaster, but in comparison to Sylvia he was Little Eva. And Sylvia did it all without ever raising her voice. As Meg was to say later, she now understood how Sylvia had collected so much loot from her various husbands; she only wondered how they had kept so much as a pin for themselves. It was mesmerism, or magic, or something.

  When Sylvia looked at you with those cool gray eyes and said, “Do this,” you did it.

  Sylvia worked as hard as the rest of them, Meg had to admit that. She had brought a surprisingly ordinary little cotton housedress, and as soon as she had had one cup of coffee she put it on. Georgia had stumbled downstairs by then, a gruesome sight in the cold gray dawn. She was swept into Sylvia’s wake, and they moved through the house like an orderly hurricane.

  At Sylvia’s request Meg produced her inventory. Sylvia dismissed the scribbled unfinished pages with a sniff and proceeded to make her own list, in a leather-bound notebook she had brought for the purpose. She didn’t argue, though. Meg said, “Keep this,” or “We might as well sell that,” and Sylvia simply made a note.

  Meg had never seen Georgia so subdued. She produced estimates at Sylvia’s demand, although once or twice she rolled bloodshot eyes eloquently at Meg when Sylvia insisted on a price for a questionable item. Andy was in a state of suppressed hilarity all morning; whenever Meg caught his eye, which wasn’t often, she saw that he was bursting with laughter. He worked, though. So did the chauffeur, a grizzled black man whom Andy greeted like an old friend; apparently he had worked for Andy’s father. Meg didn’t think Courtenay ought to be doing such heavy work, but she could hardly raise an objection when Sylvia was at the other end of the highboy that was being carried.

  Around noon Meg mentioned lunch.

  Sylvia fixed her with a piercing stare. “We’ll finish first. I never eat lunch when I’m in the middle of a job.”

  And that ended that. They continued for another hour.

  Meg had taken refuge behind a sofa for a well
-deserved breather when she saw Sylvia going by under the weight of a heavy carved chair; and the look on her cousin’s face made her forget her fatigue and Sylvia’s bossiness. She sprang up and took hold of the chair.

  “Sylvia, you’re positively gray! Andy and I will finish this. Come on—hand over that chair.”

  She was surprised at her own effrontery, and even more surprised when Sylvia yielded.

  “I guess that’s about all, really. We’ll go into town for lunch—”

  “No, we won’t,” Meg said firmly. “You’re going to lie down while I get lunch. Really, Sylvia, you look exhausted.”

  She took Sylvia into her own room and made her lie down. Then she went to the kitchen and started opening cans. The released prisoners upstairs knocked off as soon as the overseer had left; Georgia came sneaking into the kitchen and collapsed into a chair.