by Ann Ripley
Four more people arrived on the veranda, a white couple and a black couple. Jim Cooley was in his mid-forties, big and muscular, with wavy dark blond hair, strong features, and smiling hazel eyes. Louise felt an immediate sense of comfort in his presence; perhaps it was his warm baritone voice. Frank Storm was a black man in this white world, perhaps a little older than Jim, but it was hard to tell. He was a standout as well: virile, dignified, and even more solid than his companion, but with a more aloof manner.
Jim’s small, pretty wife was appropriately named Grace. She was at the very least ten years younger than her husband, and the aura of youth about her was accented by her short, many-pocketed cotton dress with flowers so delicate and pale that they appeared faded. Child bride? wondered Louise.
Grace timidly waved at the Posts, as if she had met them before; Sandy Post smiled back in a flush of recognition.
Frank’s wife, Fiona Storm, stood out all the more beside the pale Grace. She was a classic dark beauty with a touch of Asian lineage in her slightly slanted eyes, and wearing a well-cut pantsuit, with perfect posture. Her expression was almost confrontational: It said, “I am not only black, I am smart and competent.”
Jim Cooley brought four chairs to the table where Louise, Bill, and Nora sat, then cajoled the reticent Gasparras until they, too, drew their chairs into the group. Immediately they began to look more at home, and Louise saw how clever Jim was at bringing people together.
It turned out Jim and Frank ran the cluster of New York-area schools for troubled young people called Higher Directions, about which Louise and Bill had recently read several newspaper articles. Fiona was the school’s fund-raiser. If Grace had a role in the business, nothing was said of it.
“I hope you all feel as at home here as I do,” said Cooley, casting his eye around the veranda, where Clematis montana ‘Rubens’ rambled in and out of the white wooden porch railing posts. “I’m Barbara Seymour’s nephew, and I’ve visited this mansion since I was a little boy. Used to help around the place every summer. I’d sit out in the kitchen garden at night with the help and we’d play folk music on guitars. What a long time ago that seems. This has always been like the family’s country home. It was turned into a hotel in the late thirties, well before I was born, but there were always rooms set aside for family members.”
Only minutes later, they were joined by another of the innkeeper’s relatives, Stephanie Landry, a porcelain-skinned young woman with long, dark-brown permed hair that stood out as boldly as the Afro hairdos of two decades before. Louise judged her to be in her mid-thirties. She caught everyone’s eye, even that of some of the kitchen help, including a homely young man watching from the edge of the veranda. After effusively kissing her cousin Jim and bear-hugging his thin wife Grace, Stephanie felt it necessary to apologize for the absence of her husband Neil, who was apparently in town picking up something from the store.
“I’m the bearer of good news,” she said, her eyes shining. “My aunt has just told me our rooms are ready, and we can go upstairs. You can use the lovely staircase, but you might prefer the elevator; it’s certainly easier with luggage.” With Louise lagging behind to examine each interesting piece of antique furniture she passed, the group slowly drifted back into the house.
At the large front door, there appeared two late arrivals. They were obviously strangers to each other, the man holding himself apart from the older woman as if she had permanently disenchanted him on their brief walk together from the parking lot.
Since Elizabeth had disappeared on other duties, Stephanie and Jim stepped up to greet them. The woman was in her early sixties, and large in stature, with a face bronzed by the sun. Louise noted her hair was dyed that ambiguous blond-beige color that sixty-year-old women seemed to favor. She wore big gold hoop earrings. In a rasping smoker’s voice she announced that she was Bebe Hollowell and had had “one devil of a time getting here from Massachusetts.” Then she began her litany of complaints. “First, I got a late start. Then, the traffic on Route Two—why, it was terrible—some funeral. And it’s impossible to make up for lost time once you get to Connecticut, which in my opinion has very poor road signage. Especially near Litchfield …”
“Oh, I agree,” said Stephanie placatingly, “very confusing.”
“I took a wrong turn to Kent: That delayed me for at least half an hour.” Bebe Hollowell granted them all a big smile, as if they had passed a test just by listening to her tirade. “Anyway, sorry I’m late. And I see you’re all waiting, anyway. Is everything all right here?”
“Oh, quite all right,” said Jim Cooley, stepping in to introduce her to the others. The man who had arrived at the same time was no more than forty-five, tall, with sandy hair and a Vandyke beard, wearing small, effete glasses with wire frames. While he stood waiting for Bebe Hollowell’s conversation to subside, he looked around with keen eyes. Louise noted that his gaze was like a butterfly’s flight, resting for a moment on the fragile, bright-eyed beauty of Grace, then on Janie and Chris, moving on to encompass the rest of the group, but pausing lengthily when it reached Nora, and then stopping dead at the Posts. The man exchanged a shocked look with the newlywed husband.
Sandy Post gave an involuntary cry, then put her hand quickly over her mouth.
The new arrival gave her a measured look, then announced in a quiet voice, “I’m Dr. Jeffrey Freeling. Some of you obviously know me from NYU.” A few deft questions from Jim Cooley established that Freeling was a botany professor at the university who specialized in genetic engineering; naturally, he was “intensely interested in gardening.” Jim started to mention a prestigious science award the professor had won for discovering the gene that allows plants to bloom at will, a fact his aunt apparently had told him about Freeling. The professor brusquely interrupted. “Please— it’s not important to these people.”
During the introductions, the Posts acknowledged knowing the professor, their embarrassed facial expressions indicating they regretted the fact. Dr. Freeling seemed equally discomfited. Is it love or hate that inspires such emotion, Louise wondered.
As the amenities progressed, Louise noted the crowd was, in a manner of speaking, deteriorating. The delicate Grace had donned her dark glasses and sagged onto a velvet-cushioned side bench. Frank and Fiona Storm waited near her, and Fiona put a hand on Grace’s shoulder, as if consoling a tired child.
After their cool greeting to Dr. Freeling, Mark and Sandy eyed each other as if they were going to burst, from suppressed anger, full bladders, or a surfeit of love’s passion, Louise wasn’t sure. Both Gasparras shifted nervously from foot to foot, and Rod Gasparra was giving Dr. Freeling what Louise could only describe as dirty looks. Chris and Janie were leaning on the balustrade at the foot of the stairs, waiting for the signal to go to their respective rooms. On the far edge of the crowd, the young man from the kitchen waited, also, for the signal to carry up the baggage.
Swim, unpack, take a nap—it didn’t matter—everyone was anxious to get settled and do something. Delay was not a popular word among American tourists seeking a getaway weekend in the country. Louise herself was so impatient to get this vacation started that she was thinking of biting off a bothersome hangnail, something she normally did only during horror movies. And she had serious doubts about this group: Everyone was polite, but there was a tension here she couldn’t define and didn’t like. It was a diverse bunch, with not a lot in common. The only impetus that appeared to drive them all to Litchfield County, Connecticut, was the Litchfield Falls Inn.
She stifled a sigh. So much for expecting the weekend to be bucolic and laid-back. She found the hangnail and removed it in one bite.
Then their hostess appeared, as suddenly and dramatically as a Broadway star. Barbara Seymour stood at the top of the tall, winding stairs. The woman had a royal air, and even from this distance Louise identified her aristocratic bearing with old New England tradition and wealth.
She called out to them in a strong, low-pitched voice: “Good a
fternoon. My regrets for the delay. But all is ready now. I am pleased and honored that you all have come.” At that, she descended the first stair, which obligingly declared the antiquity of the house by creaking loudly. The stairs were carpeted in patterned wool that Louise guessed was an authentic reproduction of an earlier time, for pictures, draperies, moldings, and wallpaper were either the original fixtures or careful copies of the eighteenth-century accoutrements of the mansion. Even Barbara was like an authentic reproduction, as Louise beheld her through the flattering golden light of the chandelier that hung in the atrium lobby. She was an aged beauty, with fine, distinctive English features, whitish-yellow hair bound up gracefully in a bun, wearing a maroon dress with a period look in its gathered skirt and billowing sleeves.
Barbara’s feet had descended the second stair and the third, when Louise saw something bulging out slightly on the fourth. At the same moment, the older woman’s slim body flipped out into the air, as if she were attempting an outrageous aerial trick that even the most experienced circus performer would not have dared, and she began to fall.
Chapter 4
“HELP!” SCREAMED LOUISE, AND lurched toward the stairs.
But Chris and Janie were already standing there, staring up in panic at the body sailing toward them. Instinctively, they both grabbed for the skimming heap of maroon fabric. It was over in an instant, and Janie and Chris were sprawled onto the stairs themselves, part of a clumsy mélange of arms, legs, bodies, and seemingly endless yards of cloth.
“Ohhh,” groaned Barbara, a deep, painful sound, as she and her full, flowing gown were gently disentangled. Jim Cooley rushed to her side and took charge.
There was a hubbub of concerned talk as everyone gathered around to look in awe at the still body. Janie and Chris got shakily to their feet. “Man, talk about flying objects,” said Chris, laughing nervously. “That lady was really flying.” He put an arm around a trembling Janie. Without speaking, she closed her eyes and leaned her head against his chest.
After a few seconds, the woman’s eyes opened, and there was a grateful murmur from the onlookers. “Oh, my,” she moaned, “where am I?”
“You took a tumble, Aunt Barbara,” said Jim Cooley, “but these young people were able to cushion your fall. I’m going to call the ambulance to take you to the hospital.” His wife Grace was now kneeling, head bowed, at the old woman’s feet, as if revering a religious statue, while Stephanie Landry sat on the stairs at her side and cried quietly, her big hairdo trembling with the sobs.
The young man from the kitchen had somehow wangled his way through the little crowd to Barbara’s other side, and was holding one of the fallen woman’s hands. Barbara, her age-bleached hair now loose like a young girl’s, looked at him as if he were an anchor in a storm. “Teddy,” she whispered. The tone of her voice startled Louise. This plain young man was more than just kitchen help at Litchfield Falls Inn.
Then the old woman turned to the others and said more forcefully, “I do believe I am all right, my dears. No need to call an ambulance.” The group continued to watch quietly. For a few minutes she simply reclined on the bottom stairs, then slowly sat up, gingerly checking herself for damage. “I am still here. And what’s more, magically, I’m in one piece.”
Stephanie’s voice hitched as she said, “You’re not hurt. I am so grateful.” Her hazel eyes were wide with relief.
Barbara Seymour stroked Stephanie’s hand. “Thank you, my dear. I’m fine, and you say it’s because of these two young people.” Her eyes went to each of them, first, Janie, then Chris. “How can I thank you both?”
The two teenagers demurred, and with assurances that, except for minor bruises, she was uninjured by her fall, Barbara allowed her nephew to help her to her feet. Accompanied by Grace and Stephanie, she disappeared down a dark, meandering hallway into the private recesses of the huge mansion.
Spooked by the near-tragedy, the guests went through a short period of catharsis. Only natural after a crowd has seen an accident, thought Louise, although this one ended with the victim unharmed. There was a buzz of relieved voices, commending Janie and Chris for acting so fast, speculating on what could have happened had they not been standing in that exact spot at the foot of the stairs.
“You are two very quick-thinking young people,” commented Jim Copley.
“Any time we can help.” The tall Chris grinned, his blond hair falling boyishly in his eyes.
Then, to Louise’s relief, Cooley broke up the chatter. He divided the guests into groups, signaled Teddy to come and help them, and sent them up on the elegant 1930’s elevator to their rooms.
On the second floor, the elevator opened into a small uncluttered area, from which two long halls extended in opposite directions. The same charming woodwork and wallpaper was in evidence here, but without as much variety in the appointments, Louise noted. A solemn parade of paintings of the illustrious Seymour clan lined the walls. Handsome people, but way too grim-looking for her taste. Of course, she reasoned, everyone put the dull furnishings in the hallway, because nobody spends any time there.
The rooms had been updated, and each bedroom now had a modern bath with Jacuzzi. The replicated woodwork within the bedrooms was not quite as complex as it was in other places, but each room was done in a special decorating theme, and had its own name. Louise and Janie’s was called the Bronze Room. It was done in muted orange and brown, with heavy mahogany furniture, including a high-standing, comfy-looking bed. On a marble-top side table was a bouquet of orange gazanias, yellow marguerite daisy, and white Queen Anne’s lace, casually tucked into a brown-and-white antique pitcher.
First, Louise unpacked her travel pillow, the one creature comfort she couldn’t do without, and tossed it onto the bed. The family had nicknamed it “Puny” because of its skimpy down filling. Since Janie had traveled light, Louise claimed the top of the dresser to lay out what Bill asserted made her suitcase weigh a ton: a few novels, two books of poetry, a half-dozen garden books, and the scripts for her Gardening with Nature shoot, which she would know by heart by tomorrow. She couldn’t forget that for her, this weekend was work, as well as fun.
“Not a bad place,” said Janie.
“It takes you back in time, doesn’t it?”
Janie didn’t answer. She had unzipped her bag and put it on the antique luggage rack, which apparently was to be the extent of the girls unpacking. With lightning speed, she changed into shorts and T-shirt. She looked at her mother distractedly. “I’m unpacked. Chris and I are going to explore.”
“You two were great down there,” said Louise, sitting in a chair slipcovered in light yellow chintz. She was ready for a chat. “You probably saved that woman’s life. Think of what would have happened if her head had hit the stairs.”
“Yeah, it worked out,” Janie said quickly, shifting from foot to foot like a runner anxious to start a race. “I’m glad—and Chris is glad. But we’re tired of people talking about it so much. Like I said, I’m leaving now. Are you going to be okay?”
“Of course I’ll be okay.”
“All right,” she said breezily. “Then g’bye.” And she trotted out.
Louise rubbed her hands idly against the smooth chintz covering the chair arms. The girl, of course, did not have to hang around the room and make small talk with her mother—there was no need for that.
Louise began unpacking her suitcase, trying to deny the hurt she was feeling. Janie was growing further away from her every day. In desperation, she turned her thoughts away from her younger daughter, and remembered Melissa McCormick, whereupon a little curl of hope began to grow in her heart. Melissa, thirteen, daughter of an old friend, had lived through a trauma no teenager should have to face: She was virtually an orphan. She was coming to visit soon. And unlike Janie, she needed Louise.
Finished hanging up her clothes, Louise wandered into the hall and leaned over the railing. She spied Bill talking to someone below. Hearing something closer at hand, she automatically checked t
he view down each of the two upstairs hallways. There was a bank of windows along the right-hand hall with a long, carved bench beneath it. Beyond that point, darkness, as the hall bent to lead into another wing. In the other direction, a length of hall ended in a magnificent Georgian window with rounded top.
Two men emerged from the darkness to the right: Jim Cooley, holding a metal box under his arm, and a shorter man with a handsome head of hair and a youthful face. Louise guessed it was the missing Neil Landry. Cooley was speaking quietly, gesticulating in an angry way. Then he saw Louise, and hurried up to her, leaving his companion to turn and go back the way they’d come.
“Uh, better be careful going down those stairs.”
She chuckled nervously. “That thought had already crossed my mind.”
“I need to fix the carpeting—it’s gotten loose. That’s why my aunt fell.” He spoke in a deep, gentle voice. With his large, calm presence, she could see he was a natural leader, a conveyor of reason in unreasonable situations. Opening a small toolbox, he descended the stairs ahead of her, kneeling to examine the rod that held the carpet in place. “Ah, just as I thought,” he said. “The rod isn’t secured properly.”
Louise’s proverbial antennae were up. Something was not right. Why, with a full house of guests expected, was the carpeting so dangerously loose in a house where every detail was managed so carefully?
She took a long, deep breath, trying to ward off the heart palpitations that she knew would come if she didn’t calm down. Jim Cooley’s mood also was grim, though he said little. With the expertise of a trained carpenter, he took a couple of nails and with a few accurate bangs, secured the offending rod back in its proper place. “There you are—all safe and sound.”
She started to say something about her suspicions and then thought better of it. “I guess I’ll go join my husband.”
