by Jeff Rovin
“Not that your great-aunt was impolite or unthoughtful,” Pratt went on. God, he didn’t want to create the impression that he was critical. “To the contrary. Joan Raymond was the first person in town to hire me when I graduated from law school. She never had a literary agent—”
“Yes, I know.”
“—and she trusted me to renegotiate her old contracts as well as negotiate the new ones. She never failed to enquire about my father and mother, or about the health of whoever was ailing in town. But she very rarely talked about her own life.”
Caroline said nothing. Worried that he might be talking too much, trying too hard to make the young woman feel at ease, Pratt shut up. He stole another look at the slender beauty as she pushed windblown locks of blond hair from her face and hooked them behind her ear. Her hazel eyes were clear and her white skin seemed even paler because of the black suit she was wearing. Even in mourning she looked lovely. Winsome and lovely.
They rounded the headland and the island of La Viuda loomed suddenly. The castle seemed to grow from the low, craggy peak in the center. As always, it presented a forbidding silhouette against the sky. It was as if the dark stones of the Tombs were unable to reflect sunlight. Pratt reduced their speed. This time out, Pratt wanted Caroline to be able to enjoy the view. Earlier in the day he’d had to run the young woman and her parents out here, then take Caroline back to his office to review her great-aunt’s will. Joan Raymond had left her great-niece everything, and he wanted to make sure she had an overview of what that entailed—property, copyrights, bank accounts. There were royalty statements and investments they would have to deal with before the week was out. There were also unpublished manuscripts at the Tombs. Caroline had listened politely and attentively. She seemed like a woman who took responsibility seriously.
“I don’t think my great-aunt felt that she knew herself very well,” Caroline said at last. “She once wrote to me saying there were a great many things she needed to understand about her own life and the world in general. She said that writing was her way of exploring them.”
“When you put it that way, I guess one can’t blame Ms. Raymond for keeping to herself,” Pratt said. “Some of what happened to her on that island was pretty weird. I assume you know about its history.”
“Not much,” Caroline said. “My mother told me a little about it when I was a child. Something about a murder?”
“That’s putting it delicately,” Pratt said.
Caroline looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“You know,” Pratt said, “now that I think about it, I’m not sure we should be discussing this right now.”
“Why?” she asked. “Because of the funeral?”
“I suppose so,” he said. “I don’t know. I just think death isn’t an appropriate subject right now.”
“When is it, Mr. Pratt?” Caroline said. “Besides, what better way is there to honor my great-aunt than by telling me about her past? Talk to me.”
Pratt looked at her. “You really want to know, don’t you?”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
Pratt nodded. In that respect at least, the young woman was just like her aunt. She spoke her mind.
“To put it bluntly,” Pratt said, “a scientist, Professor Stevens, had his throat torn out. Though Ms. Raymond denied it, others who were there that night insisted the killer was a real, honest-to-God vampire or a werewolf.”
“You’re kidding,” Caroline said.
Pratt shook his head. “Today most of the people in town laugh at the stories. State Trooper Willis—you met him at the funeral—actually gets angry when he hears them. Says they turned the town into a joke and killed its future as the coast’s biggest resort. But a few people, like Stephen Banning, Jr., whom you’ll meet in a few minutes, believe the stories religiously. Or irreligiously, as the case may be.”
Pratt chuckled then stopped. Caroline hadn’t even smiled at his bon mot. This lady was a serious one.
“What’s odd,” Pratt continued, “is that the few times the subject came up over the years—brought up by my own none-too-subtle prodding, I confess—I got the impression that your aunt believed the monster stories.”
“As we both know, my great-aunt had quite an imagination,” Caroline said. “My grandmother Arabella—my great-aunt’s sister—told me that when Aunt Joan worked as an insurance investigator, she was always assuming aliases and wearing disguises to get information. Granny Bella said Aunt Joan loved to pretend.”
“I’m sure she did,” Pratt said. “But many people think there really may have been something to the monster stories.”
“Including you?” She smiled for the first time.
Pratt blushed—not just from the accuracy of the statement but from the woman’s cheek-splitting smile.
“My grandfather was the county police inspector during the 1940s,” he said. “He showed me the report he filed. The police checked dental records throughout Florida going back five years. They never found anyone whose teeth-marks matched those in the dead man’s throat.”
“The killer could have been a transient.”
“The authorities considered that possibility,” Pratt said. “But the F.B.I. files showed no other crimes to match this one. None. They also could never account for the dead man’s missing blood.”
“Missing? As in spilled?”
“As in gone,” Pratt said. “Nearly half the blood in the professor’s body vanished. Whatever Ms. Raymond saw or heard or suspected, it obviously had an effect on her. So, I’m sure, did the legendary Beast of LaMirada.”
“I’ve never heard of that one,” Caroline said.
“I’ll give you the PG-13 version,” Pratt said. “The Beast was a serial killer who murdered over twenty LaMiradans during a two-year period in the early 1950s. Supposedly, he had long hair all over his body, hooked claws, and fangs the size of steak knives.”
“What happened to him?”
“No one’s sure,” Pratt said. “He simply vanished. But there are a lot of places around here where a body could get lost and never found. Each morning, real early, I help my grandfather take a constitutional around the swamplands near his home. The ones south of the airport. He keeps hoping that if the Beast’s out there the mud’ll give him back one day. Like prehistoric squirrels bubbling up from the La Brea tar pits in Los Angeles.”
“Doesn’t sound like the kind of thing you’d want back.”
“No,” Pratt agreed. “But it is one of those unexplained mysteries we’d all love to have solved.”
“Maybe it was the power of suggestion,” Caroline said. “If a couple of people believe something strongly enough they can always convince others. Like conspiracies and miracles—that sort of thing.”
“You may be right,” Pratt agreed. “Then again, something happened to make those few people believe strongly enough.”
As he turned the boat toward the shore of La Viuda, Pratt snuck another look at the young woman. He could see why she was a successful pediatrician. That musical voice of hers would charm even sick kids. And at the end of a smile, those dimples were becoming damn near irresistible.
“Ms. Raymond obviously did have a vivid imagination,” Pratt continued, “but she didn’t start writing until the early 1960s, long after the Beast killings had stopped. I’m convinced that her earliest stories were inspired by the events that occurred at the castle the night of the murder, enhanced by the Beast stories. She dropped hints over the years that the first story of the Werewolf of England saga was inspired by a man she once knew.”
“The Wails of Wales,” Caroline said with a spooky voice.
“A bona fide horror classic,” said Pratt. “She said the acronym ‘WOE’ was a coincidence, but I never believed her.”
“That was the first one of my great-aunt’s stories I read. It was in her collection Lost in Wonderland. I was eight years old when I stole the copy from my parents’ room and hid it under my pillow. It was also the last of her stories tha
t I read. I slept with the light on for two days after that.”
“Did you?” Pratt said. “Of all her stories I thought that one was the gentlest. She made the Werewolf a very sympathetic character.”
“One who happened to rip open human jugular veins and drink human blood,” Caroline said. She shuddered. “I can still see the first kill she described. The one in the university laboratory when the Werewolf had the scientist bent over his knee and lapped up his blood as it spilled from the wound. It was very vivid—very realistic.”
“Your great-aunt had a rare talent for making readers believe the incredible,” Pratt said. He throttled down the engine as they approached the dock. “From the time I was a kid I devoured her stories. The Werewolf series, the Incan Mummy novels, her stories about the Brides of Nosferatu and her Journal of Dr. Frankenstein. I envy the box of unpublished stories she left you and, to tell you the truth, I’d be honored if you let me read them sometime . . . But most of all,” he said, his voice choking, “I’m going to miss your aunt. I truly am.”
“I envy you the time you spent with her,” Caroline said.
“You didn’t get to see her much, did you?” Pratt asked.
“We were only together about six or seven times, usually at funerals and weddings and on one Christmas. But I wrote to her regularly, telling her what I was doing, and she always wrote back these long and interesting letters about books she’d read or reflections on life and death.” Caroline looked out at the island. “I kept meaning to get down here, you know? But I had my practice to run and I was always filling in for other doctors. And then one day it’s too late.”
“That’s always the way it is,” Pratt said.
The attorney steered the boat next to the small dock, which Ms. Raymond had had built to replace the one that had been destroyed in a fire. Another vessel was already there, an old wooden fishing boat with a badly faded BANNING AND SON, MASONRY AND RESTORATIONS painted on the side. Prior to Pratt’s return to LaMirada and his taking over Ms. Raymond’s increasingly complex financial and legal affairs, she hadn’t needed a dock. She was the only one who came and went. When she did, she rowed the quarter mile to shore and back for exercise and simply pulled her boat onto the shore when she returned.
The attorney stepped onto the dock and secured the gleaming white cruiser. Then he helped Caroline out.
“My god,” she said, staring openmouthed at the tall, dark tower and the surrounding battlements. “You don’t get this view from the other side of the island.”
“No, you don’t,” Pratt agreed. “As I understand it, the man who built the castle put the cemetery on the other side of La Viuda to take advantage of the cove there.”
“Take advantage?” Caroline asked, still staring up. “In what way?”
“Legend has it that in the old days some pretty curious medical experiments used to take place here.”
“I see,” Caroline said. “And that was where they hid the failures.”
“So the story goes.”
“It’s a fascinating story. Look up at the tower,” she said, pointing. “See that black charring around the vents on the cupola?”
Pratt shielded his eyes and squinted up. “Vaguely.”
“Those are electrical burns,” she said. “I’ve treated several such burns over the years—they leave a very distinctive, sharp-edged flash-pattern. Someone was generating very high voltage here and letting it rip.”
“To what end?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess,” Caroline said. “But it’s no wonder people on the mainland were spooked. It must have looked like bottled lightning to them. Frightening and irresistible.”
Pratt smiled. “When your great-aunt made out her will last year she told me she wanted the castle to go to someone who would appreciate it. It appears it has.” He continued to stare at the tower. This wasn’t going to be easy. “She also wanted someone who would respect her wishes.”
“About the basement, you mean.”
“Yes, about the basement.” Pratt glanced over at the woman. Her striking resemblance to her great-aunt suddenly filled him with guilt. He was glad it was the new owner he had to hoodwink and not Ms. Raymond. This was bad enough, but that would have killed him. Pratt unzipped the front of his windbreaker. He looked away, gazing into the light of the sinking sun. “Dr. Cooke—Caroline—before we go in, there’s one thing we have to discuss.”
She turned to him.
“I told you that Steve Banning, Jr., would be meeting us here regarding a construction matter.”
“Yes,” she said. “Something about renovation work on the basement wall. What about it?”
“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that.”
“In what way?”
“Banning is here with Mr. Porterhouse of the Collier County Tax Assessor’s Office. The CTA is insisting that we have that section of the castle looked at as part of the probate procedure.”
“Looked at?”
Pratt exhaled sharply. “There’s a doorway that’s been bricked up. It has to be opened, Dr. Cooke.”
“I see,” she said. “I assume Aunt Joan was okay with that?”
Pratt turned and faced her. She seemed so vulnerable and trusting. He wished that he were somewhere else. “The truth is, I didn’t tell her.”
Caroline was no longer smiling. “Excuse me?”
“I couldn’t,” Pratt said, “and I hope you’ll try to understand. Ms. Raymond had a fixation with that part of the castle. The only time she ever raised her voice or shut the door on a subject was when the basement was brought up. Whether I was recommending that she let an exterminator down there or someone to check the integrity of the foundation or insulate the damn place she dismissed the idea before I was able to finish. If I’d said anything about the probate laws she would have insisted that the CTA has no right to go down there.”
“And who says they do?” she asked angrily.
“The State of Florida,” Pratt assured her. “I went to the county court the day after she drew up her will and tried to get her an exemption. I went again the day your aunt passed away.” He reached into the pocket of his wind-breaker and withdrew an envelope. He held it toward Caroline. “New administration—same answer. They turned me down.”
Caroline did not take the envelope. “You lied to her.”
“No—”
“You told her everything would be okay, when you knew otherwise. What do you call that?”
“Kindness,” he said. “I could never have lied to Ms. Raymond.”
“That’s a lawyer’s distinction,” Caroline snapped. “It’s bullshit.”
“I’m sorry,” Pratt said. “If the taxable assets of an estate exceed a certain amount, the federal government wants its share. I tried to beat this and I couldn’t. So I tried to protect her as best I could in the only way I knew how.”
“She wasn’t a child,” said Caroline. “She could have handled the truth.”
“I don’t think so,” Pratt replied. “When it came to that room she couldn’t have handled anything. I didn’t see any point in upsetting her.”
“You said you tried everything,” Caroline said. “What about a compromise? We’ll make an estimate. I’d be willing to settle on a reasonable figure, even if we get screwed.”
“I offered to have the matter arbitrated, Dr. Cooke. Unfortunately, when you do that they think you’re trying to hide something. And given the history of this place, I didn’t want to get the CTA and other bureaus involved. Don’t forget, there are still mysteries and unsolved crimes on the books. The state police, the F.B.I.—either of them could have forced us to open the room if they thought Ms. Raymond was concealing evidence.”
“Oh, please,” Caroline said. “My aunt the killer.”
“No,” Pratt said. “But like I said, not everybody thought she made up all the events in her fiction. I didn’t want to do anything that would fan old fears or start new ones—not while she was alive. The bottom line is, there
’s no way I can keep the tax office from checking the place top to bottom.”
“I don’t believe that,” Caroline said. “There’s always a way to get what you want.”
“Not with Uncle Sam. I looked for records, floor plans, anything to show the CTA what was down there. On my own time, mind you, not Ms. Raymond’s. But even your great-aunt didn’t know where those documents were. I could have filed forms and spent Ms. Raymond’s money and delayed things maybe six months, maybe even a year. Searched for blueprints. But eventually they’d have gotten in. And knowing Mr. Porterhouse, because of the delay he’d have gone looking for small print in some tax law somewhere which would have entitled the government to monies, interest, and penalties going back to 1884 when the place was built. That could have cost the estate everything. Even if the basement is just empty space, the square footage adds to the value of the estate.”
“The value!” Caroline scoffed. “My mother told me that when the castle was auctioned in 1948 my great-aunt was the only bidder. Nobody wanted the goddamned place!”
“The government doesn’t care!” Pratt said. He stepped closer to her and put his hands on her arms. She shrugged them off. “Look, I understand your disappointment in the situation—and in me.”
“Disappointment isn’t the word.”
“Fine,” Pratt said. “Think what you want. But there’s nothing I could have done about any of it. I feel as violated by this as you do. But they would have gone in with or without us. At least if we’re here, we can make certain they do this with a minimum of inconvenience and as much respect as possible for Ms. Raymond’s wishes. Steve Banning is a good man. He’ll open the basement up and as soon as Porterhouse has had a chance to poke his head in we’ll close it again, no harm done.”
“Except the betrayal of Aunt Joan’s trust.”
“That’s right,” Pratt said. “And I’ll feel sick enough about that without you holding a serious grudge. Look, I didn’t return to LaMirada to make money. I came back because I love the town and I love its people. I loved your great-aunt most of all. I would never have done anything to hurt Ms. Raymond, and I did everything I could to try and spare her feelings. I succeeded in that but I couldn’t prevent the rest. It happens sometimes, and there’s nothing you can do but roll with the blow.”
