"Creepy,” I commented.
Mason laughed. “Yeah. It's painted so that the eyes seemed to follow you wherever you are in the room. I'm used to him now, though."
"Who painted it?"
"No one."
At my glance, he clarified. “No one famous, I mean. It was done by a local artist. Aaron Perry."
"The same Aaron Perry who ran off with Berkeley's fiancé?"
"The same. Very good. You've done your homework. According to the stories, the three of them were inseparable growing up. The girl—"
"Charity Keith,” I supplied, and Mason laughed.
"Now you're showing off."
"Yeah. It's an interesting story. Sad. Romantic. Like most ghost stories."
"Pure soap opera, if you ask me. Charity agreed first to marry Berkeley, but then changed her mind and ran off with Perry. Berkeley committed suicide at the peak of his fame and fortune—such as it was. The guy was not exactly Houdini."
He guided me through the rest of the display. There were fragile posters of Berkeley's performances and yellowed newspaper clippings of his modest triumphs. He'd definitely been junior varsity. No appearing before the crowned heads of Europe and his performance at the Pan-American Exposition had been marred by the assassination of President McKinley.
I glanced over the notice of Berkeley's engagement to marry Charity Keith and studied the formal still posed portrait of the happy couple. Apparently not that happy, since Charity had eloped with Berkeley's good friend Aaron Perry.
Even in his engagement portrait Berkeley looked ... harrowed. Charity, on the other hand, had that grim expressionless countenance most brides wore back then. Possibly something to do with women not having the right to vote until 1920.
"Are there any photos or pictures of Perry?"
"Not that I know of."
"Too bad.” It would have been nice for the book, a picture of the love triangle. I mused, “An elopement must have been socially awkward in a town this size."
Mason laughed briefly. “I bet."
I moved down the row of black and white photographs, pausing at a picture of Berkeley in Paris. I felt a prickle down my spine as I picked out his tall figure standing next to the unsettlingly realistic guillotine. Something about that tall dark figure in top hat and cape caught my attention; seemed somehow familiar.
"This was the guillotine he used to kill himself?"
Mason peered over my shoulder. He smelt appealingly of pipe tobacco and citrus. He was sucking on a lemon drop, and he shifted it with his tongue before saying, “I don't know. There were two of them and they were identical, I guess, until Berkeley doctored one for his own personal use. That one was destroyed after the inquest."
The shudder that rippled down my spine caught me off guard. Mason laughed. “Berkeley's story really got to you, didn't it?"
I laughed, trying to brush my unease off. “Maybe. It's all these gruesome props. Usually I have to use my imagination more. A lot more."
"I can imagine. Have you ever seen a real ghost?"
"Me? No.” I glanced over my shoulder, feeling those strange painted eyes again.
"Well, if it's any comfort, it was all about the illusion for Berkeley. He didn't really chop the heads off volunteers."
Mason was teasing, and I forced a smile in response; I had no idea why David Berkeley's story affected me like no other I'd investigated so far. It wasn't a rational response, that was for sure.
He left me to examine the rest of the photos and memorabilia at my leisure, and I spent the morning glancing over the colorful ephemera of placards and postcards, puzzling over birdcages and boxes and other vintage odds and ends. I took photos of the clippings and the portrait of David Berkeley. I had more than enough information on him for the book, but the more I learned about him, the more fascinated I became.
I was the museum's only visitor that morning, and I wondered what Mason did to while away the long hours.
"We get a lot more visitors in the summer,” he assured me, when I asked. “Berkeley might never have been a household name, but he's still pretty well known in magic circles.” He watched me screw the lens cap on my camera, and asked a little diffidently, “What do you think about lunch?"
"I'm all in favor of it."
I really liked his smile—and the fact that smiling wasn't a struggle for him. “There's a little place down the road that makes terrific meatball sandwiches."
"Sounds good,” I said, and was treated to the easy smile again.
I followed Mason to a little Italian restaurant with a great view of the ocean. The tables were covered in red and white checked table cloths and there were candles in Chianti bottles and faded photos of 1960 Rome for ambiance.
Mason ordered the meatball sandwiches and I went for pepperoni and black olive pizza, having no idea when or if I'd have dinner.
"How long are you staying for?” he asked as we sipped beer from chilled mugs.
"Just ‘til Sunday night."
"I guess, living in L.A., you don't get up this way a lot?"
I thought of all the plane trips, all the Friday night drives up the coast to see C.K. How come it had never occurred to me that I was the one doing all the driving and flying and jumping through hoops? Never again.
"No,” I said.
He nodded, stared at the table top.
Someone had left a newspaper folded on the table next to us, and my wandering gaze lit on the story about the recent rash of burglaries—which reminded me of Sam. Now that I had a little distance from the night before, I could see that a certain amount of cynicism was probably part of the cop job description. And it's not like I was so inexperienced I put undue importance on sex. I was irritated with my earlier reaction to his misanthropic view; what did I care what he thought about me? I put it down to Oliver planting ideas in my head about him.
"What's the crime rate like here?” I asked, to distract myself from the direction my thoughts were going.
"Almost non-existent.” Mason followed my gaze to the newspaper headline and shook his head. “Oh, that. That's something new for us. Started a couple of weeks ago with summer houses getting broken into and robbed. Luckily no one's been hurt."
I nodded absently.
We chatted about the usual things. Mason was full of praise for small town living. He had moved to Ventisca from San Jose following the death of his longtime partner three years earlier.
"I'm sorry,” I said.
He smiled sadly. “Yeah. People sort of forget that AIDS is still killing us."
I wondered if he had tested positive for the virus or not. I liked him and found him attractive but I wasn't at the point where it mattered to me personally one way or the other. His uncomplicated admiration and openness was refreshing after Sam Devlin. Not to mention C.K.
But I was still unsettled about my stupidity in having sex with a stranger the night before—unprotected sex at that—and it put me on my guard. I returned the conversation to neutral ground. “So what's the local word on the ghost?"
"Ask around and you'll hear plenty of accounts of flickering lights and strange noises. You know: the ghostly slide of a guillotine blade echoing through the woods."
He grinned, and I grinned back, but I remembered the eerie sensation of those silent woods closing in on me.
"Have you ever seen anything?"
He hesitated. “I hate to tell you this, but I'm not a big believer in the supernatural."
"Sure. Which means anything you've seen will be more interesting. Or at least more reliable."
He took a swallow of beer and wiped the foam from his mustache. “I've seen the lights. I go out to Seal Point sometimes with my telescope. The lights are supposed to be Berkeley traveling from room to room searching for his lost bride."
"But she wasn't his bride, right? She ran off before they married, so why would he be looking for her in the house?"
Mason shrugged. “Never thought about it. Maybe ghosts aren't logical. Maybe his ghost
forgot what happened. He did chop his head off, after all."
I laughed. “Good point."
I liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. I said, at random, “Berkeley killed himself eight months after Charity ran off?"
"So the story goes. Yep. That much is documented."
"It seems like a weird way to commit suicide, using the guillotine. You think he'd just throw himself off the cliff or blow his brains out."
"He was a showman up to the end, I guess."
"I guess. So did you ever hear—"
He chuckled. “I know what you're going to ask. Did I ever hear the ghostly scrape of the guillotine ax?"
"Did you?"
His face was rueful. “Nope. I've made a point of never getting that close to the house at night."
"Seriously?” Mason didn't look like the nervous type.
"Seriously,” he said, and his eyes were without their habitual twinkle. “And, if you'll take my advice, you'll steer clear of those woods after dark."
* * * *
Mason and I talked a little longer, and then I reluctantly declined dessert and coffee and headed back to Oliver's. This time I took the back road, skirting the Oliver's home and parking in the woods not far from the cliffs.
I could smell the seasalt and eucalyptus, and hear the cries of the gulls circling high above the rocks as I unloaded my gear, and lugged it across to Berkeley House. Once I had everything out of the car I lifted it through the broken front windows of the library and began setting up my equipment.
The afternoon was warm and unusually sunny, the wind down to a murmur. I could hear birds singing in the trees. The unease I'd felt the previous day seemed silly now.
I mounted the video cam on its tripod in the corner of Berkeley's library where it wouldn't be easily spotted by anyone peering through the window. Setting the timer, I hurried back to the car.
As I pulled away, I was caught between guilt and triumph. Yes, I'd given Sam Devlin my word not to go back into the house, but I'd been coerced into it, so it didn't count.
Not really.
Besides, Devlin was a jerk.
It took about ten minutes to drive to Oliver's. I parked in the shady front drive, and went inside the house using the key Devlin had given me before I'd left that morning.
There was no sign of him, and that was a relief.
Sitting down at my laptop, I entered my notes from the museum. I worked for about an hour when the sound of splashing filtered through my consciousness. I rose, went to the window and looked down at the brick patio and swimming pool beyond.
Sam was in the pool. I watched him for a while. He swam with a single-minded ferocity. Gleaming brown arms cut glistening arcs in the air, strong legs kicking as he shot through the water. Each time he reached the length of the pool, he did one of those quick underwater summersaults off the wall and started back across the water.
I was struck again by the beauty and power of his body; I didn't want to remember how it had felt to be held by him, how his mouth had tasted on mine, the roughness of his cheek and the softness of his hair. I wanted to forget the night before had ever happened, so it was annoying as hell to find it difficult to tear myself away from the window.
But I did. I went back to work, finished entering my notes and then read them over. I thought Berkeley House was by far the most interesting of my chapters, and I wondered if it would be feasible to use David Berkeley's portrait on the book cover.
"Hey,” Sam yelled upstairs some time later. “You want some dinner?"
I opened my mouth to yell my refusal, but my stomach growled, practically loud enough to answer for me. And the answer seemed to be yes.
I closed my laptop and went to the top of the stairs. “Is that your way of asking if I'll cook?"
He stared back, but then his mouth quirked like he just might smile. “It's for your own protection,” he said.
"That's what I thought,” I said.
His expression altered. “If you want me to cook, I'll cook."
I must have looked unconvinced because he said, “I defrosted a couple of steaks. I can do steak."
I was too hungry to ignore this olive branch—in fact, I was hungry enough to eat an olive branch, so I shrugged ungraciously and joined him downstairs in the kitchen.
"There's beer in the fridge,” Sam said, peppering two enormous steaks. “I went to the market earlier."
I opened the refrigerator and saw that he had indeed stocked up. There was plenty of imported beer as well as perishables like milk and bread and lettuce. Apparently he was planning on staying for a good while. It didn't matter to me now; I wouldn't be staying beyond Sunday and I'd already figured out how I'd work around him.
"How was your day?” he asked, his eyes very green in his tanned face.
"Fine."
"How'd the ghost hunting go?"
I stared at him. Was he making conversation with me? Why?
"It was okay,” I answered warily.
"Learn anything useful at the museum?"
My hand slipped opening a bottle of Beck's and I almost spilled some of the precious elixir. “How'd you know I went to the Historical Society museum?"
He raised thick brows at the suspicion in my voice. “I saw you with Mason Corwin coming out of Mama Louisa's. I put two and two together."
"Oh?"
His mouth twitched a little at my tone. “Is that a touch of paranoia? I was going into the market. I have the produce to prove it."
Well of course he wasn't following me; I hadn't thought he was, but it still gave me a funny feeling, especially since he was being so uncharacteristically cordial.
"Speaking of which, do you want me to make a salad or something?” I offered, mostly to change the subject.
Sam smiled, his expression informing me that he knew exactly what I was doing. “Sure, that'd be great."
It occurred to me that the offer of beer had simply been a ploy to get me to open the fridge and see the vegetables awaiting my expert hand. “Are you sure you're gay?” I inquired. “You seem pretty helpless in the kitchen."
"I'm sure.” He gave me an unexpectedly direct look. “My skills lie in another direction."
Anybody else, I would have thought he was flirting. As it was, blood rose in my face remembering exactly how skilled he was—and my own uncharacteristic response.
I busied myself tearing up and washing greens, and Sam took the steaks out to the back patio. Apparently his idea of cooking was BBQ.
I gave myself time, drank some beer, then followed him outside. He was sitting in one of the wooden Adirondack chairs idly swiping at flies with the extra-length spatula while the coals heated. I straddled one of the weathered benches taking a turn at observing him for a change.
"How do you want your steak?” he inquired into the silence.
"Medium—hold the flies."
He turned a gleaming look my way. “Extra protein,” he observed.
"Ha."
He resumed gazing at the sun-glittering pool.
I swallowed a mouthful of beer, listened to the sound of the pool filter and the scrape of dead leaves on the bricks. Bees hummed around the bougainvillea winding up the wooden posts of the pergola, brilliant scarlet and yellow flowers.
"So what happened between you and the boyfriend?” Sam asked suddenly.
"Huh?” I stared at him, astonished.
"The art dealer boyfriend,” he clarified, as though I had so many I might have lost track.
I continued to stare at him, and his face reddened as though it belatedly occurred to him that maybe this was just slightly intrusive. I figured that Oliver must have filled him in on me—preparatory to handing me over as human sacrifice du jour.
"He didn't do monogamous,” I said. “Or long term.” I stood up, swung my leg over the bench, aware that he was still watching me with that bright alert gaze. “Are we eating inside or out?"
"What did you want?"
Somehow everything
spoken in the last couple of minutes seemed laden with undertones and secret meaning. It took me a second to gather my thoughts. I said, “Outside, I guess. It's nice tonight."
"It is nice,” Sam agreed. He rose and applied himself to the grill.
* * * *
The steak at least was perfect.
After his odd question about C.K., Sam seemed to have little to say. We ate mostly in silence, while the little lights strung across the open patio and threaded through the vines blinked into life like fireflies or tiny stars. Pool lights illuminated crystal water. The evening was perfumed with charcoal and chlorine and freshly mown grass.
Every so often I'd glance up from my plate and Sam would be staring at me with a expression I couldn't quite pin down. Each time I'd catch his gaze, he'd look away.
"You want another beer?” He asked on his way into the house.
"No thanks."
We were both sticking to beer—and not too much of it.
"How did your family acquire Berkeley House?” I asked when he returned with his beer. “Berkeley wasn't a relative, was he?"
"No."
"The house was abandoned after Berkeley's death?"
"Near enough. The house went to elderly relatives of Berkeley's back east. They had no interest in moving out west and the house had a bad reputation locally. Finally it was sold off with the surrounding acreage to Cornelius Wagnalls, who built this house. Wagnalls lost everything when the stock market crashed in 1929, and Oliver's grandfather bought the estate in auction."
"And the house was left closed up all that time?"
"Mostly. There are stories about Wagnalls offering the house to his daughter as a wedding present, and her walking inside and walking straight out again.” He raised his black eye brows suggestively. “Atmosphere,” he said.
"Or thirty years of dust.” I smiled absently, reminded suddenly of the previous evening, the way it had felt being together. It was still hard for me to believe that I'd done that. Or that he had.
It seemed risky to even question it. It had been a one off. It had felt good at the time, but now I needed to forget about it. So how the hell come I kept thinking about it?
Scared Stiff Page 11
