by Savage, Tom
“Not at all. Good night, Miss Randall.”
“Good night.”
She watched as he faded back into the shadows of the gallery, and after a moment she heard the faint sounds of his climbing the stairs to the third floor. Then, with a last, nervous glance toward the darkness above the Great Hall, she went back down the hall to her room.
This time, she locked her door.
As she lay back down and pulled the covers up around her, she began to giggle again. After a while, she drifted off to sleep once more, and this time her sleep was undisturbed.
It was the end of her first full day in residence.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Burial Ground
In the next few days, the mansion on the Connecticut coast became the focus of a great deal of attention.
Nobody was later certain how it began, but the arrival of the new heir to the Randall fortune could hardly have remained a secret for long. The whole town of Randall knew, for one thing, as did everyone in Mr. Henderson’s law firm and several banks and boardrooms. Along with the house and other properties on two continents, Holly now owned an impressive share of interest in a major corporation. So, somebody talked.
Ben and Mary Smith learned about it as everyone else in America did: in the news. It first appeared as a local story in the tristate area of New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut, and it billowed out from there. By the end of Holly’s first week at Randall House, her new good fortune was a national item. One can hardly blame the media in this particular case, because there is nothing more irresistible—and certainly nothing that sells more newspapers and fills more airtime—than a Cinderella story. Thus it was with Holly.
She was America’s flavor of the week. On her third day in the house the phones began to ring, and they didn’t stop, despite her flat refusal to grant anyone an interview, or to make a comment of any kind. News vans began to gather outside the estate, which prompted Brian Jessel, Kevin’s father, to leave his sickbed and lock the gates. There were even a few helicopters flying over the point, taking aerial pictures of the house and grounds that were printed and broadcast everywhere. An angry call from John Randall to the governor of Connecticut finally put a stop to that.
No one was able to trace the mysterious heiress to her roots, which caused much speculation as to her life before the day she arrived at Randall House. There were no photographs of her, for one thing, except for a blurred, grainy one of her walking on the grounds, taken from a great distance with a tele-photo lens. Not even Mary and Ben would have recognized her from it. After that picture was taken, Holly did not leave the house for several days, but she finally called her erstwhile parents. She later said that they had been understandably surprised to learn that she, their own Holly Smith, was the golden girl being discussed by everyone in the country.
I did not meet Mary Smith until later, after these events, so at the time I had no idea what she looked like. I assumed she was a pretty, fiftyish woman, dark-haired, with kind eyes and a warm smile. As it turned out, she was very much as I imagined her. Ben Smith, on the other hand, was a surprise. He was not exactly handsome in any classical sense, but he was very tall and powerfully built, and his gray hair and age-lined face only added to his distinguished appearance. For some reason, I don’t know why, I hadn’t expected him to look like that. But they were both very nice, and I could see why Holly had always spoken so fondly of them. Their primary concern was her well-being, and they had placed her first and foremost in their lives, even after her abrupt departure to Connecticut. Their loyalty to her never wavered.
The worst part of the publicity blitz that greeted Holly’s arrival was the obligatory rehashing of the notorious murder case involving her parents. That story was reprinted everywhere, as a sidebar to the new item, complete with all the old photographs and garish headlines. Not only was Holly Randall an overnight success story, but she was also the daughter of the April Fools’ Killer. As far as the media were concerned, it was almost too good to be true.
At the end of a week, her first at Randall House, Holly was given a reprieve, of sorts, by the least likely of people. A farmer named Cullen, in a remote part of Montana, assaulted a young hitchhiker, a drifter to whom he’d offered a ride. The young man got away from him and reported him to the police. In a routine search of Cullen’s house and grounds after his arrest, the police unearthed the skeletal and partial remains of seventeen other young men, some of them dating back nearly twenty years. Every journalist in America immediately took off for Montana, and Holly was off the hook.
But not for long.
In her second week there, a few days before Thanksgiving, she began to learn the secrets of Randall House.
The two horses burst out from the woods and cantered across the big field behind the apple orchard, manes and tails flying, their breath steaming out in snorts that formed puffs of smoke in the freezing air. When they arrived at the other end of the field their riders reined them in, slowing their pace to a comfortable walk.
Despite the cold weather, Holly was exhilarated. She hadn’t been riding in several years, since high school, and she’d almost forgotten what a wonderful feeling it was to soar through space on a horse’s back. And this white stallion, Lightning, was the most magnificent animal she’d ever encountered. She grinned over at Kevin.
“Race you back to the stable!”
He laughed. “Forget it! You’d win by a mile. Miss Alicia had Lightning carefully trained by a professional, and he’s won several trophies and blue ribbons in his day. He was her pride and joy, and for very good reason. In fact, he has a date next month with a lady horse in Darien. He’s already sired two other prizewinners. This nag”—he pointed down at his own mount—“would probably take off in the wrong direction. Hell, I’d be in Greenwich before I could stop her!”
“Oh, well,” Holly said. “In that case, let’s take the scenic route.” She pointed toward the woods ahead of them.
“You’re on.”
They entered the forest. Holly gazed around at the bare trees, and presently she heard the sound of running water. Looking over to her left, she saw a stream running down from the hills behind the property. A few minutes later they arrived at a small clearing in the woods. There was a pond here, partially frozen in this weather, its icy crust glistening in the weak sunlight. On the far side of the pond, the water continued on its way down the wooded slope toward the Sound.
“How lovely!” she cried.
She noticed that Kevin had become very quiet. He had a slight frown on his face as he gazed around the clearing. He apparently didn’t share her enthusiasm for the spot.
“This is where it happened,” he said at last. “I mean, where your great-aunt … Miss Alicia …” He trailed off into silence, nodding mutely toward the pond.
Oh, she thought. That explains his tension. That’s what he’s thinking about. She thought all of this, but all she managed to say was “Oh.”
They rode on through the trees, and soon they emerged from the wood on the east lawn. The sun had grown in brightness, it seemed to Holly. As if the same thought had occurred to Kevin, he pointed out over the Sound. “Look.”
Holly looked. The horizon and the distant coast of Long Island had disappeared from view in a thick mist.
“The sun is out now,” Kevin explained. “There’s a warm front up against the cold one. The fog will roll in soon.”
She nodded. “Let’s get the horses inside.”
They trotted across the lawn, past the summer house and down the drive to the stable. George, the groom, arrived beside them as they dismounted, then took Lightning’s reins from Holly and led the animal into his stall. As Kevin started to follow him into the stable with his own horse, Holly put a hand on his arm to stop him.
“Thank you,” she said. “That was fun.”
He grinned at her. “Anytime, ma’am.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Sure!” he said, unable to conceal his obvious pleasure at the
prospect.
They laughed. Before he led the horse away, she kissed him again. She had intended another kiss on the cheek, but just as her lips arrived at what should have been his cheek he turned his face to her, and her kiss landed on his warm lips. They gazed at each other a moment, smiling. She noticed that his green eyes twinkled when he smiled. Irishmen, she thought.
“Well, see you later,” he said at last, and he and his Irish charm were gone.
Still smiling, Holly walked away up the drive. As she walked, she began to hum softly to herself. She stopped abruptly, giggling at her own idiocy when she realized that she was humming “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.”
She giggled all the way home.
Dora Jessel watched her brother and Holly Randall through the lace curtains of her upstairs bedroom in the gatehouse. They were returning the horses to the stable across the drive, and they were smiling at each other. Suddenly, Holly Randall leaned forward and kissed Kevin on the lips. Then Kevin went into the stable, and Holly Randall went skipping off up the drive toward the main house.
She smiled briefly, remembering a boy named Leonard Ross. He had taken her to a dance once, years ago. Her senior prom. He’d brought her a corsage of white orchids that she still had, pressed between the pages of one of her journals. She had been dressed all in white, and Mother had helped her with her hair, and none of the other kids had laughed at her. As they danced in the school gymnasium, Leonard had suddenly leaned forward and kissed her, as Holly Randall had just kissed her brother. It had been the loveliest night of her life.
Then her smile faded as she remembered what had happened to her soon after that magical night.
She turned from the window and went back over to the little desk where she had been sitting all morning, working on her current diary. She would record the scene she had just witnessed, she decided. She would describe the way her brother and Holly Randall had laughed together under her window. She would write for another fifteen minutes, and then she would devise a way to get out of the house.
It would not be easy, she knew, with Da sitting in his favorite chair in the living room. Mother had instructed Da to watch her carefully, ever since the terrible day she’d come out of one of her confusing spells to find herself lying on the floor of the living room in the main house, surrounded by broken glass, screaming. That day was now more than a week in the past, but she remembered her confusion and her sudden, sharp fear as if she had experienced them mere moments ago.
Dora had given Da his lunch and his prescription pills an hour ago, and the pills always made him drowsy. With any luck, he would be asleep in the chair now, and she would be able to steal away. She’d managed to do it yesterday, when she went back to the cemetery to dig up the grave. And she would have to do it again today.
She wanted to meet Holly Randall. She wanted to approach the woman and introduce herself, and she wanted to warn her. Tell her to leave Randall House now, today, and never come back. She would tell her calmly but firmly, and she would try not to become confused. Perhaps Holly Randall would listen to her, she thought, before any damage was done. She knew that she would have to try to make the woman understand the danger she was in. But, in order to do that, she would have to get past Da and out of the gatehouse.
Besides, it was time to bury the baby again.
Holly was at lunch in the dining room with her aunt and uncle when the messages arrived. Mr. Wheatley came in with a silver tray and placed two small envelopes, one pink and one white, on the table beside her.
“Excuse me, Miss Randall, these are for you.”
“Thank you,” she said, putting down her soup spoon and reaching for them. Mr. Wheatley left the room as silently as he had come.
Catherine glanced over at the envelopes with obvious interest. “What’s this?”
Holly opened the pink one first and read the matching card inside. “We’re invited to a cocktail party. Missy MacGraw. A week from this Saturday at five—oh, gosh!”
“What?” Catherine asked.
“It’s in my honor. To introduce me to her friends.”
“How nice,” Catherine said. “I don’t know the MacGraws. In fact, this is the first real invitation we’ve received from anyone in Randall.” She smiled over at her husband. “I told you Holly’s coming here would be a good thing!”
“I never doubted it,” he said. “It’s certainly improved our social life.”
Then Holly opened the other envelope and took out a folded piece of stationery. It was formal notepaper, and the writing was obviously done with a fountain pen, sloping and neat. She read a moment, puzzled. She read it again. Then she looked up at the other two. “Do I have a great-uncle Ichabod?”
John’s eyes widened in surprise, and Catherine gasped.
“Don’t tell me you’ve actually heard from him!” John exclaimed.
“I can’t believe it!” Catherine added.
Holly looked from one to the other of them. Then she held the note up and read. “‘My dear Miss Randall, I present my compliments. I would be honored if you would take tea with me tomorrow afternoon, four o’clock, so that I might have the pleasure of making your acquaintance. If that is inconvenient for you, please let me know when you might be available. I look forward to meeting you. Sincerely, (your great-uncle) Ichabod Morris. P.S.: RSVP via Mr. Wheatley.’” She looked up at John. “‘RSVP via Mr. Wheatley.’ What on earth does that mean? There’s no return address.”
Husband and wife exchanged nervous glances. After a moment, John broke the uncomfortable silence.
“He’s here,” he said. “At Randall House. He—he lives in one of the guest rooms. He’s been there for”—his brows came together in concentration—“about twenty-four years. Ever since …” He trailed off, apparently flustered, staring down at the table.
“I see,” Holly said. “Since the murder. Morris. My grandmother, Emily, was his—sister? And he came here to be with her after …Oh, yes, I see.”
“She died a year later,” John said, his voice now a whisper. “But Father and Aunt Alicia told Cousin Icky he could stay as long as he liked.”
“Cousin—Icky?” Holly wasn’t sure she’d heard him properly.
At last John smiled. “Oh, Lord, we’ve called him that since we were children. He’s—well, you’ll see for yourself soon enough. He’s a recluse, a hermit. Always has been. I’ve only met him a few times myself. He never leaves his room, and this is the first time I’ve ever heard of him inviting someone there. Hell, I’d all but forgotten he was here.”
“That’s probably why no one’s told me about him until now,” Holly said dryly. Then she leaned forward. “You say he’s a recluse. Why?”
John glanced over at his wife, then back at Holly. He shrugged. “Well, Icky’s a little—strange. I can only repeat, you’ll see for yourself.”
Holly smiled. “In that case, I can hardly refuse such a rare opportunity. Excuse me.”
She rose and left the dining room. Across the Great Hall was the office, she remembered. She went into the office and sat in the padded leather chair behind the big desk. There would be writing paper here, she guessed, some sort of official Randall House stationery that would be suitable for her purpose. She pulled open the desk drawer.
Her first thought when she looked down was, I’ve been here before. There, in the drawer, were several sheets of paper covered with what appeared to be her own handwriting. She picked up the top sheet and held it up to the light, studying it.
John and Catherine Randall request the pleasure of your company at a birthday party for their niece, Holly Randall, on Christmas Eve, December 24.…
Oh, she thought. So, they’re planning a party for me. That’s very nice of them, and I must remember to look surprised when they tell me about it. She shoved the paper quickly back where she’d found it, staring briefly at it again, shaking her head at the neat, sloping hand. It was uncanny. This must be Catherine’s writing, she reasoned, but it looks almost exactly like mine.
In the top drawer beside the desk drawer she found pens and pencils and plain white linen stationery. She took out two sheets and envelopes. She selected a pen, hurriedly scrawled an affirmative reply to Missy’s invitation, found a stamp, and sealed it. On the second note she slowed down, taking great care with her penmanship. She wrote:
Ms. Holly Randall accepts with pleasure your kind invitation to tea. I look forward to meeting you at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.
She signed it, simply, Holly. She folded the note and slipped it in an envelope, on which she wrote Mr. Ichabod Morris. Then she picked up the phone on the desk and summoned Mr. Wheatley.
“What do you think?” his wife asked as soon as Holly had left the dining room.
John shook his head, frowning. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s just curious.”
“Curious!” she hissed. “Indeed! I’ve been here nearly a year now, and he’s never asked me to tea.”
Despite his trepidation, he smiled.
“Lucky you,” he murmured.
She stared at him. Then they both began to laugh.
“Yes,” she conceded. “Lucky me.”
An hour later, Holly put on her warm wool coat and left the house again. She had yet to take a good look around the estate by herself, the news vans outside the gates having kept her a virtual prisoner in the house until a few days ago. Now the vans were gone, and she was determined to see just what her new property entailed. She’d seen some of it already, of course, but now she was in a mood to explore.
A fine mist lay on the ground and among the bare branches of the trees, and the water and sky beyond the cliff had nearly disappeared in the approaching swirl of white vapor. She pulled the hood up over her head as she walked across the flattened brown grass toward the summer house.
The pretty iron and glass structure held little allure for her. She went inside and gave the big, well-appointed room a perfunctory inspection, and almost immediately she went out again in search of more interesting prospects. From the sheer cliff she regarded the stone hillside staircase and the rocky beach below, hazy in the gathering mist. Very nice, she thought, and maybe good for swimming in the summer.
