Into The Darkness

by Kathy

  "No, she won't," Meg said perversely. "Would Mrs. Danvers worry about that nameless little wimp of a heroine in Rebecca?"

  "Who says you're the wimpy heroine?" Cliff inquired. "Maybe you're Rebecca. Mrs. Danvers doted on Rebecca."

  "I don't want to be Rebecca. Not only was she a vicious bitch, but she was dead."

  "Please, darling, your language . . ."

  "Sorry, Gran. She was, though."

  "I never did understand those jokes about Frances," Gran said plaintively. "They don't seem quite nice, somehow. She has been so loyal and devoted. ..."

  "That's role number two," Cliff said with a grin. "Derived from Little Women. "

  "Drop it, Cliff," George said.

  Cliffs smile stiffened, but instead of retorting he shrugged and applied himself to his food. Meg felt an unexpected surge of sympathy for him. She, not Cliff, had brought up the subject. Now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember her uncle ever scolding her. Cliff had had more than his share of lectures and punishment—probably well deserved, but who could say how much was cause and how much effect?

  George turned to her with a smile that contrasted sharply with the frown he had given his son. "Your grandmother is right, Meg, you must eat something. You didn't touch your lunch, and you only had coffee for breakfast. You'll make yourself ill."

  "No, I won't. I haven't time to be ill." But she impaled a piece of salmon and forced herself to chew. "Gran, I know you think it's rude to discuss business at the dinner table, but I have to get this off my chest, it's choking me. When did Dan change his will?"

  Her grandmother lifted delicate brows. "Meg, dear, Daniel has been changing his will once a month for fifty years."

  "I know. But—"

  "We'll discuss it later, dear. Try some of the carrots, they are very good, and good for you."

  She had dressed for dinner, as she always did, superbly, ignoring the peculiar attire in which other members of the family might choose to appear—sweatshirts and jeans for the children, a wrinkled shirt for Dan, who hated neckties and suit coats. This evening she had outdone herself; her blue gown, with its ruffles of priceless lace, could have appeared at the court of St. James. Around her neck, at her ears, on her slim wrists and wrinkled hands blazed the sapphires that had once belonged to a queen of France. On anyone else, in such a setting, the display would have been inappropriate verging on vulgar, but Gran carried it off superbly, and Meg understood why she had chosen to honor Dan's memory with her finest gown and her favorites of all the jewels he had given her. She hated to distress her grandmother, but the subject bothered her too much to be dismissed so easily.

  She did eat a piece of carrot before she spoke. "There are a number of things we need to discuss, Gran; naturally we'll postpone the business details till a more appropriate time. But this isn't exactly business."

  "What exactly is it?" George asked.

  "Justice, Uncle George." Impulsively she turned to him. "You weren't even mentioned in the will."

  "Oh, is that it?" His face cleared. "You're a sweet girl to worry about me, but I assure you it's unnecessary. Dan was very generous to me over the years; I've never been more than a bookkeeper and accountant, really, and I was never concerned with Dan's corporate holdings—he had a separate staff of lawyers and accountants for that. All I handled was the store, and the housekeeping finances."

  "All?" Meg's throat was tight; she had to swallow before she could go on. "You were much more than that, Uncle George. Without you . . ."

  "It's all right, honey. Take my word for it—I have been more than amply compensated for what little I was able to do for him."

  "Really?"

  "Really." He smiled at her.

  A slight movement from his son, seated at his right, drew Meg's attention. But Cliff remained silent, his eyes fixed on his plate. He hadn't been mentioned in the will either. Had Dan been "very generous" to him over the years, or had he coolly ignored that long relationship? Cliff had no legal claim, but surely there was a moral obligation. . . .

  "Is that all that's worrying you?" George asked.

  He knew it wasn't, but before Meg could answer, the door opened and one of the maids entered, ready to clear the table.

  "You are finished, aren't you, darling?" Gran asked innocently.

  Meg could only nod and give in. Gran had her own little ways of controlling a situation.

  Meg didn't try to raise the subject again that evening. It had been wrong of her to do so in the first place, for her real concern, as all of them must have known, was not so much Dan's will as A. L. Riley's place in it. If they had begun talking about him she might have mentioned Frances's outrageous accusation and Riley's equally outrageous reaction to it. One could hardly tell a grieving widow on the evening of her husband's funeral that someone had admitted to murdering him—even if the admission had been a joke. All the more so if the admission had been a joke.

  Gran always retired early, and Meg had hoped to have a chat with her uncle afterwards, but this evening the exhaustion she had been fighting all day finally overcame her. She had barely strength enough to stumble to her room.

  Meg dreamed about the Salem witches. She was one of them, accused by hysterical children of bartering her soul and body to the Prince of Darkness in exchange for pleasures beyond human comprehension. And she was guilty. As she lay bound, awaiting execution, she laughed and licked her lips, remembering those dark raptures. She went on laughing even after the first weight came to rest, gently, almost softly, on her body; weight upon weight followed the first, crushing ribs and lungs, stopping her breath; and still the silent internal laughter filled her.

  She opened her eyes. Henrietta was sitting on her chest. Her enormous blue eyes glared directly into Meg's. Meg stared back, disoriented and breathless. Henrietta emitted a squeak of annoyance and put an imperative paw on Meg's chin. Her claws were not sheathed.

  "Ow!" Meg sent the cat flying with a sweep of her arm. She sat up. "Damn it, Henrietta—"

  Henrietta rolled to the bottom of the bed and came to rest against the footboard. Lying on her back, paws every which way, she looked like one of the expensive stuffed toys that children and some women keep on their pillows.

  "I'm sorry," Meg said defensively. "It's your own fault, though. You have the worst manners. . . . And how the hell did you get in here?"

  Henrietta did not deign to reply, though her expression suggested she could have done so if she had wanted to take the trouble. Without bothering to turn over she folded her front paws across her stomach and closed her eyes.

  Meg collapsed against the heaped pillows. From her bed she couldn't see the clock on the mantel, but she hadn't taken off her wristwatch—nor brushed her teeth nor washed her face. Her clothing had been tossed carelessly over a chair. I must have been absolutely exhausted last night, she thought.

  According to her watch it was almost eight o'clock. She had slept without stirring for ten solid hours. Only on the rare occasions when she had taken a sleeping pill could she remember sleeping so heavily. She was sure she hadn't taken one the night before; she had barely managed to get her clothes off before she tumbled into bed. Surely Gran wouldn't . . .

  Gran would, though, if she thought it necessary. The after-dinner coffee, perhaps. Stretching stiffened muscles, Meg had to admit it might have been a good idea. She felt a thousand percent better. But it had not been Gran who opened her door and sent Henrietta to call her to breakfast. Gran never played practical jokes. That was more like Frances, in her jolly old housekeeper role. Or Cliff. Meg would never forget the time he had crept into her room and tossed a cat—not Henrietta, one of Gran's earlier pets—onto the bed where she lay sleeping. Her screams, and those of the terrified animal, had aroused the entire household, and Cliff had been grounded for a week.

  Meg followed Henrietta's example and relaxed, lost in old memories. They weren't all unhappy. The room itself, unchanged since she had left for college—never to return except for brief holi
days—reminded her of the fun she and Gran had had selecting the dainty chintzes and rose-flowered wallpaper, the airy gauze that draped the bed like a princess's couch—or a bed in a high-class bordello, Meg thought, grinning as she recalled Dan's thoughtless comment. She had been almost as outraged as Gran, and Dan had promptly apologized—to Gran. He had winked at her behind Gran's back. . . .

  She had been ten or eleven at the time—too young to share Dan's amusement, too old for the Winnie the Pooh wallpaper and pictures of kittens the ruffly chintz was to replace. She and Gran had picked out that wallpaper too, when she moved from the west wing where she had lived with her parents. Her room in the west wing had wallpaper printed with horses and elephants and trapeze performers, and a lamp shaped like a clown; his nose lit up, a bright red ball, when the switch was turned on. Her father loved circuses, he had started taking her when she was barely old enough to walk. . . . No clowns in the new room. Winnie was safe, Winnie was safely different. Selecting that paper hadn't been much fun, though. Even at six she was old enough to know why everything had to be different, and Gran's strained effort to be cheerful was almost as painful as tears. The rose-spattered paper was better. Two layers and four years away from the clowns. . . .

  Henrietta Marie jumped down from the bed and walked to the door, reaching it just as someone knocked softly. Damned spooky cat, Meg thought sourly, and called, "Come in."

  The door opened; the cat stalked out, tail waving like a banner; and one of the maids edged in, carrying a tray. "Miz Polanski thought you'd like your breakfast in bed this morning," she explained. "Hope I didn't disturb you; she said you'd be awake."

  "As you see," Meg said, thinking dark thoughts about Frances. Jolly old Hannah was, in her own way, just as annoying as Mrs. Danvers.

  The maid had hesitated, intimidated by her brusque tone and her sour expression. Meg couldn't remember her name; she smiled and indicated the desk. "Put it there, if you will, please; I can't eat in bed, I'm always spilling coffee on the sheets."

  Reassured, the girl smiled back at her and deposited the tray as directed. Before she left she delivered a final message: "Your gramma would like you to come to her room when you're ready. No hurry, she says, just take your time."

  After that, of course, Meg gulped down her breakfast and rushed through her ablutions. Choosing something to wear wasn't difficult; she had only brought a few clothes. Wrenching the black dress off its hanger, she tossed it into a corner of the closet. She would never wear it again. Gran was right, she should never have worn it in the first place. She put on a bright yellow blouse and matching Liberty print skirt and hastened to her grandmother's suite, where she was rewarded for her efforts by being allowed to assist in the endless production of thank-you notes.

  At the best of times it was not an activity she would have enjoyed. At this particular time, with so many more urgent problems on her mind, it was frustrating as well as painful. But Gran was firm—and astonishingly well organized. The cards from the innumerable wreaths and bouquets had been collected, before the offerings were sent to hospitals and nursing homes, and Gran had already sorted them into categories—old friends, local business acquaintances, customers, out-of-town business contacts. Each category required a different kind of notepaper, and a different degree of formality. Mary lingered over the cards and messages, smiling, reading some aloud. When she finally dismissed Meg, the latter had a raging headache and a strong urge to run around in circles, howling like a mad dog. When she reached the sanctuary of her room, she collapsed with a groan into a beruffled chair. That ghastly chore was over, but there were others almost as unpleasant awaiting her. Her grandmother had dismissed her with the cheerful reminder of an appointment she couldn't remember having made. This afternoon she and Uncle George, accompanied by their legal advisers and a representative of the Infernal Revenue, as Dan had called it, were supposed to inventory the famous jewelry collection. Technically, Meg already owned a good part of it. Dan had taken full advantage of the tax laws relating to gifts, and for years he and Gran had been transferring title to the most valuable pieces. Once upon a time viewing the collection had been a rare treat, for Dan was jealous of his treasures and seldom invited even his nearest and dearest into the basement room, steel-lined and -roofed, where he kept them. Not this time; it was going to be a complicated, tedious business, deciding what belonged to whom and verifying the legality of the gifts, with Infernal Revenue nose down on the trail of any possible error. These reminders of Dan would be particularly poignant, for of all the wonders that had passed through his hands, these were the ones he had cherished most, the pieces he couldn't bear to part with. Remembering the intent, glistening gleam in his eyes as he studied them, the reverence of his touch, Meg wondered whether they had not been dearer to him than any human being.

  Then there was the store. Fond memories were replaced by fury as Meg considered that incredible bequest. What on earth had been on Dan's mind when he added that clause to his will? He knew how she felt about the store and the business. Was this a last-ditch attempt to force her into the position she had refused to take? Knowing Dan as she did, she could well believe it, but if he really wanted her to take over the store, saddling her with an unknown, unattractive partner like Mr. Riley was surely counterproductive. Unless ... an unwilling grin softened Meg's face. Dan knew her so well. The conditions of the bequest were so peculiar that curiosity and exasperation—and well-founded suspicions of what his true motive might be—would force her to investigate further before acting.

  She glanced at the clock. It was ten after twelve. She ought to be "freshening up" for lunch, as Gran had gently suggested. Gran had also suggested she change, which was not only unnecessary but impractical; her packing had been done in such frantic haste that she had brought only the bare necessities. If she hadn't been in such a frenzy of grief and confusion she would have realized she'd have to stay in Seldon for some time. She ought to go shopping, pick up a few changes of clothing; she ought to call her boss and tell him she needed another week's leave. He had already called twice, asking when she would be back. Sweet, kind, sympathetic Jack. . . . He had fired one employee for taking a month off after his wife had given birth to a little boy whose serious heart defect necessitated several long, agonizing operations. By those standards the death of a grandparent didn't deserve more than eight hours leave. So let him fire me, Meg thought. I hate the mean-minded son of a bitch anyway, and I don't need the job. ... I really don't need the job. Funny, I hadn't thought of it that way before. I'll call later, while he's out of the office on one of those three-martini lunches of his, and leave a message. I can't cope with his reproaches and complaints now.

  It was now twenty minutes after twelve, but Meg didn't reach for the phone. Nick had said he would call at noon.

  In the frenzy of packing and rushing to catch a 6 a.m. train she hadn't had time to call him after she got the news. Instead she had telephoned from Seldon later that day. Nick didn't like her to call him at the office, but as soon as she explained what had happened he had been warmly sympathetic. He had sent flowers, not only to the funeral home, but to her—pink roses, a delicate compromise between the crimson of life and love, and the white of mourning. "A friend of yours, dear?" Gran had asked, studying the carefully formal message. "How nice. I'll let you write the note, then, but be sure to say how much we all appreciate his thoughtfulness."

  Dear innocent Gran. She hadn't met Nick, but once, when Dan was in New York without her, Meg had decided the two men in her life ought to meet. Fortunately it had been a brief encounter—predinner drinks at the Carlyle, where Dan was staying— for it certainly could not have been considered a successful one. It had taken Dan about thirty seconds to comprehend the situation and condemn it; and when Dan disapproved of something he took no pains to conceal his feelings. Meg's thoughts fled from that uncomfortable memory to the last time she had seen her grandfather, on his final trip to the city.

  "So. No young man in the picture yet?" />
  He peered at her over the rims of the glasses Gran had finally persuaded him to acquire. "I know you don't need them, dear, but they make you look so distinguished!"

  "No young man. Nobody middle-aged or elderly, either."

  "Hmph. That fellow—what's his name—still hanging around?"

  "Nick?" He knew the name perfectly well. The pretended lapse of memory was his way of expressing disapproval.

  "He's still hanging around," she said. "Don't be so stuffy, Dan. You liked him. You said you did."

  "That was before I found out he was a married man. Call me old-fashioned if you want—"

  "You're old-fashioned." She grinned at him, but instead of responding he only grunted and turned his attention to his plate of sauerbraten.

  They were lunching at Hugo's, a small German restaurant on the East Side, which Dan claimed as his own private discovery. It had remained his own private discovery because the cooking, while perfectly adequate, had nothing to recommend it to gourmet-conscious New Yorkers. Dan liked the casual ambience and enjoyed practicing the ungrammatical German he had acquired during his "first war." Now he raised his voice: "Achtung, waiter, some salz, bitte."

  That condiment having been promptly supplied, Dan returned to his earlier grievance. "I'm not old-fashioned, damn it. I'm thinking about you. There's no future for you with that guy. He'll never divorce his wife—"

  "I hope not. I'd hate to be stepmother to those rotten kids of his."

  Dan refused to be distracted by flippance. "You'll be thirty years old pretty soon."

  "Not for two more years. I will of course slash my wrists on my thirtieth birthday if I'm still single."

  Ordinarily Dan enjoyed these exchanges, sputtering loudly at her impertinence, as he called it, while secretly enjoying it. Not today. Instead of snapping back at her he pushed his plate away and said quietly, "I'd like to see my great-grandchild before I die, Meg."