Into The Darkness

by Kathy

  "We can examine the collection tonight, after dinner, if you like," Meg offered.

  "No, no, you take the evening off." George glanced at his watch. "As I plan to do. I'm going out for dinner, with an old friend."

  "That's nice. Is it anyone—"

  "I'm going out too," Cliff announced. "But not with the same old friend as Dad. In fact, my friend isn't old in any sense of the word. But you don't want to hear about her—"

  George's "I suspect I wouldn't," and Meg's emphatic, "Certainly not" sounded like a duet. They grinned sheepishly at one another, and Cliff continued, "I'd like to make a reservation for tomorrow's showing. What time are you planning to unveil the famous collection?"

  His father frowned at him. "I see no reason why you—"

  "I don't mind," Meg said. She did mind, though, and it was not without malice that she added, "Early. Right after breakfast. Which is served, in case you aren't aware of it, at 8 a.m."

  Cliff groaned. "I am only too well aware of it. I just ignore it."

  "As far as I'm concerned, you can ignore the showing too. I want to get it over with; there are a number of other things I ought to do tomorrow."

  "Such as making a will," Cliff drawled.

  Meg stared at him, and her uncle, who had been studying the papers on his desk with an abstracted frown, said sharply, "What on earth put that idea into your head, Clifford?"

  Cliff looked sulky. "It's logical, isn't it?"

  "Yes, I suppose so, but. . . ." George glanced at Meg. "You have a will, don't you, my dear?"

  "No. No, I haven't. There was no reason. ... I mean, I assumed anything I possessed would automatically revert to Dan if I. . . ."

  Observing her confusion, George tactfully interrupted. "Of course. But the situation has changed. As a matter of fact, Darren has been anxious to talk to you about a new will, he's mentioned it several times. I didn't want to trouble you with the matter just yet, since there seemed to be no urgency about it." He carefully avoided looking at Cliff, but the latter shifted uncomfortably.

  "But I haven't the faintest. . . ." Meg caught herself. "Sorry, Uncle George. I sound like some bleating little female twit. You're absolutely right. I'll call Darren in the morning and make an appointment; there are a number of things I need to discuss with him."

  Her uncle gave her an approving smile. "He's waiting for you to call; but he knows, as we all do, how busy you've been and how many things you have to deal with. Forget about it for a few hours, honey, and have a quiet evening."

  Cliff was on his feet before Meg. He opened the door for her, but she paused.

  "Uncle George?"

  "Yes?"

  "Wasn't there some provision made in Dan's will for how his property would be disposed of if I predeceased him and Gran?"

  "Yes, of course; that's standard practice. Didn't you hear that part?"

  "If I did, I don't remember. I was somewhat distracted."

  "Of course."

  He was obviously impatient to go, and Meg didn't want to detain him. "I'll discuss it with Darren," she said. "Good night, Uncle George; have a nice evening with your friend."

  Cliff followed her out and closed the door. "If you're wondering what to do with all that money, you can leave some of it to me," he suggested.

  "If I were inclined to do so, which I am not, I certainly wouldn't tell you," Meg said.

  He was quick—too quick, perhaps—to catch her meaning. "Have you been borrowing Kate's murder mysteries? You needn't worry about me, love; I'm far too cautious to commit a crime of that magnitude—except, of course, for the whole bundle."

  "Oh, well, in that case I might leave you a small legacy. Enough to buy a mourning ring."

  For once she had the last word. When she started up the stairs Cliff did not follow.

  Since the lords of creation were dining out, Mary decided she and Meg would have their supper on trays in front of the TV. Meg did not comment on the incongruity of the elaborate gown and priceless lace and flashing gems in such a setting; Gran coddled and flattered men, but she dressed for herself. Watching Mary's vociferous and delighted participation in a game show, she suspected again that her grandmother wasn't as dim as she liked to let on. She was far quicker than Meg to guess the right answers.

  She said as much, after Mary had snapped out the correct answer to "a country in Asia whose capital is Lhasa." Her grandmother dimpled. "You sound just like your daddy. He always teased me about pretending to be stupid."

  Meg almost lost her grip on the fork she was raising to her mouth. This was the first time in her adult memory that her grandmother had mentioned the man she had loved like her own son, and who had betrayed the traditions she held almost as sacred as her religion.

  Meg could not remember exactly when she learned that she must not mention her father. The immediate result of that dreadful winter night was the loss, not of one parent, but of both. Her mother's collapse left her to the care of her grandparents; tormented and grief-stricken, they had had neither the time nor the expertise to handle Meg's frantic questions as they should have done. She didn't blame them; she didn't even blame her mother for turning to the alcohol that finally killed her. Perhaps if she had demanded more attention she would have received it, but children are much more sensitive to nuances than many adults realize, and it had not taken Meg long to realize that questions about Daddy brought tears of anger or pained withdrawal. So she had withdrawn in her turn, anxiously placating the unknown powers that controlled her life by being quiet and not causing trouble. Be a good little girl, don't bother your mother. . . . She was a good little girl. They praised her and petted her, when they had time; none of them knew that when she curled up on the window seat, holding her teddy in her lap, she was in the grip of panic that made her hands sweat and her heart thump and her stomach churn.

  Over the years the panic attacks had diminished and finally disappeared, but she had never ventured to ask those dangerous questions. What she knew of that long-gone, shameful tragedy she had discovered from hints dropped by other people, and from the newspaper reports she had consulted when she was old enough to search for herself.

  She hesitated, wanting to pursue the subject but uncertain as to whether, or how, she should proceed; and as she groped for the right words, her grandmother suddenly looked away from the television, but not at Meg—not at any visible object. Her eyes focused on empty air, and her head tilted in the pretty, listening pose Meg had often seen when Dan was in the middle of one of his long stories. Her smiling lips parted.

  Meg's skin crawled as she waited for her grandmother to respond to the sounds only she could hear. Instead Mary gave a brisk little nod and returned her attention to the game show. "Richard Nixon!" she exclaimed.

  "Richard Nixon," said the panelist a split second later.

  "Ha!" Mary crowed.

  They watched television for another hour, and for once Meg blessed the banalities of the tube, which prohibited sensible conversation. The appearance of Henrietta Marie, prompt upon her hour, was a further, welcomed distraction. Henrietta was far too well bred to beg for food, and far too dignified to court ignominious eviction from places where her presence was not welcome. Only when the family dined informally, in breakfast room or parlor, did she saunter in, with the casual air of someone who just happened to be passing by and who might, if the offering were made with the proper courtesies, condescend to dispose of any uneaten scraps. She had an uncanny ability to judge precisely when the appropriate moment had arrived, and an even more unnerving ability to materialize on the spot without audible or visual warning of her approach.

  Gran was used to the cat's habits, but Meg started violently when she saw the fawn-and-sable form at her feet, paws primly together, feathery tail elegantly disposed. The wide blue eyes turned toward her with a look of contempt. Humbly Meg offered a scrap of lemon sole, which Henrietta disposed of without dropping a speck. She finished the fish Meg hadn't been able to eat, polished off the anchovy from Mary's salad,
and waited until the maid had removed the trays before jumping onto Mary's lap and turning a sapphirine, unwinking stare toward the screen.

  "She likes the catfood commercials," Mary explained, stroking the cat's thick fur. "Well, some of them. She despises Garfield—he really isn't a cat, of course, he's a rude little boy in a cat suit—and I don't believe she has a high opinion of Morris. I have seen a distinct sneer on her face sometimes when she watches Morris."

  Meg could well believe it.

  However, the cat's rumbling purr made a soothing background sound, and when Henrietta jumped down from Mary's lap and headed purposefully for the door, Mary rose as if responding to a signal. "Time for our beauty sleep. You'll excuse me, dear?"

  "I'll go up with you." Meg turned off the TV set.

  The cat led the way up the stairs. Watching her grandmother anxiously, Meg was relieved to see that her steps were slow but steady, and that she managed her long skirts skillfully. But it wasn't Mary's physical strength that worried her. They parted at the door of Mary's room, with a kiss and an affectionate exchange of good-nights.

  After Meg reached her room she went immediately to the telephone. She wasn't surprised when she got Nick's answering machine instead of Nick; he often screened his calls, and if he was expecting to hear from her, as he surely must be, he would avoid tying up the phone with other callers. But after she had announced herself there was no response except an echoing silence. Meg waited for a few seconds, unwilling to believe he wasn't there. He knew how much she depended on his support and advice, especially now—especially after she had missed their usual noontime call. Before she could decide whether to leave a message, another beep told her she had waited too long. Nick had warned her about leaving personal messages—he and his wife were legally separated, he had his own apartment, but the children sometimes stayed with him. "And you know teenagers, Meg, they have no consideration for other people's privacy. . . ." Meg was tempted to call back and make vulgar, passionate noises onto the tape. Where the hell was he when she needed him?

  That would have been childish, so she didn't do it. After hanging up she went restlessly to the window and pulled back the draperies, which had been drawn against the dreary night. Dreary but not dark; the security system Dan had installed, upon the insistence of his insurance company, included a battery of floodlights all around the house. Even with the security system and the strong room, Dan's insurance costs were astronomical. If he had consented to keep all the jewelry in the bank they would have been lower, but he refused to do that; he wanted his darlings close by, where he could play with them and admire them whenever the notion struck him.

  It was still raining. The wet green leaves shone in the light as if newly varnished, and the flagstones of the terrace below glistened icily.

  Gran also liked her jewels to be readily accessible. The ones she wore most often were supposed to be kept in the strong room, or in the small safe in her dressing room. There were as many safes in the house as there were bathrooms. Following the track of a raindrop down the pane with an idle finger, Meg wondered whether they had all been checked—or found, for that matter. Dan was skilled with tools of all kinds and childishly secretive; he himself had built the hidey-hole for the safe in Meg's closet. How many others might he have constructed?

  She let the draperies fall back into place and turned from the window. Dan wasn't that childish. He must have kept records. And the existence of Mary's safe, at least, was no secret. Meg vividly remembered Dan's fury the only time a more or less successful burglary had occurred. The thieves had hired on as painters with the local firm under contract to maintain the exterior of the house. One source of satisfaction was that the poor devils had to paint for three days, in unseasonable spring heat, before they worked their way around to Gran's window. They waited until lunch break, when the other men had retired to the shade to eat their sandwiches, and then slipped in the window and blew the safe. The few people who heard the muffled, controlled explosion paid no particular attention, assuming that it came from some infernal apparatus on the road, but the thieves beat a hasty retreat as soon as they had cleaned out the safe. They were picked up less than an hour later, after Frances had discovered the wounded safe and called the police.

  Despite the fact that he lost nothing, Dan had been apoplectic, mostly at the idea that Gran might have walked in while the thieves were at work. He had rushed out and tried to buy a dozen semiautomatic rifles from the sporting-goods store in town, but he was prevented by the police chief, who knew him only too well. "Wait a couple of months, Dan. You're so damned mad right now you're apt to cut loose at anybody who comes near the place. End up blowing the mailman away or shooting some poor damned Jehovah's Witness."

  Dan knew his old buddy the chief pretty well too. He hadn't argued; he had driven down the road and bought handguns for everyone in the house, including the maids, Mary and Meg, who was then seventeen. Mary placidly accepted the pretty little silver-inlaid dueling pistol Dan gave her—and "lost" it. She put her dainty foot down, however, when it came to arming the maids, and came close to one of her rare fits of temper when she learned that Dan had taken Meg into the yard and tried to teach her to fire her weapon. The lessons came to an abrupt halt and the weapon disappeared, to Meg's unspoken relief.

  Why was she thinking about guns tonight? It was not a subject she cared to dwell on. There were a number of subjects she preferred not to think about. Guns, burglars, safes—and wills.

  Her hand tightened on the soft fabric of the draperies, bunching it into ugly creases. She had lied to George; his question about her will had caught her off guard, and because she knew what his reaction would be, she had taken the coward's way out. She had made a will, three years ago, when she first became seriously involved with Nick. It had been a sentimental gesture, inspired by Nick's announcement that he had named her as the beneficiary of one of his insurance policies; at that time she had had nothing to leave except her personal jewelry, since her stock in the company and the historic gems from the Mignot Collection reverted to Dan if she predeceased him.

  George wouldn't have scolded her about that stupid will— he never scolded her—but he would not have been able to conceal his surprise and disapproval. Nor could she blame him. Sentiment was one thing, silly sentimentality was something else again. What had she been thinking of when she made that gesture? Even her personal jewelry had been gifts from Dan, and he'd come back to haunt her if he thought she would let his treasures fall into the hands of a stranger.

  Meg turned abruptly from the window. "All right," she said aloud. "All right! First thing in the morning. I promise."

  No one answered, of course. She realized she had been holding her head stiffly erect, neck muscles taut, to prevent herself from assuming the same listening pose Mary had taken.

  Wills, guns, safes, burglars. What a grim litany. . . . Why didn't the phone ring? Meg frowned at it, but it remained dumb. Wills, safes, burglars. . . . The atmosphere of the house was affecting her. Too quiet. Too many shadows, and the soft dreary drizzle of rain at the windows. Too many problems to deal with, and the frustration of delay in dealing with them.

  There was one thing she could do, though; the illusion of accomplishment might improve her mood, even if she had to do it all over again next morning. She went to her closet and turned on the lights.

  It was a walk-in closet, almost as big as a dressing room, with drawers and shelves as well as rows of rods for clothing. The few garments that hung there looked lonely in the empty expanse, and Meg reminded herself again that she really must go shopping. Tomorrow, when she went to town to see Darren.

  What the hell, she thought, her lips twisting in a wry smile, I can buy a whole new wardrobe. I'm going to be an heiress. Lucky me. . . .

  Pulling out one of the empty drawers, she pressed the panel at the back. It stuck; she had to bang it with her fist before it slid back, disclosing the face of the safe. She hadn't opened it for years. Supposedly no one else, not even
her grandmother, knew of its existence, or the combination of the safe.

  It was lucky she had brought so few things. The countertops were clear. She needed all the space and more, when she began unloading the safe. Once the boxes were spread out she frowned uncertainly, searching her memory. Surely there had not been so many boxes the last time she looked. Dan had mentioned he sometimes used her safe for temporary storage. . . . She went back to her desk, searched the pile of documents awaiting her study, found the ledger in which her collection was listed. She carried the ledger, and a chair, back to the closet. Might as well do it right if she was going to do it.

  The rings were stored in velvet-lined boxes, with glass covers, thirty-six to a box. Except for the last box, which was only three-quarters full, there were no empty slots. Painstakingly she checked them against the entries in the ledger, though returning memory, stimulated by actual sight, assured her that nothing was missing. So much for Cliff's malicious suggestion that the memento mori ring sent to George had come from her collection. She had been certain she owned nothing of that nature.

  There were additions, however—approximately a dozen new rings, which Dan must have acquired and added after she moved to New York. They checked with the entries he had added to the ledger in his firm, ageless handwriting—date of acquisition, source, price paid, description. Meg lingered over them, trying them on, inspecting them through the loupe that was always kept in the safe. Several were too small for any but her little finger, but one particularly pretty garnet-and-emerald ring slipped neatly onto the third finger of her right hand. Curved around the shank were the words "The sight of this Deserves a kiss," and she smiled when she had deciphered the ornate letters. The number of mottoes was endless, but this was particularly charming. Instead of returning it to its place she left it on her finger after she had checked the entry in the ledger— noting as she did so that Dan had gotten a bargain. The ring was early seventeenth century in style, and the emeralds were perfectly matched, a vivid deep green, and remarkably clear of flaws. Conquistadores' loot, she thought, her smile fading; stolen from the servants of the Incas, along with their lives and liberty. That was the dark side of the magic of gems, the ugly histories of the greed, theft and murder they had inspired. She had sometimes wondered whether that was one of the reasons why Dan had been more interested in the artistry of the settings than in the stones themselves. He would have scoffed at the suggestion; he never liked admitting he had a sentimental side.