Into The Darkness

by Kathy

  "Oh! That's nice!"

  She asked him how the probate was proceeding and got the conventional noncommittal answer; he asked her if she would care to see The Mousetrap at the local dinner theater on Saturday. He sounded so confident of an acceptance Meg took pleasure in declining, but when he persisted, she finally agreed to Friday.

  The hardware store didn't close till five-thirty and Mike would as soon walk out on a sick friend as leave early, but as the hands of the clock approached five, Meg decided she would rather hang around that store than this one. At least there would be signs of human life and the sound of voices. She buzzed Riley and announced her imminent departure, to which he replied with a mumble that might have been interpreted as "Good night." Tight-lipped, Meg collected her belongings and locked up. She borrowed a big black umbrella. The pink one might not belong to Candy, but its color suggested a confection and even that reminder was too close.

  There weren't many customers at the hardware store either, but the lights were bright and people said "Hello" and "Hi, there" and "Lousy weather, isn't it?" Mike was trying to explain the difference between Molly bolts and toggle bolts to a bewildered matron. Meg waved at him and went on back to the decorating section, where she amused herself with wallpaper books and paint samples, becoming so engrossed she didn't notice the passage of time until Mike joined her.

  "I'm about ready to close up, honey. Sorry you had to wait."

  "That's okay. Can I borrow some of these, or rent them, or whatever the custom is?"

  "In your case, I'll waive the usual deposit," Mike said with a smile. "What are you going to wallpaper, your room?"

  "The cottage. Or I may paint, I haven't decided."

  Mike's long face went blank. Thinking he had not understood, Meg elaborated. "You know the cottage—the one where Uncle George used to live. I'm planning to renovate it and move in."

  "I know it." He ruminated for a moment. "You want to take them books now?"

  "I guess I'd better wait. I haven't even seen the interior, or lined up a contractor. I thought maybe you could suggest someone."

  "Yeah, I guess I could. You ready to go?"

  He made her wait in the shelter of the doorway till he got his car, and insisted on escorting her to it under his own big black umbrella. Meg had barely fastened her seat belt before he stopped again, in front of the beauty shop.

  "Is Barby joining us?" she asked.

  "Yep. Hope you don't mind."

  "Of course not." She did, but she couldn't say so.

  Mike got himself and the umbrella out of the car and plodded up the walk to where Barby was waiting, attired in a raincoat and matching hat of a lilac so brilliant it glowed through the gloom. Meg unfastened the seat belt and "scootched over," smiling wryly. She might have known Mike would provide a chaperone. Or was this a conference? After she had greeted Barby she asked, "Are Ed and Kate joining us?"

  "No, Kate has a silver-anniversary dinner tonight, and Ed's sister and her husband are visiting." Barby beamed at her from under the hat; it was a trifle too big and made her look like a cute drunk playing lamp-shade games at a party. "It will be cozier with just us three, don't you think?"

  "It would have been even cozier with just the two of you," Meg said.

  Barby giggled madly. People had been teasing Mike for years about his girlfriends; he didn't seem to mind, though he never responded. Kate, the other "girlfriend," usually reacted with a snort and a sneer, but Barby enjoyed the jokes. Meg didn't believe for a moment that there was anything between them. They had something that, if not better, was more enduring.

  Mike drove at a careful thirty miles an hour while Barby chatted about the weather, her customers and other topics of negligible interest. It took twenty minutes to reach the house where he had lived all his adult life. It had been a ramshackle ruin of Victorian gingerbread when Mike bought it for his bride, getting it cheap because it was a genuine handyman's delight— or curse. Now it gleamed whitely through the gathering dusk like a mammoth wedding cake, every curl and curlicue in place.

  A chorus of barks greeted them as they stepped onto the porch. Mike always had dogs, in the plural; at least two, sometimes more, if he couldn't find homes for the strays he picked up. Meg identified this chorus as a trio. The shrill soprano yapping belonged to a featureless brindled mop, too big for a Yorkie, too small for a sheepdog. It was followed out the door by a black Labrador and a middle-sized canine mixture with floppy ears and Dalmatian-style spots. After careening around the humans a few times the animals rushed out into the yard to relieve themselves and rushed back to further express their delight at having company. Barby batted at them with her umbrella, yelling "Shoo," and Mike led the whole procession down the hall to the kitchen. He had anticipated the country look before it became fashionable, when braided rugs and solid well-made furniture could be bought for pennies at local auctions. The room was big enough to hold it all, pie safes and rocking chairs, an enormous sofa and a cupboard that contained books as well as dishes. Since the death of his wife Mike practically lived there. Sometimes, after reading half the night, he slept on the sofa.

  Meg sank into its softness with a sigh of content and kicked off her wet sandals while Mike fed the dogs and Barby bustled to the table and began unloading her carry-all. "I wish you hadn't gone to all that trouble," Mike said over his shoulder.

  "It was no trouble, I like to cook and I don't get much chance." Barby took the foil off a casserole and put it in the oven. "Anyhow, I wasn't going to eat your cooking, Mike Potter—or that awful potato salad and frizzled chicken from the carry-out. No, I don't need any help; just fix us a drink and then set yourself down and keep out of my way. You too, Meg."

  It was a pity they didn't get married, Meg thought, just for the comfort of it. Mike didn't have to ask what Barby wanted, he poured her a shot of bourbon as generous as his own. Meg watched in amusement as he got out a cola and started to open it; then he caught himself and gave her an apologetic smile. "Guess you don't drink this stuff anymore, now you're a grownup woman. I've got a bottle of wine somewhere, or there's some beer I keep on hand for the boys."

  Meg accepted the beer, wondering which "boys" Mike meant. Surely not his sons; they lived hundreds of miles away, and both were in their late forties. He was active in the Big Brothers movement, but she doubted he would serve alcohol to young people many of whose problems stemmed from its overuse, by their parents or themselves.

  "I love this house," she said. "I don't suppose I could talk you into taking a few months off and renovating the cottage for me?"

  A clatter and a curse drew her attention to Barby, who managed to catch her pie tin of biscuits before they fell to the floor. "What cottage?" she demanded. "You don't mean that old—"

  "The one on Dan's propitty," Mike said. "Meg's figuring to live there. Makes sense, when you come to think about it."

  His attempt to head her off was evident, but she refused the hint. "Makes sense? You don't mean it, Meg! Why, I wouldn't live there for a million bucks."

  "Is it haunted?" Meg asked solemnly.

  "Well... I guess not. Least I never heard of anything going on." Barby put the pie tin in the oven and straightened. Her face was flushed. "We figured you'd probably want a place of your own, so we've been kind of keeping an eye out for a nice piece of propitty. The old Barlow place—"

  "Never mind the old Barlow place," Meg interrupted. "Honestly, you guys are the most. . . . Are you mind readers, or what? I didn't make up my mind until the day before yesterday."

  The two exchanged glances. "We just figured you would," Mike said.

  "You're smarter than I am, then." Meg relaxed against the soft cushions. "Which is a left-handed compliment if ever there was one."

  "You're not mad, are you?" Barby asked anxiously.

  "Of course not. Why should I be mad?"

  "Because we're a bunch of nosy old coots," Barby said, sitting down at the table with her bourbon. "And—well—we sort of promised Dan we'd keep an e
ye on you. You don't want to live in that gloomy place, honey. Whether or not you believe in actual ghosts, there was a lot of unhappiness in that house. Some folks think feelings, of joy or misery, kind of soak into the walls. Why live with that? The old Barlow place—"

  "Has probably seen its share of misery and joy," Meg said. "Barby, Mike—don't think I don't appreciate the way you and the others want to protect me. But I'm a grown woman now, and what I really need is the truth. Dan never talked to me. Nobody ever told me what really happened to my parents. I couldn't ask him, couldn't hurt Gran by reminding her. . . . The biggest favor you could do me is to let me ask questions, and answer them honestly, without trying to spare my feelings."

  Mike had been setting the table. He put the last fork neatly in place and looked at Meg. "Want another beer?"

  She felt absurdly like crying. "Yes, Mike. Please."

  Barby got up and took the biscuits out of the oven. After she had put the food on the table she resumed her seat and reached for the bourbon. "I'm not driving," she explained to Meg.

  "You got a head like a rock anyhow," Mike said admiringly. He handed Meg her beer and sat down.

  "Yeah, sometimes it's as hard as a rock," Barby muttered. "Okay, Meg, you got the floor. Go ahead."

  It was hard to know where to begin. The question came into her mind unbidden, and yet strangely important. "What was she like? Aunt Joyce?"

  Barby thought.

  "She looked a lot like your gramma. A tiny little bit of a woman. Your ma was taller, heavier. Not that she wasn't just as pretty in her own way. It wasn't that."

  "What, then? What was there about her that made my father gamble on losing everything that mattered to him? He must have known Dan would never forgive him, even if Mother did. He risked his job, his family—"

  "He was crazy about you," Mike said. "Don't ever doubt that."

  "Honey, every man, or woman, who fools around takes the same chance," Barby said. "For what? If I knew the answer I could make a fortune writing books and doing talk shows."

  Meg said steadily, "He was supposed to be in Washington, on business. She said she was going to Boston on a shopping trip and would stay overnight with a friend. Neither of them was where they were supposed to be. They were in a motel less than fifty miles from here. Together. In bed together. They were drinking and smoking, and a cigarette ignited the bedclothes, which may have been saturated with alcohol. The fused remains of a bottle of vodka were found next to the bodies."

  The others sat staring dumbly at the untouched food on their plates. Meg's throat was dry. She took a sip of her beer. "Luckily, or unluckily, the units on either side were empty. It was winter, after all, and midweek; no tourist business at that time of year. The fire was well under way before it was discovered. It was over twelve hours before the police made a tentative identification. She wasn't registered at all, and he was registered under a false name—the same one he had used half a dozen times before. The affair had been going on for months. If they hadn't been so careless, it might have continued indefinitely."

  "Nobody had any idea," Barby murmured. "They all seemed so happy. ..."

  Mike shook his head. "That's easy to say, Barby. But nobody knows what goes on inside families."

  "For years I hoped there was some mistake," Meg said softly. "But there wasn't, was there? It really happened. There's nothing you haven't told me?"

  "No," Mike said, and Barby echoed, "Nothing you don't already know. So now you see why you shouldn't live in that house. The old Barlow place. . . ." She caught Meg's eye, and stopped with a sheepish grin. "Hell, there I go again. Just like a mother hen."

  Meg grinned back at her. "Eat up, mother hen. The food is getting cold and it's too good to waste."

  Barby sighed. "Damn right. Took me two hours to put this casserole together. . . . You had the right idea, Meg. I feel better myself, now that's over and done with."

  "Not exactly, Barby. I have a few more questions."

  Barby put her fork down. "Oh, Lord. Now what?"

  Meg helped herself to another serving of the casserole while she debated what to say. Barby's presence had forced her to alter her original strategy, but even that had not been well defined; she kept vacillating between an almost irresistible urge to lean on Mike's rocklike strength and integrity, and the fear that she might endanger him by involving him. Not—she had argued with herself—that she had firm evidence of a deadly threat, to herself or anyone else. That was just the trouble.

  There was one area, though, she felt fairly safe in discussing. "Some peculiar things have happened to me since Dan died," she began, choosing her words carefully. "I wasn't going to tell you about them, but I have a feeling you already know. Don't you?"

  Mike gave her an odd, sidelong look; he understood why she had not gone into detail, but Barby promptly provided part of the information she had hoped to elicit. "That time you got run off the road was nothing but a drunk driver, honey. We all agreed—"

  "Well, now, that's not exactly right," Mike interrupted. "You and Kate agreed. I wasn't so sure, and neither was Ed."

  "Oh, Ed. He doesn't know what he thinks." Barby's cheeks were pink. "Anyhow, we agreed it couldn't have been Riley."

  Meg leaned forward, forgetting to eat. Now that they had let down the protective barriers, they were being candid with a vengeance. "Why not, Barby?"

  Barby's blush deepened, and she avoided Mike's eyes. "He just wouldn't do anything like that. And don't you grunt at me, Mike Potter. I said it before and I'll say it again—my feelings about people are just as important as your damned evidence!"

  "I didn't say they weren't important. I just said—"

  "You did too. As for those silly rings, a lot of people could've taken them from Dan's stock at the store. That sniveling sneak Candy, and her rotten ex, and—and—uh. . . ."

  "Don't get so upset," Meg exclaimed, genuinely distressed by the acrimony she had aroused. "I hate to see you two fighting."

  Mike let out a gruff bark of laughter and after a moment Barby echoed it with one of her shrill giggles. "We fight all the time, honey. It keeps the juices flowing, as Dan used to say. You don't believe Riley's behind all those stupid tricks, do you? Kate is afraid you do; she thought maybe you went to work at the store so you could keep an eye on him."

  Meg decided to avoid answering that question. "I won't ask you how you learned about this. Cliff, Darren, Uncle George. . . . You've all been hovering like a bunch of self-appointed guardian angels. What I'd like to know is whether the harassment is directed at me personally, or at the firm. Dan had enemies. Have I inherited one of them?"

  "We asked ourselves that too," Mike said. "I don't know . . . but I doubt it, Meg. Sure, Dan had people who didn't like him, even here in Seldon. Rod Applegate was one of 'em. Dan had him put in jail one time after he beat Candy up pretty bad. There was other cases like that; he didn't have much sympathy for wife-beaters and swindlers."

  "What about the people Dan swindled?" Meg asked. "You're trying to make him sound like a sweet old saint, Mike. He wasn't a saint."

  "Well, no. But no such things ever happened while Dan was alive. We'd have known."

  He spoke slowly and reluctantly. Barby nodded, avoiding Meg's eyes. They saw the implications as clearly as she did.

  After Mike had dropped Barby off and they were on the way home Meg tried once more. "Mike, are you sure Dan never dropped a hint about pulling a fast one on some client or business rival? Even if the deal wasn't actually illegal, someone might harbor a grudge."

  "Dan was always bragging about the deals he made," Mike answered. "I wish that was the answer, but I don't think it is." He took one big hand from the wheel and patted her knee. "Don't you worry, we'll figure it out."

  He brought the car to a stop in front of the house. Meg leaned over and kissed his leathery cheek. "I'm sorry if I spoiled our date, Mike. But I feel a lot better. Thanks. No, don't get out; it's stopped raining, and there's Cliff, ready to take over the bodyguard job
."

  She slammed the car door and trotted up the stairs to where Cliff stood waiting. "Working your wiles on Mike, I see," he remarked. "Get anything out of him?"

  "You have an absolute genius for impertinence," Meg informed him. "And for the good life. Don't you ever work?"

  Cliff locked the door and barred it, then tripped the unobtrusive switch that turned on the alarm system. "If you think I'm hanging around on your account, don't flatter yourself. Mary's the one I'm worried about. There is such a thing as delayed reaction, and her heart isn't strong."

  And one strand of hair in the ring had been pale silver-gold. Guilt and alarm gripped Meg. "Has something happened?"

  "No." Cliff's face relaxed. "I didn't mean to scare you. But I'm here to make damn good and sure nothing does happen. To either of you."

  He took her face between his hands and tilted her head back, looking deep into her eyes. Then he gave her a brotherly kiss on the forehead and stepped back, grinning. "Good night, good night; parting is such sweet sorrow. . . . Or, as another famous poet has put it, Sleep tight and don't let the bedbugs bite."

  He went off up the stairs, whistling softly under his breath. After a brief interval Meg followed him, and stood in the hall listening to his retreating footsteps. When she heard the far-off slam of a door she went into her room and opened her safe. Cliff appeared to have retired for the night and it would be easier to take Dan's jewels downstairs to the library rather than bring the necessary reference books to her room. Until she started working with them she couldn't be certain which ones she might need.

  She was certain Mike had told the truth when he denied knowledge of any specific act of skulduggery on Dan's part. If he had known about the jewelry hoard he would have betrayed himself when Meg questioned him about Dan's army record. Mike had served in the European theater in World War II, Dan in the Far East, but like all old soldiers they had swapped war stories, and Mike confirmed some of Meg's hunches. Dan had been in India part of the time, in some sort of liaison position with the British. "He did brag about what great bargains he got over there," Mike had explained. "I guess you know lots of jewels come from that part of the world. But other guys brought back precious stones, there was nothing illegal about it."