Into the darkness, p.23
Into the Darkness, page 23
Meg declined. If Darren had set out deliberately to deflate her he couldn’t have done it more effectively. At the beginning of the evening she had almost convinced herself that she ought to tell him about everything that worried her—the ring, the telephone call, the cache of hidden jewelry. The slow, gradual erosion of her confidence in his understanding left her feeling more alone than ever—and her suspicion that anything she told Darren would eventually be known to Mrs. Babcock was another concern. Cliff was a better audience than Darren; at least he took her seriously.
As they crossed the parking lot toward his car Darren said, “I guess I won’t find out what peculiar object you turn into at midnight. Unless you’d like to stop someplace for a nightcap?”
“Thanks, but I’d better not. Gran will expect me to go to church with her tomorrow, and I’m tired, after working all day.”
Traffic on the interstate was moderately heavy, but Darren drove easily and skillfully, the speedometer hovering close to the legal speed limit. Meg leaned back, enjoying the smooth ride and the cool night air.
It happened so suddenly she didn’t have time to react until it was over—a brilliant burst of light in the rearview mirror, a wordless yell of rage and warning from Darren as he twisted the wheel violently to the right. The headlights swung in a dizzying arc; the car jerked and skidded as the wheels hit the grassy shoulder, and the seat belt squeezed her ribs like an iron hand. She closed her eyes and waited for the crash.
Chapter
12
THE SCREAM OF TORTURED METAL AND RUBBER DIED, AND Meg heard Darren cursing with an inventiveness worthy of Dan at his best. He broke off in the middle of a vivid description of some unknown male individual and turned anxiously to Meg. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“No,” Meg said vaguely. “What did we hit?”
“Nothing. Thank God for good brakes and dry weather. If the grass had been wet…. Meg, are you sure you’re all right?”
“Don’t—don’t.” Feebly Meg pushed him away. “The seat belt practically cut me in two; if you touch me I’ll scream.”
“If it hadn’t been for the seat belt….” Darren bowed his head over the wheel. His breathing was harsh and uneven.
“Are you okay?” Meg asked.
“Not a scratch. But you could have been…. Goddamn drunk drivers, they ought to lock ’em up and throw away the key.”
“Drunk,” Meg repeated. She took a deep experimental breath and rubbed her sore rib cage.
“They hit the roads like a tidal wave on weekends,” Darren said bitterly. “We’ll go straight to the emergency room, dear. I apologize for my language, but that was such a near miss….”
He touched the starter and the engine throbbed into life. “I have to go home,” Meg said. “Right now.”
“You could have cracked a rib.” Darren eased the BMW back onto the road.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Really, Meg—”
“You don’t understand. The last time I went out….”
Darren’s hands tightened on the wheel as he listened. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“You dismissed the other things I told you about—Candy and Applegate’s behavior, and the rat—”
“There is a big difference between a harmless if disgusting dead animal, and an anonymous telephone call. I wish you’d let me be the judge of what is important and what is not.”
Neither of them spoke for a short time; Darren was deep in thought and Meg was trying to overcome her resentment of his autocratic manner. When she thought she had succeeded, she said, “You said the driver who forced us off the road was drunk. It could have been an accident.”
“I made a logical assumption, based on the prevalence of such occurrences. I didn’t know about the telephone call. That alters the situation. You’ve been out at night twice this week, and both times something unusual has happened. I don’t suppose you happened to see the license plate?”
“Are you kidding? It all happened so fast I couldn’t even tell you what make of car it was.”
“It wasn’t a car,” Darren said. “It was a truck. A rusty, dark gray pickup.”
Without further argument Darren drove her straight to the house. From the outside everything looked perfectly normal. Still, Meg’s hands were unsteady as she inserted her key in the lock. The hall sconces burned dimly, the house was dark and still, and no one awaited her.
Or so she thought. Something moved in the shadowy recess under the stairs, and a sound like the screech of rusty hinges brought Darren quickly to her side. “What on earth—”
“It’s only Henrietta Marie,” Meg said. “That’s odd; she usually spends the night with Gran.”
With a soft thud the cat jumped down off the chair on which she had been resting. As she sauntered toward them, reflected light made her eyes glow like miniature taillights. Meg said uneasily, “Wait here, Darren. I just want to….”
Dropping her purse, she ran up the stairs. Henrietta Marie followed, at her own leisurely pace.
Gran’s door was closed. Meg reached for the knob. Foolish though her fears might be, she would not rest easy until she had made certain her grandmother was peacefully asleep. Before she could turn the knob, however, she heard a soft murmur from within.
She’s talking in her sleep, Meg told herself. Everybody makes noises in their sleep—groans, sighs, sometimes words. Do people laugh in their sleep? Please, Gran, don’t laugh. I am going to assume you are asleep, I am going to turn the knob slowly, quietly….
Henrietta, behind her, let out a raucous squawl. It was part of her heritage from a Siamese ancestor, and it sounded like the mating call of a miniature werewolf. Meg turned on the cat, hissing a demand for silence. Henrietta sneered back at her and applied a claw-studded paw to the door.
The damage was done; that yowl would have wakened the heaviest of sleepers. Meg called the cat a vulgar but accurate name and opened the door. Henrietta slithered through the gap and disappeared.
“Thank you, Frances,” said a soft voice. “I do hope Henrietta didn’t wake you. If she’s going to keep this up, we had better see about having a swinging panel installed.”
“It’s not Frances, it’s me,” Meg said. “I’m sorry, Gran, I tried to keep her quiet, but she was determined to get in.”
“That’s quite all right, darling, I wasn’t asleep.” Thump, went Henrietta, onto the bed, and Gran cooed, “There she is, my baby. Of course she wanted in, didn’t she? Was that why she wouldn’t stay with me this evening? She was waiting for Meg to come home. What a sweet, thoughtful kitty she is.”
Concealed behind the half-closed door, Meg stuck out her tongue at the thoughtful kitty. Life in the old homestead was going to be hard if even the cat rode herd on her.
“Good night, Gran,” she said.
“Good night, darling.”
From the darkness came a sound like that of a giant bumblebee. Henrietta was purring.
Darren was waiting at the foot of the stairs when Meg came down. “Everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes, fine.” Meg rubbed her bare arms. “I’ve got goose bumps, as we used to say. That cat gives me the creeps.”
Darren laughed. “I can’t say she appeals to me either, but then I prefer dogs. I guess we can assume there was no telephone call tonight. Unless you think the cat took the call.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Meg muttered. “What about a nightcap, Darren? Or would you prefer coffee?”
“I would like a little chat with you. But please don’t go to any trouble.”
They settled themselves in the parlor, where Darren was persuaded to help himself to Dan’s excellent brandy. Returning to his chair, he said, “From the way you galloped up those stairs I gather your injuries are minimal, but I still think you ought to have those ribs checked by a doctor.”
“It’s not necessary,” Meg said shortly. She wished Darren would finish his drink and go home. What more was there to say? She was so tired. She almost wished someone would fire a shot or throw a rock or send a threatening letter. One could then take action, to defend and to strike back, instead of floundering in a sea of uncertainties. One might then convince one’s lawyer that one was not a neurotic female.
Despite her poorly concealed yawns and brief responses, Darren stayed on, sipping his Napoleon brandy and talking about subjects that would have held little interest for Meg under any circumstances. About the handsome house he had built a few years earlier, its location, its furnishings and how its value had increased. About general real estate values in Seldon. About the way the town had grown. About business investments in the area.
They had been sitting for over an hour when Meg heard a car coming up the driveway. It had to be Cliff; and when she saw the alert turn of Darren’s head she realized that this was what he had been waiting for.
Cliff showed no surprise at finding them there; of course, Meg thought, he had seen Darren’s car. “So, did you have fun?” he asked, beaming at them. “So nice of you to wait up for me. Tell me all about it. What are you drinking, Darren?”
Darren accepted a refill; Meg refused, biting off the words. Cliff looked as fresh as he had when they left. His hair was becomingly tousled (by wind or fond fingers? she wondered) and his collar was a little limp, but he seemed prepared to go on for hours. She was about to excuse herself and leave them to it when Darren said, “Meg, dear, if you want to go to bed, don’t feel you have to entertain me. I want to have a little chat with Cliff anyway. A nice long soak in a hot bath would probably be the best thing for those sore ribs.”
Meg couldn’t have said what annoyed her more—the unnecessary endearment, the proprietorial tone or the so-subtle way in which he had introduced the subject of the accident. She was also getting fed up with the phrase “little chat.”
Cliff was prompt to pick up his cue. “Sore ribs, is it? What have you been doing to the woman, Darren?”
“Why don’t you run along to bed, dear?” Darren repeated.
Wild horses couldn’t have dragged Meg away now. “Because I don’t want to run along to bed.”
“Oh, good, a lovers’ quarrel,” Cliff said, grinning. “Don’t expect me to be tactful and excuse myself. I adore arguments.”
“You’re quite mistaken, Cliff,” Darren said. “There isn’t going to be a quarrel. I was only thinking of your comfort, Meg. If you want to stay, by all means do so. But I intend to tell Cliff what happened tonight, and ask his advice.”
“I also adore giving advice.” Cliff was still smiling, but his eyes had narrowed. “Tell me all, children.”
Meg let Darren tell the story, since he had every intention of doing so anyway. He was clear and concise, including every relevant detail. “Apparently no telephone call was received tonight,” he finished. “Which leaves some doubt as to whether this incident was related to the earlier call, or was only the accident it appeared to be. However, I thought you should be informed of it.”
Cliff slid slowly down in the easy chair until he was resting on his spine, the balloon glass balanced lightly between his fingers. “Mmm-hmmm,” he murmured lazily. “I appreciate that, Darren. And to show how much I appreciate it, I’m going to inform you of a few things I suspect Meg hasn’t mentioned. The day after the funeral….”
The “morbid memento mori ring,” as Cliff called it, failed to impress Darren. “That sounds like pulp fiction,” he said skeptically. “It’s probable that the ring was returned by someone who had taken it on approval—Dan did that for good customers—or was sent for appraisal.”
Cliff peered owlishly at Darren over the rim of the glass. “I’ll show you the damned thing. If it doesn’t raise your hackles, you have no more imagination than a slug.”
He was up and on his way out before Darren could reply. The errand took him longer than Meg had expected, assuming, as his confidence had implied, that he knew where his father had put the ring; and when he came back his steps were slow and deliberate. They stopped outside the door, and there was a pause of several seconds before he came in. The expression on his face made Meg sit up. “Couldn’t you find it?” she asked.
“I found it.” Cliff leaned over the table and opened his clenched hand, spilling not one but two rings onto the shining mahogany. “Apparently it spawned.”
“You mean this was with it?” Meg picked up the second ring.
Seed pearls formed a circle around a glass dome. Under the glass lay an intricate coil of intertwined black and shining silver-gilt. “It’s hair work,” Meg said.
Darren, who had been examining the other ring with an expression of mild distaste, leaned closer to see the one she held. “I believe I’ve heard of such things. Weren’t they—er—tokens of affection? People still clip babies’ curls to put in lockets or in baby books.”
“They could be love tokens,” Meg said. “But just as often—perhaps more often—they were memorial rings. Mourning rings. Not only rings, bracelets, pendants, you name it. The hair was cut from the head of the dead.”
“Ah. I believe I understand what you are suggesting.” Darren looked again at the delicate little skeleton, turned the ring to read the motto. “‘Hier lieg ich, Und wart auf dich’. I grant you that the message has a certain—er—morbid tone. And it is certainly possible to see a pattern in these apparently disparate events. First the delivery of the message ring. Then the telephone call. To term it threatening would be an exaggeration, but certainly it was worrisome, designed to cause alarm and/or embarrassment. Tonight’s occurrence on the road may or may not be part of the pattern. This second ring seems to me ambiguous, but I am willing to defer to your considered judgment that it may be another reminder of death. You didn’t mention this one, Cliff, so I presume I am safe in assuming you didn’t know about it. It’s strange that your father didn’t mention it.”
“No,” Cliff said.
“He didn’t mention the first one, either,” Meg said. “It was pure accident that I happened to see it, and I was the one who suggested it might be interpreted as a threat. I had a hard time convincing him.”
“I’m not entirely convinced myself,” Darren said. “However, I am willing to admit that the delivery of a second ring, under what we may tentatively assume to be similar circumstances, does tend to strengthen your theory, although the specific meaning—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Cliff exclaimed. “Are you blind? Look at this filthy thing.” He snatched the ring from Meg’s hand and shoved it under Darren’s nose. “Look at the color of the hair. It’s an unusual shade—pure jet-black. The same shade as Meg’s. It’s her hair, dammit! How specific can a threat be?”
Darren was the first to break the silence. “That’s rather farfetched, Cliff, don’t you think? Millions of people have black hair, and there are two different shades in this ring. Hair from two different people. Unless you think Meg is a natural blonde who dyes her hair.”
“Check my roots,” Meg said. “That’s a good point, Darren.”
“It would be if we didn’t know someone whose hair is—or was—silver-blonde,” Cliff said.
“Are you enjoying this?” Meg demanded angrily and unjustly. Cliff obviously wasn’t enjoying any of it. He was actually pale under his tan. If Darren had too little imagination, Cliff had too much. And he adored Gran.
Darren also knew to whom Cliff referred. Mary Morgan had been famous for her beautiful silver-gilt hair. There were photographs of her all over the house, and a portrait in the drawing room.
For a time no one spoke. Then Darren said, “Any debater knows that it is possible to arrange a set of random facts to prove almost anything. The connection between the events we’ve mentioned is purely theoretical; so far there is absolutely no proof that they are connected at all.”
“Right,” Cliff said surprisingly. “If you were lowbrow enough to read mystery novels, Darren, you would know that the same principle applies there. The writer takes a set of unrelated facts and supplies a connection. However…”
“I knew there would be a ‘however,’” Meg muttered.
“However, don’t you think it’s interesting that so far—”
“And a ‘so far.’”
“Quiet, please. If these events are related, the perp, as I believe he is called in the trade, is being damned careful to avoid any act that would justify official intervention. In other words, so far we’ve no excuse for calling the cops.”
“Precisely.” Darren appeared depressed. “I can see myself trying to explain this—what did you call it?—memento mori ring to Sheriff Buchhandler.”
“Sounds like fun, all right. Let me know if you decide to try.” Cliff went to the liquor cabinet and poured more brandy. “How about you, coz? A little cognac is great for relieving fluttery nerves.”
“My nerves aren’t fluttering,” Meg snapped.
“No? Mine are.” Cliff wandered back to his chair. “But I am beginning to think we don’t have to worry about actual physical danger to…anyone. This looks to me more like a campaign of intimidation.”
“Mmmm.” Darren accepted the glass Cliff handed him. “Yes, I think you’re right, Cliff. It would be extremely foolish for a would-be attacker to warn his victim, not once but several times.”
“Gee, thanks, guys,” Meg said. “That really cheers me up. As a friend of mine used to say, I’d just as soon they’d shoot me as scare me to death.”
Both men made deprecatory noises. “Anyway,” Meg went on, “you still haven’t convinced me this is aimed at me. Are you forgetting the dead rat?”
“I haven’t forgotten it,” Darren said coolly. “But I doubt it is part of the pattern.”
“You think it was aimed at Riley.” Meg remembered what Riley had said, or rather, not said. The rat had not been the first demonstration of hostility against him. “Well, maybe you’re right. But I…. Wait a minute. Let me see that ring again.”
She snatched up the hair ring. “Darren, will you hand me my purse? I need my loupe.”
