Here I Stay (19 page)

Martin laughed, his face softening as he watched
her rub her eyes. "Nothing that bad. Didn't you recognize that woman?"

"What woman?"

"I gather from the guest book that she is calling herself Jones," Martin said dryly. "Not too inventive...That's Starflower Morningcloud, the psychic. She has a column in the
Post
a couple of times a week. You must have read it."

"Psychic? I don't read that trash." But the name was familiar—small wonder, it was not the sort of name one easily forgot.

"Then you're one of the few," Martin said. "Starflower—her real name is Ruby Dowdy, by the way— do you wonder she changed it?—she's one of the most influential women in Washington. Congressmen sneak into her house by the back door to learn what the stars predict for them, and she has advised at least one President. Which may explain why the country's in its present mess. Rumor has it that the First Lady is one of her best customers."

Andrea slumped back in her chair. "Oh, for heaven's sake. How silly can people get? Does she believe in her own powers, I wonder?"

"Probably not. You don't care?"

"That a lot of nitwits fall for..." Andrea sat up again. "My head feels as if it's stuffed with cotton. Maybe that's why I'm so slow tonight...What are you trying to tell me, Martin?"

"Well, I don't know much about these things," Martin said, maddeningly deliberate. "Maybe you'd like the inn to acquire a reputation as a haunted house. But I would suppose—"

"You suppose right." Andrea jumped to her feet. "What are they doing?"

"Appears to me they are holding, or about to
hold, a seance. I remember one well-publicized case, in which Starflower investigated a presumed poltergeist; the owners of the house later sued her for destroying the value of their property and making it impossible for them to sell—Andrea! Andy, come back here—don't go off half-cocked—"

He made a grab for her as she shot past, but missed his hold. Swearing under his breath, he went after her.

Since the red parlor was the one most favored by guests who didn't care to watch television, Andrea had lit fires in that room and in the library, and left lights burning in the green parlor as well. The sliding doors separating the latter room from the library were closed now.

Andrea attacked the heavy oak panels with the strength of rage. The only light in the library came from the fire on the hearth. Shadows coiled and shivered, turning into hollow mouthed masks the faces that gaped at the opening doors. "Mrs. Jones," ensconced in solitary dignity at the head of the long library table, was the first to recover from the surprise. She let out an unearthly shriek and began writhing.

Professor Schott pointed an accusing finger at Andrea. "Murderer—monster! Lady Starflower was in deep trance, vulnerable to the slightest shock. You have killed her—mutilated her, savaged her—"

Andrea, who prided herself on her self-control, found herself screaming like a fishwife. "Get out of my house! All of you. Pick up that hypocritical bitch and get her out before I really savage her!"

Starflower continued to squirm and scream. She managed to stay in her chair, however, until one of her acolytes lowered her gently to the floor. The din
rose as other voices joined in. Miss Wilkins let out piercing, wordless hoots at spaced intervals, like a smoke alarm.

Hands closed over Andrea's arms, and Martin's voice said loudly, "Let's just calm down, everyone." Andrea, still intent on mayhem, tried to free herself. Martin gave her a little shake. "Let me handle this. Here, Jim, see if you can keep her quiet."

"Right. Cool it, Too-Small." Jim wrapped an arm around her rigid shoulders, half embrace, half restraint.

Martin turned on the lights. In the commonplace glow of electricity the scene lost its macabre intensity; the participants became ordinary people blinking owlishly in the glare and looking as foolish as they felt. Starflower stopped writhing and sat up.

"Ah," she gasped, clutching her heart. "Ah, the torment—the agony of separation...Where am I? What has happened?"

"Get up, Ruby, you'll get your fancy robe dirty." Martin pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. Surveying the ensemble with mildly critical, mildly humorous eyes, he went on, "You've made an egregious ass of yourself this time. It will make an entertaining little paragraph in my column. Naturally, I won't mention names."

Rising, with some dignity, Ruby shook off her attendant's hands and glowered at Martin.

"My column may have a few paragraphs as well, Greenspan. And I will mention names. The shock to my system—"

"Is invisible to the naked eye. Come off it, Ruby, you couldn't convince any doctor in the country, much less any judge, that you have suffered damages. Miss Torgesen, on the other hand, could
charge you with breach of contract, inciting to riot, malicious mischief...Give me minute and I'll think of some others."

Ruby drew herself up. "This is a house of evil," she said, in a low, thrilling voice. "I sensed it the moment I entered these accursed walls. Doom, death, possession await the dwellers in this house!"

"Threats, now," Martin murmured, blowing a perfect smoke ring. "Defamation...I wonder if a house's character can be defamed? We'll find out. If the place is so nasty, dear, how can your sensitive psyche stand it?"

"I would have cleansed this house of its evil. Now, injured and rejected, I leave the dwellers to their fate."

Andrea was still furious, but the insane intensity of her rage had passed. Before she could comment, Martin said quickly, "Tit for tat, Ruby. You keep quiet and so will I. Whatever else your performance might have been, it was an outrageous violation of this lady's hospitality."

"She didn't say guests are not permitted to contact the spiritual world," squeaked Miss Wilkins. This innocent comment won the helpful spinster a glare from her mentor. Martin laughed.

"She didn't specify that you were not allowed to do aerobic dancing in the parlor, either, or play touch football. But anyone who had such intentions would have had the decency to inquire first. Then there's the fact that you registered under a false name, Ruby—"

"I am leaving this house at once," Ruby declared. "The vibrations are too painful."

"But it's raining," said Miss Wilkins.

"Obviously Miss Torgesen isn't going to throw
you out into the night," Martin said. "But I suggest you cut your stay short."

Disdaining reply, Ruby swept toward the door. Her followers trailed after her. Martin saved the coup de grace until the medium had passed out of sight, but not out of hearing. "Since Miss Torgesen held the rooms for you, you won't expect a refund," he called.

The only reaction he got was a faint "Oh, dear," from Miss Wilkins.

The spiritualists left early next morning. Andrea carried their trays up at seven-thirty, the hour they had requested. When she went for the trays later she noticed that most of them, including Ruby, had gobbled every bite.

In the cold light of day—and a cool gray rainy day it was—she couldn't believe she had behaved so extravagantly. She'd had a right to be indignant. The last thing she wanted was to have the inn acquire a reputation as a haunted house. It might attract some business, but not the kind she wanted. An emotionally disturbed guest might have a heart attack or a stroke, and decide to sue. And, once the sensation had passed, the reputation would linger. "Oh, Harry, I wouldn't stay there, not for anything—something comes in the night and pulls the covers off the bed—and someone said someone she knew didn't get a wink of sleep because she saw a Woman in White on the stairs...Or was it a friend of someone she knew?"

Legally Andrea was unsure of her ground. Her hotel experience was of little help; the unwritten rule in that business was that guests could do what they liked in their own rooms, so long as they didn't set
the place on fire and no one complained. But because Ruby and her coterie had used one of the public rooms for their performance, she had a moral, if not a legal right to object.

However, Andrea had to admit that her reaction had been extreme. She could have handled the matter much more effectively if she had remained coolly dignified. The memory of her behavior made her squirm, but she was on hand next morning when her guests left. It was not possible to run a hotel without developing a certain thickness of skin.

Martin didn't appear, but Jim was on hand to give her moral support. With a wink and a grin and a "thumbs up" signal, he went to the door, ready to throw it open.

"Starflower" swept regally down and out, without giving Andrea so much as a glance. The others straggled after her, dealing out dirty looks and indignant murmurs as they passed. Perhaps the sight of Jim, unsmiling and formidable despite his crutches, quelled any more vehement expressions of resentment.

Shoulder to shoulder at the door, Jim and Andrea watched the guests crowd into their cars. "Starflower" sat alone in the back seat of the Cadillac, which was chauffeured by Mr. Abbott. The others all got into the second car.

Then a tall, thin figure detached itself and trotted back toward the house. From the agitated manner in which Miss Wilkins fumbled in her pockets and her purse, Andrea assumed she had forgotten something. She opened the door and stood back so that Miss Wilkins could return to her room to search for the missing item.

Instead the woman turned to her and caught her
hand. "I told them I forgot my gloves," she said in a mumbling undertone. "Dear Miss Torgesen—I know you didn't mean any harm—indeed, I can understand your attitude—my dear mother, who has now passed into the next world—and who has thus far refused to speak to me, despite Starflower's efforts...What was I saying?"

"I have no idea," Andrea replied, trying to free her hand. Miss Wilkins' fingers were as cold and clammy as a bundle of dead herring. She hung on. "My dear mother. Yes—she would agree with you, I am sure—but, Miss Torgesen, I beg you will reconsider and ask Starflower to cleanse this house. She is the soul of charity, she will relent, I know. Oh, Miss Torgesen, believe me—there is something wrong here, so terribly wrong.. .I have only a shadow of Starflower's gift, but even I can feel it—an aura of spiritual malaise, so strong, so troubling..."

It was impossible to be angry with the woman. She was six or seven inches taller than Andrea, but her hunched posture and stooped shoulders, marks of a lifetime of shyness, made her seem as defenseless as a child. Andrea had the feeling that sarcasm or rudeness would reduce Miss Wilkins to a sniveling, squeaking mass of protoplasm.

Behind her, Jim said quietly, "It's okay, ma'am. We appreciate your concern, but it's okay."

Miss Wilkins dropped Andrea's hand and grasped Jim's. As she looked at him, her eyes overflowed. "Dear boy," she whispered. "So young— so unprepared..."

A hail from without made her start. Tears dripping off her chin, she scuttled out.

Andrea slammed the door. "Now you can see why I don't want people like that here. She'd turn
any normal guest into a gibbering idiot."

"She's a good-hearted old soul," Jim said. "She meant well."

Andrea wiped her fingers on her skirt. "Her hands are cold enough. If that means a warm heart...Good riddance, anyway. I only wish I knew who was responsible for that invasion."

"Responsible?" Jim looked at her in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Starflower didn't latch on to this place by accident," Andrea said grimly. "And I don't believe she gets her information from the next world. Somebody dropped her a hint."

"It wasn't Martin."

"I didn't say it was."

"But that's what you were thinking. Why can't you give the guy a break, Andy. He's done so much for us—"

"I don't want to discuss it." Andrea sneezed violently.

"Okay, okay. How's your cold?"

"Coming along nicely, thank you."

"Why don't you—"

"If you suggest I should go to bed, I'll scream! I don't want to go to bed. I just want everyone to stop bugging me!"

The men avoided her the rest of the day, retreating like medieval peasants from a leper. Martin made a tentative sortie at lunchtime and was met with such curtness that he retreated to his room. He tried again about five, in time to see Andrea swathed in rain gear, heading for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Who cares?"

Martin rolled his eyes at Jim. "We care," he said. "If you'll tell me what it is you need—"

"You," said Andrea thickly, "are a guest. A paying guest. Paying guests do not run errands for the proprietor."

"I said I'd go," Jim began.

Andrea slammed the door.

People who do not have colds cannot understand why sufferers from that affliction make such a fuss about it.

People who do have colds wonder how they could have forgotten how terrible they felt the last time. Their agony is intensified by the fact that nobody takes them seriously. "It's only a cold; take some aspirin and go to bed." People who have colds hate everyone else in the world, especially people who do not have colds.

Andrea hated everybody, including herself. Splashing through the puddles in the supermarket parking lot, she listed her grievances in a silent diatribe. She had to do everything herself. Nobody helped. Or, if they did do something, they made a mess of it and she had to do it all over again. Jim took hours to do the simplest errand; he probably cruised all over the county, trying to pick up girls. Martin was always lecturing. He treated her as if she didn't have an ounce of sense. Starflower Morningcloud..."I should have slugged her," Andrea muttered.