Haunted (12 page)

Fortunately, he'd come prepared with colored smoke bombs and, as he rose, he began dropping them to hide his escape. The catwalk swayed harder, slowing him down, and the air pressure played havoc with his inner ears, almost causing him to fall several times. By the time he got to the ladder, the cult members were almost upon him. He slid down the ladder and threw the last smoke bomb in front of them, then ran like hell, only a few steps ahead of them. If his new lady friend, Melanie Lord, who was parked across the street, hadn't seen him coming and careened her T-Bird around in the best Hollywood rescue style, they would have caught him. Caught them both.

He went home and wrote Bloody Little Secrets in a frenzy and it went to the top of the Times ' Bestseller List and stayed there. The next book, Remains to be Seen, currently on the stands, was also a bestseller--there was already a miniseries deal in the making. It had been inspired by a close brush with a suspected serial killer, one that would have resulted in his becoming a victim if Melanie hadn't alerted a friend of hers on the police force. Her friend got the glory of the arrest and David got invited to be present at the exhumation of bodies buried under the monster's house. He still had nightmares about that.

Quite unexpectedly, the scent of jasmine grew strong enough for him to catch the scent of decay underlying it. Fear trickled coldly down his spine as the odor continued to strengthen. The coldness moved onto his hand and, forcibly, he shook it off. Don't panic! he ordered himself. Don't panic! Just leave! He knew his fear was allowing the manifestation to feed on him. "See you later," he said as calmly as he could, then walked out and pulled the door firmly shut behind him. He thought he heard the laughing woman as he headed for the stairs, but wasn't sure.

He descended, nervous but happy because he knew that Mephisto Palace would be another bestseller. He sensed that Body House had the potential to scare him worse than anything ever had and he knew the fear was the secret of his success. Once his fears overrode his intellect, he could trip on his endorphins, ride a roller coaster of emotions, and love every minute of it. He was, he thought as he reached the main floor, nothing but a perverted thrill seeker. At least, he told himself, no one can say I don't sacrifice for my art.

Body House: 8:44 A.M.

"What are you smiling about?" Amber asked her father as he walked into the parlor.

"I have a feeling Mephisto Palace is going to be the best book I've ever written, kiddo."

She laughed. "You always say that at first, then when you finish it, no matter how good it is, you decide it stinks until your editor tells you it doesn't."

"Of course," he said lightly. "That's how it works."

Amber rolled her eyes.

"I smell food, my dear. Let's find it."

Though she didn't want to run into Mrs. Willard again, Amber was too hungry to disagree. As they entered the dining room, the woman bustled in from the kitchen carrying a carafe of orange juice and glasses.

Despite her ratty name, she looked like a fat little forest creature right out of Bambi, a grandmotherly rabbit with glasses. The silvery-white hair with its beauty-shop wave and the pale blue print dress and ruffled white apron screamed cookies and milk. She didn’t match her name at all until she opened her mouth, and that was the horror of the rat lady: she could talk you to death. Amber cringed as Willard cleared her throat.

"Why, hello there, you must be Mr. Masters," she bubbled. "I recognize you from your book jacket photo, oh my, you're so handsome if you don't mind my saying so." She barely paused for a breath. "I've read all your books and I've so been looking forward to meeting you, why, I don't think wild horses could have made me work here in this nasty, nasty house, if Miss Pelinore hadn't told me it was you who were going to be here." She set the juice and glasses down and whisked forward, snaking her arm around Amber's waist before she could get away.

Oh God, Amber prayed, oh God, strike her with terminal laryngitis.

"You have such a lovely little girl, I mean young woman, here Mr. Masters. We had such a nice talk, didn't we, honey?"

Mrs. Willard smiled, staring at her with bright robin's-egg eyes that were magnified through her rimless glasses, until Amber felt compelled to say something. "Yeah, I guess."

"You must be so happy to have such a famous daddy," she went on as she set Amber free and continued toward Dad, both hands extended. "I'm just pleased as punch to meet you, Mr. Masters! Just so pleased! May I ask you a question?"

He smiled benevolently. "What is it, Mrs. Willard?"

"Well, I read all your books and everything, and I've always wondered how you come up with all those awful ideas? I could never think of such things." She barely paused for a breath. "Mr. Masters, something horrible must have happened to you as a child. Am I right?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," he replied calmly. "Everybody has an interest of some sort. In grade school, the kids would get to order little paperback books. Arrow Books," he added fondly. "I'd take my list home and check off all the books about ghosts and witches and haunted houses, and Mom would check to make sure I had my math right, then give me the money to buy them."

"She didn't try to get you to read something else? That seems so morbid for a child--"

"Of course not. Mom had bookshelves full of books on the Civil War. Dad was a nut for experimental gardening. The man had twenty-three books on grafting fruit trees." He smiled to himself. "I counted them once. They understood that everyone's different. That's what makes the world an interesting place."

But she just beamed at him and took his hands again. "My, you're such a handsome young man, and talented too. And your daughter, so lovely. It's a shame..." She trailed off, a dreamy expression on her face, then her bright little chipmunk eyes shot back to his face. "Mr. Masters, did your wife divorce you because of all those scary stories you write?"

Amber stifled a gasp, and turned to see her father's reaction. The first question had been bad enough, but this one was the worst. He hated how people always assumed that his wife must have divorced him, usually for any one of several reasons, number one being that he turned into an egomaniac when he became famous. Number two was that he couldn't keep his hands off his fans. Number three was that, like all writers, when David Masters wasn't drinking, he was shooting up heroin, and number four, Minnie's choice, was that anyone who wrote what he did had to be a psychopathic fiend who sacrificed children and small furry animals to Satan himself.

The nervous tic in Dad's jaw barely twitched as he said softly, "Carol died in a car accident not long after Amber was born, Mrs. Willard, but I'd like to think that if she were here, she'd be proud of my work."

The tiny woman's cheeks colored instantly and she let go of his hands and began fussing with her ruffles. "I'm so sorry, I--"

"That's all right." He smiled gently.

"My Mickey, that's Mr. Willard, he always tells me, 'Why don't you learn to stop and think before you start talking. That foot of yours is always in your mouth."

"No harm done, Mrs. Willard."

"Please call me Minnie. You, too, dear," she added, dimpling up at Amber.

"Are you sure?" Amber asked before the old lady's mouth could go back into overdrive. "I mean, Miss Pelinore calls you Mrs. Willard and she's a lot older than me." She ignored the look her father was sending and smiled a major shiteater at Minnie.

"Oh yes, you can call me Minnie, dear. Miss Pelinore has to call me Mrs. Willard."

"Why?" Amber asked, continuing to ignore her dad.

Minnie patted Amber's hand "Well, I'm not one to talk out of turn..."

Oh, yes, you are. Amber smiled sweetly. "You can tell us." She glanced at her father and saw that his warning look had turned to bemusement. "Can't she, Dad?" She added that, knowing he couldn't resist: he always said his two favorite things were Italian food and people who talked too much.

"Our lips are sealed," he said, right on cue.

That was true. He could keep secrets as well as she could. If you told him anything, though, if it was good enough, you'd eventually find it twisted and deformed in one of his books. "Sealed," Amber repeated.

Minnie Willard glanced around, as if she were afraid of eavesdroppers. "Miss Pelinore," she began conspiratorially, "is a hussy!" She blushed again. "Excuse my French. I shouldn't talk that way around a nice young lady like you, dear. I'm so sorry, I--"

"I read my dad's books," Amber said, suddenly warming to the woman. "Nothing shocks me." Anyone who didn't like Pelinore couldn't be all bad.

"Theo seems nice enough," Dad said, obviously feeling he should come to her defense.

"Oh, Mr. Masters, all men think Miss Pelinore's sweet as peach pie." She lowered her voice. "But she's a rotten apple."

"Why?" he persisted.

"She's loose."

Amber giggled.

"She takes what isn't hers. Miss Greedyguts, that's who she is. Any woman can tell just by looking at her." She gave Amber a knowing nod. "Aren't I right dear?"

"I couldn't agree with you more, Minnie."

Minnie lifted her eyebrows above her glasses. "See? Now, you two sit down and I'll bring the rest of your meal out."

"I told you," Amber hissed as soon as Minnie left. "I told you."

"She didn't say anything important," her dad whispered back. "Theo warned me that Minnie's a gossip."

"Oh, Daddy, Pelinore was ready to lick the eyebrows right off your face last night."

To her surprise, Dad turned as red as punch, but before he could say anything, Minnie was back with plates of scrambled eggs and bacon. She set them down, then snitched a piece of bacon. "Mmm. Just right. That old stove works just as good as new. Well, I'll just go back to work."

"Minnie?" Dad paused as the woman stole another piece of bacon. "All Miss Pelinore told me was that you agreed to keep house. She didn't mention cooking."

Minnie snorted. "She didn't, did she? Well, that's just like her." She shook her head. "Once you're settled in and don't need as much help, I thought I'd come in Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays around ten in the morning and stay for two or three hours, or longer if there's something special that needs doing. I'll make your lunch on those days and, as often as you want, put together casseroles or whatever for your suppers." She dimpled up again. "You just have to tell me what you like. I grocery shop on Wednesdays and I'll do yours, too, if you give me a list."

"That's very nice of you. Where do you shop?"

"We couldn't find the supermarket last night," Amber chimed in.

Minnie scratched her chin thoughtfully. "Well, you'd have to go all the way back down to Pismo for a real supermarket. There's a pricey gourmet market up in the hills, it's called Greenaway's, but only people like Theodora Pelinore shop there. The real folks shop at Ferd's market on Main Street, right near my Mickey's hardware store."

"I know the place. Amber and I met Mr. Cox last night."

"Well, if you want the town to accept you, shop at Cox's." She lowered her voice. "Then go up the hill to Greenaway's and get your caviar. Just don't let the locals see you. And don't tell Ferd Cox. He about has a conniption fit every time Greenaway's is mentioned."

"He told us we're going to die in here," Amber chirped.

"Oh, don't pay any attention to that line of talk. Ferd's okay, he just pretends to be a grouch. In fact, Mr. Masters, Ferd could probably tell you a lot of stories about this place. His granddaddy had his own ship back then and Ferd said he met Miss Lizzie herself."

"Ferd did?" Amber asked. He looked as old as God, but ...

"No, sweetie, his daddy did. Ferd wasn't born until the twenties, nor his brother, so he never knew Lizzie."

Gee, there are two of them? Amber wondered with distaste.

"There've always been whole herds of Coxes in these parts," Minnie rattled on, "so there were plenty of relatives to pass the stories along. The Coxes are a fine old family. Fishermen and politicians," she added, "and they do love their tales, tall or not."

Amber was shaking with barely contained laughter, but Minnie and her father seemed oblivious.

"Ferd didn't seem to care for me," Dad said.

"Honey, he doesn't seem to like anybody. If Ferd ever cracked a smile, it would break his face. He goes to Barnacle Bob's just about every night. Buy him a beer. He'll talk, him and Andy both, though Andy's less lively than Ferd. They're twins, you know. If you want them to open up, just don't wear anything with designer labels showing." She barely paused for a breath. "If I might ask, Mr. Masters, do you have a lady friend?"

David looked slightly taken aback. "No."

"Well, I didn't mean to pry, but I had to know because I know someone you simply must meet. She's sweet as honey and cute as a bug in a rug, isn't that a silly expression, but she is. That cute," she added breathlessly. "And she's a writer, too. Just like you."

"There's another novelist in town?" he asked, intrigued

"Oh my, yes. She's written fifteen books!"