Read Online Ashes to Ashes by Lillian Stewart Carl - Free Book Online
Authors: Lillian Stewart Carl
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know Dorothy,” said Jan. “Peter works with her son Chuck down at the plant.”
Rebecca flicked crumbs from her sweater and decided she’d kill for a cup of real coffee. “Really?” she asked, encouraging the friendly voice.
“Chuck had a great story last winter about the night his mother spent out at Dun Iain.”
“She told me she didn’t spend the night here.”
“Not anymore she doesn’t. She came home carrying on so about how the place was haunted, Chuck and Margie had to give her one of her Valiums.”
“Haunted?” asked Rebecca. She turned so that her back was to the kitchen counter, the doors innocently open in front of her.
“She claimed there were footsteps going up and down the stairs all night long, and things disarranged, and shapes in the shadows. I’m surprised she didn’t pull the one about a bloodstain that can’t be washed away.”
No, Rebecca thought, the bloodstain’s under the gravel outside the front door, beneath the fatal window. A chill like a snake slithered down her spine and the crumbs in her mouth turned suddenly into sand.
Jan’s voice caroled on. “She probably had a nip of Mr. Forbes’s Scotch. Or didn’t take her prescriptions properly, or something.”
“Or something,” croaked Rebecca. She coughed, and managed to say, “There were probably branches banging against the windows, or the cat knocking things over. Unless it was James himself.” She remembered the aluminum walker lying abandoned upstairs. She remembered the green lawn stretching between the walls of Dun Iain and the closest trees. She remembered Darnley gliding noiselessly up the stairs.
A yelp sounded from the receiver. “Mandy, put that down!” And, “Sorry, gotta go! See you both tomorrow at six.”
“Jan?” The line was dead, as dead as James, and John, and Elspeth, and the Good Lord knew how many others whose belongings now lay caged within the thick walls of the castle.
No. It couldn’t be. Ghosts and haunted houses belonged in movies, not in real life. There was a reasonable explanation, birds in the chimneys, or bats in Dorothy’s belfry, or just the spooky atmosphere of the old house. Yes, that was it. Anyplace that had rumors of buried treasure had to have a few ghost stories as well. Maybe James had planted them himself, just to keep the locals away from his hermitage.
Rebecca slapped the receiver into its cradle so emphatically the telephone’s bell dinged a protest. “Thanks Jan,” she said aloud. “That’s just what I needed.” She left the kitchen, cast a glance at the invitingly open front door, and stamped back up the stairs. A breath of fresh air would steady her nerves. She’d go get her typewriter.
As she passed the door of the Hall she heard Michael pontificating on Rizzio’s guitar. Who, where, when, what— his dry manner made the dramatic scene sound like a police report. “Interesting,” said Eric, politely but without conviction.
A hammer tapped away upstairs as Phil mended something. Rebecca went into her bedroom and retrieved her car keys. A narrow glance around showed her that everything was where she’d left it, right down to Ray’s impassive smile. Of course— Dorothy was downstairs.
Below her window, Steve, his lock of hair concealing his downturned face, was sitting behind the wheel of Eric’s Volvo inventorying the dashboard. The lights flashed off and on. Well! Rebecca exclaimed to herself. She understood how the boy would be intrigued by the car, but to actually climb inside took a lot of gall.
She went back down again. In the Hall Dorothy was saying, “— just put it in the oven at 350 for about an hour.”
“Very kind of you,” replied Michael tentatively.
“You bachelors think you can survive on a few cold cuts and a can of fruit cocktail. You have to learn to take care of yourself, you know.”
Michael didn’t reply. By this time he’d no doubt learned resistance was useless.
Rebecca broke free into the outside world.
Rebecca flicked crumbs from her sweater and decided she’d kill for a cup of real coffee. “Really?” she asked, encouraging the friendly voice.
“Chuck had a great story last winter about the night his mother spent out at Dun Iain.”
“She told me she didn’t spend the night here.”
“Not anymore she doesn’t. She came home carrying on so about how the place was haunted, Chuck and Margie had to give her one of her Valiums.”
“Haunted?” asked Rebecca. She turned so that her back was to the kitchen counter, the doors innocently open in front of her.
“She claimed there were footsteps going up and down the stairs all night long, and things disarranged, and shapes in the shadows. I’m surprised she didn’t pull the one about a bloodstain that can’t be washed away.”
No, Rebecca thought, the bloodstain’s under the gravel outside the front door, beneath the fatal window. A chill like a snake slithered down her spine and the crumbs in her mouth turned suddenly into sand.
Jan’s voice caroled on. “She probably had a nip of Mr. Forbes’s Scotch. Or didn’t take her prescriptions properly, or something.”
“Or something,” croaked Rebecca. She coughed, and managed to say, “There were probably branches banging against the windows, or the cat knocking things over. Unless it was James himself.” She remembered the aluminum walker lying abandoned upstairs. She remembered the green lawn stretching between the walls of Dun Iain and the closest trees. She remembered Darnley gliding noiselessly up the stairs.
A yelp sounded from the receiver. “Mandy, put that down!” And, “Sorry, gotta go! See you both tomorrow at six.”
“Jan?” The line was dead, as dead as James, and John, and Elspeth, and the Good Lord knew how many others whose belongings now lay caged within the thick walls of the castle.
No. It couldn’t be. Ghosts and haunted houses belonged in movies, not in real life. There was a reasonable explanation, birds in the chimneys, or bats in Dorothy’s belfry, or just the spooky atmosphere of the old house. Yes, that was it. Anyplace that had rumors of buried treasure had to have a few ghost stories as well. Maybe James had planted them himself, just to keep the locals away from his hermitage.
Rebecca slapped the receiver into its cradle so emphatically the telephone’s bell dinged a protest. “Thanks Jan,” she said aloud. “That’s just what I needed.” She left the kitchen, cast a glance at the invitingly open front door, and stamped back up the stairs. A breath of fresh air would steady her nerves. She’d go get her typewriter.
As she passed the door of the Hall she heard Michael pontificating on Rizzio’s guitar. Who, where, when, what— his dry manner made the dramatic scene sound like a police report. “Interesting,” said Eric, politely but without conviction.
A hammer tapped away upstairs as Phil mended something. Rebecca went into her bedroom and retrieved her car keys. A narrow glance around showed her that everything was where she’d left it, right down to Ray’s impassive smile. Of course— Dorothy was downstairs.
Below her window, Steve, his lock of hair concealing his downturned face, was sitting behind the wheel of Eric’s Volvo inventorying the dashboard. The lights flashed off and on. Well! Rebecca exclaimed to herself. She understood how the boy would be intrigued by the car, but to actually climb inside took a lot of gall.
She went back down again. In the Hall Dorothy was saying, “— just put it in the oven at 350 for about an hour.”
“Very kind of you,” replied Michael tentatively.
“You bachelors think you can survive on a few cold cuts and a can of fruit cocktail. You have to learn to take care of yourself, you know.”
Michael didn’t reply. By this time he’d no doubt learned resistance was useless.
Rebecca broke free into the outside world.
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