Beast, the killings continued for years. The few loyalists who returned to LaMirada the following summer did not come back the summer after. By 1951 the permanent population had dwindled from 3,500 to 500. By the following year it had dropped to 375. The tenacious McDougal closed his once-popular House of Horrors and moved to Tibet. Though the murders stopped then, it was too late to save LaMirada. For a while, the town council toyed with the idea of turning the House of Horrors into a maritime museum. The murderous Vesta Cove was located off a precipice near the McDougal property; the wreckage of many a ship was still strewn across the rocky, difficult-to-negotiate shoals below. But the families of sailors who had died there did not want the site disturbed, so the museum building sat and LaMirada inched a little closer to death. Even the curiosity-seekers stopped coming in 1955 when the famed Gill-Man, who had been captured in the Amazon, escaped from Ocean Harbor Park. For a year after that, everyone who wanted to hunt for a monster went to the Everglades, where the creature had been spotted.
Decades passed. And then, on one moonless night, the population of LaMirada decreased by one more.
ONE
The Present
“M s. Raymond was a very private woman,” attorney Henry Pratt said as he guided the compact express cruiser through mirror-smooth gulf waters. He had to speak loudly to be heard over the slap of the waves and the rush of the wind. “Your great-aunt was a wonderful writer and a grand old woman. But she was very, very difficult to get to know.”
The late afternoon sky was rich blue and remarkably clear, the warm air invigorating. And the young blond woman sitting beside him in the open cockpit was an exhilarating change from the crusty fishermen and fourth-generation old money families with whom the attorney usually dealt. He prayed that Caroline Cooke would decide to move here from Atlanta.
“You say that as if privacy were a bad thing,” the woman said. “Given my great-aunt’s profession, I’d think that a little aloofness would add to her mystique, to the appeal of her stories.”
“Oh, it did,” Pratt said. “But she had a sharp mind and a great imagination, not to mention an extraordinary talent. I’d have liked to have gotten to know the woman behind that a little better.”
“I understand,” his passenger replied in a flute-clear voice. The young woman was subdued but not morose. Even during the funeral on the island she’d been quiet but not gloomy. And she’d been very, very gracious with those who’d come to pay their respects to LaMirada’s most famous citizen.
“Not that your great-aunt was impolite or unthoughtful,” Pratt went on. God, he didn’t want to create the impression that he was critical. “To the contrary. Joan Raymond was the first person in town to hire me when I graduated from law school. She never had a literary agent—”
“Yes, I know.”
“—and she trusted me to renegotiate her old contracts as well as negotiate the new ones. She never failed to enquire about my father and mother, or about the health of whoever was ailing in town. But she very rarely talked about her own life.”
Caroline said nothing. Worried that he might be talking too much, trying too hard to make the young woman feel at ease, Pratt shut up. He stole another look at the slender beauty as she pushed windblown locks of blond hair from her face and hooked them behind her ear. Her hazel eyes were clear and her white skin seemed even paler because of the black suit she was wearing. Even in mourning she looked lovely. Winsome and lovely.
They rounded the headland and the island of La Viuda loomed suddenly. The castle seemed to grow from the low, craggy peak in the center. As always, it presented a forbidding silhouette against the sky. It was as if the dark stones of the Tombs were unable to reflect sunlight. Pratt reduced their speed. This time out, Pratt wanted Caroline to be able to
Decades passed. And then, on one moonless night, the population of LaMirada decreased by one more.
ONE
The Present
“M s. Raymond was a very private woman,” attorney Henry Pratt said as he guided the compact express cruiser through mirror-smooth gulf waters. He had to speak loudly to be heard over the slap of the waves and the rush of the wind. “Your great-aunt was a wonderful writer and a grand old woman. But she was very, very difficult to get to know.”
The late afternoon sky was rich blue and remarkably clear, the warm air invigorating. And the young blond woman sitting beside him in the open cockpit was an exhilarating change from the crusty fishermen and fourth-generation old money families with whom the attorney usually dealt. He prayed that Caroline Cooke would decide to move here from Atlanta.
“You say that as if privacy were a bad thing,” the woman said. “Given my great-aunt’s profession, I’d think that a little aloofness would add to her mystique, to the appeal of her stories.”
“Oh, it did,” Pratt said. “But she had a sharp mind and a great imagination, not to mention an extraordinary talent. I’d have liked to have gotten to know the woman behind that a little better.”
“I understand,” his passenger replied in a flute-clear voice. The young woman was subdued but not morose. Even during the funeral on the island she’d been quiet but not gloomy. And she’d been very, very gracious with those who’d come to pay their respects to LaMirada’s most famous citizen.
“Not that your great-aunt was impolite or unthoughtful,” Pratt went on. God, he didn’t want to create the impression that he was critical. “To the contrary. Joan Raymond was the first person in town to hire me when I graduated from law school. She never had a literary agent—”
“Yes, I know.”
“—and she trusted me to renegotiate her old contracts as well as negotiate the new ones. She never failed to enquire about my father and mother, or about the health of whoever was ailing in town. But she very rarely talked about her own life.”
Caroline said nothing. Worried that he might be talking too much, trying too hard to make the young woman feel at ease, Pratt shut up. He stole another look at the slender beauty as she pushed windblown locks of blond hair from her face and hooked them behind her ear. Her hazel eyes were clear and her white skin seemed even paler because of the black suit she was wearing. Even in mourning she looked lovely. Winsome and lovely.
They rounded the headland and the island of La Viuda loomed suddenly. The castle seemed to grow from the low, craggy peak in the center. As always, it presented a forbidding silhouette against the sky. It was as if the dark stones of the Tombs were unable to reflect sunlight. Pratt reduced their speed. This time out, Pratt wanted Caroline to be able to
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