ruminated, I raided a desk drawer and found a
pack of gum. I was enjoying the first shots of the sweet juices when the
connection fixed itself in my mind.
“So whoever built the wall around the mansion and the hospital
also did the stone work on the bank. He apparently knew something about masonry
others don’t,” I said. “The wall may also be related to other accidents.”
Virgil’s silence, I suspected, meant concurrence.
“Why don’t we have dinner together?” He asked. “We’ll
get my wife’s opinion. She’s an Upshyre County Republican and knows all about
this town and the people in it.”
*
Virgil’s home was only a few minutes from the office.
When he walked in the side door, his wife’s eyes flashed like sabers and then
cooled to a steel gray hardness.
The table was set, the food was cold and two small
children, a boy and a girl, had already succeeded in splattering each other with food .
He kissed her cautiously on the tense, upturned cheek.
Her ‘slice and dice’ eyes never wandered far f rom his .
“Why didn’t you say you were bringing company home for
dinner, Virgil?” she asked in a lilting voice.
A smile was transfixed on her tired but youthful face,
while her eyes sparkled at my presence. Those eyes, I could see, served as
hooks to troll in deep waters and impale vagrant hearts.
“Violet, this is Charles Case; he’s buying the Ryder
house.”
She offered a hand, lightly scented with flour and
salt, a touch of hand cream and dish soap, very fragrant overall. She was
attractive, but the look on her face suggested she was coming unraveled by the
monotony of homemaking, which weighed heavily on her.
“So what do you think of the Ryder mausoleum?” she
asked, giving my wardrobe a casual but curious glance.
“It’s a fine house…tomb,” I replied.
“It is that,” she said. “Did you go in?” she asked,
hopefully, as if one incident might break the chain of strange events
surrounding the place.
“No, I didn’t,” I said.
“What stopped you?” she asked in a way that encouraged
what I suspected to be a challenge.
“He cut his ear,” Virgil said.
She tried to wound him with one of the sabers flashing
in her eyes.
“Is it serious?” she asked, holding a verbal blade to
his throat.
“No,” I said, “I may have snagged it on a thorn.”
“Good,” she said, sheathing her weapon in a smile.
Virgil shuffled quietly out of the kitchen into the
dining room and returned with a newspaper. Violet’s eyes and attention shifted.
“You must tell me everything that happened, Mr. Case,”
she said, while laying a plate and silverware at the child-abandoned table, “Every
exciting detail. I’m a collector of bits and pieces of arcana about the Ryders.
My mother was acquainted with Elinore and her father did business with Samuel
Ryder. He was reputed to be a powerful man, but he didn’t spend much time at
the house on Scary Creek. He spent most of his time in Washington DC.”
“Is your mother still alive, Mrs. Stamper?” I asked.
“Very much so, Mr. Case, but please, call me Violet
and I’ll call you Charles,” she said.
“I will, and I hope I’ll have a chance to meet your
mother. I’m anxious to find out all I can about the Ryder House.”
“So you do intend to buy it?” She asked.
“Yes,” I replied relieved.
“I never thought I’d see the day anyone but a Ryder
would live in that house,” she said, removing a bowl of steaming vegetables
from the range.
“Are there anymore Ryders left?” I asked.
She shook her head and lowered her eyes.
“They’re all dead and presumably buried,” she said, while
tossing some life into a slightly wilted green salad.
“Not on the property, I hope,” I joked cryptically.
She smiled a little too expansively, as if she were
testing my equilibrium.
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s where most of them are,” she
said, “just beyond the house. The family plot is a little overgrown right now,
but I
pack of gum. I was enjoying the first shots of the sweet juices when the
connection fixed itself in my mind.
“So whoever built the wall around the mansion and the hospital
also did the stone work on the bank. He apparently knew something about masonry
others don’t,” I said. “The wall may also be related to other accidents.”
Virgil’s silence, I suspected, meant concurrence.
“Why don’t we have dinner together?” He asked. “We’ll
get my wife’s opinion. She’s an Upshyre County Republican and knows all about
this town and the people in it.”
*
Virgil’s home was only a few minutes from the office.
When he walked in the side door, his wife’s eyes flashed like sabers and then
cooled to a steel gray hardness.
The table was set, the food was cold and two small
children, a boy and a girl, had already succeeded in splattering each other with food .
He kissed her cautiously on the tense, upturned cheek.
Her ‘slice and dice’ eyes never wandered far f rom his .
“Why didn’t you say you were bringing company home for
dinner, Virgil?” she asked in a lilting voice.
A smile was transfixed on her tired but youthful face,
while her eyes sparkled at my presence. Those eyes, I could see, served as
hooks to troll in deep waters and impale vagrant hearts.
“Violet, this is Charles Case; he’s buying the Ryder
house.”
She offered a hand, lightly scented with flour and
salt, a touch of hand cream and dish soap, very fragrant overall. She was
attractive, but the look on her face suggested she was coming unraveled by the
monotony of homemaking, which weighed heavily on her.
“So what do you think of the Ryder mausoleum?” she
asked, giving my wardrobe a casual but curious glance.
“It’s a fine house…tomb,” I replied.
“It is that,” she said. “Did you go in?” she asked,
hopefully, as if one incident might break the chain of strange events
surrounding the place.
“No, I didn’t,” I said.
“What stopped you?” she asked in a way that encouraged
what I suspected to be a challenge.
“He cut his ear,” Virgil said.
She tried to wound him with one of the sabers flashing
in her eyes.
“Is it serious?” she asked, holding a verbal blade to
his throat.
“No,” I said, “I may have snagged it on a thorn.”
“Good,” she said, sheathing her weapon in a smile.
Virgil shuffled quietly out of the kitchen into the
dining room and returned with a newspaper. Violet’s eyes and attention shifted.
“You must tell me everything that happened, Mr. Case,”
she said, while laying a plate and silverware at the child-abandoned table, “Every
exciting detail. I’m a collector of bits and pieces of arcana about the Ryders.
My mother was acquainted with Elinore and her father did business with Samuel
Ryder. He was reputed to be a powerful man, but he didn’t spend much time at
the house on Scary Creek. He spent most of his time in Washington DC.”
“Is your mother still alive, Mrs. Stamper?” I asked.
“Very much so, Mr. Case, but please, call me Violet
and I’ll call you Charles,” she said.
“I will, and I hope I’ll have a chance to meet your
mother. I’m anxious to find out all I can about the Ryder House.”
“So you do intend to buy it?” She asked.
“Yes,” I replied relieved.
“I never thought I’d see the day anyone but a Ryder
would live in that house,” she said, removing a bowl of steaming vegetables
from the range.
“Are there anymore Ryders left?” I asked.
She shook her head and lowered her eyes.
“They’re all dead and presumably buried,” she said, while
tossing some life into a slightly wilted green salad.
“Not on the property, I hope,” I joked cryptically.
She smiled a little too expansively, as if she were
testing my equilibrium.
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s where most of them are,” she
said, “just beyond the house. The family plot is a little overgrown right now,
but I
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