Whatever she played or didn’t play, she captivated Norman with the result that Aysha and Kerry were now bitter enemies who could barely speak to each other in a civil tone of voice. Norman, away from Aysha’s scrutiny, would be pleasant to Kerry, although she wasn’t always pleasant back.
Marilyn sent Aysha to work downstairs, packing Kerry out to the slave quarters. It eased the tension somewhat. She knew each one would seek her out in the next day to complain about the mix-up. Kerry would be easier to console than Aysha, who liked nothing better than to have someone at an emotional disadvantage. However, Aysha enjoyed being a docent for Ash Lawn and Marilyn would mollify her, for her sake as well as the good of the place. Bad enough to have Aysha fuss at her, but coping with that harridan of a mother was real hell. And if Ottoline picked up the cudgel, then Marilyn’s own mother, Mim, would become involved, too, if for no other reason than to put the pretentious Ottoline in her place.
Mrs. Murphy, tail to the vertical, felt the cool grass under her paws. Grasshoppers shot off before her like green insect rockets. They’d jump, settle, then jump again. Usually she would chase them, but today she wanted to get inside the historic home just to prove she wouldn’t be destructive.
As the day drew to a close, most of the tourists had left. A few lingered in the gift shop. The staff of Ash Lawn began closing up. Harry and Blair had entered the house to see if Marilyn needed any help.
A distant roar grew louder. Then a screech, burp, and cutoff announced that a motorcycle had pulled into the parking lot, not just any motorcycle, but a gleaming, perfect black Harley-Davidson. The biker was as disheveled as his machine was gorgeous. He wore a black German World War II helmet, a black leather vest studded with chrome stars, torn jeans, heavy black biker boots, and an impressive chain across his chest like a medieval Sam Browne belt. Wraparound black sunglasses completed the outfit. He was unshaven but handsome in a grungy fashion.
He sauntered up die brick padh leading to the front door. Tucker, now on die side of the house by the slave quarters, stopped and began barking at him. Both animals had left the side door to see what was going on.
“Shut up, Tucker, you’ll spoil my strategy,” the cat warned. She was lying flat by the public entrance just waiting for it to swing open when die visitor entered so she could dart in. Whoever opened the door would let out a yelp as she zipped between dieir legs. Then they’d have to chase her or cajole her. Harry would have a fit and fall in it. Someone would think to bribe her widi food or perhaps fresh catnip from the herb garden. Mrs. Murphy had it all planned. Then she glanced up and saw the Hell’s Angel marching toward the door. She decided to stay put.
He opened the door and Little Marilyn greeted him. “Welcome to the home of James and Elizabeth Monroe. Unfortunately our hours are ten to five during the summer and it’s five-thirty now. I’m terribly sorry, but you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He brushed right by her.
Laura heard this exchange from the parlor and joined Marilyn. Harry and Blair remained in the living room. Aysha was downstairs in the summer kitchen and Kerry was closing up the slave quarters.
“You’ll have to leave.” Little Marilyn pursed her lips.
“Where’s Malibu?” His guttural voice added to his visual menace.
“In California.” Blair strode into the front hall.
The biker sized him up and down. Blair was a tall man, broad-shouldered, and in splendid condition. This was no push-over.
“You the resident comedian?” The biker reached into his vest and pulled out a little switchblade. He expertly flipped it open with one hand and began to pick his teeth.
“I am for today.” Blair folded his arms across his chest. Harry, too, stepped into the hall behind Blair. “These ladies have informed you that Ash Lawn will be open tomorrow morning. Come back then.”
“I don’t give a frig about this pile. I want Malibu. I know she’s here.”
“Who’s Malibu?” Harry wedged forward. It occurred to her that the biker’s pupils were most likely dilated or the reverse, and he wore sunglasses to cover that fact. He was on something and it wasn’t aspirin.
“A thieving slut!” the biker exploded. “I’ve tracked her down and I know she’s here.”
“She couldn’t possibly be here,” Marilyn replied. “All of us who work here know one another and we’ve never heard of a Malibu.”
“Lady, you just never heard die name. She’s cunning. She’ll hypnotize you, take what she wants, and then strike like a snake!” He pointed his two front fingers at her like fangs and made a striking motion.
Out of the corner of her eye Harry saw Aysha enter through the back door. She could see Kerry out back also on her way to the main house. The biker didn’t see them. Harry backtracked, her hands behind her, holding them up in a stop signal. Blair by now had his hand on the biker’s shoulder and was gently turning him around toward the front door.
“Come on. You won’t find her today. Half the staff’s already gone home.” Blair’s voice oozed reassurance. “I know what you mean, some women are like cobras.”
The two men walked outside. Mrs. Murphy stared up at them. The biker smelled like cocaine sweat and grease. She put great store by smell.
The gruff man’s voice quivered a touch. “This one, man, this one, oh, you don’t know the things she can do to you. She plays with your body and messes with your mind. The only thing she ever really loved was the dollar.”
Blair realized he would have to walk this fellow with the stoned expression all the way to his bike because he wasn’t budging off the front porch. “Show me your bike.”
Mrs. Murphy darted from bush to bush, keeping the men in sight and hearing every word. Tucker dashed ahead of her.
“Tucker, stay behind them.”
“You’re always telling me what to do!”
“Because you act first and think later. Stay behind That way if Blair needs help this guy won’t know you’re there. The element of surprise.”
“Well—“The dog realized the cat had a point.
“She wanted to make enough money to sit home, to be a lady.” He laughed derisively. “I thought she was joking. Alady?”
Blair arrived at the sleek machine, resting on its kickstand. “Bet she hums.”
“Yeah, power to burn.”
Blair ran his hand over the gas tank. “Had a Triumph Bonneville once. Leaked oil, but she could sing, you know?”
“Good bike.” The fellow’s lower lip protruded, a sign of agreement, approval.
“Started out with a Norton. How ‘bout you?”
“liked those English bikes, huh?” He leaned against the motorcycle. “Harleys. Always Harieys with me. Started out with a 1960 Hog, 750cc, in pieces. Put her back together. Then I put together a Ducati for a buddy of mine, and before I knew it, I had more work than I could handle.”
“BMWs?”
The biker shook his head. “Not for me. Great machines but no soul. And that piston instead of a chain drive—you shift gears on one of those things and it’s a lurch. Kill your crotch.” He laughed, revealing strong, straight teeth. ” ‘Course there’s no more chains, you know. They use Kevlar.” He pointed to the space-age material that had replaced the chain.
“My dad had an Indian.” Blair’s eyes glazed. “What I wouldn’t give for that bike today.”
“An Indian. No shit. Hey, man, let me buy you a beer. We’ve got some serious talking to do.”
“Thanks, but my date is waiting for me back at the house. Take a raincheck though.” Blair inclined his head back toward Ash Lawn, where Harry stood at the end of the entrance walk. She wanted to make sure Blair was okay.