“Well, let’s go inside before we boil over,” Stryker decided.
Russ straightened from petting the dog, carelessly wiped his long-fingered hands on his lightweight sportcoat. About half the writer’s age, he was shorter by a couple inches, heavier by forty pounds. He wore his bright-black hair fashionably long for the time, and occasionally trimmed his long mustache. Piercing blue eyes beneath a prominent brow dominated his thin face. Movie-minded patients had told him variously that he reminded them of Terence Stamp or Bruce Dern, and Russ asked them how they felt about that.
On the flagstone walk the heady scent of warm roses washed out the taint of the asphalt. Russ thought he heard the murmur of a heat pump around back. It would be cool inside, then — earlier he had envied Stryker for his open-collar sportshirt.
The panelled door had a bell push, but Stryker crisply struck the brass knocker. The door quickly swung open, and Russ guessed their hostess had been politely waiting for their knock.
Cool air and a faint perfume swirled from within. “Please come in,” Mrs Corrington invited.
She was blond and freckled, had stayed away from the sun enough so that her skin still looked fresh at the shadow of forty. Enough of her figure was displayed by the backless hostess ensemble she wore to prove she had taken care of herself in other respects as well. It made both men remember that she was divorced.
“Mrs Corrington? I’m Curtiss Stryker.”
“Please call me Gayle. I’ve read enough of your books to feel like an old friend.”
Stryker beamed and bent low over her hand in the continental mannerisms Russ always wished he was old enough to pull off. “Then make it Curt, Gayle. And this is Dr Mandarin.”
“Russ,” said Mandarin, shaking her hand.
“Dr Mandarin is interested in this sort of thing, too,” Stryker explained. “I wanted him to come along so a man of science could add his thoughts to what you have to tell us.”
“Oh, are you with the university center here, Dr Mandarin?”
“Please— Russ. No, not any longer.” He kept the bitterness from his voice. “I’m in private practice in the university area.”
“Your practice is…?”
“I’m a psychiatrist.”
Her green eyes widened, then grew wary— the usual response — but she recovered easily. “Can I fix something for you gentlemen? Or is it too early in the afternoon for drinks? I’ve got ice tea.”
“Sun’s past the yardarm,” Stryker told her quickly. “Gin and tonic for me.”
“Scotch for you, Russ?” she asked.
“Bourbon and ice, if you have it.”
“Well, you must be a southern psychiatrist.”
“Russ is from way out west,” Stryker filled in smoothly. “But he’s lived around here a good long while. I met him when he was doing an internship at the Center here, and I had an appendix that had waited fifty years to go bad. Found out he was an old fan — even had a bunch of my old pulp yarns on his shelves alongside my later books. Showed me a fan letter one magazine had published: he’d written it when he was about twelve asking that they print more of my John Chance stories. Kept tabs on each other ever since.”
She handed them their drinks, poured a bourbon and ginger ale for herself.
“Well, of course I’ve only read your serious stuff. The mysteries you’ve had in paperback, and the two books on the occult.”
“Do you like to read up on the occult?” Russ asked, mentally correcting her—three books on the occult.
“Well, I never have…you know…believed in ghosts and like that. But when all this started, I began to wonder — so I checked out a few books. I’d always liked Mr Stryker’s mystery novels, so I was especially interested to read what he had to say on the subject of hauntings. Then, when I found out that he was a local author, and that he was looking for material for a new book — well, I got up my courage and wrote to him. I hope you didn’t think I was some sort of nut.”
“Not at all!” Stryker assured her. “But suppose we sit down and have you tell us about it. From your letter and our conversation on the phone, I gather this is mostly poltergeist-like phenomena.” Gayle Corrington’s flair-legged gown brushed against the varnished hardwood floor as she led them to her living room. A stone fireplace with raised hearth of used brick made up one wall. Odd bits of antique ironware were arranged along the hearth; above the mantelpiece hung an engraved double-barrelled shotgun. Walnut panelling enclosed the remainder of the room — panelling, not plywood, Russ noted. Chairs and a sofa were arranged informally about the Couristan carpet. Russ dropped onto a cream leather couch and looked for a place to set his drink.
Stryker was digging a handful of salted nuts from the wooden bowl on the low table beside his chair. “Suppose you start with the history of the house?” he suggested.
Sipping nervously from her glass, Gayle settled crosslegged next to the hearth. Opposite her a large area of sliding glass panels opened onto the sun-bright back yard. A multitude of birds and two fat squirrels worked at the feeders positioned beneath the pines. The dogs sat on the patio expectantly, staring back at them through the glass door.
Gayle drew up her freckled shoulders and began. “Well, the house was put up about ten years back by two career girls.”
“Must have had some money,” Russ interposed.
“They were sort of in your line of work — they were medical secretaries at the psychiatric unit. And they had, well, a relationship together.”
“How do you mean that?” Stryker asked, opening his notepad. Mrs Corrington blushed. “They were lesbians.”
This was heavy going for a Southern Belle, and she glanced at their composed expressions, then continued. “So they built this place under peculiar conditions— sort of man and wife, if you follow. No legal agreement as to what belonged to whom. That became important afterward.
“Listen, this is, well, personal information. Will it be OK for me to use just first names?”
“I promise you this will be completely confidential,” Stryker told her gravely.
“I was worried about your using this in your new book on haunted houses of the South.”
“If I can’t preserve your confidence, then I promise you I won’t use it at all.”
“All right then. The two women were Libby and Cass.”
Mandarin made a mental note.
“They lived together here for about three years. Then Libby died. She was only about thirty.”
“Do you know what she died of?” Russ asked.
“I found out after I got interested in this. How’s the song go—‘too much pills and liquor.’”
“Seems awfully young.”
“She hadn’t been taking care of herself. One night she passed out after tying one on, and she died in the hospital emergency room.”
“Did the hauntings start then?”
“Well, there’s no way to be sure. The house stood empty for a couple of years afterward. Legal problems. Libby’s father hadn’t cared for her lifestyle, and when she died he saw to it that Cass couldn’t buy Libby’s share of the house and property. That made Cass angry, so she wouldn’t sell out her share. Finally they agreed on selling the house and land, lock, stock and barrel, and dividing the payment. That’s when I bought it.”
“No one else has ever lived here, then?”
Gayle hesitated a moment. “No — except for a third girl they had here once — a nurse. They rented a third bedroom to her. But that didn’t work out, and she left after a few months. Otherwise, I’m the only other person to live here.”