“I’ll take first watch,” Russ decided, at their hostess’s expression of consent.
Curtiss shot him a warning glance and returned with Gayle to the living room.
Waiting until they were around the corner, Mandarin stepped into the room now occupied by Gayle Corrington. Cass’s room. There was a scent of perfume and such, a soft aura of femininity that he hadn’t noticed from the hallway. It softened the masculine feel of the room somewhat, gave it sort of a ski lodge atmosphere. The bedroom had the look of having been recently straightened for company’s inspection. As was the case. There were crescent scratches about three feet up on the corner panelling next to the head of the bed, and Russ guessed that the pump shotgun did not usually hang from brackets on the bedroom wall as it did now.
The bathroom was out of Nero’s mountain retreat. Big enough to play tennis in, with synthetic-fur rugs scattered on the slate-tiled floor, and with a dressing table and elaborate toilet fixtures that matched the tiles and included a bidet. A cross between a boudoir and the Roman baths. The sunken tub was a round affair and like an indoor pool. Russ wondered if the mirror on the ceiling fogged up when things got hot.
Swallowing the rest of his drink, he stepped into the guest room. Libby’s room. This would, of course, be the Blue Room in one of those sprawling mansions where pulp mysteries had a habit of placing their murders. Come to think of it, hadn’t he seen an old ’30s movie called something like The Secret of the Blue Room?
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he crunched an ice cube and studied the room about him. Very feminine — though the brightness of the patio outside kept it from becoming cloying. It had a comfortable feel about it, he decided — not the disused sensation that generally hangs over a guest room. There was just a hint of perfume still lingering — probably Gayle kept clothes in the closet here.
Russ resisted the temptation to lie down. Glancing outside, he reflected that, when drawn, the blue curtains would fill the room with blue light. Might be a point worth bringing up to Curtiss, in case the old fellow got too excited over ectoplasm and the like. Aside from that, Russ decided that the room was as thoroughly unhaunted as any bedroom he’d ever sat in.
Giving it up at length, he ambled back to the living room.
Stryker was just closing his notepad. Either he’d got another drink, or else he’d been too interested to do more than sip his gin and tonic. At Mandarin’s entry, he excused himself and strode off for the bedroom.
Gayle’s face was a trifle flushed, her manner somewhat nervous. Russ wondered whether it was the liquor, or if he’d broken in on something. She had that familiar edgy look of a patient after an hour of soul-bearing on the analyst’s couch. As he thought about it, Russ agreed that this interview must be a similar strain for her.
“You’ve eaten your ice cubes,” she observed. “Shall I get you another?”
Russ swallowed a mouthful of salted nuts. “Thank you— but I’ve got to drive.”
She made a wry face. “You look big enough to hold another few. A light one,then?”
“Hell, why not. A light one, please.” Probably she would feel more at ease if she supposed his psychiatric powers were disarmed by bourbon.
He paced about the living room while she saw to his glass. Coming to the fireplace, he studied the beautifully engraved shotgun that hung there. It was a Parker. Russ started to touch it.
“That’s loaded.”
He jerked back his hand like a scolded kid. “Sorry. Just wanted to get the feel of an engraved Parker double-barrel. That’s some gun you have to decorate your fireplace with.”
“Thank you. I know.” She handed him his drink.
“Don’t you worry about keeping a loaded shotgun in your living room?” The drink was at least equal to its predecessors.
“I’d worry more with an empty one. I’m alone here at night, and there aren’t many neighbors. Besides, there aren’t any kids around who might get in trouble with it.”
“I’d think a woman would prefer something easier to handle than a shotgun.”
“Come out on the skeet range with me sometime, and I’ll show you something.”
Mandarin must have looked properly chastened. With a quick grin Gayle drew down the weapon, opened the breech, and extracted two red shells. “Here.” She handed the shotgun to him.
“Double Ought,” Russ observed, closing the breech.
“It’s not for shooting starlings.”
He sighted along the barrel a few times, gave it back. Briskly she replaced the shells and returned it to its mounting.
“Might I ask what you do, Mrs Corrington?”
“Gayle. I assume you mean for a living. I own and manage a mixed bag of fashion stores — two here in Knoxville, plus a resort wear shop in Gatlinburg, and a boutique on the Strip by the University. So you see, Doctor, not all working girls fall into the nurse or secretary system of things.”
“Russ. No, of course not. Some of them make excellent psychiatrists.”
She softened again. “Sorry for coming on strong for women’s lib. Just that you find yourself a little defensive after being questioned for an hour.”
“Sorry about that.” Russ decided not to remind her that this was at her own invitation. “But this has been extremely interesting, and Curtiss is like a bloodhound on a fresh trail.
“But how do you feel about this, Gayle?” Do you believe a poltergeist or some sort of spirit has attached itself to the house?”
She gave him a freckled frown and shrugged her shoulders. No, Russ concluded, she wasn’t wearing some sort of backless bra beneath her gown — not that she needed one.
“Well, I can’t really say. I mean, there’s just been so many things happening that I can’t explain. No, I don’t believe in witches and vampires and ghosts all draped in bedsheets, if that’s what you mean. But some of the books I’ve read explain poltergeists on an ESP basis — telekinesis or something on that order.”
“Do you believe in ESP?”
“Yes, to an extent.”
“Do you consider yourself psychic?”
She did the thing with her shoulders again. “A little maybe. I’ve had a few experiences that are what the books put down as psychic phenomena. I guess most of us have. But now it’s my turn. What do you think, Russ? Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Well, not the chain-rattling kind anyway.”
“Then ESP?”
“Yes, I’ll have to admit to a weakness toward ESP.”
“Then here’s to ESP.”
They clinked glasses and drank.
“I’ll second that,” announced Stryker, rejoining them.
“Jesus!” Stryker swore. “Slow down, Russ!” He braced himself with one hand against the dash, almost slung out of his bucket seat as the Jensen took a curve at 70.
“Use the seat belt,” advised Mandarin, slowing down somewhat. After all, he was a little high to be pushing the car this hard.
“Don’t like them,” Curtiss grunted. “The harnesses make me claustrophobic.”
“They say they’re someday going to pass a law making it compulsory to wear them.”
“Like to see them try — we’re not to 1984 yet! Why don’t the prying bastards work to prevent accidents instead of putting all their bright ideas into ways of letting the damn fools who cause them live through it. And speaking of prevention, how about slowing this sports car down to legal velocities. The cops would sure like to nail you on a drunk driving charge.”
“Who’s drunk?” Russ slowed to 65, the legal limit for noninterstate highways.