The Chosen

“Anyway, thanks for your time,” Mulligan said and got up. “I better leave, get back to the beat. I’m shore this is all nothin’, but I didn’t figure there’d be any harm in me comin’ up here to talk to ya. And please don’t think I’m accusin’ your boss of anything. Just checkin’ things out, ya know.”

“Of course,” Vera said. “It was nice meeting you.”

“And thanks fer the drink.”

Vera bid the large man a cordial good day, and watched him leave. Initially she’d been offended, but only for a moment. Why would he say such things? He must have some reason, she realized. Now she poured herself a drink, a half-flute of the PJ. She watched it fizz. Mulligan’s implications did not mix well with the fact that Kyle had lied about Feldspar’s whereabouts.

And I went along with it, she thought.

Should she say anything, go to Feldspar right now and tell him the chief of police was nosing about? What would Feldspar’s reaction be? Then she remembered their “date,” tonight at The Carriage House.

And a better idea crossed her mind. I’ll wait, bring it up tonight. That way I can catch him off guard.

These feelings fuddled her, though. Why, for instance, should she even want to catch Feldspar “off guard?” He was her employer. He was paying her a lot of money, and had just given her a two hundred thousand dollar automobile to use whenever she liked. Curiosity killed the cat, she considered in afterthought. Might it also not kill the restaurant manager’s job record?

««—»»

Later, she’d finished her trickle of preshift paperwork, mostly stock notices, and the food and beverage orders for next week. All at once there was nothing to do; The Carriage House wouldn’t open for another few hours. She poured herself some more champagne, remembering the figure she’d seen sneaking away from the atrium the other night, and the bottle of rail-brand Scotch. She knew it must be one of Kyle’s people; the liquor supply for The Carriage House was kept locked during off-hours and inventoried daily. Who cares? she thought, drinking herself now. Then she thought back further, to Kyle’s innocent back rub and the brazen fantasies that had accosted her throughout. That had been two nights ago. Last night, however, she’d slept quite soundly. The fantasy of The Hands had eluded her, and she did not dream. Now that she thought of it, last night had been the first night since her arrival that she’d not dreamed or fantasized sexually. By now she’d grown used to the dreams—she even had to admit to herself that she often looked forward to them. The dirty dreams, and the fantasy that seemed to trigger them, felt like an escape to her, her chance to be a naughty little girl behind the curtain of her sudden celibacy. But why should she have the dreams every night but last night? What was it about last night that was different?

Or maybe the dreams are all over now, she nearly regretted. So much for my sexual attraction to Kyle.

Or perhaps that attraction, with time, had supplanted itself with someone more real to her.

Feldspar’s image still lingered, like the scent of his Russian cigarettes and his faint cologne, and the flash of his amethyst ring.

She frowned at herself. Her office was windowless; it felt cramped with hard fluorescent light, which made the fine paneling look sticky. She’d have to change the lights, and hang some pictures. Or was it her mood that made everything look dull? You’re dull, Vera, she came clean with herself. You’re a twenty-nine-year-old spinster, a dull old maid before her time.

The book lay closed at the desk’s veneered corner, The Complete Compendium of American Haunted Mansions. She’d read the Wroxton Hall segment last night, and dismissed the book as a lurid sham. It hadn’t even been scary, it was so ridiculous. Overwritten,