Strange Eons (10 page)

“How much longer before you’re finished?”

Powers shrugged. “Another session should do it. With your help.”

“Mine?” Kay fished the car key out of her purse. “I have no intention of coming back here again.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that. Just a few questions and answers—”

“But I’ve already told you. I don’t know anything about what Albert bought during the last three years.”

“There are other things you could tell me. The price of the house is recorded, but not the cost of the furnishings or what improvements you may have put in.” Ben Powers smiled again. “Look, I’ve got an idea. Why not have dinner with me tonight and get it all settled?”

“Really, Mr. Powers—”

“It’s to your advantage. The sooner I can submit a report the sooner the estate can go up for probate. I assume you’d like to have this over with as quickly as possible.”

Kay hesitated. Powers nodded at her. “It won’t take long, I promise. Besides, you have to eat anyway. Why don’t you just follow me on down.”

“Where to?”

“There’s a place on Burton Way—Maxwell’s—”

“I know it.”

“Good. See you there.”

Ben Powers turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Maxwell’s parking lot was brightly lit, but the shadows were waiting in the restaurant. Powers peered through them as they were seated and noted Kay’s frown.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” She glanced down at her menu. “I’d forgotten this place specializes in seafood.”

“You don’t like fish?”

“Not particularly.”

“They have good steaks here. And good drinks. I recommend one of each.”

The drinks came first. And over them Ben Powers smiled amidst the shadows.

“Your late husband,” he said, “did he hate fish too?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. From the reports I gather he might have been on a fishing trip when the accident occurred.” Powers’s smile faded into the shadows.
“Did
he hate fish, Mrs. Keith?”

“I don’t know. I never served seafood during our marriage, but that’s because of my own feelings about it.”

“Allergy?”

“No. It’s something which goes back to my childhood—” Kay broke off, frowning. “What has all this got to do with inventorying the estate?”

“Sorry. But I guess I’m interested in what the report had to say. Or what it didn’t have to say, rather. Didn’t it strike you as funny that there was so little actual information? In my business you tend to be a stickler for details.”

“I can give you details about the price we paid for furnishings, carpet and appliances,” Kay said stiffly. “Suppose we stick to that and just leave my husband’s likes and dislikes out of it.”

“My apologies.” Powers produced a notebook and pen. “Let’s get started, then, before our dinner arrives.”

His questions were routine, her answers mechanical. Gradually her initial irritation faded; now that she’d had the sense to put him in his place there where no further problems.

Powers pocketed his notebook as salad and steaks arrived. The food was good and somewhat to her surprise Kay realized she was actually enjoying herself. Ben Powers proved to be a very pleasant dinner companion now that he’d stopped playing inquisitor. By the time their meal was finished, sitting over coffee and an after-dinner liqueur, Kay felt totally relaxed. She caught herself wondering if Ben Powers was married.

“Feeling better?” He smiled at her through the shadows.

“Much, thank you.”

“Thank you for coming! You probably saved me from a fate worse than death.”

“Such as?”

Powers shrugged. “Ever notice how our society penalizes single customers?”

He’s not married,
Kay told herself—then quickly refocused her attention on the sound of Powers’s voice as he continued.

“Take those come-on ads for the Vegas hotels. Bargain rates spelled out big on top—but when you get down to the bottom line, they always specify double occupancy. And when you go to a restaurant alone, no matter how good it is, they seat you at a little deuce-table right next to the kitchen.”

“That’s why I avoid seafood places,” Kay said. “Every time the waiters come through those swinging doors I get a whiff of frying fish.”

“Lovecraft hated it too,” Powers said.

“Who?”

“H.P. Lovecraft. The writer.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Are you sure?” Ben Powers leaned forward.

“Of course. Why should I?”

“I thought perhaps your late husband may have told you. It seems as if he and his friend Waverly were really into the whole Mythos.”

“Mythos?”

“Forget it.” Powers sat back and lifted his liqueur glass.

“Not until you tell me what this is all about.” Kay put her own glass down and stared at his shadowed face. “How did you know Albert and Waverly were friends? And what’s that got to do with my husband’s estate?”

“Nothing. Guess I made a mistake.”

“I’m the one who made the mistake.” Kay rose, gripping her purse.

“Now wait a minute—”

Ben Powers started to rise, but Kay gestured quickly. “Don’t bother to see me out,” she said. “And in the future, don’t bother to see me, period.”

“Mrs. Keith—please—”

But Kay was already moving through the shadows, and she didn’t look back.

Shadows stalked the streets through which she drove, shadows crouched in the gloom of the garage beneath her apartment complex and hovered in the halls.

Still more shadows awaited her when she entered the living room, and these she dispelled with light. But light did not disperse the others she carried within—the shadows of suspicion and uncertainty.

Kay entered the bedroom and dumped the contents of her purse on the bed, searching for the slip of paper on which she’d scribbled Danton Heisinger’s address and phone numbers. As she recalled, there were two of the latter, and the second would be for his home.

When she found what she was looking for Kay made the call.

“Mr. Heisinger?”

“Yes.”

“Kay Keith. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour—”

“Quite all right. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like some information about the gentleman who’s handling the inventory of Albert’s estate.”

“Who?”

“Ben Powers. He was at the house when I went up there this afternoon, and—”

“At the house?” There was a momentary pause, and somehow Kay sensed that Heisinger must be shaking his head. Then he spoke again. “But that’s impossible.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m positive he wasn’t at the house because I went to see him right after you left my office this afternoon.”

“Where was he?”

“Pierce Brothers Mortuary. He died of a heart attack two days ago.”

The lights stayed on in Kay’s apartment all through the night, but the shadows remained. Shadows of doubt, deepening when she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

The shadows were still there, in her eyes—and, what was worse for a professional model, under her eyes—as she kept her appointment next morning in Danton Heisinger’s office.

“Please don’t look at me,” Kay said, shifting self-consciously in her chair. “I know I’m a mess, but I didn’t get much rest.” *

“Neither did I.” Heisinger tapped the notepad resting before him. “Just got back from Pierce Brothers. Everything seems to be in order. Aside from myself and a few people here at the bank, no one else signed the visitors’ book. Ben had no relatives as far as they know, and his effects are still in the safe there. That includes his wallet and identification. It’s virtually impossible for anyone to have had access to them. Are you sure that’s what you were shown?”

Kay shook her head. “The truth is, I only glanced at his wallet for a moment. How was I to know he was an impostor?”

“He counted on your not knowing, of course. Or else he wouldn’t have risked such a deception in the first place. From the description you gave me, there’s no physical resemblance between this man and the real Ben Powers. He must have felt very sure of himself to take that chance with you.”

“But why?” Kay frowned. “I didn’t know he was there. If he intended to burglarize the house, all he had to do was stay hidden until I left.”

Heisinger nodded. “Exactly. I think we’ve both ruled out burglary as a motive for his being there. And that leaves us with some interesting questions. How did he know your name? What prompted him to invite you to dinner? And just who is this H.P. Lovecraft he kept asking about?”

“I don’t have any answers,” Kay said.

“Well I have one.” Heisinger glanced down at his notes. “According to the reference clerk at the Main Library, Lovecraft was a writer of fantasy and horror stories. Born in Providence, Rhode Island, in 1890; died there in 1937. His short stories were first collected posthumously in—”

Kay gestured quickly. “But I’ve never heard of him! That’s what I told the man who claimed to be Ben Powers.”

Heisinger looked up, nodding. “Maybe that’s what he wanted to find out.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Suppose he arranged the whole thing—getting into the house, introducing himself as an appraiser, inviting you to dinner—just to discover how much you might know about Lovecraft.”

“Why should he think I knew anything? There’s no connection.”

“Perhaps Albert Keith is the connection.” Heisinger sat back. “Was he interested in reading or collecting fantasy?”

“I never saw any books of that sort around the house, and he never discussed such things.”

“But he did collect those masks and figurines.”

“Not while we were together.”

“I see.” Heisinger glanced down at the notepad again. “Well, let’s try another approach. Had he ever lived in Providence?”

“No.”

“Visited there?”

“If so, I’m sure he would have mentioned it to me.”

“Did he have friends in Rhode Island, anyone who might have written to him?”

Kay frowned. “I realize what you’re trying to do. But there’s just no link between Albert and a man who lived and died three thousand miles away and more than fifty years ago.”

Heisinger sighed. “I’m afraid you’re right. It looks like Lovecraft isn’t the key to the problem. And speaking of keys—”

Kay watched as the little man lifted a phone-book from his desk drawer. “What are you going to do?” she said.

“Locate a locksmith. Whoever this intruder may be and whatever he’s after, a change of locks will keep him from getting into the house again. And while I’m at it, I suggest you put a new lock on your own door.”

“Don’t you think you’re over-reacting? After all, I’m not in any danger.”

“We can’t be sure of that.”

“Then why not go to the police?”

Heisinger smiled bleakly. “I’ve already over-reacted to that extent. Earlier this morning I talked to a Sergeant Schneider. He’s with the Burglary Section downtown.” The eyes behind the thick bifocal lenses consulted the notepad. “Here we are—Ralph Schneider—the number there is 485-2524, if you want to copy it down. He suggested you might like to stop by and go through what he called their rap sheets, to see if you could identify the suspect.”

“Is that all?”

“Frankly he didn’t seem too excited about what I told him. Since nothing appears to be stolen, it’s not really burglary. There isn’t even any proof of breaking-and-entering, so that leaves only trespass and false identification.”

“Then they aren’t going to do anything.”

“He’s forwarding the information to the Hollywood Division. Patrol cars will keep an eye on the house. And he made the suggestion about changing locks. Once they’re installed I’ll see that you get a new key.”

“Thanks.” Kay rose.

“Are you going downtown?”

“I’ll think about it.” She gestured to the little bank official. “Don’t bother to see me out. But if you hear something—”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Keith. I’ll be in touch.” Heisinger’s smile of farewell faded as the door closed behind Kay. For a long moment he sat there listening to the receding clatter of her footsteps in the hall beyond.

Then he reached for the phone.

Kay picked up the phone in her apartment and dialed her answering service. There was a message waiting—call the Colbin Agency.

She did, and Max Colbin was his usual charming self.

“Where the hell you been?” he greeted her. “Never mind with the explanations, it’s noon already and you’re due at two.”

“Due where?”

“1726 South Normandie. The Starry Wisdom Temple.”

“The what—”

“Starry Wisdom Temple. One of those freak outfits, advertises in the shopping throwaways. They want somebody for straight head-and-shoulders stuff—no high fashion, no jewelry, just street clothes. Bedard’s already talked to them and if you get it he’ll handle the shooting. But they’d like to see you first.”

Kay sighed. “Couldn’t you just show them the album? You know how I hate these auditions.”

“Look baby, your end is three bills for an hour session, plus the usual step-up if it goes into overtime. For that you can suffer a little, so just get on down there. Ask for Reverend Nye.”

It was exactly two o’clock when Kay’s car pulled up and slid into the vacant parking slot in front of 1726 South Normandie. But for a moment she hesitated before dropping her dime into the meter.

The large wooden sign above the wide doorway of the two-story building plainly read
Starry Wisdom Temple,
but it was obviously a recent addition, as were the heavy red drapes covering the big windows on either side of the entrance. Kay guessed that the stone structure had formerly been a temple of Mammon—most likely a local savings and loan establishment that had vacated a neighborhood no longer considered worth saving or loaning to.

But someone inside had three hundred dollars to spend for a one-hour stint. Duty called, and Kay dropped her dime.

Duty calls.
Is that the way a call-girl feels about her assignments? Driving up to a strange address to keep an appointment with a strange man who will rent her body for three bills an hour?

Moving up to the doorway, Kay reminded herself that there’s a difference between photography and pornography, at least in degree. Of course she’d had her share of passes and propositions; it was, after all, an occupational hazard in the profession. But she didn’t do lingerie shots or nudes, and so far there’d never been any real problem. Voyeurs, weirdos who were into S-M and bondage no longer hired models; they did their shopping in local massage parlors or even the corner tavern.