The Best of Sisters in Crime (26 page)

“I trust this
experiment will not unsettle Mrs. Willoughby.” Norman Thompson glanced over at
the old lady seated in the corner.

“Let’s get this
over.” Cecil was tugging at his collar.

“Lead on, Gerty.”
Amanda smiled.

“Very well. Into
the driver’s seat. All aboard and hold on tight! Everyone at his own risk. Are
we holding hands? Does our blood flow as one? Feel it tingling through the
veins— or do I mean the arteries? I can never remember.”

“My dear, lay an
egg or get off the perch,” ordered her husband.

Gerty ignored
him. She was drawing upon the persona of her favorite fictional medium, the one
in that lovely book
Ammie Come Home.
“Keep those eyes closed. No peeking! Let your minds float. . .
drift, sway a little.”

“I can’t feel a
damn thing,” said Norman. “My leg’s gone to sleep.”

“The change in
temperature! We’re moving into a different atmosphere. We are becoming lighter.
Buoyant! Are we together, still united in our quest? The spirits don’t like
ridicule, Norman.”

“They’ll have to
lump it.”

Amanda wiggled a foot
against his.
Let’s see if the old coyote is
numb from the waist down.

“Is anybody out
there?” Madame Gerty cooed. “We are all friends here. With outstretched arms we
await your coming.”

Sounds of heavy
breathing . . . the spluttering of the fire and a muffled snoring from the
bookcase corner.

“Is there a
message?” Gerty called. Only the wind and rain answered. The room was still,
except for Norman, who was trying to shake his leg free of the cramp—or Amanda’s
teasing foot. The clock struck eleven. From outside, close to the front wall of
the house, came the blistering crack of lightning. The whole house took a step
backward. The table lurched toward the window. For a moment they all imagined
themselves smashing through the glass to be swept away by the wind. Gerty went
over with her chair, dragging Cecil down with her. The candle, still standing,
went out.

It was agreed to
call a halt to the proceedings.

“We must try
another time.” Gerty hoisted herself onto one knee and reached for her husband’s
hand. “I am sure someone was trying to reach me.”

Amanda shivered.
“My God, this place is an igloo.”

“The fire’s out.”
Cecil righted the chairs.

“Well, get it
going again! I’m freezing solid. Someone stick a cigarette between my lips so I
can inhale some heat.”

“The trouble
with your generation is, you have been much indulged. A little cold never hurt
anyone. Leave those logs alone. They must last all winter. I am not throwing
money on a woodpile.”

The voice
cracked through the room like another bolt of lightning, turning the Willoughbys—brother
and sister—into a pair of dummies in a shop window. Norman Thompson sat down
without meaning to, while Gerty resembled a fish trying to unswallow the hook.
Otherwise the only movement came from the old lady in the corner. Even seated,
she appeared to have grown. Her eyes burned in the parchment face. Glancing at
the photo in her hands, she laid it down on the bookcase, tossed off her
blanket, and stood up. “There has been a great deal of waste in this house
lately.” The voice dropped to a whisper but carried deep into the shadows.

“This
extravagance will stop. When one is old, people tend to take advantage. It
appears I must come out of retirement, get back in harness and pull this team.”

Her face as
ashen as her hair, Amanda stood hunched like an old woman. She and Cecil looked
like brother and sister for once. They wore matching looks of horror—the way
they had worn matching coats as children. As for the Thompsons, they resembled
a pair of missionaries who, having wandered into a brothel, are unable to find
the exit.

“Norman, dear, I
think we should be running along; it is getting late. . . .”

“We can get our
own coats. . . . Good night!” Husband and wife backed out the door. Never again
would Gerty Thompson lift the mystic veil.

“Good night,”
echoed the voice of Mary Willoughby. “A pedestrian pair. . .” A pause, filled
by the banging of the front door. “In future the decision as to who comes into
this house is mine. I certainly do not enjoy entertaining in my nightdress, and
more to the point. . .” The pale lips flared back. “You, Amanda and Cecil, are
uninvited guests here. Don’t forget. Whether you go or stay will depend on how
we all get on together. A pity, but I don’t think either of you can afford to
live anywhere else at present. Gambling is your vice, Cecil. The corruption of
the weak and indolent. I remember how you never wanted a birthday cake because
you’d have to share it. As for you, Amanda, all you’re good for is painting
your nails and throwing up your skirts.” A smile that turned the parchment face
colder. “Neither of you are talking and I won’t say much more tonight. I don’t
want to strain my voice. Tomorrow I will telephone lawyer Henry Morbeck and
invite him out here—for the record. Your year of playing Monopoly is over. Your
father left me control of his money and I want it back in my hands. The capital
will come to you both one day, but bear in mind you may have quite a wait.”
Smoothing a hand over her forehead, Mrs. Willoughby removed the hair net and
dropped it in the grate. “Good night, children. Don’t stay up late; I won’t
have electricity wasted.”

She was gone.
They stood listening to her footsteps mounting the stairs. Finally a door on
the second floor closed.

“It’s not her!”
Amanda pummeled a fist into her palm. “That creature—that monster—is not Mary.”

Cecil grabbed
for a cigarette, then could not hold his hand steady to light it. “That fool
Thompson woman and her fun-and-games seances. She unearthed this horror. We’re
talking possession. Someone else looked out of Mother’s eyes. Something has
appropriated her voice.”

“We have to
think.” Amanda hugged herself for warmth. “We gave it entree, now we must find
a way to be rid of it before it sucks the life out of us all. It will bleed the
bank accounts dry. We’ll be paupers at the mercy of an avenging spirit. We’re
to be made to pay for every unkind word and deed Mary has experienced at our
hands.”

“What do you
suggest?” Cecil still had not lit the cigarette. “Do we tell the bank manager
that should Mary Willoughby ask to see him, she is really a ghost in disguise?”

“We’ll talk to
Dr. Denver.” Amanda was pulling at her nails. “He saw the condition Mother was
in last week. He’ll know something is crazy. He’ll come up with a diagnosis of
split personality or. . . some newfangled disorder. Who cares, so long as he
declares her incompetent.”

“He won’t.” With
a wild laugh Cecil broke his cigarette into little pieces and tossed them onto
the dead fire. “He’ll opt for a miracle, and why shouldn’t he? Is anything less
believable than the truth?”

“Do you never
stop kidding yourself?” The words were screamed. “We all know who she is, and
we know why she has come back. So if you can’t answer the question how to be
rid of her, kindly shut up. I’ll die of cold if I remain in this ice chest. Let’s
go to bed.”

“I’ll sleep in a
chair in your room,” offered Cecil.

“Some protection
you’d be. At the first whisper of her nightdress down the hall you’d turn into
a giant goose bump.” Amanda opened the door. “Remember, she’s seeing Morbeck
tomorrow.”

They huddled up
the stairs like sheep, making more than usual of saying good night before
separating into their rooms. After a while the murmur of footsteps died away
and the lights went out, leaving the house to itself and the rasping breath of
the storm. The stair treads creaked and settled, while the grandfather clock in
the hall locked away the minutes . . . the hours. The house listened and
waited. Only the shadows moved until, at a little after three, came the sound
of an upstairs door opening . . . then another. . . .

Early the next
morning Dr. Denver received a phone call at his home.

“Doctor, this is
Amanda Willoughby!” Hysteria threatened to break through her control. “There’s
been the most dreadful accident. It’s Mother! She’s fallen down the stairs. God
knows when it happened . . . sometime during the night! We think she may have
been sleepwalking! She was very worked up earlier in the evening . . . .
Please, please hurry!”

The doctor found
the door of Stone House open and entered the hall, pajama legs showing under
his raincoat. Dripping water and spilling instruments from his bag, he brushed
aside the brother and sister to kneel by the gray-haired woman sprawled at the
foot of the stairs.

“Oh, Lord!”
Cecil pressed his knuckles to his eyes. “I can’t bear to look. I’ve never seen
anyone dead before. This bloody storm. If she screamed, we would have thought
it the wind! I did hear a . . . thump around three A.M. but thought it must be
a tree going down in the lane . . . .”

“These Victorian
staircases are murder.” The doctor raised one of Mrs. Willoughby’s eyelids and
dangled a limp wrist between his fingers. “One wrong step and down you go.”

Amanda’s eyes
were bright with tears. “Our one hope, Dr. Denver, is that she died instantly.”

“My dear girl.”
He straightened up. “Mrs. Willoughby is not dead.”

“What?” Cecil
staggered onto a chair that wasn’t there and had to grip the banister to save
himself from going down. His sister looked ready to burst into mad laughter.

“Your stepmother
is in a coma; there is the possibility of internal injuries and the risk of
shock.” The doctor folded away his stethoscope. “Shall we say I am cautiously
optimistic? Her heart has always been strong. Mr. Willoughby, fetch your sister
a brandy. And how about taking this photo. Careful, old chap, the glass is
smashed.”

“She was holding
on to it for dear life when she fell. . . I suppose,” Cecil said in an
expressionless voice.

Dr. Denver stood
up. “Get a new frame and put it by her bed. Amazing what the will to live can
accomplish. Ah, here comes the ambulance. . . .”

Two weeks later
the setting was a hospital corridor. “Often the way with these will-o’-the-wisp
old ladies!” Henry Morbeck, lawyer, ignored the no-smoking sign and puffed on
his pipe. “They harbor constitutions of steel. Had a word with Dr. Denver this
morning and he gave me to understand that barring any major setbacks, Mrs.
Willoughby will live.”

Amanda tapped
unvarnished nails against her folded arms. “Did he tell you she has joined the
ranks of the living dead?”

Mr. Morbeck
puffed harder on his pipe. “I understand your frustration. She remains
unconscious, even though the neurologists have been unable to pinpoint a cause.
Small comfort to say that such cases . . . happen. The patient lapses into a
coma from which not even the most advanced medical treatment can rouse him.”

“They say Mary
could linger for years.” Cecil’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “She looked
older, but she is only in her early sixties. What do you think, Henry?”
Desperate for some crumb of doubt.

“My friend, I am
not a doctor. And remember, doctors are not God. With careful nursing and
prayers for a miracle . . . well, let’s wait and see.” Mr. Morbeck cleared his
throat and got down to business. “Since this hospital does not provide chronic
patient care, the time comes to find the very best nursing home. Such places
are extraordinarily expensive, but not to worry. Mrs. Willoughby is secure.
Your far-seeing father provided for such a contingency as this.”

Silence.

“The bank, as
co-trustee, is empowered to arrange for her comfort and care no matter what the
cost. The house and other properties will be sold.”

“Oh, quite,
quite.” Cecil knew he was babbling. “We had hoped to take Mother back to Stone
House and care for her ourselves.”

“I love nursing.”
Amanda knew she was begging.

“Out of the
question.” The lawyer tapped out his pipe in a plant stand and left it stuck
there. “Your devotion to Mrs. Willoughby is inspiring, but you must now leave
her and the finances in the hands of the professionals. Take comfort that the
money is there. She keeps her dignity and you are not burdened. You have my
assurance I will keep in close touch with the bank.” He pushed against a door
to his left. “I’ll go in with you and . . . take a look at her.”

The three of
them entered a white, sunlit room. The woman in the railed bed could have been
a china doll hooked up to a giant feeding bottle.

“She would seem
at peace,” Mr. Morbeck said.

There must be
something we can do, Amanda thought. It always sounds so easy. Someone yanks out
the plug and that’s that.

Nothing to pull,
Cecil thought wearily. She’s existing on her own. No artificial support system,
other than the IV and no damned doctor is going to starve a helpless old woman.

She has no
business being alive, Amanda thought as she gripped the rail. She should be ten
feet under, feeding the grubs instead of feeding off us. “Cecil, let’s get out
of here.” She didn’t care what the lawyer thought. “And if I ever suggest
coming back, have me committed.”