Look For Me By Moonlight (6 page)

When she and Todd left, I asked Dad about Mr. Morthanos's book. “Does he write poetry or stories or what?”

Dad looked up from the pipe he was lighting. “I believe he's trying to get a volume of poetry together. It sounds as if he's been working on it for years.”

Poetry—how perfect. It was just what I imagined Mr. Morthanos writing. Unlike Dad, he wouldn't depend on a word processor or even a typewriter. He'd use a fountain pen with a fine, gold point. Sepia ink on ivory parchment, the land calligraphers buy. His handwriting would swirl gracefully across the page.

When Susan came downstairs, she suggested inviting Mr. Morthanos to join us for a glass of wine by the fire. “If he's going to be here a long time, we might as well get acquainted.”

While Dad puttered with the refreshments, Susan asked if I'd mind running up to Mr. Morthanos's room. “He's chosen the one at the end of the hall. I'd go myself but I'm just too tired to climb the steps more than once tonight.”

I left the kitchen eagerly but halfway up the stairs my courage failed. Suppose Mr. Morthanos refused the invitation? Maybe he'd come here to be alone. He might not want to socialize.

In the hall below, I heard the tinkle of glasses. Dad was carrying a tray to the living room. Before he could look up and see me, I tiptoed to Mr. Morthanos's door, took a deep breath, and forced myself to knock, half-hoping he wouldn't hear me.

Mr. Morthanos opened the door as if he'd been expecting me. Behind him, a single candle burned on the desk, its quivering flame reflected in the window pane. In a pool of light, I saw a sheet of paper and a pen—the very scene I'd imagined, aglow in the shadows like an old painting.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Morthanos, but we thought you might like to come down for a glass of wine by the fire.” My voice came out as high and squeaky as a child's, and I blushed with embarrassment.

“You needn't be so formal, Cynda. Please call me Vincent.” He smiled, freeing me to take a small breath. “Tell your parents I'll be happy to join them. I hope to become one of the family during my stay.”

He lingered in the doorway, watching me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay, I wanted to be ten years older, pretty and sure of myself and as worldly as he.

Vincent smiled again. “Thank you for the invitation, Cynda.”

I backed away uncertainly and tripped on the untied lace of my shoe. Humiliated, I turned and fled. What must Vincent Morthanos think of me? Why was I so shy, so clumsy? Why hadn't I at least tied my shoe before I'd gone upstairs?

By the time Vincent joined us, I'd managed to calm down, but I was still embarrassed about tripping on my shoelace. From across the room, I watched him make himself comfortable in an old armchair. His black sweater and jeans merged with the shadows, but his delicately boned face seemed to float against the darkness like a study in chiaroscuro.

While the adults sipped their wine and talked, I tried to read, but Vincent's presence distracted me. I was conscious of the creak of his chair, the rustle of his clothing, the sound of his voice. A remark about the environment, a comment on the political situation in Europe, a question concerning Dad's writing—every word Vincent spoke fascinated me, but I didn't have the courage to do more than listen. What could I say that he'd find interesting?

My opportunity finally came when Vincent asked Dad about the inn. “Such a delightful old place must have an interesting history,” he said.

Dad smiled apologetically. “Susan and I have been here five years now, but all we know is that Underhill was built in the eighteenth century. It was a popular stopping place for travelers heading north.”

“We've heard rumors it was once a smugglers' hideout,” Susan put in. “I've been meaning to do some research on that, but it's hard to find the time.”

“Surely a ghost or two haunts Underhill.” Vincent's voice was light, almost mocking, but I sensed a deep interest underlying his words.

Dad and Susan both shook their heads, but I surprised myself by speaking up. “The cleaning woman, Mrs. Bigelow, says a girl who used to live here was murdered. She thinks her ghost haunts the inn.”

I'd meant to impress Vincent, but Dad was the first to react. “No one ever told me anything about a murder,” he said, frowning as if he doubted my word.

Ignoring Dad, Susan leaned toward me, worried and tense. “A girl was killed at Underhill, Cynda?”

I glanced at Vincent. He seemed as eager as Susan to hear what I had to say. “She wasn't killed in the inn itself,” I began, “but outside, probably on the cliffs.”

Without giving Dad a chance to interrupt, I repeated the details quickly. “Her killer was never caught, never punished,” I concluded. “That's why she haunts the inn. She can't rest in peace till her death is avenged—and it never will be because the man who murdered her is dead himself now.”

I glanced at Vincent. He was leaning back in his chair, lost in shadows. Only his hands caught the light, graceful and long-fingered. “Very interesting,” he murmured.

Susan shuddered. “What an awful story, Cynda. Are you sure it's true?”

“True or not,” Dad mused, “it gives me an idea for my next novel. Inspector Marathon could take a vacation in an historic inn. He'd hear about an old murder and use modern techniques to solve the crime. No ghosts, of course, nothing supernatural.”

“Didn't Josephine Tey do something like that in one of her mysteries?” Susan asked. “If I remember correctly, a detective tries to prove Richard III couldn't have killed the little princes in the tower.”

Vincent smiled at Susan. “You're thinking of
The Daughter of Time,
one of my personal favorites. Write a mystery half as good, Jeff, and your reputation will be made.”

Dad beamed but Susan looked doubtful. “I've also read an Inspector Morse novel with a similar plot,” she said.

“There are only so many plots to work with,” Dad said. “Writers recycle them endlessly.”

Before Dad could get started on this new subject, Vincent led the conversation back to the murdered girl. “Has anyone actually seen her ghost?”

“The only evidence we have is Mrs. Bigelow's uncanny feeling that something watches her when she's all alone,” Dad said, making a joke of the old woman's fears.

Vincent turned to me. “Do you believe Mrs. Bigelow, Cynda?”

I hesitated. Vincent seemed genuinely interested, but I dreaded making a fool of myself in front of him. Without looking at anyone, I said, “When Mrs. Bigelow was telling me about the girl, I felt a sort of sad, listening silence, just as if someone was in the room with us, someone we couldn't see. . . .”

I stumbled to a stop, too embarrassed to go on. It was hard to put these vague feelings into words with Dad staring at me as if I'd lost my mind.

“Mrs. Bigelow must be a better storyteller than I realized,” he said. “She certainly put a spell on you with her talk of murder and restless spirits.”

His teasing voice silenced me. Vowing to say no more, I watched the fire dance and leap on the hearth.

“You don't believe in ghosts, Jeff,” Vincent said quietly.

“Absolutely not. When you die, you die, and that's that.”

“You sound very certain.” Vincent sat back in his chair, giving no clue to his feelings, but I was sure my father's attitude annoyed him as much as it did me.

“I
am
certain.” Dad didn't bother to disguise the irritation creeping into his voice. “Surely you're too intelligent to put any credence in the tales of an ignorant old woman.”

“On the contrary, Jeff, I agree with Hamlet.” Vincent leaned forward and gazed into Dad's eyes. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,'” he quoted, “Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'”

Vincent spoke with a quiet conviction that made me shiver, but Dad merely shrugged and said something about Shakespeare's gift for turning a phrase. I noticed that Susan didn't join in Dad's laughter. Like me, she huddled deeper into the sofa and folded her arms across her chest to ward off the cold.

I found my voice with difficulty. “Are you saying you believe in ghosts, Vincent?”

“Yes, Cynda, I most definitely do.” As he spoke, a log fell in the fireplace and sent a shower of sparks racing up the chimney.

The noise startled us all, including Ebony. Uncoiling from his place beside me, he jumped off the couch and stalked toward the door. Halfway across the room, he noticed our guest and came to a dead stop. Vincent stretched a slender hand toward him, but Ebony sidestepped deftly and disappeared into the dark hall.

Seemingly indifferent to the cat's snub, Vincent rose to his feet. “I must bid you good night,” he said. “If I encounter a ghost, I'll let you know tomorrow. In the meantime, sleep well.”

The three of us watched our guest climb the stairs, his step almost as noiseless as Ebony's. After his door shut softly, Susan turned to Dad. “What a charming man,” she said. “Handsome—and so mysterious.”

Dad slid his arm around her waist. “Are you trying to make me jealous, Susie?”

She laughed. “Of course not, silly.”

Dad turned to me. “Has Vincent won your heart too, Cynda?”

“He's very intelligent,” I said, struggling to hide my interest in our guest. “He knows so much about everything—history, politics . . .”

Dad agreed. “I wish we had more guests who enjoyed talking about something besides the weather.”

“He's open-minded, too,” I put in. “He didn't think what I said about ghosts was dumb.”

That made Dad chuckle. Giving me a hug, he said, “I'm sorry, Cynda, but I can't help being a skeptic.”

Susan looked sympathetic. “Face it, Cynda. Your father's a dreadful old cynic.” Taking Dad's hand, she led him toward the stairs. “Let's call it a night, Jeff. Ghosts or no ghosts, I'm exhausted.”

Dad paused to bank the fire. Then, giving me a quick kiss, he followed Susan. Without them, the room seemed cold and unnaturally still. I blew out the candles hastily and ran down the hall, resisting the urge to look behind me.

Safe in bed with Ebony curled up beside me, I lay awake a long time trying to sort out my feelings. As much as Vincent fascinated me, he made me uneasy. More than once I'd caught him looking at me with an intensity I didn't understand. His eyes were dark, unreadable—did he find me attractive or simply amusing? It was hard to imagine a man his age being interested in me, yet I could have sworn something intangible quivered in the air between us, a knowledge, a familiarity, a scary sense of destiny fulfilled.

When I fell asleep at last, Vincent followed me into my dreams. We were walking through the inn, but it had become a labyrinth of narrow halls and twisting corridors; I was lost, I wanted to get out, but every door I opened led to another room, darker and smaller than the one before. Vincent silenced my fears with laughter and kisses and promises. “You belong in the dark with me,” he murmured. “I am the king of night and you are my queen.”

 

I woke with his words ringing in my ears. Sunshine poured through the windows, filling the room with a dazzling white light. I smelled coffee brewing and muffins baking. In the hall, the clock struck nine.

Shivering in the cold air, I dressed carefully taking more time than usual with my hair. I picked out my best black sweater, a soft angora turtleneck, and pulled on the jeans that fit best, a black pair like Vincent's.

Before I left my room I examined my face in the mirror. There was a tiny pimple in the corner of my mouth. If I picked it, it might get bigger. Or bleed. Better leave it alone and hope Vincent wouldn't notice.

I stopped for a moment outside the kitchen door and forced myself to breathe normally. Smoothing my hair, I stepped into the room, expecting to see Vincent at the table, but neither he nor Dad was there.

“Your father's already at work on his novel,” Susan said, answering my unspoken questions. “Vincent doesn't eat breakfast. Tea in his room is all he wants. As for lunch, he asked me to leave a tray at his door so he can work all day undisturbed. We won't see him till dinner, I guess.”

Without noticing my disappointment, Susan opened the morning paper and began working the daily crossword.

Todd looked up from his oatmeal. “Did you see Mr. Morthanos's car, Cynda?”

Susan drew the curtain aside. “Take a look, Cynda. It's a real beauty.”

A car the color of moonlight on ice gleamed in the morning sunshine. A Porsche, Susan was saying, very powerful, very expensive—she hadn't realized there was so much money in poetry. Vincent must do something else, either that or he was independently wealthy. . . .

Scarcely listening, I stared at the Porsche. It was the car I'd seen passing the inn the night of the blizzard. I'd known it would return, and it had. I remembered the eerie flash of its headlights. Was it possible Vincent had heard my whispered invitation? Was that why he'd looked at me so intensely? The very thought sent a little shiver racing up and down my spine.

“I hate that car,” Todd said loudly. “I hate Mr. Morthanos, too.”

Susan touched his curls lightly. “Now, Todd, what did I tell you? Mr. Morthanos is our guest. You mustn't talk like that.”

Ignoring his mother's rebuke, Todd asked, “Is Will coming to see us today?”

“This is Monday,” Susan said. “Will's in school.”

Todd sighed. “Maybe he'll come Saturday. We'll build another snowman, even bigger than the first one. We'll make new snow angels, too. The wind blew the others away, they flew up into the sky.” He tugged my sleeve to get my attention. “Wasn't that the funnest day, Cynda, the day Will was here?”

For a second, I didn't know what Todd meant. I'd been thinking about Vincent, not listening to my brother. The day we'd played in the snow with Will seemed as long ago as childhood.