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By Root 1980 0

planks of a hickory floor as she prowled through the room pulling covers off the furnishings, and when she’d finished she found herself surprised: filled with groupings of overstuffed sofas and chairs that were upholstered in homey and reassuring paisleys, the room was a warm invitation to life that included a game table, stereo equipment, and an eight-foot Steinway, gleaming and inviting, as down upon all, from the high gabled windows, shafted columns of relendessly cheerful sunlight like the fiery blessings of a bothersome saint. So where’s Christopher Lee and the freaking Fangettes? Freeboard glanced to her left and a cozy bar in a fireplaced library bristling with books, and then sauntered past a wide and curving staircase that led up to several bedrooms off a second-floor hall. Then she paused as she noticed that there was an alcove tucked like a secret under the stairs. She walked over and discovered there, lost in shadow, an arched ornamental oaken door that had carved into its center, like an ugly threat, an icily unsettling gargoylish face whose mouth gaped open in a taut and malevolent grin and with eyes bulging wide with rage.

Freeboard stared back and uttered quietly, “Asshole.”

She gripped the brass doorknob and attempted to open the door but discovered that she couldn’t. It was locked.

Ping.

A faint sound tinged the silence behind her, something like the muted single note of a piano. She turned around slowly and stared at the Steinway, half expecting to see someone sitting at the keys. There were several other wings to the house, she’d been told, including quarters and a separate kitchen for staff. There might have been a caretaker somewhere about. But there was no one there, she saw. She was alone. She walked to the piano and lifted the keyboard cover, and then, leaning over with a grin, began to play “Put on a Happy Face” as she looked all around and then called out loudly, “This is for you, you crazy house!”

Then she stopped and stared pensively.

“But what do we do to make someone come and see you?”

The house did not answer.

Fine. Be that way.

She drove back to Manhattan lost in ponder, gave the car to her doorman, rode up to her apartment, let herself in and went straight to her study, where she sat and began to tug off her boots.

“Evening, Madam.”

Antonia, the maid, had come in.

“You are going out for dinner, Missus?”

“No. I’ll eat at seven.”

“Very good.”

“Tell George to fix me a Cajun martini, would you, Tony?”

“Yes, Missus. Something else?”

Freeboard finished tugging off a boot, dropped it, and then scrutinized the housekeeper carefully, frowning. “You look tired. You’ve got bags. Are you sleeping okay?”

“Not so good.”

“Are you worried about something?”

“No, Missus.”

“You sure, Tony?”

“Yes. I am sure.”

“I think maybe you’re working too hard.”

The housekeeper diffidently shrugged and looked away.

“You and George take the day off tomorrow, Antonia.”

“Oh, no, Missus!”

“Yes, Missus. You do what I say. And you know, I don’t feel like much dinner. Just a sandwich. Okay? Just whatever. And would you make that martini a double?”

“Very good, Missus. Yes. Right away.”

Dainty in her blue-and-white housemaid’s uniform, the middle-aged housekeeper padded away. Freeboard stared at her back with concern. She finished pulling off the other boot, let it drop to the floor, then stretched her legs out and wriggled her toes.

My God, does that feel good!

Staring softly into nothingness, she thought of the mansion again. And then stopped. Yeah, let’s give it a rest. She leaned her head back on the chair and closed her eyes. Then heard the click of the answering machine coming on. The publisher’s wife again, Elle Redmund. “Hello, darling, did you get my other message? Well, never mind; it turns out that our visitor isn’t coming after all. Thanks anyway, Joanie. We’ll see you Friday night.”

Another click.

For a time there was silence and shallow breathing. And then suddenly Freeboard’s eyes opened wide as, in one of those mysterious events of the spirit wherein the unconscious broods upon data,