999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [319]
“So, Miss Freeboard,” Case continued. His smile now was brilliant. Like a fucking archangel, the Realtor thought. “I’m so glad to meet the face behind the telephone at last,” Case said. “And a lovely face at that, if I may say so.”
“How long have you been here?” Freeboard asked.
“Seems forever. What’s the matter, Miss Freeboard? You’re frowning.”
“You don’t look like your picture,” she said. She moved closer, appraising him intently, looking puzzled. She added, “The one on the back of the book.”
“Ghosts and Hauntings?”
Freeboard nodded.
“Yes, they wanted something spooky,” he told her, “so they posed me in a very strange light.”
“Guess they did.”
“I’ve read all of your works, Mr. Dare,” Case effused. “All quite wonderful. Really.”
“Thank you.”
“My absolute favorite was Gilroy’s Confession” Case lifted his hands from the keys of the piano. He was looking at Freeboard. “There you go again,” he said, not unpleasantly. “What’s wrong?”
For once again she was frowning.
“This has happened before,” she said oddly.
Case leaned in to her as if he hadn’t heard. “What was that?”
“I’m having déjà vu,” she answered.
“This is neither the time nor the place,” snapped Dare.
Case chuckled and Freeboard was bewildered as to why.
The author glanced up at a painting high on the wall above the massive fireplace, a life-sized figure of a man in the dress of a bygone time, perhaps the thirties. Though the rest of the painting had a sharp and rich presence, the face of its subject was milky and occluded, presenting a hazy, oval blank.
“Who’s this?” Dare asked.
Case looked up. “Dr. Edward Quandt, the original owner.”
“Why on earth is his face like that?” Dare wondered.
In the shadows Trawley looked up at the painting.
Case nodded. “Yes, it’s strange,” he observed. “Very strange.”
“It’s the haircut.”
Case turned and saw Freeboard staring at him moughtfully. “Yeah, I think that’s it,” she went on. “That’s what’s different. It’s the haircut.” “Hello?”
Warm and mysterious, a field of dark flowers, the husky voice floated across the room with the breath of some indefinable emotion, like remembrance of a long-lost summer or of grace.
Case stared past the others. His expression had changed.
“Ah, here’s Morna,” he said very softly.
Her head slightly angled to the side, as if questioning, a lissome young woman was slowly approaching them, moving with a soft and gliding motion like a figure in the corridors of a dream. Her features were rawboned and rugged, imperfect, with protruding high cheekbones and a large jutting jaw, and yet she gave an effect of sensuality and beauty. She wore a paisley-printed purplish taffeta skirt, a white shirt and a silken red string tie. Set deep in the shadowed gold of her skin, her widely spaced pale green eyes were startling. Case stood up slowly and met her gaze.
“Yes,” she said, hairing before them. “I have come.”
Her long black hair cascaded to her shoulders, smelling of hyacinth and morning. For a moment Case continued to stare. “Morna, these are our guests,” he said at last. “Miss Freeboard. Mr. Dare.”
“How do you do?” said the girl. Her brief glance took them in.
“And Mrs. Trawley,” Case added with a gesture toward the psychic. “Mrs. Trawley is clairvoyant, Morna.”
The girl turned and fixed her bright green gaze on Trawley. She held it there for seconds. And then she turned back and slightly nodded. “Yes.”
“Morna is my housekeeper,” Case explained. “No one else lives on the island, as you know; we’re quite isolated here. Morna’s kindly volunteered to help out.”
“Aren’t there people in the town across the way?” asked Dare.
A faint, high note of strain tinged his voice.
“Yes, there are,” answered Case, “but …”
He hesitated, silently searching their faces.
“But what?” Dare demanded a bit too crisply.
Case took the author