Out Are the Lights

  'Your van, I presume.'

  'How'd you guess?'

  ***

  As they unloaded it, Freya appraised the goods. Not much looked promising. The stereo, portable television, and typewriter might bring in a few bucks, but everything else looked like junk.

  'Where you taking me for dinner?'

  'It's a lovely restaurant up the coast.'

  'Up the coast? How far up the coast?

  'Only about fifteen minutes,' Freya said.

  'There's gotta be someplace closer.'

  'Nothing this nice. It has a lovely view of the ocean.'

  'Do I have to dress up?'

  'Is it possible?'

  'Now who's obnoxious?'

  'You look very nice,' Freya said when Chelsea came out, of the bedroom in a dress that looked like an old table cloth.

  'I pass inspection?'

  'With flying colors.'

  They went down to Freya's car.

  'Fifteen minutes?'

  'About that. Maybe a little longer. The place is worth it, though. Best food you've ever tasted.'

  'Hope they serve plenty,' Chelsea said. 'I could eat a horse.'

  'They don't serve horses.'

  'You said fifteen minutes.'

  'We're almost there,' Freya said. The sun was higher above the ocean than last time, and made the driving easier.

  ' Lot of trouble to go through for a dinner.'

  'This place is special.'

  'So you say.'

  'Wait till you see it.'

  ***

  When Freya swung onto the turnoff, Chelsea said, 'You've got to be kidding. There's no restaurant up there.'

  Fortunately, Todd had remembered to leave the gate open. That would've really aroused Chelsea 's suspicion. So far, she didn't seem worried-only curious.

  When Chelsea saw the house, she shook her head. 'That's it?'

  'That's it.'

  'Is this a joke?'

  'It's a restaurant. The finest restaurant for miles.'

  'I'll believe it when I see it.'

  A single car, a blue Plymouth, was parked in front. Freya pulled alongside it.

  'If this place is so great,' Chelsea said, 'why's there only one car?'

  'It's very exclusive.'

  Freya climbed from the car. Chelsea opened her door against the Plymouth, and squeezed out. 'Couldn't park any closer to it, could you?'

  Freya smiled. 'Don't be a spoilsport.'

  'This is sport?'

  They headed for the porch stairs. As they started up, the front door opened. Todd stepped out, wearing a tux. He held the door wide.

  'Ah,' he said. 'Young ladies, we've been expecting you. Welcome to Hillside Manor. I am Clarence, the maitre d'.' They followed him into the foyer.

  'As you see, young ladies. Hillside Manor is a most unusual restaurant. It is the home of Rudolph Webb, noted chef and author of Webb's Cuisine. He opened his home to the public, fifteen years ago, as a - shall we say - testing ground for his recipes.'

  They entered the dining-room. The long, mahogany table was set for three. Todd seated Freya and Chelsea across from each other near the head of the table.

  'As diners here,' he continued, 'you shall be partners in the creation of an original dish. Would you care for a cocktail before dinner is served?'

  'Gin and tonic,' Chelsea said.

  'I'll have white wine. The house wine, please.'

  'Splendid.'

  Todd turned away, and disappeared through the swinging door to the kitchen.

  'This is weird,' Chelsea said. 'We're guinea pigs for this chef, huh?'

  'Guinea pigs never had it so good.'

  'How did you find this joint?'

  'A date brought me here. I was awfully nervous, at first. I didn't really believe it was a restaurant. I thought he'd tricked me, and brought me here for some kind of mischief. It is a rather creepy old house. But I was in for a pleasant shock. We had duck in some kind of marvelous wine sauce. Probably the best meal I'd ever had.'

  Todd returned with the drinks. Freya raised her glass of wine. 'Here's blood in your eye.'

  'Mud,' Chelsea corrected.

  'Whatever.'

  They drank.

  Chelsea nodded toward the place setting at the head of the table. 'Is somebody going to join us?'

  'Oh yes. The chef himself. He'll come out, after the food is prepared.'

  'Wonderful,' Chelsea muttered.

  'You'll enjoy it. He really is quite a fascinating guy.'

  'The food better be good. I'd hate to barf in front of the chef.'

  'Young ladies-your host, Rudolph Webb.'

  Todd held open the kitchen door, and Schreck entered the dining-room. He walked stiffly to the table, his lean face solemn, and held out a hand toward Chelsea.

  The girl made a sickly smile, but shook the offered hand. 'Welcome,' said Schreck. 'You are?'

  ' Chelsea.'

  He stopped around the table. Freya shuddered as he took her hand. In his black tuxedo, he looked to Freya like an undertaker. A pallid, gaunt undertaker who spent too much time with his corpses.

  'I'm Freya,' she said.

  'Yes, I remember. Welcome again to my home.'

  He sat. Todd poured red wine into his glass. He raised it to his thin lips. As he drank, a trickle slid from one comer of his mouth and dripped from his chin. He didn't seem to notice. When he emptied the glass, Todd filled it again.

  'Refresh the ladies' drinks,' Schreck commanded. 'Then serve the soup.'

  Todd took their glasses away.

  'The first course,' said Schreck, 'will be a delicate soup of meat and herbs. I'm certain you will find it most unusual, rather like the Mexican albondigas, but more hearty.' He grinned, his lips drawing back to reveal crooked, dark teeth and pale gums.

  Todd brought the drinks. Freya found her hand shaking as she raised the glass. Chelsea met her eyes, and glared.

  'I eat with my guests,' said Schreck, 'so that I might have the opportunity to savour their reactions as they savour my cuisine. It is an indulgence on my part, but I believe we should permit ourselves to enjoy the effects of our creative efforts. I am, if you please, the playwright attending the opening night performance of his drama - gauging audience reaction, thrilling to the laughter and tension and applause, noting lapses where, perhaps, the script might require an adjustment.'

  Todd entered, pushing a serving cart. He set a bowl of soup at each place, and returned to the kitchen.

  Freya eyed the brown, lumpy liquid in her bowl. It looked identical to the soup in front of Chelsea and Schreck. Todd had assured her, though…

  'Bon appetit,' said Schreck.

  He dipped a spoon deep into his bowl, and brought up bits of meat along with onions and other limp vegetables. The spoon dripped as he raised it to his mouth. He chewed slowly, as if probing the mixture for its subtle flavors. Then he swallowed, and sighed with pleasure.

  Freya, fighting to control her nausea, took a sip of wine. She picked up her spoon, slid it into her soup, and stirred as she watched Chelsea take her first taste.

  The girl's spoon shimmered with broth. She sipped it, nodded, and smiled nervously at Schreck. 'Delicious,' she said.

  Freya continued to stir. Mine's only lamb, she told herself. But she couldn't bring herself to try it. She watched Chelsea bring up a spoonful from the bottom. It was laden with vegetables and chunks of meat. It vanished into Chelsea 's mouth. The girl chewed, and nodded.

  Freya's stomach convulsed. Vomit came to her throat. She swallowed hard, and finished her wine.

  'It's great,' Chelsea said. 'Best soup I've ever had.'

  Schreck grinned and nodded.

  'I normally don't care much for soup,' she continued. 'It's usually so bland.' She shoveled in another spoonful. And another. 'Have you tried it?' she asked Freya.

  Freya nodded. 'Excellent.'

  'Will this be in your next cookbook?'

  'Most certainly,' said Schreck.

  'I'd really l
ike the recipe.' She spooned more into her mouth. As she chewed, she said, 'What kind of meat is it?'

  'Can you guess?'

  'I don't know. Pork?'

  'No.'

  She raised a spoonful, and gazed at it. With her teeth, she picked out a chunk of meat and ate it separately. She shrugged.

  'What is it, rabbit or something?'

  Schreck grinned. 'You're getting warm.'

  She finished the spoonful, dredged the bottom of her dish, and came up with a larger piece. She studied it. 'Hey, this one's still got the bone.' With her free hand, she lifted it from the spoon and turned it over. Freya glanced at the small, shiny shield of nail.

  Chelsea dropped the piece as if it burnt her. It splashed into her soup. She shoved her chair back, but Schreck grabbed her arm.

  'What was it?' he asked.

  'A… a toe!'

  'Oh dear, you guessed correctly.' Schreck chuckled.

  Chelsea gagged. She tried to struggle free from Schreck's grip, but couldn't. She threw up on herself, and began to cry.

  Todd entered with the white wine. 'I hope you're enjoying your meal,' he said, smiling.

  'Yes,' said Schreck. 'I believe we're ready for the next course.'

  'Very good.'

  'Leave the bottle,' Freya said. She filled her glass, quickly drank it all, and filled it again.

  Chelsea continued to cry.

  'I don't understand,' said Schreck, 'why you're so upset. Only moments ago, you were raving about its flavor.'

  'You're crazy!' Chelsea sobbed.

  'I'm sure you'll appreciate the next course even more.'

  Todd brought in a platter and set it down in front of Chelsea.

  Chelsea began to scream.

  'A true delicacy. Lightly simmered visage over steaming linguini, topped with a delicate tomato sauce. I call it Face Marinara.'

  Freya watched, disgusted and fascinated, as Schreck threw Chelsea to the floor and forced her to eat.

  He pinched her nostrils shut so she had to open her mouth.

  He snapped her fingers.

  He tore open her dress and stabbed her with a fork.

  At last, she choked on a mouthful of scorched flesh. She kicked and convulsed and turned blue and died.

  Todd entered the room, clapping. 'Bravo, bravo!'

  He slapped Schreck on the back.

  'Satisfied?' he asked Freya.

  She nodded. 'Thanks,' she said.

  'Well, shall we retire to the control room, and see what Bruno got for us?'

  'Todd,' Schreck said, and nodded towards the corpse.

  'Certainly. She's all yours.'

  As Schreck picked up the body, Freya followed Todd from the room. She grabbed his arm. 'Mine was lamb, wasn't it?'

  'Princess,' he said, 'what kind of beast do you think I am?'

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Connie did a lot of good work, Tuesday. The scenes filled her head as if she had become Sandra Dane. She could smell the sour breath of Sandra's stepfather as he fell upon her. She could feel his weight, and his rough hands tearing her crinoline-hear his yelp of pain as she kneed him in the groin.

  The warm night air. The smell of the stable. The feel of her stallion, Thunder, between her legs as she rode him bareback over the fields. Her sudden fear as Thunder leaped a fence, and stumbled, and she flew head over heels.

  The Union soldier, one of Sherman 's hateful marauders, coming to help her. He had Pete's smile, and Pete's eyes. Though she'd heard dreadful tales of Sherman 's army, this man seemed different. She knew she had nothing to fear from him.

  A light flashed on her desk.

  Damn!

  She dropped her pen on the spiral notebook, and got up. Her muscles felt stiff. She stretched as she made her way to the front door.

  She half expected to find Dal outside, returning for something he would claim to have forgotten when he moved out, Sunday.

  But it wasn't Dal.

  It was a young woman with troubled eyes.

  'Yes?'

  'You're Connie, aren't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'May I come in, please? I have to talk with you about Pete.'

  'About Pete? What's…?'

  'I'm his wife-Sandra.'

  Connie grabbed the doorknob to steady herself. 'His wife?'

  'Yes.'

  'That's impossible.'

  The woman shook her head. 'It's quite possible, I'm afraid.'

  'He would've told me.'

  'Would he?'

  'I've been to his house. There was no… He can't be married! '

  'He took you to his beach house in Venice. That's where he always takes his… his women. May I come in?'

  'No! You're lying! This is a trick or something.'

  'I want you to stop seeing Pete. I know he… he can be quite overwhelming and perhaps you think you love him. He always has that effect. I've… I've put up with it for quite a while. God knows how many times I've thought about divorcing him. But I love him, Connie, and… and I've just found out that I'm pregnant. I'm going to have Pete's baby.'

  'No!'

  'I'm sorry. I know this must be awful for you - but think what it's like for me. My husband… He didn't come home, the whole weekend. He said he was on a case, but I knew it was a lie. The same old lie. So I went to the beach house, Saturday. I went in. I have a key, of course. I went in, and heard you both, and…' Her chin trembled. She bit down on her lower lip, and took a deep breath. 'I want my husband back, Connie. I want the father of my baby. Please. You seem like a decent person, Connie. Don't… don't keep my husband away from me.' She wiped tears from her eyes, and walked away.

  ***

  Dal threw his necktie onto the couch, and stepped into the small kitchen area of his new apartment. He took his gin bottle from a carton on the breakfast bar. After a short search in the crowded box, he found his vermouth. He slipped a plastic cup off the end of a stack, and made himself a martini.

  No olives.

  Well, shit.

  He opened his freezer compartment, eyed the stack of frozen dinners, and decided to eat out. No reason to eat that stuff, cramped up in this tiny apartment.

  He'd taken the first furnished one-bedroom apartment he could find, on Sunday. After Connie's spacious, open place, this cubicle was enough to give him claustrophobia. Didn't even have direct access to the outside. Instead, you walk down a hallway and downstairs to get out.

  He'd known, even as he carried in his few possessions, that he would hate this place.

  He just had to keep reminding himself-it's not for long.

  Then he met Etta, the girl across the hall, an actress, the solution to his problem.

  He wondered if she'd returned yet.

  Martini in hand, he crossed over to her apartment and knocked. He heard footsteps. He smiled at the peephole, and the door opened.

  'Loverboy. Come on in.'

  He entered admiring Etta. She was gorgeous, with a deep tan and thick blonde hair, and curves that never quit. Of course, she couldn't compare to Elizabeth.

  'Did you do it?' he asked.

  'Sure did, honey. Give a sip.' She took the martini from his hand, drank some, and handed it back. 'I was fabulous. You should've seen me. You? Bite my tongue. Darryl Zanuck should've seen me. Give this a listen.'

  She turned on a small, cassette recorder.

  For a few seconds. Dal heard the buzz of blank tape. Then came Etta's voice.

  'Testing, testing, uno, dos, ties'

  More blank tape.

  'Yes?' Connie's voice.

  'You're Connie, aren't you?'

  'Yes.'

  He listened to all the tape. At first, the sound of Connie's voice made him ache. He wondered why he'd let himself lose her. But her shock pleased him. She really took it hard. Good. She deserved it for cheating on him. He sipped his martini. His power thrilled him - to tear apart all that trust and love by such a simple deception!

  'What do you think?' Etta asked when the tape ended.
/>
  'I think you deserve an Oscar.'

  'Right on.'

  Dal took out his wallet. He gave her a hundred dollars, in twenties.

  'If you ever need me again,' she said, 'I'll be here.'

  'We'll see how this turns out.'

  'Yeah, well, good luck.'

  'The ring.'

  'Oh! You mean I don't get to keep it?' With a laugh, she slipped it off her finger and gave it to Dal.

  Briefly, he considered asking Etta to join him for supper. He decided against it, though. He didn't feel like risking a refusal. Besides, if Elizabeth found out…

  ***

  Connie felt desolate. She took a long bath, but that didn't help. Her mind replayed the conversation, went over every minute of her times with Pete, seeking unknown answers.

  She wished she'd asked the woman for proof. A driver's license. Some kind of evidence to back up her awful words.

  But Connie didn't want proof.

  She wanted, so much, to disbelieve the woman. She dinged to the hope that it was a mistake, or a prank, or a vicious lie.

  Maybe Dal put the woman up to it. For vengeance. Or to make her drop Pete.

  But she knew, even as she thought such things, that she was clutching desperately at straws.

  The woman had told the truth.

  Pete's married.

  He'd been lying to her, twisting her emotions, encouraging her to fall in love. Trickery to get her into bed.

  No, she couldn't believe that.

  She didn't know what to believe.

  She fell onto her bed, and stared at the ceiling. Her mind was a helpless tangle.

  She looked at the clock. Nearly seven. Pete should be here by now. Unless he knows. Maybe his wife confronted him today, and he'll never come again.

  She covered her eyes with a pillow, then quickly flung the pillow aside. If her eyes were covered, she wouldn't see the doorbell light.

  It began to flash.

  Her stomach knotted. She felt as if she might vomit.

  Please, let it be Pete.

  She left the bedroom.

  Let him tell me it's a lie. Please, make it not be true.

  She opened the door, and it was Pete. He smiled, and stepped toward her. She held out a hand to stop him.