Haunted Read online

  "Calla wrote about you in the paper," he answered sourly.

  "You're that big time writer, you do all that Frankenstein stuff. Calla, she likes your books." I don't was the unspoken coda. "Been selling a lot of them since the story came out. New one's gotcher picture on the back. Had to special order copies of that old true story one you did about haunted houses. Calla and some of those lunatics up at the High Hooey Center wanted them." He snorted in disgust. "Guess you think you're some kind of expert. They all do, when they first show up."

  The High Hooey Center? "I'm not unfamiliar with the paranormal--" David paused to take a deep breath. Don't let him get you, he cautioned himself as he realized he was trotting out his evil twin, the patronizing intellectual snob, to respond to the geezer's not-so-subtle attack. That's not nice, Masters. He exhaled; he could take a little criticism, especially considering the source. "I've seen some interesting things and done a little research."

  "Yeah, yeah," said the man as he bagged David's purchases.

  "That's what they all say. Then they go in there and die. Research, my ass."

  This wasn't just an old geezer, David decided. This was a certified old fart, all judgment and hot air. But fascinating. He smiled patiently. "As I understand it, the only death on the property in recent years was that of the child who fell from the lighthouse a few months ago." He handed the old fart a twenty. "Or has something happened since?"

  "Wouldn't know anything about it," the clerk grunted. He laid three ones and change on the counter then pushed it toward David with his fingertips. "Don't care. Ain't none of my business."

  Christ Almighty. "Have you ever been in Baudey House?"

  David asked, careful to pronounce the name correctly.

  "Body House. Plain old Body House." He thrust the bag at David, then crossed his arms and resumed his hard stare.

  "Once, when I was a stupid kid, I went in on a dare. Learned my lesson. Never went back."

  "Did something happen while you were inside?"

  He set his mouth in a grim, uncooperative line. "I warned you. Don't forget I warned you." An instant later, the man's gaze shifted as the market's door groaned on its hinges.

  "Dad?"

  Amber stood on the threshold, the afternoon sunlight forming a golden nimbus around her long, tawny hair. "Daddy, you said you'd just be a minute."

  "Get in or get out, young lady," the old fart commanded.

  "You're letting flies in."

  Unperturbed, she stepped inside and let the door slam behind her. The clerk glared but she ignored him. "Let's go. We have to check out the high school before dark. You promised." She took the paper sack from his arms and tilted her head toward the clerk. "You can come back for your local color later, Dad."

  The old man grunted something that sounded like "fugginwriter," then cleared his throat. "She yours?"

  David nodded.

  "You intending to take her into that house?"

  "Yes."

  "When it kills her, you remember Ferd Cox warned you. It's gonna be all your fault for taking her in there."

  "God," moaned Amber. "Get a life."

  "Amber, hush," David said softly.

  Cox turned his discomfiting glare on her. "You don't believe in ghosts, is that it, little girl?"

  "Of course not," she replied, her own evil twin gaining power. "Not the kind that can hurt you."

  "Guess your daddy told you there was no such thing?"

  She nodded. "They're just anomalies. They're simple."

  David cringed a little as his daughter fixed Ferd Cox with her straight-on stare and smiled condescendingly. "Only superstitious people believe in ghosts. Let's go, Daddy, please?"

  "Okay, I'm coming." David followed her to the door, then glanced back at Ferd Cox. "See you later."

  "Not frigging likely."

  "Charming man," David said, as they got into the car.

  Amber set the bag on the backseat then slid in beside him. She grinned wickedly. "That Cox, he's a sucker."

  "I'm your father. Don't talk like that in front of your father." He pulled out onto the little paved road, then added, "Save it for your friends."

  "All my friends are in Massachusetts, Daddy."

  "You'll make more."

  "I doubt it." She stared out the window at a woman in pink curlers stumping down the side of the road. "This place is full of geeks."

  "Give it a chance. You know, you were really rude to that man."

  "Oh, Daddy, he was really rude first. It's not like I'm a little kid anymore. I'm almost seventeen and I don't think I should have to put up with rude old far-men."

  In theory, he agreed with her, but all he said was, "You're a cheeky brat."

  "I know." She leaned across the seat and pecked his cheek. "You taught me everything I know."

  "Maybe, but learn to exercise some self control, okay? Look, Amber, we're not in a big city anymore. Red Cay has a population of four hundred and eighty-four--"

  "Four hundred and eighty-six."

  "That's what I'm talking about. Don't keep correcting your elders. In the city, everything's different. Here, you give some old geezer a ration of crap and you're likely to hear your name splashed all over the place as the latest town juvie."

  "That might be fun."

  "Amber--"

  "I'm sorry," she said as they pulled up to a stop sign. She smiled. "You know I'm just teasing you. I promise I'll try not to rile the rubes."

  "Okay," David said as he made a left onto Cottage Street. "But you're making me nervous, kiddo. Look, you can call them rubes around me, but don't let them hear you do it. You do understand that, right?"

  "Of course, Daddy. You're such a worrywart."

  A quarter mile down Cottage, they found the high school. "Looks like they don't have summer school here, Amber. Guess you're brokenhearted."

  "Oh, yeah, right. It's sure dinky. Are you sure they've got art classes?"

  It was small, she was right. Low-slung, circa 1940s stucco painted babyshit yellow, and ugly as sin, it was a mini-version of the typical California public school building. "They claim to have several art classes."

  "They're probably all doofus fruit-drawing classes."

  "Well, Amber, consider it a challenge. You can draw bowls of rotting fruit."

  "You're weird, Daddy."

  He grinned at her. "If all they have are fruit drawing classes, we'll find you a private teacher."

  "Here? In the middle of nowhere?"

  "The hills outside of town are crawling with artistic types, remember? I'm sure we can find one."

  "Do you think I could take private lessons even if there's a class at school? I'd learn a lot more."

  He hesitated, unused to being able to afford things like private lessons. "Sure, why not? Now, let's go get the keys to our new palace."

  "Can't we cruise around just a little more?"

  "You've seen most of it already," David told her. "And you'll see more on the way to the office--Theo's place is up in the hills where all the crazy artists live. Tomorrow we'll check out the town in detail, I promise. Okay?"

  "Sure, Dad. Maybe we'll meet some people just as nice as Ferd Cox."

  At least she said it with a smile.

  They headed into the hills west of downtown Red Cay and spent forty-five minutes attempting to find Theo's place by relying solely on David's memory. This resulted only in a number of snide inquiries from Amber about why he always refused to ask for directions, so he finally gave up, pulled over and consulted the map, an act not quite as humiliating as admitting failure to another human being. Melanie used to say he had testosterone poisoning and never let him get away with it. That was one of the things he liked about his ex-girlfriend. Actually, there were a lot of things he liked about her--chief among them, he constantly reminded himself, the fact that she was now thirty-five hundred miles away, making her own life in mid-town Manhattan instead of trying to make him feel guilty.

  "Dad? Do you see it yet?"

>   "Oh, uh huh. I think I've got it. Take a look." After she confirmed his directions--she had a knack for reading maps--he checked his mirrors and pulled back onto the road. "Surveyors from Hell designed this place."

  The outskirts of town were comprised of a series of vague ovals crisscrossed by a maze of winding roads and passes, most of which they had traveled at least twice in the last thirty minutes. The outermost oval, a paved, two-lane highway, touched the coast on one side and fed from the access road to Pacific Coast Highway, farther inland, on the other. Red Cay proper began at the coast and spread inland for several blocks. Simple to navigate with its straight streets heading in normal directions like north, south, east, and west, it contained businesses, fishing-related and otherwise, as well as older homes which ranged in style from bungalow and sea shanty to elegant Victorian.

  As dusk deepened, David switched on the Bronco's headlights. The squirrely area they navigated now was not actually part of the town. Art galleries, expensive private homes, small farms, and ranches were all scattered along the twisting ovoids and switchbacks between the coast and Highway 101. This area consisted of picturesque rolling hills and pastoral meadows, and from time to time, longhorn cattle, horses, wildflowers, monarch butterflies, and any number of other scenic items which helped attract the artists and their patrons to the area. A number of colony-types who thought that Cambria, fifty miles north, had become too commercial, had relocated here and David suspected that, while the merchants in town were happy to take the artists' money, they secretly held them in contempt. Red Cay itself was a fishing town, full of real men and tired-looking women. To the townsfolk, he'd qualify as an artist too, and equally worthy of their contempt, if he wasn't careful.

  He knew he'd made the correct tum when he saw The Beings of Light Church. He'd noticed it the first time he was up.

  "Look, that must be the High Hooey Center," he said.

  "Huh?"

  He explained about Ferd Cox's term for the New Age center.

  "High Hooey," Amber said. "I like it."

  "Me too," he replied. "It's direct and to the point." The New Agers' buildings were beautiful constructs of redwood and glass, the central building traditionally churchlike, the rest low and nearly hidden in a plethora of pines and ferns. A moment later, they rounded a bend, and came upon the modem split-level ranch house that Theodora Pelinore owned. Sprawling didn't begin to describe the place. He turned the truck into the circular drive, pulled up and parked.

  Chapter Two

  Pelinore Realty: 7:29 P.M.

  "This is an office?" Amber asked as she got out of the car and stretched her stiff muscles. What was supposed to be a fifteen-minute trip had taken almost an hour; no one could get lost like her dad. Their cross-country trip, for instance, had taken twelve days instead of the planned eight, mostly because of his creative shortcuts. When he did give in and read a map, he usually read it wrong.

  Not that she really minded, at least not when she wasn't in a hurry to get somewhere, because they always discovered weird places where she could acquire truly unique souvenir T-shirts. On this trip, her father's creative driving had uncovered tacky wonders (and T-shirts) like Marjoe's Alligator Farm in Ohio, The Amazing Petrified Caveman in Colorado and The Whistling Caverns of Jesus in Utah. There, the guide had told them that if they listened closely they'd hear the caverns doing "Onward Christian Soldiers." Of course, she'd never admit to her friends that she enjoyed these side trips, or that she did any more than endure her father's quirks. She wouldn't even admit it to her father, who probably knew, but had the good sense not to say so.

  "Yes, this is it. It's a private home, too."

  "I knew that," she said quickly.

  "The office is at the far end of the house. Wait'll you meet Theo, you'll like her."

  He’d said that several time during their trip here, which wasn't good. Any time her dad told her she'd like some female, it was a bad sign. He couldn't read women any better than he could read a road map. She didn't know about her mother--she'd died when Amber was only three--but ever since she could remember, he'd dated bimbo after bimbo, until he'd met Melanie. After a while, Mel had moved in with them and, for a couple of years, things were pretty great. Then they broke up, just six months ago, right before their wedding. Her dad would never say much about it, except that it had to do with business, and that sounded like major bull to Amber. As Annie, one of her girlfriends, pointed out, Melanie was a fox and knew how to flirt, big time. Maybe, suggested her friend, Melanie was screwing around on her dad and he was so hurt he couldn't talk about it. Amber thought that might be true, mostly because it made more sense than "business differences."

  Old Melanie could be a lot of fun, even if she was sort of shallow; she was a literary agent and had a lot of that Teflon glitz about her that sometimes made Amber wonder if Mel would have known a deep thought if it bit her on the butt. That didn't bother Amber; what did matter was that, though she called herself an agent, it was possible that maybe she was nothing but a writer groupie. Amber guessed she probably screwed anything that could put two words together. Her dad never noticed, and no wonder: judging by the noises, old Mel was a hell of a lay. Amber liked her because she was really protective of her dad, was usually in a good mood, and she didn't treat her like a little kid.

  The only time Melanie had seemed really upset was once when she tried to talk her dad into firing his agent and hiring her. But Amber knew he wouldn't dump Georgie any more than he'd dump his own daughter. Her dad was the loyal type--something Melanie couldn't understand. So, six months ago, Melanie had moved out of the condo and back to Manhattan. In retrospect, maybe her friend Annie was wrong.

  Maybe it really was all about business. What a stupid reason to break up!

  "Here we are," he said as they approached a door displaying a discreet plaque that read "Pelinore Realty." He knocked, but there was no answer, so he tried the door, found it unlocked, and they walked in.

  The office was a study in antiseptic monochromatics: beige carpet, cream walls, white wood blinds over the windows. Two large southwestern landscape watercolors supplied the only color with muted swipes of peach, sage, and turquoise while the furniture consisted of bleached bentwood and woven rush chairs and a low-slung white oak desk. The only things on the desk were a modem white plastic lamp-thing that looked melted, and a buzzer, also cream and white. Her father pushed the buzzer.

  "Nice office, huh kiddo?"

  She hated its sterility, and it reeked of rich bitch, so she just shrugged. "It's all right, I guess."

  "Okay, you're the artist. What's wrong with it?"

  She opened her mouth to tell him, then shut it again. For almost two weeks, they'd been together every waking moment and they were starting to get on each other's nerves. She could tell he was trying to be patient, so she decided not to be too blunt. "It looks like everything should be covered with plastic slipcovers."

  He glanced around, considering. "I hate it when you're right."

  "Right about what?" The door behind the desk had opened silently and a woman dressed to ornament the room stood there smiling at them.

  "Nothing," her dad said, his face coloring slightly. "Nothing at all. Amber, this is Theodora Pelinore, our real estate agent. Theo, this is Amber, my daughter."

  Not my realtor, Amber thought as Pelinore swept across the room in her expensive burnt-apricot Santa Fe skirt and soft western shirt. One was denim, the other, sand-washed silk. Terribly stylish, terribly elegant, terribly shallow. The outfit was belted with turquoise-encrusted silver conches that must have cost her thousands. Her dark hair was pulled away from her pale skin in a stylish twist held with a silver and turquoise comb that probably hurt like hell. Just a little something for around the house, Amber thought. Creativity always impressed her, but this southwest yuppie look was as magazine-like and boring as the office.

  Amber noticed that her father's eyes were practically bugging out of their sockets as the woman approached. Probably the big
boobs, she thought, then felt guilty. For all his faults, her dad wasn't a pig. Probably, he was taken in by the whole package, the air of success, the elegant cheekbones, the husky voice, the air of dominance. And the big boobs. Amber could imagine Theodora Pelinore in black leather underwear whipping poor, unsuspecting, drooling males into submission.

  Probably, she'd do a few women on the side, she had that look too. Predatory. Pelinore gave her the creeps.

  Her dad, who never showed any preferences for any particular physical types, was consistently drawn to predators, to vampire women who'd suck him dry, whose expectations he couldn't possibly fulfill. The poor man never knew what was good for him. Ditzes, ballbreakers, gold-diggers, and power freaks, he loved them all. Nice women didn't tum him on.

  "David, how nice to see you. I expected you a little earlier." Pelinore snagged him and did the Huggy Thing. The Huggy Thing, made famous by Hollywood, was an overly familiar, insincere embrace which included meaningless mutual patting on the back. Her dad was doing it too and they looked like they were burping each other.

  After about a century, Theo Pelinore released him and looked at Amber. "What a beautiful young woman you are," she said, extending her arms and stepping forward, sort of like the Bride of Frankenstein. Amber quickly moved back and stuck out her hand. Pelinore didn't falter, but took it graciously. Her hand was soft and damp. "Are you looking forward to living here, dear, with your famous father?" She smiled ingratiatingly.

  Her father was watching her intently, waiting for her to say something obnoxious, like she had done to the old man in the store. She decided to surprise him and just do a little valley girl. "I guess so. Where's the mall?"

  Pelinore laughed, all cultured and polite. "Well, dear, there's no mall, per se, but we have some magnificent shops and boutiques. And our performing arts center is just fabulous. They host lots of concerts. It's just over the hill." She pointed toward one of the watercolors.

  "Concerts?" Amber asked hopefully.

  The woman smiled again, too widely. "Oh yes. They're doing an updated version of Hair right now. You'd really enjoy it."