Burnt Offering Read online

  Well, you had to expect winter when it was winter. And in the country, particularly, some snow was appropriate. The newspapers that morning had, to be sure, said nothing of snow, in any quantity, but had promised fair skies and temperatures rising into the low forties. Apparently something had—

  It was evident that something had. Fine snow began to drive against the windshield, melting on the warmth of the glass. Lynn Ross switched the wipers on. She was glad it had held off as long as it had.

  The snow was not white, but a gray darkness. Lynn switched on her headlights. The light beams hit a curtain of snow and from it, bounced back into her eyes. She dipped the lights, and that was better. But now snow rushed at the windshield and, just before it reached the glass, swirled upward, dizzy with its own movement—and dizzying to her. Then there were street lights as she went into Katonah, driving now very slowly. The lights made a difference. She went past the station and, beyond it, turned left. After a block, she turned right onto Route 35. That was what Margaret had told her to do.

  The snow which had fallen blew toward her on the pavement, netting the black surface with tracings of white. There was still not enough to cause uneasiness, but soon there would be. She wished she had started half an hour earlier from the city; wished she had driven faster while she could. She watched her speedometer; the numerals which gauged the distance she had driven moved up into place with exasperating slowness.

  But finally she had driven the three miles, and the tires still had pavement to cling to. Beyond was a bridge. “Just before you cross the bridge.” She turned right, onto a road which climbed in a steep curve—a narrower road, but still black paved. Two miles now to a fork. The road climbed in an S-curve and here, for the first time, the car skidded slightly. She caught it, and the motor labored. She shifted down, very carefully, fearing the wheels would spin. They did not, and she ground slowly on. It was much darker, now, and even the lowered beams of light reflected into her eyes from what seemed a wall of snow. There was a center line of white, and she guided on that. A mile and one tenth—and two tenths—and three tenths. A mile and a half—a mile and six—a mile and—

  She came to the top of the hill, as the speedometer “9” climbed reluctantly in the column of tenths. Here the fork should be. There was no fork—yes, there was a fork. Here the road divided to circle Lake Carabec. She followed the branch to the right. For the first time, here, the snow lay smoothly on the road. But it was so light, still, that her wheels bit through it. In the mirror, she could see the tracks the car left as it ground slowly on the narrow, winding road.

  She came around a rock-outcropping, to which a single tree clung perilously, black against the snowy night. Then she was looking over the lake—a black lake which seemed to stretch endlessly into the falling snow. (But it was, Margaret had told her, only a small lake.) The road ran close to it; the guard rail between road and steeply pitching bank looked ancient—a guide, rather than a barrier. Skidding into it, a car—

  Well, the point was not to skid into it. She drove carefully, thankful that the lake lay to the left. She hugged the right side of the road. She skidded again, gently, and caught the skid, but then skidded—just perceptibly—the other way.

  She had come a mile since the fork. Another mile— Then, some distance ahead, she saw a lighted house. It was a big house, and there seemed to be lights in all its windows. “If it’s dark, we’ll light the place like a Christmas tree,” Margaret had promised. The road pitched down, and she let the motor brake. It levelled and she had not skidded. A mile and six—and seven—and—

  Something sparkled ahead and to the right, in the car lights. And eight tenths—and nine— The sparkling was from a reflecting sign. It read, “John Halley.” She turned into the driveway it marked, and now climbed again and turned again—and skidded. But now the skidding meant nothing, and she drove confidently toward the gayly lighted house. A porch light came on, and a man came around the house, from the rear, with a flashlight. He motioned, beckoned with the flashlight, and pointed with it to the right. She went as directed; a garage, open, was ahead. She drove into the garage, neatly between a station wagon—headed out—and a big sedan. She cut the motor and then the lights. She said, “Whew,” softly, drawing the sound in through pursed lips. The man with the light came to the side of the car.

  “Bad night, miss,” he said. “Bad and gettin’ worse. You got bags, miss?”

  She had. She got out. She unlocked the trunk and looked down at the small, round, man who pulled her suitcase—“Dinner dress. Slacks and sweater. Nothing in between.” That was what Margaret had advised—and an overnight bag from the trunk of the little car.

  “Name’s Abner Speed,” the small man said. “You’d be Miss Ross?”

  “Yes,” the tall girl said. She was so much taller than this small man.

  “Take ’em in for you,” Abner Speed said. “Just gettin’ ready to go for the others.” He indicated the station wagon with a nod of his head. “Been putting on chains,” he said. “You got chains with you?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Anyway, you’re here,” Abner told her. “Hour or so road’ll be bad without chains.” He started out of the garage. “Or with them,” he added. “Quickest just to cut across here, miss.”

  He cut across there, on a snowy path, toward the porch. The door opened, and Margaret Halley stood in it and called, “Lynn?”

  “Yes,” Lynn said, and remembered, and walked tall—walked as tall as she could walk.

  (“When you learn to do that,” Margaret had said, “you’ll have learned a lot. The highest heels. The straightest back. You’re—what, Miss Ross?”

  “Five ten.”

  “You carry your head forward. Did you know that? You slump your shoulders. You—yes, you wear low heels.”

  “I know. I’ve always been—gawky. ‘My big gawky girl. My giantess,’ Dad used to—”

  She had been lying down; Margaret had been sitting behind her, in shadows.

  “You’re beginning to understand,” Margaret had said. “Part of it. Part of what causes your depression—what we call a simple depression. Remember, when you get up, you’re six feet tall. You’re taller. You hold your head up and your shoulders up. And—you get shoes with the highest heels you can walk on.”

  “I don’t understand, doctor. I’ve always—”)

  Now she walked along a path, through the snow, in the highest heels she could walk on. (Which, just now, was of course a little silly. ) She tried to be as tall—as tall as a tree. Margaret came to the edge of the porch and held out both hands to her. “I’m so glad you could come,” Margaret Halley said.

  “So am I, doctor,” Lynn said. She looked down at Margaret, who looked up at her, who smiled and waited. “Margaret,” Lynn said.

  “Better,” Margaret said. “Abner—wait a second, Abner.” Abner Speed had started to walk back toward the garage. “Stop at Ringstead’s, will you?” Margaret said. “Get this filled.”

  “Don’t know as I’ll have time,” Abner said. “Have to go slow, m’am.”

  “If you have time, then,” Margaret said. “I’m sure you will, Abner.”

  Speed said, “Yes, Mrs. Halley,” although without conviction. He went on toward the garage.

  Lynn followed Margaret Halley into the brightness of the house—into a square entrance hall, from it into a long living room. A fire burned brightly there, in a big fireplace. Lynn was told she must be frozen; that she must have a drink. Or tea? She decided on tea; was told to back up to the fire, get warm from the fire; that tea wouldn’t take a minute. If it was trouble—?

  It was none, Margaret—this Margaret so different from Dr. Margaret Halley, in her Park Avenue office—told Lynn Ross. It was not, of course, a matter merely of ringing. There were only Lucinda and Abner, and Lucinda would be deep in things. “Roughing it,” Margaret said, walking toward the end of the big room. “Aren’t you glad it snowed? So appropriate.”

  It was that, Lynn
thought, warm by the fire, standing with her back to the fire. She looked across at windows—windows almost, but not quite, curtained. In the light which escaped into the night, snowflakes danced. It was most appropriate; it was very pretty. It was pleasant to watch it, from inside, with back to fire.

  Margaret was not long. She came back with a silver teapot, and silver cream pitcher and sugar bowl, and cups, on a tray. She put the tray down on a table. She said, “Now,” in a tone of anticipation. “I’m so glad you got here before the others.” She poured tea. “John’s resting,” she said. “I insisted he rest. The poor—” She did not finish. Instead, she said she hoped Lynn had had no trouble finding them.

  “None,” Lynn said. “The directions were perfect—Margaret.” She hesitated a moment before the name. It was still more natural to say “Doctor.” It was still natural to be a little—well, not in awe, precisely. Respectful, austere as the word was, was still perhaps nearer it. But it was easier here. What a pretty woman she is, Lynn thought. And she must be—oh, over forty.

  “Isn’t Mr. Halley well?” she asked.

  “John? Oh—well enough. There have been things to do, of course. And it’s been months since either of us has turned a muscle. You know how it is.”

  Lynn did not, particularly. There was no point in going into it. She sipped tea and the warmth caressed her—caressed slender body, long, slim legs. She opened the jacket of her suit, to feel the warmth through the thinner material of her blouse. She said she felt like purring.

  “By all means,” Margaret said. They sipped, for a moment, in silence. “You’ll like the others, I think,” Margaret said, then. “Shall I brief you about them?”

  It always helped to be briefed. Lynn said it always helped.

  “Brian Perry,” Margaret said. “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Should I have?” Lynn asked, shaking her head as she spoke. (I do feel like purring, she thought.) “Is he somebody famous?”

  “I suppose not,” Margaret Halley said. “Not to everybody. Doctor Brian Perry?”

  “No,” Lynn said. “I’m very ignorant. But you know that.”

  Margaret looked at her sharply, for an instant with doctor’s eyes. Lynn was watching the fire.

  “He’s a psychiatrist, too,” Margaret said. “And a neurologist. He’s done some very interesting things. Got suggestive results. Has some interesting theories. Of course, some of the theories—” She did not finish that. “A tall man, Lynn. Much taller than you. Tall and thin—his women patients probably fall in love with him. Which can be helpful, you know. Up to a point. He used to come to the lake summer weekends. They had a little place near the club.”

  “The tall dark one will be Dr. Perry,” Lynn said. “You said ‘they’?”

  “He and his wife,” Margaret said. “She’s dead. She was named Carla.”

  It would be too bad not to be alive, Lynn thought—Lynn who, not much over a year ago, had taken one sleeping pill and then another, and after that another and another still, because the world was dreary and life stuck in her throat. She said, “That’s too bad,” of Carla Perry, whom she had never known and who was dead. The words were as good as any.

  “And Struthers Boyd,” Margaret said. “They have a house down the road. He and John play golf together. It’s too bad Grace is in Florida. You’d like Grace, I think.”

  Grace presumably was Boyd’s wife. She was not dead. She was in Florida.

  “Big man,” Margaret said. “Very hearty. The—the classmate type. And a man named Kemper—Tom Kemper. And Audrey Latham. Did you ever hear of Audrey Latham?”

  She had, it appeared to Lynn, heard of no one. She shook her head, and listened. She heard that Audrey Latham wrote music. “Show songs. Usually about somebody who can’t forget somebody. You know?”

  “Yes,” Lynn said.

  “Additional music by Audrey Latham, so far,” Margaret said. “John thinks she’s very good, however. Or will be. John’s always been interested in music, you know.”

  It was another thing that Lynn had not known. But she knew very little of John Halley—that he was older than his wife, and had a great deal of money, and had always had.

  “In music,” Margaret said. “In pictures. In writing. He wrote a little himself as a young man, you know.” Once more Lynn had to shake her head. “When he lived in France,” Margaret said. “Little sketches. About things—people—little incidents. Charming little things. It was a long time before John and I met—heavens, I must have been in rompers. If in anything. More tea?”

  Lynn took more tea.

  “And that’s all,” Margaret said. “Brian and Struthers Boyd and Tom and Miss Latham—and John and I, and you. Not a large party—and one too many men, because Grace had her reservations all made for Florida. But—”

  She paused. She put her teacup down and lighted a cigarette.

  “To be quite honest,” she said, “John’s been moody lately. Hasn’t had much interest in things. There’s a little therapy in the party, my dear. Pretty young women—you and Miss Latham. John’s quite interested in pretty young women, too. Mental stimulation—Brian. Gemütlichkeit—good old Struthers. And auld lang syne and whatnot. A bright start for the New Year. And—”

  She paused again. She ground out the cigarette she had just lighted and finished the tea in her cup.

  “Forget about the therapy,” she said. “We’ll all have fun. More tea?”

  “No,” Lynn said.

  “It’s a dull thing, tea,” Margaret said. “We’ll have cocktails when the others get here or—now, if you like?”

  “When the others come. I wonder if—”

  “Of course,” Margaret said. “You want to freshen up. Come, I’ll show you.”

  She got up; she led Lynn to the hall again and then, insisting on carrying the suitcase while Lynn carried the smaller bag, up the stairs and down a hall to a room at the rear of the house. It was a small room, but on a corner, with two windows. A bath opened off it.

  “A lovely room,” Lynn said, and to that Margaret smiled only. She said that she hoped Lynn wouldn’t mind an electric blanket.

  “Mind?” Lynn said. “Why?”

  “Some people are afraid they’ll catch on fire,” Margaret said. “Some people are afraid of so many things.”

  “I’m not,” Lynn said. “Not any more. I don’t remember I ever was of electric blankets.”

  “No,” Margaret said. “Of course not. We’ll have a drink or two before we change. And then change. And then have a drink or two.” She went to the door. She stopped there. “You’re fine now, aren’t you, my dear?” she said.

  “Fine,” Lynn said. “Just fine, doctor.”

  “Time,” Margaret said. “That almost always does it. Time—and being watched over. I was never in doubt about you, you know. Not about you. In half an hour or so?”

  Lynn nodded, and Margaret went out of the room and down the hall. Lynn could hear her heels clicking on the uncarpeted floor. Lynn opened her suitcase and took out a dinner dress—a long dress, which was made to fit closely—to make her tall—and hung it in the closet. She “freshened up.” After a time she heard, from downstairs, the sound of voices, and of a woman’s laughter. The laughter sounded gay.

  Lynn Ross went down the stairs—a tall girl and very slim, with a wide white forehead and dark eyes, with reddish-brown hair which had a kind of glow in its color, a glow independent of the light which fell on it. She met the others—Dr. Brian Perry, who was, as promised, taller than she; who was somewhere in his early forties (probably) and on whose rather long face rimless glasses suggested austerity; Mr. Boyd, a loosely large man and a hearty one; a pretty young woman who came to Lynn’s shoulder, was very blond, and looked rather more likely to sing songs than to write them. And Tom Kemper, who had—Lynn realized only after she saw him—not been described at all. He was her height or a little less (still she noticed height before almost anything), wore brown hair in a crew cut, and looked at the world with, it see
med, abounding amiability. “Warm brown eyes.” Lynn had read about them. Here they were, in the open countenance of Mr. Kemper, who looked to be in his early thirties, and without a care in the world—who somehow, without saying anything so obvious, managed to say that, for years, he had been waiting for just this delightful opportunity of meeting a tall young woman named Lynn Ross.

  Abner Speed—wearing a white coat, now—wheeled in a bar wagon and stood beside it and looked at Dr. Margaret Halley. Then, it appeared, there was a momentary hitch. “I think Mr. Halley would rather—” Margaret said, and looked, quickly, toward the door which led to the central hall and the stairs which rose from it. “I wonder what’s—” she began, and stopped. They heard feet on the stairs. John Halley came in from the hall, smiling. The smile creased a long brown face. He wore a dinner jacket.

  For a host minutes late to his own party, John Halley was unperturbed. It occurred to Lynn, smiling a guestly smile, that it probably had been many years since John Halley had been perturbed, ill at ease. He said now that he was sorry, made general sounds of greeting and added, to Margaret, that he’d decided to get changed and be out of the way.

  “Of course, dear,” Margaret said, and patted her husband’s sleeve. “Good old John,” Struthers Boyd said, apropos of nothing immediately apparent, and Tom Kemper said, “Evening, sir.” Audrey Latham said nothing, but looked up into Halley’s long brown face and smiled very prettily, Lynn thought. Halley moved toward the bar wagon. On his way, he tapped Boyd lightly on the shoulder; said, “Evening, Kemper”; said, “Glad you could make it, doctor,” to Brian Perry, and paused to shake his hand. At the bar, Halley said, in a lightly pleasant voice, “Now?” Then, directed, he mixed drinks and Abner Speed passed drinks. Returning to the fire with his own, he said, “Cheers,” and was echoed.