“Oh, I suppose working people feel a certain triumph in having sex on the old Drummond grounds,” she said dismissively, “but I have seen lights flicker in the attic late at night. The skylight is revealing of what’s inside as well as what’s out. It was the servants’ common room when my mother managed Larchmont. As a child, I used to go up there and watch the maids play poker. She didn’t know about their card games, but children and servants are natural allies.
“After Mother died, I shut up the attic and moved the remaining staff to the third floor. I wasn’t entertaining on a grand scale, I didn’t use those bedrooms. Or all those servants Mother thought essential for running Larchmont as if it were Blenheim Palace.
“It’s been most odd to see those lights, as if my mother’s servants had returned to play poker up there. My son assured me you were a competent investigator. I do expect you to take my complaint seriously, unlike our local police force. After all, my son is paying you.”
I turned back to her, laying the binoculars on the piecrust table. “Did you or Darraugh report this business to the titleholder, or the estate agents? They’d be the ones most concerned.”
` Julius Arnoff. He’s courteous, but he doesn’t quite believe me. I realize that I no longer own the house,” she said. “But I still feel a keen interest in its well-being. I told Darraugh when the police were so unhelpful that I would prefer my own investigator, who would owe me the necessity of reports. Which reminds me: I don’t believe you told me your name, young woman. Darraugh did, but I’ve forgotten it.”
“Warshawski. V 1. Warshawski.”
“Oh, these Polish names. They’re like eels sliding around the tongue. What did my son tell me he calls you? Vic? I will call you Victoria. Will you write your phone number on this pad? In large numbers; I don’t want to have to use a magnifying glass if I need to summon you in a hurry.”
Horrifying visions of Ms. Graham feeling free to call me at three in the morning when she had insomnia, or at odd moments during the day when loneliness overtook her, made me give her only my office number. My answering service would deflect her most of the time.
“I hope Darraugh hasn’t exaggerated your abilities. I will watch for you tonight.”
I shook my head. “I can’t stay out here tonight. But I’ll be back tomorrow” That didn’t please her at all: if her son was employing me it was my duty to work the hours that they set.
“And if someone else hires me tomorrow, should I drop my work for Darraugh to respond to that client’s demands?” I said.
The heavy lines around her nose deepened. She tried to demand what obligation could possibly take precedence over her needs, but I wasn’t
about to tell her. To her credit, she didn’t waste a long time on argument when she saw I wasn’t giving in.
“But you will tell me personally what you find out. I don’t want to have to get reports from Darraugh: there are times when I wish he was more like his father.”
Her tone didn’t make that sound like a compliment. When I stood to leave, she asked me-ordered, really-to take the cups back to the kitchen. I turned them over before putting them in the sink: Coalport bone china. Mugs, indeed.
I spent the drive to Chicago going over her surprising remarks. I wondered why Darraugh hated Larchmont so much. I found myself constructing Gothic scenarios. Darraugh was a widower. Perhaps his beloved wife had died there, while his wastrel father absconded with Darraugh’s wife’s diamonds and his own secretary. Or perhaps Darraugh suspected Geraldine of drowning his wife-or even his father-in the ornamental pond and had vowed never to set foot on Drummond land again.
As I returned to the small bungalows of Chicago’s West Side, I realized the situation was probably something far less dramatic. Darraugh and his mother no doubt merely had the the usual frictions of any family.
Whatever their history, Ms. Graham resented her son’s failure to visit her as often as she wanted. I wondered if phantom lights in the upper windows were a way of forcing Darraugh to pay attention to her. I foresaw the possibility of getting squeezed between these two strong personalities. At least it beat fretting about Morrell.
CHAPTER 3
Hands Across the Water
It was the thought of Geraldine Graham’s binoculars that determined me to slide through the grounds around Larchmont Hall Sunday night without showing a light or making the kind o? ruckus I’d set up if I tripped and broke an ankle. She had called once already during the day to make sure I was coming out. I asked if she’d seen her flickering lights the night before; she hadn’t, she said, but she didn’t spend the whole night looking for them as I would. Just as I was stiffening at being treated like a hired hand, she disarmed me, saying, “Even ten years ago, I was still strong enough to spend the night looking for intruders. I can’t now.”