was Andrea Peters. The psychic business he found a trifle distressing, but as long as she wasn’t a bore about it, he wouldn’t complain.
He was most impressed with Andrea’s subtle, natural quality. She was not exactly centerfold material, but there was an innocence about her, a feeling that she was not quite aware of how attractive she could be to certain men. Her looks were so pure and lovely and compelling that in the right light she was practically beautiful. Her hair was blond with an attractive glimmer and natural highlights, and fell down onto her shoulders in full, wavy tresses. She didn’t appear to be using much makeup, but it wasn’t always easy to tell. If she did wear any, she used it sparingly and with considerable skill. Her eyes seemed bright and large and brown and were probably touched up a bit—understandable, as they were her best features and she would want to emphasize them. Her nose was small, dainty. Her mouth was also small, but her lips turned up charmingly even when she sat in mild repose. She had a wonderful smile. Her teeth were a bit too large, but not unpleasantly so, and Ernie imagined that under the guidance of the right make up artist she could have modeled—though she wasn’t the usual bony, hollow-cheeked, half-starving type they seemed to go for. She was pretty. And he was interested. Now if only the feeling was mutual …
“Here we are!”
And Mrs. Plushing, her face beaming, came out with the roast—a big, delicious-looking hunk of tasty meat on a heavy blue platter. Soaking in its natural juices, the meat was rare and red and bloody. Ernie did not much care for meat, and hated rare meat most of all.
To him, it looked for all the world like a tiny human torso.
Chapter 9
An hour later they were sitting in the living room having after-dinner drinks and coffee. The dinner had been scrumptious and more than satisfying. Mrs. Plushing accepted compliments with an amusing mixture of pride and humility, then went to check on Emily, who was, she reported, “sleeping like a log.” She and the other servants ate their share of the supper at the kitchen table, then retired to their chambers or went for walks. “Stay close to the house,” Everson warned. “It’s dark outside and we don’t want anyone getting lost.”
Everson sat in the large, comfortable chair by the fireplace, a snifter of brandy in his hand, and urged Ernie to regale the others with morbid tales of the island’s grisly background. Ernie sat on the piano bench, holding a cup of tea in one hand and balancing a plate of cookies on his knee. Gloria, Jerry, and Anton sat on the sofa near the front window, sampling assorted liquers. Cynthia and Andrea were on opposite sides of the sofa, in small matching chairs with gray patterned upholstery and broad wooden legs. Betty Sanders sat alone on an ottoman next to a bookcase in the corner, sipping her black coffee and looking wide-eyed and lonely.
Ernie felt annoyed that Everson had put him on the spot; most of the people in the room knew all about the island’s history already, especially its bloodier moments. He recited some of the less familiar details, addressing his words to those who seemed most interested. Andrea looked as if she were trying to become absorbed in what he said, but she kept fidgeting, rubbing her eyes. She was either very tired, uncomfortable with the whole subject, or—God help him—getting “negative vibes.” Cynthia and Jerry were giving one another surreptitious glances. If Gloria were aware of their interest in one another, she was keeping it to herself. Her eyes never strayed from Ernie’s face for a second—it was as if there were nothing else on her mind than hearing each and every word of what he had to say. Betty also gave him her undivided attention, and he blessed her silently. It would have been so easy for her to drift off and stare elsewhere, letting the others carry the burden. Even Gloria might have only been paying
He was most impressed with Andrea’s subtle, natural quality. She was not exactly centerfold material, but there was an innocence about her, a feeling that she was not quite aware of how attractive she could be to certain men. Her looks were so pure and lovely and compelling that in the right light she was practically beautiful. Her hair was blond with an attractive glimmer and natural highlights, and fell down onto her shoulders in full, wavy tresses. She didn’t appear to be using much makeup, but it wasn’t always easy to tell. If she did wear any, she used it sparingly and with considerable skill. Her eyes seemed bright and large and brown and were probably touched up a bit—understandable, as they were her best features and she would want to emphasize them. Her nose was small, dainty. Her mouth was also small, but her lips turned up charmingly even when she sat in mild repose. She had a wonderful smile. Her teeth were a bit too large, but not unpleasantly so, and Ernie imagined that under the guidance of the right make up artist she could have modeled—though she wasn’t the usual bony, hollow-cheeked, half-starving type they seemed to go for. She was pretty. And he was interested. Now if only the feeling was mutual …
“Here we are!”
And Mrs. Plushing, her face beaming, came out with the roast—a big, delicious-looking hunk of tasty meat on a heavy blue platter. Soaking in its natural juices, the meat was rare and red and bloody. Ernie did not much care for meat, and hated rare meat most of all.
To him, it looked for all the world like a tiny human torso.
Chapter 9
An hour later they were sitting in the living room having after-dinner drinks and coffee. The dinner had been scrumptious and more than satisfying. Mrs. Plushing accepted compliments with an amusing mixture of pride and humility, then went to check on Emily, who was, she reported, “sleeping like a log.” She and the other servants ate their share of the supper at the kitchen table, then retired to their chambers or went for walks. “Stay close to the house,” Everson warned. “It’s dark outside and we don’t want anyone getting lost.”
Everson sat in the large, comfortable chair by the fireplace, a snifter of brandy in his hand, and urged Ernie to regale the others with morbid tales of the island’s grisly background. Ernie sat on the piano bench, holding a cup of tea in one hand and balancing a plate of cookies on his knee. Gloria, Jerry, and Anton sat on the sofa near the front window, sampling assorted liquers. Cynthia and Andrea were on opposite sides of the sofa, in small matching chairs with gray patterned upholstery and broad wooden legs. Betty Sanders sat alone on an ottoman next to a bookcase in the corner, sipping her black coffee and looking wide-eyed and lonely.
Ernie felt annoyed that Everson had put him on the spot; most of the people in the room knew all about the island’s history already, especially its bloodier moments. He recited some of the less familiar details, addressing his words to those who seemed most interested. Andrea looked as if she were trying to become absorbed in what he said, but she kept fidgeting, rubbing her eyes. She was either very tired, uncomfortable with the whole subject, or—God help him—getting “negative vibes.” Cynthia and Jerry were giving one another surreptitious glances. If Gloria were aware of their interest in one another, she was keeping it to herself. Her eyes never strayed from Ernie’s face for a second—it was as if there were nothing else on her mind than hearing each and every word of what he had to say. Betty also gave him her undivided attention, and he blessed her silently. It would have been so easy for her to drift off and stare elsewhere, letting the others carry the burden. Even Gloria might have only been paying
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