The Chosen

^{CHAPTER FIFTEEN}

Vera descended the stairs the next morning at ten, wearing a lightly flowered chartreuse jacket and white chiffon skirt. A bleached stone statue of Edward the Confessor smirked at her on the landing when she evened the jacket’s low-cut brim.

She’d slept in snatches, dragged in and out of sleep. The dream of The Hands had mauled her all night, plied her, twisted her into the lewdest positions. She’d waked just before dawn in a gloss of perspiration, having kicked off the bedcovers in her sleep. One pillowcase was torn, she’d noticed, by her teeth. I’m so horny I’m having sex-fits, she’d thought. Her sweat dampened the sheets beneath her. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t return to sleep, tossing and turning instead.

More and more now, The Inn’s resistance to light occurred to her. Little sunlight fell into the atrium this morning, leaving only quiet gloom. She went behind the reception desk and down the left hall, to the front office. Feldspar looked up from his desk and semi-smiled when she entered.

“Good morning, Ms. Abbot.”

“Hi, Mr. Feldspar,” she replied. “You’re a pretty hard guy to track down.”

“Indeed.” He set his Mont Blanc down on the blotter and stiffly rose. “I apologize for not being present for your opening night—I was horribly detained writing promotional copy for our new membership brochures. I understand your first night went well.”

No one had to go to the hospital with food poisoning, she thought, if that’s what you mean by well. “We only did fifteen dinners.”

“Ah, and you’re disappointed by that.” This was an observation, not a question.

“Well, I’m not jumping up and down with joy. I still think if we’d run some ads…”

Feldspar smiled more broadly this time. He idly stroked his goatee, looking at her. “You expected a deluge of business on opening night? Surely not. What you must understand, Ms. Abbot, is the real function of The Carriage House.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a sideline, a subordination. I don’t expect the restaurant, on its own, to ever operate in the black.”

This frustrated, even astonished, her. Then why the hell are you paying us all this money? she wanted to shout. Why do you have a restaurant at all if you don’t expect it to make a profit?

“Our priority is The Inn,” he stated. “Our business profits come from guest reservations. I thought I’d made that clear.”

“Well, you did,” she admitted, “sort of.” Then she decided to voice her query, even though it countered her best interests. “So why even have the restaurant at all? The food inventories, the payroll, and its construction costs must come to a tremendous sum.”

“The building cost of The Carriage House,” Feldspar finally revealed “totaled out at just under a million, and I’m figuring half a million per year for stock, salaries, and utilities, based on the restaurants from Magwyth Enterprises’ other inns.”

“What are your average gross receipts from the same restaurants?” she now felt obliged to ask.

Feldspar shrugged. “About a hundred thousand, a little more sometimes.”

Four hundred grand in the hole every year? she calculated.

“And you’re thinking it’s an affront to business logic to maintain a quality restaurant that will never show profits.”

“Yes,” Vera said. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Quality,” Feldspar replied, “is the key word in the theorem. And long-term overall profit projections. Why does any hotel spend fifteen thousand dollars for a painting that few patrons even look at? Why does a broker spend more on office furniture than the average person earns in several years? La Belle Dame, in southern France, recently purchased a bottle of Medoc to display in their dining room. It cost one hundred twenty thousand dollars. Certainly no one’s going to order it with dinner.”

“So it’s all a show, in other words?” Vera reasoned.

“Yes, or in better words, it’s all a verification of impeccable quality standards. In our business, we amass such standards to a single, focused effect. Our select clientele want proof of such standards. They pay for it.”

The Carriage House is an expensive chair that nobody’s even supposed to sit in, Vera thought. Just a pretty thing for patrons to notice out of the corner of their eye when they’re walking up to their high-priced suites. We’re just scenery.

“That’s why I hired you,” Feldspar continued. “That’s why I pay you a considerable salary. I don’t care if you only serve one dinner per night, Ms. Abbot. As long as you maintain a preeminent standard of quality at The Carriage House, you’re doing your job. And if you do your job, you’ll be rewarded. You can manage

The Carriage House for as long as you like, or you can even transfer to one of our other inns abroad. Thus far, I couldn’t be more pleased with your efforts.”

It’s your ball game, she thought. Why argue with him, or with the money he was paying? Vera knew that with time, and with some promotion, she could make the restaurant work on its own. But Feldspar didn’t even seem to want it to.

He stepped toward a dark teak cabinet, with his slight limp, and uncorked a bottle of Chateau de Pommard. “Volnay is my favorite vineyard,” he remarked. “Would you care for some?”

It’s a little early to be drinking expensive wine, she thought, but what the hell? “Sure,” she said. He passed her a glass, which she sniffed. A good bouquet. Its taste had an after-dazzle, a beautiful, bright dry edge.

Feldspar chugged his. What a bohemian, Vera thought.

“As the French say, boire un petit coup c’est agré-able.”

“What’s that mean?”

“A little drink is good.” He poured himself another glass and awkwardly retook his seat. He looked casual today, in that he wasn’t wearing a suit. Instead he wore suede J.P. Tod loafers, dark slacks, and a Yohji black silk sports jacket that must have cost a thousand dollars. His hair was pulled back in its usual short tail, and the rings glittered on his wide hands. Vera remembered the gun in his desk, and the unlocked cash box, but skipped mentioning it. Admitting that you’d been snooping in the boss’s desk drawer probably wouldn’t win her any stars. Instead, she said, “I’m out of company checks. I’ve got two suppliers coming in tomorrow, so I’ll need more.”

“Order them from the bank in town,” he dismissed.

“Well, I can’t. I don’t have an account ID. Kyle said you’d give me an account card.” She didn’t want to sound like she was complaining, but she didn’t have an account number for her own personal account, into which her salary checks were direct-deposited. “I could also use my own account number.”

Feldspar glanced up, flabbergasted. “What a blunder, I do apologize. I’ve been so busy I’d forgotten about it.” He quickly milled around the top desk drawer and gave her both account cards. “And don’t bother showing me your inventory lists. Use your own judgment—that’s what I hired you for.”

Vera nodded. He was pretty much giving her a free rein on her stock orders, but that didn’t really surprise her. By now, she was getting to know this odd man, and how he delegated authority. She wondered if Kyle had the same monetary freedom with room service. Probably more, she thought. The prick.

Now that she had her account numbers, she needed a way to get into town, another point she wasn’t quite sure how to bring up. He’s paying me a hundred and fifteen grand, I can’t very well whine about my wheels.

But Feldspar brought it up for her. “And you’re too polite,” he commented, finishing off his Pommard. “As you know, I’m quite a busy man, not that that serves as an excuse. I forget minor details rather often. Please don’t feel reserved to remind me of things.” Again, he was digging in the desk drawer. “After all, part of your employment contract entitles you to a company car. I regret that it took so long, but I thought you’d like something nice, so I put in a special order with our headquarters. An overstock.” A set of keys dangled from his fingers, which he raised to her. “I do hope you like blue.”

“Blue’s just fine,” she said. All she cared about this moment was wheels, not colors. “And thank you. What kind of car is it?’’

“Go and see. It was delivered this morning. Around back.”

Oh, goodie, she thought. She’d only been off the premises once, in Dan B.’s dented station wagon. “I’ll also be picking up some locks for my walk-ins,” she added. “Kyle said—or at least he implied—that there’s a pilfering problem. Is that true?”

“Oh, I’m sure it goes on. Who knows what else goes on behind management’s back?”

Dolts, Vera remembered Kyle’s reference to the staff. What a malicious shithead. One day I’ll dolt him.

“It’s not that I don’t trust the help,” Feldspar said, “but you can’t trust everyone. A fair rule of thumb in this business is to put a lock on everything.”

Then try locking your office door for starters, she felt inclined to advise, but let it go. Instead, she thanked him again and left.

She went up for her coat and purse, not admitting a childish excitement. It’s probably a ’65 Corvair, she thought. It’s probably a motor scooter. “Let’s go for a ride,” she invited, when Donna stepped out of her own bedroom. “Feldspar finally got me my company car, and I need to stop by the bank.”

Dan B. could be heard snoring in the background. “I could use a shopping spree,” Donna said, whisking on her coat.

“Don’t count on much of a shopping spree in Waynesville,” Vera reminded. “What’ve they got? A Dart Drug and a Save-On?”

“And a Sinclair station! Dan B. needs some brake fluid, I can hardly wait to get out of here.” They went downstairs, passing the plump, pasty maid dusting on the landing. The woman averted her eyes when Vera said hello, and made no reply.

“What is with these people?” Donna remarked. “They won’t even look at us.”

“I’ve already gotten used to that,” Vera said as they crossed the atrium. “I guess there’s no law that says people have to be friendly.’’

Outside was still and cold. The grounds looked good in spite of the drab winter; the heated fountain gushed. “So what kind of car did the boss get you?” Donna asked as they followed the long path around the side of The Inn.

But before Vera could even answer, she was staring, voiceless, into the parking lot. I do hope you like blue, she remembered him saying. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Donna squealed. “Feldspar gave you that?”

Parked right alongside of Feldspar’s glossy red Lamborghini Diablo was an identical one, in jet-lacquered deep blue.

««—»»

“I cannot believe this,” Donna said.

“Neither can I.” Vera’s grin felt like a net spread across her face. The blue Lamborghini seemed to soar on air when she turned out of the hotel entrance onto Route 154. Plush ribbed leather and the ergonomic interior enveloped them; it felt like sitting in a space capsule. The suspension laid a cushion over the pocked and broken route to town.

“Make it go,” Donna bid.

Vera was almost afraid to. Her foot barely touched the gas, yet they were doing fifty already. She eased it down a little more, and the sleek car leapt ahead, eating up road. Another moment and they were doing seventy-five. Vera didn’t even want to think about what would happen if she pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor.

Donna grinned ahead, as the open field blurred by. “When he said he was going to give you a car, he wasn’t fooling around.”

“Well, he didn’t give it to me,” Vera corrected. “It belongs to the company. I get to use it.”

“I’ll bet this thing cost more to insure than three normal cars. It’s incredible.”

You better keep the speed down, Vera, she warned herself. The cops probably wouldn’t appreciate an out-of-towner using a public highway for your own personal autobahn. She eased off the gas, and let the car wend through the next bends. “Plus, you can borrow it anytime you want,” she added.

“I’m a station wagon kind of gal, Vera,” Donna replied. “I can’t even relate to this. It looks like something in a science fiction book.”

“Speaking of books,” Vera reminded herself, “loan me that book you have about haunted mansions. I could use a laugh.”

Donna, suddenly, seemed to flinch. “The Wroxton Hall part is pretty scary. And gross.”

Vera laughed. “Come on, it’s bunk, Donna.”

“If it’s bunk, why do you want to read it?”

“For my amusement, that’s all. You should’ve heard Kyle, the prick. He tried to freak me out, saying The Inn’s haunted.”

“He wants to freak you out, all right. Out of your clothes. What did he say?”

“Just the same silly crap about The Inn being haunted. Then the asshole actually had the nerve to try and con me into going skinny dipping. Started taking his shirt off right in front of me. I guess he thought I’d swoon once I saw his chest.”

“Well, he is good-looking.”

Vera winced. “I don’t care if he looks like Hulk Hogan, he’s still an asshole.”

“Be honest now, Vera. You’re attracted to him aren’t you?” Donna smiled coyly. “You fantasize about him, don’t you?”

Vera’s amusement over the topic quickly crashed. Fantasize, she thought. What of her fantasy of The Hands, and the lewd dream that always followed? Was she really fantasizing about Kyle? Then Donna said, “But you know, getting back to the story about The Inn being haunted…”

“What?” Vera asked, frowning.

“Well, I’ve been hearing weird things at night, like footsteps out in the hall, and strange noises from downstairs. A lot of times I’ll wake up and feel like someone’s in the bedroom. And then there’s that damn racket from the room-service elevators, the doors opening and closing all night, but the funny thing is that’s all I hear, just the doors opening and closing. I never seem to hear the elevators coming up.”

Vera had heard the doors too, many times. “It’s just some soundproofing fluke. Big deal? And of course you’re going to hear footsteps and other noises at night. It’s Kyle’s room-service crew cleaning up.”

“Yeah? I guess you’re right.” But Donna seemed reluctant. “And I’ve also been having some pretty freaky dreams.”

Vera glanced at her. “What kind of dreams?”

“Nothing specific. I’m walking around somewhere, long dark halls, past rooms I’ve never seen.”

“So? You’re dreaming about a new place, an uncertain experience,” Vera tried to psychologize. “What’s freaky about that?”

“It’s just the way I feel in the dream. I feel almost drunk, entranced. It’s like I’m being summoned somewhere, and it seems really sexual, ’cause all I’m wearing is lingerie.”

“And you’re smoking a cigar too, right?” Vera attempted some levity, “an obvious Freudian symbol. Or maybe it’s not a dream at all. Maybe it’s one of the ghosts calling you, one that likes lingerie.” But then it occurred to her that she needn’t joke about it, for her own dreams too were indisputably sexual, and arousing to the point of disturbing her sleep. It proposed an aggravating contrast: the dreams distressed her, but at the same time she actually looked forward to them. Perhaps it was part of her subconscious that longed for what she’d been raised to believe was immoral—having sex with a person I don’t even like is definitely immoral, she reasoned—and the part of herself that was now sexually unfulfilled. Suddenly, the image returned: herself naked on her belly, panting as The Hands worked up the backs of her legs, raising her buttocks…

“What did Mr. Feldspar say about our huge turnout?” Donna asked next.

Vera was grateful for the distraction as she steered the sleek Lamborghini through another series of winding, wooded bends. “He doesn’t seem to care,” she answered. “The Carriage House is just a sideline; he doesn’t even care if it makes a profit. He’s counting on room service and accommodations to put him in the black. It’s crazy, if you ask me, but he must know what he’s doing. All of Magwyth Enterprises’ other inns are in the black. Long as we do our job we got nothing to worry about.”

Minutes later they pulled into town. main street, the central drag was originally dubbed. The town seemed repressed by the cold; only sparse traffic could be seen, and few pedestrians. An ancient barber pole twirled lazily along a row of little shops: a general store called HULL’s, a tavern called the waterin’ hole, and a farm supply store. When Vera parked, she noticed faces squinting from windows. An old man stopped in the middle of the crosswalk and stared. No doubt they’d noticed the two hundred thousand dollar set of wheels that just pulled into their one-horse burg. A sudden frigid wind bit into them when they got out of the car. Vera rushed into a hardware store, while

Donna scurried into the save-on clothing store. Vera purchased several big Master padlocks. “That’s some car ya got there, ma’am,” a tired old man remarked at the register. “It’s not mine, it’s the company’s,” she offered. “And what company might that be, if ya don’t mind my inquirin’?” “I work at The Inn,” she said. “I manage the restaurant there, The Carriage House. You should try us out.” “The Inn, you say?” he questioned. “Don’t believe I’ve ever heard of it.” “The old Wroxton Estate,” she assisted. “It’s a country-style inn now.” With that, the old man made no further comment and rather hastily bagged her locks.

All right, don’t try us out, she thought. See if I care. She found Donna raptly inspecting a small lingerie rack at the save-on. “Not exactly Fredrick’s of Hollywood,” Vera observed.

“Oh, but the prices are great,” Donna enthused, holding up a pink-lace bra that was only straps. “Three bucks!”

Vera had to frown. “There’s nothing to it, Donna. A bra with no cups?”

“Oh, Vera, where’s your sense of adventure? Men love this kind of stuff. Oh, I’ve got to get this!” Now she held up a pair of panties that looked more like a frilly g-string. “And it’s only three-fifty!”

“Yeah, and a postage stamp is only twenty-nine cents, and it would cover you more.” Vera failed to see the fascination. Maybe if I’d worn silly stuff like that, Paul wouldn’t have cheated on me, she reflected. But that was a bad subject. “I can see you’re going to be a while. I’ll meet you back here when I’m done at the bank.”

“Okay.” Now Donna inspected another bra that had holes for the nipples. “Dan B.’s gonna love this!”

I’m sure he will. Vera left and strolled down the row of shops. Now several jean-jacketed men had emerged from the tavern to look at the Lamborghini. I’ll tell them

I’m a movie star, she considered. They’d probably believe me. The Farmer’s National Bank sat at the end of the row, one old-fashioned teller window with bars in front of it instead of bullet-proof glass. A slim, elderly woman put down a copy of The Globe when she entered. PEKING woman gives birth to gorilla! boasted the headline. And: prehistoric birdnest found in robert CULP’S ATTIC!

Vera took care of her bank business, then withdrew some walking around money from her personal account. The teller was friendly and efficient; she seemed even pleased to wait on a new face.

“Is that your fancy car out there?” she asked.

“Yes,” Vera said, pocketing her withdrawal slip. Should I say I’m a movie star? she wondered.

“Then you must be up at the old Wroxton place,” the woman said. She glanced up over her bifocals.

“That’s right. I’m the restaurant manager. How did you know?”

“On account of that Feldspar man. He drove one just like it, only it was red. Now don’t get me wrong, miss, we’re quite grateful to him, what with all the money he put in our branch. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told him.”

“Let me see if I can guess,” Vera ventured. “Wroxton Hall is haunted.”

“That’s right, miss, and don’t you laugh. There’s still some folks in this town that remember. Weird goin’s on up there.”

“Well, we’ve already had the ghostbusters go through the place. It’s clean.”

The woman smirked. “Go ahead and laugh, miss. You’ll be sorry. Lotta folks ’round here’re still sorry they ever heard of that godawful place.” She propped her glasses back up on her deeply lined face. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Actually, yes,” Vera said. It was none of her business per se, but, after all, she was management, and she did have authorized access to the account Feldspar had opened for the restaurant. It was a legitimate curiosity, wasn’t it?

Vera held up the Magwyth Enterprises account card. “I’d like to know how much is in this account.”

The old woman inspected the card again, then double-checked Vera’s driver’s license to make sure that the names matched. Then she pointed over the counter and said, “Just punch up the account number in the jahoozie box there.”

The bank, spare as it was, did not fully lack modern conveniences. On the counter was a small keypad and LED screen, so customers could check their accounts themselves.

“Then press send,” the old woman added.

Vera punched in the account number and her access code. Then she pressed send. Working, the screen read. Please wait.

Vera tapped her foot, waiting.

Then the screen rolled on: Magwyth Enterprises, Ltd. Auxilliary Account: Carriage House, Access Vera Abbot ID Code 003. Please wait.

Then Vera gasped.

Your account total is $1,000,000.00.

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