Late at Night Read Free Page B

some circles as being a center of supernatural forces was about the only thing that kept her from not bothering with it. How could she ignore a piece of landscape that had such an incredible reputation?
    “What do you think, Andrea?” she asked. “Is it as fantastic as Cynthia seems to think?” Andrea pulled her long, blond hair away from her eyes and gave her friend a hesitant smile. “I—I’m not sure. I keep getting these odd feelings.”
    Anton Suffron, a homely but personable concert pianist from Rumania, rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut. He looked at the tall, mustachioed man standing next to him, but the fellow was too busy wiping his sunglasses to have any reaction to Andrea’s unstated premonitions of disaster. Anton made no secret of the fact that he found such hocus-pocus trying. “Let’s not queer the whole weekend already, Andrea dear,” he finally said in the droll monotone he kept in reserve for idiots. “I’m here to have fun, not to listen to you go on about ‘the spirits.’ ”
    Andrea gave him a weary look. She’d heard it all before. “I was just answering Lynn’s question, Anton.” She looked at their hostess. “I’m sure it’s a lovely place, Lynn. I can’t help picking up vibrations, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be a wonderful weekend.” She glared at Anton. “In spite of the presence of some people.” The caravan continued on its way. Anton again tried to start a conversation with the strapping young man beside him. The shades were back in place, giving him that distant, dispassionate appearance affected unconsciously by everyone who wore sunglasses. “What do you think of all this psychic stuff, Mr. Theiser?”
    “Thesinger,” the man corrected. Anton shrugged.
    Before the other could answer, Suffron said, “When we were introduced earlier I missed some information, probably due to Gloria’s babbling. Are you Lynn’s friend? Or Mr. Everson’s? I haven’t met you before, have I?”
    Thesinger knew that Anton had once been romantically involved with Lynn Overman, and that he was still carrying the torch. The fact that Lynn was now involved with her lawyer didn’t prevent Anton from getting jealous over other males in the vicinity. To assure the pianist that he was no rival, he said quickly, “I’m an acquaintance of John Everson’s. He’s my cousin, actually. We’ve only met a few times before this. But I once mentioned to him that I’d love to do a piece on Lammerty Island.”
    “A ‘piece’? Oh, you mean you’re a writer.”
    Thesinger laughed. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”
    “Indubitably, my good fellow,” Anton smiled. “A fellow artist.” He looked wary for a second. “Just what it is you write?”
    “Articles mostly. For geographical and historical magazines. I’m on assignment for American Archives now. John told me about this trip to the island and invited me along, suggested I do a write-up on its history. Actually being here in the flesh is really going to add something to the article.”
    “I can imagine.”
    There was a shout and those in the front of the procession turned around to see what the commotion was. Margaret Proust Plushing, the cook, was on her knees, making awful grunts and wearing a stricken expression. Hans Swenson dropped the suitcases and went to the woman’s aid. “She’s all right,” he yelled to the others up front. “Just tripped on a stone.”
    “God in Heaven,” the woman swore as she was helped to her feet. “Just off the boat and already I’m breaking my ankle.”
    “Is she okay?” Lynn called.
    “I’m all right, dear,” Margaret yelled back. She balanced on one foot while she examined the other. “Nothing broken, thank goodness.” She was a plump woman in her sixties: apple cheeks, a fleshy, dimpled chin, short brown hair. Her expression was stern, but underneath she was warm and hearty.
    “Come on, girls,” she said jauntily. “Forward march.” The two young ladies with her