The door opened about a foot. “All right, Chizzy. Thank you.”
“Put it in the oven at three hundred degrees until you’re ready to eat.”
“I’m ready now,” the stranger said and laughed again.
He was sitting in a lounge chair beside a floor lamp. The lamp was turned on full and she had a good view of him but she could hardly make out his features. His eyes were almost concealed by a pair of dark bushy brows that met on the bridge of his nose, and his mouth was merely a line of separation between his straggly moustache and his long full beard. His hair reached his shoulders and only the fact that it was iron-gray gave any indication that he was middle-aged or more. She was sure of one thing, however. He had been drinking. The place smelled like a winery.
Chizzy crossed the room to the kitchenette alcove and put the casserole in the oven, uneasily aware that the stranger was watching her.
“That’s her,” he said. “The little fat lady that chased me with a broom, screaming like a banshee.”
“I did no such thing,” Chizzy protested. “I never saw you before in my life.”
“I was wearing my professional costume for the benefit of the summer tourists. A white robe makes me look more like a prophet.”
“How could I sound like one of those things when I’ve never seen one even in a zoo?”
“The banshee is a spirit, madam. It wails and screams outside a house to warn the occupants of an approaching death.”
Chizzy stood in the middle of the room, her hands raised. She was still wearing the oven mitts, but now they looked like specially designed boxing gloves.
“That’s wrongful talk in front of people still in mourning, mister.”
“I was only passing along some information, nothing personal intended.”
“You keep your nasty information to yourself. No one here wants it.”
She had more to say on the subject and was preparing to say it when Howard took her by the arm and guided her to the door. Almost before she realized it she was back in the cold gray night, angry and humiliated. She had been insulted by a stranger, rebuked by Howard, and the minister hadn’t even opened his mouth to defend her, let alone thank her for the food.
In addition to all this, the dogs had abandoned her, gone off on some business of their own. Starting back along the path to the house she heard Shep give a couple of loud sharp barks and then, uncharacteristically, lapse into silence.
The silence worried her. Once Shep started barking he kept it up until it was out of his system, having run its course like a head cold. She had a dreadful image of someone grabbing him and holding his mouth closed or choking the breath out of him. She almost fainted with relief when he suddenly reappeared on the path in front of her, good as new, wagging his tail.
Mr. Hyatt stepped out from behind an escallonia shrub looking like a piece of the night in his old gray tweed suit.
“Chizzy?”
“You gave me a fright,” she said crossly. “You’re supposed to be in the house watching the seven o’clock news.”
“I watched the six o’clock news,” he said. “And the five o’clock news.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be out here slurking around in the bushes.”
“Shirking?”
She knew from his tone that there was something wrong with the word but she couldn’t tell what, so she repeated it decisively to make it sound more authentic. “Slurking’s what they called it in my family. Anyway, Mr. Howard wouldn’t like such behavior.”
“I saw the garden-path lights go on and I wanted to find out what was happening.”
“Nothing is happening.”
“You went into the cottage.”
“I took some food.”
“What are they up to in there?”
“I don’t know.” She put her hand on his arm, intending to guide him back to the house. Instead, she found herself clinging to him. “Mr. Hyatt. I don’t know. They have an awful-looking man with them. He called me names like fat and said I chased him with a broom and screamed like a banshee.”
“You are a bit on the stocky side,” the old man said gently. “And you have quite a formidable voice. Did you ever take lessons?”
“No, but I sang in the Pentecostal choir for six years.”
“That explains it then.”
“It was a very good choir, if you’ll excuse the bragging. One Christmas we made a record and sent it to the President. He sent us a thank-you letter in return. I forget who was President back then but it was a very nice letter. The choirmaster had it framed and hung on the wall.”
She was suddenly feeling much better, not a fat vindictive screamer, but a member of a choir singled out by the President of the United States for special commendation.
“Now you better skedaddle on into the house,” she said, brushing off the sleeve of his jacket as if to remove any traces of her clutching him. “You can catch the rest of the seven o’clock news.”
“I watched the five o’clock news,” he said again, “and the six o’clock news.” And very likely he would watch the ten o’clock, and if he was still awake, the eleven o’clock. It would all be the same news, in different voices.
The visitor settled back in the lounge chair, feeling comfortable and relaxed. The room was pleasant, his host polite and soft-voiced, and the food the old biddy had brought over smelled enticing. Since no one had offered him any he decided a hint or two was in order.
“I haven’t had a square meal in a while,” he told Howard. “November’s a bad month for tourists, and they’re my main source of income.”
“You can eat later,” Howard said. He glanced at the sheet of paper Michael handed him. “Cassius Cassandra. Is that your real name?”
“It’s the name I’m known by. You come down to my end of town and ask for Cassius or Mr. Cassandra, everybody knows who you mean. Ask for Desmond Walsh and they never heard of him. That’s the name on my birth certificate, Desmond Thomas Walsh.”
“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Walsh?”
“Sure do. I was paid. Some in advance from him” — he indicated Michael sitting at the table — “and the rest to come from you.”
“What are you being paid to do?”
“Tell the truth. Which is a funny thing when you come to think about it. The Cassandra in Greek legend always told the truth, only nobody ever believed it.”
“Cassandra predicted the future,” Howard said. “All I want from you is the past.”
“What if I don’t say what you want to hear? Do I get paid anyway?”
“Yes.”
“Fair enough. Let’s get started.”
“Mr. Dunlop and I have obtained a copy of the statement you gave to the police in August. I’d like to see how it compares with what you remember now.”
The prospect of being caught in a lie didn’t seem to bother Walsh. “There’ll be differences here and there. Truth is relative. And when the cops questioned me I was scared as hell of a possible child-molesting charge. That can be rough. Even in the holding tank before you get a chance to enter a plea, if the word goes out that you may be a child molester, you’re in for a bad time from the other prisoners. Short eyes, that’s what molesters are called. Among other things.”
“Has such a charge ever been brought against you, Mr. Walsh?”
“No, sir. I don’t deny I’ve seen the inside of a few holding tanks over the years, what with one thing and another. Booze mainly, nothing heavy.”
“Do you know who I am and where you are?”
“Mr. Dunlop told me on the way over from my hotel.”
“Have you been on this property before?”
“Once. That was when the little fat lady chased me with a broom.”