Collier had to make a conscious effort to prevent his jaw from dropping.
Just like me, from the second I set foot in the place…
“Mr. Sute? I’d be honored if you’d allow me to treat you to lunch,” Collier said.
But why was Collier so fascinated? He didn’t even try to discern it. Sute’s strange comment about “amplified” sexual desire, and the fact that Collier had experienced exactly that, could have just been timeliness and coincidence—in fact, he felt sure it was.
Still…
The house was having some effect on him—probably due to his boredom and angst. They walked around a busy corner, Sute still ego-stroked that this “celebrity” was interested in his stories enough to actually buy him lunch. Two birds with one stone, Collier thought; J.G. Sute was all too happy to lunch at his favorite local restaurant: Cusher’s.
“Would you mind if we sat at the bar?” Collier asked when he noticed two empty stools. Better yet, Dominique was tending the taps, cuter than ever in her dark, shiny hair and bosom-hugging brewer’s apron. Collier looked up hopefully, and when she smiled and waved, he could’ve melted. Oh, man. The perfect woman…
“The bar’s fine with me,” Sute said, but just then—
You fuckers! Collier’s thought screamed. Get the fuck away from those stools!
A middle-aged couple beat them to the stools.
Collier walked to the end of the bar. “Hi,” he said to Dominique.
“I’m glad you came,” she said. Caramel irises sparkled. “No room at the bar right now, but there’s plenty of seats in the dining room.”
Collier stammered, “I was really hoping to get to talk to you—oh, and I have that release form.”
“Great. When you’re done eating, just come by.” Dominique glanced at Collier’s unlikely lunch guest. “Getting an earful, huh?”
“Well…”
“Good old J.G. will keep you enthralled,” she said. “Last night you did seem pretty interested in some of the town’s folklore. Mr. Sute’s the one to talk to about that.”
“So I gather. But—” Shit! “I really wanted a seat at the bar.”
Her eyes thinned, and she smiled. “I won’t fly away.”
Christ, I really dig her, Collier thought. A hostess seated them in the dining room. I’m the one who invited this big dolt to lunch, so live with it. I’ll have plenty of time to talk to Dominique later.
“I’d recommend the pan-fried trout cakes in whiskey cream,” Sute mentioned. “It’s state-of-the-art here, and a Southern delicacy.”
“I’ll try it. Last night Jiff and I just had regular old burgers and they were great.”
Sute’s jowly face seemed to seize up. He looked at Collier in a way that was almost fearful. “You—you know…Jiff? Jiff Butler, Helen’s son?”
More to gauge reaction, Collier said, “Oh, sure, Jiff and I are friends. He helped me check in.” Collier remembered Jiff’s similarly odd reaction last night, to Sute’s name. “We had a few beers here last night. He was the one who told me I could find you at the bookstore.”
The reference seemed to knock Sute off center, from which he struggled to recover. “He’s a…friend of mine as well, and a fine, fine young man. What, uh, what else did Jiff say?”
Yes sir, this place and these people are a hoot. What is going on here? Sute was obviously bothered, so Collier acted as though he didn’t notice. “He had a few stories himself, though I’ll be honest in saying that he was even more reluctant than you telling me them. The most interesting one was something about Harwood Gast hanging himself shortly after his prized railroad was finished.”
“Yes, the tree out front,” Sute acknowledged.
“And how several years later, just when the war was ending, several Union troops hung themselves from the same tree.”
“Quite true, quite true…”
Collier leaned forward on his elbows. “Sure, Mr. Sute. But how does anyone really know that?”
Sute grabbed one of the books Collier had purchased, thumbed to a page, and passed it to him.
Another tintype in the xeroxed photo-plate section. The heading: UNION SOLDIERS SENT TO BURN THE GAST HOUSE HANGED THEMSELVES FROM THIS TREE INSTEAD, ON OCTOBER 31, 1864. HARWOOD GAST HANGED HIMSELF FROM THE SAME TREE TWO YEARS EARLIER.
The stark, tinny image showed several federal troops hanging crook-necked from a stout branch.
“That’s…remarkable,” Collier said. “Every picture really does tell a story.”
“There are quite a few such stories, I’m afraid.” Sute’s forehead was breaking out with an uncomfortable sweat. “Did, uh, did Jiff say anything else? Anything about me?”
This guy is really sweating bullets, Collier saw. Sute’s reaction to Jiff’s name was as curious as the ghost stories. “Just that he did yard work for you sometimes, and that you were the local expert on the town’s history.” Collier decided to stretch some truth, to see what happened. “And, of course, he mentioned that you were a successful author and quite respected in the community. A local legend, he called you.”
Sute gulped, staring at Collier’s remark. “What a—what a generous compliment. Yes, Jiff truly is a wonderful man.” Sute patted his forehead with a handkerchief, squinting through more unreckonable beguilement. “Say, Mr. Collier? Do you mind if I drink?”
You look like you need to, buddy. “Go right ahead. I’ll be having a few myself.”
Collier ordered a lager while Sute ordered a Grey Goose martini. He’s so flustered he needs booze. Indeed, the mere mention of the name—Jiff—seemed to pack some hypnotic effect on this man. But Collier was getting sidetracked himself. Whatever odd vibe existed between Sute and Jiff wasn’t the point. Collier burned to hear more about—
“And Penelope Gast, the wife? I believe Jiff mentioned that Gast murdered her. Is that right?”
Sute settled down when his first sip of the top-shelf martini drained a third of the glass. “Yes, he did, the day before he hanged himself. And if you want to talk about a person with amplified sexual desires? Mrs. Gast fits that bill quite nicely, and an interesting accompaniment to the nature of the house itself.”
“Are you saying that the house was the reason for her high sexual state?”
Sute mulled it over, with another sip of his drink. “Perhaps, or perhaps the opposite. Some claim that the house didn’t affect her—she affected the house. The sheer evil of her carnality.”
Collier came close to laughing. “Mr. Sute, it sounds to me like she was just another cheating housewife who had the misfortune of getting caught. Being a floozy doesn’t mean her house is possessed. If that were the case, the real estate market in L.A. would be in big trouble.”
“Just another cheating housewife, or something more? No one will ever be able to say for sure,” Sute calmly remarked. “She was reportedly pregnant, and not by her husband. We know this because the local physician had her name in a ledger in his safe.”
“So? Maybe she had an appointment for an earache.”
“She had an appointment for an abortion. The way they did it back then was—” Sute peered up, mildly pained. “It’s uncomfortable to talk about, Mr. Collier. It’s an ugly, ugly story, and not one you’d want to hear before eating your lunch.”
Collier chuckled. “Mr. Sute, my life is so boring in Los Angeles I can’t even see straight most of the time. This is fascinating stuff; I’m really intrigued by it. And besides, it can’t be any grosser than the crime section of the L.A. Times on any given day.”