Блейк Крауч - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, No. 5. Whole No. 813, May 2009

Stella continued both to drink and to talk gardens. She and Neil were leaning closer now, becoming animated. Her face was flushed and her eyes had a sparkle I had not seen in them for a long time. Penny, on the other hand, appeared bored.

“Shall we talk about something else?” I said at last. “We don’t all share your enthusiasm, darling.” At which Stella spun towards me.

“For gardens, or for my new book?”

“For gardens, of course,” I replied patiently.

She continued to stare.

“It must be really exciting,” said Neil, somewhat ingratiatingly, “having a wife who’s a successful writer.”

Stella laughed. “Oh, I don’t write , Neil. Only writers of fiction write, isn’t that so, darling? They are the creative ones, whereas I merely record facts.”

She spoke in jest, but there was no denying the underlying sarcasm. Neil shifted uncomfortably. It was, of course, the drink talking.

“I once made the mistake of referring to her first book as a coffee-table tome,” I said lightly, trying to put him at ease. “I’m afraid she’s never forgiven me.”

“Nonsense,” replied Stella. “What is there to forgive? That’s exactly what it was, lots of pretty pictures and not much text. A mere piece of frippery.” She reached for the bottle and yet again replenished her glass.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” I asked, but she ignored me and offered the bottle to Neil. He did decline, on the grounds that he was driving.

“Stay,” said Stella magnanimously. “We’ll put the radiator on in the spare room. Won’t we, darling.”

I waited for a further polite refusal, and when none came reluctantly climbed to my feet and went upstairs. Our new friends were pleasant enough, but I had no wish to prolong their visit.

When I returned, Stella had served the final course and was struggling to open a bottle of Sauternes. “Let me,” I said, fearing, in her present condition, some frightful accident with the corkscrew. For a moment I thought she would refuse to let it go, but finally she relinquished it and resumed her seat.

“I’ve been telling Neil and Penny about our reputed haunting,” she said. “Penny thinks we should be concerned.”

“I would be,” Penny affirmed, looking around the room as if some ethereal being might at any moment materialise through the wall. “I wonder whose ghost it is?”

“Probably Helene Bazire’s,” I said, pouring the wine.

“Who?”

“The wife of the previous owner,” said Stella. “Why do you say that?”

I realised I had not told her of my conversation with Jacques.

“She drowned in the etang,” I said. “Jacques told me this morning.”

“Good God. When?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“What etang?” asked Neil.

Briefly I described the pond in the woods and its sinister reputation. Penny shivered. “How did it happen?” she asked.

“Jacques doesn’t know. At least, he says he doesn’t.”

Her eyes widened. “Does he think she was murdered?”

“I don’t know. I’m merely repeating what he said.”

Stella looked thoughtful. “Her husband mistreated her, you know. Gabrielle told me.”

“Then perhaps he did it.” Penny sat forward excitedly. “Perhaps he killed her and pushed her in. Ghosts are supposed to be the corp...” she stumbled over the words, “the corporeal manifestations of victims of violent death,” she said at length, and slumped back in her chair. “I’ve drunk too much,” she giggled.

It was becoming apparent that we all had.

“Sounds like a good basis for a story,” said Neil to me. “Perhaps you can use it in your next book.”

I smiled stoically and Stella laughed. “What an excellent idea, Neil. God knows he needs some thing to stir the creative juices.”

My hand firmed around the stem of the glass. “I have plenty to inspire me without resorting to ghost stories,” I said coldly, and Neil and Penny exchanged glances.

“Neil’s brother’s read your books,” she said. “He phoned during the week and I told him we’d met you. He teaches English in Lincoln.” She shot a sidelong glance at her husband. “He said you haven’t published anything for ages. He wondered if you had writer’s block.”

Beside me Stella gave a snort of laughter. “Writer’s block doesn’t exist, does it, darling? It’s — and I quote — ‘a fiction in its own right, propounded by those who lack ideas.’ ”

I winced in embarrassment. She was slurring her words and was by now quite obviously drunk. “Why don’t you make coffee?” I said.

“Why don’t you!”

She leaned towards Neil and placed her hand on his. “Tell your brother, my husband has been resting — a long rest, I agree, but creativity is exhausting. As for writer’s block... tch!” She dismissed it with a wave of her hand and sent the bottle flying. Wine gushed over the tablecloth and onto my trousers but she seemed not to notice.

“But let me tell you this, Neil,” she continued, leaning still closer, “it’s a good job some of us still have ideas or we wouldn’t be paying the bills. Even if we aren’t real writers.”

Neil looked embarrassed and I averted my eyes in disgust. There is nothing more odious than an inebriated woman — especially an older woman. I plucked the wet fabric from my leg and squeezed it in a napkin.

Eventually Stella staggered to her feet and went to the kitchen. Penny excused herself and followed, presumably to find the bathroom, and Neil and I were left alone. “You must forgive my wife,” I said, all too aware that I was probably slurring too. “She rarely has more than a glass or two. It affects her badly.”

“We all do it once in a while,” said Neil generously.

“Not Stella,” I said. “Stella never lets go. Stella never allows herself to...”

But I didn’t finish the sentence. There was a muffled shriek above our heads, followed by heavy footsteps on the stairs. The door burst open and Penny came hurtling in. She threw herself at Neil and began to babble incoherently.

“Now what?” I cried, jumping to my feet and tipping over the chair, but Neil looked as bemused as I did. He gathered her into his arms and began stroking her hair, all the while murmuring “there, there” as if she were a child. The noise brought Stella from the kitchen.

“What’s happened? Is she ill?”

“God knows,” I said. “She’s talking gibberish.”

“I want to go home!” cried Penny with sudden lucidity. “I won’t stay in this house. It’s evil, it’s...”

“What’s she talking about?” asked Stella, swaying against the jamb. “She can’t go. She’s drunk.”

“Oh yes, I can!” screamed Penny, pushing Neil to one side. “Where’re our coats? Coats! Coats! ”

I felt like slapping her. She was clearly becoming hysterical. She started rushing around the room like one demented, searching for the coats, as if we’d simply thrown them into a corner.

“Do something,” Stella said to me. “They’re drunk. They can’t...” She collapsed into a chair.

“I’m not their keeper,” I said, and fetched the coats from the hall.

I saw them to the door. Penny scrambled into the car as if the hounds of hell were after her, leaving Neil to mutter a few garbled words of apology and thanks. I stood outside and watched the lights of their Deux-Chevauxmove slowly up the track and vanish into the trees.

And that, I’m ashamed to say, is all I remember. My sudden exposure to the bitingly cold air must have been too much for me because I, too, succumbed to the excesses of the evening. For the first time in more than twenty years I was intoxicated to the point of oblivion.