Late at Night by William Schoell Read Free Book Online

right. She seemed likable enough, but he had an instinctive distrust of gossip writers, as if they were perverters of an art. Or was he just being narrow-minded? Jerry had that certain sullen arrogance of youth and good looks, but Ernie sensed an underlying shyness that made him seem stand-offish. He would have to reserve judgment on both of them.
    Betty was sweet in that sad way of homely girls, and he found himself drawn to her, though not in a sexual or romantic fashion. She was really too quiet for him to have formed much of an opinion of her. The concert pianist Suffron was a bit—his mother would have said “snotty,” his father “highfalutin”—but there was an amusing glint in his eye, at the corner of his lips, as if to say, “Don’t worry, my snob act is just a put-on. Clever, isn’t it?” It took the sting out of his words and made you respond to him in a positive manner.
    Yes, a motley crew, Ernie thought. Too bad he only wrote non-fiction. He might have …
    Suddenly there was a commotion, a loud hue and cry, from out in the living room. Someone was yelling, carrying on. It sounded like one of the housekeepers. Ernie got up to investigate.
    He walked out of his bedroom and down the short, narrow hallway which led to the rest of the first floor. When he walked into the living room he was greeted by a most unexpected vision.
    Emily Seaver stood in the middle of the living room, completely naked. And she was screaming at the top of her lungs.

 
    Chapter 8
    “What was all that screaming about?”
    It was the number-one topic during dinner.
    Although the dining room was fairly large, the table was a bit cramped for eight people. Margaret had used a pretty white tablecloth with a flowery design as well as good china. Crystal water goblets and wine glasses were next to the plates, and fine silverware was wrapped up in clean linen napkins. Nothing but the best would do for John Everson and company. As they sat poking through a spinach salad with strips of hardboiled egg and bacon, the island’s guests pumped one another for information on the housekeeper’s astonishing behavior.
    “She was naked, you say? Stark naked?” There was a wild-eyed expression on Anton’s homely face.
    “Sssshhh,” Cynthia whispered. “She might hear you.”
    “It’s all right,” Andrea assured her. “They put the poor girl to bed. Apparently she’s still quite upset.”
    “Upset over what?” Anton wanted to know. “One doesn’t stand in the middle of a living room stark naked screaming for no reason at all.”
    Gloria looked up from her salad and wiped her lips daintily with her napkin. “Naked, did you say? My, this excursion is getting off to a lively start.” Jerry sat next to Gloria and she patted her lover’s hand. “And you thought this would be a dull weekend.” Jerry glared at her, his face reddening.
    “Well, tell us already,” Cynthia hissed. “What was the housekeeper screaming about?” She stared directly at Ernie. “You were there, weren’t you?”
    Ernest put down his water glass, swallowed, and paused for effect. Except for those of their hosts, all eyes were upon him. Lynn and Everson seemed to be mentally elsewhere. “I—I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said finally to a chorus of exasperated groans.
    “Margaret suggested it was some sort of fit,” Betty said selfconsciously, fiddling with the top button of her frilly silk blouse. She obviously hated to call attention to herself, especially in large groups. Ernest remembered that she had been the first one down the stairs after he’d walked into the living room to see Emily’s amazing performance. “After I came down,” Betty explained, “Mrs. Plushing and the other housekeeper—Joanne, the French girl—and one of the men came out into the living room and tried to calm Emily down. She was naked, and screaming something awful. She kept rubbing her arms and chest as if there were something smeared on them, but I didn’t see