Skull Session by Daniel Hecht Read Free Book Online Page A

parking brake, Lia stretched mightily. They had barely gotten out of the car when the old man emerged from his front door.
    "Welcome!" Dempsey cried, saluting them hugely with both arms—he'd never been able to resist adding a touch of ceremony to arrivals and departures. Now he wore a blue-and-white Mexican poncho, thick as a rug, and carried a gnarled walking stick. With his big head and wise-chimpanzee face, he looked like Pablo Picasso in his later years. He hugged Lia and shook Paul's hand with the rough grip of the fellow carpenter. "You want coffee, something to eat before we go up?"
    Paul checked his watch. "Nah, not for me, thanks. It's two o'clock— we should get up the hill while there's still light. I wouldn't mind saying hello to Elaine, though."
    "Not here. She's off volunteering." Elaine did almost everything: She was a superb gardener, an excellent cook, a sculptor, a substitute grade-school teacher, a fighter for various causes. "She'll be back around five, and we're planning on you two for dinner."
    Paul pointed to Dempsey's heavy stick. "Expecting trouble?"
    "I was talking to one of the Lewisboro cops. Said the place was so banged up it wasn't likely local kids. Maybe gangs from the city." Dempsey smiled reassuringly at Lia. "Not that I think we'll encounter anyone up there. My own guess is, kids were goofing around there all summer—it'd be a great party spot. No one's going to bother now that it's cold out. I'm bringing my shillelagh because it's a long driveway and we can't drive up. At my age, I need a third leg."
    They drove for a few minutes. At two o'clock on Wednesday afternoon, there was little traffic: The trains had not yet returned the commuters to the legions of parked cars that surrounded every town in Westchester County.
    "Right on 22," Dempsey told Paul, gesturing. "So. Highwood! I'll be curious to see the old place."
    "Were you and Elaine close to Vivien?" Lia asked.
    "Not like the Skoglunds. Mainly I went up there to fix things. At some point I got sick of trying to be both friend and hireling, and referred her to another contractor. Veer left here, then right at the dam." Dempsey pointed the way. "Can't say I missed going up there, either, except maybe the occasional hand of cards with Freda. Do you remember Freda?"
    "Sure," Paul said.
    "Vivien's old mother," Dempsey explained to Lia. He shook his head. "Terrible story."
    "We must be getting close," Paul said. "This seems familiar." They had come to the rocky edge of the Lewisboro Reservoir. The road folio wed the irregular shore, overhung by large oaks that still held their leaves, now a dark ocher after the first frosts. To his surprise, his right hand reached out and drummed quickly on the dash. A little rising anxiety.
    "Just stay on the shore road. Yes, poor old Freda. You know what happened to her, don't you, Paul?"
    "I can't really remember."
    "Got hit by the train, just outside the village. Vivien came home, couldn't find Freda anywhere, went outside and called—no Freda. Then she went into town to ask the police if anyone had seen her. They had seen her, all right—spread out over sixty feet of track. She'd gone all to pieces, you might say." He turned to Lia. "I'm sorry. Not funny."
    "I'd never heard the details," Paul said. "I was only six. I do remember something weird or scary about it—the kind of thing when you're a kid you're told not to talk about."
    Dempsey nodded. "Closed-casket funeral, believe me. Nobody was clear how she'd gotten down there. But Freda was getting pretty senile by then. And deaf. Apparently she'd wandered down the hill and onto the tracks, three miles from the house. Vivien was deeply upset."
    They drove in silence for another half mile. "It's along here somewhere," Paul said. "Here." He swung the car onto the shoulder. He remembered it so distinctly: the gravel drive coming down steeply through the trees, the moss-stained rock pillars on either side. Between the pillars sat a battered brown