The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror by Charles L. Grant Read Free Book Online Page B

demanding justice for himself, and retribution for the sister who wouldn’t believe him if he gave her the time standing in front of Big Ben.
    Then he had left. And stayed away, returning only that night to snore in his bed. He was gone by dawn Wednesday, was sober by the afternoon, and that night in the Depot she was begged by several of the regulars to chain him, or lock him up, but for god’s sake do something because he was driving them all crazy with his talk of folks moving back into the estate.
    She understood their nervousness.
    Winterrest wasn’t a place you visited willingly, even at noon.

    At three o’clock there was still no sign of him, and though she was worried, she was furious as well. She should have known that her brother wasn’t strong enough to face the dying again.
    She wasn’t really sure she was either, but considering the alternative, she didn’t give herself much of a choice.
    Ten minutes passed while she rinsed out her cup, dried it, set it back in the cupboard, emptied the copper kettle, put away the jar of coffee, rinsed off the teaspoon and placed it in its drawer.
    Casey was still gone.
    She wondered what people would say if he tried to tell them what was happening. Crazy, is what; drunk, stoned, and Christ, Judy, don’t you think he ought to be looked at or something?
    Her red lips parted; it might have been a smile.
    The hell with you, pal; you’re on your own now.
    Shortly before four she switched on the neon Miller sign in the Depot’s window, unlocked the door, and checked the bills and change in the register drawer. She hummed. She assayed a buck-and-wing across the floor to turn on the lights. A glance at her watch proved it broken again, and she dumped it in the trash; watches and she did not get along—a sign, perhaps, that Time and Judith Lockhart did not mean much to each other.
    She hummed louder. Once in a while she pulled out a compact and examined her makeup, pursed her lips, fluffed her dark curly hair, smoothed her ruffled red blouse down over her chest. I made you love me, she sang silently to an image of Doug striding through the door; you didn’t wanna do it, you didn’t wanna do it. She opened the blouse’s top button and told herself it was all in a good cause and the hell with what her employees thought.
    Then she looked down at the cleavage and groaned loudly; if she wanted anything to show she’d have to gain about thirty pounds; then, for good measure, shove a box of tissues into her bra.
    Not quite that bad, actually, but loosening a provocative button would only make someone ask her to redo it.
    “Judith,” she told herself as she pulled out the week’s work roster, “you are insufferable. And very, very sick.”
    And Casey still hadn’t shown up, though he knew damned well he had to work behind the bar tonight.
    The sonofabitch had probably forgotten.
    Or was too frightened to show his face.
    It really didn’t matter now; she had her work to do.
    Being Friday, there’d be waitresses in to help her after six, local girls under orders not to wear tight skirts or blouses or sweaters, to wear honest-to-god Wranglers or somewhat baggy slacks and definitely not something out of a designer’s wet dream; she wanted her customers to concentrate on their drinks or each other, not a single hip, breast, or rolling buttock that worked for her. She checked the big-screen TV to be sure it was tuned, checked the jukebox to be sure it wasn’t going to balk again. There was no need to go in back; Gil Clay had been in earlier to count the weekend stock and take the deliveries, and she noted with satisfaction that he was, as usual, right up to snuff. He was a good man, if a bit on the thin side in meat and hair for her taste, and though in the early days of their relationship he had come on to her, she had made it clear that what she wouldn’t tolerate from her girls she wouldn’t tolerate from herself. Amazingly, he had understood, and they’d been friends