Dance with the Devil

last two cases in a minute.”
        He lead the way across the lawn toward the open house, oblivious to the bitter cold, the wind and the snow, though he was only wearing a light suit without benefit of even an overcoat, hat or scarf.
        Katherine turned and looked back toward the edge of the mountain, not certain what she hoped to see. But, not seeing it, she suddenly knew: the Land Rover. It was completely out of sight now, even the glow of its powerful headlights swallowed in the white mouth of the storm. She felt terribly alone.

CHAPTER 3
        
        The rooms of Owlsden matched the grandeur of the outside, with none of the brooding darkness that had bothered her about its mammoth walls. The entrance foyer was wallpapered in gold and white, carpeted in gold, with a bright, crystal chandelier filling half the ceiling with dancing strips of colored light. The corridor that lead from it to the main perpendicular hall that ran the great length of the mansion was also carpeted in gold, the walls paneled in rich, dark woods. Inset in the ceiling were flat plates of light, a strikingly modem touch in comparison with the antiquity of the house. The furniture that she saw-a writing desk, an umbrella stand, a few occasional chairs, a pedestal or two with busts and statues on them-was all heavy, dark and pleasantly modern, not chintzy Danish but modern furniture with a style, a feeling of artistic merit and value.
        Yuri lead her down the south wing to the main drawing room through a wide, paneled arch into a bright room with a wine-colored carpet, cream walls, bold modern paintings and furniture of vinyls and plastics and polished, stainless steel.
        “Miss Sellers,” he announced.
        There were two people in the room, an old woman and a man about as old as Mike Harrison, twenty-four or twenty-five. For the first time, seeing mother and son together, it occurred to Katherine that Alex Boland had been what is often called an “autumn baby” or “late blessing” having been born when his mother was forty.
        Lydia Boland was a tall-a good five inches taller than Katherine-regal-looking woman. She wore her hair off her forehead and then suddenly swept down at each temple, covering her ears. Her complexion was milky and flawless, her eyes dark and bright, quickly taking in everything about her new employee whom she had only met on the telephone and by letter prior to this. She was wearing a lounging pajama set of dark blue with a conservative white trim on the cuffs and collar. She stood up from her plush black vinyl lounge chair and crossed to Katherine, unexpectedly embraced her and-holding her shoulders and standing at arm's length-looked at her in unashamed evaluation.
        “You're even lovelier in person than in the photograph,” she said.
        Katherine blushed, felt her face redden, probably to a scarlet. She hoped they didn't notice. She said, “Thank you.”
        “I think we'll get along famously. I know it.”
        “I hope so, Mrs. Boland.”
        “Lydia,” the woman corrected her.
        When Katherine felt that the woman was waiting for her to repeat it, like a child learning a hard lesson, she said, “Lydia.”
        “That's better!” Lydia said. “I hate being addressed formally, because it makes me feel old.”
        “You aren't old, mother,” the young man said, crossing to them. “Just-gracious.”
        Lydia laughed and put her arm around his shoulder. “He has his father's way with words. He's a liar, but I don't mind those kind of lies.”
        “Do you prefer being called Katherine or Kathy?” he asked.
        He was as handsome as Michael Harrison had been, but in an altogether different manner. He was as tall as Harrison, with the same erect carriage and a sense of power-though he was somewhat slimmer. He was not fair-complexioned like Michael, but dark, perpetually tanned as if he might contain a drop of gypsy blood or less romantically and probably more accurately, some Latin ancestry. His eyes were dark, darker than his mother's eyes, almost black. When he looked at Katherine, she had the feeling that he was staring directly through her at some alien landscape beyond. His lips were thin, almost ascetic, his chin firm but not so much like carved granite as Michael Harrison's chin was. His voice was smooth, like oil, the words rolling forth seemingly without effort. He could have been, Katherine decided, a matinee idol