Further down the coast, in Washington, D.C., warmed by a fire of pinon wood imported from the Southwest, Tom and Edith Brackett were discussing the upcoming conference over a scotch and soda (him) and an herbal tea (her).
"I have a bad feeling about this," said Edith. "Do we have to go?"
Tom looked at his wife, annoyed. He had to keep reminding himself to try to be nicer to her, a resolution forgotten almost as soon as it was made. But, really-no matter how often they traveled, the little ninny always had an attack of nerves just before a trip. If anything, she was getting worse. And… couldn't the woman do something about that hair? Was it really necessary to try to make some kind of virtue of turning gray? When he thought of the pretty woman he had married twenty years ago, he couldn't believe the dried-up wreck she had become. It never occurred to him that marriage to him for twenty years might have had something to do with it.
"How, bad feeling?" he asked, with exaggerated tolerance. He began repeatedly smoothing his moustache, a sure sign of his irritation, but Edith forged ahead.
"Not about the conference. About the castle. Look at this."
She thrust a travel magazine across at him, indicating an article illustrated with color photos; the headline read, "The Haunting of Dalmorton." The castle, filmed at night, battlements illuminated, rose like a dragon out of a fog-shrouded, medieval moat.
Tom scanned the first few paragraphs, then burst out in coarse laughter.
"You're talking about the ghost? The 'Woman in White' seen walking the halls? For God's sake, Edith. It's a bunch of crap they make up to give gullible tourists like yourself a cheap thrill."
"But I-"
"I'll tell you this for free. If I'm going to start believing in ghosts I'm not going to start with a hoary old cliche like that. 'Woman in White' indeed."
He knocked back the dregs of his drink and held out the empty glass to his wife.
Edith took the glass from him-it would not have occurred to her to suggest he get his own refill. She was miffed, however; long experience of their marriage told him that. She withdrew, but with an expression that told Tom the retreat was only temporary. She handed him his fresh drink, then sat waiting in what would have looked to an outsider a companionable silence, her eyes tracing the familiar pattern in the Aubusson carpet at their feet. Then it came:
"I don't mean the ghost will come and… cast a spell or something. Try to frighten us. But-just look at this place. The photos give me the creeps. It has a bottle dungeon, for God's sake. Think of all the poor people who suffered and died there."
"Think of all the publicity I won't get if I don't show my face. It's an honor to be invited, Edith. Hard as it is to believe, the old tightwad is voluntarily loosening the purse strings at last. I have to go. If you really want to stay here-"
"No," she said, in a still, small voice tinged with panic. She had a morbid fear of abandonment that Tom exploited to the full. Some idiot story about being left behind by her family-he couldn't be bothered to recall the details.
Edith brought out the worst in him, he thought irritably. He would no more leave her behind than he would fly to the moon. She served as his personal valet, and after twenty years of having her at his beck and call he could hardly dress himself.
"We've not been apart in twenty years," said Edith, "I'm just saying-be careful. Be careful, that's all, Tom. It's just a feeling I have…"
Tom smiled, a smile that generally remained hidden behind an expression of intense self-satisfaction. His was otherwise an unremarkable face that a shaved head and Van Dyke beard did nothing to render memorable. His years in the spy trade may have taught him too well the value of blending in.
"Don't be stupid. No ghost has ever gotten the better of me yet. Editors, yes. And agents. B. A. King, that fatuous jerk, is going to be there. And that nitwit who wrote the chick lit mystery that sold by the truckload."
" Dying for a Latte? I know. I read it."
" Edith. You didn't."
"I often read your competition," she said defensively, always alert to warning signs of a quarrel. Tom with a wounded ego was not a man to be crossed. "I have to keep up on trends, you know."
"That is going above and beyond the call. I hope you held a book burning afterward. Anyway, what did you think?" he asked.
"About the book? Like the reviews said: It's a bright, frothy roman a clef with dark undertones. It's set in a major magazine publishing house and it's transparent which house it's meant to be. The main character comes across as a nitwit, all right, but I wonder if that's also true of the author. Certainly she did a fine job of filleting the fashion magazine industry."
"All in all, I'd say, forget the ghost," said Tom. "There's a real woman to be scared of."