Moon Garden. V. J. Banis

      “It’s a very lovely city,” Mrs. Miles said, with altogether too much enthusiasm. It was her idea that Ellen should go to Savannah, where there would not be so much to remind her of what had happened. She would have been offended if anyone had suggested too that Ellen served to remind her of things she would be happier forgetting, or that she was not quite comfortable in the presence of a daughter who had suffered a nervous breakdown, no matter what the doctors had to say about it. That Dr. Hanson had tried to make it somehow her fault, had tried to tell her not to watch for daughter so much. Well, you had to watch a person like that, didn’t you? In case they went berserk, or something.

      Ellen smiled tolerantly, because she already knew all these things, and had long since discussed them with Dr. Hanson, and had accepted them. Dr. Hanson had used an antique Japanese phrase—the darkness of the heart—that he explained referred to obsessive parental love. She understood her mother, and in a sense was fonder of her as a result. She knew that she had to go away, to be free of her mother for a time. And since she had no place else to go, Savanna would do nicely.

      “Tell me about it,” she said aloud, partly because she was genuinely curious, and partly because it was a safe topic for conversation.

      “I don’t remember a good deal, to tell the truth,” Mrs. Miles said, needlessly stirring a tall glass of iced tea sitting before her. “I was there twice. Once when I married your...when I married Fred. That was during the war. And the second time when you were about three. I don’t suppose you remember anything about that time?”

      She sent Ellen a glance that anticipated disappointment from her.

      Ellen shook her head. “No. Unless...there is something, but I’m not even sure that it is real, or whether it’s just some piece of childish nonsense.”

      “What’s that?”

      “A moon garden. I don’t even know what it means, it’s just a phrase that popped into my head. Maybe I read it somewhere.”

      “But there is a moon garden. Oh dear.” Mrs. Miles looked truly anguished now. “But I had forgotten about that when I wrote Minna.” She stopped short. Aunt Minna, according to the story Ellen had been given, had been the one to do the writing, extending an invitation. And though it came as no surprise to Ellen, this additional blunder so disconcerted Mrs. Miles that she could only sit and stare open-mouthed.

      “Then it is real,” Ellen said quickly, pretending not to notice the slip. “But why on earth call it that?”

      “It’s an ugly old story. And it’s supposed to be haunted.” Mrs. Miles took temporary refuge in the cold soup the waitress had set before them.

      So am I, Ellen thought. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” she said aloud, “it sounds very romantic, anyway. A crumbling southern mansion—it is crumbling, isn’t it? A moon garden, whatever exactly that is. And ghosts on top of everything. Darling, it ought to be enough to take anyone’s mind off of almost anything.”

      “Ellen, dear, maybe you oughtn’t to go after all.” Mrs. Miles said, her soup spoon pausing en route to her lips. “Aunt Minna is a bit eccentric. She always was, and it’s been so long since I’ve really seen her or talked to her. Heaven only knows what she’s like by this time. She might be completely crazy....”

      She dropped her spoon, spilling soup and causing a number of heads to turn in their direction.

      Ellen had a mischievous impulse to say, “We ought to be really good company for one another.” But her mother looked so close to crying that she suppressed the urge and, pretended she hadn’t even caught that slip of the tongue. “Tell me about the moon garden. It sounds quite fascinating.”

      * * * *

      In a hotel room not far away, three men waited. Two of them were seated in big armchairs. Although they sat in relaxed poses, they were not relaxed. They did not look as if they would ever be relaxed.

      The third man was their superior, many times removed. He could afford to be relaxed in their company, and he was. He was tall and portly. There was something almost uncouth in his heavy and massive build, something in the slow way he moved that suggested a physical inertia. But when one looked into his face, one’s impression quickly changed. He had what used to be called a masterful brow. His eyes, deep set and the color of steel, were alert, his lips firm, and the entire face subtle in its play of expression. In one glance a person entirely forgot the grossness of his body

      He went once or twice to the window, whose draperies were closed, and pulled the curtains a little aside to look out, as if watching for someone.

      A knock sounded at the door. Nielsen, the man of the window, looked at the door for a moment as if silently commanding the wood to speak. Then he signaled to one of the other men to answer. That man sprang from the chair with an athletic quickness. The second man remained where he was, but his hand had gone inside the coat he wore.

      The door was opened. Some words were exchanged in a whisper. The shoulders of the man at the door relaxed visibly, and he stepped aside briefly to allow someone to enter.

      A young man came into the room, a very arresting young man. At a quick glance he might have been in his teens, although in fact Nielsen knew him to be nearer thirty. He was a little more than five feet ten inches in height, and he moved with the sort of controlled grace that evidenced perfect physical training. He was slender. When he walked, he put his feet down the way a cat does. He had a long, oval face with a complexion so perfect a woman might envy, but there was nothing effeminate that about him. He was blond, with a wave in his hair that he had tried without success to comb away.

      His eyes were pale blue, a very striking blue. Nielsen looked into them, and was struck by the contrast between them and the man’s face. He had a face of innocence, but his eyes were the eyes of a killer.

      The man who had opened the door introduced them curtly. “Ken Parker, Walt Nielsen.” They shook hands. Both grips were strong. Parker looked as relaxed as Nielsen.

      “You’ve checked out this girl?” Nielsen asked.

      “Yes,” Parker said. “There’s no doubt she’s really a relative. A niece, on her father’s side. I’ve made up a full report on her.” He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Nielsen. Nielsen tossed it to one of the other man, who opened it and began to read silently.

      “Of course,” Nielsen said, “we’ll want to be sure it’s the same girl who shows up in Savannah.”

      “I’ll be there when she arrives,” Parker said. He paused for a moment. “There’s one thing. I don’t know how crucial it might be. I think she saw me. That is, actually took a look at me.”

      Nielsen frowned.

      “I was following her across Fountain Square, and a woman with her arms full of packages ran into me. As luck would have it, the girl chose just that moment to glance back.”

      “Did she see your face?”

      “Not for more than a second, if that. I got my back to her fast, and got away as quickly as I could. I don’t think she’ll recognize me.”

      “We’ll risk it,” Nielsen said. He folded his arms over his chest and looked thoughtful. “What kind of a girl is she, this niece?”

      Parker took a few seconds to consider his answer. He knew what Nielsen wanted. He did not want the sort of details included in the report...when she was born, where she went to school, what kind of books she read. What he wanted was a label, something that would tell him where to file this girl in his mind.

      “Fragile,” Parker said finally. “Easily broken.”

      Nielsen was pleased. “Easily broken,” he repeated. It was just the label he had wanted, and he nodded his head, sending little rippling shock waves through a succession of chins. He smacked his lips as if he had just tasted some really delicious tidbit.

      “Good,” he muttered. “Good.”

      CHAPTER