Original Sin cover

Copyright © 1991 by Mary Monica Pulver. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER ONE

Because I have to know if it’s still there, thought Evelyn Biggins, as the plane began to settle heavily downward. And stop her if necessary.

The sound of trumpets faded away and a guitar began quietly summoning all the faithful, joyful and triumphant. The music had a crystal edge that meant it had been recorded digitally; and despite the low volume, it filled the living room, an unusually large one in a fine old house. The room was decorated in a contemporary style, the walls a rich peacock blue, the deep plush carpet forest green. To offset the dark colors, there were two long, not-identical couches identically upholstered in champagne silk, facing one another in front of the fireplace, made of pale gray stone with a small frieze carved into it of galloping horses. Its flames sent cheerful flickers over the faintly-textured fabric of the almost-white couches, and warmed the fur of a black standard poodle sleeping on a strip of cheap black carpet in front of the hearth. There were strips of cheap black carpet all around the house. Michael D’Arcangelo was a famous sleeper.
At the opposite end of the room was a very large bay set with three outsize windows. In its center stood a tall balsam, whose Christmas fragrance filled the room like the music. Kneeling by the tree and bent laughing over a baby in a plastic carrier was Kori Price Brichter, a lovely young woman whose pale complexion was set glowing by the cranberry red cocktail dress she wore.
In the narrow space between the tree and the middle window stood Frank Ryder, a short, stocky man with white hair. He had lifted one of the heavy champagne drapes and was peering outwards.
“Turning into a real blizzard out there,” he remarked with the complacence of one who does not have to go out in it.
“Too bad you and Mary didn’t get married two days ago,” teased Kori. Her words were for Frank, but she spoke as if to the baby, grimacing and shaking her head to make it laugh and wave its chubby arms. “Then you could be walking the white sands of Cancun instead of watching the white snows of winter sift across the porch of my house.”
“Oh, well,” said Frank, his complacency unbroken, “it isn’t as if this is a real honeymoon.” He came out from behind the tree. He was not two hours from St. Therese’s and still wearing the vest and trousers of his wedding suit, a navy pinstripe. His dark necktie had been pulled loose, and his boutonniere of white roses and baby’s breath had been removed from the coat and pinned to his vest by a loving hand. He caught his recaptured bride’s eye, smiled, and said in a broad brogue, “Tiss is mahr like taking up where we left off, am I not right, ma chroide?”
Mary Ryder was short and frankly plump, Mrs. Claus in a gray suit and ruffled blouse, her silver hair done up in a bun. She smiled back, lifted her camera and flashed a picture of him. “As if we were never apart,” she said. She cranked to the next frame, turned and took a picture of the young woman kneeling over her baby. “Kori, it was very kind of you to offer us refuge from the storm while we re-arrange our reservations. Christmas among friends is so much better than a last-minute motel.”
The blizzard currently building outside had already closed Denver’s airport in Colorado, where they had been supposed to make their connection to Mexico.
“Where’s Peter?” asked Frank. “He isn’t going to skip out on the tree-trimming chores, is he?”
Kori, reminded, turned from her baby to the cardboard box marked Lights and began picking at the masking tape holding its top closed. “He’s at the airport, picking up our last guest.”
Mary said, surprised, “Is our airport still open?”
“When I called to check, they said yes.” Kori checked her watch. “That was half an hour ago. Her plane should be just touching down now.”
“Who’s the guest?” asked Frank. “I thought this little party would be just Dr. Ramsey and Mary and me.”
Kori pulled the tape loose, then turned with the smile of a person about to reveal a happy surprise. “No, there’s another guest, a very special one. It seems I have a cousin.”
“You mean one of Peter’s relatives?”
“No, my very own. Remember how I always said I didn’t have any living relatives? I was wrong; I have one. Her name is Evelyn Biggins. She’s a cousin once removed, actually. She was my mother’s cousin; her maiden name was Evelyn McKay.”
Frank said, “As in Evelyn and Inez, the sisters?”
Kori nodded. “You’ve heard of them? Yes, isn’t it wonderful?”
“You’re related to them?” asked Mary, in a peculiar voice.
“Yes; my grandmother and Evelyn’s father were brother and sister.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Frank shook his head. “But you know, I would have guessed they’d both be dead by now. Evelyn and Inez. Christ, I haven’t thought of them in years! How the hell did you find Evelyn?”
“Peter found her for me. About all I had was her name. I’ve been thinking about redecorating the house, this time with me in charge instead of a professional, and doing something to make it reflect its history. So I started researching, and I found out that we’ve always lived here – my mother’s side, anyway. Right from the time this house was built in the 1870s. But I can’t find out anything about them as people; all I’m getting is begats – you know, Charles begat William, who begat Ferris, who begat Evelyn, like that. Charles and his wife Eugenia were my great-great-grandparents. Now I have Evelyn, who actually remembers Eugenia – she must have lived to an enormous old age.”
“It would have been nice if you had told us she was coming,” said Mary, and this time the edge on her voice sliced into Kori’s happy excitement.
“Mary, what’s wrong?”
“My God, I can’t believe you actually expect me to sit down and be pleasant to Evelyn McKay!”
“Biggins,” corrected Kori, too startled to think. “Evelyn McKay Biggins.”
“Whatever, I won’t do it!”
“Now, hon – ” began Frank, as surprised as Kori.
“No, Frank! I couldn’t be responsible for my actions if I had to spend a weekend with a McKay! I’m going upstairs for our bags; you go start the car!”
“Um,” said Kori, “that won’t be possible.” She got to her feet in a single unhappy motion. “Peter’s car is in town having something expensive done to it, so he took the Bronco to the airport. Danny borrowed the pickup for the Christmas weekend, and my little MG is up on blocks for the winter. There isn’t any other transportation available, at least until Peter gets back.”
Mary’s face was pale and cold, a frozen sculpture. She said through stiff lips, “Frank, as soon as Peter arrives, tell him we can’t stay after all. I’ll be upstairs; I don’t want to see her, even accidentally; and I won’t stay in this house one minute longer than I have to after she arrives.” Mary turned and walked out of the room.

Charter’s airport was small and backward; Evelyn found she had to disembark onto the tarmac. The wind grabbed at her as she stepped away from the stairs, pushing her rudely; snow stung her cheek as she hurried with the others toward the glowing rectangle that marked the gate to the terminal.
Inside, she slowed and looked around. Hot air wrapped itself around her legs in a marble-cake mix with the icy air from outside. They were in a hallway built of plywood. A string of the full-size Christmas tree lights surrounded a steamy window.A voice was announcing in a tone that would indicate this was the fourth repeat that bad weather had forced the closure of all runways, and no more flights would be arriving or taking off. Outbound passengers should report to the ticket desk of their respective airline. A white board sign pointed with a single arrow to Main Terminal and Luggage Retrieval.
Evelyn started in the direction indicated. She was tall for a woman of 79, erect and looking even taller wrapped in her gray wool coat. Her gloves were lined and her black felt hat sat well down on her head, but she had forgotten overshoes. Her oxfords were sensible but hardly warm; she hoped she wouldn’t have to stand outside to wait for a taxi.
Now she thought about it, it might be hard to find a taxi at all. Her destination was a farm and with the airport closing, there would be a rush of others wanting a ride into town, where still more customers waited. Better get started. She looked for another sign pointing to baggage retrieval.
“Mrs. Biggins?”
She turned around. A slender man with a sharp-drawn features under fine, straight, no-color hair was studying her with the palest eyes she had ever seen. He was five ten or eleven in his good Burberry, hatless, and carrying thick leather gloves in one hand. She hadn’t a notion who he might be.
Her face must have shown her puzzlement, for a wry smiled tweaked his thin mouth. “I’m Peter Brichter, and I’ve been sent to pick you up.” Her host.
She put out a gloved hand and said in her cultured falsetto, “How very nice of you to come out in such unpleasant weather.”
He took the hand politely and went with her to retrieve her two suitcases, then led the way as they threaded their way back to the main entrance. His manner was courteous but not forthcoming. Evelyn, sensitized to any hint of trouble, began to wonder if something was wrong.
Don’t be silly, she admonished herself. After all, it’s Christmas, a time for family, and I’m a stranger coming into his home. Men, she knew, could be funny about events that spoiled their treasured routine.
But maybe he knows. That thought made her hesitate when he turned at the door to the outside, holding it open for her, looking back with those strange cold eyes. But she gathered her courage and sailed through. There’s nothing wrong, nothing.

Kori was stooped by the fireplace, preparing to put another log on the flames. Michael was sitting beside her, a twig in his mouth. Peter had taught him to “help” at the fireplace, and he took his job seriously. Kori said to Frank, “I don’t understand. I didn’t know she had ever met Evelyn.”
Frank nodded agreement. “I don’t think she has. After all, neither my nor her folks were of a class that got invited to the same parties the McKays went to.”
“No, I didn’t mean – ” Kori began.
“Hush, I know what you meant. And it’s all right; we weren’t destitute, or trash. But Mary’s family especially was at that social level that wants some day to rise into the middle class. I can’t understand how she managed to get close enough to any McKay that it still hurts fifty years later.”
Kori push-dropped the log into the fire, then stood and reached for a poker. “Did you ever?”
“Get hurt by a McKay? No.”
She glanced at him with immaculate gray eyes. “Did you ever speak with one?”
“No.” He hesitated, looking around the beautiful room. “I’ve been out here quite a few times, first as your husband’s boss, then as his and your friend. This is an interesting old house, and I can understand why you want to know about the folks who used to live here, especially since it turns out they’re kin.” He looked at Kori. “But I thought Peter might have warned you about poking into its history, because he can tell you from his own experience there’s sour apples on many a branch of the family tree.”
Poking at the log, she said, “You do know something about the McKays, don’t you?”
“All right. I don’t know why Mary’s taking it so personal, but on the other hand Evelyn’s old man was Ferris McKay; and he was, pardon my French, the ripest bastard in the county. He was a banker by profession, and a meaner, harder man ever foreclosed on a mortgage.”
Kori looked startled, then she laughed. “Okay, so my great-uncle was like Ebenezer Scrooge before the Ghost of Christmas Past. That’s . . . interesting, and something I didn’t know about him.” She put the poker back into the rack of fireplace tools, dusted her hands. “Maybe I should have come to you looking for stories about my ancestors.”
“You want more? His wife was a snob, his daughter Evelyn was a cold-hearted bitch and his other daughter, Inez, was a tramp.” He saw real shock and dismay flood Kori’s face, sniffed and rubbed the underside of his nose with the edge of one hand in an embarrassed way. “Now I’ve gone too far. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s all right,” said Kori, but her face and voice said it wasn’t.
“Please, forget it, okay? I was speaking from gossip I overheard as a boy, so it’s kind of dim and was probably exaggerated to start with.”
“Strange to think so many members of your own family could be held in such low esteem.”
Frank, trying to heal the breach, said, “Especially when others, like your parents, and you, are very highly thought of.”
“I wonder. Frank, can you talk to Mary? I mean, I wrote to Evelyn about an old fashioned Christmas house party, and if you leave, there will only be Gordon, Peter and me. And Gordon’s in one of his marathon cooking moods, which means the meals will be delicious, but we won’t see much of him. I don’t know how I’d explain. And Jill will be so disappointed, too.”
Frank blinked. “Why will your nanny be disappointed if Mary and I aren’t here?”
“Because she’s going to be a maid. She made a costume and she’s all excited about it. It won’t be nearly as much fun if she can only be a maid for Evelyn.”
“She’s excited about being a maid?”
Kori’s eyes kindled with amusement. “Well, she watches a lot of old movies, so her idea of what a maid does is from what she’s seen in them. She’s been expecting an audience, and was all cast down when I told her Cris and Laura’s plane was stuck in Denver. She was the one who suggested I check about your flight, since you were booked through Denver; and she was really happy to hear you and Mary were taking Cris and Laura’s place. She can hardly wait to make her entrance.” Kori sobered. “Frank, you know Mary much better than I do. Is this some kind of delayed bridal vapors, or is she serious about refusing to share a roof with a McKay?”
Frank shrugged. “I never heard anything about a feud between the O’Briens and the McKays during the thirty years we were married; maybe it’s something that started during the twelve years we were divorced. I’ll go and talk to her.”

Peter Brichter was an excellent driver; still, between the blinding whirl of wind-driven snow and the ice that lurked hidden on the road, the drive to the ranch had been a serious adventure.
But now, nearly at the end, the struggle up the narrow lane to the ranch was proving slow and difficult; here the Bronco had to bully its way through real drifts. The lane ran between the same fence rails she remembered from her youth; seeing them, suddenly Evelyn was impatient to be at their destination. She leaned forward, looking for a glimpse of the house, but snow drew teasing curtains across her view.
The lane widened abruptly and there was a big drift right in front of them. Evelyn saw it only soon enough to brace her hand on the dash before the front tires buried themselves in it.
“Damn,” muttered Peter. He tried backing up and crunching forward again, but he couldn’t get up enough speed to force a passage. He sighed, shut off the engine and got out.
The wind paused as if to take a breath, and in the break Evelyn was surprised to see they had come nearly across a racetrack. She had been sure it would be gone, but there was the curve of the rails, white shadows against the snow. She and her sister Inez had loved racing their ponies on the track, which had been built by her grandfather to encircle the house and other buildings back around 1915 – and still did, apparently. How reassuring to find it still existed! She leaned forward and in another brief glimpse saw the many-roofed shape of the house on top of its rise, pale against the dark sky, window shapes glowing, and her heart thumped painfully against her ribs.
The door opened and Peter was there, looking up at her with those cold gray eyes. He appeared interested in her reaction to her glimpse of the house, but she could not otherwise read his expression. What an awful man you are! she thought angrily.
She allowed him to help her out, and they began to wade through the snow, which was wet, heavy and more than knee-deep in places. The wind was blowing hard enough to blind them, and she staggered under its onslaught until he got her steadied and aimed in the direction of the half-seen house. He kept hold of her arm, but she insisted on making a team effort of the struggle, and by the time they arrived on the big old porch, she was feeling vindicated as well as breathless. Not so old as he thinks, she told herself.
He opened the elaborate front door – she remembered the original as rather plainer – and she walked into the big entrance hall. The black and white tile floor was the same one she remembered from her childhood. The wallpaper had been replaced with mauve and cream paint, but the beautiful wooden staircase, with its curve-away lower segment, that was the same, too. A real holly garland had been woven through the railings of the bannister where they met the steps, and the air was fragrant with the safe and familiar Christmas smells of roast fowl and evergreen. She felt a sudden sting of tears, and was glad Peter was behind her. He began to help her off with her coat.
“Here we are, Katherine,” he said, lifting the coat free, and Evelyn, turning to correct him about her name, had her eye caught by a figure standing in front of the parlor door: A young woman carrying a sleepy infant in a green jumpsuit tucked into one arm. The woman was dressed in cranberry velvet, and her long dark hair was pinned up in braids, tendrils of which had escaped to curl in front of her ears and down the nape of her slender neck. She was exquisitely lovely, and Evelyn, who had never even been pretty, felt a familiar stab of envy.
“Mrs. Biggins?” said the woman. “I’m so glad you’re here; I was starting to worry. Welcome back to your old home.” The infant made a fussing sound and the woman put it up on her shoulder, patting its back. Though the woman’s poise was that of mistress of the house, the mistress was Kori, not this Katherine person. Evelyn looked around at Peter for an explanation.
“Katherine is her real name; Kori is a nickname everyone else calls her.” So this was Kori Price Brichter, the woman she had been writing to for the past four months.
Evelyn turned back to extend her hand. “I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, Mrs. Brichter,” she fluted.
The woman came forward, devouring Evelyn’s face with eager gray eyes, free hand extended. “Please, call me Kori.” She, like Peter, pronounced it Koh-REE, and Evelyn corrected the mental pronunciation she had been giving it during their correspondence. Kori continued, “This is our son, Gordon Peter,” turning around to show the baby’s disinterested face. “He’s ready for bed; I kept him up to show him off, just for a minute.” She said to Peter, “Is it as bad out there as it looks?”
“Getting worse by the minute,” nodded Peter, putting Evelyn’s coat away in a tall antique armoire. “I hope Danny got off all right.”
“He left about half an hour ago. I wonder if I shouldn’t have told him to call when he arrived at his parent’s house.”
“Who is Danny?” asked Evelyn.
“Daniel Bannister, my groom.”
Evelyn’s eyebrows lifted. “Bannister?”
Kori laughed. “Lots of people say that. Yes, his father is the famous lawyer, and his grandfather was the famous judge. Danny says he prefers the barn to the bar. But first things first; let’s get you upstairs; your feet must be soaked. We can catch up on local names later. Peter, why didn’t you bring up Evelyn’s luggage?”
“Because I was hoping Danny had the sense to change his mind about driving home in this weather and I could send him out for it.” He had taken his gloves off; now he pulled them back on. “If I’m not back in twenty minutes, organize a search party.”
“All right. This way, Evelyn.” Kori started up the stairs, the baby resting his head on her shoulder, sucking his thumb. When Evelyn followed, he lifted his head and regarded her judgmentally. She looked away, and around.
How gracious and beautiful everything looked, and better maintained than she remembered it from her youth. The railing of the stairs had been stripped, smoothed and refinished in a lighter color, and the carpet on the stairs was deeper, more luxurious. But the large and beautiful stained glass window on the landing was the same, and Evelyn paused to admire it. A red and green dragon with a lance down its throat writhed in the center. A knight in silver armor pressed the lance home from his half-rearing horse, and a fair maiden with long spiraled curls clasped her hands anxiously in the background. It was a superb and original example of Victorian work. The central picture was surrounded by framed squares of spurious coats of arms. Evelyn gestured, frowning. “I seem to remember – aren’t two of those panes different?” The two she meant were, in fact, different in expression from their fellows, as well as from what she remembered. “Broken, I suppose.”
“Oh, no,” said Kori. “We decided to put our personal arms up there. We’re members of an organization that studies the Middle Ages, and one of the things they encourage is the design and registration of personal devices. The horse on a blazing sun is mine, and the lit candle is Peter’s. I saved the two panes we took out, in case of restoration, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity.”
And a portent of other, more major, changes? They continued up the stairs, then turned down the hall.
“I hope you like your room,” said Kori. “I wanted to give you the study, because it’s a big room with lots of windows, but the bed in there folds down out of a chair. I gave it to Gordon, who can sleep on anything. The oriel bedroom I gave to Captain and Mrs. Ryder, because it has the big bed.”
Evelyn slowed. “You have guests other than myself?”
Kori kept going. “Yes, of course; the other members of the house party. Except they aren’t exactly the ones I told you about. Cris and Laura McHugh got trapped in Denver, where this storm hit yesterday, and we’ve added Frank and Mary Ryder.” Kori opened a door and flipped on a light switch, then looked back and waited for Evelyn to catch up. “Frank and Mary were supposed to be on their honeymoon in Mexico, but they have to spend Christmas here instead, poor things.”
Her face showing her confusion, Evelyn stepped into the room, which was small and windowless. It had been a storeroom in her time, but now it was beautifully decorated in a soft lavender and silvery gray. The bed, not quite full size, had high, scroll-topped head- and foot-boards that curved into the sideboards, giving the effect of an old-fashioned sleigh.
“This is charming,” she said, because it was, but she turned and asked again, “You have other guests in the house?”
“Yes, you remember, I wrote and told you about my idea for an old-fashioned Christmas house party. It was in the same letter that said Peter would pick you up at the airport.”
Evelyn said, “I was wondering about a taxi when your husband came up and surprised me.”
Kori’s face registered dismay and distress in equal parts. “You didn’t get the letter? I wish I’d called – no, that wouldn’t have helped, because – You’ll like the others, they’re good friends, except – Oh, well, never mind. I mean, sit down and get those wet shoes off. I’ll bring you a towel, then put Jeepers to bed and we can talk about it.”
“Jeepers?”
Kori smiled and turned again to show the baby’s sleepy face to Evelyn. “Gordon Peter. But the original Peter lives here and Gordon’s a frequent visitor, so it was GP for awhile, and that sort of turned into Jeep.”
The baby, hearing his name, smiled briefly around his thumb, then resumed sucking.
Kori left and Evelyn sat down in a comfortable little chintz chair to remove her shoes. Kori had written earlier that she wanted to invite some people to meet her, day and number unspecified. Evelyn had agreed, asking that it be a small gathering. She’d assumed Kori would arrange for it to happen on an evening close to her departure day, since they’d agreed they’d need several days to share the stories of the house and its family. Instead she’d walked into a house party already underway.
A Tucson neighbor’s grandson referred often to the Post Awful, and Evelyn felt a sudden, angry kinship with his generation. Mind? Yes, she minded. She minded very much indeed.

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