"d.a.m.n it, sugar, I'm working."

"You're working, and I'm dying." She tried to sound furious. It came out in a sob.

"Don't be ri " Something went click in his head, and he turned, stared at her curiously. "Hon, is something the matter?"

She didn't have to volunteer it now. He'd asked the question. "The matter? What could possibly be the matter?" She straightened, walked into the study.

"C'mon now, hon what is it?"

"Don't 'c'mon now, hon' me!" Her control vanished. "I haven't seen you, talked to you, done anything with you in months!"

"I've been working." His voice was soft but not gentle. "Working my a.s.s off, for us. You know how well we've done lately. Our bank account . . ."

Usually his mock little boy manner of arguing was ingratiating. Now it was simply irritating. "To h.e.l.l with our bank account. I'd like my husband back. You've been so obsessed with your work here lately, ever since we got back from LA, that . . ." She stopped, stared at him open mouthed.

"Obsessed, yes. Ever since you bought that G.o.d awful chair. "

"It's not G.o.d awful. It's beautiful. You said so yourself."

"I never said it was beautiful, never! Well made, maybe, but I'd never've said it was beautiful. I'd remember."

"You're being silly, Marj. If anything, I'd have to say this chair's been good for me, considering how much and how well I've been selling recently."

"Maybe it's been good for you, but not for me. I I want you to get rid of it."

"Get rid of it?" He looked at her as though she'd suggested some night swimming, now, in November. "This chair's one of my favorite things." He smiled patronizingly. "Don't tell me, Marj, that you're jealous of a chair. "

"Will you get rid of it?" Her voice was low, edgy.

He sat quietly for a moment, then spoke calmly and with a chill in his voice that made her tremble. "You're a little hysterical, Marjorie. I can't talk sensibly to you when you're hysterical. We'll talk some more about it later. I've got ten more pages to do yet tonight." He turned back to the typewriter.

She stared at his back. Tatta ta tat tatta tatta . . . the letters fired at her, each one a little pinp.r.i.c.k deep inside her guts. She opened her mouth, started to say something, then whirled and ran from the room.

He did not look up.

The doorbell rang, demanding. Sweating despite the coolness of the room, Dylan looked up from the machine on the third ring. Dazedly, he surveyed the evening's work. Nearly nine thousand words.

As the bell rang and he rose to answer the door, he vaguely recalled something disquieting about the evening. Oh, yes, he and Marjorie had had an argument of some kind.

That was probably she at the door. When she got mad or frustrated, she liked to take the car out and drive. Silly fool had probably forgotten her house keys and locked herself out. Try as he could, the cause of their argument escaped him. Well, he'd apologize for whatever it was, take the blame, promise never to do it again, and they'd kiss and make up.

He was composing excuses as he opened the door. Marjorie wasn't there.

Instead, he found himself staring blankly up at a tall stranger in a blue uniform. The man wore a white plastic helmet and sported insignia and buckles like a cubist's cactus. He favored Dylan with a solemn stare entirely out of keeping with his quasi military appearance.

Dylan felt himself drowning in a sudden thick surge of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He heard a voice, distant and suspiciously like his own, saying, "Yes, Officer?"

"Mr. McCarey? Dylan McCarey? This is 1649 Oakhurst Place?"

"Marjorie . ." Dylan leaned out into the steely dampness, tried to see into the garage. The door was up, open. "Has she been in an accident?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. McCarey. She died at the scene."

"Died?" He shook his head. That didn't clear it. He smiled crookedly. "Marjorie?"

"Apparently, in the fog, she missed a turn. About halfway between here and Goleta."

"Goleta? What was she doing way up near . . ." He stopped, remembered. They'd argued, and he'd turned away. Marjorie.

"Marjorie." He started out the door. A firm hand caught him, an arm barred his way.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. McCarey, very sorry. It was quick. Her car went over a three hundred foot cliff. I'm told she died instantly."

Dylan stared past the man, into the smothered night. Nothing was visible through the fog save a faint squarish outline in the driveway topped by a leering red light winking. Blood, fog, night . . . Marjorie.

"I'm Sergeant Brooks. I'm with the San Simeon station. If you'd like to come down there for a while . . ."

"Later, maybe. Not now," he replied numbly. "Later. "

"You sure you'll be okay?"

"I'll be okay." He looked up. "Thank you, Sergeant. I have to make some phone calls, get in touch with people."

"Of course. We'd like you to come into Obispo tomorrow . . . or as soon as you can. Official identification. I'm sorry."

"Of course you would. I'11 come in the morning. After I make the phone calls. Good night, Officer."

"Good night, Mr. McCarey. " Brooks studied him professionally, reached a decision. "I'11 be going now. If we can do anything, please call us."

"Yes. Thank you."

Dylan remained framed in the doorway, a weaving silhouette in the hallway light. He watched as the tall patrolman was swallowed by the fog. There was the sound of a car door slamming. Rumbling throatily, the blinking red light turned and receded into the distance. He stared until it had disappeared completely.

Reflex guided him back to the study, back to his desk. A detached part of him was coolly aware of the mournful dialogue of wind and wave below the window. Marjorie, Marjorie. What had they fought about, to send her blindly running from the house, from him? That silly fight over nothing, over a chair. A d.a.m.ned piece of furniture.

Turning, he looked at it. One little argument and his Marjorie was taken from him forever. One absurd little He froze, his spine rippling like an underground cable in an earthquake. Some unmentionable fear swamped his muscular control of self, and he shivered uncontrollably.

The back of the chair was altered, different. He could've sworn, would've sworn, he'd originally counted nine faces carved into the seat back. There were eleven now. On bulgy eyed, close inspection, one resembled very much, quite impossibly, that of a recently deceased young lawyer and former neighbor, Mark Andrus. The other . . . oh, G.o.d, the other . . .

Long hair formed a cirruslike nimbus around the delicately rendered face. The tiny mouth was open, forming a deep little gash in the dark wood, while the miniature glaring eyes focused on some unseen but immediate terror. The complete expression was one a person would adopt on viewing some soul twisting horror or a train abruptly bearing down on her, the earth cracking beneath her feet, or . . .

Rocks at the bottom of a cliff rushing up at her.

Shaking, cold, cold in the heated room, he bent around in the chair. A forefinger reached out unsteadily toward the tiny portrait. His voice was an echo.

"Marjorie?" He touched the carving.

It was warmer than the wood around it.

Dylan jumped out of the chair, hit the desk, backed away from it. His eyes never left the chair. He struck something the wastebasket and stumbled over it. Strange noises were coming from deep in his throat, a low grunting sound like someone might make while experiencing a nightmare in the midst of deep sleep.

Backing into a wall, he knocked precious books from their shelves and ignored them. A vase full of coleus fell, shattered, and stained the green carpet. Something else heavy was b.u.mped, hit the floor with an imperative cushioned thud.

He looked down. The battle ax lay smooth and clean among the dirt and humus and broken waxy stems from the cracked vase. Slowly he reached down, picked up the replica. Its weight blotted out everything else in the study. Cherry glaze blurred his vision.

Howling like a crippled wolf, he raised the ax over his head with both hands and rushed on the chair.

At the last instant it rose nimbly on four clawed legs and skittered aside.

The ax came down blindly, missing, gashing Dylan's right calf. Overbalanced, he spun, swung, and raised the ax again. It went through the picture window with a crystalline scream, and Dylan followed it.

Immediately thereafter a dull, distance damped thump sounded from the rocks below. Then it was quiet in the study. Through the break, the fog began to enter, marching on the sound of winter waves forty feet below.

"I don't understand." The young girl looked happily at her fiance. "It was so cheap."

He grinned at her with the superior knowledge of the older (he was two years older than she and had already graduated college). "Small town estate sale, that's all. No dealers to bid against. It was sure a buy, though. What a way to start furnishing our apartment! Wait till Sally and Dave see it.

"Lot's go. You've got cla.s.ses tomorrow morning."

"Mondays, yecch!" She wrinkled her pretty face. "You'll have all day off to admire it while I'm slogging through Haskell's seminar."

"It.11 be there when you get home." He slid behind the wheel of the van.

"Isn't it gorgeous, though?" She turned in her seat to stare back at the chair. It leaned up against the convertible couch, dogged down securely by rope. She admired the carved arms and lion's heads, the open mouthed gargoyle crowning the back of the seat, and most especially the twelve miniature faces carved into the back.

Her fiance frowned, looked in his rearview mirror. "Did you hear someone scream?"

She smiled at him, took his free hand. "Probably just some kid separated from his momma. I didn't hear anything but laughing, dummy."

"Laughing, screaming, who cares? We got ourselves a h.e.l.luva buy!" He started the engine, guided the van out of the lot. They laughed as they rocked their way across several chuckholes and depressions in the road.

Behind them, the chair squatted expectantly as four wooden feet dug a little more deeply into the blue red carpet . . .

THE INHERITANCE.

I love cats. Always have, always will. I'm not allergic to them, and their hair doesn't make me sneeze. I've slept with cats the past fourteen years. They move around, they get your legs hot, and sometimes they snore. But they're great company. I like real cats, fictional cats like Gummitch, wholly imaginary cats, felines large and small. I liked Garfield better when he was a cat.

However, I have noticed through the years that not every member of the human race feels the same. There are people who like cats even though they're allergic to them: a pitiable situation. There are some folks who are indifferent to their presence. And then there are, astonishingly enough, individuals who outright hate felines.

There are even those who live in fear of the common house cat, whose phobia is a throwback to the Middle Ages and the terrors of the plague: No argument can alter their opinions, no logic dissuade their antifeline vitriol. In the very presence of a cat they will draw away in fear. It is an att.i.tude I find incomprehensible, indefensible, absurd, and unreasoning.

Wouldn't it be hilarious if they turned out to be right?

". . . My home, Trenton, its contents, and the sum of five hundred and fifty thousand dollars, after other and all taxes have been paid."

Every eye in the pecan paneled room turned to Mayell. She remained composed in green sleeveless dress and pumps, managing not to grin.

"There are two conditions," the lawyer continued, his tone indicating disapproval of the manner in which the deceased's secretary's skirt had crawled an indecent distance up her thighs. "You must remain in residence at Trenton House for six months to enable the staff there to make a gradual transition to other employment."

"And the other condition?" Mayell spoke with the chiming notes of a gamelan, displaying a voice sweet enough to match her appearance.

The lawyer harrumphed. "There remains the matter of Saugen, the deceased's cat. You will henceforth be responsible for the animal's care. Full transferral of the aforementioned sum occurs six months from today, provided that Trenton remains home to its present staff for that length of time and provided that Saugen appears happy, healthy, well fed, and content at that date."

"That's all?"

"That is all." The lawyer evened the ma.s.s of paper by tapping the double handful on the desk. "This reading, ladies and gentlemen, is concluded."

Mutters rose like flies on a hot day from the small group, from disappointed distant relatives and modestly rewarded servants, from hopeful acquaintances, and from somber faced business a.s.sociates. Some had received more than they'd hoped for, others considerably less. None had fared nearly so well as the late Hiram Hanford's "secretary," the delectable Mayell.

Of the servants, none seemed as satisfied as the gardener, Willis. None had his reason to. For while Hanford had left him only a slight sum, Willis was heir to much more than was indicated in the formal will. He had inherited Mayell.

As she rose and turned to exit the lawyer's chambers, their eyes met in silent mutual congratulation. They had each other. In six months they would have the money and Trenton House. Soon they could live the life they'd endured in secret these past miserable five years.

"Nice kitty, kitty. Sweet Saugen mine." Mayell knelt in the foyer of Trenton and cooed to the yellow tomcat. It slid supplely around her ankles, meowing affectionately.

Willis's gaze was appreciative, but it was not wasted on the cat. Instead, he was luxuriating in the landscape provided by Mayell's provocative posture: kneeling, inclined slightly forward. It highlighted her burnished blond hair, the regular curve of delicate shoulders and hips, the cleavage better described in terms geologic than physiological, resembling as it did other remarkable natural clefts such as the East African Rift.

She stood, cradling the sleek feline in her arms. It purred like a tiny stove set on simmer. "See, he likes me. Saugen sweet always did like me."

Willis noticed the cat staring at him. It possessed the penetrating, hypnotic gaze of all cats, magnified in this particular instance by overlarge yellow eyes. The black slits in their centers glinted like cuts. He shook himself. All cats stared like that.

"Good thing he does, too. That parasite of a lawyer will be around in May some time to check on the house and his furry nibs there. Keepin' the house and roses lookin' good is going to be my job. Keepin' the cat the same'll be up to you."

Mayell hugged the tom close to the warm shelf of her bosom. "That won't be any trouble, Willis. He doesn't seem to miss Hiram much." She gently let the cat drop to the floor. It made a moving, fuzzy bracelet of itself around her left ankle.

"That's something we have in common." Her perfect face twisted into an unflattering grimace. For an instant Willis had a glimpse of something less attractive hiding behind the beauty queen mask. "Five years of my life, gone." She nestled into the gardener's arms. "Five years!" She clung tightly to his rangy, sunburned form. "Only you made it bearable, darling."

"We're gettin' fair pay back. One hundred and ten thousand for each year of h.e.l.l." He glanced around the ma.s.sive old house, at the garish neo Victorian decor and the wealth of antiques. "Plus what this mausoleum will fetch. And no one suspects."

"No." She showed cream white teeth in an oddly predatory smile. "I didn't think anyone would, not as slowly as I altered his medicine. Ten months, a fraction at a time. Otherwise the old relic might've gone on for another twenty years." She shuddered from a distant cold memory. "I couldn't have stood it, Willis." Her voice and expression were hard. "I earned that half million."

"Six months and we'll leave this place forever. We'll go somewhere sunny and warm, as far from Vermont as we can get."

"Rio," she murmured languorously, savoring the single soft syllable, "or Cannes, or the Aegean."

"Anywhere you want, Mayell. "

They embraced tightly enough to keep a burglar's pick from slipping between them while Saugen slid sensuously around the perfect ankle of his new mistress.