Naked Once More (10 page)

“Don’t try to put those back,” the lawyer said, frowning. “Here—give them to me.”

He wrenched open the desk and laid the papers on its top. Jacqueline squatted and opened the bottom drawer. “It was in the winter of 1982,” she muttered. “February, I think.”

Two months before Kathleen Darcy had disappeared.

Driven by a compulsion she could not have explained, even to herself, she pulled another handful of letters from the back of the drawer. “Oh, my goodness. This is from Frederick Fortman. I didn’t know she corresponded with him.”

“She corresponded with a lot of writers,” Craig said. Jacqueline could tell by his voice that he was amused, no doubt at the spectacle of the sophisticated Mrs. Kirby squatting in the dust and squealing like a groupie.

“He wasn’t just a writer, he was a historian of international…” Her voice trailed off.

After a time Craig spoke again. “Far be it from me to spoil a lady’s fun, Mrs. Kirby, but time is getting on. There are hundreds of such letters.”

“Yes, of course.” In one smooth movement Jacqueline stood upright. Her leg muscles protested, but she rose above them; not for worlds would she have accepted the hand Craig had offered. The hand remained extended, however, and Jacqueline reluctantly gave up the letters. Craig added them to the pile on the desk and shut the lid with a decisive click.

The glint in Jacqueline’s green eyes would have warned a man who knew her better. How dare he treat her like a snooping, rude nobody? He acted as if he expected her to try to steal those letters. (Which she would gladly have done if she had had the chance.)

She turned to St. John. “I cannot tell you what a thrill this has been. The inspiration… the atmosphere…” She clutched her left breast and rolled her eyes furiously.

She refused St. John’s invitation to return to the house, pleading fatigue and emotional exhaustion. Craig did not linger; his farewell to both parties was less than effusive. His car disappeared in a spiteful spurt of gravel and Jacqueline said, “Mr. Darcy, I cannot tell you… It has been so…”

He put a pudgy hand on her shoulder. “We are soulmates, Mrs. Kirby. I knew it from the first. You must call me St. John. And I—may I venture…”

“Of course—St. John.”

He moved closer. “It may be indiscreet of me, dear Jacqueline, but I must tell you that at this moment my inclinations… Have I said enough?”

Not nearly enough, Jacqueline thought. She batted her lashes. “Oh, St. John!”

St. John’s head began to weave from side to side. Jacqueline struggled to keep from laughing. He was trying to kiss her, but the hat kept getting in his way, no matter from what direction he approached. Foiled at last, he took her hand and raised it to his lips—or, more accurately, his mouth. His teeth nibbled at her fingers.

Jacqueline let him nibble for a while before pulling her hand from his. “Oh,” she said. “St. John!”

I’ll have to do better than that in the way of dialogue, she thought coolly, as she wafted her graceful way down the steps and into her car. And make damned good and sure that disgusting toad understands our relationship will be strictly business. Not even for the sequel to
Naked
would I… I doubt he could, actually. Mumbling and pawing is about the limit of his repertoire, but even that… Have I got it? I think I have, I think I have. Two votes at least—one from a senile old woman who expects me to resurrect the dead, and the other from a nice bricklayer. St. John is the one who counts, the others chose him to represent them. I gave him my best shot.… Sometimes you make me sick, Kirby.

St. John turned and went back into the house. Jacqueline took off her hat and tossed it into the back seat. It had served its purpose, and the plumes kept getting in her eyes.

She had passed into the belt of trees between the house and the road when a figure stepped into her path and raised a peremptory hand. Jacqueline stopped the car. The figure was vaguely familiar—one of the men she had seen working in the yard when she first arrived. He wore jeans faded to dirty white by constant washing, and a shirt of nondescript color; despite the fact that the wind was chill enough to make the car heater welcome, his sleeves were rolled to his elbows and his collar was open. When he came up to the car and gestured for her to roll the window down, she saw that his hands were brown with mud.

He was a rather forbidding figure, with a long, hard face deeply scored with vertical lines, and a head of shaggy hair patched like the coat of a calico cat with random patterns of gray, auburn and silver. The mud-stained fingers were abnormally long, they looked as if they had an extra set of knuckles; and the first and second fingers were the same length. That was supposed to be a sign of something sinister, but Jacqueline couldn’t remember what. Homicidal mania?

She rolled the window down, but left the car in gear and the engine running, though she was more curious than alarmed. She had been told more than once that curiosity killed other things than cats; by those standards, she was a prime candidate for murder.

“Well? What did he say?”

Jacqueline returned his cool stare. “What were you doing in the kitchen?”

The shaggy, windblown head nodded, as if in satisfaction. “I wondered if you’d seen me.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? I was eavesdropping.”

“Then why are you asking me what was said?”

“I didn’t hear what that bloated toad said to you before he started gnawing on your hand. Did he promise you the job?”

“Job,” Jacqueline repeated musingly. “I suppose it could be called that.” She shifted into “park” and turned off the engine.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Why the hell should I?”

The bare minimum of muscles twitched in the long, hungry face, just enough to tilt the corners of the mouth. He relaxed, arms resting on the window ledge, head inclined. “You’re a cool one, aren’t you, Mrs. Kirby?”

“Not at all, I am aflame with curiosity. How do you know my name? Who are you? Why were you eavesdropping? By what right do you inquire into my activities? Aren’t you afraid I’ll start screaming ‘rape’?”

The man straightened. “May I join you?”

“No. I’m curious but I’m not stupid. Besides, you aren’t answering my questions, you’re asking your own.”

“My name is Paul Spencer. I was a friend of Kathleen’s.”

“I see.”

“I doubt that you do. Let’s just say that I admired her and her work. I—and many others—would hate to see it turned over to a hack.”

“You really do have the most delightful way of putting things,” Jacqueline said admiringly. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that old saying about catching flies with honey instead of vinegar?”

“She tried.” The muscular contortion that was not really a smile twitched at his face. “But from what I’ve heard about you, Ms. Kirby, I thought vinegar would be more acceptable.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“Even in the back of beyond, we occasionally come across the
Times
Book Review, not to mention
People.
And I’ve read your books.”

“Really.”

“They’re pretty bad.”

“Compared to what?” Jacqueline murmured. He might or might not have heard her; he went on with scarcely a break. “But not as bad as the effusions of some of the others who’ve come here. And I had a sense, especially in your second book, that you were capable of doing better. What’s your problem? A bad editor, lack of ambition, or pure greed?”

“Greed, of course,” Jacqueline said. “There is a level of lousiness above which you cannot rise if you hope to make the best-seller lists. Mr. Spencer, I’m absolutely adoring this conversation; there’s nothing I would rather do than sit here and listen to you insult me. But I fear I must tear myself away. Perhaps we’ll meet again one day under even more romantic circumstances.”

She reached for the key. Spencer leaned forward, his face just outside the window. “You were up there, last night.”

She knew exactly what he meant, and there was no point pretending she didn’t. “If you know that, you must have been there too. Were you the one who…”

“Who what?” His eyes had narrowed.

“I heard laughter. And a twig snapping.”

“Did you? Well, it must have been me then. No one else could have been there. Could they?”

Jacqueline started the engine. “Good-bye, Mr. Spencer. I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I’ll bet you could if you tried.” He stepped back. “Good-bye, Ms. Kirby. Till we meet again.”

Jacqueline couldn’t resist glancing into the rearview mirror as she drove off. He stood stock-still in the middle of the drive, arms folded, looking after her. The lined face and graying hair might be the result of grief and a hard life, but he was not a young man.

Built like one, though, said a part of Jacqueline’s mind she tried to keep under control. Look at those shoulders. He’s tall, too; at least six-two, and if his hands were clean, they’d be…

The figure in the mirror began waving its arms in agitation and Jacqueline turned her attention back to the windshield to find herself heading straight for a tree trunk. She gave the wheel a twist, and jounced around the curve in the track.

She had wanted “the job” before. Now she was wild to get it. The hope of reading Kathleen Darcy’s own notes for the book she had not lived to write was enough to set a dedicated fan drooling—and it removed one of the writer’s difficulties Jacqueline had dreaded, how to “get into” the book. But that wasn’t the only reason why she wanted it.

Over the years she had been involved with several groups of eccentrics, from archaeologists to romance writers, but never had she seen a situation so replete with delicious possibilities for a student of human nature (a term she much preferred to “nosy broad”). The fact that there were two attractive men involved was irrelevant but not unpleasant—three, if you counted Tom the chef, but he was really out of bounds; too young, and married besides.

But that wasn’t the only reason why she wanted it.

“ ‘Smile the while I kiss you sad adieu,’ ” Jacqueline sang. “ ‘When the clouds roll by, I’ll come to you.…’ ” The underground rumble of accompaniment came, she realized, from her stomach. She was starved. A combination of distracting circumstances had prevented her from eating much of the meal. “ ‘… Till we meet again,’ ” Jacqueline crooned, and turned into the driveway of a fast-food restaurant.

Savoring a delightfully greasy hamburger and ersatz “milk” shake, she pondered her plans. She had intended to leave Pine Grove that afternoon. Perhaps it would be better to stay over, and make an early start next morning. At this time of year and in mid-week there should not be any difficulty about keeping her room for another night. The idea of another of Tom’s superb meals was an additional inducement.

But the greatest inducement was the hope of getting her hostess aside for a cozy gossip. It was a small town, with only one local celebrity; Mollie was surely well acquainted with Kathleen’s history and that of her family. She might even be one of the people who would resent seeing Kathleen’s work turned over to a hack, as Spencer had so nicely put it. Jacqueline’s irrepressible imagination pictured a lynch mob advancing on the inn, torches flaring, hoarse voices shouting. “Hang the hack! Hand her over, the incompetent perpetrator of literary swill!”

She grinned. Spencer had to have been joking. Or rather, since he didn’t strike her as a man with a huge sense of humor, he had been exaggerating. He cared, if no one else did. To what lengths would he go to keep someone like Brunnhilde from getting the assignment? Had he followed her, Jacqueline, to the dismal clearing where Kathleen’s lonely monument stood, or did he make his own pilgrimages to the shrine—carrying Kathleen’s favorite flowers?

She wadded up the plastic wrappings and tossed them into a trash bin. As she drove out of the parking lot, another car—a tan Toyota—followed at a discreet distance. Jacqueline caught a glimpse of it in her rearview mirror, but paid no attention to it; her mind was busy with other, more intriguing thoughts.

When she entered the inn, old Mrs. Swenson was still confronting the TV set. This time the booming voices belonged to an agitated soap-opera pair. “Oh, Blade, how could you get her pregnant?” screamed the heroine. “She’s your own half-sister!” “She seduced me, I tell you,” bellowed the hero.

Mollie was at the desk, doing accounts. As Jacqueline had anticipated, there was no problem about keeping her room for another night. In fact, Mollie seemed excessively delighted. “Does that mean… I guess I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help wondering whether…”

She had to yell to be heard over the drama in the next room. Jacqueline yelled back. “Nothing is settled yet. But it looks good.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!”

“I’ll tell you all about it later,” Jacqueline shrieked. “Perhaps you’ll have a drink with me before dinner.”

“That’s so kind of you. I can’t help being interested, you know, even though it’s none of my business.…”

Jacqueline assured her, honestly, that she was in full sympathy with that point of view.

As she walked to the door she saw a flutter of black draperies, and smiled to herself. Old Mrs. Swenson hadn’t been able to resist eavesdropping. Not that she could have heard anything, deaf as she was, but Jacqueline didn’t blame her for trying. The poor old thing must be bored to death.

Her purse swinging sluggishly, Jacqueline started down the street. It was a nice day for a walk, and she had noticed a couple of antique shops in the business area along Main Street.

The first one proved to be a wasteland of old advertising memorabilia and rusty tools whose original function, much less their present utility, was in serious doubt. The owner was a retired civil servant from the capital, who had only moved to the area two years ago. No hope of learning anything about the Darcys from him.

Making her way toward the other antique shop, Jacqueline came to an abrupt halt and stared. Tucked in between two taller buildings, and modestly withdrawn from the sidewalk, was… Kathleen’s office.

A second glance told her the two little houses were not identical after all, though they had clearly been constructed from the same plan. The name over the door of this one was “Betty”; a sign swinging from a post amplified the name to “Betty’s Books.” The cottage looked the way Kathleen’s should have looked; it had been painted a cheerful primrose, and tubs of daffodils flanked the bright green door. As Jacqueline walked along the brick-paved path, the blind walls of the structures on either side gave her the feeling that she had descended into a woodland valley, an impression supported by the flower beds flanking the walk. Pink hyacinths and the scarlet and gold cups of tulips rose from a ground cover of low green plants dotted with tiny blue flowers. Forget-me-nots.