Naked Once More (6 page)

It was a mountain town; the high hills enclosed it and the streets were as steep as some of San Francisco’s best. At first her impression was unfavorable. The narrow frame houses stood square against the sidewalk, pressed close together like spectators trying to squeeze into the front row at a parade. Small warehouses and the boarded-up remains of a mill succeeded the houses. Then her car rattled across railroad tracks and she realized that the old saw applied literally in Pine Grove. She was now on the right side of the tracks, and on a level stretch of ground. The street widened; green lawns stretched back to charming old houses, some generously sprawling wooden structures from the turn of the century, some stone-built, classic Federal types. Blossoming dog-wood dotted the background of green with white and rosy stars, flowering cherry and peach trees waved fluffy white branches, lilacs curtsied under the masses of bloom.

It was almost too charming. If I stuck around here long enough I’d start writing squeaky-clean novels about grass-roots democracy and young love, Jacqueline thought. How the hell did Kathleen manage to create the austere and savage wilderness of her imaginary world?

Pine Grove was a long, thin town, its expansion having been limited by the configuration of the land. There was really only one street, Main Street itself; the stoplight in the center of town marked the intersection of another county highway and the cross streets abruptly ended after a few hundred yards in rock-strewn pastures and slopes of wood-land. “Downtown” consisted of two blocks of shops and offices, flanking the stoplight.

The town was too small to attract any of the ubiquitous motel chains, but a young couple had recently opened a bed-and-breakfast inn. Stokes had told her about it, and had assured her she would find it comfortable. “It was certainly a big improvement over staying with the Darcys,” he added. “Even after Kathleen remodeled the main house, I had to share a bath and help with the chores, for godsakes. The inn is too overloaded with chintz and ruffles, but they’ve got a decent chef.”

The Mountain Laurel Inn came by its name honestly, if unimaginatively. Hedges of those plants surrounded it. They were in full bloom, solid walls of silky pink. From the look of the place, Jacqueline guessed it had been a hotel from its inception rather than a stately home converted to that function. The three-story central section was built of the local limestone. A porch along one side had been turned into a glassed-in dining room and the rooms above it opened onto an upper porch hung with baskets of pansies.

Jacqueline parked in the designated lot behind the inn and walked around to the front entrance. When she opened the door, a blast of noise assaulted her ears. It sounded like a politician bellowing out a speech at the top of his lungs, and so it proved to be. But the voice came from a television set in a room to the right of the central hallway. Except for the modern incongruity of the TV, it was furnished in country Victorian, featuring lace curtains, heavily carved tables, and dozens of ruffled pillows. Sitting squarely in front of the set was one of the grimmest old ladies Jacqueline had ever seen. From under a cap of iron-gray hair set in marcelled ridges stiff as wood, a cord ran down to the pocket of her black dress. If it belonged to a hearing aid, the instrument wasn’t working well.

A corresponding door on the left opened into the bar and dining room. Under the stairs at the back was the reception desk. Jacqueline decided that Stokes’s critique had been unfair. The place was a little too cutesy-country, but it was several cuts above a Holiday Inn.

She advanced to the desk and dropped her suitcase with a thud. At first there was no sign of life; then a door behind the desk opened and a woman came out, shouting apologies. “I’m so sorry, I hope you haven’t been waiting long; Mrs. Swenson is rather deaf, and she’s one of our regulars, so I hate to… Oh, dear, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.…”

Her ruffled calico pinafore and skipping walk gave an impression of carefree youth, but when she emerged from the shadows under the stairs Jacqueline saw she was older—though perhaps not as old as her lined cheeks and anxious eyes suggested. Her dark hair had been braided and wound around her head; she wore no makeup.

Jacqueline smiled. “I just this minute arrived. My name—”

“Mrs. Kirby? We’ve been expecting you. It’s an honor to have another famous author with us.”

She thrust the guest book at Jacqueline, together with a quill plucked from an antique inkwell. Jacqueline took this object, noting with relief that it ended in an ordinary ballpoint pen. The guest book was bound in calico and bordered with eyelet, but the interior pages were pragmatic enough, with spaces for name and address, car license and other pertinent data.

“I’m Mollie Kyle, your hostess. My husband Tom and I are the innkeepers. I hope you’ll call me Mollie.”

Jacqueline had had a long day. “I would prefer to address you as an adult and an equal, Mrs. Kyle.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.…”

“No offense in the world.” Jacqueline returned the pen to its holder. “After all, Mrs. Kyle, this is our first meeting and perhaps our last. I hope that is not the case; I hope to return. Should that eventuate, no doubt our acquaintance will blossom into a deeper relationship which will in time be crowned by the flowers of friendship, including the use of first names. But if I never see you again, the pain of loss will be lessened by keeping this on a formal basis. If you get my drift.”

Somewhat to her surprise, Mollie Kyle did get her drift. “Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought about it that way. How beautifully you express yourself, Mrs. Kirby! You must think me very insensitive. I can imagine how difficult this must be for you and the others. We’re just so excited about the whole thing—”

“Not at all,” Jacqueline said, fearing the flood of apology would continue indefinitely if she didn’t take measures to dam it. She regretted her smarmy speech; it had proved effective with other people who had attempted to force artificial intimacy upon her, but this woman didn’t need a slap in the ego, she was as abject as an abused child.

Reparation was called for. Jacqueline increased the wattage of her smile. “You’re very kind. Do call me Jacqueline—and keep your fingers crossed for me, okay?”

“Oh, I will. I do hope you… You’re so much nicer than…” She clapped her hand to her mouth. “I promised Mr. Darcy I wouldn’t say a word.”

“Why?” Jacqueline demanded. “This is a free country, you’re entitled to your opinion.”

“Yes, that’s right.… But Mr. Darcy… Well, there’s no harm in my telling you I love your books.”

“Thank you.” Jacqueline felt her features freeze into the smile with which she responded to such compliments. One could hardly tell a devoted reader that her first book had been in part a joke and in part a cynical attempt to capitalize on the success of a genre she personally despised, and that the second had been written with her tongue pressed firmly into her cheek.

“But I promised him I wouldn’t tell the guests the names of the others,” Mollie continued.

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to violate a promise.” There was no need to; Jacqueline had already identified three familiar names among the entries preceding hers. That was odd. She had been told she was the last of the candidates to be interviewed. Jack Carter, Marian Martinez, Brunnhilde—who, Jacqueline noted with interest, had stayed at the inn the night before. Where was Augusta Ellrington? There was probably a simple explanation. Either the schedule had been changed, or Augusta had used a pseudonym. Modest woman…

“I’m putting you in the Stonewall Jackson Room,” Mollie said, scribbling in the book. “It’s the best in the house. Let me help you with your bag.”

“No need, I’ve just the one suitcase.”

“I insist.” Mollie trotted out from behind the desk and grabbed the handle of the suitcase. “We don’t want our guests to do a single thing except relax and enjoy themselves.”

She was stronger than she looked; she lifted the heavy bag as if it were filled with feathers.

Jacqueline followed her up the stairs. Her room was at the end of the corridor, with windows on one side and a set of French doors opening onto the upper porch, which had been divided into separate balconies by rows of potted plants. Lace curtains hung at the high windows, and there was a bowl of tulips and daffodils on the dressing table. Jacqueline’s positive impression was confirmed when Mollie opened a door to display an adjoining bath.

She expressed her approval and Mollie, who had been watching her with the hopeful anxiety of a dog who isn’t quite sure his owner really wanted that dead rabbit, brightened. “Mr. Darcy said only the best. He dropped off that letter and package for you.”

The small parcel was wrapped in ornate gift paper, with a gold-tasseled bow. Jacqueline opened it and unveiled a box of chocolates. She recognized the brand; it was indecently expensive, and available only in specialty shops. Her face fell when she realized the pretty shells were filled with various liqueurs. She hated liqueur chocolates. She preferred to keep her vices separated.

The note was from Mr. Darcy. He welcomed her, hoped she enjoyed his humble offering, and looked forward to meeting her the following day.

Mollie lingered, her hands twisting the folds of her skirt. “Will you be dining with us, Mrs. Kirby—Jacqueline?”

“Yes, I guess so,” Jacqueline said absently. “When do you start serving?”

“Six. But if you want to rest first—”

“I thought I’d take a little drive. Is eight o’clock too late?”

“No, that’s fine.” Pride lit her face like a two-hundred-watt bulb. “My husband, Tom, is the chef. He’s wonderful; you’ll enjoy your dinner, I promise you. But where are you… Oh, sorry, that’s none of my business, I didn’t mean… But it gets dark by seven, and it isn’t such a good idea…”

The calico print of her skirt twisted into an ugly knot under the pressure of her hands. Jacqueline looked at her curiously. “Why not? Are there b’ars in them hills?”

“Oh, no. I mean—yes, there are a few, back in the deep woods, but they don’t…”

“Homicidal maniacs, rapists, highwaymen?”

“Of course not. There are a few rather odd… But they’re perfectly harmless. You wouldn’t be… Oh dear, I’ve got myself in another muddle. Tom says I ought to padlock my tongue, I’m always giving people the wrong impression.”

She stared appealingly at Jacqueline, and the latter said amiably, “I won’t get lost, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I’ll be back by eight at the latest.”

Sunset smudged the darkening sky with scarlet thumb-prints as Jacqueline headed west along a shadowed road that plunged sharply up the mountainside. She drove slowly, watching the odometer and hoping the reporter from the
Post
had done the same. Every major newspaper in the country had printed maps and directions seven years earlier. She found the turnoff with no difficulty; the side road appeared to be in much better condition than the newspapers had reported. The entrance to a private driveway several miles farther on might explain the improvement; there had been no houses along the road then.

Jacqueline continued to watch her mileage. Four miles along the graveled road to the narrow track through the woods. The search parties had passed it several times, seeing no opening in the barrier of bushes and brush. This was no longer the case. Burgeoning green vines swung low, veiling the entrance, but it was visible—barely wide enough to admit a small car, scarcely more than a green-carpeted path, but visible. Jacqueline took her foot off the gas. The car glided to a stop.

Someone had kept the entrance clear. There could be no doubt about it; a single year’s growth would have gone far to close the gap. But it was not that realization that made the hairs on the back of Jacqueline’s neck quiver.

Kathleen had driven through the entangled brush. The wheels of her car would have broken and crushed it. It had taken the searchers… How long? A week, if Jacqueline remembered correctly; but surely, even the fecund growth of spring could not have obliterated all traces of the car’s passage. Had Kathleen been so determined to preserve the privacy of her death that she had rebuilt the broken barricade?

For some reason Jacqueline could not define, it was a particularly horrible idea.

She gave herself a little shake and turned the car into the narrow opening. The surface was bad; even at a crawl the car jolted and lurched. But if Kathleen had made it, back then, she could make it now.

She knew what to expect, she had read descriptions and seen photographs. But the actual look of the place, the reality, was as great a shock as if she had come on it unawares. She turned off the engine and got out of the car.

In the soft hush of that spring evening the only sounds were gentle ones—the sleepy twittering of birds, the rustle of leaves touched by the breeze. Gradually Jacqueline became aware of a deeper and more persistent sound in the background. It was the murmur of rushing water. The mountain stream beyond the clearing was swollen with rain, as it had been on that day seven years ago.

In the center of the clearing stood the monument, a simple slab of slate-gray granite. It bore only Kathleen’s name and a line from
Naked in the Ice
: “She passed into the shadows and became one with the undying stars.”

The cenotaph had been erected, not by Kathleen Darcy’s family, but by her devoted readers. The spontaneity and generosity of their campaign to honor their heroine had gotten them considerable media exposure and had inspired several sentimental television stories, which had driven St. John Darcy to sputtering rebuttal. Nothing would have delighted him more than to erect a fitting memorial to his beloved sister. Unfortunately he had not the means to do so. His mother had suffered a nervous collapse, his own health was poor.… And so on. The excuses were as self-serving as they were unconvincing.

It had all been forgotten, years ago. But someone had not forgotten Kathleen. The dark stone’s surface was unmarred by bird droppings and free of grasping vines. The gravel surround had been roughly but effectively weeded. Somehow Jacqueline doubted that St. John was responsible.