Naked Once More (9 page)

“Disgusting,” Craig One muttered.

“No doubt,” his son said dryly. “But Mr. Darcy isn’t concerned about the decadence of the publishing industry. He’s interested in Mrs. Kirby’s qualifications. You seem to have done your research, Mrs. Kirby.”

“Anyone in my position would have done the same.”

“You’d be surprised.” The lawyer smiled. “I got the distinct impression that some of your colleagues hadn’t even read the book.”

“I’ve read it not once but many times,” Jacqueline said. “I’ve also read everything that has been written about it, and about Kathleen. Whether that qualifies me to write the sequel is a moot point, but it is certainly the least any candidate can do.”

“Your statement does you credit, Mrs. Kirby,” St. John assured her. “The question is, how long… I mean to say, I’d like to hear your ideas about the plot of the sequel.”

That wasn’t what he had meant to say. The essential question for Kathleen’s brother was how long it would take someone to dash off nine hundred—plus pages so he could start raking in royalties. And surely he didn’t think she was stupid enough to give away her ideas without a previous commitment!

“I haven’t allowed myself to dwell on the subject,” she said sweetly. “It would be too, too painful to become involved with those wonderful characters, and then have to give them up.”

Craig One shot out a liver-spotted wrist and glared at his watch. “Why don’t you run along, Father?” Craig Two suggested. “There’s no need for all of us to be here. I’ll stay, if you like.”

The old man nodded. “I never eat dessert,” he told Jacqueline.

“Very wise of you,” said that lady seriously.

The elderly lawyer was followed out of the room by his grandson. Presumably he never ate dessert either.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Craig Two said, “There is really no need for me to be here today either, Mrs. Kirby. Craig, Craig and Craig will of course advise Mr. Darcy on the contract that will be drawn up once a writer has been selected, but we have no voice in that decision. It is up to the heirs and their literary agent. I hope you don’t feel that my presence leaves you at a disadvantage—”

“Oh, no,” Jacqueline said. “I have not the slightest feeling of being at a disadvantage.”

She had not underestimated his intelligence. Their eyes locked; after a moment a faint smile touched his lips and he nodded, as if accepting a challenge.

St. John was unaware of nuances. “I’m glad you feel that way, Mrs. Kirby. It certainly is not my intention to take unfair advantage of anyone. But if you knew some of the people with whom I have dealt…”

“I can imagine,” Jacqueline said. Was that… yes, it was—a shoe pressing against hers. Probably the best St. John could do; his arms were too short to reach around and under the table.

The dessert course was apple pie. Marjorie served the thick slabs, and Mrs. Darcy snatched up her fork.

“I wish you’d stick to the point, St. John,” the lawyer said irritably. “Why don’t you just tell Mrs. Kirby what you want her to do?”

“I’ll just bet I can guess,” Jacqueline cooed. Craig Two was beginning to annoy her, and now that she knew he had nothing to say about the choice of an author, she was not at all averse to needling him. “Mr. Darcy’s clever little question about my plot gave me a hint. You want all of us to submit a short outline, is that it? Then you—the heirs—will select the one that is closest to Kathleen’s concept, or rather, your view of what that concept might have been.”

Craig Two showed his teeth. “You were right the first time, Mrs. Kirby.”

“The first time? I said—”

“Closest to Kathleen Darcy’s concept. She left an outline for the sequel to
Naked int he Ice.
”

Jacqueline hated to give him the satisfaction, but she was unable to conceal her astonishment. “What? I never heard of such a thing. It’s impossible. Someone in publishing would have known about it.”

St. John placed a plump finger across his lipless mouth. “It has been a closely guarded secret, Mrs. Kirby. In fact, I only found out about the outline recently. You see—”

“Let me, St. John,” the lawyer said brusquely. “Kathleen’s will contained several unusual provisions, Mrs. Kirby. At least they seemed unusual to me at the time; I had had no previous experience with the world of publishing—”

“The wild and wacky world of publishing,” Jacqueline suggested.

“Er—yes. As a writer, you probably understand better than I did at the time why Kathleen should have been concerned with the integrity of her work. She lived long enough to witness its astonishing success and to hear considerable speculation about the sequel. It is only natural, I suppose, that she would take measures to ensure that if she were unable to write the sequel, her successor should be worthy of the task.”

His pause seemed to invite a comment. “Yes,” Jacqueline said thoughtfully. “It was a natural thing to do—if you had good reason to believe you wouldn’t be able to do it yourself.”

“Alas, she had reason,” St. John said in a low voice. “Why she did it we will never know.… Oh, dear. Craig, I do wish you hadn’t…” He covered his eyes with one pudgy hand.

“Sorry,” Craig said.

He didn’t sound sorry.

After a brief pause he went on, “A codicil to Kathleen’s will set up the conditions to which I have referred. If a sequel were ever contemplated, qualified writers were to be invited to submit a brief outline. The one corresponding most closely to the outline Kathleen herself left was to be selected.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Jacqueline said, half to herself. “It certainly suggests…” She didn’t finish the sentence, and Craig chose to ignore it.

“Nor have I. I’m not even certain that a court would consider it legally binding. It’s a pity, in a way, that it won’t be so tested.”

Jacqueline exchanged a glance with St. John. For once—perhaps the only time—they were in full accord. Only a lawyer could regret the loss of a long legal quibble, with its inevitable delays and expense.

“It certainly won’t be tested if I have anything to say about it,” St. John declared. “Even if—er—other considerations were not involved, I am more than ready to accede to my poor dear sister’s last request.”

Mrs. Darcy showed no sign of having heard the conversation, much less being affected by it. But Sherri looked up from her plate and fixed a stare of pure dislike, not on the lawyer, but on her half-brother.

Jacqueline decided to demonstrate some of her famous tact. “It’s all terribly exciting and thrilling,” she declared. “Just like a contest. I declare, I can hardly wait to begin. Of course the burning question will be, what happened to Ara? The last scene in the book describes Hawkscliffe and his men looking down from the mountaintop across the Plains of Memory. The night before, Ara had slept in his arms, for the first time. He awoke to find her gone. Has she left him for his rival, Rogue? Has she been kidnapped by the emissaries of the Dark God? Has she followed an Illusion and fallen to her death? Of course we know she isn’t dead. She can’t be, she—”

“She isn’t dead.” Even Jacqueline the Imperturbable jumped. It was like hearing a wax doll speak. The voice was like that of a doll, high-pitched and squeaky, but it was filled with human passion. “She is not dead! I never believed she was. She’s gone away, I don’t know why, why would she leave her own mother…”

The old lady half-rose and threw her fork at St. John. It missed him by a mile, but he ducked and raised his arms in front of his face. Mrs. Darcy sank back into her chair and began pounding on the table. The spectacle was more pitiful than horrifying; her feeble strength was too inadequate to express the intensity of her emotion.

The kitchen door burst open and Marjorie hurried in. Sherri ran to her mother’s side. Mrs. Darcy took wild, ineffectual jabs at both of them.

Jacqueline leaned across the table and captured one of her flailing hands. “She’ll be back, Mrs. Darcy. She loves you very much. Don’t worry, everything is going to be just fine.”

The scene froze as if it had been sprayed with an instant fixative. The only thing that moved was the swinging door to the kitchen, slapping back and forth in diminishing arcs.

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Darcy said calmly. “Thank you, my dear. You’ll bring her back, won’t you? She’s the one, St. John. I want this one. She can bring Kathleen back. Marjoric, I want more pie. It was very good pie, Marjorie. Is there more? I would like another piece.”

“It’s in the kitchen,” Marjorie said gruffly.

“Then I will go to the kitchen.” She rose. Her daughter and Marjorie tried to assist her, but she swatted at them, frowning, and indeed she seemed quite capable of moving under her own steam. “Good-bye, Mrs. Kirby. I look forward to seeing you again. Is there cheese, Marjorie? You didn’t give me cheese the first time.”

“Lots of cheese,” Marjorie said. “Come and get it, honey.”

They went out together. After a moment, the girl followed them.

Jacqueline refused cheese, another piece of pie, and coffee. She was anxious to get away. Her own carelessness appalled her; she had spoken without thinking, hoping to calm the distracted mother, but she felt sure a psychiatrist would have disapproved of her methods. She prayed Mrs. Darcy’s memory was as feeble as her other attributes.

However, when she began making polite noises about leaving, St. John protested. “We haven’t settled everything yet.”

“What else is there?” Jacqueline asked. “I’ll get the outline finished as soon as possible.”

“But you must see Kathleen’s sanctum,” St. John insisted. “The atmosphere… the inspiration…”

The offer was too seductive to refuse, even though Jacqueline had a feeling St. John was less interested in inspiring her than getting her to himself. Kathleen’s study was not a room in the house; it was a separate building, secluded and private. It had been photographed, but only from the outside. Even though she had been charmingly accommodating to reporters, Kathleen had refused to allow anyone inside her… perhaps “sanctum” wasn’t such an inappropriate word after all.

St. John’s feeble attempt to get rid of Craig Two was unsuccessful. “I’ve plenty of time,” the lawyer said with a knowing smile. “I wouldn’t mind having another look at the place myself.”

Pouting, St. John found his hat and stick, and led the way. The path circled the house and cut off across a weedy meadow toward a grove of trees whose dark green needles were spangled with the pale blossoms of wild dogwood trees. The house itself, protected by overgrown rhododendron, was invisible until they were almost upon it.

It was a tiny house, two stories high but miniaturized. A steep peaked roof angled down over the front door and the bow window on the right side. Window boxes, shutters, a crooked chimney—it had everything the standard witch’s cottage is supposed to have, including a boot scraper in the shape of a cat. Over the door, carved wooden letters spelled a name: Kathleen.

Like the main house it showed evidence of neglect and of recent, hasty repairs, including a coat of—in Jacqueline’s opinion—inappropriate white paint. The color should have been softer and more distinctive—a subdued yellow, a pale pink or blue.

Even less had been done on the inside. The front door opened directly into one of the two rooms on the first floor. Cobwebs swung from the ceiling and the fireplace was a black hole floored with muddy ashes. The damp, dank air struck through Jacqueline’s clothing with a chill that was more than physical. Were those the ashes of Kathleen Darcy’s last fire?

The protest was wrung from her. “It’s so damp! Her papers—”

“The majority of them are in storage,” Craig Two said. The atmosphere of the room affected him too; he put his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “There’s nothing left in the filing cabinet except clippings and notes on books she had read. Oh, and some fan mail.”

Jacqueline refrained from comment. It was none of her business what Kathleen’s ignorant family did with her papers. The damage had long since been done.

Stepping as gingerly as a cat, she moved toward the rolltop desk. The desk and the filing cabinets, and one overstuffed chair, were the only pieces of furniture, a few tattered posters the only ornaments. St. John must have removed everything of value. He had every right, she reminded herself. Not only the right, but the duty; why let furnishings decay? Look what had happened to the curtains; the cheap but once cheerful cotton hung in gray, tattered strips. The posters, which had been stapled to the wall, had not been worth preserving. She couldn’t imagine why he had overlooked the chair unless it had been in poor shape to begin with. It was tattered and filthy now—probably an apartment house for deserving mice.

“Do you mind?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but pulled open one of the file drawers. Yellowed edges of newsprint formed a ruffled, uneven surface. A few dried flakes drifted floorward.

“High time you got rid of those, St. John,” Craig Two said. “They’re a fire hazard, and useless.”

“Oh, no,” Jacqueline exclaimed. “I save clippings too—ideas that might one day be useful. Some I’ll never use, but there could be a clue to Kathleen’s intentions for the sequel among these. I’d like… Whoever is chosen to write the book will want to look at these.”

“There, you see?” St. John directed a sneer at the lawyer. “I told you you didn’t understand the creative mind.”

“Will the creative mind also derive inspiration from the effusions of Kathleen’s fans?” Craig Two asked dryly. Jacqueline had moved on to the second filing cabinet. All the drawers were stuffed with letters. They had held up better than the cheaper newsprint, but many were spotted with mold, and the air from the opened drawer stank like a swamp.

“You never know,” Jacqueline said. She riffled through the letters, with some difficulty, because they were so tightly packed. “She answered them. All of them.”

“She did at first,” Craig said. “Later, when the trickle rose to a flood, she sometimes resorted to printed acknowledgments.”

The letters appeared to be filed by date. Jacqueline closed the top drawer and opened the second. “I wrote to her. One of the three fan letters I’ve written in my life. Do you suppose…” The papers were packed so tightly she couldn’t read the dates. Recklessly she pulled out a sheaf. “No, these are too early.”