The Impersonator (11 page)

“Those boys are going to give you the devil,” she said abruptly. “But it won’t last. The oldest doesn’t spend much time here and the puny one will return to Stanford soon.”

And I thought she’d dozed through the meal. It was comforting to have someone on my side. I breathed deeply. The scent was unfamiliar, an intoxicating mix of roses and other blossoms. A chorus of bees hummed their one-note tune.

“You can’t expect them to be pleased by my return. I’m sure Henry had big plans for Father’s money. Probably intended to finance his political career that way. I can’t imagine such an officious prig appealing to voters, though, can you? And did you notice he avoided answering my question about what he does for a living?”

She gave a sage nod. “Makes you wonder how such a young man came so far so fast, doesn’t it? But the other one … Ross … I’m wary of deep thinkers. I wouldn’t turn my back on him in the dark.” The path took us to a fancy fountain planted in the hub of the garden like something from Versailles. Our arrival frightened a dozen small birds away from their bath. “What will you do?” Grandmother asked.

Most elderly women are sentimental, even maudlin. Not Grandmother. She was plainspoken and kept any emotions hidden behind a placid expression. So it was odd that I could sense her thoughts. I knew exactly what she was asking.

“I’ve not yet decided. But I think, after my birthday, I’d like to travel a bit, return to Europe and see some of the places we lived when I was a child.”

“You’ll probably live there.”

“Perhaps.”

“It would be best.” It would? I wondered why she thought that, but before I could ask she went on. “You were smart to stay away until you came into your inheritance. I still have your last letter.”

“Oh?”

“You remember what you wrote in it?”

“It’s been a long time…”

“You said your cousin had tried to kill you.”

16

“There you are,” called Aunt Victoria, striding toward us, a Kashmiri shawl thrown over her high-collared white shirtwaist. Ramrod posture gave her an elegance that was heightened by her loyalty to the fashions of her youth, long before the Great War years had conspired to shorten skirts, banish corsets, and bob hair.

“Oliver has just informed me about your gruesome experience on the road. How perfectly dreadful for you! I am certain the police will have identified the poor woman by now, and will soon have her killer in custody. Don’t mention it to the girls, will you? No need to frighten them unnecessarily. Tsk-tsk. What is the world coming to? Dead girls on the side of the road! Well, maybe it was a fall that killed her after all. Or a heart attack. Still, it must have been an awful shock.”

The effort of pretending away murder while I carried on this introductory charade had exhausted me, dulling my mind so much that I could scarcely wrap my thoughts around Grandmother’s latest revelation. One of the cousins had tried to kill young Jessie seven years ago? If Oliver knew about this attempt, he had not seen fit to mention it to me. But why would he have known what was in Jessie’s letter to her grandmother? It seemed there were more gaps in Oliver’s knowledge than I originally thought.

“I suppose we’ll read about it in the newspaper eventually,” worried Aunt Victoria. “I do hope they don’t mention your names. That would be too dreadful.” Then, remembering her duties as hostess, she smoothed her brow and adopted a cheerful tone, saying, “Well now, do let me show you around the garden.”

“The flowers are splendid,” said Grandmother. “Decent gardeners are impossible to find in San Francisco.”

“Ours is a Chinaman. A real jewel, even if he is foreign. I hired him to start a kitchen garden—those Orientals are so good at growing herbs and vegetables—and you see what has come of that in only five years!” Catching no glimpse of the Chinaman, she continued, “Chen must be working around back in the kitchen garden today. The tennis court is back there too. Maybe you remember when we were planning it, Jessie, just before you left?”

I nodded in a vague way. Which cousin had tried to kill young Jessie? Henry or Ross? Surely not one of the twins. How was I going to find out what was in that letter?

“Vegetables on the south side,” commented Grandmother. “You need lots of sun for vegetables.”

“And rain. As you can imagine, we get plenty of that. We grow most of our own herbs and vegetables now. The squash we just ate was grown right here.”

“I’ve never seen asters this tall,” said Grandmother.

Aunt Victoria preened as if she did the work herself, taking as much pride in her gardens as she did in her children. “I wanted purple in that spot. I tried lavender but this climate proved too wet for lavender. However, the fall asters thrive there.”

Around the south side of the house lay the vegetable garden with its neat rows of staked tomato vines and string beans, lettuces, lacy carrot tops, and a dozen herbs whose names I had never heard. For a lifelong city girl whose closest look at crops had been from a train window, this was all very intriguing. I’d never admit in a million years that I hadn’t realized carrots grew underground.

Chen the Chinaman rose from his knees in the herb patch to present us with a solemn bow. I hardly saw his face beneath the wide coolie hat woven from tough grass, but I noted the absence of a queue. Male Chinese performers I had known on the circuit—Fong and Tang, the Chinese Flowers, Shanghai Circus, the Mandarins—had all worn queues, something I thought their religion or culture required. Evidently not.

As the ladies rhapsodized over the vegetables, my mind circled back to Grandmother’s letter. Had Jessie been seriously at odds with Ross or Henry, I wondered, or was she just upset about some childish prank that got out of hand? What could they have done that she would make an accusation like that? Shoved her off a swing? Surely it was just roughhousing or tough talk. Then I wondered uneasily just
when
Jessie had written this letter. A year before she had disappeared or a week before? If it had been a short time before she went missing, it put an entirely different light on the matter. Had Grandmother mentioned this at the time of the search? Could it be linked to her disappearance? Had one of the boys threatened Jessie or frightened her away? What exactly had she said in that letter? And more to the point, was she prone to melodrama or exaggeration? I was stuck. I could hardly ask Grandmother Beckett about a letter I had supposedly written myself.

We spent an hour meandering about the gardens, pausing for rest on wrought-iron benches, chatting like old friends about the price of beef—I had little to contribute here—and the difficulty of finding and keeping servants who didn’t rob you blind—ditto there. But I knew how to listen and cluck in dismay at the right time. Playing a civilian was turning out to be a manageable role. It was the sinister undercurrent of death that made me wonder whether this charade was going to be as easy as Oliver had promised.

17

My first night in Jessie’s soft bed, now pushed back against the interior wall where it had always stood, was a restless one. Visions of the dead Indian girl, crumpled up and thrown away like so much trash, kept me at the edge of wakefulness all night. When I finally dozed off, I slipped into a disturbing dream where young Jessie was standing next to my bed, talking to me. I couldn’t understand her because her voice was miles away in some clammy, dark place, even through she herself was quite close. I thought when I saw her that she was dead too, just like the Indian girl. Then Jessie was the Indian girl; then she wasn’t.

I woke knowing I was dreaming, not seeing a ghost. With Jessie occupying my every waking moment, it was no surprise that she had started sharing my dreams as well as my routine. I had heard of a Broadway actor who, after playing the same role on stage for years, began to have trouble distinguishing his character’s personality from his own. Eventually he abandoned himself to the role and became the person he portrayed on stage. It didn’t seem as incredible to me now as it once had.

I was becoming Jessie and living her life. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wanted me to know something about a dark, damp place. A cellar?
Hurry,
I sensed she was saying.
Hurry.

I gave up trying to sleep when a young girl with a likable face and a tray of coffee and warm cinnamon bread knocked at my door. Lorraine, her name was, and she was newly hired. My own maid! Grandmother had one too. This was the life of Riley, I thought, propped up against a pile of pillows like a harem girl and drinking my coffee with thick cream and sugar while Lorraine looked through my valise for something suitable for me to wear this morning.

Five weeks until I could return to Sacramento to sign off on my inheritance. Five weeks and one day until I could leave for a long tour of Europe. I wiggled my toes and stretched against the cool linens. During those weeks, this city girl would spend her time reading some of the books in that lovely library and exploring the countryside. Starting today. Shoving the real Jessamyn Carr out of my head, I reminded myself sternly that I was in this for the money. I couldn’t back out now. A brand-new life. Security forever. The fate of the missing heiress was none of my concern.

Coffee and rolls was not breakfast, mind you, it was just to tide one over until the morning repast in the dining room, served buffet style in the English tradition. Meal consumed, I was planning to fetch a sweater and head to the cliff when Caroline—short hair—asked, “Do you want to come to the stables with us, Jessie? Val and I are riding this morning.”

No danger there. Jessie’s pet horse had died a couple years ago. My eyes had grown misty last night when Valerie—long hair—told me about it. Yet I sensed the girls were up to something.

“Certainly,” I said gamely, figuring it was best to get these little incidents out of the way so I could relax in my role.

Uncle Oliver did not ride and had never set foot in the stables, so he knew nothing of the animals or the groom except his name. “Since Anton was hired fairly recently,” he told me, “you needn’t worry about him.” So I was not worrying as I followed the twins to the stables.

The path led through a patch of woods thick with ferns, down a hill, and over a tiny stream we crossed with a single leap. As we approached, I could see the groom in a paddock brushing down one of the horses, his powerful arms sweeping across the animal’s flanks with a sense of confident familiarity I could not achieve if I lived to ninety. His back was to us, but I could see he was fair and tall, a powerfully built man. We were quite close before he heard us and turned.

“Buster!” exclaimed Caroline. “What are you doing here today? Where’s Anton?”

Buster’s grin revealed a number of missing teeth. Dropping the brush, he wrapped his arms around his own broad shoulders in a happy hug. “Hey, Miss Caroline. Hey, Miss Valerie,” he said, his voice low and his speech deliberate. When he looked at me, the grin grew to a mile-wide smile. “Hey, Miss Jessie. I heard you come back.” And as I met his eye, he gave me an exaggerated wink.

It was not a lascivious wink; it was a friendly one that begged for a response. Not knowing quite why, I winked back. “Hey, Buster,” I said in a conspiratorial tone of voice.

“How is my darling Star today?” Caroline was crooning and kissing her horse’s nose as she threw a question over her shoulder. “Where’s Anton? This isn’t his day off.”

Buster thought long before answering. “Anton sick. I heard Miss Jessie come back. I knew you come back, Miss Jessie. I knew it.”

Success in vaudeville depends on quick reaction to every unexpected turn of events, so dealing with a sudden script change was nothing shocking. I considered my next move. Buster was not the regular groom, Buster was simpleminded, and Buster had known Jessie. Slow didn’t mean stupid. I needed to tread softly.

With a noisy clatter, the girls began hauling bridles and blankets out of the tack room and, with Buster’s help, outfitted the appropriate beasts. I was introduced to Star, who had a white patch on her forehead, Socks, who had two white feet, Lady, a placid mare with a back as wide as a Windsor chair, Blackie, a black gelding, and Chestnut, who was reddish brown. Excessive imagination did not seem to be a Carr family trait.

The girls’ plan was transparent—to test whether or not I could ride like Jessie.

“Won’t you come with us on Mother’s horse?” Valerie asked with a sly look at her sister. “We could saddle him while you run back to the house and change.” Ah, the little angels were going to try to pass off one of the friskier geldings as their mother’s horse when it was obviously the mare.

I declined with regret, citing my lack of riding habit. “I’m looking forward to taking a walk along the cliff on my first day home. I haven’t seen the ocean in a long time.”

“I don’t suppose you’d fit into your old riding habits?” asked Caroline.

I looked bewildered.

“Your clothes are all still in your room. Mother wouldn’t throw anything out. Didn’t you look in the wardrobe and drawers?”

“It never occurred to me. But I shouldn’t think anything would fit. I may not have grown much but I have grown.” I could postpone this but not sidestep it, so I decided I might as well make it happen to suit myself. “I’ll try to come up with something so I can go with you another time.”

“Jessie, have you heard of Anastasia?” asked Caroline.

“Who?”

“The Grand Duchess Anastasia of Russia, who was murdered by the Reds at the end of the Great War with the czar and her whole family.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Very sad. What about her?”

“She came back, you know. She says she wasn’t really dead, only wounded. A soldier rescued her. She reminds me of you. She says she is Anastasia but not everyone believes her. Some people say—”

I finished for her. “They say she’s just after the money.”

“Henry and Ross say you’re not Jessie.”

“And what do you think?”

Each girl looked at the ground and waited for the other to reply.

“You will all know for certain when the trustees complete their investigation.”