But while we separated to search the house, and followed paths around the immediate grounds, we found no trace of where Jilly might have gone.
Julian wasn’t especially disturbed. “She’s done this before, and she’s never stayed away long. She has a special place—a short walk from here. Nothing much can happen to her in this country area. She may even have gone to visit the Singing Stones, though it’s a long way up there. When she gets hungry she’ll come home.”
Vivian rejoined us when we returned to Julian’s study, and put a stop to his complacency. She had gone down to where Sam was working a leaf blower, and had something to report.
“Sam saw Jilly get into a pickup truck down the road a little while ago. He didn’t see who was driving and didn’t think much about it. Probably it was some neighbor.”
This put a different aspect on what might have happened, but Julian still didn’t feel that we needed to call the police. Jilly would never get into a car with a stranger, he said, and sooner or later we’d receive a report from whoever had given her a lift.
He phoned Meryl at the farm to alert her, in case Jilly headed for Oleander Acres. Meryl told him she would be there for another day, and of course she’d let us know if Jilly turned up. She didn’t seem particularly worried.
I was the one who worried. Jilly had been upset when she’d left me, and by now she’d probably figured out who I was. Which might mean that friend whom she’d begun to trust had let her down with a major deceit.
Vivian offered another possibility. “Did you see that photograph Carla pounced on when Lynn turned the chair around? Jilly must have put it there and goodness knows what effect that photograph must have had on her when she found it. I think Carla Raines has been keeping something from us. In fact, I wonder if Oriana knows about this?”
I was lost. “I saw the man’s picture. Do you know who he is?”
Again I caught the exchange of looks between Vivian and Julian.
He explained quietly. “That was a photo of Luther Kersten, the man who died up at the White Moon project, when Stephen was hurt. It seems strange that this woman should have his picture.”
More than strange, I thought. Considering that Stephen had been suspected of causing Luther’s death, it appeared ominous. There was nothing I could do, however, except worry. Too much seemed to connect back to the time of Stephen’s accident, and the unanswered questions were growing.
9
Not until late that afternoon did Meryl phone and talk to Julian. Jilly had turned up at the farm, hungry and a little tearful. She wouldn’t talk about what was wrong, but seemed willing to stay overnight and let Meryl drive her home in the morning.
Julian tried to reach Oriana without any success, so that conversation had to be postponed.
I went for a long walk by myself, away from the house, and tried to enjoy the burgeoning of color across the mountains. But there was no way I could be carefree and relax.
Worst of all, it was hard to stop thinking about Stephen. All my anger with him had died away, leaving me drained, and I could only remember the man I’d seen in that wheelchair—a man I didn’t know and could only pity.
Dinner with Julian and Vivian was hardly cheerful, since nothing could be settled until he’d talked to Oriana. While he put little hope in what she might do, this appeared to be his last move.
Right after the meal I excused myself and went to my room. I lay down on my bed, meaning only to nap for a few minutes. Instead, I fell sound asleep and woke up several hours later, feeling stiff and cold. Hot tea would warm me, and I thought of the little stove I’d seen upstairs in the room where Oriana danced. It would be better to go up there than to risk the kitchen and run into someone I’d have to talk to. I felt wide awake now, and more restless than ever.
When I reached the floor above, however, someone was already there. A fire had been lighted in the grate at the far end, and Stephen’s wheelchair stood before the hearth. He sat huddled in a blanket, staring into the fire, while Paul Woolf crouched on a low stool nearby. For a moment I couldn’t move. I knew now why I felt so restless, so unhappy. Stephen, as much as Jilly, was at the center of my troubled state.
Drawn in spite of myself, I started down the long room, and my steps echoed on the bare floor so that Paul looked around. When he saw me he came quickly toward me. The yellow turtleneck sweater he wore seemed as much his trademark as the jumpsuits—a color that demanded attention, perhaps giving him a sense of being in charge. There was no time for anything except fleeting speculation as he bore down on me, blocking my way.
“You’ve done enough damage,” he told me bluntly. “Leave Stephen alone.”
But I’d just begun what I knew would be a struggle. “I haven’t done nearly enough,” I told him, and went quickly past before he could stop me.
“Let her come in, Paul,” Stephen said from down the room.
Paul followed more slowly as I moved toward Stephen. “I came to say I’m sorry,” I said to the huddled figure. “I shouldn’t have said the things I did. I really am sorry.”
He looked up at me and firelight caught a glint of red in his short-cropped hair and brightened his eyes. His look was impassive as he waited for whatever else I wanted to say.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” I gestured toward the stool.
Paul made some disgruntled sound, and Stephen spoke to him curtly. “Please bring us a pot of coffee, Paul, and whatever else you can find to go with it. And take your time. I want to talk to Lynn alone.”
When Paul went off, however reluctantly, I sat down on the stool and stared into plumes of fire in the grate.
“You were saying?” His words mocked me, made it difficult to go on.
“I want to help Jilly, but I had no right to speak to you as I did.”
“Right? What do I care about rights? You know nothing about the situation here, yet you came barging in, losing your temper.”
I reminded myself how vulnerable he was, how raw his nerves must be because of the physical state he hated. But I was vulnerable too.
“I know,” I agreed. “But I did have a right to be angry with you. At least, twelve years ago I had a right. I denied it then, when I shouldn’t have. I buried my feelings and turned to filling my life with things that were important to me. It might have been better—for me—if I’d struck out at you in the beginning. Then I could have raged at you and let everything out, and it wouldn’t have stayed buried and rankling for all this time. Today, when I only meant to support Jilly, I raised the lid and everything blew. I don’t think I’m over being angry, but now it’s for other reasons—not for something that was finished a long time ago. Perhaps you can try to understand.”
I doubt if he wanted to try, and he said nothing at all. We sat for a time listening to small fire sounds, and to the night beginning to stir uneasily outside all the glass that surrounded us. The weather had changed, as it could so suddenly in these mountains, and it had begun to rain. Wind moved in behind the rain as we listened, and the woods rushed with sound. Rivulets snaked across the panes, catching firelight in shining streaks, their movement hypnotic.
Stephen wheeled himself over to a glass door and sat looking out into blackness. On a clear night there would be scattered lights out there on the slopes and in the valleys, and more bright beads of light on top of Afton Mountain. Beyond the peak lay the plunge down into the Shenandoah Valley. But now I knew there was nothing out there to see but lowering clouds that cut us off from the world.
Stephen spoke as if to himself. “I always liked this room in a storm. I can feel as if I were in the midst of all that violence out there, yet protected from it. Thunder can rock the house, and lightning brings everything into sharp focus for an instant. It’s like an illuminating of life before the darkness.”
Darkness that he’d already tried to face?
“I wonder what’s out there now,” I said. “I wonder what’s really out there?” This was a game we used to play, and I wished the wo
rds back even as I spoke them.
“What do you think is out there?” he asked grimly.
“Just the trees, whispering to each other. Perhaps talking about how foolish human beings are. They’re closer to whatever created them. They know how to meet the storms. Perhaps those stones out there are singing in the wind. I heard them earlier today when I was at the farm.”
He glanced at me curiously and then wheeled himself back to the fire.
“Do you come up here often?” I asked.
“Sometimes. It’s a change from confinement to my own rooms.”
Rooms that he’d perhaps allowed to become a prison. All my old anger had died away, and I tried to offer him some small gift of words.
“The house turned out so beautifully, Stephen. You created every detail and carried it through to perfection.” I kept my tone impersonal, as though the house had nothing to do with me—which, after all, was true.
He didn’t respond, and it seemed unreal that we were having this conversation—if it could be called a conversation.
I moved from the stool to the flat rocks of the hearth, so I could sit closer to the fire. We’d picked up some of these rocks together in our wanderings and brought them back for this very purpose. The silence between us, too fraught with old emotion, grew uncomfortable. I tried a side road.
“Meryl says Everett is mostly interested in building hotels and condominiums these days—big projects. Doesn’t he do homes anymore?”
For a moment I thought Stephen wouldn’t answer. Then he spoke as though some deep resentment moved him—so he wasn’t wholly indifferent, after all.
“Houses are too much trouble for Everett, and they don’t pay enough. A home should be an extension for the people who will live in it, and that takes time and effort to discover. And some creative ability to carry out.”
How fortunate that this big room had been here for Oriana’s dancing, I thought—as if it had been planned for her.
“Why doesn’t Everett let you do the homes, while he supervises the rest?” I asked.
Stephen gave me a look that dismissed my stupidity and said nothing.
“First of all,” I went on, moving into dangerous territory, “you build houses with your brain. That’s where the creativity comes in.” I met the flash in his eyes and tried not to wince. Emotion stirred in my words as I went on. “Your brain isn’t tied to a wheelchair—it can go anywhere.”
This time he didn’t look away. “My brain,” he told me, his voice deadly in its control, “has been busy with other matters.”
I threw aside my last caution, since I might never have this chance with him again. It was Jilly I really wanted to talk about.
“Do you know that the woman who takes cares of your daughter keeps a portrait of Luther Kersten in her room?”
For an instant he looked almost frightened—as though some burden hung over him that was too heavy to carry. I said nothing more, backing away from a morass I’d stepped into unwittingly.
Paul’s appearance from the stairs was a relief. He carried a tray with three mugs and a coffeepot, as well as a few sandwiches on a plate. He set it all down on the wide hearth and brought a card table to place before Stephen, then dragged across a couple of chairs for himself and me.
Stephen drank his coffee black, as he always had. I took mine the same way, while Paul heaped in sugar and added cream. All this in silence, as though Paul merely performed his duty and could now settle in to prevent further exchanges between Stephen and me. I wondered if he behaved unpleasantly because that was his nature, or whether Everett was somehow behind his watchfulness.
At least hot coffee warmed away a chill that was more inner than outer. When would I learn? And what was it I needed to learn, aside from holding my tongue around Stephen?
“I’ll take you downstairs now.” Paul broke the silence as Stephen finished his coffee. “The rain has stopped, so it won’t be too wet outside on the ramp.”
Stephen shrugged, his shoulders limp again, his lack of interest evident. This was what I hated most of all—his surrendering to nonexistence. I still wanted to break through this protective indifference.
“Has anyone told you that Jilly ran away this afternoon?” I asked.
At least that caught his attention. “Ran away?”
“She went off without telling anyone and hitchhicked a ride down the road. It was a few hours before Meryl phoned from the farm to tell us that she had turned up there. Jilly is a terribly upset little girl.”
“There’s nothing I can do,” Stephen said dully.
I couldn’t let him off. “When Julian and Vivian have moved away, there won’t be anyone here to care what she does. I think Carla couldn’t care less.”
But all this was ground I’d been over before, and he said nothing. I held out my mug for more coffee that I didn’t want, just to keep Paul from taking Stephen away. While I set it down to cool for a moment, I listened again to sounds outdoors. As Paul said, the rain had stopped, and even the wind had hushed a little. But now I caught a new sound from outside. I looked in the direction of a glass door and for an instant saw a face pressed against the pane.
“There’s someone out there,” I said to Paul. “Maybe you’d better take a look.”
He moved faster than I’d have expected for so big a man. In a moment, he’d slid open the nearest door and I heard him shout and start running along the deck. He returned quickly with his captive—Carla Raines, draped in a wet poncho, her black hair streaming down her back. Paul brought her in without ceremony, and she offered no resistance and made no excuses. She simply shed the poncho and went to sit on the hearthstone, holding out cold hands to the lowering flames.
“What were you snooping around outside for?” Paul demanded.
She didn’t trouble to look at him. “I’ve been searching for Jilly. She likes to go outside when it’s dark and rainy. I thought she might have come back and was in here with you.”
“You mean you don’t know that she’s been found?” I asked. “Meryl Asche phoned Julian that she’d turned up at the farm. I should think you’d have been told.”
“I haven’t been here,” she said. “I had some errands and I just got home a little while ago. With Jilly away, I could do a few things for myself.”
Stephen challenged her, sounding grim. “I understand you keep a photograph of Luther Kersten in your room. Did you know him well?”
Carla flushed—an unattractive rushing of blood into her face, darkening it. “That’s none of your business.”
I was aware of Paul, suddenly alert and watchful as Stephen went on.
“Maybe anything that concerns Luther still concerns me. How well did you know him?”
For a moment I thought Carla might go running back to the darkness outside, but she controlled herself, clasping her hands around her knees as if to quiet their trembling.
“All right—I’ll tell you. I was going to marry him.”
Paul snorted impolitely.
Carla turned on him. “What do you mean by that?”
“Only that everybody knew about Luther. He played the field. He wasn’t going to marry anybody.”
She jumped up wildly. “You don’t know anything about it! Nobody knew him the way I did!”
I looked at Stephen and saw how intently he was watching her, no longer indifferent. “Why did you come to work here?” he asked.
“Because Oriana needed someone to take care of her daughter. Because I’d already had Jilly in my dancing class.”
“Not because you were following up on your own about Luther’s death?” Stephen asked.
Paul pounced on his words, picking up the trail. “So maybe you were the one, Carla! The one who came in and cut up the cushions in Stephen’s chair and left that note?”
“I don’t know who did that,” Carla said sullenly.
Whether or not she was lying, I couldn’t tell.
She picked up her poncho and started toward the far end of the room. H
alfway down she turned around, speaking directly to Stephen. “I don’t think you killed Luther,” she said, and ran off toward the stairs.
Paul said, “What was that all about?”
“Take me back to my room,” Stephen told him, the life gone from his voice.
Neither spoke to me again, and Paul wheeled the chair outside on the wet ramp. I’d had enough emotion for one day. The fire was nearly out, and I set the fire screen in place. Then, turning off lights as I went, I followed Carla toward the stairs. But she hadn’t gone down. She was sitting on the top step waiting for me.
“Can we talk for a minute?” she asked.
The stairs seemed as secluded as anyplace, and I sat down beside her and waited.
The poncho hadn’t kept her dry and she twisted her damp red skirt as she talked.
“It’s true that Oriana wanted me here. But I put the idea in her head because of the way Luther died. We were going to be married. But after he was killed, everything became confused. I told you this was a house of death. Perhaps murder. Both Jilly and Stephen were hurt, and the police never really pinned down what happened. So I had to find out something more if I could. I don’t believe that it was an accident. I thought I could surely find out something if I came to work here.”
“And have you? Found out anything?”
“Only bits and pieces. There was certainly a fight between Luther and Stephen—probably because of accusations Stephen made about Luther’s cutting corners. Probably justified. I never had any illusions about Luther’s ethics. I think Luther knocked Stephen down and then Stephen got up to go after him and went through that board. Jilly says she remembers wanting to help her father, but she gets terribly upset and won’t talk about it. Every time I try to get her to open up, I have the feeling that she knows something that she’s holding back. Maybe you can find out what it is. She doesn’t trust me.”
Jilly’s lack of trust in Carla was hardly surprising.
“Under the circumstances, you shouldn’t be working here,” I told her. “You aren’t good for Jilly.”
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