I found Gatlinburg an attractive little town, in spite of the fact that tourists were its main business and it abounded in shops and motels. The Little Pigeon River ran along its rocky bed beside the main street, the Parkway, and again I had a feeling of being in a pocket of mountains. David’s mountains, I thought again. He had grown up near Gatlinburg.
We parked off the main street near one of the many handcraft shops, and Maggie invited me to come in with her.
“This place is special,” she said. “A handful of us run it as a cooperative and I think we’re pretty good.”
There was a spaciousness and lack of clutter inside that set it apart from cheaper shops, with unobtrusive lighting and glass windows along two sides. While Maggie talked to the manager, I wandered among the tables and counters, looking at carvings and pottery and jewelry displays, until I came upon Maggie’s section in one corner. Her name had been printed on a card, and several of her framed paintings were hung on the wall. Here was more of her strange, oversized vegetation, though not as huge as the mural Lori favored in her dining room. I paused before a lush painting of what was anything but a shrinking violet.
A single blossom splashed its purple-blue at the beholder—not a timid flower to hide along a woodsy path, but bursting with sensual color, its fleshy petals bearing little resemblance to nature. In the next painting a cluster of wild tiger lilies looked as though they might be on the prowl—if such plants could be predators.
Maggie had brought a new picture to hang in an empty space, where something had been sold. When she carried it over I saw that it was a deep red opium poppy with a black center—somehow sensuous with its own intoxication.
“What do you think?” Maggie asked cheerfully.
“Frightening,” I said. “Those ferns in the dining room at Trevor’s terrify me. And these paintings do too.”
“Good! I like to have an impact.”
I looked from a leprous tiger lily to Maggie’s open, eager expression and shook my head. “But why? Do you really see the world like this?”
“Not the world. Just certain members of the garden variety. Don’t try to figure it out. I wouldn’t think of analyzing myself and scaring it away. This is the contrary sort of thing that wants to come out when I paint—so I let it come. If there are snaky, horrible things underneath in my nature, I don’t want to know about them.”
“What does your husband say?”
“Eric? He doesn’t look at them. He thinks it’s dyspepsia and I ought to take a pill.” Her look warmed and softened as she spoke and I sensed again her affection for her husband.
“Do people really buy these pictures?” I asked.
“Of course. Almost as fast as I can paint them. Who wants to hang ordinary flower prints after seeing mine? I’ve done a lot of tiger lilies, for instance. People are always telling me they’re just right for the entry hall at home.”
“To scare away burglars?”
“They might, at that. But I can see you’re a nonbeliever. Here—I’d like you to have one. Perhaps if you look at it long enough you’ll be converted to my wicked ways.”
On a table before the framed paintings was a rack that displayed smaller efforts, and she made a selection quickly.
“Here you are. And don’t deny me my generosity.”
The painting was a soft and glowing pink—the petals of a rose, oversized, but truly beautiful. Then I looked closer and saw that the rose burned out into a deeper fire-red at the farthest point from the heart, swirling into a hint of flame that would consume the blossom itself.
I wanted to tell her that this was a picture I couldn’t bear to look at, but she pressed my arm lightly. “It’s only the fire of the sunset, Karen. I love the fire colors of sunset. Wait, and I’ll have it wrapped for you.”
I felt shaken, yet unable to oppose her. In any case, even if I took the painting home, I need never unwrap it, and I would certainly not hang it on a wall where it would be allowed to haunt me. She must know what fire meant to me at this particular time, and I wondered at her motive in forcing this picture upon me. Or was Maggie Caton merely a woman moved by casual impulse and seldom given to penetrating judgment? Her paintings had a primitive quality, and perhaps that was all there was to it.
In a few moments she came back and held out the package so that I had to take it, however reluctantly.
When we left the shop there were one or two more errands to be done in town, and I left my film to be developed while Chris bought a roll for his camera. Then Giff turned the car once more in the direction of the mountains, heading for Trevor’s and whatever awaited us there.
One thing I knew lay ahead of me—a confrontation with Lori over the trick she had played by locking me in, Cecily’s room. I found, a little to my surprise, that I was looking forward to that next encounter. There were a number of things I wanted to say to Lori Andrews.
Six
There had been no immediate confrontation with Lori when Giff brought us home. He left Chris and me at the door, and then drove off with Maggie to the Caton house on along the hill. I’d hoped for a chance to talk to Chris, but he had taken his bicycle and gone off on some enterprise of his own. I could only hope that he hadn’t returned to Belle Isle.
Only the stone dog, Simon, was about to greet me and I saw no one when I went downstairs. As I passed the door in the lower hall on the way to my room, I stopped and looked out. By now the sun was dipping toward the west and the shadows of the house fell across the fishpond, the bench and the lantern beside it. I made my decision quickly, set Maggie’s picture down in the hall and stepped outside.
For a moment I stood looking around. This lower wing of the house sheltered the grotto in a right angle of walls. Two rooms opened off one side, both with sliding glass doors, but no one stood behind them looking out. Nor was there anyone at the chrysanthemum-banked wall up by the garage area. All seemed safely secluded and I could be unobserved in my actions.
Nevertheless, I moved casually, as though I had no particular purpose. I stood for a moment watching the goldfish and through the clear water I saw that a large stone turtle occupied the floor of the shallow pond. It was as crudely executed as Maggie’s stone dog, and I suspected that it was her work too. Apparently when she wasn’t painting her monstrous flowers, she enjoyed attacking chunks of stone and hewing them into rough but reasonably innocuous shapes. Under the water goldfish nudged the turtle, nosing the stone and darting away.
I went on to stand beside the lantern that was not quite as tall as I was, touching the mossy stone top, admiring its grace. Then quickly, in hardly more than a single motion, I thrust my hand into the opening in the lantern, found something there, whisked it out and up the sleeve of my sweater. Still sauntering, I walked around the pond, went inside to pick up Maggie’s picture and down the hall to my room.
No Lori waited for me this time, and I set the wrapped picture against the wall in a corner where I hoped to forget it. Then I sat on the edge of the bed to examine my find. Blue sky without a tracing of cloud made a color screen over my head, casting bright daylight down upon the object in my hands.
It appeared to be a thin strip of metal, perhaps five or six inches long, and not immediately identifiable. I saw with a qualm that it had been through fire. The metal had resisted, but it had been twisted and blackened, so that soot came off on my fingers.
Why, I wondered, had Chris hidden such an object in the lantern in so secretive a fashion? It was likely that the lantern was one of those special hiding places that children enjoy, but why this particular object? Even if it had come from that last awful fire, what significance could it have? Had it belonged to David?
I turned it about in my fingers, suddenly recognizing what it was—or had been. What I held had once been a mechanical pencil made of some silvered metal that had not been completely destroyed by fire. The discovery told me nothing. Later perhaps I would talk to Chris about it, but for now I hid it beneath lingerie in a drawer. There was a puzzle h
ere that worried me.
When I had showered thoroughly, washing away the last traces of smoke odor and ashes that had clung to me since Lori had led me into the ruin, I changed into a dress of celery green, tied a coral scarf about my neck and went upstairs.
By this time I was beginning to make out the pattern of the house. Kitchen and dining room lay along one side, bordering the hall that ran to the main door. Across the front at the other end stretched the wide living room, with its open deck beyond. The rooms across the hall from dining room and kitchen must be Nona’s apartment, with its easy exit ramp to the driveway area. There were two doors here, both closed, and I passed them, walking toward the front of the house, idly exploring.
Now I could see that the living room didn’t occupy the entire front as I had first thought. There was space on the right for another large room along a turn in the hallway. Its double doors stood open and I saw that this was Trevor’s workroom and office. It too had a wide view of the mountains beyond, and it too opened on the deck. No one was there, and I stepped to the door and looked in.
The colors were muted tans and beige, with a carpet like pale green moss. A huge desk stood at right angles to the sweep of glass at the front of the room, and there were two drawing boards on stands, with work in progress. On a table was an architect’s model of Belle Isle, with every tiny house intact. I turned to a wall where several framed pictures of Trevor’s houses hung and from where I stood I recognized two of mine.
In delight I went in to look at them more closely, remembering when I’d taken them. One was a beach house made of cypress and built with a simple design that offered both privacy and a view at the same time. The other belonged to the hills of northwestern New Jersey—a handsome two-level house with a sweeping view of the Delaware Water Gap and the Kittatinny Mountains.
I remembered how lovingly I’d photographed those houses, trying to do justice to Trevor’s creativity, yet each time feeling that I’d failed. Nevertheless, he had liked these pictures well enough to hang them in his workroom.
Not until he stood beside me did I hear him come in, and I turned eagerly. “I took those two pictures! The one on the beach in Long Island, and the other in New Jersey.”
“Did you?” he said, and looked closer. “Yes, I remember those two. You played light and shadow effectively to show depth as well as line. And there’s a sense of composition that many architectural photos lack.”
I felt ridiculously pleased and my own pleasure was briefly reflected in his face.
“You’re very good, Karen,” he said gently. “I’m glad you have this work to do. It will keep you busy when you go home. So you won’t brood too much.”
I found myself stiffening. “You know I’m not going home right away. If I’m a bother here—if Lori doesn’t want me to stay—I’ll move to a hotel. But I have to stay for a while. Nothing has been settled. Someone is to blame for David’s death. If I go away it may all fade into the past, and what really happened will never be known.”
“It has to be known,” he said sharply. “I’m not going to let it go.”
“Because of Belle Isle—not because of David. Though I can understand why you hated your brother.”
“I didn’t always hate him. And you must have loved him in the beginning.”
I was silent, unable to explain.
His expression had changed, guarded, yet puzzled. “Why do you feel this—this loyalty?”
“It’s not loyalty in the way you mean. In that letter he sent me David set an obligation upon me. I can’t put that aside easily. I failed him as much as he failed me. Now I owe him this, or I can’t live with myself. Someone caused that fire.”
With a sudden movement he took my hands in his, forcing me to face him, holding me so I couldn’t turn away. “Karen, listen to me. There was arson—yes. And it’s still being investigated, believe me. But David’s death was accidental. There’s been no first-degree murder charge.”
“You forget—he wrote me a letter.”
“I knew David very well. That letter might have been written out of a moment’s anger, or from some passing notion. You can’t let it rule your life.”
“I have to stay,” I told him stubbornly.
“Then you must stay here.” He spoke curtly, concluding the subject.
I hated to have him angry with me, and I made a tentative gesture toward peace between us. “You have a handsome office. May I look around?”
He stepped aside stiffly, and I moved about the room, pausing beside the model of Belle Isle that I’d noted earlier. The tiny houses and painted trees ranging along the bank of a silver-blue lake were all constructed in accurate proportions. The walks were there and a portion of entry road, but the model did not include the island. All was perfection, as it would be when completed, and there were no burned-out houses.
“You’re planning to rebuild?” I asked.
“Of course.” The words had a grim, unyielding sound, and I wondered if he would rebuild forever—as long as time was allowed him.
“They have to be stopped,” I said. “The burnings,” and heard the futility in my own words.
“Just how do you propose to find out what no one else has been able to?” he challenged.
I turned from the model to face him. “Isn’t it possible that a fresh viewpoint—someone who hasn’t been involved from the beginning—might discover something? Something that’s been missed. After all, I turned up that note today. And now you know Joe Bruen’s name as well.”
His stand against me was not entirely adamant, for his look softened a little. “I’m sorry, Karen. I’m not trying to put you down. I just want you gone from here.”
“I know about Lori and David,” I said. “If that’s what concerns you.”
He turned away and walked to his desk. He had nothing to offer me on the subject, nor had I any comfort for him. Yet still I didn’t want to leave him—not like this.
“How did you happen to get into Belle Isle?” I asked. “I mean the idea of the place, aside from knowing Vinnie Fromberg and the location?”
He accepted the offer of safer ground.
“I’ve never wanted to be merely an architect for the elite—the rich. Along with my building of private homes, I’ve done my share of community centers and housing for the elderly—that sort of thing. And I’ve done it rather well, I think. But this was my first chance at something for a group that interests me—my own group, in a sense. Also it’s a change from private houses, which can be a headache at times.”
“How do you mean?”
His smile was wry. “Owners have strong personal feelings about every detail—which is natural. But what they want isn’t always practical, or even possible. So there can be a continuous wrangle. A husband and wife can take off in completely opposite directions. You can’t imagine what hassles can take place over a doorknob. What builders and contractors do can drive you up the wall, and unions step in to limit you to an advisory role once a house starts going up. At Belle Isle, the whole project is in my hands. I’m in full charge and can make all the decisions. Whatever the result it will be to my satisfaction and perhaps credit—or to my blame.”
He broke off, picked up a glass paperweight from his desk and tossed it from hand to hand. I knew he was thinking of how much blame was now likely to come his way.
Once more I moved about the room. A large sheet of drawing paper with plans forming on it was tacked to a tilted stand. And there were the utensils of Trevor’s trade in rolls of blueprints, rulers and measuring gauges, pencils and pens and erasers. A large can of liquid glue for filling smaller containers stood on a shelf. But I registered details absently because my thoughts were elsewhere.
“Chris thinks he has seen someone over on the island,” I said. “An older man with gray hair.”
He turned from his desk to stare at me. “Since the last fire?”
“Yes. After you left us at the theater today, we all went down to that little beach and found Chris r
owing over to the island. He told us he’d seen this man yesterday. Giff didn’t believe him. He thinks Chris is making it up.”
“The island has always been Chris’s favorite playground, but maybe we’d better keep him away from it now.”
“Giff and Maggie both told him he should stay away from now on. Chris believes that you still suspect him of starting the fires. He wanted to prove his innocence. Did he really start the first one?”
“I’m afraid he did.” Trevor had relaxed a little. “He’d been running a bit wild and there was trouble at school. I gave him one hell of a lecture, as well as lifting a few privileges, and he reacted badly. I think he wanted to hurt me, and the best way to get at me was through the houses. The damage from the fire he set was minor. He even turned in the alarm himself, and he admitted what he had done to me and to the sheriff. He was let off this time, in our care. He’s a pretty good kid, really, and a smart one.”
There was love and pride and pain beneath the words.
“But he had nothing to do with the new fires?”
“It doesn’t seem possible. They started a few weeks later, as though someone had picked up the idea. We never blamed him for them, though maybe he thinks we did. They were more professional jobs than Chris could have handled. David pointed that out as soon as he got here. He found traces of accelerants that had been used, and the paths of fuses that were supposed to spread the fire.”
I knew what Trevor meant because David had often talked about his investigative work. Where accelerants or fuses were used there could be areas more heavily burned than the rest. Ashes could be tested chemically. There were dozens of flammatory materials that could be used, but mostly the arsonist chose what came easily to hand.
The Glass Flame Page 12