Taking a seat in one of the green-painted Adirondack chairs on her veranda, Charlotte looked out at the view. Though it was early June, the leaves still weren’t fully out, and she could see much farther than she’d be able to later on in the season. The heat of the sun had warned the sap of the balsam firs, and the air was fragrant with its resiny scent. Putting her feet up on the railing, she pondered her immediate future. She had come to Bridge Harbor two weeks ago for the annual ritual of opening up the house, a euphemism for repairing the damage done over the winter. This done, she had followed her usual prescription for relaxation, which included hiking, sailing, and lying around and reading, mostly for pleasure. She had also scanned dozens of the books and scripts that flowed in steadily from her agent. It was time to go home, and to come to a decision about which of the scripts to accept: the glamorous grandmother, the wife of the man with Alzheimer’s disease, the domineering mother-in-law? What had happened to the movies? she often asked herself. They weren’t fun anymore. Everything had to make a social statement, and the more banal, the better. She was willing to take the bad with the good. After all, it was work. But there was a limit to how much dreck she could put up with. Reluctantly, she picked up another script from the pile she had carried out with her. A rich dowager who founds a shelter for bag ladies? Ugh. Maybe it was time for a trip to Papua New Guinea.
It was precisely at this moment that the phone rang. The caller was her stepdaughter, Marsha Lundstrom. Marsha was the daughter of her fourth husband, from whom she’d only recently been separated. She’d always imagined that the ideal man for her would be one who had achieved something in his own right, someone who wouldn’t be threatened by being Mr. Charlotte Graham. When Jack Lundstrom had come along, she thought she had finally met her match. A businessman who had built his family-owned manufacturing company into an international conglomerate, he was handsome, successful, cultured—and a widower. But it hadn’t worked out. After forty years of marriage to a traditional wife, he had found it difficult living with a woman whose priorities did not include giving dinner parties for his business associates and redecorating the house (or rather, houses). But they remained good friends and frequent companions. What had worked out was her relationship with his grown children. They had answered her need for a family, something she had never had. She was especially close to Marsha, who also lived in New York. They shared a love of art, and often went together to museum and gallery exhibits.
The low, fluty voice that met her ear over the telephone was tremulous with excitement. “Charlotte. I’m so glad I found you. I thought you might be off on location somewhere.”
“What is it?” asked Charlotte. From Marsha’s tone, it was clear that her news wasn’t anything bad, but what good news would merit such a glowing delivery? Charlotte wondered.
“Are you sitting down?”
Charlotte sat back on the old sofa covered with worn and faded chintz which faced the massive pink granite fireplace that dominated her rustic, cedar-paneled living room: “Yes,” she replied.
“What are you doing for the next six weeks?”
“A few appointments. Nothing in particular, really.” She was almost afraid to ask the next question: “Why do you ask?”
“How would you like to go on a trip?”
Charlotte leaned back and took a deep breath. She looked down at her forearms: the hairs were standing up stiffly. “To where?” she asked.
“China,” Marsha replied. “The People’s Republic of. Specifically, to the northwestern frontier, on the ancient Silk Road. We leave on June sixteenth. We’ll be gone about a month.”
“That’s only two weeks away!”
“Yes,” said Marsha. “Can you be ready?”
She waited for a reply, but Charlotte was still swallowing air.
“Before you answer that question, let me fill you in a little.”
It was one of those serendipitous opportunities that come along once in a lifetime. The Oriental Institute, a New York institution devoted to East Asian culture, was sponsoring a study tour of China for several of its staff members. Marsha, who was an authority on Chinese poetry, was among them. Although the tour would visit several sites, their main destination was to be the oasis of Dunhuang, a center of Buddhist worship on the ancient Silk Road that had only recently been opened up to Western scholars.
“Two other staff members were scheduled to go,” Marsha continued. “One of them was Averill Boardmann. Are you familiar with the name?”
“No,” replied Charlotte.
“He was murdered by a vagrant during a robbery attempt in April. It was a tragic thing. I don’t even want to talk about it. But his death leaves a vacancy that the Institute is anxious to fill. Actually, although the director says he wants to make it possible for someone else to take advantage of the trip, what he really wants is to recoup some of the Institute’s expenses. They’re offering the trip at a discount, but it’s still expensive. The Institute has contacted other scholars, but the ones who have the time don’t have the money and vice versa. Now they’re turning to friends and relatives of staff members. I would love for you to come along. What do you say?”
Charlotte’s head was spinning. Since she had no professional commitments for the next few weeks she’d planned to take care of personal business, and had made appointments with her accountant, her doctor, her car mechanic, and so on. But those could all be rescheduled. She also had an appointment with her agent on the West Coast to talk about projects. But that could be rescheduled too. In fact, there had been few times in her life when she had been as free to take advantage of such an opportunity as she was now. Or as eager. “Yes,” she replied: And then: “Yes, yes!” But then she was beset by doubts. What would she do while Marsha was busy working? Oh, well. She was bound to find something in this exotic country to occupy her time.
“I’m so pleased,” said Marsha. “Daddy said he didn’t think you had anything doing at the moment. Somehow I had the feeling that you’d be able to go. There’s a lot we have to take care of,” she added, turning to business. “Will it be possible for you to be back in New York by Monday?”
“Yes,” Charlotte replied. “I was planning to leave here on Monday anyway. A day earlier won’t make any difference.” But it would mean that she would have to start packing right away, she thought.
After making arrangements to meet Marsha, she went into the kitchen and fixed herself a drink. The real estate agent who had sold her the cottage had pointed out that a big kitchen wasn’t a necessity as long as you had a refrigerator for ice and mixers, a sink to rinse out glasses, and enough counter space for a cocktail shaker and a bottle or two. Charlotte had laughed—he was an agent who knew his customers. As she returned to the living room, she was shaking her head. You are going on a trip to an exotic foreign country with a faithful and trustworthy friend, Kitty had said. Taking a seat on the sofa, she propped her legs up on the coffee table and took a sip of her drink: a Manhattan, straight up. She needed it. The phone had rung, and her life had changed. That’s how things happened in her business: a phone call or a letter. The changes were always sudden, and they always left her reeling. A trip to China. She didn’t believe in supernatural explanations. Marsha’s call must just have been an eerie coincidence. A very eerie coincidence.
Dismissing the subject of coincidences from her mind, she turned instead to the subject of China. Like so many others, her knowledge of China was sketchy—so sketchy, in fact, that it could be summed up in fifteen hundred words or less. Culture: the Chinese had invented paper, gunpowder, and pasta; geography: the capital was Beijing (being from another generation, she still called it Peking); politics: the People’s Republic was established in 1949 following the Communists’ defeat of the Nationalists. Add a little bit about the Cultural Revolution and the subsequent downfall of the Gang of Four, and that was about it. There was little else to know: it was a country that had been cut off from the rest of the world for thirty-five years. It had been only five
years ago, in 1979, that full diplomatic relations between the United States and China had been restored, opening the door to tours such as this one.
Setting down her drink, she got up and fetched the big old atlas from one of the bookshelves that flanked the massive fireplace. Like most of the other books, it had come with the house. And like most of the other books, its pages were spotted with mildew from the dampness. After a considerable bit of searching, she finally found Dunhuang: it was a tiny dot on the border of Mongolia. To the south were the peaks of the Himalayan massif; to the north, the vast open spaces of the Gobi Desert.
It was very, very far away. In fact, it was about as far away as you could, get. Setting down the atlas, she picked up the phone and dialed Kitty.
The second call came just an hour later as Charlotte was packing up to leave. It was from Bunny Oglethorpe, a summer resident whom she had met at various local functions. The Oglethorpes were the most prominent family in an area of prominent families. Bridge Harbor was typical of other Eastern summer resorts in that the original summer rusticators had been succeeded by tycoons who built enormous summer “cottages” with dozens of rooms and dozens of servants in which they, spent the few frenzied weeks of “the season” trying to outdo one another with lavish parties. Though the advent of the income-tax and the elimination of the servant class had done away with that lifestyle, Bridge Harbor was still inhabited by descendants of these well-known families who carried on the tradition of spending the season on the coast of Maine. Bunny was the daughter-in-law of the richest of the original tycoons, and the reigning matriarch of Bridge Harbor society.
What on earth did Bunny Oglethorpe want with her? Charlotte wondered. The old rich were one of the few elements of American society that refused to be impressed by movie stars. It was an attitude that Charlotte found refreshing, and another reason she felt comfortable in Bridge Harbor.
“I was just talking with Kitty Saunders,” Bunny said, her strangulated vowels reeking of wealth and privilege. “As you may know, we work together on the Bridge Harbor library committee.”
“Yes,” Charlotte replied. The library was a favorite charity of the summer residents. It was part of the summer ritual that energies otherwise devoted to raising money for the New York Public Library were here turned to a library in a former one-room schoolhouse.
“She tells me that you’re about to set off on a trip to China.”
“Yes, I am.” Word traveled fast around Bridge Harbor, especially if it was the loquacious Kitty who was the messenger. “I’m leaving in two weeks.”
“Was Kitty correct in saying that you’re going to Dunhuang?”
“Yes, that’s right. Do you know it?”
“I’ve never been there, no. But I’m very familiar with it.” She hesitated for a second, as if considering how to phrase the next sentence, and then went on. “I’d like to ask a favor of you. Related to your trip. Have you ever been to visit the Oglethorpe Gardens?”
Charlotte was taken aback by the non sequitur. What could the Oglethorpe Gardens possibly have to do with her trip to China? “Yes,” she replied once again. This time it was her voice that carried the note of hesitation.
Oglethorpe Gardens was one of the most magnificent private gardens in the country, created during the twenties by Bunny’s mother-in-law as a showcase for her collection of Oriental sculpture. It was open to the public on Wednesday afternoons. Charlotte knew it well.
“Good,” Bunny replied. “Then you know the moon gate?”
“Yes,” said Charlotte.
“Can you meet me there at three-thirty this afternoon?”
Charlotte checked her watch. It was two-thirty. “Yes. I think so.”
“I’ll see you then.”
The Oglethorpe Gardens were located on the grounds of the former Oglethorpe estate. The hundred-room summer “cottage” had long ago been razed, but the grounds were still in the hands of the family, and the garden was maintained as it had been for sixty years. It was one of Charlotte’s favorite places. She had visited often, not only on the afternoons that it was open to the public, but at other times as well. It was one of those places you could never have found unless you knew where it was. Charlotte had come upon it quite by accident one day while hiking one of the trails in what she had thought was the state park. From a distance, she had seen the sun glinting off the head of what appeared to be a golden Buddha nestled among the pines on the slope of the mountainside below her. Her curiosity aroused, she had bushwhacked a trail down the hill, and found that it was a golden Buddha indeed. From that moment, her first visit to this secret garden in the woods had taken on the unreal atmosphere of a dream. From the gilded Buddha, she had been drawn to a high wall of rose-washed stucco crowned by glazed Chinese tiles. Following the wall, she had come to a round wooden door with a giant wrought-iron ring for a door pull. This was the moon gate to which Bunny had referred. She hadn’t expected the door to open when she tugged on the door pull, but it had—revealing a spectacular sunken flower garden whose rainbow of colors dazzled the eye. It had been an unforgettable thrill, hot knowing what was behind that door and discovering one of the world’s most beautiful gardens. She now knew that the glazed, “imperial yellow” coping tiles had once capped the wall surrounding the Forbidden City in Beijing. They weren’t reproductions of the tiles, but the actual tiles themselves, shipped over piece by piece from China after the Chinese dismantled the wall. That’s how the robber barons had done things: if you coveted a castle from the Rhineland, the ballroom of a French chateau, or the wall of a medieval city, you simply paid someone to disassemble it and rebuild it for you in Bridge Harbor or Newport. As for the statuary, the gilt-bronze Buddha was one of dozens of exquisite pieces purchased on collecting trips to the Far East, which were scattered throughout the woods surrounding the garden proper, as well as within the garden walls themselves.
Since her discovery on that magical afternoon, Charlotte had figured out her own route to the garden through the woods of the state park (which had originally been Oglethorpe land), and was a frequent visitor. The gardeners never objected to her presence, probably because there were so few people who managed to find their way to the garden on foot. The entrance road was patrolled by a security guard, and visitors were usually transported to the garden from a parking lot on the main road by minibus. Rather than driving to her mysterious rendezvous with Bunny, however, Charlotte chose to walk, and arrived shortly before the appointed hour.
To her surprise, the person awaiting her at the moon gate wasn’t Bunny, but Howard Tracey, the police chief of Bridge Harbor.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she said as she approached.
Tracey smiled, his round cheeks bulging like a chipmunk’s under the brim of the baseball cap that he always wore—the Boston Red Sox, of course. No self-respecting New Englander would have been caught dead wearing the hat of any other baseball team.
“What’s up?” she asked as she joined him at the moon gate.
“I’d better leave it up to Mrs. Oglethorpe to tell you,” he replied, removing his cap in the presence of a lady, an old-fashioned gesture that Charlotte always found charming. “Suffice it to say that she has a problem that might require a bit of detective work.”
“In China?” asked Charlotte.
“Could be,” said Tracey, with the Yankee talent for avoiding a direct answer.
She had first met Howard Tracey two years ago when a neighbor of Stan and Kitty’s was poisoned. At the time, Charlotte had already earned a minor reputation as an amateur sleuth—the result of having solved a case in which her co-star in a Broadway play was murdered on stage. The reporter who had covered the case for a New York magazine later wrote a book chronicling her role in cracking it. A best seller, it was called Murder at the Morosco, after the lovely old theatre in which the murder had taken place. When the Saunders’ neighbor became the victim of some malicious mischief, Tracey had asked Charlotte to investigate. When, subsequently, the neighbor was mu
rdered, she had helped solve the case. The bonds forged in that encounter had since been welded into a solid friendship. Though Tracey liked to play the role of the simple country police chief, his unassuming manner concealed a brain that was as sharp as that of the savviest New York homicide detective.
As Charlotte and Tracey chatted about the weather—the perennial topic of conversation in Maine, where it could change dramatically from one moment to the next—Bunny Oglethorpe pulled up in her car, a vintage Oldsmobile. The descendants of Bridge Harbor’s tycoons weren’t pretentious folk. Driving a fancy make of automobile was considered ostentatious, and among the bluebloods of Bridge Harbor being nouveau riche was almost as bad as being … well, poor.
“Hello,” said Bunny as she emerged from the car.
She was a tall, thin, stately woman, whose long, patrician face—which must once have been pretty, but not inordinately so—was framed by a thick fringe of white bangs. The rest of her hair was pulled back into a bun. Today she wore a big hat of pink straw.
“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” she said as she joined them at the moon gate.
“You haven’t kept us waiting at all, Mrs. Oglethorpe,” said Tracey, with just the right note of deference toward the matriarch of the family whose generous donations supported not only the library, but the church, the fire department, the summer repertory theatre, the Friends of the State Park, and probably dozens of other worthy causes that Charlotte wasn’t aware of.
Murder on the Silk Road Page 2