The Ebony Swan

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “Do you remember this house, Susan? Do you remember anything of your life here?”

  “I was so young, but I do remember Peter Macklin. I remember Theresa a little. And I remember the tower room—even the wallpaper. What I recall most is a feeling of unhappiness. I didn’t remember my mother’s face until Hallie Townsend gave me a picture of her. Then it was as if I’d never forgotten.”

  This was startling. “Hallie—when?”

  “She came over to your landing in a boat, and when she saw me out on the balcony, she climbed the outside stairs. Tell me about her. She seems a strange woman.”

  “The Townsends are longtime friends,” Alex said with a sigh. “But you mustn’t pay too much attention to anything Hallie says. Her weakness is mixing into other people’s affairs. Sometimes she creates fantasies that she believes herself.”

  “She and my mother were friends?”

  “Of a sort.”

  “At least she brought me a picture. I’d never seen one before.”

  Damn Gilbert, Alex thought, somehow resisting the waves of emotion that kept wanting to rise in her and throw everything askew. “I have a great many pictures I can show you,” she said stiffly.

  “Why did my father hate you?”

  The question came point-blank and was the one question Alex feared. “I can’t answer that. I’m not sure I know.” She knew, but these were matters she could never talk about.

  “He seemed to blame you for my mother’s death, though he would never talk to me about how she died. I didn’t even know about the accident on the stairs, until Theresa showed me where my mother fell.”

  Theresa was as bad as Hallie. Alex hadn’t expected everything to burst into the open so quickly.

  “What did Theresa tell you?”

  “She said that, except for my invalid grandfather, I was alone in the house with my mother when she fell. You’d think I would remember that, even though I was small. But I can’t recall anything. I suppose I shut it away because it was too terrible to remember.”

  “There are matters we must talk about, Susan, but, for my sake, let’s take it slowly.”

  “I can wait,” Susan said. “I’ve waited all my life. But I don’t want to leave until I understand all you can tell me about that time.”

  Could anyone be made to understand, Alex wondered? She herself never had, and this granddaughter belonged to another time, another generation. The things Gilbert had said today carried a warning, but Susan need never know about any of this if she left in a few days.

  Alex carried the box of photographs to a bookshelf and replaced it beside other boxes. Susan’s reaction had been more than Alex had expected, and she felt a little frightened. Dolores’s daughter had begun to break through the protective shield her grandmother had tried to raise against her. But for everyone’s sanity, and safety, the status quo should be preserved. First, however, Alex must be rid of her own uncharacteristic indecision.

  Woven into all these threads from the past were Peter Macklin’s own tragic problems. She hoped that Susan would never need to know how close he had come to going to prison, or about the cloud that still hung over him. She had been sure from the first that what happened to Peter was somehow connected directly with the past—perhaps even with herself and Juan Gabriel. She had never been a coward about facing trouble, and this was no time to start.

  As she returned to her chair, a plump, middle-aged black woman appeared in the doorway, and Alex smiled at her. “We’ll have supper whenever you’re ready, Gracie. We’ve held you up longer than usual tonight. Susan, do you remember Gracie Dixon? She and George were here before you were born.”

  “I would like to remember,” Susan said, “but I was very little. Hello, Gracie.”

  Gracie, who was never given to beating around bushes, fixed Susan with an interested look that carried a hint of criticism.

  “It’s time you came home to Virginia, Miss Susan. You stayed away too long. I’ll get supper on the table now. Just a few minutes, Miss Alex.”

  Before Susan and Alex could continue their conversation, Theresa joined them, and the three women moved into the dining room.

  Alex had always loved this room and she looked about with a familiar sense of satisfaction. Juan Gabriel had found it too dramatic for his taste, preferring quiet surroundings that were not distracting. Nevertheless, he’d indulged her wish for excitement, when that quality had mostly disappeared from her life. Her young years as a dancer had taken her to the cosmopolitan centers of the world, so she had been eclectic in her choices.

  A Kurdish rug from Istanbul was still her pride, its fiery colors muted only a little by time. Kilim rugs had once been scorned, but in recent years they had become more widely appreciated. She had always loved this one—magnificent, with its great central oblong woven in a strong, earthy red, and marked down the center with diamond forms in black and white. A stylized pattern of flowers, woven into the wheat-colored border, softened the effect.

  The long, oval table had been made in Virginia’s plantation days, and Alex had placed red leather chairs around it—chairs she had found long ago in Richmond. Red napkins lay beside each woven grass placemat.

  “What a beautiful room!” Susan exclaimed, sitting down at the table next to Alex and looking around, her interest caught by a tall glass cabinet in which tiny wood carvings had been collected. “What are those?” she asked.

  “Carving was a hobby of Juan Gabriel’s. He made nothing of his accomplishment, but I’ve saved all those pieces.”

  All, Alex thought, except the one which had so upset her—that ebony piece that had been long since packed away and lost. She went on quietly, testing Susan.

  “Do you remember this room at all? Do you remember that painting on the wall?”

  Susan studied the large framed painting that dominated the oyster white space of wall. The scene was of a mountain village in the Andes—small houses with red tiled roofs perched along a steep hillside street. In the foreground two women in triangular ponchos, with distinctive hats tied under their chins, led a train of llamas burdened with loads of wood.

  “I seem to remember—something. A red room that made me feel warm and happy. And I loved watching those llamas and the women in tall hats. I do remember!”

  This, at least, was safe enough.

  Theresa seemed indifferent to such talk, and Alex realized that she wore an expectant air, as though she listened for something. Or someone? Alex could guess well enough who it might be, and she wished she could forestall his coming.

  Theresa had changed to a yellow silk print that flattered her dark coloring, and she wore a strand of amber beads that Juan Gabriel had given her one Christmas when she was a young girl. Her long gold and amber earrings caught the light from white candles, and she looked as beautiful as ever. Alex was pleased to note, however, that Susan was not overshadowed. Her granddaughter’s more natural look contrasted agreeably with Theresa’s flamboyance.

  Gracie served her special potato salad, with thick slices of Virginia ham, and hot biscuits. Alex was pleased to see Susan eat hungrily. A little fattening up wouldn’t hurt her, though most young women these days preferred to be thin. She smiled to herself, remembering that Juan Gabriel had never approved of “skinny ballet dancers,” and had been pleased when she’d put on a little weight. Just a little, since she would never allow herself to be heavy.

  “I saw Hallie Townsend scurrying off to the dock earlier,” Theresa said. “I suppose she couldn’t wait to satisfy her curiosity?”

  Susan smiled. “I suppose she was curious. Though it seemed strange that she didn’t want anyone to know she’d come to see me.”

  Theresa raised graceful shoulders in a shrug. “She likes to play secretive little games. Of course she’s always welcome here, isn’t she, Alex?”

  Theresa also liked to play her little games, Alex thought
. “Of course Hallie is welcome,” she said carefully. “I just wish she could have waited a little longer. I saw her this afternoon.”

  “Oh?” Theresa was immediately interested. “Where did you see her?”

  “I stopped by Christ Church,” Alex said quietly, turning to Susan. “Hallie works as a docent at the Reception Center.”

  “You went to the church? Again?” Theresa asked with obvious disapproval. “You know that place upsets you.”

  “You’re mistaken, Theresa. Whenever I take some disturbing emotion there, I am likely to experience a calming effect.” Alex turned to Susan again. “Historic Christ Church is a remarkable old building—one of our Virginia landmarks. I must take you to visit it before you leave.”

  This led to a discussion about other places Susan might visit.

  No one spoke of the past, and every possibly treacherous subject was avoided.

  Gracie had just cleared the table for dessert when Alex heard a car door slam out in front of the house. A moment later a cheerful male voice called out, asking if anybody was home. Theresa jumped up to run to the door, and Alex sighed. She’d had enough of the Townsends for one day, but there’d be no way to avoid inviting Eric to join them—not with the way Theresa felt about him. Eric was Gilbert’s son, and Theresa was almost ten years older than he, which might not have mattered with some men, but Alex didn’t trust Eric to make Theresa happy. She disapproved of their involvement, but she had only the instrument of her own legal will to stop the two if they decided to marry. She was reluctant to use such a weapon, but she felt she owed it to Juan Gabriel to look after his grandniece. It had been Juan Gabriel’s writing that had left Alex a wealthy woman.

  Theresa brought Eric Townsend back to the dining room and introduced him to Susan. Alex noted that he took Susan’s hand much too warmly. Like father, like son, she thought impatiently. Eric even looked the way his father had when he was young—his hair as fair as Gilbert’s had once been. And he was good-looking enough for the actor’s career he aspired to in the face of Gilbert’s opposition.

  “Welcome to Virginia,” he said, kissing Susan’s hand gallantly, amused that he’d flustered her.

  Gracie came into the room with a dessert tray and Eric flashed her a grin. “Hi, Gracie. I see I’m in time for your key lime pie—if I’m invited.”

  “Do sit down, Eric,” Alex said, suppressing her growing annoyance. He was, in a sense, one more test for Susan to pass.

  As Gracie served them, Eric’s full attention centered on Susan. “Hallie says Peter Macklin drove you over here this afternoon. Did he say anything about the latest development in our local scandal?”

  Alex spoke quickly, firmly. “I’m sure Susan has no idea what you’re talking about, Eric. And this is not the time—”

  Eric’s bright blue gaze dared her to stop him. With anyone else, she might have accepted the challenge, but Eric could be unpredictable and she didn’t want to make matters worse.

  He went right on. “This is exciting! You haven’t heard the news?”

  Gracie set a serving of pie before him with a thump of disapproval, and Alex gave up. Whatever news he had collected, she had better let him tell it.

  Eric’s look of wide-eyed innocence continued to be focused on Susan. “Do you mean that no one has told you about our Dr. Macklin? What are they protecting you from?”

  Before Eric could say anything more, Alex straightened in her chair. “Susan, Peter was called before a grand jury just a few months ago. He was acquitted of all charges.” She flashed a look at Eric. “Completely acquitted! So there’s really nothing to discuss.”

  “How can you say that?” Eric demanded. “We still don’t know who murdered Marilyn Macklin.”

  Susan looked so startled that Alex could have shaken Eric.

  “There’s a new complication that’s just come up,” he continued brightly, enjoying himself. “I think you’ll be interested, Alex. In a way, it concerns you. You remember that the manuscript of Marilyn’s biography of Juan Gabriel disappeared at the time of her death? Now it’s turned up again. Somebody left it on the front steps of the library in Kilmarnock today. This makes for quite a mystery, don’t you think?”

  “Poor Peter,” Theresa said. “Just as he was beginning to put this behind him. Now everything will be stirred up again.”

  Alex felt more upset by this news than she wanted anyone to guess. At the time of her death, Marilyn Macklin had indeed been working on Juan Gabriel’s biography. Alex had respected her talent as a journalist and had been willing to work with her. It had been disturbing that the manuscript had disappeared after her death. Not that there was anything in it to worry the living. Or, at least, that was what Alex wanted to believe. She had gone over this issue in her mind a good many times, without being sure of anything. Marilyn had been uncharacteristically canny about what she planned for the conclusion of the book, and Alex had never seen her notes for the unwritten chapters. If they were included in the manuscript that had just turned up, she wanted very much to see them.

  Alex was about to reassure Theresa, when Susan spoke her own surprising words.

  “I’ve just remembered something. My father received several letters from a woman in Virginia before he died. Connie, my stepmother, told me that this woman had wanted to come to talk with him because he had known Juan Gabriel Montoro, and because Juan Gabriel’s daughter had been his wife. But my father wouldn’t see her. I don’t remember her name; it didn’t mean anything to me at the time.”

  Alex found this all the more disturbing. Marilyn had never told her that she’d tried to see Lawrence Prentice. She would have heard only lies if she’d gone to Santa Fe. But Marilyn hadn’t consulted her, and if Peter had known, he’d said nothing.

  Susan broke into her thoughts. “How did Mrs. Macklin die?”

  There was no point in holding back now. “She was poisoned,” Alex said. “Poisoned with a prescription drug that Peter happened to be holding in his office. I’ve always thought that someone wanted to see him blamed. Fortunately the grand jury didn’t feel there was a case against Peter. There was nothing but circumstantial evidence.”

  Before Susan could put her obvious dismay into words, a telephone rang in the front parlor, and Theresa went to answer it. She returned looking puzzled.

  “It’s for you, Alex. Tangier Island is calling.”

  Alex set her napkin beside her plate and rose calmly from the table. She must not let them see how shocked she felt, how near panic. It was ridiculous to be so shaken by a phone call. Of course it was not her present well-under-control self that was reacting. It was that long-ago young woman she had once been, a girl she’d believed safely buried in the past, but who could apparently still spring into quivering life at the mention of communication from the island.

  “Excuse me,” she said and went into the parlor. The phone stood waiting on a small table and she sat down beside it. When she picked it up her hand was steady, and so was her voice. She heard a long-distance operator speaking with a woman.

  “Hello. This is Alex Montoro.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Montoro, I have a call waiting for you. Go ahead,” and the operator clicked off.

  “Alex! It’s been a long time since I’ve heard your voice. This is Emily Gower. How are you?”

  Relief strengthened her. This was not the voice she’d been afraid to hear. “I am doing very well, thank you, Emily. And you?”

  “I’m fine. We read in the paper that your granddaughter would be arriving for a visit. We remember when she was little, and John wondered if we might coax you over to the island while she’s here.”

  There seemed something not quite right about Emily’s tone. Something artificial, and Alex knew she was, as always, just doing what John wanted.

  No! she cried to herself. John had no right! Or—he had every right. For Alex the past was many lifetimes ago, and she n
ever wanted to set foot on the island again. She’d always been a little afraid of Tangier and its strange spell, and she didn’t want to take Susan there.

  She spoke quietly, with careful control—perhaps sounding artificial herself. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Emily. Susan will be here for only a few days—and we have so many plans.” She had no plans at all. It wouldn’t be easy to get to Tangier and she would simply crowd their time with activities to prevent their going. Perhaps she would send Susan away even sooner than she’d intended. She couldn’t bear to have the past explode into the present. All that pain was long over and—

  “Please think about it,” Emily was saying. “John sends his best and we’d love to see you and Susan. Do fit us in, Alex.”

  When they were both young, before Emily had married John Gower, she had been Alex Montoro’s close friend. She had undoubtedly made a good wife for a waterman who’d spent most of his life on Chesapeake Bay.

  “Thank you,” Alex heard herself saying. “Let me call you back in a day or two and we’ll see what’s possible.”

  They rang off and she returned to the table, where Eric was finishing his key lime pie. She felt confidently sure of her rigid self-possession as she took her seat, but they all stared at her as though there had been some visible change, and she knew the shock she had experienced must show in her face. John had wanted her to come. Why? But of course she knew why.

  “That was Emily Gower,” she said quietly. “It’s a long time since I’ve heard from her—quite a surprise. Susan, she was a friend of mine when I first came to the Northern Neck. She knew your mother. She was hoping to see you, but it’s a long trip by water to Tangier Island, and we won’t have time.”

  Theresa shivered. “Don’t ever go there, Susan. Tangier’s a horrid place. I’m sure it’s haunted. I went there once and I’ve never wanted to go back.”

  Theresa, Alex thought impatiently, believed in all sorts of strange spirits that had nothing to do with the spiritual. She even applied this negativity to Christ Church in her own peculiar way.