A Candle in Her Heart

by Emilie Loring

  “Why not try Aunt Agatha,” Leslie suggested. “You’d be surprised to see how efficient she is. The more she has to do, the more time she seems to have at her disposal, like most busy people. And she’d love to have you consult her.”

  “You’ve changed your mind about your stepmother, haven’t you?” Doris emerged for a moment from her lists like a flying fish, plopped down again.

  “I never really knew her until all the—trouble started. She has been wonderful. No advice. No criticism. She keeps backing Dad, building his confidence, keeping the house a place of peace and refuge after the strain of the situation at the Company. She’s like a tiger if anyone bothers him.”

  “They’ve never really found out anything more about the burglary, have they?” Jane said abruptly.

  “They are working on it.”

  “Everyone in the village thinks it was an inside job.”

  “Now, Jane,” Doris protested, “we aren’t going to discuss it today.”

  “No one wants to discuss it at any time, so far as I can make out,” Jane said coolly. “But it’s not fair to the village or the Company to hush things up. It’s all right for you, Leslie, making a statue, or whatever it is, of Douglas Clayton. It’s all right for the Blakes to plan the Clayton Festival. But it was Doug’s company, after all, and I am the woman he loved. I intend to do something more for his memory than cover up whatever is happening.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Leslie asked, her voice a tense whisper.

  Jane pulled up the car in front of the building where the caster had his studio. “I’ve never trusted Donald Shaw. I’m going to find out the truth about him.”

  “Jane!”

  “You’re in love with him, Leslie. I saw him kissing you. I saw your face. Way off the deep end and stars in your eyes. But there is something wrong with that man and I mean to prove it, to expose him publicly.”

  “But why?”

  “Because,” Jane said, “that man is an impostor.”

  * * *

  With Doris’s help, Leslie got the sculpture out of the back seat.

  “I’ll meet you girls at the Plaza at five,” Jane said. “Doris should have finished her fittings by then.”

  “Jane,” Leslie said desperately, “where are you going?”

  “You aren’t going to stop me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of trying.” Leslie said in blank surprise.

  Jane hesitated, shook her head. “Sorry, Leslie; I don’t think I could trust you on this. It should have been done a long, long time ago.”

  The Cadillac slipped noiselessly into the stream of traffic.

  The caster’s workshop was a dingy place, with plaster dust on the floor and the tools of his trade scattered around. He was a thin, middle-aged man in shirt sleeves with a long rubberized apron to protect his clothes.

  He removed the last of the wrappings and looked at the bas-relief while Leslie watched his face anxiously. At length he asked, “Who’s the sculptor?”

  “I am.”

  “You!” He stared at the slight girl incredulously. “This is brilliant work.”

  “Th-ank you.”

  He gave her a sharp look from behind bifocals. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

  “I—hoped—”

  “Who taught you?”

  “I had a year in New York and one in Paris. In New York I worked at an art school, in Paris at the studio of a good sculptor. I learned a lot from him, but then I found that I was beginning to see through his eyes, to copy his style, so I came home to work on my own, to find my own method. And then I couldn’t seem to get the results that satisfied me and I see no purpose whatever in bad art, so I gave up. Then—I tried this.”

  He smiled. “You have every right to be proud of your work, young lady.”

  They discussed the casting and the materials. “All right,” he said at last. “One week then, but it’s going to be a rush.” He held out his hand. “I’m happy to know you, Miss Blake. One of these days you’ll be famous and I will boast that I knew you when.”

  As they walked down the dingy stairs from the second floor of the building, Doris squeezed Leslie’s arm. “Famous! Jeepers, I’m so proud of you.”

  Leslie smiled. “Now where do we go?”

  “Fittings,” Doris said promptly.

  For the next two hours, Doris stood and turned patiently, while a woman on her knees pinned and fitted, and two models, passing and repassing, took turns displaying evening dresses, afternoon dresses, suits.

  “Oh, I forgot,” Doris said to Leslie, who was busy making notes and sketching dresses, indicating colors. “I’ll have to call Elizabeth Arden for a permanent. I want it two weeks before the wedding so I can have at least one shampoo before—oh, and gloves! Are there gloves on the list? Wait,” she called to one of the models, “turn so I can see the back. Isn’t that a love of a dress, Leslie? I’ve never worn black and white because I’m so dark but—”

  A saleswoman came in, her arms filled with filmy slips, nightgowns, robes and housecoats. One by one, she held them up for Doris’s inspection.

  “That one,” Doris said, “and that and—”

  Leslie laughed. “Whoa! Hold it, Doris. Do you know how this thing is mounting up? I’ve been keeping a record. Eleven hundred dollars so far and there are still the basic things like—”

  “It’s all right,” Doris said blithely. “Jane is footing the bills. Up to twenty-five hundred dollars. Plus the bridesmaids’ dresses.”

  “How—nice of her.” Leslie tried to speak warmly, though she had been shoving the thought of Jane away frantically ever since she had left them, that odd purposeful look on her beautiful face.

  Doris grinned impishly. “Well, after all, it’s worth it to get rid of a sister who is ten years younger. I’m fond of Jane but I’m not fooled by her. She thinks of Jane first, last, all the time. You might remember that, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The fitter had scrambled to her feet and carefully lifted the dress over Doris’s head so as not to disarrange her hair. The models were temporarily out of the room. The saleswoman had gone in search of a white velvet housecoat. The two girls were alone.

  “Jane is up to something,” Doris said slowly. “I’ve never seen her the way she is now. She’s gunning for you and she is loaded for bear.”

  “But why me?”

  “I think you know why. Donald Shaw. When he first came here, he was out of his head about her. Then it—just dwindled away. Now she thinks he is in love with you. That has never happened to her before.”

  “But he—but she hates him.”

  “I don’t think she knows how she feels about him. Especially now.” Doris laughed. “She wants to be the heroine of the Clayton Festival, and hang on to Horace Fletcher, and keep Donald Shaw dangling. All at the same time. Like Bottom in A Midsummer-Night’s Dream, she wants to play all the parts. That gal had better make up her mind.”

  “Where has she gone, Doris?” Leslie asked, hands gripping her sketchbook. “What can she possibly be planning to do?”

  Doris gave her a quick look. “She is trying to lay a ghost. You’re white as a sheet, Les. We’ll take a break for lunch now.”

  The afternoon dragged on endlessly, though Leslie, as a rule, had a normal girl’s delight in pretty clothes. Doris looked at handbags and hats and shoes. The list of purchases mounted and items were scratched off the list. The Babbling Brooke rippled merrily along.

  “We’ll live in the Logan house. In time, we’ll probably make some changes but basically we’ll leave it as it is. It’s a darling Cape Cod and the old furniture is all authentic. Oh, Leslie, I wish you could be like this, simply bursting with happiness.”

  It was nearer six than five when they finally reached the Plaza to find Jane waiting impatiently. “Do you two know what time it is? I’ve been here over an hour.”

  Doris dropped into a chair beside her sister. “I’ve been so numb for the past three hours I don’
t even know what day it is.”

  “Then we had better have an early dinner in New York before we drive home,” Jane said in resignation, “though there are never any interesting people in restaurants at this hour.”

  Over dinner Doris revived like a plant after watering. Leslie ate little, crumbling a roll in her fingers. She looked up to find Jane’s big blue eyes on her face, a queer challenging expression in them.

  Leslie straightened up, sipped a glass of water. “How did you spend the day?”

  “I did some shopping of my own, visited an art gallery. And,” Jane smiled, “I paid a visit to the Gypton Company.”

  “You—what!” Leslie set down the glass, the water splashing over the side.

  Doris stared at her older sister. “Why did you do that?”

  “Just a little idea of mine.”

  “What did you find out?”

  Jane reached for the check. “All in good time,” she said mockingly.

  The ride home was a silent one. Doris was tired from long hours of standing. Jane was obstinately silent. After that one startling comment she had refused to amplify it in any way.

  Leslie, alone on the back seat, sat with clenched hands. What had Jane found out about Donald Shaw? What was his association with the Gypton Company? All the evidence pointed in one direction, everything but the evidence of her own heart. She saw vividly in her memory the tall man whose dark hair was tinged with white, whose handsome face had lines of suffering and pain, but which warmed when he smiled, making his gray eyes glow, lighting a candle in her heart.

  I love him, she told herself helplessly. There’s just nothing to be done about it. I love him. In spite of everything, I believe in him.

  The night was dark after they had left behind the lights of the city, then the less garish and more scattered lights of the suburbs. Now, off the parkway, they took a country road, the headlights tunneled under arching maples and elms, the road narrowed and curved as do most Connecticut roads. Jane’s foot eased on the brake as they picked up two small lights, a raccoon standing on its hind legs, looking like a masked robber with its black-rimmed eyes.

  “In the daytime,” Doris said, the first to break the long silence, “I always forget that the woods are full of small animals. It’s only at night I realize how—how alive they are.”

  “Raccoons won’t hurt you,” Jane said. “They wouldn’t get anywhere attacking a human being. Their natural game is frogs and toads, little things like that.”

  “It isn’t fear exactly. It’s just that the woods seem to belong to all that animal life, not to us. That we are just intruders.”

  “Well, you don’t have to go out in the woods at night,” Jane reminded her. “It needn’t bother you.”

  She slowed for a sharp curve. Across the double line a Volkswagen had stopped. There was a tire propped against it and a red flare blinked its caution. A man stood revealed by the flare. A woman moved, was in his arms, her hands behind his head, face lifted to his. As the Cadillac crept slowly past, the big headlights caught the man and woman, the man’s black hair with its patches of white at the temples, the woman’s red hair. The lights moved on around another curve.

  “How stupid of her,” Jane said coolly.

  “Wasn’t that Felice Allen?” Doris asked.

  “And Mr. Donald Shaw.” Jane pressed down on the gas pedal. The car leaped ahead until it reached the village, slowed for the Green and then turned onto the river road, halting before the Blake house.

  “You look tired, Leslie,” Jane said. “Sleep well.” There was malice and a disturbing hint of triumph in her voice.

  16

  Donald Shaw parked the Volkswagen behind Ye Olde Travelers’ Rest and noticed in relief that there were no other cars. He experienced a momentary sense of rebellion. He was sick and tired of skulking around. But it couldn’t be long now. The formula had been tested and retested. The end was nearly in sight.

  Then what? He didn’t know. The future remained a huge question mark. Wherever he turned there were obstacles, insurmountable barriers in his way. Play it by ear, he thought. Wait and see what happens next. “The best-laid plans of mice and men—”

  By now he should be accustomed to being without roots, without a past or a future. Be grateful that he had a present. Be grateful to Dr. Forsyth that the man called Donald Shaw even existed.

  “No one here,” he said to Charlie Turgen. “We can talk freely. The food isn’t good but I didn’t think it would be wise for us to be seen together at the Fox and Rabbit.”

  “This will be fine,” Charlie assured him.

  When they had ordered, Donald asked, “How is your mother? Is her recuperation progressing satisfactorily?”

  Charlie glowed. “Thanks to you letting me borrow the Volkswagen, I went to Edgeworth yesterday. It’s a beautiful place. Lovely lawns and beautiful big lounging rooms with pleasant people to talk to. Mother has a delightful sunny bedroom. She’s begun to gain weight and no wonder, for the food is out of this world. She is even getting a tan from sitting out of doors in the sun. She wrote to Mrs. Blake to try to express her gratitude. You knew that Mrs. Blake has been up there a couple of times to visit her?”

  Donald shook his head. “I haven’t seen the Blakes for several weeks.”

  “Mrs. Blake wouldn’t even let Mother thank her. Said that was the very least she had a right to expect. And she talked about a job, librarian here in the village, that would pay twice as much as the cleaning. Mother would love it. Only, as she warned Mrs. Blake, she’s a regular addict when it comes to reading. She’s afraid she’d never get any work done if she were surrounded by books.”

  “That all sounds wonderful,” Donald said heartily.

  “Now—” Charlie reached in his pocket and pulled out a notebook.

  “Eat that steak first,” Donald told him. “All of it. There’s plenty of time.”

  Charlie looked at the older man, friendly, relaxed, but carrying about him an intangible aura of command. He was really somebody. Aware that his hero worship would annoy his companion if he suspected it, Charlie devoted himself to his meal.

  Over coffee and large wedges of apple pie and cheese, Donald said, “Now then.”

  Charlie flicked open his notebook. “First, Felice Allen. You know I made candid camera shots of everybody. I showed the one of her around the New York newspaper offices. A lot of people recognized her right away. She’s who she says she is, all right. She really has a syndicated fashion column. She’s been running it for about four years and each year she picks up more papers, so she is doing very well.”

  “I’d gathered that she was an efficient woman,” Donald commented.

  “Nothing known against her. Said to be a siren but no serious emotional interests. She came to New York from somewhere in the Midwest. Several people said she’d been married a couple of times but she’s a widow. She prefers to be called ‘Miss.’ Allen was her husband’s name.”

  “Allen,” Donald said musingly.

  “He’s dead. Died several years ago. She lives alone in an expensive East Side apartment. Seen frequently at the smarter night spots and usually with different escorts. She seems to go chiefly for business reasons, to see what celebrities are wearing, get material for her column, all that.”

  “Business first,” Donald agreed. “That’s the way I summed her up, for all that Cleopatra, come-hither manner of hers.”

  “I called on a couple of the big-name couturiers, who spoke highly of her. She has flair, whatever that is, and her opinion on fashions carries a lot of weight in the trade. Some of the big designers even consult her before bringing out a new line.” Charlie looked up. “Anything wrong?”

  Donald shook his head, perplexed. “It’s all straightforward enough. There seems to be no doubt about her identity. The trouble is that it doesn’t throw any light on how she ties in with the situation here. A fashion expert who stays in a country village week after week. The searching of my room at the Fox and Rabbit. I have
no proof but I am morally certain that she did it. Her attempts to find out from Wilcox and me what’s going on in the Company. Her connection with Harrison. They are in something together—but what?”

  Charlie consulted his notebook again. It was his job to collect the facts, not to draw conclusions from them.

  “Second, Nors Swensen. He has lived in Claytonville all his life and worked for the Company since he was old enough to hold a job. Everyone has a good word for him. He was great pals with Douglas Clayton. Apparently from the time he could crawl he hung around Swensen, who kept an eye on him and, when he was old enough, took him camping and all that.”

  “Yes. Swensen told me much the same story himself.”

  “Lately, he’s been sneaking off in his free time to the state police barracks. I didn’t try to get anything out of Lieutenant Varelli,” Charlie confessed. “I knew he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  Donald lighted a cigarette slowly. “Now I wonder,” he began, “what that pig-headed Swede thinks he is doing. If he gums up the works, I’ll take the skin off him.”

  “Want me to talk to him?” Charlie asked, with more courage than enthusiasm. Swensen would have made two of him.

  “Leave him to me,” Donald said grimly. “I might have known. The old fool!”

  Charlie went back to his notes. “Third, Corliss Blake. Before he inherited the Clayton estate, he was an architect in Boston. Junior member of a firm that handled small jobs. Lately, with a go-getter in charge, a man who has ‘contacts’ in the local political machine, they’re blossoming out and they’ve gathered in some real plums. Big contracts. Housing developments. All that. But, in his time, Blake didn’t make much of an income. He eked out by teaching architecture in a smallish college. Married twice. The first wife died years ago and he nearly broke under it. Then he married Agatha Winslow. She was a great friend of his first wife. The Winslows had millions, both sides of the family terrifically wealthy, and she got the works. Nothing against her. And Blake went right on earning his own keep, you’ll have to give him that.”