Domino

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  I saw that the dining room door stood open on my left, opposite the parlor I had already visited. So the dining room wasn’t the room at the back that made me uneasy. I hung Jon’s sweater on a rack near the door and walked into the dining room to escape the hall.

  No one was here as yet. My feeling of distress subsided a little as I once more stepped back in time. Not in memory, but in history. This room, I suspected, hadn’t been changed in years, though I couldn’t recall it clearly. It was a dark, rather oppressive room, heavy with handsome walnut paneling.

  Somehow I seemed to remember as I looked about that my grandmother’s husband—the man who was not my grandfather—hadn’t cared for children at the table. So I had been given my meals earlier in the kitchen. A place that I must surely have preferred to this room that was so dark and repressive.

  From over the fireplace an antlered elk’s head looked down at me with a familiar stare, and this at least I recalled. I was returning its glassy look when Gail Cullen walked into the room. She no longer wore her uniform, but had changed to a swirly green dress that became her. Brown hair had been loosened from its bow and its dark gloss hung past her shoulders in a thick mass, making her look very feminine and pretty and unstarched. Yet my instinct to feel doubtful about her remained.

  When I turned to look once more at the elk’s head, she nodded. “I do agree. But I understand that Johnny Morgan, Mrs. Morgan’s first husband, was quite a hunter, and we’re lucky those heads don’t look down at us in every room. She wouldn’t think of moving it, though it doesn’t help the digestion. Lately I’ve been sitting with my back to it in Mrs. Morgan’s place. She doesn’t come downstairs for meals these days, and I’m let off for supper. Edna takes care of that.”

  “Isn’t it hard on the rest of the house to have her way up there on the third floor? With all that running up and down stairs whenever she rings?”

  “She won’t hear of being anywhere else, and the servants are devoted to her. It may not be for long, anyway. She seems to fail visibly from day to day.”

  “Caleb didn’t tell me what is wrong with her.”

  “The doctor doesn’t really know. She won’t go into a hospital for tests. Mainly it’s old age, deterioration. Mr. Hawes says she’s about eighty-four, though she’s absurdly vain and won’t tell.”

  “Do you know why she sent for me?” I asked.

  “Didn’t she tell you?”

  “Not exactly. Only that I am supposed to help her in some way.”

  Gail dismissed that with a flick of her hand. “Let’s go over to the parlor. We can at least have a drink in a more cheerful atmosphere before supper. Mr. Hawes should be joining us soon. We dine early here because it gets dark so quickly, and because early dining has always been the custom. Heaven forbid that we break with tradition.”

  I followed her across the hall, where a fire had been lighted beneath the black marble mantelpiece to warm air that was growing chill. The elaborate chandelier was dark, but sconces on the walls gave electric light, and there was a lamp on a reading table. I sat in a winged-back chair near the fire and watched the flames until they soothed me a little.

  Gail brought me bourbon and water without asking. “Our stocks are low, since Mrs. Morgan doesn’t approve. Johnny Morgan used to drink as well as hunt, I understand, and I expect she often had her hands full with him.”

  I took the glass she handed me and sipped, aware that her dark eyes were watching me with curious intent.

  “Don’t you really remember anything?” she asked softly. “Doesn’t the word ‘murder’ recall anything to you?”

  The sound of that word, flung at me without warning, went surging through my mind in echoing waves. She had spoken deliberately, clearly meaning to cut through whatever defenses I had. I suspected that she was eager to tell me anything I might ask, but I shrank from her malice. If what I must learn was almost too horrible to be borne, it must not come to me from this woman. Jon was right. Only my grandmother could tell me the facts truthfully.

  “If you’d like to ask any questions,” she went on in that soft, cheerful voice that I so distrusted, “I do know quite a bit of the story. Mr. Hawes felt that I ought to know about it, once we learned that you were coming. This must seem a haunted house to you, and there’s only one way to stop the haunting.”

  “If there’s anything to tell, I’d rather hear it from my grandmother,” I said quickly.

  “Who will never tell you anything,” Gail shrugged. “As you please. Though I can’t believe that it’s healthy to go through your life without ever facing up to the past.”

  Caleb came into the room in time to hear her last words. “Stop that, Gail. Mrs. Morgan is enormously relieved that Laurie can’t remember what happened here. If you try to tell her the story, she will be very angry.”

  Again Gail shrugged, but I suspected that she had no wish to make Persis Morgan angry at this point.

  Caleb came over to the fire and stood near my chair. “Your grandmother asked me to tell you that she’s grateful to you for coming. She feels that she didn’t make that clear, and she hopes you won’t go away at once.” He paused, and I knew he was repeating a sentiment that was not his own. “There’s still a great deal she wants to talk with you about,” he added.

  None of this reassured me. As always, he was coldly remote, disapproving of my presence. But at least Persis Morgan had reconsidered to some extent.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Have you mentioned Hillary Lange to her?”

  “Yes, naturally. Mr. Lange is to stay at the Timberline for now. That didn’t upset her as much as I thought it might. Your dog is to come upstairs with you tomorrow morning when you next visit your grandmother. She’s always had dogs herself until lately—outdoor dogs. Now that she no longer rides and can’t be out with them, she has never replaced the last one that died.” His words still seemed to be repeated by rote, and I wondered what he was really thinking.

  I had drunk very little and was ready to set my glass aside when Edna summoned us to the dining room.

  “We follow what used to be the custom when this was a working ranch,” Gail said, “and have our main meal at noon. This is merely a light supper.”

  The long table, set with linen and heavy silver, had a formal look, even for supper. More tradition, undoubtedly. Draperies had been pulled across the windows, closing the room in with a heavy dark green that seemed oppressive. My chair felt stiff behind me, and the glass eyes of the elk watched in disapproval from over the mantel. I had a feeling that he had taken a special dislike to me.

  Cold ham, hot creamed potatoes, pickled beets and eggs, cucumber and tomato salad, were all appetizing, but I was no longer hungry.

  The terrible word that Gail had planted in my mind still chilled me, and the questions I wanted only to suppress were flowing in. Who had been murdered, and by whom? Was this the terrible thing that I had witnessed and that had so shocked me that I’d had to suppress it ever since? I had the feeling that at any moment something would trigger full memory and disaster would fall on my head.

  Well, let it! I told myself. Let it come!—and was not comforted.

  Conversation between Gail and Caleb held off the silence, though neither was particularly cordial to the other. Perhaps by this effort they at least closed ranks against me, and that might be their chief purpose.

  There was one person, however, whom I wanted to know more about, and when an opening came I asked about Jon Maddocks. “He doesn’t seem to fit his role as ranch hand,” I said. “Though I’m not sure why I feel that way.”

  “You’d better not tell him that,” Gail said. “He fits it all right. A ranch hand is all he wants to be. He’s made his choice.”

  “Oh, come now,” Caleb chided. “You know Mrs. Morgan regards him as one of the family.”

  “Because he gets around her. He always has. Have you been talking to him, Laurie?”

  I told them about hearing his guitar and going out to the barn, looking for
Red. But I was careful to say nothing about Jon’s warning to me against those in this house, or of the fact that I’d remembered him from my childhood.

  “Who is he?” I asked idly. “Where does he come from?”

  Caleb answered me. “His grandfather worked for Malcolm Tremayne and Tyler Morgan in the mine on Old Desolate. Later on his father worked on Mrs. Morgan’s ranch and married a Spanish girl from Mexico City.”

  So that explained the look about Jon Maddocks that was not altogether Cornwall—that dark, romantic look.

  “His parents died when he was young,” Caleb went on. “Mrs. Morgan helped him, sent him to an engineering college in Michigan. When he got out of school he worked in the East for a few years. For a big oil company. Then he threw it all over and came back to Colorado.”

  “Why? Why did he come back?”

  Caleb shook his head. “Who knows? He’s not especially communicative. A lack of ambition, I suppose.”

  “Except with Mrs. Morgan,” Gail put in. “He seems to know how to butter his bread there. I suppose he’s looking for something in her will.”

  I bit back my resentment of her words. She didn’t know Jon … but did I?

  “Is she that close to death?” I asked. “That everyone seems to be—waiting?”

  They both looked at me as though they disliked what they saw.

  “May I remind you,” Caleb said, “that I have been Mrs. Morgan’s trusted friend for most of my life, as my father was before me. This isn’t a gathering of vultures. Your grandmother is our great concern.”

  “And I’ve been told that her will was made years ago,” Gail added, her tone light and faintly amused at my hint of suspicion. “Nothing anyone does or doesn’t do is going to matter very much now. She’s too weak and in no proper mind to make changes.”

  “I wonder if that’s true,” I said boldly. “I thought her very alert mentally.”

  Gail nodded. “Of course your coming would furnish a certain stimulation, but don’t count on its lasting.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true,” Caleb said.

  I wanted to listen to no more. There was just one thing to do. I would talk to Hillary at once and see what he could make of what seemed to be happening in this house.

  The meal was over. I would walk to the Timberline, I told Caleb as I left the table.

  “I’ll drive you there in the jeep,” he offered, but I shook my head.

  “I’d rather walk. I’ve been sitting since morning.”

  I left the table and went upstairs for a jacket, but when I came down Caleb was waiting for me with a flashlight.

  “It will be dark and the going is rough. If you must walk, I’ll go with you. Then perhaps your friend Lange will bring you back.”

  I had to accept, and we left the house together. By the moment I was growing more eager to see Hillary, to talk with him. He would get me through. He would understand and never condemn me, as others were so ready to do, and he would back me in solving the puzzles that still resisted me. I was trying my best to reassure myself.

  Outside, the night seemed intensely dark, the crowding mountains only massive shapes above us. Far up on my left as we walked into Jasper, the ruins of mine structures stood black against a lighter sky. Here in the mountains the stars were closer, more visible than I’d ever seen before.

  Since the board sidewalks were broken in places, except where repairs were being made, we walked in the street. Activity had ceased as workmen went off to their temporary shelters or invaded the Timberline bar. The hotel lights were our beacon, and Caleb saw me to the porch steps.

  “I’ll leave you here. Phone if you want me to take you home.”

  I thanked him and went into the bright lobby that I’d visited earlier that day. Belle Durant was not behind the desk, but there was a bell I could tap for assistance if I wished. First, however, I walked about the lobby, looking into the now well-populated bar, moving on to the empty dining room, where only a few tables had been set. It was a large room, darkened by rich walnut paneling, with two impressive chandeliers down its length. Heavy red velour draperies framed long windows, and a dark red carpet to match covered the floor. I imagined the room as it could be—glittering and luxurious, with linen and silver shining for the tourists to come, and perhaps flowers on every table.

  Just as I turned from the door, a deep voice spoke behind me. “You’re Mrs. Morgan’s granddaughter.”

  It was a statement, not a question, and I swung about to face a man who was large and decidedly magnificent. Probably in his sixties, and dressed rather impressively in gray, from doeskin jacket to well-cut cord trousers. A gray that matched thick pewter hair and eyes that were picturesque in themselves, and his skin had a ruddy, well-tanned look, with lines raying out from the corners of his eyes. I had no doubt at all that this was the Mark Ingram who was besieging my grandmother’s castle.

  “Yes, I’m Laurie Morgan,” I said.

  He nodded, and I thought, This is what a poker face is like. He was a man who would give little away, and his manner neither welcomed nor rejected me, though his strange, almost colorless eyes were alert and watchful, studying my face intently as he spoke.

  “I’m Mark Ingram. Welcome to Jasper, Miss Morgan. May I offer you something to drink? I think we ought to get acquainted.”

  I didn’t want that until I knew more about where this easy familiarity would lead. “No, thank you. I’m here only to find Mr. Lange.”

  “Your friend went for a walk. At least you can sit down for a few moments here in the lobby, so we can talk.”

  I could hardly escape without seeming rude, and I went to one of the velvet upholstered chairs Ingram had indicated. He followed more slowly, and I noticed that he leaned on a silver-headed cane and sat down carefully, easing his right leg.

  “Have you seen your grandmother yet?” he asked.

  “Yes. I paid her a visit this afternoon.”

  “It’s too bad that she doesn’t make things easier for herself. She could sell the house and ranch land to me for a generous sum, you know, and then go where she would be more comfortable and have better care.”

  Ingram was certainly nothing if not direct.

  “I don’t know anything about it,” I said.

  “She’s an old woman, and Caleb Hawes tells me she’s not well. Another winter in Jasper is likely to finish her off. I can’t figure out why she holds on so stubbornly.”

  “How long have you known my grandmother?” I asked.

  The full, rather sensual lips above the well-trimmed beard moved into a sardonic smile. “I’ve seen her just once. Since then I’ve petitioned the great lady for an audience, but so far she’s refused to see me again. She sends word that Caleb Hawes is her spokesman and I can talk to him.”

  I didn’t like this man. “Why don’t you leave her alone?” I asked. “They tell me that she grows weaker every day. If you wait a little while, perhaps you can deal with her heirs.”

  “Yourself among them?” he asked quietly.

  I stared at him. “I hardly fit into the category of heir when she has had nothing to do with me for twenty years. I’m sure she has already made her will, and there’s no reason why I should be mentioned.”

  He let that go. “How about letting me show you the Jasper valley while you’re here? We can get around that fence of your grandmother’s.”

  It was a surprising invitation, and I wondered if I was in the line of cultivation because he considered me an heir.

  “I don’t expect to stay very long,” I told him. “In any case my grandmother’s nurse, Miss Cullen, has offered to ride with me to see the old mine and visit what’s left of Domino before I leave.”

  “At least,” he went on, “you’ll be here for the Forty-niners’ Ball I’m planning?”

  “A ball? In Jasper?”

  “Why not? It’s the perfect place for a big shindig. We can use the old Opera House, and I’ll bring in guests from all around. To celebrate the reopening of the to
wn.”

  I had a feeling that he was baiting me as Persis Morgan’s granddaughter, but before I could respond, Hillary came breezing through the door, fairly sparkling with enthusiasm. He kissed me warmly and then spoke to Mark Ingram.

  “I went over to have a look at your Opera House. Laurie, wait until you see it! The proportions are perfect, and when it’s done over in fresh red and gold it will be a little beauty.”

  To watch Hillary’s excitement had always kindled a response in me, but now I held back, dismayed and uncertain. It seemed a little too extreme, and I didn’t want him to be enthusiastic about anything that belonged to Mark Ingram.

  Ingram nodded benignly. “I thought you’d like it.”

  “Hillary,” I said, “I do want to talk with you. Please.”

  He gave me his direct look that could always penetrate any smoke screen I might put up, and saw my need.

  “Let’s go up to my room,” he said, and to Ingram, “You’ll excuse us?”

  He led the way toward stairs that were far wider and more gracious than those in Persis Morgan’s house, and as we climbed he put an arm about me.

  “Was it very bad, Laurie? I hated to let you go alone, but it seemed better for you to see it through on your own in the beginning. My presence would only complicate matters.”

  Down the hall he opened a door that had been left unlocked, and when I followed him in, he put both arms about me. It was good to lean into his comforting support, but after a moment I stepped back, lest I turn weak and all too submissive again. I needed desperately to find my own way. Right now I needed to talk more than I needed to be held.

  “Has something gone wrong?” he asked. “Have you met your grandmother?”

  “Yes, I’ve met her. I don’t think we like each other very much, and she wouldn’t even tell me why she wanted me here. Except that I’m expected to help her oppose Mark Ingram. Which is foolish, to say the least.”

  “It may take a little time. You can’t rush anyone that old.”

  “It’s she who has been rushing me.” I moved away from him. “This room is like something out of a western movie. I’d have expected more luxury from Mark Ingram.”