Snowfire

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  The picture of Julian McCabe attracted me, and I returned to study it. It was impossible to see his face because of the racing goggles, but the strong chin I’d seen in other pictures was discernible and all the co-ordinated thrust of his body was visible as he christied between difficult gates. So much of Stuart’s safety rested on this man. If Julian came home and took up Stuart’s cause, everything would be simplified. But in the very beginning, when Stuart was suspected because of Emory Ault’s wild accusations, he had not stepped to his defense. Only a lack of evidence had let Stuart go free, and afterward Julian had gone off to Maine with no word for my brother.

  I heard Mr. Davidson stamping his feet on the porch and I moved away from the picture. He came in with my bags and led the way through a swing door into the main lounge. I had a quick glimpse of a long room that stretched toward a wide stone chimney and fireplace at the far end, with sofas and chairs set all about. This would be a warm, comfortable room when the fire was lit.

  My employer took the stairs on the right. “Come along, Linda. I may call you that? I’m Clay, of course. We stand on no formality here. In the evening we’re all on a first-name basis. Camaraderie and all that. Our guests like it that way. And of course many of them have come here since Julian opened the place, and they know each other.”

  The stairs were part of the old house, narrow and creaking under our feet. On the second floor a long hall, bare of any rug, led into the newer addition, which in itself was not very new.

  “The older part of the house has a couple of hundred years behind it,” Clay said. “In this section we’re hardly more than eighty. Here’s your room. You’ll be at the rear, away from the guest rooms. Some people prefer the atmosphere and convenience of the lodge, while others like the modern cottages outdoors. Of course all the rooms have baths. Julian saw to that when he renovated.”

  I stepped into an attractive low-ceilinged room, with braided oval rugs and old-fashioned furniture that wore its age with grace and distinction. The window was small and cross-paned between blue gingham curtains. I went at once to look outside. Unbroken snow stretched away between the trees of an evergreen forest.

  “Is the main house out that way?” I asked.

  “Graystones?” He turned from setting down my bags and his gray eyes studied me. “So you know something about us?”

  “Of course,” I said lightly. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  He answered my first question. “The house is off in that direction, yes. There’s a private driveway that leads to it. But it’s out of bounds for Juniper Lodge. The curious among our guests are not invited to wander off that way.”

  I had been gently chided for any idle curiosity I might harbor, but he was still watching me in his lazy, somewhat appraising way. He seemed to wait for a reply, and I decided to be frank, as far as I was able.

  “Of course I know what happened here,” I said. “The papers were full of it. But I’d read about Julian McCabe long before. Naturally I’m interested. These are people out of a dramatic story and they lived in a remarkable place.”

  He seemed to make up his mind to cautious approval. “At least you’re honest. We’ve had a lot of sensation seekers around since Mrs. McCabe died. Not so much among our guests, but in passing motorists with a morbid turn of mind.”

  I considered that, equally cautious. “I don’t know whether I’m morbid or not, but long before this happened, Graystones has fascinated me. One wonders if houses encourage tragedy. It has a rather dark history, doesn’t it?”

  He moved toward the door. “Would you like to unpack, and then come downstairs so we can talk?”

  “I’ll come down now,” I said. “Unpacking can wait.”

  I threw my coat across the bed and did not stop to remove my boots before I followed him downstairs. He took me on a tour of the lower house, all except his own rooms which were at the rear. I saw the dining room, the kitchen area, the downstairs rest rooms, and then we settled on the couch before the cold fireplace.

  “I light the fire around four-thirty,” he said. “People begin to wander back around five and they gather here for drinks and fondue. All that is your province. You’ll need to get acquainted with individual guests so that you can introduce strangers to each other, see that no one is left alone unless he wants to be. Greet the newcomers. Circulate and keep everyone happy without being intrusive or a nuisance.

  “The big lodges have social directors and all that sort of thing. Our guests don’t want to be directed, so keep that in mind. It’s not difficult—they’ll be full of their skiing feats and mishaps and complaints. They’ll want to talk about how much better, or how much worse other resort areas are. Dinner’s around seven. Afterwards, we gather here again, usually with a larger group because not everyone comes in earlier. Though we’re limited in our accommodations, so we don’t have large crowds. Neither do we advertise nor take in passersby. Our clientele has grown pretty selective, since our regulars keep returning and sometimes bring their friends.”

  “Do you go in for entertainment in the evening?”

  “Nothing very grand. Informality is the keynote. Sometimes we have a guitar player or two, some community singing. It’s all pretty rustic. Nothing super sophisticated. The people who come here are well-to-do, but not jet set, and they don’t need to be impressed with chi-chi. I think you’ll like them. I do. Though I suppose I’ve learned to turn off the ski talk and not concentrate on it night after night.”

  “You don’t look like a skier,” I said, venturing.

  “You can’t tell. These days skiers come in all shapes and sizes. However, I’m not much of a skier, though I can ski. Are you?”

  “Not really.”

  “But like me you’ve found your way to a ski lodge.”

  It was not a question, but the words hung between us. “I—I wanted to try something different. I’m tired of cities.”

  “And so was I,” he said. “Tonight you can dress informally. Most of the women will wear pants. After-ski clothes are fine. If you’d like to come down around four-thirty, you can start the fondue. I’ll give you a tried and true recipe. Then you can be here with a cheery welcome when anyone shows up.”

  “I’ll be ready,” I told him. “In the meantime, do you mind if I walk about outdoors after I’ve unpacked?”

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  I moved toward the stairs, and he came with me to the foot.

  “Linda?” he said as I started up. I looked down at the broad Slavic face turned up to me with its square beard and gray, quizzical eyes. “Julian McCabe and his family are due back any time now. He phoned me yesterday. When they arrive, you’ll have to stay strictly away from Graystones. So if you want to have a look at the house and walk around it outside, you’d better do it right away.”

  “I’d like that,” I said. “Thank you.” I didn’t understand his change of heart, but I wasn’t going to argue.

  I smiled at him, but he did not return my smile. He was still faintly questioning. He might not know who I was, but he still wondered why I was here.

  “Watch out for Emory Ault,” he went on. “He’s the caretaker and he may not approve of your walking around close to the house. If he objects, tell him you’re working for me, and I gave you my permission.”

  I thanked him again and ran upstairs. While I was hanging up my things, I thought about him. A curious sort of man. While Stuart had told me quite a bit about the residents of Graystones, he had not known Clay Davidson well or taken any particular interest in him. Stuart, when he visited, had stayed at the house, not the lodge. At least Clay seemed favorably inclined toward me, and he had volunteered to let me satisfy my curiosity about Graystones. I would go out and have a look at the house as quickly as possible. Perhaps I’d even have a look at the unfriendly Emory Ault. It was good news that Julian was really coming home. Now I would meet them all. Even though Graystones grounds were forbidden me, I would find a way.

  II

  AS soon as I had un
packed, I put on my coat and went outside. The driveway that led to the house cut away from the lodge complex, winding through an evergreen forest. The snow was thin and recently fallen, bare of all tracks—motor or human—and I felt self-conscious about setting down so conspicuous a trail behind me. I hoped it would snow again before the McCabes came home and discovered they’d had a visitor. The neat, small boot tracks marching through the woods were clearly feminine.

  Nevertheless, as I walked, I began to relax and savor the quiet and peace around me. I’d always loved any country trips I’d taken, and I felt at home with trees all around me. I enjoyed the green contrast with the snow, and the sense of permanence in the boughs that extended above me. Some of these trees would live longer than I. How fortunate the McCabes were to be a part of all this.

  The forest grew too close for any real view of the mountain, but I was aware of its bulk as I glimpsed its steep rise now and then between tall trunks. The utter stillness made me uneasy after a while, because I wasn’t used to it. There was no wind blowing, and thick green branches hung motionless as I walked beneath them. The drive ahead was not entirely trackless, however, and my interest was caught by the marks of small animals which had crossed my path. Rabbits, perhaps, or squirrels.

  The drive took a circuitous approach to the house, seeming to wander idly beneath the trees. No one shouted at me to go back, and only small gray and white chickadees seemed to inhabit the woods. I came upon Graystones suddenly around a curve, and I stood very still and stared at it. Stuart had told me its history.

  It had been one of those whims rich men sometimes indulged in the last century. Julian’s great-grandfather had been much traveled and when he decided to settle down in an untamed part of his home state where only Indians had roamed, he’d determined to build a Norman house such as those he had admired abroad. He had chosen the right setting for it and nothing had ever happened to destroy that setting. The house belonged to wild scenery, with the rugged mountain rising behind and the trees opening up, so that its crest could be seen above the house. The ski slopes were on the far side—there was nothing man made here except the house. On this side the mountain was rock encrusted, with evergreens growing wherever they could take root. Snow blanketed the top where the growth grew stubby and served as startling contrast to black roof.

  The gray stone house, with its slate roof, was like such an outcropping itself. It had been built of fieldstone, with arched leaded windows and an arched doorway. It was not a large house—only two stories high—but it was starkly impressive. To the right of the front door and set a little back from it, a round Norman tower with a peaked roof and high weathervane rose above the chimneys. The tower had a gallery at the top, lighted by more arched windows which would offer a fine view. As Stuart had told me, that tower had been built to contain a winding staircase. The house was not what might be called “rational” architecture. By today’s standards its irregular lines were impractical and would have been expensive to build. The tower staircase was cold and drafty, Stuart had said, but the house had stood its ground for more than a hundred years. It knew itself and it belonged here, as I did not.

  Its cold inimical presence made me uneasy. There was something about the house … something I did not like.

  I shrugged off such fantasy and walked toward it across unbroken snow. I knew very well why it set up fearful currents in me. It was because I knew too much about it. A mad woman had lived here once in the days when the rich kept madness secret and hidden in the family. Her husband had eventually killed himself. His body had been found on these very flagstones beneath the high windows of the tower gallery. There had been other tragic, if less spectacular, deaths. And then, generations later, after the car accident in the Dolomites, Margot McCabe had come home a broken woman to this place that she hated and where she too was to die.

  The accident had left her a cripple and ended Julian’s skiing career. He had been driving the car, and Stuart said she had never forgiven him, never ceased to blame him. Especially since he had come out of the smashup in better condition than she. A badly broken leg had healed well enough to permit him to get around without difficulty and even to ski again—though his championship speed and timing were gone. But he was better off than his wife. In the years that followed she was consigned to her wheelchair.

  Now Margot herself had lost her life at Graystones and my brother had been charged with her murder.

  No wonder I shivered as I neared the house. No wonder I was filled with imaginings. Dusky trees crowding around seemed to hold cold gray stone in a secret circle of dark enchantment. This was surely morbidity, but I could not help myself. I wondered if it was possible for a house, a setting, to take on a contamination that would haunt it through the years. I had heard that where dreadful things had happened something was left in the very atmosphere to vibrate endlessly and touch the living with a sense of horror. That was how I felt about Graystones.

  Margot had not wanted to live here, but it was her husband’s home. He had grown up in this very house, and in his own way he loved it. He had learned to ski on the great mountain that rose behind the house, and whose huge humped shape could be seen for miles around. It was here he came home to face the shattering of his ambition and to care for his crippled wife. The old life of traveling the ski circuit from race to race was over.

  He was not without money, but the bulk of the McCabe wealth had been left to Julian’s older sister, Shan. Shan for Shannon, because of their Irish mother. Their father had known that Julian could look out for himself, but that Shan lacked the ability to live in a materialistic world and would need the protection of the family fortune. I gathered that there had been little love lost between Julian’s wife and his sister for this very reason. Margot had thoroughly resented wealth being placed in such unworldly hands, when she could have used it better herself.

  To implement his income, Julian had gone into tree farming and made himself something of a specialist in the preserving of forests. He had also opened the farmhouse on the property as a skiing lodge. He had withdrawn completely from all that electric life of resorts and tension and excitement that attended the life of a racer. This had happened when he was twenty-four—five years ago. It was Stuart Parrish who had brought him back to life and given him a vicarious purpose.

  In Stuart’s telling of all this, I had never found myself able to see Julian through his eyes, or to pity him. It was Margot who seemed to deserve the pity. She had ended with nothing.

  Julian had met my young brother when Stuart had gone skiing on the far side of this very mountain. He had seen something in him that he had wanted to develop. From the first I had hated what began to happen. Skiing for pleasure was one thing. Becoming a champion downhill racer was another. In the beginning I’d gone to a race or two, staying in the background, refusing to meet Julian or any of Stuart’s skiing friends. Being headlong and stubborn as usual. As if by not meeting them I could make them go away! After that I had not gone at all. The danger was too appalling. I could not bear to watch. I lived in anticipation of bad news every winter, while Julian whipped Stuart into what he believed he could be. There had been no reluctance on Stuart’s part. He discovered quickly that this was what he wanted more than anything in life. He had no fear. Dangerous risks meant nothing to him. He was supremely confident of his own skill and he trusted Julian.

  Until these last few years, Stuart had belonged to me. He had listened to me, depended upon me, perhaps even been protected by me. Julian had destroyed all that. And now perhaps Julian would destroy Stuart himself. It was natural for my resentment of this man to deepen to something stronger than mere dislike.

  Slowly I began to walk around the house, gazing at the chevron moldings decorating windows and door, staring up at that high peaked tower with its circling windows and the mountain rising behind. Suddenly I realized that smoke was lifting from one of the chimneys. Someone must have lighted the furnace, or perhaps a hearth fire against the probable return
of the McCabes. The sight did not stop me and I walked on, breaking through the thin crust of snow with my boots.

  An irregular extension that seemed to be the kitchen reached beyond the tower, and I rounded it to find I could view the rear garden. Flower beds sprawled brown and dead and heaped with snow. And here there were footprints—broad of sole and square of heel.

  The back door at the end of the house was rather grand and it was also arched, with heavy iron hinges. Tracks in the snow led in and out of it and had trampled the area nearby. They were a man’s tracks—Emory Ault’s, no doubt. I half expected him to peer out a window at me—the surly caretaker who would order me away.

  But the only thing that appeared was an enormous yellow cat which came around the far corner of the house and stopped to stare at me haughtily. Clearly it was he who owned the place and I who was the intruder. I had always liked cats and I spoke to him tentatively. I didn’t pay him the insult of calling him “Kitty.” I called him “Cat,” which would have to do until I knew him better.

  He stood his ground, staring at me with golden eyes slitted with amber, but when I took a step toward him, he spat at me in contempt and sprang away, to vanish among the bushes.

  I walked even more slowly now—perhaps as though I challenged something to happen—and once more there was virgin snow. I knew I was approaching the corner where, after her auto accident, a porch had been enclosed to turn it into a downstairs bedroom for Margot. I could feel the tightening of my muscles, the rising of tension. I was afraid of this place. I did not want to see where she had died—yet I must. Seeing it was to attain more knowledge of what had happened, and that was what I was after—full knowledge, the truth.

  On my right hand, deep in a winding ravine, ran a small stream, still unfrozen in the center, and on the higher bank across it stood a dozen or more beech trees which had been struck by some blight. All were dead, and their bare, twisted limbs reached starkly toward the sky. Water flowed past them between deep snowy banks toward a rustic bridge that lay ahead. Beyond the bridge, near the foot of the ramp from Margot’s room, the yard narrowed, and here a rustic guardrail had been set. It had been intended to prevent the very sort of “accident” that had happened here.