Snowfire

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  “Good afternoon,” I greeted him.

  He turned slowly, with no air of being startled. He must have been in his late sixties, but he was still a handsome man, his face lean and weathered, and he carried himself well, with a sense of dignity. For a moment he looked at me in guarded suspicion. Then his shaggy gray brows drew down in a scowl.

  “How did you get here?” he asked roughly, and I heard for the first time that harsh, ugly voice that was to haunt my dreams for a long time to come.

  I could only gape at him in astonishment. I knew now that this was no guest, but must be Emory Ault, the Graystones caretaker. I managed some sort of recovery.

  “You must be Mr. Ault,” I said. “I’ve been at the house. Mr. McCabe has been showing me around. I’m Linda Earle, the new hostess at the lodge.”

  “Hostess?” he echoed the word in derision.

  “Yes. Mr. Davidson gave me permission to walk through the grounds. He said to tell you so if you objected to my presence. And Mr. McCabe has just been showing me through the house.”

  His annoyance with me seemed extreme and I wondered if I could talk him into relaxing and accepting the presence of an intruder without such indignation.

  “I’ve heard about you,” I said, carefully pleasant. “Everyone knows that you taught Julian McCabe to ski. And I believe you had a hand in training Stuart Parrish as well. So you must be a builder of champions.”

  “Parrish!” he said, and there was a bite to the way he spoke the name. “That was a waste of time from the beginning.”

  I knew by his tone that this man, more than any other, was my brother’s enemy, and I must be wary with him. At least I seemed to have distracted him from what he considered my trespassing on Graystones land. When I started past him he turned to walk beside me, and I saw that he moved with a decided limp. A reminder of that injury Stuart said he had suffered long ago on a ski slope.

  “I don’t know what your game is,” he said in that grating voice, “but you’d better be careful. You’d better not try anything. Do you understand?”

  Quite suddenly I understood all too well, and in the same instant I realized that this could be a violent man. How it was possible, I didn’t know, but Emory Ault knew who I was. This meant that he would undoubtedly report me to Julian and bring a quick end to my foolish game of espionage. That is, unless he was not entirely certain, and I could somehow bluff him out of his belief.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I haven’t any game. I’m not trying anything. I hope I can be a good hostess at the lodge because I need the job.”

  I hadn’t known I could sound so convincing, and I think I shook him a little—whatever his belief.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll go back to the lodge now. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you for some reason I don’t understand.”

  This time he did not try to stop me and I walked toward the lodge at a moderate pace, subduing my impulse to run wildly out of Emory Ault’s malevolent reach. I had never before had a physical sense of fear toward anyone—but I’d experienced it sharply against this man. As a result, all my sensitive antenna were alert. The violence in Emory Ault had some secret source, and I had better find out what it was. And how he had recognized me. That is, if any time was left for me to accomplish these things. For the first time I began to wonder how he had felt about Margot McCabe.

  The last few yards to the lodge door I was unable to control my frightened reaction. I flung myself across the yard, and day Davidson must have seen me coming for he opened the door to let me in. I almost fell into his arms, and he righted me in some surprise.

  “You look as though the wolves were chasing you!”

  “Not wolves—a grizzly bear. I’ve just had a run-in with that awful Emory Ault. He—he really frightened me.”

  Clay was interested, but unimpressed. He pulled at his beard skeptically. “Oh, come now. He’s grouchy, but hardly dangerous. What did he do—order you off the property?”

  I was recovering a bit, and I realized that I dared not be entirely frank with Clay.

  “He tried to. But he couldn’t very well when I told him Mr. McCabe had been showing me through Graystones.”

  Clay Davidson whistled in surprise. “You work quickly. Or do you carry spells in your pocket like Shan?”

  “If you like, I’ll tell you what happened,” I said. I was feeling a strong desire to talk to someone. And in contrast to the McCabes and their caretaker, Clay seemed like a friend. There was a good deal I could talk about harmlessly, and perhaps relieve my tension and sort out my own thinking at the same time.

  “Come along to my office,” he said. “I’ve just made a pot of coffee and you can join me in a cup and tell me about what’s happened.”

  IV

  The après-ski crowd had returned from the slopes to gather before Clay’s roaring log fire. And I was circulating among them.

  I had put on a gold-colored shirt and dark green pants, and brushed my hair until it swung above my shoulders with a springy gloss. I wanted to look well tonight so that I would be kept on at this job—at least for as long as Emory held to silence. For a few hours I had kept on expecting a call from the house, or even the appearance of Julian in person to confront me. But so far nothing had happened. Whatever his reason, Emory had not yet spoken out. Even his silence seemed ominous, however.

  I was beginning to hate this role of subterfuge which threw me into a web of lies and deception and uncertainty. How could I know that anything I was doing was right? Always there was the old seesaw of doubting myself that stemmed back to my childhood and the night of the fire. If I had not given all my efforts to getting Stuart out, if I’d taken those few moments earlier, would my mother and his father still be alive?

  But I mustn’t open that door, and I slammed it hastily in my mind.

  I also needed to look well tonight because it gave me a courage that I needed after my talk with Clay. Somehow, perhaps in a reaction to Graystones, I had been too ready to count him as a friend, and I had held back very little in my account of what had happened at the house. Clay had seemed to encourage me to talk, and he had listened with obvious interest. But when I was through, he’d had disconcertingly little to say, and I began to feel that I might have gone over to the enemy camp. After all, he worked for Julian McCabe, and there was no reason to trust him. At least I had been on guard when it came to my identity, and that he still did not know.

  At dinner I sat with Clay at a corner table in the big dining room. We had talked little then, because he was constantly jumping up to see about one thing or another. The meal was hearty and flavorful—good country food—with two boys from the nearest village serving at the table. By now I was beginning to get the feeling of the lodge. It was all rather fun, and if so much had not been hanging over my head, I could have enjoyed it.

  I had met most of the guests before dinner and found them an intelligent, sophisticated group. Some were married, but there were a few young singles too, arriving in pairs, or pairing off during the evening. A ski lodge was often a place where lasting friendships were made. The slopes could be different. There easy acquaintances were struck up, but everyone eventually skied off alone and perhaps never met again.

  Since this was a small, private lodge, it had no license and no official bar, and was therefore more intimate, less of a public place. Clay provided a table of mixers, mineral water, small dishes of olives and onions, with cocktail shakers and ice available, so those who brought their own liquor could serve themselves. The fondue I had made before dinner bubbled in an electric chafing dish and guests speared rounds of bread on long forks, and swirled them in the cheese mixture with expertise. The ski talk went on tirelessly—accounts of falls, difficulty with certain moguls, the good runs and the bad. There were good-natured controversies over teaching methods and styles, comparisons of one resort with another. Our particular mountain could not offer the altitude or the long runs of the West, but it had considerable diversifica
tion in its trails and the obvious advantage of nearness to large city populations.

  With candles on mantel and coffee table, the lamplight not too bright and firelight throwing wavering shadow patterns on the ceiling, ice tinkling in glasses, and the murmur of voices, it was a comfortable, attractive gathering. And for me, not altogether real. Though perhaps that was the idea—an illusion that offered escape from everyday reality, a release for those who worked hard and needed time off for play.

  When a few chords from a guitar sounded, I turned to see that a woman had seated herself on a stool at the opposite end of the room from the fireplace. It was Shan McCabe, her long pale hair flowing over her shoulders as she bent her head above the guitar. She wore a full-length robe of pale green silk, corded with gold at the waist, and there was a long string of amber beads about her neck. Her hands were pale on the strings of her instrument, and when she raised her head and smiled vaguely about the room, I realized for the first time how beautiful she was. By firelight her eyes were more green than gray, and she had not troubled to darken thick golden lashes. Her lipstick was a deep apricot which might have been grotesque on anyone else, but somehow complemented her golden pallor.

  The woman in a red sweater whom I’d been talking to uttered an exclamation of pleasure. “Oh, good! Shan hasn’t been with us this season. When the whim moves her and she comes down to join us, she’s marvelous. Listen.”

  Shan began to sing, giving her attention to the guitar as though she loved it, paying no heed to those who turned away from the fire and drew their chairs in a circle about her. She might have been alone, singing only to herself, her voice pure as crystal. The song was “The Green Green Grass of Home,” and she sang in a slow tempo, touching the words with her own sense of sadness, of sorrowing. It was a singing to break your heart.

  I stayed at the fireplace end of the room, behind those who had gathered around the singer. Standing, I could see over their heads to the great, gilt-framed mirror that occupied an alcove wall at the foot of the stairs. I’d already asked Clay about the huge floor-to-ceiling mirror and he’d told me it had once graced the lobby of a movie theatre back in the thirties. Margot had picked it up at some auction long ago. Now the glass gave me a double vision of Shan and I could see the delicate purity of her profile when she raised her head and closed her eyes, singing the last bars of the song.

  When she finished there was a soft round of applause, and then those who knew her began to call out the names of songs for her to sing. She gave the room her pale, lovely smile that focused on no one and struck the chords for “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” This time others joined in and the long room swelled with sound.

  I looked about for Clay and saw him standing near the dining-room door, his eyes fixed upon Shan with an intensity that caught my attention. I began to watch him instead of the singer. When someone asked for “Shenandoah” she let the organ sounds swell in her voice, and I saw a strange longing on Clay’s face that made me wonder what Shan meant to him. All her songs were of longing, of something lost, or about to be lost—something yearned for. And that longing was in Clay’s eyes, on his wide mouth above the neat beard.

  Again I glanced toward the mirror and saw that a man had come down the stairs and was standing at the foot, watching Shan, only his reflection visible to me. It was Julian—Julian who practically never came to these gatherings, Clay had told me. I could feel myself tensing at the sight of him. Had Emory spoken out? Had Julian come here to talk to me? But he seemed to be making no move in my direction.

  He did not join in the singing or attract the attention of any of the guests, but stood quietly near the stairs, watching and listening. I had the feeling that he did not belong to this room or with these people. Boxed in by tight walls, there was a restraint upon him. He belonged on the mountain, carving his turns in the snow, meeting the elements head-on. Where Clay was apt to move lazily, his action more mental than physical, Julian had the tension of a coiled spring about him. He would always need release in conquering the obstacles of a downhill racer. I had the deep instinct that this would apply to his life as a man, as well as a skier. He would overrun obstacles, sweep them away, accomplish what he wished, whatever the cost. I found it disturbing that I should appraise him so—and for the first time I sensed my own danger more fully than even the encounter with Emory had made me do. What did Julian want, and why had he turned against Stuart? The old question took on a new and more frightening significance.

  The crystal of Shan’s “Roll, you river …” reverberated. In the mirror Julian turned his head and looked at me, straight across the room. His eyes held mine for a long instant, and then I dropped my own and moved out of sight of any reflection. I could not tell what his look had meant, but somehow I was aware of a dangerous response in me that I did not like and would not accept. Julian was our enemy—Stuart’s and mine—and I must feel nothing toward him but doubt and suspicion. Yet, deny it as I might, there had been some invisible cord stretched between us at the moment when our eyes had met and held. It had been a physical thing—attraction, repulsion, what? I winced away from it, put it out of my mind, refusing its implication. Attraction between Julian and me there must not be.

  When she had played long enough, Shan rose from her stool and went as silently from the room as she had drifted in. No one made any effort to stop her or speak to her. Apparently, one took the gifts she offered and asked for no more. I found my way across the room to stand beside Clay.

  “She sings beautifully,” I said. “What a strange person she is.”

  He gave me his usual wry smile. “Dryads are always strange. Undoubtedly she lives in the woods and the stream when she’s out of our sight.”

  “She’s more mortal than that,” I said a little tartly. “From what I’ve seen she’s smothering Adria with too much protection and affection. I told you what happened today.”

  “The trouble is that there are no other wood sprites around for her to love. And she isn’t very successful at loving adult mortals. A child must suffice.”

  He surprised me. I had been impressed earlier by his apparently pragmatic outlook, and now he sounded almost visionary.

  “You’re talking like a poet,” I said.

  The broad face turned toward me, faintly mocking. “But of course—since that’s what I am. A poet manqué. A failed poet. I am a writer, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” I said in surprise. This explained him a little. A writer might very well hide away at a job like this, earning a living while he worked at his writing. I wanted to ask what he had published, what sort of things he wrote, but his face had a closed look that held off any questions.

  “Did you know Mr. McCabe is here?” I said.

  That seemed to startle him. “Where? I haven’t seen him.”

  We were out of sight of the stairs and I drew him toward them. “He was over there watching Shan a moment ago.”

  But when we neared the stairs there was no one there. A woman spoke to Clay, calling him away, and I went back to my duties as hostess.

  The skiing crowd did not keep late hours, and by ten-thirty everyone had gone off to the cottages or upstairs to their rooms. A day on the slopes could leave one ready to turn in early, and early risings were also the rule. The midweek crowd usually stayed for two or three days, and then hurried back to Philadelphia, or New York, or wherever they came from.

  When the downstairs room was empty, I helped Clay put things away, empty ash trays, and set the furniture in order so that guests would not come down to disorder in the morning. He was anything but talkative and I dared not put the questions I wanted to ask about Shan and Julian.

  Just before I went upstairs I inquired as to whether I had done as he wished, or if he had any suggestions for me.

  “No suggestions,” he said. “Keep on as you’re doing and you’ll be fine.”

  His words approved me, yet I felt that he was holding something back. As I started up the stairs, he stopped me. />
  “Don’t get too involved with the McCabes, Linda. You can get burned that way.”

  I hesitated with my hand on the railing. “What do you mean?”

  For once there was nothing wry in his answer. It seemed direct, even concerned for me.

  “You must have been a breath of healthy fresh air up in that place this afternoon. Stay that way. There’s not one of them—not even the child—who isn’t twisted miserably askew. Don’t let any of them damage you.”

  Damage me, I wondered wryly. Perhaps I hid more damage than any of them. But I wondered what he meant, and if the McCabes had hurt him in some way why did he continue to work for them?

  “Thank you, but I’m quite safe,” I assured him, raising my false courage again, and went up the stairs.

  When I reached the top and looked down, I saw he was still there, staring after me as though something disturbed him that he did not want to express. I said, “Good night, Clay,” and went along the upper hall to my room at the far end.

  I was feeling thoroughly weary by this time—and more than a little disturbed. On this first day of my masquerade I had learned nothing at all that might be helpful to Stuart. I had aroused the suspicions of Emory Ault, and I could feel time slipping away. I was not sure how long I could hold this job, yet before Stuart came to trial, I must find the evidence which would free him. I must not fail in my attempt to prove his innocence. This one thing held me to my goal.

  My room was dark and as I reached for the switch I sensed movement and a faint sound in the darkness that brought fear to my already tense nerves. For all I knew, the malevolent Emory Ault might be waiting for me. Then light flooded the room and I saw the great orange cat in the middle of my bed. He had sprung to his feet when I opened the door, and he stood staring at me with haughty displeasure, as though I were again the intruder. His presence chilled me as though an evil breath had touched the air of the room. There was something wrong about this cat being here. I had left my door closed, and he could only be inside if someone had opened it and let him in. Deliberately.