Cirak's Daughter

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “I hear-rd aboot your fortune-tellin’.”

  The ruddy face remained grave, but there was a twinkle in the bluebell eyes now. “Callin’ doon black doom on the head o’ her-r leddyship over yon. Weel, ye won’t be the fair-rst, Jenny lass, nor maybe the last. She’s a tough auld hen for a’ her air-rs an’ gr-races. Lawrence, ye mannerless lout, are ye no’ goin’ to mek your-r manners an’ lend a hand?”

  The tall young man with the absurd red mustache slid out from behind the wheel, where he’d been silently enjoying his grandmother’s performance, and came around to be introduced to Miss Compton.

  “Did ye ever-r see twa reelatives who looked less alike?” Mrs. Gillespie demanded. “Weel, speak up, lad. Ye can mak’ enough clishmaclaver when ye’re o’ mind to.”

  “I’m trying to think of something I can say without getting my face slapped,” MacRae answered, giving Jenny a straight look.

  Harriet Compton came to the rescue. “Jenny takes after me in nothing but her temperament. That’s why we have to hang together. The rest of the family can’t stand either one of us.” She slung an arm around Jenny and gave her shoulders a friendly, warning squeeze.

  “Oh, so ye’ve family, tinker-r lassie? I’d got the notion ye were a lone or-rphan.”

  “Far from it.” Here was a sterling opportunity for Jenny to tell the truth. “My father is dead, but my mother and my uncles and aunts and cousins are alive in droves. That’s the reason I got away from them all and came here to Meldrum. I’m trying to write a book,” she explained, with the proper modest laugh at her own pretensions.

  “Aye.”

  Mrs. Gillespie gave her a satisfied nod and went back to stuffing odds and ends into the station wagon.

  “That’s it, Gran,” Lawrence MacRae said after a while. “I’ll have to come back for another load. Or two, or three.” The pile didn’t seem to have diminished at all.

  “I’d help, but my car won’t hold much,” Jenny apologized. “When I bought it, I didn’t realize how much fetching and carrying is involved with country life.”

  “You don’t call this country living, do you?” MacRae sounded as if he thought that was pretty funny.

  “It’s the closest I’ve come to it,” Jenny retorted.

  “Well, cheer up, tinker lassie. You’ll probably be hitching up the old caravan again pretty soon.”

  9

  Lawrence MacRae backed out of the driveway, leaving Jenny to sputter among the peacock feathers.

  “Did you hear that, Aunt Harriet? What’s he trying to do, run me out of town?”

  “Good question. That’s the chap you had the little set-to with out in the back yard after Sue Giles’s party, as I recall. I think we’d better engineer a private session with young MacRae, too.”

  “How can we? He doesn’t even like me.”

  “So what? He’s part Gillespie, isn’t he? I’ll hold a gathering of the clan. That can’t do any harm, can it?”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  Harriet Compton shrugged. “You sure do know how to liven up a party, Jenny. All right, we don’t know; but what are we supposed to do, sit on our hands and wait? If we keep stirring the pot, something’s bound to bubble to the surface sooner or later. Sure, it’s a risk, but that’s what life is about, in case you haven’t found out yet. Now what was it you were going to tell me about your father?”

  Jenny took a deep breath. “His name wasn’t James Cox. It was Jason Cirak.”

  “The producer who made The Refugees? That was a wonderful movie, Jenny. It still is.”

  “Is it really? My mother would never let me see it. Anyway, after that he made a few that weren’t so good, I guess, and then he never did anything else, so far as the family could ever find out. So where did he get over half a million dollars to leave to me?”

  “Movie producers make a lot of money, Jenny.”

  “Sure, while they’re producing. And from what I can gather, he blew every nickel as fast as it came in. Father thought he was the Great Gatsby.”

  Jenny’s voice quivered. So the hurt hadn’t gone away, after all. “I’m only speaking from hearsay. I can’t remember my father at all. He walked out on us when I was still a baby. I didn’t even know he was dead until I got a letter asking me to contact his lawyers. When they told me about the money, I thought it must be some kind of crazy joke. Uncle Fred and the rest didn’t think it was funny at all. They assumed he’d robbed a bank.”

  “I gather they weren’t exactly fans of Jason Cirak.”

  “They took a dim view of the way he dumped his wife and kid back on the family to support.”

  “Was that a hardship for your uncle and the rest? Are you wondering if you ought to turn your money over to them by way of recompense?”

  “Not for one second, thank you! Don’t think they haven’t been bending my ear about that. Naturally they’re all ripping because father left it to me instead of his lawfully wedded wife.”

  “There was never a divorce, right?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I believe my father did write to my mother a few times, begging her to divorce him because he wasn’t coming back. He’d found another woman he wanted to marry, and he was dumb enough to say so. That was the main reason she wouldn’t. Mama was always the spoiled baby of the family. I think she realized she’d never want to get married again herself, so it suited her better to play dog in the manger. In some ways I don’t blame him for ditching her. I just wish he’d taken me, too.”

  Jenny gulped. “Anyway, I’m not going to give the Plummers one red cent. Grandfather Plummer left his estate for the whole family to share, so Mama was as entitled as the rest, if it came to that. Uncle Fred’s only the administrator, and he’s had more fun doling out the money a penny at a time and telling me how grateful I ought to be for a roof over my head than he’d have gotten any other way. I don’t see where I owe him anything. I did think of sending some to my mother, but she’d only hand it over to Uncle Fred, or stick it in the bank so she could leave it to me when she dies. What’s the sense in that?”

  “None whatsoever,” said Harriet Compton. “Do what feels right to you. Sounds as if they managed to make life pretty grim for you.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. I’m never going to insist on doing my duty by anybody and make them hate me for it.”

  “I should hope not. So you didn’t think it was your duty to come here to Meldrum to try to clear your father’s name? You’re just doing it for kicks, right?”

  “You had to say that, didn’t you? I couldn’t stand listening to the digs and the endless questions about how a man who never did an honest day’s work in his life happened to wind up with all that money.”

  “It’s not true that Jason Cirak never did an honest day’s work in his life,” snapped Harriet Compton. “He slaved his guts out to support himself after he landed in this country without family or friends and hardly a penny in his pocket. And he produced a film that’s a classic. Whatever else he may have done, you’ve got to hand him that.”

  Jenny gave her a doubtful smile. “I’m not used to hearing anybody say a good word for my father.”

  “Never lose sight of the facts, Jenny, no matter what anybody tries to tell you. The eagle’s a predator and a scavenger and a slob around his nest, but he’s still the most magnificent bird that flies. A man who has to claw his way from the bottom to the top may stamp on a few faces as he passes them on the ladder. I don’t say it’s respectable or decent, but I do say you might as well not expect an eagle to turn into a barnyard rooster because it’s never going to happen. You’ll know that by the time you’re an old woman like me.”

  “Don’t talk about being old. You can’t be old yet. I’ve only just found you.” Jenny stopped, surprised at herself. “How can you matter so much when I don’t even know for sure if you’re with me or against me?”

  “But you’re willing to take me on faith for the time being?” Harriet Compton seemed to have something wrong wi
th her eye, for she suddenly began dabbing at it with her handkerchief. “Thanks, Jenny. Oh, oh. Here comes Flash Gordon again. He didn’t lose any time at the church, did he? Why don’t you go tackle him alone this time?”

  “If you say so.” Jenny headed outside to the junk pile again as MacRae pulled into the yard. She was off to a bad start even before she got to him. He climbed out of the car with a camera in his hand.

  “Get back by the door, will you? I want to get a shot of you coming out of the house.”

  “What for?” she demanded.

  “Publicity for the local papers. Meldrum Woman Gives Her All for Church Rummage Sale. Real dynamic human interest stuff. Turn toward me.”

  “No!”

  Jenny wasn’t having her picture in any paper. Publicity about Jason Cirak’s daughter, now living in the house where her father was almost certainly murdered, would be the last thing she needed. How did she know who might see it? For all she knew, somebody she’d gone to school with might be living in the area now, or some former neighbor of the Plummers. They’d come charging over here wanting to know why Jenny Cirak had changed her name, or worse still, asking the neighbors. She threw an arm across her face.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Why not, for Pete’s sake? Where’s your civic pride?”

  “Never mind my civic pride. I haven’t lived here long enough to have any. Furthermore”—she’d better come up with a plausible excuse—“I’m a disaster. These clothes—”

  “Marks of honest toil in a worthy cause. Hold still a second.” He was squinting through his view-finder. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

  That was what he thought.

  “Wait, I have a better idea.” Hiding her face, Jenny dashed to the junk pile and picked up the biggest and most loathesome jardiniere. “Why don’t I be lugging this monstrosity? That should make a fun picture.”

  “Okay, if you insist. Turn this way a little and take a step forward. Fine, hold it. Now lower that spittoon thing a little. The feather duster stuff is hiding your face.”

  As if she didn’t know. Instead of lowering it, Jenny hitched the pot a few inches higher. “Don’t you think I look more glamorous peeking through the peacock feathers? Hurry, can’t you? This thing weighs a ton.”

  MacRae shrugged and snapped. “How come you’re so camera-shy, tinker lassie?”

  “I’ve been stealing chickens, of course. Isn’t that what we gipsy rovers do for kicks? I wouldn’t know about roving photographers. Here, this is for you.”

  She shoved the jardiniere into his arms. “Could we move it, please? I was hoping to get this mess cleaned up as quickly as possible.”

  “I’ll bet you were.” He gave her an enigmatic look across the peacock feathers. “You fascinate me, tinker lassie.”

  “How kind of you to say so. It’s the psychic vibrations, I suppose. Are you quite sure you don’t want to have your palm read?”

  “I’m giving the matter some careful thought.”

  “Really? It’s so nice to know you’re able to think.”

  Jenny began slamming her father’s castoffs into the station wagon as fast as her arms would move. Her own single thought was to get Lawrence MacRae and his dangerous camera out of her yard.

  10

  “MacRae scares me, Aunt Harriet. I think he knows something.”

  The older woman nodded matter-of-factly. “That wouldn’t surprise me a bit. That’s why we’ve got to talk to him one way or another, Jenny.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve picked the wrong way. He was going to take my picture just now, for publicity about the sale, or so he said. I didn’t dare let him, so I got nasty.”

  “Yes, I saw that touching little tableau out there. Why don’t you change into something a shade more presentable, and we’ll pop over to see what’s happening at the rummage sale?”

  “Why can’t I go as I am? We can say we’ve come to help.”

  “Not me, young woman. I’ve done my bit, and we don’t want to get stuck there too long anyway. Besides, your boyfriend might decide to take another picture of you helping, and what if there weren’t any more peacock feathers around? Go on, take a quick shower while I make a bit of lunch, and let’s go over there.”

  “I’d like to know whether he was really doing it for publicity or just trying to get my goat.”

  “Both, maybe. If we get down there in time, we might be able to find out.”

  “All right, I can take a hint when somebody hits me over the head with it.”

  Jenny rinsed off the grime and got dressed in a bright kingfisher blue sweater and skirt Harriet Compton had insisted on her buying at Louise’s. It was infinitely superior to anything she’d dared pick out for herself so far.

  “I just hope the Cirak fortune hasn’t turned back to mice and pumpkins by the time I get the bills for all this stuff I’ve been splurging on,” she remarked as they ate a quick sandwich.

  “Think positive,” said Harriet Compton. “That color becomes you, but do me a favor and donate the wig to the rummage sale.”

  “You don’t think it’s a good disguse?”

  “What I think wouldn’t bear repeating so near a church. Tie a scarf over your head or something if you must. Or borrow MacRae’s mustache. Come on, let’s move. Do you know where this place is?”

  “I think so. We can walk it in about three minutes, unless you’re too tired.”

  “I’m too tired. Let’s take the car, just in case it turns out you thought wrong.”

  But they didn’t have any trouble finding the church. MacRae’s station wagon stood in the yard along with some other cars, and the bouquet of peacock feathers was still sitting beside the door. They went up the walk and in the door, carrying the leftover bits and pieces they’d brought along as an excuse for barging in.

  The church hall had the unmistakable odor of poverty and sanctity Jenny had known since her Sunday school days. Too few members of a congregation that had once overflowed the barny American Gothic building every Sunday morning were now struggling to keep the old-time religion alive in a world that hadn’t time to bother with it anymore. The usual dedicated handful were milling around the big, cold basement room, trying to relieve its dingy bleakness with the usual sparse, amateurish decorations, setting up the usual long, rickety tables, covering them with rolls of white wrapping paper scrounged from somewhere, heaping them with the donated junk that had become the lifeblood of the Church Militant.

  Beth Firbelle was in the vanguard, her baggy puce pullover and skirt more or less protected by a grimy kitchen apron. She was so busy bossing the show she didn’t so much as glance around when her new acquaintances walked in.

  “We’ve got to get all the big stuff over by the piano,” she was ordering. “Larry, take one end of this daybed. No, don’t you try to lift it, Mr. Morton. You’ll hurt your back again. Come on, Jack, lend a hand.”

  Her cousin obediently took hold of the heavy, outmoded sofa bed and helped MacRae move it the entire length of the room. Jenny heard Harriet Compton draw in her breath, but when she glanced over, the older woman’s face was a noncommittal blank.

  Of course, they didn’t remain unnoticed for long. Elspeth Gillespie spotted them first.

  “Come in, leddies! Mak’ yoursel’s to hame.”

  “We only came to drop these off.” Harriet Compton picked her way down a cluttered aisle, holding out her last few offerings. “Is there anything we can do?”

  “You’ve done wonders already.” That was Beth Firbelle, bustling up to them, wiping her dusty hands on her filthy apron. “We can’t tell you how grateful we are for all those wonderful things you sent.”

  “You’d have gotten more if Aunt Harriet hadn’t followed me around reminding me we need something to eat with and sleep on tonight,” said Jenny. “I’d have made a clean sweep. I’ve decided to redo the whole place.”

  “How wonderful to have a home of one’s own, where you can do exactly as you please.” Beth spoke barely above a whisper
, so that Elspeth Gillespie, standing a stiff ten paces away, wouldn’t overhear, but the longing in her voice came through with bitter clarity.

  “Beth, where do we put these dishes?” Jack Firbelle’s querulous inquiry called her back to the business at hand.

  “I’ve already told you twice,” she snapped back. “All the china goes on that big table by the door. Honestly, if they appoint me committee chairman one more time.…”

  Beth darted away, her rump-sprung skirt bagging out behind her.

  “Aye, an’ if they don’t, they’ll hear-r about it,” snorted Elspeth Gillespie. “She’s a wor-rker, I’ll hand her-r that. Wad ye care to see upstair-rs, Miss Compton?”

  “I’d be honored.”

  As Harriet accepted the invitation in a proper spirit of reverent curiosity, Jenny could see the thought going through Elspeth Gillespie’s head: a decent, respectable body. Well, she was, even though Jenny had a hunch Harriet’s notions of decency might be somewhat different from old Elspeth’s. Now, where was that grandson of hers? Jenny knew she’d better keep an eye on him to make sure he didn’t snap any more pictures. Ah, there he was, toiling among the bric-a-brac. She went over to the table.

  “Where’s your camera, Mr. MacRae? I’d be glad to take a picture of you to demonstrate your civic pride.”

  “You’re a funny lady,” he snarled. “Here, take this. You never know when you may want it.”

  He plucked a crumpled halloween mask out from among the debris and thrust it across the table at her.

  “You’re funny, too, Mr. MacRae.”

  Jenny made rather a thing of turning her back on him and the mask and walked over to where Beth was now hanging other people’s old clothes on a rack made of rusty water pipes.

  “What lovely things!” she exclaimed to Jenny. “Look, can you imagine anyone’s giving away a dress as pretty as this? I wouldn’t mind buying it myself.”

  Jenny couldn’t see anything special about the garment Beth was holding out for her to look at, except that it was a definite improvement over the clumsily home-cobbled outfit Beth had on; but she agreed out of politeness. “Yes, it is nice. Why don’t you take it?”