Elizabeth knew the spot. Picturesque, yes. But the picnic tables next to the steep rocky bank rolling down to the tumbling creek below. . . with Dirk. “Erin—” She groped for the right words.
Richard supplied them for her. “Fine. Tell Dirk I said he was to take especially good care of you.” Richard’s tone was light, but his eyes bore a no-nonsense intensity.
“I will.” Erin gave a jerk of a nod.
Elizabeth wanted to add something like, and stay in public places, but just then Victoria returned with a pink shirt over her shoulders and her luxurious black hair, loosened from its usual braid, falling almost to her waist. There was a knock at the door just as Richard was about to open it for them to go out.
“Oh, good. Here’s Dirk now,” Erin said.
But instead it was Gregg. The last thing Elizabeth wanted was to include a suspect on their outing, but there was nothing she could do when Tori cried, “Oh, what good timing! Come to Jacksonville with us, Gregg. You don’t have a matinee today, do you?”
No, he didn’t, so it was settled.
They drove a few miles up the highway, then turned west along an old stage road. The town of Jacksonville looked as if it had changed little since the days when it was regularly visited by the stagecoach. The shiny brochure told them it had developed overnight with the discovery of gold in 1851, and, fortunately, never sank into ghost town status. The wave of frantic gold-seekers was followed by solid farmers and merchants with their families, so the historic buildings had been maintained in excellent condition.
Elizabeth was just thinking what it must have been like to have arrived in this picturesque town on a stagecoach a century earlier when a coach pulled by four matching bay horses rolled down the street in front of them, complete with a western-garbed driver. “Oh, let’s ride the stage,” she cried.
They were joined by a family with two cap-pistol-packing little boys: Barret and Jared— one to hang out the window on each side and shoot down every person in the street. The rolling stage lumbered along California Street past historic churches and houses, the U. S. Hotel where, Elizabeth read from her leaflet, President Rutherford B. Hayes had stayed at its grand opening in 1880. Barret shot a pigeon sitting on the hotel’s white, bunting-draped balcony. Not to be outdone, Jared aimed two dead-eyed blasts at the flags of the Beekman Bank across the street, where more than $30 million in gold had once passed over the counter of Oregon’s first bank.
With a fusillade of random shots that must have left their victims strewn on the sidewalk behind them, (Barret and Jared’s long-suffering mother had obviously long ago wisely abandoned any attempt to repress them) they then turned up Oregon Street past the turn-of-the- century railroad station, now serving as the information center. They left it riddled with holes from both gunslingers, Jared having clambered over the other passengers’ sandaled feet in his cowboy boots to join his brother at the same window. Then they swayed and lurched back down the street past the old Chinatown area and the Britt Gardens, grounds of the pioneer horticulturist Peter Britt which now served as the setting for the annual Britt Music Festival.
Just as they stepped off the stagecoach, a group of musicians who were rehearsing for the evening performance began “Summer” from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. In true testimony to the truth that music, indeed, has power to calm the savage beast, Barret and Jared holstered their guns. Barret, the older of the two, pushed back his red felt cowboy hat to let the sun glisten on his towheaded mop and stood transfixed at the soaring notes played by a fragile-looking young violinist with flowing red hair.
“There’s hope for the human race,” Richard commented as he took Elizabeth’s elbow and led her into the garden. “I think classical music has just made a conquest.”
“Or long red hair has. ‘If music be the food of love, play on,’” Gregg quoted.
Tori laughed and put her arm through Gregg’s, squeezing tightly. Elizabeth frowned, but what could she do? She knew that her own closeness with Richard set an example she didn’t want her sister imitating with Gregg, and yet the situation was inescapable. She must get Tori aside and talk to her, though. She couldn’t have Tori thinking the love affair had her approval.
For some time they strolled under heavily laden apple trees, one of the things for which the area was famous, then moved on to the rose gardens, bright with color and heavy with sweet scent, while all the time the glorious baroque tones of Vivaldi followed them. Elizabeth paused to marvel at a particularly deep red Mr. Lincoln, one of the most perfumed roses in the garden, just as the violin soared through a brilliant passage. She sighed. “This has to be what heaven’s like.”
Her remark set the stage but it was Richard’s that triggered the quoting duel among the four Shakespearean buffs: “Then ‘The will of heaven be done in this and all things!’ Henry VIII.”
“‘The will of heaven be done, and the king’s pleasure,’” Elizabeth followed with a laugh and a curtsey to Richard.
“‘Heaven has an end in all,’” Tori joined in. “But I don’t remember what it’s from.”
Elizabeth took another turn, “‘Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge that no king can corrupt.’ Henry VIII again.”
There was an awkward silence in the game as they all looked at Gregg. “Er, well, all I can think of is Richard III, ‘march on, join bravely. . . if not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell.’”
Richard was quick not to let the atmosphere become too heavy, “Ah, but with Richard II, I say, ‘My comfort is that heaven will take our souls.’”
Gregg gave half a smile. “Okay. From Winter’s Tale, ‘Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil; with them forgive yourself.’” He swallowed abruptly. “If only I could.” This time no one stepped into the silence. “Sorry about spoiling the game.” He turned away.
Tori started to follow, but Elizabeth laid her hand on her sister’s arm. “Let Richard.”
A vine-covered arbor with a small seat was only a few steps away. Richard’s voice was clearer, at least to Elizabeth’s ears, so she heard his questions, if not Gregg’s answers. “You know, Gregg, Shakespeare wasn’t preaching. He was just reflecting what was seen as Truth in his day. But literary or philosophical generalizations aren’t enough, are they? You were quite right to get personal. If the heavens have forgiven you, forgiving yourself is the next step.”
After a pause the musicians began the trilling arpeggios of Vivaldi’s “Autumn.” Elizabeth and Tori moved closer to the arbor, but Elizabeth still couldn’t make out Gregg’s reply. She turned to Victoria just in time to see a single tear trickle down her smooth cheek. Elizabeth took her sister’s hand. Inside the arbor, Richard continued. “You needn’t answer me on any of this, Gregg. It’s your own search. You’re the only person you have to satisfy. But ask yourself: would I rather live as if heaven were a reality or not? Think what your life would be like either way.
“Lewis, Muggeridge, Wilberforce, the people we were talking about the other day, were their lives the kind you would want to live before they found faith or afterward?”
Elizabeth tugged at Tori’s hand. “We really shouldn’t be listening, you know.”
Tori nodded and dabbed at her eyes. “I know.” She followed her sister with a dragging step. “It’s just that I care so desperately.”
Elizabeth led the way to a bench beside a bank of shiny, dark green rhododendron bushes. “That’s what has me so worried. Believe me, Tori, I do understand your attraction. He’s charming, brilliant, talented, handsome, fun—” Elizabeth didn’t go on. That was exactly the problem. A man who could get by on his charm, just skate along on the surface and break hearts along the way. He had done so before by his own testimony. He even admitted he was to blame. . .
“Yes, those things are all part of it. But it doesn’t really get at what he’s like inside. He’s so gentle. He’s been hurt so deeply. He needs me.”
“No!” Elizabeth’s response was so sharp Tori jumped. “You don’t even think of ma
rrying anyone because he needs you, young lady. You find someone you can join with as two complete people—that will make one marriage. You don’t marry someone to change him or prop him up—that would only make half a marriage.”
Tori looked at her wide-eyed as if she were afraid to answer. Elizabeth took a breath. As long as she was into this, she might as well go ahead. “You’re going to hate me for saying this, Tori, but I may regret it the rest of my life if I don’t talk straight to you.
“I don’t think you know nearly enough about this man—but the part that really worries me is the part you do know: Number one, if you don’t share your faith you can’t really share your life on its deepest level. Number two, he’s an actor—a brilliant one—and that’s fine, but he’s already admitted that it was the theatre life that broke up his first marriage. You don’t want to go back into that. Which brings me to number three. I won’t go into the rights and wrongs of divorce, but it is a complication. Please think about it.”
Tori’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I know. I’ve thought of all that. But you see—I do love him.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I know. But I’m not done yet. There’s worse. You do realize, don’t you, that he may have killed Sally?”
Now it was Tori’s turn to shout, “No!” She jumped up, her hands over her face and began running.
“Whoa! Easy there.” Tori ran right into Gregg who wrapped his arms around her and held her until she was breathing calmly. As Elizabeth watched, a single thought struck her— that was the same tenderness and steadfastness with which Richard would have held her in similar circumstances. Surely such qualities must come from the same inner integrity. For Tori’s sake she desperately hoped that they did. She turned away and walked across the garden to Richard.
Gregg was the first to speak. “Richard and I are starving, how about you ladies?”
They all agreed readily and walked to a bright yellow and white Victorian house that had been turned into a cozy restaurant. They all ordered pocket sandwiches stuffed with white turkey meat and a variety of crisp vegetables served with tangy pickles.
When Tori got up to go to the ladies room Elizabeth went with her. “Tori, I’m so sorry I upset you. I know I could be wrong—I pray I am.”
Tori gave her sister a peck of a kiss on the cheek. “I know—ever since Mom died I’ve been your responsibility. She would have wanted you to say those things. But don’t think I haven’t thought them myself. That’s probably why I got so upset.”
‘“The lady doth too much protest’?”
“I suppose. But you are wrong, you know. I can’t prove it, but you are. You’ll see.”
“I do hope so, Tori. Because I really do like him a lot. And I’m crazy about you, but I can’t imagine why.” They went back to the men and their sumptuous sandwiches with smiles on their faces.
It seemed that the serious talks they had shared had cleared the air and brought a new closeness between the foursome. After lunch they went to the Jeremiah Nunan House, an elegant Queen Anne mansion whose many angles, bays and gables fashioned of stained glass, terra cotta, wrought iron, and at least six different kinds of wood, had been constructed in 1892 from a mail order kit.
“Mail order? That’s not possible,” Tori protested as she crossed the wide verandah and sat in the red-curtained gazebo that was part of the structure of the porch.
“It’s true.” Elizabeth consulted yet another brochure. “All the parts were shipped from Knoxville, Tennessee, in 137 crates which filled 14 railroad boxcars. It took eight months to assemble and cost $7,792.” She held out a page. “See, here’s an ad from the company who built it. They offer the plans for $2 or the houses from between $500 to $10,000.”
“Incredible. I thought mail order was a comparatively new business.” Gregg examined the ad.
“Hardly. I’ve heard of similar things being offered from old Sears & Roebuck catalogs,” Elizabeth said.
“And I don’t advise you to argue with this woman about the mail order business,” Richard said with a smile. “I did once and wound up married to her.”
Gregg looked confused until Richard explained how it was Elizabeth’s response to a mail order ad of a mystery weekend that led to their engagement.
Elizabeth couldn’t help smiling at the memory in spite of the discomfort she felt discussing the topic of marriage with her sister and the charming man who seemed so likely to be proven a philanderer and a murderer.
Chapter 15
AFTER TOURING THE BEAUTIFULLY furnished house, with Elizabeth mentally placing each piece of period furniture in the dream bungalow she and Richard would live in someday, they drove back through the golden summer afternoon, car windows rolled down, relaxed and quiet.
The mood lasted until Tori pushed open her apartment door. “Oh, no!” She stopped stock still, her face turning ghostly white.
“What’s the matter?” Elizabeth almost bumped into her sister. “It isn’t—” Then she stepped into the room and saw the shambles of what had been Tori and Erin’s living room. “What happened? Who could have done this?”
Richard strode across the room, his long legs stepping carefully over the objects littering the floor. He checked both bedrooms and the bathroom carefully, then turned, shaking his head. “They’re a mess, too.”
Tori’s tight little whisper was barely audible. “Erin?”
“No sign of her.”
“And no blood?” she persisted.
“Nothing obvious.” Richard considered a moment while Gregg checked the kitchen. “This doesn’t look like the scene of a life-and-death struggle. It’s too comprehensive. Everything’s been pulled over and turned upside down.”
“Do you think they were looking for something?” Elizabeth moved to put her arm around Tori, who had begun shaking, but just then Gregg reentered from the kitchen, and Tori ran to him. Seeing her sister turn to Gregg so completely for comfort worried Elizabeth more than the tumbled apartment.
Richard continued, “Maybe. But it doesn’t look like much of a systematic search, either. For example, two desk drawers have been dumped, but the files look untouched. The sofa cushions have been flung across the room, but the chair cushions seem undisturbed.” He considered for another moment. “Pure and simple vandalism. Or another ‘warning,’ I’d guess. But we’d better get the experts.” He stepped to the telephone.
“Fingerprints,” Elizabeth reminded him.
Richard nodded, pulled out a clean white handkerchief and picked up the receiver with it.
The color was back in Tori’s cheeks when she turned from Gregg’s embrace. “But where is Erin? Enemy of the People was over an hour ago.” She looked at her watch. “Hour and a half, even. She always comes right back for a cup of lemon tea with honey in it. It’s her big thing after each performance—she’s fanatical about taking care of her throat.”
Tori turned to check the kitchen herself. “Oh, no! Look!” The tea kettle sat on the counter beside the open box of herbal tea bags. Erin’s yellow-flowered mug lay on the floor in the middle of an amber puddle. “She must have been here when the intruder came. What have they done with her?” The question came out on a rising note of panic. Gregg put his arm around her again.
Richard turned from the phone. “Officers Lempson and Fellows will be right here. Try to think, Tori. I know they’ll want to know—did you keep anything valuable here? Old books, for example, or jewelry—Erin’s a rich woman. Did she keep anything expensive around?”
Tori shook her head. “Old books, but not valuable. Nothing rare. A lot of sentimental stuff—scrapbooks, even stuffed animals—theatre people are like that. Sentimental. Superstitious, I suppose.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! Spot and Ruff were valuable. We never thought of them that way, though. They were Erin’s talismen. If they’ve been stolen or broken—” She began digging through the debris of the emptied bookcase.
“Spot and Ruff?” Richard asked.
“Staffordshire dogs, about ten i
nches high, a Dalmatian and a Collie.”
“I see, Spot for the Dalmatian and Ruff for the Collie.” Richard nodded.
“No, it was the other way around. That was part of the fun.” Tori moved to dig at the other end of the pile, and Elizabeth joined her. “I think they were Erin’s grandmother’s or something. Anyway, she had loved them since she was tiny. Something from her old life, she said. I figured that meant before her father got so rich and tried to run her life—back when things were perfect like she always talks about.” She moved some books that had landed on top of a pillow. “Oh, thank goodness.” The dogs were under the pillow, in perfect condition.
Then Tori burst into tears. “Oh, but how awful it would be if—if—” She stopped and sniffed. “If the dogs are okay, but Erin isn’t.”
“It’s far too soon to jump to that sort of conclusion.” Richard’s voice held a note of bracing sternness. “She may well be off joyriding with Dirk in his little red Jag, or have rushed up to the theatre for some adjustment to a costume or to check something in a scene—light check or something. . .”
“That’s right,” Elizabeth joined in. “Maybe she just went for a walk—felt like listening to music in the park, or something. It is pretty stuffy in here.” The broken window had been replaced and was tightly locked. “I wouldn’t blame her for wanting to get out.” That was the best she could do to reassure Tori. The spilled tea was not a hopeful sign. Elizabeth tried not to think about it because every time she saw it in her mind, the pale brown tea kept turning blood red. And there was something else wrong with the scene—only she couldn’t think what. Something she had forgotten. Or something out of character. . .
“Maybe we should check around for her.” Gregg’s suggestion interrupted Elizabeth’s thoughts.
“Maybe, but the police might prefer to do that.” Just as Richard spoke, a green sedan and a black-and-white police car pulled up outside. Two plain-clothed detectives and two uniformed officers strode toward the door.
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