Eric presented large menu cards with a flourish. Aware of Susan’s attention, he grinned cockily. “Don’t mind me. I might as well make a performance of waiting on a table, since this is the classic job for an out-of-work actor.”
How much like his father he seemed—both in appearance and slightly flamboyant manner. But while Gilbert exuded confidence, Susan suspected that Eric’s manner was something he clearly put on for protection.
She gave her attention to the generous array of foods on the menu, conscious of the pleasure of being here with Peter Macklin. No matter what questions threatened the future, she wanted to enjoy this moment.
A waiter filled their water glasses and brought a warm loaf of bread in a covered basket.
When they’d both ordered crab cakes, along with salads, Eric’s pencil halted, and Susan looked up to see that his attention had been caught by a white cruiser cutting its way through Rappahannock waters below their gallery.
“Someday I’m going to own one of those babies,” Eric said dreamily.
“You’re expecting an inheritance?” Peter asked.
“That—or a good role in a movie. There will be a way.”
No one pursued that, and Peter told him that Priscilla Bates would be joining them. At once Eric looked interested.
“Is that the Bates who writes a column for a Richmond paper?
“Do you know her?” Peter asked.
“Only by sight. I’ll keep an eye out for her.” Eric gave Susan a look that was somehow challenging and went off toward the kitchen.
When Susan lapsed into thoughtful silence, Peter asked, “You don’t like Eric, do you?”
“Both Eric and his father make me uncomfortable, though I feel a little sorry for Hallie.”
“As we all should,” Peter said. “However, Eric’s had a rough time growing up. His mother decided that she’d had enough of marriage to Gilbert while Eric was still a little boy, and she took off for parts unknown. His father’s only interest in him then seemed to be to discipline him. Hallie was always on his side, and of course Eric learned how to twist his aunt around his finger. She’s stood up to Gilbert for him many times. Always the little mother. Even though she’s younger than her brother and sister, she used to mother them both. Of course Emily’s out of reach now—having married John Gower and moved to Tangier Island long ago. And Gilbert doesn’t pay much attention to anything Hallie says if it opposes what he wants.”
As the cruiser glided past, Susan glimpsed passengers in deck chairs watching their gallery with lazy interest. A small boy waved, and Susan waved back.
“There was a time,” Peter said, “when that might have been a gunboat out there. This house has a collection of musket balls from the War of 1812. There’s even a place where a shot went clear through and embedded itself in a far wall.”
Susan’s thoughts were focused on more recent history. “What can you tell me about Juan Gabriel, Peter?”
“I was only a young boy when I knew Mr. Montoro, and I thought him a bit frightening. He seemed terribly old and distant and austere. I’m sure he loved Alex, but she was so much younger, and perhaps he worried about her. I still remember the way his eyes followed her when they were in the same room. Even though he must have quieted down a bit from those fiery years in Peru that he wrote about in his early books, there was still some residue of Spanish excitability. Though I saw him really angry only once.”
“What happened?”
Peter hesitated. “I’m not sure I should have brought this up. I was too young to understand what was going on, and I may have gotten things wrong.”
“That’s okay—please tell me.”
“It must have been some months before your mother died. Juan Gabriel had a fight with your father—a physical fight. The Montoros always fascinated me, so I watched and listened to more than I was supposed to.”
“Did what happened have any bearing on my mother’s death?”
Peter sliced bread for them both, postponing an answer. Susan waited, and after a moment he went on, sounding as though he needed to convince himself.
“Your mother’s death was an accident, so of course the fight had nothing to do with that.”
“I wonder. I wonder how much everything ties together. Something doesn’t feel right to me. There’s been concealment about so much that happened. Alex told me about my mother’s fall in a flat sort of way—as though she held back her real feelings.”
“I can understand that. She’s never recovered from Dolores’s death. Perhaps some sort of healing will come to her through you, Susan.”
She thought of the unexpected moment of closeness with her grandmother in the tower room this morning. Susan had reached out to her, but she still wasn’t sure what the reception to her gesture had really been.
“Tell me about the fight Juan Gabriel had with my father.”
“It happened in that shed down near the water on the other side of the lawn from the boathouse. Your father liked to work with his hands when he wasn’t teaching. He used to make fine articles of furniture. Benches, chairs, tables—really handsome pieces. Did your father continue that work when he moved to New Mexico?”
“No, he must have lost interest. He lost interest in a great deal, I’m afraid.” One of the things he’d lost interest in was his daughter. “Go on,” she said to Peter.
“That day Juan Gabriel went down to Lawrence’s workshop. I was outside mowing the lawn with a riding mower I was learning to use. I stopped the machine so I could listen to those angry voices. I couldn’t hear the words, so I don’t know what the quarrel was about, but the door was open, and suddenly your father came flying through, hurled out by the old man. I never saw anyone so mad as your grandfather was that day. I think if he’d had a gun in his hand, he might have killed Lawrence Prentice. His anger made up for the difference in their ages and physical strength. But Lawrence had a temper too, and when he got up from the grass he turned on Mr. Montoro and knocked him down. He might have done worse, if George hadn’t come running out of the house to pull Lawrence off. Your father went back to his workshop and slammed the door, while Mr. Montoro just lay there on the ground, not moving. I helped George carry him into the house, and Gracie ran upstairs to find Dolores and your grandmother. Juan Gabriel suffered a stroke the next day and was confined to his wheelchair for the months before he went into a coma.”
“Then, when my mother died, my father took me away.”
“Gracie really pulled your grandmother through. Alex had lost her daughter, and she lost you. A few months later she lost Juan Gabriel too. Though, at least, his death was expected, and he had lived a long, long life of distinguished achievement. Alex didn’t want to see even her old friends, so my parents couldn’t be as helpful to her as they’d have liked to be. I still did odd jobs for George, so I was around and saw how apathetic she was. I felt helpless because I was too young to be useful to her. For me, she’d always been—oh, I don’t know—a magical sort of person. Then all the magic was gone, and she seemed older than she does now.”
“Did you ever learn what the quarrel was about between my father and my grandfather?”
“The only person around who talked to me was Theresa, and I don’t think she knew much of anything. She was only a little older than I was. I’m not sure she ever really loved your grandmother, but she had a strong sense of duty, and loyalty to Juan Gabriel. He was her only relative in this country. If Alex knew what happened between the two men, she never talked to me about it. Luckily, all her spirit and drive couldn’t be held down forever, and she gradually came back to life. She’s kept herself busy with various civic projects—especially the preservation of historic landmarks. But sometimes I get the feeling that there’s something smoldering inside her, and it worries me. She’s more fragile than she lets anyone see. Marilyn’s death was especially hard for her—partly because she is fond of me. B
ut then, everyone liked Marilyn.” Peter stopped and looked around the room. “I wonder what’s happened to Priscilla?”
A waitress brought their salads, while Eric hovered attentively, perfect in his role—though relaxing now and then when he caught Susan’s eye. His message was clear: We both know this isn’t who I am.
The movement of the sun-splashed surface of the Rappahannock was hypnotic. Susan watched as a log or a bit of flotsam drifted past, offering a focus for her eyes—though an absent focus, since a new heaviness of spirit had settled over her. When she had sat down at this table, she’d wanted only to enjoy being with Peter. A chance like this might not ever come again. But now all the unanswered questions had taken on a threatening cast. Too much that seemed alarming remained just out of sight, and certainly beyond comprehension. She hoped Priscilla Bates would come soon, so they could finish their meal and leave.
When Eric approached their table leading a tall, determined-looking woman, Susan suspected that something else disturbing was about to happen. Peter rose to greet Marilyn’s friend, and introduced her to Susan.
Priscilla regarded her with an intent interest. An intelligent woman, Susan thought, though perhaps a little sharp. Her dark eyes possessed a searching quality, as though she questioned everything she saw. Graying hair had been wound into a severe knob on top of her head, somehow adding to her air of brisk efficiency. This woman, she suspected, wouldn’t stand for much nonsense.
“How are you, Priscilla?” Peter said. “We’ve saved a place for you.”
Priscilla dropped her carryall to the floor beside her chair and sat down. “Only coffee, please,” she told Eric. “Peter, I’m sorry to be late. A last-minute crisis at the office in Richmond.” Then she gave her full attention to studying Susan. “So you’re Alex Montoro’s granddaughter?”
Peter said, “Susan’s also an old friend. Tell me what has happened to make you want to see me in such a rush?”
“It’s not all that sudden. I’ve been sitting on this problem and wondering what to do ever since Marilyn died. This morning I heard about her manuscript turning up at the library in Kilmarnock wrapped in brown paper and left at the door. It seems that the notes for the last chapters are missing. I have my spies, as you can tell.”
“I suppose Hallie called you?” Peter asked wryly. “She’s our private grapevine.”
“Right! So I knew I’d better talk with you.”
Priscilla began to search her bag. “Do you mind if I smoke?” She didn’t wait for agreement, but took out a cigarette and lighted it quickly. After a few puffs she continued. “I’ve been losing sleep wondering what Marilyn would want me to do. I know there were questions when the manuscript of the biography Marilyn was writing disappeared. I have no idea why it was taken or why it’s turned up now. I know that Marilyn was still trying to make up her mind about how to handle the closing chapters and was partly in disagreement with Alex. She needed to make a decision concerning which version to use. She made a number of notes about the ending and I found them among her things after she died. Since the manuscript had disappeared, they didn’t seem to matter. But now I’ve begun to wonder. Did Marilyn talk to you about any of this, Peter?”
“I’m afraid she didn’t talk to me about much of anything in the months before her death. You know we’d decided to separate.
“Marilyn always spoke affectionately of you, Peter. I suppose she needed to be on her own again. Even back in college, when we roomed together, she was an independent woman. She used to say she would never marry—until she fell in love with you.”
“I understand,” Peter said quietly. “We never meant to hurt each other, and we’d have stayed friends.”
“I know. What happened to her is so terrible that it’s still hard to believe. I have a strong feeling that I should give these pages to Alex and let her decide what to do. I hoped you might advise me on this, Peter.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said.
“Well, then I’ll just have to make that decision myself.” She discarded her half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray, which the attentive Eric had set beside her, and lit another.
“I keep thinking about that manuscript,” Peter said, “and about what connection it might have had to Marilyn’s death. Why were Marilyn and Alex in disagreement?”
Like Susan, Priscilla studied the river, looking off toward the bridge by which she had come across from the direction of Richmond. When she answered, her own puzzlement was obvious.
“I don’t understand why it should have mattered at this late date, but Marilyn told me that Mrs. Montoro was very sensitive when it came to her husband’s reputation. Juan Gabriel killed a man before they left Peru—a political murder. The man was a thorough scoundrel, and it was done in a moment of high passion, of which Juan Gabriel was capable. His powerful friends got him and his wife out of the country quietly. As a noted author, he would have been welcome anywhere in the world, but Virginia’s history drew him here. Peru was probably glad to let him go without an explosive scandal and trial.”
“But if this is what Marilyn wanted to put into the last chapters, it can’t be relevant now. You’d better talk to Alex about this.”
“I want to. However, there was one other thing Marilyn told me that she’d set down in her notes. It seems that just before he died Juan Gabriel came out of his coma and managed to speak a few words. I’ve read the notes and they didn’t make any sense to me, though Marilyn thought they were connected with Dolores’s death in some way. With the manuscript missing, it never seemed important to do anything about the notes. But now Mrs. Montoro may want to see the book finished, and this could be important. I think she should see them before they are turned over to the police—if that’s what is supposed to happen.”
Peter looked doubtful. “I hate to see Alex upset all over again.”
“Perhaps what Marilyn wrote in summing up might pull things together for her. I suspect that Marilyn’s viewpoint might be slightly different from Mrs. Montoro’s.”
Priscilla was silent for a moment, finishing her coffee, crunching out her cigarette. Then she pushed back her chair and held out her hand to Susan.
“I’m very glad to know Mrs. Montoro’s granddaughter. I must go now. Thanks for seeing me, Peter.”
She seemed in a hurry, as though she’d said all she meant to say and wanted to be off.
Peter stood up as she left, and Susan watched her disappear through the gallery. Eric came to see her out, and Susan wondered about his always hovering presence. How much of their talk had he managed to hear? Not that it really mattered, she supposed.
“If you’re finished, perhaps we’d better go, Susan.” Peter sounded dispirited. The meeting with Priscilla must have brought too many things connected with Marilyn sharply into his mind.
As they drove back to the house, he was silent, lost in increasing gloom. Knowing so little, there was no way in which Susan could help, and she felt it was better to be quiet.
Not until they were nearly there did she ask a question. “Will you tell Alex about Priscilla and that she has Marilyn’s notes?”
“Perhaps I’d better wait and see what Priscilla does. I can’t be sure what’s involved, or how much anything I might say would upset Alex.”
A picture she didn’t care for came into Susan’s mind. She could imagine a stew coming to a boil. All those tiny, unrelated bits floating quietly on the surface, with the bubbling pressure underneath and out of sight. Then a bubble would break through here, and another one there, until the whole pot was a roiling mass—ready to spill over disastrously. That sort of boiling seemed to be going on right now beneath the surface of their lives. If it broke through, would there be any stopping it? Perhaps Marilyn’s death had turned the heat down for a while, but now it was warming up again. Because someone was frightened about the truth coming out. What truth? And what role had the young Susan
played?
Peter almost spoke her thoughts aloud. “Perhaps you’re the catalyst, Susan. You were here when Dolores died. Alex has always believed that her death was no accident. You may have seen what happened. The child in you may know a great deal more than you realize. Marilyn did drop a hint or two that she was onto something. But I don’t think she’d worked it out and she never really talked to me about it.”
“And you think I have blocked out of my memory something that might return at any moment and be a threat to someone?”
“It’s possible. Some accidental stimulus could trigger a return of everything you’ve buried because it was too terrible for a small child to face.”
“I don’t seem to remember anything,” she told him, and heard a rising alarm in her own voice.
He took his hand from the wheel to touch her arm. “Don’t try to force it, Susan. But if you do remember something about what happened, will you tell me right away? No matter how trivial it might seem, tell me before you talk to Alex.”
She promised uneasily. Perhaps it would be best if she turned her back on remembering and let everything stay as it was.
When Peter pulled up in front of the house, Gracie was watching for them, and came running down the drive, excited and unlike her usual quiet self.
“Have you seen Miss Alex?” she cried. “Or heard from her?”
Peter got out of the car at once. “What’s happened, Gracie?”
“We can’t find her anywhere. She was going to have her lunch outdoors and then go upstairs for a nap. But she doesn’t ever sleep so long, and when I went to see, she’d never been down on her bed at all.”
“Did she go out in her car?” Peter asked.
“That’s what I don’t like. Her car’s in the garage. Besides, Miss Alex don’t even go across the street without telling me where she’s going. She isn’t anywhere.”
“We’ll help you look for her,” Susan said. “I suppose you’ve already tried the trunk room in the tower?”
The Ebony Swan Page 13