The Golden Unicorn

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  It was a relief to find the long stretch of sand empty and marked by few footprints, a relief to have ocean and sky to myself. Ahead of me two or three sandpipers ran away down the beach and I saw that the sky had begun to gray with coming evening, and clouds hid the sunset. Soon it would be time to go in for dinner, and I knew I should go to my room and change. But all I wanted was to stop the churning that had begun inside me, stirring up the wrong sort of emotion, scattering my thoughts helplessly, plunging me into a confusion that I didn’t know how to straighten out.

  One bit at a time—I must take only one bit at a time, I told myself. I wasn’t as cold, now that I could walk briskly, ignoring the twinges in my leg. At my feet the rhythmic movement of the waves curling in soothed and quieted me a little. It was possible to stare out at the far, murky horizon and cease to think at all, cease to strive inwardly, giving myself up to the vastness all around that told me I didn’t really matter, that nothing was real or important, and I needn’t do anything.

  But I couldn’t escape into that nirvana for long. Sooner or later I had to think. Less than ever was there any loophole for doubt. I was Alice’s and John’s daughter and Stacia’s cousin, and both Stacia and John knew it and were keeping silent. With good reason, as I could see. I didn’t want to be Anabel Rhodes and have a fortune that was being held in trust dumped upon my defenseless shoulders. Money wasn’t what life was all about. That much I knew. I had the things I wanted—the things I’d thought I wanted, though I was no longer sure about any of them.

  There was an even worse aspect to all this because Judith meant to use that child she had given away—a child-grown-into-woman—to further her own desire to stop Stacia from coming into Lawrence’s money. I didn’t want to be caught in the middle, to become Judith’s pawn, even though Evan Faulkner might think she was right and Stacia wrong.

  Before long, the search would begin, and it would be far easier to find me than it had been for me to find the Rhodes. The law would be involved now, and it would batter down doors, push through all restraints in order to carry out impersonally the letter of a will made long ago. Even though Stacia and John might not speak out, I would be found. The trail would lead easily to Courtney Marsh, and then all the Rhodes and those connected to them would be furious with me for my masquerade, my pretense in coming here. I could well imagine how Evan would look at me then—and it would not be with tenderness.

  In the meantime, what about Stacia—who knew my identity and was keeping silent? What did Stacia mean to do?

  Suddenly, and without the slightest doubt, I knew my danger. Stacia was my enemy. There was something unbridled in her character, something disturbingly unbalanced, and I could easily see her at the wheel of the Mercedes, trying to run me down. She too would know the truth about the legacy Lawrence Rhodes had left, and she would know that the money might come to me—something she would never permit, if she could help it.

  I shivered, thinking of the times I had been alone with her, realizing the threat she meant to me. I must go away, go quickly back to New York, where I could be safe from all the Rhodes for a little while longer, until I could decide what I must do before they came for me. My role was that of a fleeing prisoner, whether I liked it or not. So I must leave soon. Tomorrow, if I could. But first I would go back to see Olive Asher before she left town. There was more I wanted to know concerning what had happened during that time out near Montauk, and since Olive had played an active role, she was the one who could answer my questions. Perhaps she could even tell me more about my mother. Out of all this, there was only the one comfort for me—that Alice had wanted her baby daughter, had loved her, named her, valued her—no matter what anyone might say. I hadn’t been an unloved discard, after all.

  The one thought I put aside was that of Evan. What had happened—or nearly happened—between us just now in the car was something I could not, dared not, examine.

  When I turned and walked back toward the house, I saw lights in the living room and dining room, and in some of the bedrooms upstairs. An unexpected regret ran through me at the thought of leaving The Shingles. Because my father was still in that house—a man who had been kind to me, perhaps unable to reach out to me, but with whom I might have found a closer relationship if given time. That was over now.

  My steps slowed as I reached the foot of the wooden flight up to the terrace, and the thought of Evan was suddenly there, refusing to be denied. When I left here I would never see him again. Currents of attraction, however strong, die quickly when there is no further fuel to feed them. Evan belonged to Stacia. Even I, who was an outsider, had seen the bond between them. Old responsibilities could bind as strongly as love, and old passions of love and hate. Perhaps he would never be free of Stacia—and if ever he was, he would undoubtedly thank his good fortune to be free of all women and not seek some new entanglement She had already damaged him.

  My thoughts were depressed, futile, unlike me, and I felt impatient with myself and a little angry. Evan was nothing to me. That moment when I had wanted to turn my hand in his was ridiculous and didn’t fit in with my conviction that attraction was never blind. You went into something with your eyes open, not with the helplessness of a schoolgirl.

  From its place on the sand, the weathered figurehead stared at me with sightless eyes, its woman’s breasts lifted to meet the raging elements of sea and storm. For a moment I stood still, returning that strange look that had seen so much. Hesther. Had she seen death at sea?

  I thought again of answers to Alice’s death, answers which were coming close to me. Had my mother been forewarned? Had anyone been watching when Alice died? Alice, who had been a good swimmer, yet had drowned mysteriously and been tumbled onto the sand by rolling Atlantic waves. My mother. What else did Judith have on her conscience besides what she had done with Alice’s baby? Alice had been John’s wife, and at one time, if what Stacia said was true, Judith had been in love with John.

  I thought again of Judith’s strange inference that giving the baby away might have spared it in some way. But who would have harmed a child? Judith could be the first choice for such a role. John was the child’s father and could only have gained by having the baby live. Herndon? But of course not Herndon. And there was no point in considering Nan at all.

  In any case, all this was long ago, and such speculation had little bearing on my life today. Better to stop the fruitless seeking for answers. Unless. Unless Olive Asher knew more about that time than she had originally revealed.

  My walk on the beach had not calmed me. I touched the figurehead lightly on one cheek and turned to climb the steps. Feeling as though I’d been tossed by the same buffeting storms that had bruised Hesther, I went into the house. Anyone else in the world—almost anyone else—would be happy over the prospect of inheriting a fortune. But all I wanted was escape, and the opportunity to stay alive.

  In the hallway, I met Asher hurrying to meet me.

  “You’re wanted on the phone, Miss Marsh,” he told me, and something in his look alerted me—something both uneasy and suspicious. The library was empty and I went into it to take the call. The voice that answered my “hello” had a faint whine to it, and I understood Asher’s look. He had recognized the woman who was calling me.

  “Yes, Olive,” I said, “this is Courtney Marsh.”

  “I need to talk to you.” The whine became urgent. “If you’re going to write all that stuff for your magazine, then you ought to know more about what happened.”

  “I’d already thought of that,” I told her. “When can I see you?”

  “You’d better make it soon. I can’t stay around here. Can you come tonight?”

  “I’ll come after dinner,” I said. “Around eight o’clock?”

  “That’ll be okay,” she agreed, and rang off.

  I stood for a moment longer with my hand on the telephone before I became aware that Asher had remained in the doorway, wa
iting.

  “If you please, Miss Marsh,” he said. “I know who that was. She’s called here several times lately and she’s up to no good. If I may say so, miss, I wouldn’t go to see her as she wants.”

  I tried to smile at him reassuringly. “I understand, Asher. But I have to see her. There’s nothing else I can do.”

  “Then take somebody from the house with you, miss. That woman isn’t a good person. I know.”

  “I do understand,” I repeated. “And perhaps I will take someone with me. Thank you for warning me.”

  He went off down the hall shaking his head, and I hurried upstairs to change for dinner, already a little late. It might be wise to heed his warning and find someone to go with me. Not anyone from the house—perhaps Nan Kemble, since I could trust her more than any of the others. She was tied into this through her sister and she should be willing to go with me. The thought of Nan was reassuring. I needn’t tell her everything yet, and I didn’t think she would ask. But at least with her along, I wouldn’t have to face Olive alone. If necessary, she could wait out in the car for me so as not to throw Olive off whatever it was she wanted to talk about.

  Dinner that night was a strange meal. For once, Judith came downstairs, and so did Stacia, the mark on her cheek turning a bit yellow. I could see that John watched Stacia unhappily, but for the moment he had lost any control he might have had over her, and she seemed bent on tormenting Judith all through the meal. Herndon tried to stop her once or twice, but she paid no attention, and I could sense a smoldering in him beneath his quiet exterior. I thought again of the possible complexities in Herndon Rhodes. Evan seemed preoccupied and gave his attention to the meal, ignoring us all, including Stacia.

  Judith was as serene as ever, as though Stacia were no more than a naughty child. Her own purpose was already set and nothing could deflect her. The others attempted conversation to minimize Stacia’s efforts, and eventually the unhappy meal was over. All that came out of it for me was a further determination to get away. I had no place here, yet I didn’t want to tell anyone I was leaving until the last moment, lest some effort be made to interfere with my escape. “Escape” had become a truer word than I liked to think.

  As quickly as I could after dinner, I went up to my room and put on my coat. Then I walked to the far end of the hall, where a flight of back stairs would take me down to a rear door, enabling me to slip out of the house without being seen. Or so I hoped.

  As I walked through a darkness outdoors that lacked moon or stars, my way guided only by lights from the house, music came floating out from the living-room windows. Stacia was at the piano again, playing one of her disturbingly dissonant compositions—music that could cling to the memory with an unwelcome haunting. I would be glad to escape that sound too, as well as all the rest, and yet there was a strange loneliness in me at the thought of such escape. A loneliness I couldn’t accept, and which did not bear too close an examining at the moment.

  The garage area was quiet and empty, with a single light burning over the central door. Tudor stood up restlessly as I appeared, but this time he neither barked nor strained at his chain, but simply watched as I went toward my car and got in.

  In Nan’s shop lights were burning downstairs as I pulled up beside the door. For once, however, the shop was locked, and though I pounded the brass knocker no one answered. It was my bad luck to find Nan out, but that wasn’t going to stop me. In spite of Asher’s warning, I would not turn back. This was my one chance to see Olive Asher again, and I didn’t mean to pass it up.

  Even at night I was able to find my way, having noted the turnoff from the highway earlier, and because a helpful light had been left burning on the porch when I drew up before the house I had already visited. However, it was not Olive who opened the door, but a tall, rather gaunt woman, perhaps in her seventies, whom I took to be Olive’s friend Mrs. Blake.

  She stood in the doorway, not inviting me in. “Olive’s gone,” she told me curtly. “She’s been called away. She said to tell you she was sorry, but she couldn’t see you after all.”

  I had the sense of a sand castle crumbling in upon itself—as though someone had put out a deliberate finger, so that a structure I had built and counted upon had collapsed and left me with nothing.

  Helplessly, I stood staring at the woman in the doorway, not knowing which way to turn.

  11

  Mrs. Blake’s words had been a sharp disappointment, even though I wasn’t sure why I had set any value on this meeting with Olive Asher.

  “Is she coming back?” I asked after a surprised pause. “Do you know why she’s gone away?”

  The woman shook her head. “She had a telephone call a little while ago that made her very excited. She packed up right away and then a car came to take her to the station to catch the train. You didn’t miss her by much.”

  I tried to make my tone casual. “Do you happen to know who was in the car?”

  “It was none of my business, was it?” Mrs. Blake regarded me in disapproval.

  “When does the train for New York leave?” I asked.

  But she either wouldn’t tell me, or didn’t know, and it took a few minutes to pry out of her the information that it was a train that left from East Hampton.

  I ran to my car and drove back to the highway, pushing the Volvo whenever there was a clear stretch of pavement. I didn’t know why I was driven by this sense of urgency, but only that a chance was slipping away from me that might never come again. I had to make this last effort to retrieve what otherwise might be lost for good.

  The train was braking into the station when I pulled up to park my car. I got out and ran toward the platform. Olive Asher, suitcase in hand, mounted the steps of a car ahead. Though I glanced around hurriedly, there was no one on the platform whom I recognized. If whoever had brought her here still lingered, he was keeping out of sight. Since there was no time to buy a ticket, I ran up the steps after her and followed her into a smoking car. A few people had come between us, but I recognized her gray head at the window side of a seat ahead. Quietly I sat down beside her and she didn’t even glance my way, her attention on a packet of cigarettes she was fumbling from her handbag. I waited until the train had pulled out of the station on its journey to New York, and then spoke to her in a low voice.

  “Hello, Olive. I’m glad I was able to catch you.”

  Her astonishment was evident as she dropped her cigarettes. I bent to pick up the pack and when I handed it to her she gave me a look of sheer misery. My presence had upset her more than a little.

  “I really did want to talk to you,” I said, “and I thought you wanted to talk to me.”

  When she had struck a faltering match and drawn in a long breath, she managed to find her voice.

  “That’s not necessary any longer, miss. Something unexpected’s come up and everything’s changed.”

  “Can you tell me what it is?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “No—I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Because you’ve been told to keep still, told not to talk to me? Threatened, perhaps?”

  She shrugged and stared out the window.

  “I expect whoever it was made up for Judith’s lapse in payments—isn’t that so?”

  This time I’d reached her. “Look, miss—you’re a reporter and I don’t have to talk to you.”

  “But earlier—”

  “Earlier I didn’t know this was going to happen.”

  I could see the possibilities. She had probably thought she could get something out of me for whatever details she felt she had to sell. But someone else had cut in and outbid me—generously enough to send her quickly out of town.

  “Did Mr. Faulkner drive you to the train?” I asked.

  “Mr. Faulkner? No.” She relaxed a little. “No, it was William who came for me. It seemed odd see
ing him after all these years. He looks like an old man, for sure. What’s his new wife like, miss? I suppose she’s working at the house in my old place?”

  “She’s the housekeeper, yes.” I answered absently, thinking about Asher as the mysterious messenger and wondering which one of them had been alarmed enough to send him.

  “You’re not going clear in to New York, are you, miss?” she asked.

  The conductor had come around for tickets and I inquired about a stop two towns west on the line and paid my fare. When I looked at her again, I saw that she had cheered up a little. At least she knew now that she wouldn’t have my company much longer—and I knew that if I was to get anything out of her, it would have to be fast.

  “Of course,” I began, “I’m willing to pay a little something for answers to my questions. . . .”

  But she was already shaking her head. “I’m not going to talk. I’m not going to tell you anything.”

  “What difference can it make?” I pressed her. “This will be just a little extra for you, and no harm done. No one will ever know.”

  She was silent, and I tried to think of a possible question to start her talking.

  “I suppose you went out to that cottage in Montauk at the time when Mrs. Rhodes—Mrs. Alice Rhodes—returned from her trip abroad?”

  Apparently this seemed safe enough, and she nodded. “Yes, I used to help Mrs. Alice a lot in the old days, and she knew I was good with babies. So she sent for me before she got back in the country. In fact, I met her and Miss Nan in New York and went up to the cottage with them. Miss Nan was going on to San Francisco and Mrs. Alice didn’t want to stay there alone with the baby to care for.”

  “You must have been a great help to her. But she didn’t have to be alone for long, did she? I understand that Mr. Lawrence Rhodes sent both his sons and Mrs. Judith up there to take hold of the situation.”

  “That’s right. He wanted Mrs. Alice and the baby home right away.”