Dream of Orchids

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  “Has anyone threatened you?”

  She looked suddenly confused. “I don’t know. I hid that dreadful wedge in a drawer of my desk—and it’s disappeared. But I can’t be sure I didn’t misplace it. Sometimes I can forget. There’s been so much to distract me lately.”

  “But this could only have been a way to tease Poppy. No one could have known what would happen to her. No one could have intended her death.”

  Alida was silent for a moment. “Anyone at all could have come back to the orchid house that day. The outside gate is always open, and it’s easy to walk along either side of the house to the back garden without being noticed.” She seemed to be reassuring herself.

  “You mean someone outside the family?”

  “I don’t mean anything. I don’t know. But you should know this, so you can be on guard and help your father.”

  “Why haven’t you at least told Iris and Fern?”

  “Your father ordered me not to. He didn’t want me to worry them about this.”

  “But if you haven’t talked about this for a whole year, why should someone worry now?”

  “I’m not sure.” Long lashes came down, hiding her haunted look.

  “Can’t you consult Marcus? I should think he could be trusted.”

  “I wanted to, but your father wouldn’t let me. He said Marcus shouldn’t be drawn into this. It’s different with you—you’re part of the family now.”

  Was I? “I doubt if he’d want you to tell me either.”

  “That’s why we’ve come here—so no one will know.”

  “But what can I do?” The implications of what she’d told me were so murky that I’d begun to catch her uneasiness, even though she hadn’t told me what she feared.

  She threw out her hands in a despairing gesture and began to walk about the enclosure, her low-heeled shoes clicking on the bricks.

  “Poppy had a terrible quarrel with Iris the very day she died. It was about Derek, and Iris wouldn’t listen.”

  “Do you mean Iris might have wedged the door?”

  “No—no! I don’t mean anything. Only now I’m afraid for your father. What if he’s to be next?”

  “Mata Hari,” Fern had called Alida. Perhaps Alida had lived too long with Clifton York’s stories. Her wide, dark eyes looked a little wild, and I spoke soothingly.

  “Let’s go back to the house. I’ll think about what you’ve told me and see if there’s anything sensible I can do.”

  She knew I was putting her off, and she gave up and started toward the gate, the very set of her shoulders rejecting me as useless.

  “Why wouldn’t you let my mother see Cliff when she came here nearly a year ago?”

  Alida stopped with her back to me, and she spoke without turning. “Cliff was sick with grief over Poppy’s death. I couldn’t let her see him. It would have upset him even more.”

  “You had no right to make such a decision! You had no right to keep her away from a man she’d been married to. You could have at least told my father she was here.”

  “Then he’d have seen her, and he couldn’t take any more. I told her I’d arrange something if she’d come back another time.”

  “You should never have refused her,” I repeated. “My mother was dying. She knew she’d never come again.”

  Alida had no space left for outside emotions. She was a mixture of cold rage and hot, driving determination, all of it held back by the lid she’d placed on her own feelings, and all of it circling in a protective barrier around my father.

  “How long have you loved him?” I asked softly.

  She walked out the gate, and I had to hurry to catch up with her. As we went back through the square, her resistance to me was like some icy encasing that I would never be able to chip through. Whatever she felt for my father was inadmissible by her standards, and she would never forgive me for asking that question.

  As we turned toward Duval Street, she stopped suddenly, and I followed the direction of her stare. Across from the Conch Train depot was a small restaurant with three tables set in a row outdoors. Derek Phillips sat at one of them, breakfasting with another man.

  At once Alida seemed agitated. “I can’t stand Derek Phillips! I hope you’ll never go out to that wreck he’s exploring.”

  “Marcus O’Neill is taking me there this afternoon. Why shouldn’t I go?”

  Her dismay was clear, but she explained nothing. “We mustn’t be seen together,” she said, and walked quickly away. I watched as she lost herself among some tourists crossing the street and disappeared up the block. Mystification was her stock in trade, and I suspected that she had a genius for confusing everyone. But how much belief could be put in anything she said, I didn’t know, and I didn’t dare dismiss any of it.

  I sat down again on the bench in the open-air depot and watched early morning Key West go by. There were at least two Key Wests that I’d glimpsed. The tourists who gathered in Mallory Square and roamed the town formed the transients of the island, plus a few lingering hippie types who drifted in and out—both of these groups were served by the other world of residents, who came in all categories and whose home lives went on quite separately from the visitors. This second world lived behind the facades of Old Town, or in the newer sections, and it could be social, intellectual, artistic—even political—though existing side by side with the sightseers who brought the island its life’s blood.

  This second world belonged. It concerned itself with the past and made an effort to preserve the island’s historic heritage for the present and the future. Because of Cliff (and even more because of Poppy) I’d been permitted to step behind the tourist scene. Whether I might ever win myself a place—in fact, whether that was what I really wanted—I still didn’t know.

  As I watched idly, I glanced now and then at the two men breakfasting across the street. Derek Phillips looked vigorous, tanned, healthy, with his handsomely shaped head of white hair and strong features. A dominating sort of man, with a natural command of any situation. The other man was even bigger, but with none of Derek’s polished manner. Younger and rougher looking, unshaven, he seemed to be arguing rather than eating.

  Prompted by some impulse, I took out my pad and set down a quick sketch of the scene, concentrating on the two men. Both made good subjects in their individuality—Derek calm, strong, in full charge of himself, the other man’s face set and fierce as he confronted Derek.

  As I watched, the second man stood up suddenly and strode away. Derek seemed undisturbed by his leaving and continued to eat his ham and eggs calmly.

  Presently he felt my eyes upon him, for he glanced across the street and saw me sitting there. At once he smiled and waved a beckoning arm.

  “Come on over, Laurel.”

  I put away the sketch that I didn’t want him to see, and, since there was no reason not to join him and I wanted to know more about this man who was going to marry Iris, I went across.

  By the time I reached his table, a waitress had cleared a place for me, and Derek stood up to seat me with a flourish that seemed half-mocking and very typical. I asked only for coffee, and when the waitress had gone, Derek looked at me with obvious satisfaction.

  “This is a break for me. I’ve wanted to talk with you. Why didn’t you come over when you saw me?”

  “You had someone with you.”

  A hint of irritation crossed his face. “Oh, that! If you’d come, I’d have been rid of him sooner. Not an especially savory character, I’m afraid. I saw Alida just now crossing the street. Was she with you?”

  “She was showing me Mallory Square.”

  “What do you think of her? Sometimes I wonder why Cliff keeps her on.”

  “She seems devoted to him, and I expect she works with him better than anyone else. Besides, she was Mrs. York’s close friend, wasn’t she?”

  “I never understood that either. Sometimes the woman seems demented, if you ask me. Unbalanced. Iris would like to get rid of her and find her father someo
ne else more suitable.”

  “She must have suffered a terrible shock—finding Mrs. York dead that day.”

  He studied me for a moment. “All this must seem pretty weird to you—plunging into a household like Cliff’s. Not exactly reassuring. I’ll be glad when I can take Iris out of it. At least you don’t need to stay a minute longer than you want to.”

  There seemed to be several people urging me to leave, and I could feel my resistance growing. I sipped coffee and waited for whatever might develop. I’d never lost my streak of obstinacy—if there were Mata Haris around, I belonged to the same club.

  Derek warmed to his favorite topic. “I understand you’re going out to the wreck this afternoon with Marcus. I’ve loaned him one of my powerboats. Marcus believes in sailboats, but this will get you there faster. We’re finding a few more things. We brought up a clump of silver coins embedded in coral recently. There’re still two bronze cannons down there that will be a job to bring up. Though these may be what identify the Santa Beatriz.”

  “How will the cannons give you identification?”

  “Only early seventeenth-century cannons were bronze, as these are, and they were marked with numbers. We have a copy of the manifest from that vessel—right from the Archives of the Indies in Seville. There can be absolute identification, if we’re right. Of course that doesn’t mean that we’ve located the main treasure of the ship. It’s down there somewhere at bedrock, with tons of sand burying it. And an ocean to search.”

  His face lighted, and I saw the same hard brilliance glowing in his eyes that I’d glimpsed at dinner last night. He spoke with enthusiasm about some of his previous adventures with wrecks in the Caribbean, and I could see why Iris must think him an exciting man. Though I suspected he would never lose sight of the millions of dollars involved in what he was doing. Once more, I wondered at the unlikely combination of Derek Phillips as adventurer with the cool, distant Iris. Though of course I knew by now that Iris had her own smoldering depths.

  It was difficult to distract Derek from his diving adventures, but I managed to bring him around to another subject. “This morning Alida told me more about finding Poppy. I don’t think she’s convinced that what happened was an accident. Do you think anyone hated Poppy enough to …” I let my voice trail off, so he could supply any words he chose.

  He stared at me with no great approval. “If you mean do I think that someone went into the greenhouse and cut Poppy’s wrist with broken glass—no, I certainly don’t. I doubt if anyone hated her, though she probably made a few enemies, as people do if they’ve any character at all. She could be highhanded when she chose, and I’m sure she stepped on a few toes. Including those of her friends and family. What do you have in mind, Laurel?”

  I hadn’t anything in mind. I was merely throwing out bait to see what I might pull in. So far the hook was empty.

  When I didn’t answer, he went on. “With the anniversary of Poppy’s death coming up, I think the important thing is to put on a show of busyness that will get Cliff through a depressing time. I’m planning to throw a small party on board the Aurora at the site of the wreck. We’ll bring up some treasure that day—even if I have to send down things we’ve already salvaged! I hope the weather will cooperate. Cliff hasn’t gone out there yet, and we’ll put on a real bash for him. With dinner afterwards at my house on Doubloon Key.”

  Giving any sort of party on the anniversary of Poppy’s death seemed inappropriate, even if it was intended as a distraction for Cliff.

  “I hope you’ll still be here for the party, Laurel,” he added.

  “I expect I will be,” I told him, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. I even wondered if he might have some other motive than the one he claimed for giving this party. When I saw Marcus this afternoon, I’d ask him about this affair—and whether Cliff really ought to go. Or—I might see Marcus sooner. A new idea was stirring in my mind.

  “You don’t look enthusiastic about my plans,” Derek said.

  I hesitated. “With everyone so troubled, I wonder …”

  “But that’s the whole idea! Cliff’s been hiding away up in that workroom of his for months. He needs a change to wake him up. Gold fever—treasure fever!—can be catching. Once he’s out there he won’t resist it. And of course it will be good for his writing. He’s slowed down lately.”

  I let the matter of the party go and asked the question I was considering. “Where does Marcus O’Neill live?”

  “In a big old Queen Anne house not far from your father’s. Key West’s full of guest houses these days. Most of them are old, and they’re being well cared for. This place is on Eaton Street, and you can recognize the turrets and gingerbread extravagance.”

  “I may have seen it,” I said.

  In a few minutes we left the table, and he went off toward the docks with a casual wave of his hand.

  If I waited till this afternoon, there were still several hours ahead before I could talk to Marcus. But there was another way to see him immediately, and I decided not to wait.

  I began to retrace my steps, looking for Eaton Street and one particular house. I found it easily, and this time I entered the gate.

  As I came up the walk, a man on the front porch looked up from his newspaper and smiled in greeting when I told him I was looking for Marcus O’Neill.

  “He’s in—you can hear his typewriter. Up on the second floor. At the back.”

  The house was larger than my father’s, with a huge downstairs living area running the width of the house. The floor had been painted in fanciful colors, but the furnishings were old and elegant. At the back, doors opened on an enclosed garden built into the heart of the house.

  I walked up the flight of wide, dark stairs and followed the sound of Marcus’s typewriter. He didn’t hear me until the second time I rapped on the door. Then he came to open it, dressed in duck shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, his legs bare and his feet slipped into comfortable zori sandals.

  “I’m interrupting,” I said, “but I couldn’t wait until this afternoon to talk to you.”

  “Sure—come on in.”

  He seemed matter-of-fact and unsurprised. If his red hair had been combed recently, it was only with his fingers, and as he gestured toward the sofa, I sat down with a greater awareness of him than I wanted to feel. Not only because of his physical effect on me, but because of the rising questions about him that I wanted to have answered. Questions of who he was, what he thought, how he felt. He was still a huge puzzle to me, and I was increasingly drawn and curious—as well as a little wary. My mother’s voice hadn’t wholly stilled in me, and I wasn’t at ease.

  The apartment was made up of one large room, and Marcus’s desk had been placed near a window that overlooked the inner garden. A door opened on a rear porch. It seemed a comfortable room, where books overflowed on the floor and a large wastebasket invited crumpled yellow sheets. I wondered what was on them, what he chose to throw away.

  The couch sagged a bit at one end when I sat down. Now that I was here, it was difficult to begin. Easier perhaps to blurt everything out—which I started to do, sounding more defiant than I intended.

  “I went for a walk early this morning,” I told him, “and happened along Eaton Street in time to see Iris and you come out of this house. You were talking about something that concerned me, so I stopped, though I didn’t set out to listen.”

  He smiled. “I saw you lurking behind the yellow elder, but I thought I’d better not say anything. Iris would have been upset. And you might have too.”

  “I’m not apologizing,” I told him quickly. “I wish I’d heard more. That’s why I’ve come back. What is it that Iris doesn’t want my father to do? What does it have to do with me?”

  He pulled a captain’s chair away from a table in the adjoining kitchen area and sat down, studying me.

  “Believe me, I didn’t know what Cliff would have in mind when I brought you here. If I had, maybe I’d never have gone after you. He means to
change his will. Fern is to have the house, which is what he always intended. Poppy’s house. Iris will move away when she marries, so that won’t bother her. The money will be divided, and you’ll get a share. That doesn’t matter either. Poppy left both her daughters well off. The thing that’s eating Iris is that Cliff means to leave the orchid house to you.”

  I stared at him blankly. “But that’s awful! I don’t know anything about orchids, and I don’t want that burden. The orchid house belongs to Fern and Iris.”

  “Cliff is looking ahead. If anything happened to him and the orchids were left to both, or either, of his younger daughters, a war would start. They both love orchids, but Iris wants to commercialize and Fern doesn’t. They’d tear each other apart. You’re neutral. He thinks you might be able to bring them together. Or at least arbitrate.”

  “So they can tear me apart? No, thank you. I could see how bitter Iris was this morning.”

  “Cliff believes you can handle it. He thinks you are capable and sensible—smart enough to run a successful bookshop at home.”

  “He doesn’t know me! Nobody knows what I’m like. I’m only just beginning to find out myself.”

  Marcus had stopped smiling, but his expression still seemed amused and quizzical. An amusement that ruffled me. How could he attract and aggravate me in the same moment?

  “Look—I won’t have my life rearranged like this,” I told him. “If anything happened to my father and those orchids came to me, I’d just give them back to Fern and Iris and escape as fast as I could.”

  “Would you really? Another clause he’ll put in the new will gives you the right to live in his house for as long as you like, if you choose. If Fern or Iris should try to-put you out, their own inheritance might be in jeopardy.”

  “I wouldn’t stay under those circumstances! I don’t belong here anyway,” I finished with a crack in my voice that I hated to hear.