Enemy in Camp

by Janet Dailey

  "What is 'precisely' his point?" she demanded when the girl had gone, attacking the salad with a vengeance.

  "That Dirk Ramsey doesn't know him," her mother explained. "Your father has always made it a point to be open with the press. On several occasions he has gone out of his way to cultivate their respect. The last thing he wants or needs is to become involved in a feud with a national journalist like Dirk Ramsey."

  "Journalist—he doesn't deserve the term. He has climbed to the top by tarnishing images of public figures," Victoria snapped. "I wouldn't call him famous. Notorious is more appropriate."

  "It doesn't matter whether you consider him famous or notorious. Whatever Dirk Ramsey prints or says, people pay attention to it." Lena Beaumont continued on her reasoning tactic.

  "In my opinion dad should sue him." Victoria stabbed at a dark green spinach leaf with her fork.

  "That would be jumping from the frying pan into the fire. It isn't possible to attack one member of the press without the others leaping to his defense. Instead of having one man against him, your father would have them all," was the dry retort.

  "So if you can't beat them, join them. Is that his plan of attack?" Victoria knew she sounded sarcastic and didn't care.

  Until Dirk Ramsey had begun making questionable references to her father in his column, Victoria had never even read it. After reading two columns of his interpretations of half-truths, she refused to even look at it again. Once she had heard him introduced on some national television show and immediately switched channels. One glimpse of his arrogantly handsome face was all she had needed to convince her he was only seeking his own glory.

  "Essentially, it is," her mother agreed with her comment. "Dirk Ramsey doesn't know your father. He's barely exchanged ten words with him. So your father contacted him and suggested they become better acquainted. He invited him to spend two weeks with us at Mackinac Island for that purpose and Mr. Ramsey accepted."

  "It's absurd. It's absolutely absurd!" Victoria set her fork down to confront her mother.

  "It's perfectly reasonable. Once Dirk Ramsey gets to know your father, he will see for himself that Charles is simply not the way he's been depicted."

  "And if he doesn't see it, what then?" Victoria challenged.

  "Then it won't be because your father failed to try to change his mind." She sipped at her coffee with a calmness that Victoria had so often envied and tried to emulate.

  "Dad can't be serious." Victoria shook her head, waves of her medium-length beige hair brushing her neck. "He could accomplish the same thing by having dinner with the man or playing a couple of rounds of golf or tennis."

  "No, he couldn't," Lena Beaumont denied that suggestion. "Dirk Ramsey would suspect that your father was putting up a facade. But nobody can maintain a facade for two weeks, day in and day out."

  "Wait a minute." Victoria straightened, eyeing her mother with suspicion. "When you said dad invited Ramsey to Mackinac Island, you didn't mean that he would be staying with us—at our summer home? He will be staying at a hotel, won't he?"

  "Of course not," her mother laughed. "He will be our guest, just like anyone else we would invite."

  "That's even worse!" she declared. "It's like inviting your enemy into camp to inspect your defenses!'

  "You are exaggerating, Tory," her mother sighed with some amusement.

  "I'm not. If you don't see it, dad should," she insisted. "Can you imagine how a man like Ramsey can twist even the most insignificant thing?"

  "It's up to all of us to persuade him that he has formed a misconception," Lena reasoned.

  "You can't be serious, mother," Victoria replied with some disgust. "You know the stage Penny is in," she said, referring to her sixteen-year-old sister. "She knows everything. She's always talking back, sassing. Can you imagine the kind of impression she is going to give Ramsey?"

  "Penny wants to be treated like an adult. So, we will sit down and discuss this with her. Explain that we will expect her to behave with the family interest as her prime consideration." Lena Beaumont refused to be as pessimistic as her daughter.

  "With our luck, Penny will meet some radical student and start picketing the house," Victoria muttered.

  "The way you did," her mother suggested with a definite sparkle in her eyes.

  "Please, don't remind me of that embarrassing episode in my life." The heightened color in her cheeks had nothing to do with the tint of blusher.

  "Let's see. If I recall correctly, you were accusing your father of—I don't remember exactly how your sign was worded—but it was something to do with making too much money and thus depriving the poor. At the same time, you were trying to persuade him to raise your allowance." Lena paused, a smiling frown dominating her expression. "What was the name of that boy who instigated that rebellion?"

  "I don't remember his name. Everyone called him by his nickname, Lightning." In spite of herself Victoria felt a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. It quickly became cynical as another thought flashed across her mind. "I can guess how Ramsey would twist that silly incident," She heard the impatient sound her mother made. "If Dirk Ramsey accepted dad's invitation, you can bet he wasn't motivated by a desire to get to the truth. He'll be gathering more ammunition for another attack. I'm sure he jumped at the opportunity to unearth any skeleton in the closet, and if he can't find one he'll invent it," Victoria declared, snapping a rye cracker in half.

  "You are prejudging him, Tory," her mother pointed out. "The very thing that you are accusing him of doing."

  "Oh, yes, he has prejudged us," she nodded with simmering anger. "I believe he suggested once that we were a family of snobs, too good to mingle with the rest of the world. Dad has disproved that, hasn't he? Who could personify that ilk more than Dirk Ramsey?"

  "Your attitude is wrong, Tory," her mother reproved. "You need to keep an open mind about this."

  "I prefer to keep my eyes open," she retorted. "Snobs, indeed! I have never considered myself to be better than anyone else, I have had more advantages than others because of the accident of my birth to you and dad, but I am fully aware that I could have been our waitress. I don't think less of her because of her employment. It could easily be me. We don't belong to exclusive clubs because they keep out the riffraff. We go to them because they are close to our home, or because our friends belong to them, or some equally innocent reason."

  "I know that, dear." Lena appeared amused by the defensive speech, which only irritated Victoria.

  "The last thing I'm going to do is race out on the street and grab the first impoverished-looking person and make friends with him just so I can go around saying I have a poor friend. I don't choose anyone by his bank balance, whether it's large or small," she finished.

  "Are you through? Should I applaud?" her mother teased.

  "In another minute you are going to get this salad in your lap if you keep that up," Victoria threatened and pushed the plate away. "I'm not hungry."

  "You are taking all this too seriously. You shouldn't let someone like Dirk Ramsey upset you."

  "Someone like Dirk Ramsey?" A silver light danced wickedly in her gray eyes.

  "Now you have me doing it!" her mother laughed ruefully. "Dirk Ramsey is just going to be another guest who will spend a couple of weeks with us—nothing more."

  "I'll never believe that," Victoria stated, her mouth straightening grimly. "Dad has invited an enemy into our midst. And I'm going on the basis that to be forewarned is to be forearmed." She picked up her iced-tea glass and swirled the ice cubes. "When will our 'guest' be descending on us? In June, you said?"

  "He'll arrive the second weekend in June, whatever that date is, and be there for the Lilac Festival," she explained. "You and I and Penny will fly up the middle of next week to open the house. Your father will join us that weekend."

  "At least we'll have some peace and quiet before the enemy arrives," Victoria murmured caustically and sipped at her tea.

  "Did you see Mrs. Ogden?"
She was an elderly woman that Victoria regularly visited as a volunteer for the shut-ins.

  Victoria eyed her youthful-looking mother over the rim of the glass. "Changing the subject, mom?" she challenged.

  "Yes," was the emphatic response and Victoria laughed, a throaty cultured sound.

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  Chapter Two

  THE JUNE SUN had shifted its angle to glare in Victoria's eyes. She flipped the sunglasses resting on the top of her wheat-brown hair down to perch on the bridge of her nose and continued reading the novel in her hand. Her skin glistened from the liberal application of suntan lotion on all the flesh exposed to the sun's rays. The skimpy blue bikini exposed a great deal. Victoria rarely wore it in public, restricting its use mainly to sunning on the private terrace of their Mackinac Island home.

  It was an old, solid-looking house, built of brick, stucco, and wood in the traditional Tudor style popular in the twenties. The terrace where Victoria was sunning was reached by a breezeway porch accessible from the living room of the house by sliding glass doors or from the front entry porch by means of a pair of iron gates. Directly behind Victoria was a garage, built in anticipation of personal motorized vehicles being brought to the island, an expectation that was never fulfilled. Transportation on the island was limited to horse and buggy, bicycles or walking. There was an airstrip where small planes landed, but as there was no bridge to the mainland, boat service ferried most of the island visitors to and from the island.

  Few people ever objected to the absence of cars, since it was part of the island's charm. Those who did bemoan the fact were usually those with blisters on their heels. Everyone else simply enjoyed the leisurely pace of life on the island. And the garage of the Beaumont summer home became a storage shed for lawn tools and bicycles.

  The sliding glass doors connecting the breezeway and terrace to the living room were opened. Victoria's sideways glance encompassed the angular build of Josie Largent, the Beaumont's French-speaking housekeeper for some twenty-odd years. But it was the tall, frosty glass on the tray that made Victoria straighten in the lounge chair and push the spaghetti-thin straps of her bikini into place on her shoulders.

  "Lemonade! Josie, you are an angel!" she declared. "Merci."

  "I thought you would be thirsty from all this sun," the housekeeper replied in French. Her English was flawless, but she rarely spoke it. Victoria suspected the woman believed it added distinction to her person if she spoke French. For Victoria it had meant her French language courses in school had been a snap, since she had conversed with Josie in that language from the time she was a child.

  Josie held the tray out to her so Victoria could take the glass. Her sharp hazel eyes swept the bareness of Victoria's body, then flicked in the direction of the early afternoon sun.

  "Do not stay in the sun too long or you will look like a lobster," she admonished, still in French. "And be careful of those sunglasses or you will have rings around your eyes like a raccoon."

  "Oui, mais je ne suis pas l'enfant," Victoria sighed the protest that she wasn't a child, although she smiled affectionately when she did.

  "Non?" The haughty one-word challenge was Josie's only response as she pivoted and walked under the shade of the breezeway to the glass doors.

  Shaking her head wryly, Victoria took a swallow of the tart, cold liquid. Josie always managed to have the last word in any discussion. At times it was an irritating trait, but no one really minded. She was a member of the family, practically a second mother to Victoria and her sister, and much sterner with them than their parents were. Holding her glass, Victoria leaned back in the cushioned lounger and tried to find her place on the page of the book.

  "There you are, Tory! I'm going to use your ten-speed. My bike has a flat tire." The greeting and announcement came out in a rush as Penny Beaumont burst onto the terrace. A silken curtain of long, honey-blond hair hung almost to her waist. Wand-slim, she was always irritated by the fact that her figure hadn't achieved the attractive curves Victoria possessed. She was sixteen and anxious to look it. Bouncing forward in a pair of denim shorts and a red T-shirt, she spied the glass Victoria held. "Lemonade?" Water had condensed on the sides of the glass. It was too wet to hang onto, and it slipped out of Victoria's fingers when Penny took it from her. She drank a third of it.

  "What happened to 'May I have a drink please'?" In irritation, Victoria attempted to remind her sister of her manners.

  Penny shrugged diffidently. "You would have said I could so I saved all that time and breath. It was good." She returned the glass of lemonade to Victoria.

  "Thank you—you're welcome, Penny," Victoria mocked.

  "I loathe that name. It's perfectly awful, and Penelope is worse." She made a face at that, and rested a hip against the edge of the redwood table. "I have decided that from now on I'm going to use my middle name. Laurel has a much better ring to it, don't you think?" she declared in a pseudo-adult air.

  "Oh, yes," Victoria agreed, trying desperately not to smile. She remembered, not so many years ago, when she had disliked her own name. Now, she was simply grateful that she had never been tagged with the nickname of Vicky. "Although you didn't exactly ask my permission, yes, you may use my bike. Where are you going?"

  "I'm meeting Tracy," Penny referred to one of her friends. "Then we're cycling to the dock to watch the people."

  "Inspect the latest arrival of boys, don't you mean?" Victoria teased.

  "That, too," Penny grinned. "You should come along. You might find someone."

  "I'm not exactly on the shelf at twenty-three." Victoria murmured dryly and settled more comfortably on the lounger. Shrugging she added, "Let him find me."

  Penny clicked her tongue. "You aren't supposed to wait for your ship to come in. You are supposed to swim out to meet it."

  "You swim. I'll sun," she replied with unconcern.

  "Suit yourself," Penny shrugged and moved in the direction of the garage. "But you're not getting any younger."

  "Thank heaven," Victoria murmured to herself. She didn't want to go through those traumatic teen years again. "Have fun boy watching, Penny."

  "Laurel! The name is Laurel," was the quick retort.

  "Have fun…Laurel," Victoria stressed it with faint mockery.

  Returning her attention to the open book in her hand, she half listened to the sounds of her younger sister wheeling the bike out of the garage. In a few minutes she was pedaling away from the house, and once again Victoria was alone on the terrace—but not for long. She had barely read the next paragraph when she heard her father calling for her.

  "Tory? Where are you?" His voice came from inside the house.

  "Out here, dad!" she called back and laid the book face down on her lap, sighing faintly at the interruption.

  Sliding open the glass door, Charles Beaumont stepped into the breezeway. Although fifty-five years old, he was still a virilely handsome man. His hair had turned a distinguished iron gray and had begun to thin slightly at the temples. Age had thickened his waistline, but he had retained a physically fit look about him. His suntan was returning, although his legs beneath the tennis shorts were still a little pale. He looked healthy and there was a contented light in his blue eyes.

  "Do you want something, dad?" She smiled at the sight of him.

  "Were you planning on going anywhere this afternoon?" he inquired returning her smile with equal warmth.

  "The only plan I have today is to get some sun and finish this book." She lifted the open novel on her lap. "Why?"

  "Your mother and I are off to play a couple of games of tennis," he explained. "Dirk Ramsey said he would arrive sometime late this afternoon or early evening. We should be back by four o'clock, but in case he comes before we return, would you make our apologies to him and show him which room he'll be in? Just generally make him comfortable."

  Her mouth thinned into a hard smile. "Shall I show him where we keep the family skeleton, too? Or maybe I'll unearth Penny's di
ary and offer it to him."

  "Victoria." He murmured her name in a sigh that said they had been over all this, which indeed they had—many times.

  "Oh, don't worry," she flashed in frowning irritation. "I will behave with the utmost decorum."

  "That almost worries me more than if you told him off," her father replied dryly.

  "Don't tempt me," Victoria murmured and opened the book to resume her reading.

  Her father turned to leave. "We'll be back by four."

  "Don't be late," she called the warning.

  He just smiled and waved. "Hold the fort while we're gone."

  Victoria watched him disappear into the house, her gray eyes dark and turbulent. "How can I hold the fort when I'm supposed to let the enemy in?" she challenged. But he was out of hearing and didn't respond.

  A few minutes later, the clip-clop of hooves sounded the arrival of the horse-drawn taxi and the departure of her parents. The mere mention of Dirk Ramsey disturbed Victoria's concentration. She had to read the page she was on twice before she finally began following the novel's plot.

  An hour later she moved out of the sun into the shade of the breezeway. Her skin tanned quickly and easily and Victoria chose not to flirt with the danger of a sunburn. Besides, the glare of the sun on the white pages of the book had begun to hurt her eyes despite the sunglasses she wore. By now Victoria was too engrossed in the characters to put it down.

  She was two chapters from the end when she heard the horse and carriage stop in front of the house. She glanced once toward the sun, but couldn't judge the time by its angle. There was a fleeting recognition of relief that her parents were back and she wouldn't have to be concerned about entertaining Dirk Ramsey in their absence, since he hadn't arrived. Then her concentration was back on the pages of the novel.

  The horse pulling the carriage trotted away from the house at about the same time that Victoria heard the doorbell ring. It jolted along her nerve ends like an electric shock. She looked to the sliding glass doors, her eyes wary with suspicion.