"You're right. God, he's such a doll. Funny, patient, kind. Too bad his ex-wife couldn't handle his years of med school. But not too bad for me."
"Go for it, kiddo," said Liz, suffering an odd and unexpected pang.
"Are you reading the letters? I haven't had the time I thought I would," Victoria confessed without guilt. "One thing's clear, though: Victoria St. Onge was a conniving little ... whatever. She did make some enemies. I'm surprised she lasted so long."
"Yeah ...," Liz said in a vague way.
"What?" said Victoria at once. "What did you find out? Who did what to her?"
"Good lord, Tori — you've read my mind!" said Liz. Immediately she thought of the other Victoria — the other mind-reader. It was too eerie. With a wince in her voice, Liz said, "I was at the library, so I thought I'd do a little investigating. It turns out that Victoria St. Onge was ... well ... murdered. In 1939."
"Murdered! How?"
"Um ... a blow to the head."
"Now that pisses me off. That was supposed to be a safe time to live. I expected to die in my sleep! Really, it's too much. The streets aren't safe. I may never come back, you know? Maybe I'll just buy a house on the Vineyard. Ben and I were looking at these adorable teeny-tiny cottages at Oak Bluffs ..."
Victoria's bouncing back and forth between lives had Liz reeling, but at least she wasn't taking the news tragically. Obviously Dr. Ben was a hell of an effective distraction. Relieved, Liz said, "Look, I'd better let you go. Susy's been waiting patiently for her bedtime story."
She was able to get off the phone without having to explain that before the final blow to the head, Victoria St. Onge had suffered a brutal beating at the hands of a thirty-yearold con-man who'd been living with her — thank God, in some other house than Liz's — at the time of her murder. The murderer's name was Johnny Ripen, and he was sent to jail, at the end of 1939, for life.
It was all so predictable. A senile woman with no family and a fair amount of money, along comes a charming ne'er do-well, and the rest is history. How brutally ironic, Liz thought as she walked her daughter upstairs to her room: the con-woman got conned, and she paid with her life.
After she put Susy to bed, Liz washed up with every intention of turning in at seven-thirty herself; she was desperately behind in her sleep. She washed Susy's milk glass and her own tea things and began heading up the stairs, then made the mistake of glancing at the pine seaman's trunk that served as her coffee table, where the letters were stacked like full-color slides of another age.
Just one, she told herself. And then I've got to get some sleep.
After turning off the ringer to her phone, she settled into the down-filled cushions of her chintz sofa and picked up a letter at random. It was dated in July 1890; she read through it quickly, looking for — she didn't know what. For answers. For clues. For something to explain the red box and the chimes and the ghost and Victoria's bizarre behavior.
My dear sister,
I am out of sorts today with what I fear is the grippe. In any case, I am too weak and trembly to take part in the endless round of boredom that has become known as the Bellevue Avenue coaching parade.
You left Newport too soon, my sweet. Yesterday there was a great to-do when Mrs. Olivia-Pemberton had her coachman cut directly in front of Mrs. Vanderbilt ‘s maroon barouche-and-six. (I was approaching from the opposite direction in Peter Trumble‘s phaeton and saw it all. It truly did happen.)
Mrs. V. will never, of course, forgive the impertinence. My advice to Mrs. Olivia-Pemberton is to cease construction on her Versailles folly, pack up her bags, and return at once to New York. She is quite through in Newport. Perhaps Bar Harbor will take her.
"Tough town," Liz said, smiling, as she laid the letter back on its pile. It was interesting to learn that Mercy had managed to visit Newport after all. Liz would have to read back from the letter to find out what scams she‘d been up to. It was like a historical soap opera.
She picked up another letter — absolutely, positively her last of the night. It was dated in late June of the following year.
Dear Mercy,
I have made inquiries about the mystery man who so enchanted you at the Black and White Ball. Only one man there dared dress all in black, without even a shred of white. He is, alas, a younger brother with only modest prospects.
Even less encouraging, he is known to be a wild thing, taking up society's best women and then breaking their hearts. He is an artist by vocation, if not by trade. I understand that his parents, despite their disappointment, dote on him to the extent that they have allowed him to build a small studio on the grounds of their estate.
In any case, I hardly see how he will ever have enough money or ambition to suit you. His older brother, who manages the family empire in New York and on this island, would be much more worthy a catch for you — but he is engaged to be married. It will surely be one of the most extravagant nuptials ever to be celebrated here; I am desperate to receive an invitation.
Write me as soon as you arrive at Biarritz. I assume you stay at the Palace until you are taken up somewhere.
By now, Liz had made up her mind that little Mercy was a gold-digging masseuse; she saw nothing in the letter to dissuade her. And yet this particular letter, of all the ones she'd read, held Liz fast. She read it through again, disappointed that Victoria hadn't named the brothers in question. What good was a mystery man if he stayed a mystery? He was an artist; too bad. Newport society didn't take kindly to Bohemians — look what a hard slog it had been so far for Victoria and Mercy. On the other hand, the two sisters were still in the game, so who knows? Mrs. Astor's rule that you had to be rich for three full generations before the money cooled down was obviously being bent every day. Maybe you could be an artist and get away with it. Especially if you had an older brother to lend you an air of respectability.
Liz had no trouble imagining the wild young brother in black. Melodramatic, temperamental, egotistical — oh yes, she could see him now, swashbuckling his way through a quadrille. Had it been a masked ball? So much the better.
She curled her legs underneath her, propped her chin on her hand, and gave herself an invitation to the Black and White Ball. Why not? Fantasies were free. Like most Newporters, Liz had toured the biggest and best of Newport's mansions (run as museums now, and open to the hoi polloi); she had a pretty good idea what a castle-size ballroom looked and felt like.
Liz let the fantasy wrap itself around her like warm sleep. It was such an easy, pleasant thing to do, and her bed upstairs was so empty.
All she had to do was corset her waist to an impossible size, strap on a bust improver, slip a white gown by Worth over her head, encircle her neck with a dog choker of creamy pearls highlighted with an onyx medallion (her bit of black), pile her thick brown hair on top of her head — and she was ready for him.
He strode across the ballroom floor with the quick, easy strides of the dark hero in every woman‘s dreams. Heads turned; fans fluttered; there was a rustle of taffeta and silk as blue-eyed debutantes jockeyed to be noticed. No matter. It was brown-eyed Liz — Elizabeth — and no one else that he wanted. He took the full dance card that dangled from her wrist and tossed it aside, then swept her up in an immensely graceful waltz that she knew all the steps to.
He was strong, well-built, utterly in command. His touch was electric, thrilling; it left her giddy from the shock of it. His scent was all male — and maybe a little turpentine, which puzzled her, but she let it pass. He spoke not a word, but she let that pass, too: words seemed unnecessary between them. She wanted to see his face, but his elaborate mask hid all but his jaw with its faint shadow of a beard.
And when the dance was done, he ignored the cutting glances and hostile stares of every other woman at the ball and led Elizabeth through huge French doors onto an exquisite balcony. There, under a brilliant canopy of stars and with the sound of the ocean crashing against the granite ledges of nearby Cliff Walk, he pressed her up against the marble b
alustrade and kissed her deeply, repeatedly, hungrily, begging her to let him make love to her, pounding her into submission with words of love and deep, wet kisses.
And she said yes.
And then they took their masks off ….
And Liz bolted upright out of her daydream on her down-filled, chintz-covered sofa.
"Damn!" she said aloud. "That's who it was! My God! Damn!"
He wasn't a murderer at at all; he was an artist. That wasn't blood on his shirt; it was paint. It was bloody paint! The ghost lounging against Jack Eastman's clock was Victoria St. Onge's mystery man.
Still goosebumpy with desire for the rake in black, and completely confused about how and why she was so convinced that he was her ghost, Liz plunged into the 1891 shoebox and began to read. She went through one letter after another, searching for an identification; her eyes ached and burned until she whimpered from the pain of sleeplessness. She found herself nodding off, like a tired sailor slumping over the helm of a boat during the dog watch, and still she read. Finally, bitterly disappointed, she fell into a sleep that was deep and senseless.
Except for the sound: the seductive, haunting chime-sound that penetrated her oblivion — and every once in a while, turned into an arrogant laugh.
****
"Mom-mee ... I'm going to be late for school," wailed Susy, tugging at her mother's sleeve.
Liz awoke with a start and stumbled out of her exhaustion, murmuring automatic reassurances to her daughter as she quickly got Susy dressed, fed, and into the car. On the way to school Liz rolled right through a stop sign, forgot to signal almost every turn, and only by the grace of God remembered that a red light meant you probably didn't have the right of way.
"Mommy, why are you driving like this? You remind me of Aunty Tori," Susy complained.
"I'm sorry, sweetie," Liz said, distracted. "I'm thinking about something else."
"About the picnic for the people who work at the boatyard?" Susy asked. For some reason the child was fascinated by the upcoming event. "Do you think they'll get to go for boat rides?" she asked wistfully. "That would be so much fun."
"I'm afraid the picnic isn't going to be so much fun at all," Liz said. How much fun could you have in an asphalt-covered boatyard?
"Amy said there would be boat rides," Susy persisted. "She's so lucky she gets to go."
Amy's father, a neighbor of Liz's parents, worked as a welder at the shipyard. So. The employees were getting their hopes up. Liz took it personally. How was she going to make this event work?
"Don't worry about some dumb old boat ride, Susabella. You get to go to Disneyland in a couple of weeks."
It continually surprised Liz how enthusiastic Susy was about boats and boating. She seemed to have salt water in her veins; where did she get it from? On the rare occasions when they'd been invited out on the water, Susy had proved absolutely fearless. Liz would've signed her daughter up for sailing lessons, but Susy was a little too fearless. If anything ever happened to her .... Well, nothing was going to happen to her. Period.
Liz dropped her daughter off just ahead of the bell. She considered visiting the shipyard but decided against it for the simple reason that she looked and felt like hell. Instead she went directly home, hoping to catch an hour's nap.
It was not to be. The answering machine blipped four times when she checked it, a lot of calls for less than an hour's absence. Then she remembered that she'd turned off the phone ringer before she'd begun reading the letters; the calls could have come any time since then.
Liz rewound the tape and listened, pencil in hand, for what she hoped would be inquiries from folks who lived on Bellevue Avenue.
Again her hopes were dashed. The first three messages were from the local historical society, the local psychics' society, and a graduate student named Grant Dade. All of them were interested — as a result of an article in the paper — in her cache of letters.
The fourth call was from Jack Eastman.
She returned that call first. Liz assumed it would be about the picnic; but it turned out that Jack, too, was interested in the letters.
"So your cottage has a big dark secret," he said in a lazy, intimate drawl.
"My house is too small to hold anything big," she said, flushing with pleasure at the low, almost sexy sound of his voice. "And as for it being a secret — well, I doubt that a town crier could've spread the word any faster than the Daily News."
She filled him in on the other messages. He seemed genuinely interested, which left her genuinely pleased; it wasn't often that she'd seen him anything else than self-absorbed.
"You did know," he said, "that your house is built on land my family used to own?"
Ah, yes, she thought. Back to me, me, me. "Of course," she answered, remembering what Victoria had read in the other Victoria's letters. "My land was part of an access road to East Gate."
"Not always. Originally there was a small artist's studio there. The studio got torn down a couple of generations ago, and the land started being used for access after that. Eventually it was sold off to make the boundary line more square."
He might as well have dropped the artist's studio on Liz's head. "Oh, really ... how interesting." She tried to keep her voice from shaking as she asked, "Do you happen to know who stayed there?"
"I said it was an artist's studio," he said, a smile in his voice. "I don't imagine it was a plumber who used it."
Oh my god. Oh my god. Liz's heart took off on a wild thump, racking her chest, leaving her voice stripped of emotion as she said, "I see. Not a plumber."
Not a coincidence, either. Victoria was right. All that stuff about karma ....
"Hey, come on," said Jack in a cajoling voice. "I was only teasing. Boy, you sure can dish it out more than you can take it." He let out a short, musing laugh. "What a thin- skinned little newt you are."
An artist's studio. "Is that why you called, then?" she asked weakly, oblivious to everything he'd said after that. "To find out about the letters?"
Obviously he was mistaking her faintness for chilliness. "No, that was supposed to be the friendly chitchat part that preceded the business part," he admitted dryly. "I called to find out how the picnic plans are coming. My secretary tells me she hasn't heard from you yet. Naturally I'd like to be sure—"
"That I can handle it? A commission as small as this?" She laughed with fine bravado, considering that she was in a state of shock.
"I'm glad to hear it," he said, coolly now. "In that case I'd like to see your preliminary workup. Is the day after tomorrow at eleven too soon?"
Liz felt as if she were being summoned into the principal's office for skipping school. "Eleven is fine," she said, rallying herself. "I'm absolutely sure you're going to love my proposal."
Chapter 7
I have nothing! No proposal, no ideas — nothing!" Liz said to Victoria late the next afternoon. "I haven't even thought about the picnic. All I've done is read the damned letters, trying to find out who the damned apparition was — is — was."
Victoria, who'd cut her vacation short and was feeling as glum as Liz was feeling frantic, shrugged and said, "What's the big deal? Just make sure there's lots of good food. Nobody's going to pay attention to color schemes or party themes at a boatyard."
"But Jack said he wanted magic," Liz wailed.
Victoria poured another spoon of honey into her tea and stirred it languidly. "So? See if you can get your artist pal to make an appearance."
Liz, leafing madly through her Rolodex, looked up and said, "How can you be so flippant? You're the one who got me into this. You're the one who convinced me you were her. Now look at you — you're not her ... you're not you ... you're just a mooning, moping ... teenager! God! One little fight with your new boyfriend—"
"It wasn't a fight," Victoria murmured. She dropped her head over her bone-china teacup and inhaled the bergamot scent as if it were a restorative. "It was a parting of the ways."
"Well, either tell me what it was
about, or cheer up," Liz said, plunging back into her Rolodex. No way was she going to find a decent caterer on such short notice.
"He wants me to be Judy Maroney," Victoria said in a dull, weary voice. "I told him Judy Maroney was dead, and that there's nothing I can do about it."
Liz stopped in her tracks. "Ah," she said softly. "I'm sorry, Tori. I didn't realize—"
Victoria shook off the tears that were glazing her deep-green eyes and said, "He's convinced I have psychogenic amnesia, that I can go back to being Judy Maroney anytime I want. He can't believe I've really tried."
"Well, forget Dr. Ben, then," said Liz softly. "What does he know?"
"I didn't dare tell him about Victoria St. Onge," Victoria added with a crooked smile. "You can imagine what he'd think about that."
"Do you still feel, you know, connected to her?" Liz ventured to ask. "Knowing what a—"
"Stinker she was? Yeah," said Victoria, sighing. She flipped a long, frizzy red lock of hair over her shoulder. "The best spin I can put on this is that she has some unfinished business to take care of."
"Don't we all," Liz agreed tiredly. "I'll be doing this stupid picnic on my deathbed."
That brought a smile from Victoria, and immediately they both felt better. Victoria said, "What can I do to help?"
"Nothing right now," Liz said. "It's mostly phone and computer work. I may throw in a couple of sketches — did I tell you I went through the shipyard this morning? Acres of asphalt, and a dozen bank-possessed boats sitting high and dry in their cradles with For Sale signs on them. Bor-ring."
"I hope you didn't say that to Jack."
"No, he's out of town until late tonight. My point is, the boatyard's just so — I don't know — hard-edged. Masculine. Picnics should be about grass and shade and families."
Victoria snapped her fingers. "Have it at East Gate!"
"Oh, right," Liz said with a snort. "He was reluctant to let his relatives on the property for Caroline's birthday. I can see him opening it up to welders and mechanics."
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