Star Flight

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  “I’d want to talk with Victoria’s sister, Gretchen. I met her last night. How will your grandfather feel about that?”

  “Jim asked the same question. He knew Gretchen and liked her. He’d talked to Ty Frazer, thanks to Gordon, and he’d even gotten him on tape. Finella told me on the phone that you’ve already met our local character. Of course you’d have to persuade Ty not to run off in fright, if you decided to interview him, too. But as far as I’m concerned, you can explore in any direction you choose. We can always edit later.”

  So there would be censorship? Not that this would matter, since there might never be a finished script, anyway. My own purpose in doing this was not the same as Natalie’s.

  “Will you think about this, Lauren?”

  “I’ll think about it, and if you can set it up, I’d like to meet Roger Brandt.”

  “Yes, of course. Before anything else will work, we must get Grandfather’s agreement to see you. If you can’t win him over, it’s hopeless. Let me talk to him. Perhaps I’ll have some ideas for you tonight at dinner. Gordon can help, too. He liked what Jim was doing—and my grandfather likes Gordon.”

  I decided to bring up something that had troubled me. “When Jim’s things were sent to me, I didn’t receive his notes on this project or any of the film he’d shot. There should have been film at least.”

  “I pulled everything out myself,” Natalie admitted. “I didn’t want what had been completed to be lost. Jim had a lot of plans, but he only got around to filming one interview. You can see that, if you like. And I’ll give you his notes.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted this to happen. There seemed something terribly unsettling about watching a film Jim had started so shortly before his death.

  Natalie must have registered my concern, for she spoke abruptly. “You’re looking tired, Lauren. I’ll drive you back to the other side so you can rest before dinner.”

  I quickly accepted. I had a lot to think about and I wanted to be alone.

  As we started down the long studio, I stopped before the painting on the easel, my attention suddenly riveted. This was one of Natalie’s Indian village scenes that Gordon had mentioned.

  She had chosen a chilling subject—the stake I’d seen planted in the center of the approach to the village. As always, Natalie had let her imagination soar. A figure, his arms secured by an overhead pole, was already obscured by a veil of gray smoke rising from wood where low flames were beginning to burn.

  Pale green moonlight permeated the scene, with the darker forest rising on one side, the trees bending a little as though some high wind touched them. All around the stake, ghostly figures moved in a circling dance. My focus was upon that central figure—whether man or woman, I couldn’t tell, though agonized facial features were visible, the most arresting being the haunted eyes turned toward the sky. For an eerie moment, it was as though I had exchanged places with that figure so soon to die. I shook myself impatiently. What an odd thought for me to have.

  Natalie came to stand beside me. “A bit weird, isn’t it? Sometimes what I paint has very little to do with my own will. Something takes control of my brush and then a scene just happens. I was painting like that when I did the Star Flight watercolor Finella has in her shop. Sometimes it’s as if I’ve painted something out of a past I’ve never seen. Though other times the subject seems prophetic—as if the occurrence is yet to happen. With this one, I was probably seeing what had already taken place for the movie.”

  I didn’t know how the scene in the film was managed, but it was unlikely that flames and smoke of this magnitude would have been started around an actor. I was glad to turn away from that agonized face whose pain and fear reached out to touch me.

  Natalie led the way to the door, and, as we stepped outside, a woman appeared, coming down the walk from a higher part of the house. I knew at once who she must be. Though she was over seventy, her back was straight and she was arrestingly beautiful. Natalie’s resemblance to her grandmother was clear, but Natalie’s beauty was sharp and young and a little edgy. Camilla’s had grown more controlled and seemingly serene. She carried herself with a dignity that I suspected would never be easily ruffled. Taller than her granddaughter, she looked tan and fit, as though she must spend effort and time to keep herself in good physical condition.

  There must have been face-lifts to preserve the integrity of chin line and neck. Only one flaw detracted from her almost-perfect beauty—a scar on her right cheek. As far as possible, it had been hidden with skillful makeup, but nothing could conceal a puckering of flesh where something had cut in a deep diagonal slash.

  She paused at the sight of us. “I’m sorry, Natalie. I didn’t realize you had company.”

  “It’s all right, Gran. We’re just leaving. This is Lauren Castle, Jim’s wife. Lauren, my grandmother, Camilla Brandt.”

  The cool look she gave me was intimidating. She wore, like a garment, a manner that seemed almost royal. Her pale violet silk dress flowed around her, revealing a perfection of figure that would have been the envy of women half her age. I wondered whether pride was mainly what had held Camilla Brandt together for all these years.

  Natalie went on to explain my presence. “I kidnapped Lauren from Dad’s boat, since I wanted to meet her. Now I’ll drive her back to her car.”

  Camilla Brandt held out her hand to me with a natural courtesy that I suspected nothing could ever shake. “We were all grieved about Jim’s death, Mrs. Castle.” Her speech had a cultivated ring; her voice must have aged little, since there was no quaver in her tones, no faltering.

  I thanked her for her sympathy and she bowed slightly before turning back to her own part of the house, moving with a natural grace that was timeless.

  Feeling a little stunned, I followed Natalie to the garage on the upper level, where she’d left her car.

  “You resemble your grandmother,” I remarked.

  “I only wish! You should see pictures of her when she was young and a great beauty. If only I could have known her before all that legendary wildfire went out of her. I think Grandfather was always a little intimidated by her. There are stories about her when she was young. They must have been madly in love.”

  She opened the door of the Mercedes and I got in, lost in my own sober thoughts. Madly in love for a time, perhaps? But then there had been Victoria Frazer. How much, or how little, had she meant to Roger Brandt? His career had ended because of Victoria, but not his marriage. For the first time, I wondered whether Victoria’s death could have been a relief to him. If he had turned away from her when she was pregnant, she might well have committed suicide in despair. There was a great deal I wanted to know, and working on this film, even if nothing came of it, might help me answer those questions.

  “Your grandmother should be part of the film, if we do pick up Jim’s work,” I said. “It would be interesting to talk with her.”

  Natalie shook her head. “That wouldn’t be allowed.”

  “Who would oppose it?”

  “If Grandfather didn’t allow Jim to talk with her, he certainly wouldn’t permit you to do so.”

  In that case, I thought, I must find a way to talk with Camilla Brandt on my own.

  As Natalie backed the car out of the garage, she turned her head to look at me. “You are working on a script in your mind, aren’t you? The writer in you is taking over. I can tell by the way you look.”

  I smiled vaguely, impressed by her perceptiveness but promising nothing.

  We wound through the woods on the Brandts’ private road and came out upon an open stretch that offered a view of the lake. Rumbling Bald was behind us now, and when we descended to the level of the dam and started across, I could look straight up the gorge to where it narrowed near Chimney Rock. The Indian village that I’d visited this morning, and that Natalie had painted so disturbingly, was somewhere up there.

  “Have you lived here all your life?” I asked Natalie.

  She drove easily, relaxed at the wheel.
“Yes, except for four years at the University of Virginia.”

  There was another story here—the story of Natalie Brandt. For just a moment, I wanted to tell her who I was and claim our relationship. But I didn’t know her well enough yet to guess what the result of such a revelation might be. It was better to wait and go slowly. So for now I would continue to play my hand as Jim’s wife. I’d already been given more glimpses of the Brandts than I’d ever thought possible.

  Natalie spoke quietly as we neared Finella’s, where I’d left my car. “You’re a deep one, Lauren. There’s something you’re holding back, but you’ll tell me eventually.”

  I had nothing to say to that, so I left the car with a brief “See you tonight.” When I reached my own car and looked back, I saw that she still sat there with her hands on the wheel, looking after me, her expression not altogether friendly.

  5

  When I entered the lobby of the lodge, Mrs. Adrian spoke to me from the desk. “If you have time, Mrs. Castle, Miss Frazer would like you to come down to see her. She said you would know the way.”

  Tired as I was beginning to feel, this was an invitation I couldn’t refuse. I went out to the walkway that led toward the water and stood there for a moment, the view holding me all over again. In afternoon sunlight, Rumbling Bald looked more serene, less frightening. Across the lake in the direction of the dam, I could now recognize the roof of Roger Brandt’s house. How remarkable, I thought, that I might have access to that house and to Roger Brandt. Providing, of course, that he agreed to see Jim Castle’s wife.

  As I reached the level of Gretchen’s small house, I heard voices and paused on the walk. The big room she’d taken me into last night was farther along, but these sounds came from nearby, where a door stood open. I went to look in at a surprising scene.

  The small room was square, with white plastered walls and very little furniture. Its central focus was a white bed, upon which lay a child—a little girl of about ten, dressed in pajamas. Gretchen Frazer sat in a chair drawn up to the opposite side of the bed from where I stood. Her eyes were closed and she wore a beatific expression, as though held by some inner rapture. The deep lines of her face had lifted and she almost glowed with a peaceful radiance. This was a different woman from the one I’d met last night—a woman who had been a little rough-edged and curt. I watched, fascinated.

  She sat with her hands straight out before her, held an inch or two above the child’s chest. Her lips moved as though she uttered some whispered prayer. In contrast, Siggy von Hogg sat on his haunches on my side of the bed, observing the ritual with complete attention.

  Someone stirred in a corner to my right and I became aware of a woman who sat on a straight chair, her coloring as fair as that of the child on the bed. When she caught my eye, she raised a finger to her lips, warning me to be quiet. The little girl’s mother, undoubtedly.

  Like Gretchen’s, the child’s eyes were closed, and she was breathing harshly. But even as I watched, the rasping breaths lessened and color began to return to her small face. Gretchen rested a light hand on her forehead.

  “The fever’s gone. She doesn’t need it anymore, and her coughing will stop now,” she told the woman as she bent over the child, brushing the girl’s hair away from her face. “Let me get you some herbs to give her in a drink and leaves that you can use to make into a poultice to put on her chest tonight.”

  She started to rise and saw me. For just an instant, she looked startled. Then, without speaking, she went to busy herself at a cabinet and put a small parcel into the mother’s hands. The woman began to fumble with her purse, but Gretchen stopped her.

  “There isn’t any charge. This is my reward.” She touched the little girl’s head again as the child sat up and smiled.

  When they went out of the room, Siggy came to snuffle at my ankles, seeming to smile up at me when I bent to scratch between his ears.

  Gretchen shooed him away. “Manners, Siggy,” she said, and the pig ambled away. “I’m glad to see you, Lauren. Come into the other room, please. I have something to show you.”

  I was still under the spell of what I’d just witnessed. There seemed to be a goodness at the core of this woman that she tried to hide with her brusque manner.

  I spoke warmly. “How wonderful to have a healing gift like that!”

  We’d entered the kitchen area, where I’d sat last night. She waved me to a chair and flicked a hand, dismissing my words.

  “It’s not always wonderful. Sometimes nothing happens and I blame myself for not knowing enough.”

  “Have you always been able to help the sick?”

  She answered openly. “Whatever gift I possess seems to have come to me after my sister, Victoria, died. That was a difficult time for me spiritually and I was reaching out for—for anything that would help me. When I found out what I could sometimes do, it frightened me at first. It seemed to happen serendipitously, until I began to understand that this was why I was here on earth. I couldn’t help my sister, but I could use my powers for others.” She broke off for a moment and then went on abruptly. “We need to talk, Lauren.”

  I’d always found that phrase ominous: It usually meant that something would be said that I didn’t want to hear. I sidetracked her with a question, postponing.

  “What were the leaves you gave the little girl’s mother for a poultice?”

  “Kudzu. The Japanese have used it in healing for centuries. I’m afraid I’m only a beginner when it comes to understanding its virtues.”

  “I saw the kudzu room at Finella Heath’s shop today.”

  Gretchen looked pleased. “I introduced Finella to the miracle of kudzu. She’s taken off like a crusader. How did your day go, Lauren?”

  Perhaps she, too, was postponing the need to talk to me.

  “I’ve covered some unexpected ground,” I said, and gave her a brief account of my adventures. My visit to Roger Brandt’s house caught her attention.

  “Did you actually see him?”

  “Not even a glimpse. Though I was introduced to Mrs. Brandt.”

  “The formidable Camilla! What did you think of her?”

  “We barely met. She’s an impressive lady, but I had a sense of coolness toward me.”

  I decided to tell her about Natalie’s request. “I may pick up the work Jim started. Only the writing part, of course. Natalie Brandt said she could handle a video camera, if I would do the interviewing. As Jim’s wife, there’s a chance that Mr. Brandt might talk to me now. I would have to come up with questions, of course, and an overall plan that would give me a framework.”

  Gretchen regarded me somberly. “Don’t let the Brandts twist you around to their own purposes. I don’t think this is a good idea. Who cares about Roger Brandt these days?”

  “There’s been a revival of interest in his films around the country. Why does the idea upset you?” I could guess, but I wanted to challenge Victoria’s sister.

  “Because it would all be done to glorify his career. After what happened to my sister, I can hardly be enthusiastic.”

  I wasn’t ready yet to tell her that I might be a lot more partisan to Victoria’s story than that of the Brandts, though I touched on this lightly. “I’ve always been fascinated by Victoria Frazer—so her life will be part of whatever is covered. That is, if you are willing to help me.”

  She closed her eyes and seemed to go far away in her thoughts. When she looked at me again, I knew that she’d rejected the idea. “It’s better to let the past go, Lauren, and get on with your own life. I have a feeling that you’ve been marking time since your husband died.”

  Gretchen had a quick, blunt perception that disconcerted me. She saw too much too clearly. But perhaps I could be perceptive, too.

  “Is there something about your sister that you don’t want to see published?”

  “A great deal,” she said. “An artist’s work should be judged—not her life.”

  I let that go, though I was all the more curious. “I m
et your brother, Ty, this morning,” I told her.

  “Tyronne? Did he bring Finella a bag of kudzu? He keeps me supplied through her.”

  Tyronne? It was difficult to connect so romantic a name to that rough old man with his quick-moving nervousness.

  “He came in while I was in the shop,” I told her. “But I’d also seen him earlier up in the Indian village where the movie was made. He was playing a drum—wonderful, eerie sounds!”

  “Poor Ty. Perhaps he suffered more than anyone else after Victoria died.”

  “Oh?” I waited, and she went on sadly.

  “When he was young, his ambition was to become a doctor, and Victoria was helping him. She easily earned enough to send him through medical school. He was bright and eager for life, and he had the healing gift, too—though not in the same way it developed for me. In the early days, Victoria was good to everyone.”

  “What happened?”

  “After she fell in love with Roger Brandt, she changed. She lost interest in everything and everyone else. Maybe she wouldn’t have withdrawn her support for Ty, but he thought that was what she meant to do. We all lived together in this house in those days. That was long before the lodge was built. I remember when Tyronne sat right here in this kitchen, and he was angrier than I’d ever seen him. He called Roger Brandt a seducer. After Victoria died, he forgave her, but by that time he’d gone off the deep end and become the way he is now. At first, I was afraid he might try to kill Roger. But the Brandt house was a fortress in those days—Camilla saw to that—and he’d never have gotten past the guards.”

  “It didn’t seem to be guarded when I was there this morning.”

  “Nobody bothers anymore. Celebrity seekers are after younger prey and many of his old fans don’t know he’s here. Though if you go through with this documentary, that may change. How did you happen to get into the place?”

  “I was on Justyn Brandt’s boat and Natalie invited me ashore. But tell me about Tyronne.”

  “He lives in the mountains. I think he knows every cave on Rumbling Bald, and he likes wild animals better than he does people. That’s where his healing gifts come in.” Gretchen’s words seemed heavy with an underlying sadness. “Everything would have been different if Victoria and Roger hadn’t fallen in love.”