She closed her eyes, lost in another time, and I wondered about her words. I couldn’t imagine that the Brandts would have wanted the child. Certainly not Camilla, and probably not Roger.
When Gretchen opened her eyes and spoke to me, her words were startling. “Now you have come in her stead. Victoria’s granddaughter—my own blood kin!”
Old emotion was welling up out of long suppression and I wasn’t ready for the change. But before I could say anything, she continued.
“I want to warn you about your grandmother, Lauren. Don’t open any doors that will let her in. She used to hurt people—she was very unkind to Tyronne.”
“What do you mean, warn me? What doors could I open?”
“Just don’t get caught up in what must seem like a romantic story. It wasn’t that. It was sordid and ugly—especially for Roger Brandt. So be careful about stirring up sleeping passions.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of any of this, and I spoke abruptly. “This afternoon, Roger Brandt showed me his copy of the movie he made with Victoria Frazer. There was a scene in it when he gave her that very bracelet Ty sent me.”
Gretchen shivered. “You’re already going too far. I remember that picture very well. It was released before she died—even before the baby was born. They made movies quickly in those days. I saw it in Asheville. A foolish picture—not worthy of the actress she had become. I never wanted her to make it. But she was attracted by Roger’s fame. They had met at a party in Hollywood six months before they came to Lake Lure to make Blue Ridge Cowboy. They were almost inseparable from the first. She didn’t know it when shooting began, but she was already three months pregnant with his child.”
I could begin to understand the past a little better and it saddened me.
I told her that Camilla Brandt had taken me to see Betsey Harlan and that Betsey had shown me the white dress Victoria had worn in the picture.
Gretchen’s mood changed at once. She didn’t want to hear any of this. “Stand up,” she ordered, “and tell me how your foot feels.” Obviously, I was not to learn whatever she thought of my visit to Betsey. Were her memories of the past too painful to be resurrected?
I sat up on the edge of the bed and when I touched my heel to the floor, I found the soreness gone. The red mark was no longer a budding blister. By this time, I could almost take such miracles for granted.
“Thank you,” I said.
She turned gruff again. “Hurry now and get ready for your date.”
I watched her intently as I told her who I was planning to see. “I’m to have dinner tonight with Roger Brandt.”
If I’d expected anger or indignation, she showed neither, only shaking her head sadly. “I suppose this had to happen. Just watch your back when you’re with Roger, Lauren.”
“I know. I’ve seen some of his little tricks, so I won’t be taken in.”
“Does he know who you are?”
“No, and I don’t want him to until the right moment comes. Victoria belongs to the past, and for now I want him to see me in the present.”
She turned as she reached the door. “You are part of his past and that may be pretty upsetting to him.”
“I hope it will be,” I said, “if he ever finds out.” Gretchen nodded and went away.
Now I hurried to get out of my stained clothes and showered quickly. I’d brought one other dress that was suitable for dinner—a rosy mauve silk in a chemise style. Its high, round neck was right for my gold chain with a Japanese dragon pendant. The chain was a gift from Gordon in those San Francisco days I didn’t want to think about, but it tied me to the present. I combed my hair carefully, twisting it into a chignon at the back, and slipped a tortoiseshell comb into the knot. Gold earrings were the last touch, and I was ready.
I stood before a long mirror and smiled at myself ruefully. I had dressed as carefully as if I was going to meet a lover—not an elderly grandfather—but this meeting might involve far more than I could anticipate. Certainly more than Roger Brandt expected.
I assured myself that I didn’t look in the least like Victoria. For tonight, I wanted to be only Lauren Castle. Tucked safely in my purse was the tissue-wrapped silver bracelet, though I had no idea when or if I might take it out.
The desk rang to tell me that Mr. Brandt had arrived. I heard the excitement in Mrs. Adrian’s voice and I told her calmly that I’d be right down. Then I braced myself and went to meet my grandfather.
He watched as I came down the stairs, a look of approval in his eyes. When he came to meet me, his shoulders were straight under a dark blue jacket that was out of style, though it must have been expensive in its day. His gray flannel trousers were well creased, and again he wore his signature scarf twisted about his throat—blue and white in a geometric pattern. Tonight he was no cowboy, but a man well seasoned by the years, slightly heavier than he’d been when young, but still a man very sure of himself and his charm.
He’d brought the beautiful old Mercedes in which Natalie had driven me—a car that was probably valuable—but not as ostentatious as expensive California cars could be. He opened the door for me, seated me, and went around to the driver’s side. One would never have guessed his age by his easy movements. Both he and Camilla clearly kept themselves in top shape.
“The Esmeralda is on the other side of Chimney Rock,” he told me as we reached the highway beside Lake Lure. “It’s only a few minutes’ drive.” He glanced at me and then back through the windshield. “You said earlier that you visited Betsey Harlan this morning. I haven’t seen her in years—not since she was a pretty young woman who worked as a dresser for Victoria Frazer. She’s only a little older than my wife.”
“Really? She looks a great deal older. It was your wife who took me to visit her, as I think I mentioned.”
“How did that happen?”
“Your wife seems anxious for me to continue my husband’s work on the documentary he was doing about you.”
He didn’t seem surprised, so perhaps someone had told him.
I continued. “I told her that there’s another side of the story that interests me, if I’m to continue Jim’s work. Victoria Frazer’s side.”
He spoke calmly. “How did my wife react to that suggestion?”
“She seemed to think it reasonable, though that surprised me, considering all that happened.”
Again he spoke casually and with a seeming openness, as though the subject mattered very little. “Camilla’s father was a studio executive, so she understood what could happen in the making of a picture. Of course, love scenes are stronger if the actors like each other.”
His manner irritated me. Like seemed a pretty weak word, if one remembered what had happened. “Perhaps with Victoria it was a little different.”
He ignored that, slowing the car to the pace of traffic through Hickory Nut’s steep-sided gorge. In a short distance, he turned the car up a driveway that climbed the hillside on our right. The Esmeralda was set well above the highway and screened by a line of tall pine trees. Roger parked the car and we climbed side steps to a veranda that opened into the lobby of the inn.
We entered a square, open space, rustic in character, contrasting with the Lake Lure Inn’s more formal style. This space was rimmed by two floors of galleries, off which guest rooms opened at intervals. At the far end of the lobby, a wide fireplace had been set into the rough fieldstones of a chimney, with a set of handsome antlers placed above the mantelpiece. Wherever possible, whole logs, stripped of their bark, had been used.
Roger Brandt stood looking around, as though lost in his own memories. “The inn opened in 1892,” he told me. “But there was a fire that destroyed the original building. It was rebuilt in 1917. It has stood here ever since. Our film company had rooms on the top level, so we had a good view of the gorge and Chimney Rock. I haven’t been here in years. After all that happened, my memories of this place aren’t very happy, though at the time we couldn’t have been more light hearted.” He stopped abrupt
ly. “Let’s find our table. I asked for one on the veranda.”
We were led through an attractive inner dining room and out to where long picture windows formed the front of the inn. A line of tables dressed in turquoise and white invited us, and ceiling fans kept the area comfortable. The walls of pines I’d noticed as we approached the inn protected diners from the intrusion of traffic sounds below. When I was seated, I found I could look out toward the natural phenomenon of Chimney Rock—that granite tower that had separated from the mountain behind to jut out in its own high column.
Menus were presented and I asked Roger to order for us both. At the moment, I had very little interest in food. I wanted to get past his easy self-assurance and stir up whatever he kept hidden underneath.
“Why did you invite me to dinner?” I asked when the waitress had gone.
The shrug of his shoulders beneath his impeccable jacket was still casual. “I liked and admired your husband. And of course I’m still curious about what you thought of the film.”
“Tell me about Victoria,” I countered. “She seemed so beautiful, so talented—but what was she like as a woman?”
“It’s a shame to spoil the illusion, but she could be vindictive—even dangerous.”
This startled me. “Betsey Harlan said she was gentle and kind. It’s hard to believe—”
He broke in on my words. “You’ve probably noticed the scar on my wife’s cheek? Victoria did that. I really don’t care to talk about her, if you don’t mind. Let me tell you about the Esmeralda.”
He had shocked me into silence, and I tried to listen.
“The road down there used to be the old pony express and stagecoach road—the one route through the gorge. There are all sorts of legends about the gorge—tales of little people, of visions and magic. I’ve always relished those stories. Earlier film companies than ours came here. Mary Pickford, Gloria Swanson, and Douglas Fairbanks all stayed here. Lew Wallace wrote the novel Ben-Hur in a room upstairs.”
His voice still held a hint of its youthful timbre as he warmed to his subject, and I was caught in spite of myself. Victoria could wait a little while—I would get back to her.
“Where did the name Esmeralda come from?” I asked.
“Frances Hodgson Burnett wrote a play called Esmeralda when she stayed in this area. It’s long forgotten now, but Colonel Turner, who built the inn, named it after it. Of course the area appealed to moviemakers because of its marvelous scenery. And now Hollywood is discovering it all over again. You know about Dirty Dancing and The Last of the Mohicans?”
“I saw where some of Dirty Dancing was filmed today, and of course I’ve visited the Indian village. Gordon Heath told me that’s where Jim died.”
He spoke gently, with a sympathy I hadn’t sensed in him before. “Your husband became my friend. I could trust him. He was a good man.”
“Thank you,” I said softly. Our wine arrived and when the waitress had gone, I went on. “Tell me about Victoria. I really want to know.”
He sighed as though this was a question he had tired of over the years. “What do you want to know about her?”
“Anything you can tell me. You were in love with her. That much came through on the screen.”
“She wasn’t always lovable, as I believe I’ve made clear.”
I ventured into more risky territory. “She bore you a baby. That’s an accepted fact. So are you telling me you didn’t love her?”
For a moment, I had shocked him by speaking so directly. I suspected that people had been pussyfooting around this subject for years. He recovered quickly, however.
“Are you going to make me sorry that I’ve asked you to dinner, young woman?”
I wasn’t going to be put off by this comment and I gave him a look that must have lacked the admiration he expected. I could almost hear the tinkle of silver bells in my purse, as though some misty hand had reached in to touch the bracelet. Soon now—soon.
The waitress brought our soup. I tried to relax and pay attention to food that hardly appealed to me at the moment.
“If you’re so interested in Victoria,” he said, “there’s an old book you might like to read—if you can find a copy. It was published after Victoria’s suicide, and it’s been long out of print. It was widely read when it first came out. The title was The Firefly. That was also the title of Victoria Frazer’s last picture before the one she made with me—probably her most famous picture, although sadly it’s been uncirculated for decades, like her other films. The author of the book knew her when she stayed here at the Esmeralda. He followed her around, studying her—not always sympathetically.”
“Was the book he wrote accurate?” I asked, dipping my spoon into the soup. “How did you come off in it?”
Irritation with me returned. “I warned Victoria against being open with the fellow. I didn’t like him. But she was always an off-and-on creature—like a firefly. You could never be sure what she might do next. In a way, I suppose, that was part of her fascination.”
“I’d like to find a copy of the book.”
Suddenly, he looked doubtful, as though he had just recalled something. “Perhaps it’s not a good idea to follow this up, Lauren. All these happenings were so long ago, and it can only roil calm waters to stir them up again. I don’t think your husband meant to do that.”
“It’s not so long ago, if Jim’s death was somehow tied to Victoria’s.”
Again he looked shocked, but the waitress came with our entrées. When she’d gone, he didn’t pick up on my remark about Jim.
Darkness had fallen outside and between the pines I could glimpse the lights of cars following the old road that was now a highway. As the evening wore on, I felt no closer to carrying out my main purpose. I didn’t know how to jump into this and perhaps I was hesitant, because I had no idea how he might react to what I had intended to tell him.
Our fresh trout, broiled in country butter, was as delicious as Roger had promised. Even though he regaled me with amusing stories of his filmmaking days, part of me still listened to the whisper of tiny bells. I wanted the reality of those bells to be heard. I wanted to see his painful reaction—yet I waited. Not until the waitress took our dessert orders did I force myself to act. My hand shook as I dropped the bracelet abruptly on the table between us.
His look was more than one of pain and shock. “Where did you get that?” he demanded, all the color draining from his face.
“What does it matter? It’s the same bracelet that you gave Victoria in the scene in the film, isn’t it? She showed her delight and her love for you when you clasped it on her wrist. I don’t think either of you was acting.”
“She was wearing that bracelet when she died,” he said. “I must know how it came into your hands.”
“How do you know that? If her body was never found, how can you know that?”
“She always wore it. She told me she would never take it off.”
Now I recognized the emotion that shook him—it was fear. Roger Brandt was a frightened man. I wasn’t going to give away Ty, but I had more startling news for Roger.
“What matters,” I said quietly, “isn’t really the bracelet. It’s that I am Victoria Frazer’s granddaughter. I am your granddaughter.”
He recovered himself and smiled at me almost tenderly. “I know. I began to suspect from the first moment I saw you. Why do you think I showed you the film? Why would I have invited you to dinner? It’s not so much a matter of features—though your eyes are like hers. There’s an overall impression that comes through. Her look is there in your face.”
I felt thoroughly disconcerted and perhaps a little frightened because of the door that had opened so suddenly, leaving me with a role I didn’t know how to play.
I put a hand out in pleading across the table, feeling guilt along with everything else. “I’m sorry. I’ve been playing games. I wanted to jar you. You seemed so complacent, so sure of yourself. It never occurred to me that I resemble her so much that
you would guess.”
His eyes must once have been a bright and penetrating blue. Now their color was pale, faded, and they were haunted by some dread that had taken a toll on him.
He didn’t touch my extended hand. “Am I the only one who knows who you are?”
“No. Gordon Heath and I met many years ago. I told him then because he came from this area. But I asked him not to tell anyone, and he hasn’t. Now his mother knows, and so do Gretchen and Ty. Though Betsey Harlan is the only one who sensed immediately who I was.”
“Ah yes—Betsey. She always had a sixth sense.” He was silent for a moment, as though trying to collect himself. My identity hadn’t shocked him, but my possession of the bracelet had. “Does Natalie know?” he asked.
“My newly found cousin? I don’t think so. And of course your wife doesn’t know.”
He seemed relieved at that. “Why did you come here after all this time?”
“Natalie summoned me. She believes that Jim was murdered, though she only decided this recently. There’s no real proof, but she thought I should come.”
Again there was a long silence. His face had changed. It was as if he had gone into some inner space where I could not follow.
The waitress had taken our dinner plates moments before and now she returned with two slices of carrot cake. I waited until she had gone before I continued.
“I came because I wanted to know more about Jim’s death. But I also want to know much more about Victoria. My mother never believed that her death was a suicide. She told me that once.”
As Roger reached absently for a dessert fork, a woman stopped beside our table. I looked up, startled, to see Natalie Brandt.
She spoke hurriedly to her grandfather. “Gordon said I might find you here. Camilla needs you. She knows who Lauren is, and so do I. Betsey Harlan phoned her—for spite, I think. She wanted to hurt her and she did. You know Gran’s heart isn’t strong. You’d better go to her right away, Grandfather. I’ll take Lauren back to the lodge.”
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