Gordon left me at the lodge and said he’d come back at six to take me to Finella’s. The moment I reached my room, I sat down to examine my treasure more carefully than I’d had time to during the drive. The jacket was old-fashioned and suggested the lake, with Rumbling Bald in the background. I wasted no time on jacket copy, however, but turned first to the surprising dedication. The words were brief:
For Camilla Brandt
with the respect
and admiration of
the author
What was surprising was that Dennis Ramsay had declared his admiration for Camilla in so open a manner. The dedication itself would make anything he wrote about Victoria suspect and perhaps prejudiced.
Now, with Roger’s warning to Carol in mind, I read carefully from the beginning.
Ramsay was anything but admiring when it came to the woman about whom he’d chosen to write the book. Only as a screen actress did he give Victoria any credit. There he recognized her fascination and admitted to feeling something of her spell himself. Nonetheless, through most of the book, Victoria and Roger came through as shallow and untrustworthy. No wonder Roger had dismissed it. Victoria, especially, was the firefly of the movie. Still, Roger’s behavior seemed extreme.
I came upon an interview Ramsay had done with Victoria, where he’d quoted Victoria in detail. He had asked about the coming marriage between her brother, Tyronne, and young Betsey, Victoria’s dresser. Victoria had said carelessly that such a marriage would never take place.
Ramsay set down her very words: “I would never allow my darling Betsey to marry someone like Ty. He is undependable and filled with ridiculous notions. I will see to it that Betsey realizes exactly what she might be getting into.”
However, though I read carefully until it was time to meet Gordon, nothing surfaced that gave any indication of why Roger had been so anxious to keep the book out of my hands. Whatever it was must still lie ahead; I would get back to it later.
I dressed somewhat absently for my visit to Finella’s house because Ramsay’s words still haunted me, left me troubled. What had Victoria Frazer really been like? What might she have done to bring on her own death? Assuming, of course, that Jim and Ramsay were both right and that her death had not been a suicide. Was this what Roger didn’t want me to think about?
There were other matters to consider, but I put off my main concern for now—my day with Gordon and what it had, or had not, meant. There had been those moments up on Chimney Rock when the old feelings we’d had for each other had seemed renewed in a fresh way.
I could hope only that tonight would be a pleasant experience—as Finella would probably make it.
12
Gordon and Finella lived on a tiny island on the lake. We drove across a bridge to a road that circled the small wooded area. Bright leaves were falling, whipped by a wind that had risen after a calm day. Since land was at a premium here, houses were built at various levels. Finella’s was on the water, so Gordon left his car near the road and we went down wooden steps to the inevitable boathouse with a deck area above.
Finella’s preparations were attractive. There was still light in the sky, but hurricane lamps had been placed about on the big square deck. A round table, covered with a yellow cloth and set with colorful dishes, stood in a corner where the view down the lake was best. Thanks to the island, the wind that whipped the water to froth farther out bypassed this sheltered spot. It would be pleasant to dine outdoors.
Gordon and I were not the only guests. Natalie and Camilla were already there, sitting in outdoor chairs.
At the sight of Camilla, I felt immediately uneasy. If she had collapsed last night in order to get her husband away from Victoria’s granddaughter—and his—how would she greet me this evening? I needn’t have been concerned. Both she and Natalie behaved as though nothing had happened last night to upset anyone. I still had no idea how Roger had reacted after he got home.
In any case, this supper appeared to be a means of bringing the three women together for further discussion about the coming costume ball. I’d been invited simply because I was here. Gordon went to help his mother with the chef’s salad she’d prepared, and then set the bowl in the middle of the table. As we sat down, I saw that a fifth “guest” was present. Already at his place sat a life-size dummy figure, limbs sprawled, vacant of face.
Natalie looked delighted at the sight of him. “So Ezekiel is back.” Then she explained to me. “We’ve nicknamed him that. He was one of the stand-ins that was thrown off the cliff at the end of The Last of the Mohicans. His arms and legs are articulated and can be worked by remote control so as to give a lifelike appearance as he goes through the air. These dummies are pretty valuable, and locals were beating the woods to find them after they’d been tossed over from the top of the falls. Who discovered this one, Finella?”
“Ty came across him in a remote area and brought him to me. I think I’ll display him in my shop for a few days before I send him off to California to his rightful owners.”
“He spooks me a little,” Natalie said. “I think he knows more than he’s telling us.”
“I remember the filming,” Camilla said. “For once, I was invited to view some of the scenes in the Indian village—though so little of what I saw appeared in the final picture.”
As Finella brought out a chilled bottle of white wine and a loaf of warm bread, I watched Camilla in both doubt and admiration. She looked as beautifully composed as ever, and it was hard to imagine her collapsing as she’d supposedly done last night.
“The burning at the stake was so cleverly managed,” she went on. “The illusion on the screen was perfect.”
“I painted that same scene,” Natalie said, “though I had to do it from my imagination.”
I told Natalie that I’d seen her watercolor of the empty Huron village that hung on the wall at the little Mountains Library, and then asked the question that puzzled me.
“When you were working on that painting, did you have a sense that someone was watching you?”
She sipped the wine Gordon had poured and smiled ruefully. “I never meant to paint anything shadowy into that picture, but when I was finished, there it was! Though it was only something I caught out of the corner of my eye. I don’t much like it that something can take over when I’m painting. I want to be fully in control.”
“Natalie has a special vision,” Camilla said, “though she doesn’t always appreciate it.” She took the bowl of salad from Finella, helped herself, and passed it along. “Natalie’s gift is one I’d love to cultivate.”
“You have your own gifts, Gran,” Natalie said, and I was aware of the look of affection that passed between them.
Gordon listened as we talked and ate, though he had little to say. There wasn’t a moment when I was not sharply aware of him beside me at the table.
The three women began to talk about preparations for the coming ball and I found myself watching the twilight view out over the lake, paying little attention until Natalie spoke to me directly.
“Of course you’re coming, aren’t you, Lauren?”
I wanted to give away nothing that I was planning for that night, so I merely shrugged. “I’m not sure. There would be so few people there I’d know.” I held my breath, hoping she wouldn’t give away the suggestion she’d made that I come as Victoria. There would be no point to my plan if the shock value of such an appearance was spoiled.
Natalie interested herself in a plate of succulent shrimp and tomato wedges set in a nest of bright green kudzu leaves and then went on.
“It’s going to be an exciting night. You mustn’t miss it, Lauren. You might even learn more about us than you want to know.” She laughed wryly at her own comment, but her grandmother caught her up.
“What do you mean by that?” Camilla asked.
“Nothing, really. You and Grandfather will be the center of attention—and that’s excitement enough. I’ve started a watercolor of you both dancing together, wit
h the crowd standing around watching. I’ve even begun to spot in a few faces among the watchers.”
“Am I there?” I asked curiously.
“Maybe. I haven’t gotten very far. Though I’ve discovered a monk standing just beyond the dancers. There’s a hood over his head, so I can’t make out his face. That’s when I stopped painting—because I began to have a bad feeling about the monk.”
“Who do you think might come dressed as a monk?” Gordon asked.
Before Natalie could answer, Camilla broke in. “It’s only a painting, for heaven’s sake! Let’s talk about something else. Lauren, I understand that you and Gordon visited Dennis Ramsay this afternoon. What do you think of him?”
I must have shown my surprise, for she smiled.
“The Lake Lure grapevine works quickly. Carol Ramsay called to ask my advice about you.”
“Advice?”
“She felt that you might upset her grandfather. I told her you were just trying to follow up on your husband’s research and that if Dennis didn’t mind, it was fine. Of course you won’t be here very long, as I told Carol. So one visit isn’t going to matter.”
Too many people seemed to want me gone, and I dug in my heels. “I’ll be here for as long as I need to be,” I said, and heard my words echo hollowly in the odd silence that followed. They were all looking at me, and suddenly I wanted to ruffle Camilla’s calm assurance.
“Mr. Ramsay was kind and quite willing to talk with me. He didn’t seem to think much of Victoria Frazer. Perhaps because he was in love with you in those days, Mrs. Brandt?”
All around us, the light was fading, so the hurricane lamps on the rooftop deck softened our outlines. I hadn’t disturbed Camilla in the least. Her smile was fond.
“A dear man, and a good writer. He was there when I was in need of a friend.”
There when Roger was not? I wondered. Gordon gave me a warning look, but I paid no attention. “What kind of friend was he, Mrs. Brandt?”
Natalie laughed softly, entertained by what was happening.
“You’re still young, Lauren,” Camilla said. “Perhaps you haven’t discovered that there may be a time in a woman’s life when she needs a man who will be a helpful friend and who asks nothing more. Have you started to read the book he loaned you?”
“Yes—it’s fascinating. It reads like fiction.”
“Much of it is fiction.”
This time, it was Natalie who spoke. “Which parts, Grandmother? I read some of the book years ago—before you took it away from me.”
“You were too young for it, dear. Dennis liked to exaggerate, to embroider. Sometimes he distorted the truth.”
This time, Gordon pressed her. “In what way, Mrs. Brandt?”
Her answer was casual—perhaps a little amused. “I’m afraid Dennis had a crush on me for a time, when we were all young. So perhaps he wasn’t always fair to my husband in the book.”
Was that the answer? I wondered. That Roger’s determined actions were only an effort to protect his fragile ego? “Has the grapevine reported that my grandfather has been snapping up copies of The Firefly from here to Asheville? And that he went out to Dennis Ramsay’s to persuade him not to see me?”
She still seemed unperturbed. “Roger can play dramatic roles at times. He gets carried away, so perhaps that’s what happened. The book upset him when it was published—much more than it did me.”
Because it had been so critical of Victoria, whom Roger still loved? “What is in that book that he doesn’t want me to know?” I asked.
She looked away from our small group, off toward Rumbling Bald. “Why don’t you consult him, my dear?”
Roger wasn’t likely to tell me anything, and she knew that perfectly well. I stared at the mountain, too, wondering how many secrets were held by that sleeping giant.
Finella had had enough of this curious dueling; she rose to clear away the dishes. Natalie got up to assist. Gordon was talking to Camilla about the coming ball, so I joined the others in helping clear the table.
All through the meal, the dummy from the movie had seemed to watch us. Long weathering outdoors while he was lost in the woods had left its traces. He looked a bit battered and his clothes were beginning to shred. None of this mattered so long as his inner machinery continued to work. Perhaps his next dive would be off the top of some high building on the West Coast.
“You must live an adventurous life,” I remarked whimsically as I folded the yellow tablecloth. When I joined the others in the kitchen, Finella shooed me back outside, explaining that I was the “real” guest and that I must sit and relax.
“This won’t take long, Lauren. We’ll just pop everything into the dishwasher. So go talk to Gordon and Camilla.”
But when I returned to the deck, Camilla was leaving. Gordon followed her into the house as she stopped to tell Finella good night.
I stood at a side railing of the deck, looking up at the rising moon—a plump moon that cast a shimmering face on the water. Voices drifted across from the opposite shore. Above Finella’s house, the windows of two higher dwellings were dark, their summer people gone.
Wisps of mist had begun to gather near the water and I watched as they thickened around the lower part of the boathouse. Not far from where I stood, steep steps led down to a strip of dock, almost invisible now in the veil of white. I decided to walk down toward the water and enjoy the sights and sounds of this beautiful night.
I was halfway down when a voice spoke out of nothingness and I froze. “Come down, Lauren. I have something to show you.”
The voice seemed to come out of misty darkness at the foot of the steps. It was only a whisper and I couldn’t tell whether it came from a man or a woman. I peered down into opaque depths through which a watery moon wavered.
“Who are you?” I called. “What do you want?”
“Hush!” the voice warned. “I will speak only to you. You want to know how Victoria died, don’t you?”
I caught my breath, but I would not put myself at risk. I ventured down three more steps, trying vainly to see whomever was down there. The speaker was silent now, hidden by the silvery floating veil. The unseen movement of lapping water had a hypnotic effect and I began to feel disoriented. Distant sounds from the house reached me and I heard Gordon’s voice. I shook my head to clear it, and, without warning, a strong voice sounded in my head—as clearly as though the word had been spoken aloud: JUMP!
I obeyed the command instinctively, even though it meant leaping out into space from these high steps. Because I was moving away from the blow when it fell, it only grazed my shoulders. Heavy and hurtful, it would have been much worse if it had struck across the back of my head. As I dropped into space, a flash of awareness went through me. Now I knew how Victoria had died.
Cold water closed over my head, enveloping me, and I seemed to drop endlessly before I could change my plummeting descent and fight my way, sputtering, to the surface. I paddled in the water and searched the lighted area of dock and boathouse for any indication of who had struck me. Through the mist, which was translucent now with the lights behind it, I could see that stairs and railing stood empty. Pilings below the dock were only a few feet away, but I didn’t want to swim into those shadows, lest my attacker be hiding there. Nor would I dare swim toward the nearest shoreline, where the bridge to the island ended. But the water’s chill was growing painful, and, despite the mist, I knew my whereabouts were all too visible.
Far above, I could see the lighted window of Finella’s kitchen, and I began to shout, calling Gordon’s name. With kitchen clatter going on, how could they possibly hear me? In a moment, I would have to swim to the dock and take a chance that my attacker was gone.
Then I heard someone running down the steps, calling my name, and I put more volume into my voice. Gordon ran along the dock to where I paddled fiercely against the cold.
“I’m here! Here in the water! Help me, please!”
He kicked off his shoes and dove in
to swim over to me.
“Oh, Gordon!” I cried between chattering teeth, and clung to him.
He put a hand under my chin and towed me to a ladder that ran from the dock to the water. As I hung on to its rungs and looked up, I realized that this ladder bypassed the steps and continued to the top deck over the boathouse. My mind was clear now, no matter how frozen my body felt. Whoever had called to me from the foot of the steps could have climbed this ladder to come around behind me up there.
Then Gordon was pulling me to safety, and the moment my feet touched the dock, my legs turned to rubber. He picked me up and carried me through a doorway at the land end of the boathouse. I smelled fresh sawdust and varnish as he laid me down on a cot covered over by an Indian blanket and turned on lights. This was where he worked on his drums, and I felt safe for the first time as he wrapped the blanket around me and shouted for Finella.
She came down at once and took over, asking no questions. “Can you carry her up to the bedroom, Gordon? I’ll get her out of those wet things.”
I tried to tell them I could walk, but Gordon picked me up again, and I relaxed with my head against his shoulder, perfectly willing to be helpless. When he set me down, blanket and all, on Finella’s bed, he bent over me and rubbed his cheek against mine. I looked into his eyes, surprised, but he left quickly. His mother helped me out of my wet clothes and gave me an enveloping terry-cloth robe to put on.
“Now then,” she said, “something hot to drink. Then you can talk. I want to hear what happened.”
Apparently, both Camilla and Natalie had left right after dinner, and I needed to talk to only the two of them. Gordon, too, had changed from his wet clothes and had put on a soft old sweatshirt and a faded pair of jeans.
Hot herbal tea restored me a little. I sat at the kitchen table, warmth seeping through me, calming me as I told them both what had happened.
“Something told me to jump,” I finished, feeling weaker now that I had gone over what had happened, realizing how close to death I might have been. “Perhaps Victoria warned me. Perhaps she wouldn’t let it happen again—not to me.”
Star Flight Page 19