“There was an odd piece of green material with Jim’s letter that Natalie gave me. Do you have any idea where it came from? Do you think Jim found it with her body?”
She answered me with what little patience she could summon. “I wish I knew, Lauren, but I don’t.” She threw up her hands wearily. “Can’t you just let it go? I’ve already told you all I know.”
There was no point in pushing her further. She went inside abruptly and I returned to the lodge. Once more in the quiet space of my room, I sat down to consider all that I’d learned. From the beginning, I’d believed Jim’s letter, believed that Victoria was murdered, and now I knew this was so. But the puzzle was larger than ever.
I went over to my window and stood staring out at the lake. I thought of Natalie and her paintings and particularly the one of the spaceship that Finella had in her shop. I repeated the title Natalie had given it, sounded the syllables out loud—Star Flight—and a new thought occurred to me. What if her title carried a double meaning? What if it was a play on words, since another star had taken flight?
Ty’s sprig of rosemary was still in my bag. Feeling only a little silly, I took it out, lay down, and closed my eyes, holding it to my nose. The scent of the herb was still strong and I allowed it to envelop my senses. When darting lights behind my lids subsided, a strange vision framed in cavernous darkness began to form on the screen of my mind. Shimmering with movement as I watched, a sparkling white ribbon of water fell vertically down the center of my dream picture.
Ty had reminded me that rosemary was for remembrance, but what was I remembering? The only waterfall I’d seen was the one that fell over the cliffs opposite the Indian village where I’d heard a drum playing. Was this memory or prophecy?
A sharp mechanical ringing broke into my reverie. I reached for the phone.
“Lauren?” Gordon sounded excited. “I’ve found something pretty interesting. There’s someone you ought to meet. Can I pick you up in about fifteen minutes?”
He sounded like the young man I remembered, and I knew everything was right between us. I told him I’d be ready. The waterfall could wait.
14
Gordon was still excited when he picked me up and his mood reminded me of San Francisco. There was satisfaction for me in thinking that we might really be able to have a second chance. Now I knew what I wanted.
He explained our outing when we were on our way toward Chimney Rock. “We’re going to see a man I’ve known for a long time, though I never recognized his connection with Victoria and Roger until Justyn tipped me off. I have a feeling that Justyn is trying to get back at his father in some way.”
Just before we reached Chimney Rock village, Gordon pulled in before a long, low building that had once been a lumber warehouse. A sign outside read DOLL HEAVEN. We went in through a wide door and I looked about in delight.
Dolls were on display everywhere—dolls of every size and shape and age. Tables and counters and shelves were crowded with a fascinating doll population—rag dolls, bisque dolls, old kid dolls with china heads, Kewpies with fat stomachs that dated back to early in this century. But I knew we were not here because of the dolls.
A middle-aged woman who obviously recognized Gordon came toward us. “Hello, Amy,” he said. “This is Mrs. Castle. Lauren, Mrs. Osborn.”
She held out a friendly hand. “I remember your husband, Mrs. Castle. What can I do for you, Gordon?”
“Is your father-in-law in? Do you suppose we could see him?”
“He’s always in these days, and he enjoys company. He’ll be glad to see you. Go right ahead. You know the way.” Nevertheless, she gave us a curious look as Gordon led the way back through the shop.
“He’ll like it if you recognize him,” Gordon said to me. “See how long it takes you.”
I was puzzling over what he could mean when I passed a glass case that caught my eye and stopped to look. The display was of two dolls and a china horse—clearly a palomino. The female doll had long golden hair and wore a white dress; the man was clearly a cowboy. The actors in the legend had been carefully reproduced.
Gordon drew me on. “You can come back and look later. If you want to.”
We stopped before the open door of what appeared to be a small office.
“Hello, Gerald,” Gordon said. “I’ve brought someone to see you.”
An elderly man turned from his desk, and when he saw me, he got to his feet in a courtly manner. Gordon introduced me, and while Gerald Osborn was shaking my hand, Gordon surprised both of us.
“Lauren is not only Jim Castle’s wife—she is the granddaughter of Victoria Frazer and Roger Brandt.”
As startled as I was, Osborn peered at me through his glasses and then took both my hands in his. “Yes—I can see it. Your eyes are like hers.” He sounded wistful, as though the discovery made him sad.
“You knew my grandmother?” I asked.
He waved a hand toward the wall, and I saw several framed photographs of Victoria Frazer, though none of Roger. I recognized some shots from Blue Ridge Cowboy, though mostly in scenes where Victoria was alone. One of them was signed “To My Darling Jerry.”
Gordon was still waiting for some recognition on my part, but nothing clicked. I went closer to the wall and moved from picture to picture. One was of a young officer in the uniform of the First World War. In another, the same officer held a beautiful young woman in his arms—Victoria. And of course I knew.
“You’re the actor who danced with her in Blue Ridge Cowboy! In the ballroom scene. I remember how beautifully you danced together before Roger rode onto the scene.”
Pleased, Osborn came to stand beside me. “Yes—that scene was shot at the Grove Park Inn. You must have seen the movie?”
“My”—I hesitated and then went on—“my grandfather showed it to me. You and Victoria danced so perfectly together that I was almost sorry when Roger came riding in so dramatically to take her away from you.”
Osborn’s eyes were bright as he remembered, but there was sadness in his look.
“I was so sorry for Victoria that day. It was dreadful that she had to be so humiliated. Roger could be short-tempered, and they had such trouble shooting that scene. It wasn’t Victoria’s fault. She’d never even been on a horse before, and she couldn’t get up into that saddle gracefully. Much later, of course, we all realized she must have been five or six months pregnant at that time, which is shocking to think about. Anyway, it looked as though he were pulling her apart, and she was making terrible faces. She was terrified of the horse, and of course Roger was impatient because he wanted the scene to be right. The palomino got skittish and we all knew it was hopeless. Roger decided that they’d have to get Victoria into the saddle offscreen. By that time, she was in tears. I knew how much she wanted to please Roger, and he wasn’t even thinking about her—just the movie. I tried to comfort her, but I wasn’t the one she needed just then.”
He stopped as though lost in time. Of course he, too, must have been in love with Victoria, as so many men had been, and this could only be a painful memory for him.
“What happened?” Gordon asked gently.
Osborn sat down at his desk, not looking at me now. “I’m not sure I remember the details clearly anymore. Everything got out of hand, though I never blamed Victoria for what she did. It was Camilla Brandt’s fault, really.” He paused and the silence in the room grew. Finally, he pushed himself up and said, “I’m sorry—I can’t talk about it.”
Amy Osborn had come to the door, her disapproval clear. “He hasn’t been well,” she whispered to Gordon.
Osborn pulled himself together. “You’d better see Dennis Ramsay, Mrs. Castle. He left a lot out of his book because he was in love with Camilla. If he wants to, he can tell you.”
We thanked him and let Amy Osborn draw us out of the room. “I didn’t know you would upset him,” she said reproachfully. “All that ancient history—but he still feels it.”
Back in Gordon’s car, we looke
d at each other. “Let’s go see him,” I said.
“Right. We won’t phone Ramsay this time—we’ll just go and take our chances. I have a feeling that a few more pieces may fall into place.”
It was past lunchtime, but we didn’t bother about food. We were both intent upon learning more about what had happened. I’d begun to feel a real sympathy for Victoria and new anger against Roger for his insensitivity. I had watched that scene in the picture and I’d seen Victoria rise gracefully, competently, onto his saddle. So how had it been managed if everything was going so wrong on the set?
When we reached his house, Ramsay came to the door. His granddaughter was out and he seemed glad to see us.
“Have you read my book?” he asked me at once.
“Most of it, and it was fascinating,” I told him. “Though I think you were too hard on Victoria.”
“Not as hard as she deserved,” he said curtly. He stepped out of the doorway to invite us in.
Gordon wasted no time. “We’ve just talked to Gerald Osborn and he thinks you can fill us in on a part of the ballroom scene that you didn’t write about.”
“Come on back to my workroom,” he said readily. “I’m writing about that very thing now.”
He led us into a small room that held a desk, typewriter, bookcases, and a slant table with a chair before it. A handful of typewritten pages lay stacked beside the machine.
“I’m slow these days, but I’ve been working on a new book about the whole Lake Lure legend for over five years. I want to set down the whole story this time. Too much had to be left out of the first book.”
Because of threats from Roger? I wondered.
“I’m not sure why any of this matters anymore, or if anyone will be interested in reading it. Please sit down and tell me why you’re so interested in what happened so long ago.”
“I want to know more about my grandmother,” I said. “Is that so strange? Mr. Osborn described the scene where he waltzed with Victoria Frazer and Roger Brandt came riding in on his palomino. He told us that Victoria had trouble getting up on the horse, but that’s all he would tell us.”
Ramsay sat down before his slant board, picked up a pencil, and began to scribble idly. He seemed to be doodling something that looked like a military saber.
“I didn’t see everything that happened. Some of the time, they were in Victoria’s dressing room with that woman who used to look after her clothes and makeup. What’s her name—Betsey Harlan? I had to coax her to tell me what happened. All I can repeat is what Betsey told me.”
He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
“Victoria came off the set in tears and Camilla Brandt, who was there that day, followed her into her dressing room. They exchanged words and things got emotional. Victoria didn’t want to take off that beautiful dress, but Camilla made her. By this time, Victoria was tired and her makeup was ruined by her tears, so she didn’t have much choice. Camilla put on the dress and came back to the set. When she appeared, it might have been Victoria herself—just for a moment. The dress fitted her perfectly—they were about the same size. And she’d wound that white thingamajig around her head to hide her black hair. The camera started and Roger mounted his horse and pulled Camilla up onto his saddle without a hitch. With no close-ups, no one could tell that it wasn’t Victoria. Camilla was right for that scene—she knew horses and she knew riding.”
He broke off, just as Osborn had done—an old man remembering his youth and an old love.
I pressed him for more. “What happened when the scene was done and Camilla went back to the dressing room?”
He added a few scrolls to the saber that had taken shape on his paper. “All right—but mind, this isn’t something I saw for myself. It’s what Betsey told me, though later she denied the whole thing. Camilla got out of that white dress and threw it at Victoria. Then she put on her own clothes and started to leave the room. That’s when Victoria went crazy. There was always a vicious streak in her. She picked up a letter opener from her dressing table—a miniature army saber—and she stabbed Camilla in the face with it. It all happened so fast that Camilla didn’t have time to defend herself.”
Ramsay paused wearily.
“Victoria had managed to slash Camilla across one cheek. We all heard her cry out, but we just assumed those two were going after each other in a fit of jealousy. The wound bled all over the place, Betsey said. When Roger came running in and saw his wife’s face and the bloody letter opener in Victoria’s hands, he struck her so hard across the face that he knocked her down. Then he took the towel out of Betsey’s hands and tried to stanch the flow himself. When it stopped a bit, he drove his wife to Asheville to a hospital. In those days, they didn’t have great plastic surgery—that skill had to be developed through a few more wars. So Camilla carries the scar to this day. She covers it up with makeup, so only a bit of puckering shows, and she’s still so beautiful it doesn’t matter. Of course, what Victoria did turned Roger right back to his wife.”
“You’ve seen Camilla recently?” I asked.
“She comes to visit me now and then. We’ve remained friends over the years. She liked what I wrote in my book—she thought I was very fair.”
“I’m sure you were,” I said. “To her. But were you fair to Victoria?”
Being fair to Victoria wasn’t important to him. “Whatever happened to that one, she had it coming, Mrs. Castle. You need to recognize what Victoria Frazer was really like—totally self-enamored. Of course, after what she did to Camilla, Roger never felt the same way toward her again. But she was already carrying his child. Frankly, I think he still cared for her, but the passion was gone. I’d have liked him better if he’d blamed himself a little more. It was all because of him that it happened. The classic situation—two beautiful women and one man.”
Ramsay was warming to his subject now, as though he was enjoying writing this second book. “I emphasized all this in my last chapter—and Roger must have hated it. I placed the blame where it belonged—with him.”
Which, of course, was why Roger hadn’t wanted me to see the book. Vanity still prevailed.
It was time for me to ask the pertinent question. “Mr. Ramsay, who do you think murdered Victoria Frazer?”
His smile had a cold, hard twist to it. “You’d run out of fingers trying to count the people who hated Victoria.”
“Betsey and Gerald Osborn and Gretchen didn’t hate her.”
“Perhaps not, but how many others did?”
I couldn’t answer that—I had only my own instincts to go on.
Once more the old man had tired, so we thanked him and left before his granddaughter returned.
Back in the car, Gordon sat with his hands on the wheel. I still felt shaken by the story Dennis Ramsay had told.
“How do you feel about Victoria now, Lauren?” Gordon asked gently.
“Sorry for her. It was her nature, I suppose, to behave in uncurbed ways, but I don’t believe she was ever a vicious person. She was pregnant with Roger’s child and she loved him. She was under a lot of stress. I’m sorry for Camilla, too. She never asked for the situation she found herself in. It was a very human triumph for her that she could ride, when Victoria couldn’t.”
“So where do you go from here?”
“Will you come with me to see Betsey Harlan again?”
“Of course. If that’s what you want, but Ramsay says that Betsey later denied her own story.”
“That’s why I want to see her.”
“Then let’s go.” He put an arm around me and held me close for a moment, so that I knew I wasn’t alone. We wound down to the valley floor and the apple farm. Betsey’s young great-grandson came to meet us before we got out.
“Great-grammaw’s sick,” he informed us. “I don’t think my mother wants anybody to visit her today.”
My first impulse was to leave and not trouble her. She was so old and frail. Yet I sensed in Betsey a certain tough core, and I wondered whether she
was really too ill to see us for a few minutes.
“Where is your mother?” I asked.
He nodded toward the rear of the house. “She’s working in her vegetable patch.”
The boy followed us as we walked around the house to where a woman in jeans was weeding. She looked up, knowing at once who I was.
“You can’t see her,” she told me flatly.
“There’s only one question I need to ask,” I pleaded. “If we could see her for just a moment—we’d go away quickly after that.”
Her “No!” was vehement. However, before we could turn away, a querulous voice was raised loudly enough to be heard through the open window above our heads.
“You let her in right now!” Betsey ordered.
Her granddaughter threw up her hands. “It’ll be worse if I try to keep you away now she knows you’re here. Go on in, but don’t stay long.”
“You’d better see her alone,” Gordon said as we walked away from the granddaughter. “I’ll pick up some apples for my mother.”
I thanked him for understanding. He kissed me lightly before turning away and my spirits lifted. He was on my side now. He was with me, giving me courage, whether or not he approved of what I intended.
This time, I went in through the back door, knowing my way to Betsey’s room. She lay beneath quilts, as though she was cold, but her eyes looked hot and feverish. I tapped on her open door and went in.
“It’s good to see you, Lauren. I guess you know by now what I told Dennis, don’t you?”
“I know what he told me, but I think there’s more.”
One small claw of a hand gestured to a rocker beside her bed. “Sit down. I’m not as sick as they think. I just don’t want to listen to them scold.”
I felt a little better about my insistence. She, at least, had loved Victoria, and there must have been more behind the stabbing than I knew.
“What do you think happened?” She folded down the edge of a quilt, the better to peer at me.
I repeated what Dennis had told us—that Victoria had snatched up a letter opener and slashed Camilla across the cheek.
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