Shadow of Reality (Book One in the Elizabeth and Richard Mystery Series)

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  It was just playacting, but Elizabeth couldn’t stop the chill that spread over her, knowing that just such situations and conversations undoubtedly had occurred in real life. “You’re stationed in Pearl Harbor?” She couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice.

  “That’s right.” The man Naval officer beamed at her. “Beautiful there—palm trees, blue seas and skies—couldn’t ask for a better home port.”

  “Er…do you think you might be able to get leave in December of ‘41?”

  “You know,” the captain sounded dumbfounded, “you must be the twentieth person to say something like that. ‘Stay off boats on Sundays,’ everyone says. Makes me wonder what they know that I don’t. You don’t suppose this whole crowd is psychic, do you?”

  “Well, our team is Blithe Spirit, but none of us claim to be the seer that Madam Arcati was.” Elizabeth gave a light answer, but her laughter was forced.

  Her discomfort was soon forgotten though, as all attention shifted to the ringmaster, spotlighted in the center of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are most happy to be with you tonight and to welcome you to the 1933 edition of the Friendly Brothers’ Circus!” he proclaimed in southern European dialect.

  The acts came on at a breathless pace as jugglers, clowns, acrobats, trained animals, and tumblers spun, balanced, and dived around the ring, all of which produced enthusiastic cheers from the audience. To the captivating strains of “Bolero,” a sequin-clad trapeze artist entwined her limbs and swirled around a rope hanging from the high ceiling. Sensuous as a snake, the glittering beauty held everyone breathless as her body straightened out in a sharp right angle from the vertical rope and then, with ever-increasing intensity, twirled and spun in response to the mesmerizing music.

  When the act was over, Elizabeth caught her breath and clapped until her hands stung. “Brava! Good show!” her companion shouted. And then they quieted, as the ringmaster directed their attention to “The Magic of Gulamerian.” In a sleight-of-hand performance, as fast-paced as the rest of the show, objects appeared, disappeared, and reappeared at Gulamerian’s command: Silk scarves fluttered, birds took wing, and balls twirled and bounced as if with a life of their own.

  At the magician’s request, a man from the audience donated a paper bill—a one hundred dollar bill—which Gulamerian marked, then ‘accidentally’ burned. In an effort to direct attention away from his blunder he turned quickly to the next act: An egg, a lemon, and an orange, which changed places with one another under silver cylinders in perfect choreography. Suddenly, only the orange could be found. So the orange was peeled to reveal the lemon inside; the lemon sliced to produce the egg; and the egg broken to produce the marked one hundred dollar bill, only slightly soggy with egg yolk.

  The audience applauded jubilantly and lightheartedness bounced on the air, as unburdened as the pins, balls, and rings kept aloft by Lottie Brunn, “Europe’s fastest woman juggler.” Her fleet motions of arms and legs kept countless objects aloft to the breathless rhythms of “The Ritual Firedance.”

  In an explosive coda, as the acts spun before Elizabeth’s giddy senses in a joyous grand finale, the room suddenly came alive with dancing balloons, bounding on their strings as lightly as the bubbles of merriment that had filled the performance. Gavin caught at the string of a bright red, capering balloon and presented it to Elizabeth with a light kiss on her cheek, which made her heart leap and bob like the balloons.

  As if propelled by their balloons, Elizabeth and Gavin followed the clowns leading the procession down the stairway and along the corridor to the West Room Cantina. There a small orchestra played, and a midnight buffet of fruit and cheese snacks offered endless nibbling. Gavin ushered her to a red and white gingham-covered table in a softly lit corner and promised to return in a moment with food and drink. With dream-filled, half-closed eyes Elizabeth watched a few couples dancing on the small center floor while the balloons gamboled on the ends of their strings.

  When Gavin returned with their drinks and a plate piled high with tasty tidbits, Elizabeth smiled lazily. “Happy?” he asked.

  “Delirious!” She took a sip of cherry-red punch, “It’s such a…a party atmosphere, I can almost believe it is 1933.” She had almost said it was a romantic atmosphere, but didn’t want to sound pushy. Then Richard walked by, his arm held tightly by a smiling Anita. Even in her three-inch, diamante heels, her little velvet evening hat with the eye veil barely reached Richard’s shoulder. Elizabeth waved, then turned to Gavin. “Aren’t they darling together? I do hope something comes of that. He has been so lonely ever since his wife died.”

  Gavin studied her for a moment. “You’re sincere, aren’t you. I thought perhaps you and he…”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. I’m suppose it must look that way, but we’re really just colleagues—and friends, of course. That’s why I want him to find someone. I know how lonely he is.”

  Gavin nodded. “I think I can understand a bit.”

  Elizabeth remembered the conversation at dinner about the sudden death of the actress with whom he had been pictured. Yes, Sir Gavin Kendall had known bereavement, too. That caused an ache that no amount of success, money, or titles could soften. She laid her hand on his arm, and he covered her hand with his own. They sat there for some time, listening to the music, watching the festivities around them. Occasionally Gavin gave her hand a small squeeze. Sometimes they nibbled at their refreshments. Now and then one of them would make a comment…but mostly, they were just happy together.

  At the end of a long, dreamy, orchestral number, they unclasped their hands to applaud the band and dancers, then Elizabeth gave a deep sigh. “It’s all such a fantasy, like walking through the screen into a movie set…” She frowned thoughtfully.

  “I have the feeling you’re about to turn philosophical on me,” Gavin said.

  “You don’t mind, do you? Fruit punch has that effect on me.” She took a drink, emptying her glass, then shook her head at his offer to refill it for her. “No thanks. Actually, I was thinking that the circus was a perfect metaphor for the thirties. The image was working fine, then I thought maybe the whole thing was symbolic of life and I got rather lost.”

  “Tell me the part that made sense.”

  “Well, the circus was such a marvelous escape, and in the thirties the whole nation had stomachs half-filled by the bread lines, yet people scraped together pennies to attend movies set in posh, all-white, art nouveau apartments and glittering nightclubs. For those few hours, they escaped into another world where they had bigger-than-life glimpses of a happier existence. And that was what made the everyday dreariness bearable.”

  “Are you saying that’s bad or good?”

  “I think it’s good; dreams are essential. You know, ‘without a vision the people perish’. But it can go too far. Do you suppose such escapism was partly responsible for the head-in-the-sand attitudes that made people fail to listen to Churchill and others? Those who warned all through the thirties that Hitler must be stopped before it was too late?” Elizabeth shuddered at the cost of such lack of vision.

  “You think too much.” Gavin took her hand and pulled her to her feet, then into his arms, as their feet found the rhythm of the fox-trot that the orchestra was playing. Elizabeth lost all sense of time—and certainly all desire to be philosophical—as she and Gavin moved around the room together.

  It could have been hours later when the orchestra played the last dance, and the few dancers left on the floor applauded wearily, then turned toward their rooms.

  “Shall we go up now?” Gavin looked at his watch.

  Elizabeth nodded, and soon they were walking slowly, arm in arm, down a long, deserted corridor. The only sound was the swishing of Elizabeth’s ankle-length silk skirt. Their red and yellow balloons followed behind them, tugging lightly at their strings. Gavin paused before a secluded alcove with a tiny velvet loveseat set beside a wicker screen. “I know it's frightfully late, but…”

  Elizabeth smiled. There was n
o need for him to finish his sentence—she had been hoping for a moment alone with him. As they sat on the small sofa she realized this was the first time they’d been alone together since he kissed her in the gazebo. Was that really only yesterday? So much had happened since then.

  As he kissed her now, all her earlier thoughts of fantasy and reality, of dreams and actuality, blended in the real-life, dream-come-true experience that Gavin Kendall brought to her.

  This fantasy wasn’t heedless escapism or an evasion of reality. It was truer than anything Elizabeth had ever experienced, and she was more truly alive, more completely herself, than she had ever felt before.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday night

  Thursday, March 15, 1990/1933

  A short time later, Elizabeth drifted off to sleep to dream of living in a castle in the air with Gavin. But then her dream twisted and slid, and every bathtub and bed in her castle had a body in it—all the same body, an older man with graying sandy hair matted on his forehead and a narrow mustache that looked like a dark gash against his bloodless skin. Then all the corpses opened their eyes and stared at her, and she screamed and backed away…

  “Elizabeth, Elizabeth!” Richard’s voice penetrated her screams, and she sat up with a start.

  Richard was at her door, pounding on it and calling to her. She drew on her robe with shaking hands and groped her way across the room to let him in.

  “Are you all right?” His face was etched with deep lines of concern.

  “Oh, I was dreaming…it was so awful! They all stared at me, and then they sat up, and I thought they were coming after me—,” she broke off, covering her face with her hands.

  Richard put a comforting arm about her and held her tightly. “Who was coming after you?”

  “The bodies…that man next door. There were lots of him—and—”

  “Shhh, easy now, it was just a dream.” He stroked her back, as if quieting a high-spirited horse.

  Slowly her trembling stopped, and Richard moved to turn on a light. Elizabeth took a deep breath and was sufficiently returned to normal to want to comb her hair. “You know,” she said, turning from her mirror after a few flicks of her comb, “I didn’t really look at the body yesterday. I think that was a mistake. Do you still have the key?”

  Richard frowned. “You mean you want to go back in there?”

  “Yes, I do.” Elizabeth’s voice held unshakable determination. “I need to lay the ghost to rest. No reality will be as bad as the leering images in my head.”

  Richard nodded and turned to the door. “Okay, give me three minutes.”

  He returned in just over two, wearing jeans and a sweater and carrying the key. “You’re sure about this?”

  She nodded. “I’m sure.”

  The key turned easily in the door, and Richard clicked on the ceiling light before stepping aside to let Elizabeth in. She walked to the bed, turned back the covers with a steady hand, and looked at the still form there. She took a deep breath that wasn't quite as steady as she hoped it would be. “There now. I knew it wouldn’t be so bad. His eyes are rather sunken and his lips dry, but he looks better than they sometimes do at a funeral—more natural. And that's just the mourners.”

  Richard smiled at her weak attempt at humor. “Maybe there was some sense to the old-fashioned idea of making children touch a member of the family who died so that they wouldn’t miss them so much later.”

  “Could be. How old do you think he was? Late fifties?”

  “I’d guess maybe a bit older—early to mid-sixties. He wasn’t too big, but he looks like he was in good condition. But then, even Olympic athletes can have heart attacks,” Richard said.

  “I hope they can find out something about him. He must have a family somewhere, or something. I know it’s silly to judge by appearances, but he doesn’t look like a criminal.”

  She stood in silence for a moment.

  “Are you ready?” Richard touched her shoulder.

  “Just a minute—like you were saying about that Victorian tradition…” She reached out and touched the man’s hand that the doctor had laid on his chest. It felt surprisingly soft and pliable; cool, but not cold. Nothing horrible about it, but nothing at all like a human hand, either. She withdrew her hand, then jumped back with a gasp as the arm slid to the bed.

  Richard’s arm slid around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, you just bumped the mattress.”

  She laughed weakly. “Of course, I didn’t realize I was so skittish. Maybe I should take up going to scary movies or something to get hardened in.”

  Richard covered the body again, turned out the light, and locked the door behind them. “Do you think you can sleep now? It’s still an hour or two till daybreak.”

  “Not a chance. I’m going to get dressed and brew some coffee. If that outdated contraption in my room works, that is. Want some, too?”

  “Sure. Might as well light the fire in the parlor to keep us company while we’re at it.”

  In a couple of minutes, Elizabeth, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, set two mugs on the table in front of the hearth. “Well, the water didn’t really boil and the instant powder is kind of weak, but if you tell yourself it’s coffee, your taste buds might believe it.”

  They sipped their drinks in silence until Elizabeth looked over at the book Richard had brought in to read. “Richard! The Body Stiffens! That’s not Dante—you’re reading a mystery!”

  He grinned at her. “When did I ever refuse to do anything you asked me to?”

  “The last time I asked you to teach an extra class, as I remember.”

  “Unfair. You know the academic council sets schedules.”

  “Seemed worth a try,” she said, laughing. “Well, what do you think of it?” She indicated the book. “Got it figured out yet?”

  “I’m only on the second chapter. All this time they thought the headmistress was just asleep. Now the maid found her, stiff as a board. You’ve read it?”

  When Elizabeth didn’t reply he looked at her. “You’ve read this one?” he repeated.

  Elizabeth still didn’t answer, but just sat staring into the fire. Richard frowned in concern. “Elizabeth! Taking you in there wasn’t a good idea. I was afraid—”

  “No, I’m fine.” She gave herself a little shake and looked at Richard. “There’s just something wrong. Something bumping and tickling in the back of my brain that I can’t get hold of…you know, like when you can’t think of the name of a song and it drives you half crazy.”

  “Try thinking of something else, and it’ll probably come to you.”

  “Good idea.” She reached over to an end table where she had set her book of short stories, and they read in companionable silence until it was time to get ready for the day.

  Today Elizabeth chose the jaunty middy outfit she had rented—the cheery white tam with a red pompom on the top was just what she needed after that night, and the navy pleated skirt and low-waisted white sailor top had a fresh crispness that Elizabeth’s mirror told her she lacked. Maybe I can work in a nap this afternoon, she offered herself as consolation.

  After breakfast everyone went to the parlor, now returned to its usual sedate condition with rows of chairs, showing no signs of its service as a circus tent the night before. Millie’s promised interview was raising a lot of speculation among the sleuths. Evan, sitting next to Elizabeth, took out his notebook and ran over the list of questions he wanted to have answered.

  Elizabeth had been so caught up in the real events of the past day that she had practically forgotten about the game they had all come there to play. “That’s a good idea, Evan,” she said, As Evan added another query to his list. “I should make some notes of my own. I’m afraid I haven’t been really concentrating on this puzzle.”

  Evan looked at her wide-eyed. “How come? You’d better get with it. We won’t win if we don’t all work at it.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. I’ll try to do better.” Elizabeth looked bac
k over her notes from Tuesday’s interviews and began drawing arrows at the statements that needed following up.

  Her work was interrupted by Weldon Stark. “Our Millie has had a rather trying time, but she’s recovered enough now to tell us about it. Millie, what happened?”

  “Well, Guv’nor, I don’t rightly know. I was peelin’ the potatoes for dinner when I ’ears a noise behind me. I turned around just as ’e grabbed me. I struggled a bit, then I was ’it over the ’ead. Next thing I knows, I was under a table all trussed like a goose with my ’ead ’urtin’ something awful.” She rubbed her head behind the little white lace cap.

  Stark took the microphone again. “Millie, I’m sure you want to thank the members of the Circle team who rescued you.”

  Millie’s words of thanks were drowned in the cheers from the team members contemplating their bonus points.

  “And now,” Stark continued, “our detective friends here are just itching to ask you some questions, Millie. You give them the best answers you can, my girl.”

  “Yes, Guv’nor, course I will.” Millie curtsied as Stark took his seat, then she pointed to a raised hand on the front row.

  Elizabeth, sitting in the middle of the room couldn’t hear the question, but Millie’s answer was clear. “No, sir. I didn’t see ’im what attacked me.”

  “Him?” The audience responded as one person, registering the use of the masculine pronoun.

  “That is to say, I didn’t see no one—’im or ’er,” Millie amended.

  “Do you have any idea why someone would want to do away with you?”

  “Did you poison the soup?”

  “Do you know who the murderer is?”

  The questions tumbled out on top of each other, but Millie’s answers were all negative. Evan’s politely raised hand received no attention, so this time he jumped to his feet. “Have you remembered anything more about that argument you heard between Gloria and Nigel?”

  “Well, yes, sir, you might say as wot I ’ave. Miss Gloria was accusing Mr. Nigel of stealing from ’er. She said she ’ad suspected it for a long time because as ’ow she never ’ad enough ready money, but now she ’ad proof.”