Midnight Harvest (31 page)

“Oh. Yes, please. And I need to see your passports, if you’re foreign.” She had become aware of his accent, and belatedly remembered that she needed to make note of it. “The government requires it. Not that we have to submit the information, or anything like that—not yet. But I have to have it in case there is an inquiry later. Bureaucracies! There’s more of them every day. You know how these things are.” She shrugged as if to apologize for this intrusion.

“Yes; I know.” Saint-Germain pulled out his Hungarian passport and showed it to her, holding it open so that she could copy the necessary information. “It is much the same everywhere these days.” He did not add that his recollection of travel stretched back four thousand years, and, from his experience, passports and bureaucratic hassle were minor inconveniences compared to some of the trials he had encountered.

She took a second record-book out from under the counter and began to write down the data it contained. Half-way through she put her finger on the line under his name. “What is this? It isn’t part of an address, is it?”

“No,” said Saint-Germain diffidently. “It is my title.”

“Title?” She blinked.

“I’m afraid so,” he said.

“Oh,” she whispered, and then said, more loudly, “Oh!” as her cheeks reddened. “Then you’re a—”

“Count, not that it has any bearing in this country,” he said, and held out his hand. “I am pleased to meet you … Though you have the advantage of me.”

She took his hand and gave it a firm shake. “Everyone calls me Mrs. Curt. It’s Curtis, actually, and I’m a widow, but you know how things stick.” Then she let go of his hand. “My first name’s Enid. Good to meet you, Count.”

“I am delighted to know you, Mrs. Curt,” said Saint-Germain. “Shall I call my associate in? His name is Mr. Rogers, originally from Cádiz, but currently an English citizen.”

“Okay. I’ll need to get his passport number, too,” she said, now in greater possession of herself. “I’ll send Beryl and Grace up to the cabin. They’ll have it ready in an hour.”

“Take as much time as you need,” said Saint-Germain as he went to the door to signal Rogerio to come in. “Bring your passport.”

Rogerio got out of the Packard, the road atlas still in one hand, his wallet in the other. As he passed Saint-Germain, he asked in an under-voice, “Spanish or English?”

“English, Mr. Rogers,” said Saint-Germain, raising his voice just enough to be heard, “The manager is Mrs. Curtis, called Mrs. Curt.”

“Owner,” she corrected as she pointed out the line where Rogerio was to sign. “My late husband left it to me, free and clear. His life insurance is what keeps us going. The lodge was the whole legacy, and I’m lucky to have it There’s many another with less.” There was both pride and anxiety in her tone. “Now that gambling’s legal in Nevada, we hope business’ll pick up here, as part of it. Not that California’s going to allow gambling any time soon, but this place has been a resort area for eighty years.”

Rogerio finished signing his name, using Saint-Germain’s London address, and handed over his English passport.

“It can’t be easy, the country being in the state that it is,” said Saint-Germain gently, remembering the economic devastation of Germany just over a decade ago, when a pound of butter could cost a wheelbarrowful of banknotes, and inflation was so precipitous that the value of money would half in a day.

“You can’t imagine,” she said, trying to laugh to make light of it, but botching it “I’m going to send the girls up to
Tuolumne
right now. If you’d like to wait in the bar, or take a stroll around the place? If you’d prefer to rest up from your travels, the bar is open and I can send my nephew in to tend bar. If you’d like to take the sun, there are chairs on the patio, and Paschal, our cook, can make you up some sandwiches, if you’re hungry. On the house.”

“No need to go to such trouble, Mrs. Curt,” said Saint-Germain. “I’m sure we can find something to occupy us until the cabin is ready.” He gave her a genial nod as he reclaimed his passport and gestured to the outer door. “I think I’d like to have a look around your lodge, if you don’t mind.”

“Look away,” she said, and turned back to her inner office, tapping a button on her desk there; a buzzer sounded in a distant part of the lodge.

Saint-Germain and Rogerio stepped outside into the dusty sunlight. Shading his eyes with his hand, Saint-Germain said, “I paid for two nights.”

“I assumed you would,” said Rogerio, and started in the direction of the stable. “I also assume you want to have a look at the place as a possible investment.”

“You know me too well, old friend,” said Saint-Germain, and went with him toward the stables. The interior was pleasantly dark, smelling of horses, hay, and pine. The box-stalls fronting the long, wide aisle were no more than half-full.

“They could have taken some of the horses to winter pasture,” Rogerio suggested doubtfully.

“In September? While the weather is still pleasant and the roads are open? If so, why keep so many behind?” Saint-Germain asked. “No, I think Mrs. Curt has been selling her stock in order to keep this place open. She has accommodations for thirty horses in these stalls, and there are only sixteen. With another four in the paddocks outside, she must have cut back her herd pretty drastically.”

“Perhaps some of her guests bring their own horses,” Rogerio said, unpersuaded.

“Some may, but I doubt they could fill the stable,” Saint-Germain said.

“I wouldn’t have thought it was a good time to sell horses,” Rogerio said.

“No, nor I,” Saint-Germain agreed.

Rogerio looked toward the far end of the stable. “Tack room and feed storage, there on the left,” he surmised.

“Two of these horses are Percherons,” Saint-Germain observed. “Why would she keep draft horses?”

“She must use them. Perhaps in winter, if the roads become too muddy, or too snowy for autos,” Rogerio said. “You might want to ask Mrs. Curt about them.”

“I will,” said Saint-Germain, and continued on to the tack room. He looked in the door, screwing the light switch to turn the overhead bulb on. “All in good condition, but none of them new,” he said as he made a circuit of the room. “Mostly Western saddles, but three English, on that end rack. Bridles enough to match the saddles.”

“And racks for several more of each,” Rogerio said.

There was a small coach-house just beyond the stable, a little in need of upkeep but well-built. Inside were three vehicles: a large buckboard wagon, an elaborate sleigh, and a small, Western-style coach, all recently polished, as were the three sets of harness hanging on racks in front of them. “Well,” said Saint-Germain. “Now we know what the Percherons are for.”

“It makes sense,” said Rogerio.

They left the coach-house and ambled along the nearest path toward a cluster of cabins, all of them of a type, but each different from the other. Each had a plaque over the door with the names of the cabins on them:
Nevada, Amador, Placer, El Dorado, Alpine.
The proportions of the cabins were satisfying, and the steeply slanted roofs reminded the two men that winters here were snowy. Passing the five cabins, Saint-Germain noticed that only two were occupied, and wondered how much longer, at this rate, Mrs. Curt could hang on. The next group of cabins was in a grove of large rhododendrons:
Angel’s Camp, Auburn, Sonora,
and
Placerville.
They, too, were small but individual,
Sonora
having a little patio that gave out onto the extensive lawn behind the dining room of the main lodge,
Placerville
having a well-kept walkway that led toward what seemed to be tennis courts below the lodge terrace.

“How many cabins, do you think?” Saint-Germain asked, looking along the trail toward the next group.

“Over thirty,” Rogerio said, pointing to the slope opposite where they stood.” There are at least five more groups of them: you can see them through the trees. Even if not all of them are guest cottages—I would guess that some are for staff—they must have a minimum of thirty for guests.”

“So it seems to me,” Saint-Germain agreed. “A good deal to keep up, even in prosperous times, with an adequate staff. But now—” He stopped as he looked around again. “What do you think? Perhaps four or five in the kitchen, and six waiters. They might also do room maintenance, so that would mean another seven or eight for housekeeping tasks, but I would imagine they are currently getting by with three, possibly four. A waiter in the bar, as well, I would think. A carpenter and two gardeners for the upkeep of the buildings and the grounds. Someone to run errands. Someone to take the guests up and down the hill to the lake. A—what do they call it in this part of the country?—a wrangler for the horses, and a groom or stable-boy, and a farrier. Then someone to maintain the pool and similar facilities.” They began walking again and came upon a flume, water running along it from a source somewhere farther up the hill. Another six cabins were strung out along the flume like over-sized beads, all with names of writers who set stories in California. One of the cabins,
Jack London,
had a damaged roof, but otherwise they seemed to be in fairly good repair, although by their appearance, none of them was occupied at present.

Rogerio pointed to the roof. “That happened recently.”

“So I think,” Saint-Germain said, and pointed to the sugar pine standing next to it, where the scar of a broken limb was apparent. “Probably early in the spring, at the thaw. That’s when the branches break.”

“Very likely,” said Rogerio. He lengthened his stride and went on down the path, where another path crossed the one they were on. “Which way?”

“Up the hill,” said Saint-Germain.

They had passed three more gatherings of cabins before they got to the crest of the rise where two of the large cabins stood:
Yosemite
on the north side of the path,
Tuolumne
on the south; it did indeed have a patio, a balcony, and a chimney, and the car road skimmed the edge of the lot on which the cabin stood, offering easy access to a parked car. The cabin had two walls of huge windows, one on the south side with French doors built into it, facing the lake; the other expansive window was on the west side of the building, giving an excellent view of the lodge itself. The patio wrapped around the south and east flank, near the front door, and the balcony was on the east. From the inside came the sound of a carpet-sweeper being operated.

“It will have a great deal of light,” said Rogerio.

“I can see that,” Saint-Germain agreed. “I think I’ll bring in one of my chests. My native earth will counter-act the light from the windows.”

Rogerio made a gesture to show he understood; then he looked down the hill. “Four more cabins just below us. And it looks as if one of them is occupied.”

“I’ll be careful,” Saint-Germain assured him, adding, “There is no reason to be reckless, not here.”

“You are not often reckless,” said Rogerio as if to remind himself of that “Not when you have any choice in the matter.”

“Yes. I prefer not to be,” Saint-Germain said as they started down the slope toward the four cabins. “But think of the excellent investment the spa in Austria has turned out to be. It took thirty years to pay off, but it has been earning money steadily since 1872. This place has just the same potential. By 1955, I would think it would be flourishing.”

“This isn’t Austria,” Rogerio reminded him. “And, given the politics in Austria, you may not be able to hold on to the spa much longer.”

“Even if I lose it, it has returned handsomely on my investment,” said Saint-Germain. “Unlike the living, I can afford to wait.”

Rogerio had no answer for this. He glanced back over his shoulder at
Tuolumne.
“It is a pleasant site.”

“The whole resort is—that is what I like about it.” They had reached the next group of cabins. “
Sutter Creek, Yuba River, Feather River,
and
Mokelumne River.
I sense another theme here.
Yuba River
has at least two guests in it.”

“The theme is regional, as with all the rest,” Rogerio said, picking up his pace to keep up with Saint-Germain.

“I do like this place. I can see why it isn’t doing well just now—very few people can afford to come here, or anywhere, for that matter. But when the country finally emerges from its financial woes, I should think this would be just the kind of resort where many families would want to come on holiday. With the improvements on the roads, it should make Lake Tahoe an easy destination for many.” Saint-Germain walked past the four cabins to another group of eight; unlike the others, these were all of the same design and large enough to house four or five people; they were numbered instead of named. “This must be for the staff. The cabins are simpler—no patios, no balconies, no picture windows—but the look of them is still a handsome one. And in another decade, they will not look out-of-fashion, they will have regained their charm in the public eye.” He continued on, closely observing all he saw. When they reached the last group of cabins—
Mono Lake, Cathedral Lake, Loon Lake, French Meadow Lake, Silver Lake, Gold Lake
—just below the terrace where the swimming pool was located, Saint-Germain announced, “I will make arrangements through the attorney and the bank to invest in this place.”

“Was that in doubt?” Rogerio asked.

“Probably not,” Saint-Germain conceded. “But it will require finesse. Unless I have erred in my assessment of Mrs. Curt, she does not want to be beholden to anyone, for fear of losing what she has. Tact will be needed, and an ironclad contract that gives her autonomy in running the place for as long as she is willing and capable.”

“And it will give you a place to go to ground,” Rogerio said knowingly. “In case you should need one.”

Saint-Germain hesitated before he answered. “What better place than a resort? It has worked in the past.” He looked around again.

Rogerio nodded twice. “That it has.”

Satisfied that they were in agreement, Saint-Germain changed the subject. “I’ll drive the auto up to the cabin; if you’ll check out the lodge for me?”