Naked Once More (19 page)

“More than exhausted,” Craig said. “You appear to have hurt yourself, Mrs. Kirby. What happened to your hand?”

Jacqueline had not made up her mind whether to mention the broken stair. She decided she had better do so; St. John was bound to notice it if he entered the cottage, and it was not the sort of event that could be casually brushed away. However, she could see no profit in mentioning her suspicions—or rather, her certainty—that the accident had been rigged. If the perpetrator believed her to be unwitting, he might make a careless mistake or unthinking admission that would give her a clue to his identity.

Her explanation produced more cries of sympathy from St. John, as well as fulsome apologies. He would never forgive himself! He had no idea the place was in such poor condition. He would summon a carpenter immediately.

“No sense in closing the barn door now,” Craig said, watching Jacqueline. “Mrs. Kirby has no reason to use those stairs again. In fact, I can’t help wondering why she went up them in the first place.”

“I was looking for the bathroom,” Jacqueline said.

“Oh, I see. But the bathroom is—”

“I know that now. I didn’t know it then.” Jacqueline removed her hand from the damp grasp of St. John, who was trying to peel off the Band-Aid and inspect the damage. Or so he claimed. She smiled at him. “It was my own fault. St. John offered to show me where everything was, and I was so anxious to get to work, I refused his help. Please, let’s not talk about it anymore. No harm was done—except to the railing. Oh, by the way, St. John, I’m taking some of Kathleen’s papers with me. Mr. Craig has the list.”

Craig examined it. “Letters? What do you want with those?”

Jacqueline had prepared her excuse. It had the advantage of being true. “Kathleen corresponded with a number of other writers. All professionals like to talk shop; in the case of writers, they discuss the work in progress, mention some of their ideas, and grumble about difficulties that have arisen. I know I do. I’m hoping that Kathleen described some of her ideas for the sequel to her correspondents.”

“I don’t understand why you have to take them with you,” Craig insisted. “Why can’t you look through them there, in Kathleen’s study?”

Jacqueline gritted her teeth. “The place is a filthy mess,” she said bluntly. “Not only is the atmosphere depressing, but I’d have to drag all my equipment out here. It’s easier to take the letters away than move a word processor, printer, and the rest of it.”

St. John looked chagrined. “I could have the place cleaned up for you—”

“There’s no need. It shouldn’t take more than a few days to finish there.” She turned to Craig, who was still frowning at her list. “Perhaps you’d like to look through the carton and make sure I haven’t forgotten to list anything.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Craig muttered.

“How kind of you.”

She made her excuses as soon as she could, pleading the lateness of the hour and her fatigue. Craig stuck to the last, and followed her to her car.

“I wonder if we could meet sometime, Mrs. Kirby. There are a few matters we need to discuss.”

“Such as?”

He showed no sign of being offended by her bluntness. “Nothing alarming, I assure you. I’m afraid I was offensive, about those letters. I didn’t mean to be; we lawyers, you know, tend to take a suspicious view of the world.”

“You aren’t the only ones,” Jacqueline said.

Craig laughed. “Yes, you aren’t exactly a trusting, naive innocent, are you? I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot, Jacqueline—may I call you Jacqueline? Perhaps we could have dinner sometime soon. We could talk about—about Kathleen and her work.”

“What a delightful idea,” Jacqueline said enthusiastically. “I’d love to meet Mrs. Craig—and the children. We must arrange something. Sometime soon.” She settled herself behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition. “Ta-ta, Mr. Craig.”

She kept a wary eye out for running children and brooding lawn workers as she drove out, but no one appeared.

Jacqueline decided not to have dinner at the inn. It was more likely to be crowded on a Saturday evening and the thought of being semi-deafened by a college football game didn’t have much appeal. It was possible, she supposed, that Mrs. Swenson didn’t like football. Possible, but unlikely; she didn’t seem to care what she watched.

Her supper consisted of scrambled eggs and bacon. She ate it with one hand while she sorted papers with the other.

The letters she had taken dated from the last three months of Kathleen’s life. Jacqueline had already sorted them roughly, leaving behind the polite responses to letters from individual fans and favor-seekers, and removing only those that formed part of a prolonged correspondence. The copies Kathleen had kept of her own letters forecast an evening of eyestrain; she had used a sheet of carbon paper until it was in tatters.

One series of letters had proved irresistible, and she began her reading with those. They were from, and to, Brunnhilde.

Brunnhilde had done her damnedest to become one of Kathleen’s bosom buddies, but her damnedest hadn’t been good enough. Kathleen’s response to the first gushing fan letter had been courteous but cool. She had obviously heard of Brunnhilde, who was then at the height of her popularity, and the tact with which she admitted this fact while refraining from any comment whatsoever on Brunnhilde’s books, brought an admiring smile to Jacqueline’s face. The smile broadened to a grin as she went on reading. Kathleen was too polite (poor sucker) to refrain from answering a letter, but she had enough sense of self-preservation to refuse the pressing invitations to a face-to-face meeting. Even when Brunnhilde said she would be “in the area” and would love to take her “friend” to lunch or dinner, Kathleen wriggled out, using her recent accident as an excuse. There was no reply to Brunnhilde’s last letter, dated a month before Kathleen’s disappearance. She was going to be “in the area” again.…

Such a popular tourist spot, Pine Grove, Jacqueline thought, no longer smiling. Right on the way to… nowhere.

Several other writers had had better luck, either because Kathleen admired their work or because they had expressed their admiration for hers in terms less effusive and more convincing. Jacqueline had already read the series of letters to Frederick Fortman. She glanced through them to make certain there were none she had missed and then put them aside.

Kathleen had mentioned her accidents to more than one correspondent. She joked about them at first—“just like everyone’s stereotype of the absentminded writer!” One pen pal, an English historical novelist, had not been amused. After Kathleen had mentioned the third accident, she wrote, “I don’t want to sound like an old fuddy-duddy, Kathleen, but these near-misses of yours bother me. Perhaps you are working too hard. You are certainly entitled to a holiday; why don’t you take that trip abroad you’ve yearned for? I understand the pressure of family responsibilities, but surely your mother could get along without you for a few weeks. Come for a visit, do. I’d love to meet you in person.”

There was no carbon of a reply.

Jacqueline started and glanced over her shoulder. Then she relaxed; the click had only been the sound of the refrigerator turning itself on. She had been deeply engrossed in the letters. Reading them was like eavesdropping on two friends. It was depressing as well. There is nothing sadder than the cheerful letters of the dead, expressing hopes that were never fulfilled, ambitions that were never achieved, dreams cut off before they could come to fruition.

The house was too quiet—not even a cat purring. Ordinarily Jacqueline’s own wonderful company was quite good enough for her, but right now she wanted to talk to someone. Mentally she reviewed the list of friends who could be reached by phone, but there was no one who could give her the kind of advice she needed except O’Brien—and he wouldn’t give her advice, he would call her rude names and tell her to bug off. Besides, if he wasn’t working he was probably out on the town with his latest lady friend. It was Saturday night.…

Of course. Beaming with the beauty of the inspiration, Jacqueline collected her purse and coat and a flashlight, and headed out the door.

When she let herself back in two hours later, the telephone was ringing. Her first inclination was to let it ring. She was pleasantly tried and she no longer felt the need to exchange ideas with anyone. But when the telephone continued its shrill demand she realized it might be the lesser of two evils, so she picked it up. “Yes?” she snapped.

As she had suspected, the caller was Mollie. It was a reasonable assumption; Mollie was the only one, to the best of Jacqueline’s knowledge, who knew the number. And if she had not answered, Mollie would have come looking for her. Mollie said as much, along with a lot of other things.

“I saw you leaving, a long time ago, but I didn’t see you come back, and since you were on foot I knew you hadn’t gone to Gondal, and I couldn’t imagine where you could have gone, and I started to worry.…”

“Well, don’t. Worry. Unless there is something about this nice harmless town you haven’t mentioned.”

“Oh, no! But some parts of town—some places—can get a little wild on a Saturday night.”

“I know,” Jacqueline said, grinning reminiscently.

“You know?”

“Was there anything particular you wanted, Mollie?”

“Oh… There was a message for you this morning, from a Mr. Stokes. He said he was your agent.”

“He spoke the truth.” Jacqueline yawned. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“He wanted your telephone number,” Mollie said. “I told him I didn’t know…”

“Well, my dear, you lied, but for a good purpose. It won’t be held against you in the hereafter.”

“He was very insistent. He… he yelled at me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jacqueline began. Then she moderated her voice; she could almost see Mollie cringing, lips trembling, body bent.… Pregnant body bent. “My dear, don’t let people like Stokes bully you. I told him before I got here I didn’t want him bugging me. I’ll tell him again, more emphatically. If it will relieve your mind, I just went out for a little—er—exercise. I glanced in the lounge when I passed the inn, but you seemed to be quite busy, so I dropped in at the Elite.”

“Oh,” Mollie said blankly. “But that’s not your kind of place, Jacqueline. Especially on Saturday night. Some of the—the rougher element go there.”

“Everybody was very nice to me. A Mr. Hoggenboom bought me a boiler—A drink.”

“Bill Hoggenboom! But he’s the town—”

She stopped short. Jacqueline, who was beginning to be amused, could have supplied the missing word. Hoggenboom (“Just call me Bill, ma’am”) was the town gossip and, more to the point, the former sheriff. Her conversation with him and his buddies had been most illuminating.

“He was absolutely charming,” she said. “And so were the rest of them. Mollie, I’m awfully sleepy. Thank you for calling. I’m going to bed now.”

When she went to wash up, she saw that there were still traces of blue chalk under her fingernails. “It’s a good thing I quit playing when I did,” she said aloud, to nobody in particular. “I couldn’t have whipped Bill so badly after I had that second boilermaker. ‘Cigarettes and whiskey and wild, wild sheriffs.…’ There I go, talking to myself again. I should get a pet. It’s better to talk to an animal than talk to yourself. Or is it?”

Nobody answered.

According to Bill Hoggenboom, there had been exactly seventeen dollars and fifty-four cents in Kathleen’s purse when it was found. The day before she disappeared she had cashed a check for two hundred dollars. She might have given it to her mother or her brother, or used it for grocery shopping. Or again, she might not have.

Jacqueline waited until after eleven the following morning before she drove to Gondal. Mrs. Darcy was reputed to be a devout churchgoer, and surely her dear son would escort her. Apparently he had; there was no sign of life when she parked in front of the house and wended her way cottage-ward.

No one had entered the place since she left, or if they had, they had left no sign of their presence. The scraps of broken wood from the railing lay where they had fallen.

It was a bright, sunny day, but somehow Jacqueline found herself even less inclined to remain than she had when gloom and shadows darkened the room. She was beginning to hate the place, all the more so because of the contrast between its present abandonment and the way it must have looked when Kathleen occupied it. Rugs on the floor, curtains at the windows, a cat curled on the chair before a crackling fire—and Kathleen herself, pounding away at the old Smith Corona to which she clung despite the lures of more elaborate equipment, her eyes shining when the words came easily, forehead wrinkled with frustration when they stuck and wouldn’t come out at all.

Jacqueline swore under her breath and went to the filing cabinet. “I’m doing the best I can,” she muttered. “Just don’t bug me, okay? I’m trying.”

She went through the letter file again, and found her suspicions confirmed. Kathleen Darcy’s life had been singularly free of incident until a few months before her disappearance. Even when everyone else in the house caught cold she remained healthy.

After she had finished with the letters Jacqueline spent some time looking at the yellowed newspaper clippings. They would have been fascinating to a student of literature, indicating as they did many of the sources to which Kathleen had turned in writing her book. It was almost impossible, however, to determine which of the clippings might have inspired ideas for the sequel. Jacqueline swore again.

The only interesting items she found were a few bills that had been misfiled among the clippings—an error with which Jacqueline could sympathize, since she had often done the same thing and had sometimes spent furious and futile hours trying to track down the missing papers. One bill in particular, for legal services, made Jacqueline’s eyebrows rise. Even by New York standards the amounts were outrageously high. Apparently Kathleen felt the same; under the number of the check with which she had paid the bill she had added a pungent comment: “It would be cheaper to let somebody sue me.”