Naked Once More (20 page)

Jacqueline’s main reason for returning to Gondal that day proved futile. Though she had provided not only the ham-and-cheese sandwich but a variety of sweet, gooey cookies, Marybee did not appear. Philosophically Jacqueline ate the cookies herself. Feeling slightly queasy, she filled a carton with clippings—selected more or less at random—and left.

The town that had been so lively on Saturday night was nursing its hangover Sunday afternoon. The churchgoers had gone home to dinner; all the stores were closed, even the antique shops. Jacqueline made a mental note to make sure she did not run out of essentials, such as vodka, on Sunday.

The only establishment that was open was the good old Elite Bar and Grill, perhaps because it served food and was therefore like the inn, exempted from the blue laws. It held no appeal for Jacqueline at that time. Bill and the rest of the gang wouldn’t be in until later, and on Sunday night the crowd would be diminished; Monday was a work day.

Besides, Jacqueline reminded herself, there was the little matter of an outline to write. The deadline didn’t really worry her; the lawyers had just stuck that clause in so they could claim they were earning their money. She felt sure St. John would not cancel the contract if she was a few days late. Which she had no intention of being. At best it would be months before she could expect to see any payments from this book. She only wished she had a better idea of what she was going to write. Even the first three chapters, whose general outline had been established by Kathleen, bothered her. Kathleen had left Ara in a mess from which it was going to be very difficult to extract her, and the heroine’s motivation for behaving so foolishly was lacking altogether.

Pondering plot complications, Jacqueline had to brake suddenly to avoid a cat that streaked across the street in front of the car. It was a black cat with a tail as bushy as that of a raccoon. Jan’s? Yes; it disappeared into the slot between the two tall buildings where the bookshop was hidden.

Jacqueline worked for several hours, transcribing Kathleen’s scribbled notes into the computer, and cursing the novelist’s difficult handwriting. It proved to be worth the effort, though. Some of the rough, incomplete sentences suggested possible plot developments. She had almost finished when the telephone rang. Jacqueline ignored it and finally it stopped.

Having completed the last page and returned the notes to their folder, she contemplated the results thoughtfully. Not much there; but a couple of the ideas Kathleen had jotted down referred to events that would occur toward the middle of the sequel. Had she changed her mind about using them? And if she had not, why hadn’t she included them in her too-brief outline?

Because, said common sense and the verdict of the court, she had stopped caring—about writing the book, about finishing her life. She had just enough pride in her work left to make certain her successor, if there should be one, would have to demonstrate enough skill to anticipate some of her ideas for the sequel. The fact that she had left the outline with her lawyer was an indication that she did not expect to live long enough to write the book herself.

Jacqueline had no quarrel with that conclusion, except that it didn’t go far enough. There are several reasons why an individual might anticipate imminent death. A fatal illness, a dangerous journey… An unseen killer who had already tried several times to end her life.

Enough of that, Jacqueline thought. Back to work. She wanted to get her elusive ideas down on paper before they escaped; the little devils had a nasty way of doing that, they could vanish in seconds.

After a handful of cookies and a Coke, to fuel the creative fires, she went to the file where she had put Kathleen’s outline. She had deemed it worthy of a neatly labeled folder of its own. However, the folder was empty. Jacqueline scowled. It wasn’t the first time she had misfiled material, and it undoubtedly would not be the last, but this error was particularly irritating because she was anxious to get on with her work while she was in the mood. Where the hell could she have put the damned thing? It must have got mixed up with other papers while she was unpacking.

Sure enough, it was at the back of the folder immediately preceding the one in which it should have been nestled. Mumbling and swearing at the delay, Jacqueline read it through and then settled down at her word processor. She paused only once, to turn on the lights. Darkness was complete before she stopped, and slumped wearily in her chair.

A non-writer would not have been impressed at the results of her labors—seven pages, heavily interlined and crossed out. The crumpled sheets of paper that littered the floor around her chair amounted to at least three times that number. Jacqueline felt as if she had been scrubbing floors or lifting weights, but she studied the results with moderate satisfaction. She had a long way to go, but it was a good start. She stretched till her muscles cracked and decided to treat herself to a meal at the inn. The cookies had long since settled into an aching chasm of emptiness.

It was later than she had thought. Only a few diners lingered, but the waitress assured her that though some of the entrees were gone, there was still some boeuf bourguignon left, and it was very good. Or maybe the shrimp à la Mountain Laurel? Jacqueline settled for the beef, ordered a drink, and relaxed.

The waitress had just set the plate in front of her when Mollie came running into the room. “There you are,” she cried.

“Here I am,” Jacqueline agreed.

“Oh, dear.” Mollie dropped into a chair and stared at her.

“I could leave,” Jacqueline offered. “Just let me eat first, I’m starved.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean… I called you, but you didn’t answer.…”

“I was working.”

“I thought you must be, and I hated to disturb you, but I thought you ought to know…”

“Spit it out, Mollie,” Jacqueline said patiently.

“There was a man here.” Mollie’s eyes widened till the whites showed around the pupils. She looked like a terrified sheep. “He was awful! Tom had to ask him to leave. He kept drinking! I offered him a menu, but he threw it on the floor and just—just kept drinking, Then he started talking about you. He said terrible things, Jacqueline!”

“Must be someone I know,” Jacqueline remarked. “Did he mention his name?”

“He didn’t have to, I knew who he was; he was here last spring, and of course I’ve read his books.”

Jacqueline sat up straight. “Jack Carter?”

“Yes, that’s the man. He acted all right the first time he was here—I mean, he drank quite a lot then, but he didn’t… He called you a liar and a crook, Jacqueline, and a—a slut.…”

Jacqueline doubted he had called her a slut, at least not without several qualifying adjectives. His vocabulary was a good deal more inventive. “Where did he go?” she asked, and took a mouthful of the beef. It was delicious.

“I don’t know. Tom asked him to leave and he… he went.”

“I’ll bet I can guess,” Jacqueline said. “Hmmm. I’ll be damned if I am going to miss my dinner on his account, though. It’s too good. What kind of wine does Tom use?”

“What? Wine? I don’t… He even tried to go upstairs, Jacqueline; he thinks you’re staying here. Maybe you’d better take one of the empty rooms, just for tonight. The cottage is so isolated.…”

“Precisely why I like it. Don’t fuss, Mollie. Could I have a glass of wine, please? A Montrachet would go well with this, I think.”

Mollie was learning. She protested no more, though Jacqueline saw her worried face peer out of the kitchen from time to time.

The rolls were hot and light and the raspberry trifle was superb. Jacqueline finished her glass of Montrachet—she assumed that was what it was, her taste buds were less well developed than her fond delusion that she was a connoisseur of fine vintages. After checking to make sure Mollie wasn’t watching, Jacqueline slid out of her chair and made a quick getaway. Once out of the inn, she struck off down the street, humming under her breath.

It was a lovely night. A half-moon hovered over the dark outlines of the mountains and the crisp breeze was sweet with a scent it took her some time to identify. The smell of pine and of clean, unpolluted air. No wonder it was unfamiliar. She met a few other people—an elderly couple arm in arm, a woman walking a furry mop of a dog. A nice town, a safe town, where, unlike Manhattan, people could walk the streets at night without fear. All the strollers had a smile for her, and a friendly greeting. Jacqueline interrupted her singing long enough to respond in kind before resuming. “Oh, where have you been, Jackie boy, Jackie boy.…”

The neon sign and lighted windows of the Elite blared through the darkness. “I have been to seek a knife,” Jacqueline sang. “So that I can stab my wife…” She opened the door and went in.

The smells that greeted her, blended of beer, cigarette smoke, perspiring human bodies, frying meat and smoking fat, had their own nostalgic charm. In her youth Jacqueline had spent many delightful hours in local hangouts like this one. In her home town and, she suspected, many others, the local lawmen didn’t worry excessively about minors being present. Where the hell else were the kids supposed to go? So long as they stuck to soft drinks and hamburgers, and behaved themselves, they were welcome to hang around.

She spotted Jack Carter right away. He was of medium height and stocky build, his features unnoteworthy except for the ferocious beard he cultivated—probably to hide the nonexistence of his chin and the shallowness of his jaw. He was wearing one of the bright plaid lumberman’s shirts he affected; it didn’t look as out of place in Pine Grove as it had in Manhattan, but something about the way he wore it made it look like a costume—which of course it was.

He was in his favorite position: more or less upright, back to the bar, glass in hand, making a speech at the top of his lungs. Most of the clientele, seated at tables or in the booths that lined the walls, paid no attention to him, but he had collected an audience of sorts, who stood around listening in fascinated silence. They could not, Jacqueline realized, have had the faintest idea what he was talking about.

“… and what about royalty periods, my friends, huh? What about
them?
You’d think we were still in the nineteenth century, when the goddamn little clerks sat on their goddamn stools adding up columns in the goddamn ledgers! What about the goddamn computers, huh? Mechanical minds chewing up society and spitting out the mangled pieces, sure, but those soulless mothers can tell you on any given day how many fucking books…” He stopped for breath and for refreshment. When he lowered the empty glass from his lips he had obviously forgotten what he had been talking about. Gazing around for fresh inspiration, he saw Jacqueline.

A hush fell on the assembled throng. With the collective, intuitive consciousness of crowds, they sensed drama. Carter’s eyes bulged like boiled eggs. The glass fell from his hand and bounced on the floor.

Jacqueline felt called upon to end the awkward silence. “As I live and breathe,” she exclaimed. “It’s just like the Malamute Saloon! Except that there’s a TV instead of a ragtime kid at the piano. I mean, look at you, Jack, face all hair and blank-faced stare—”

Carter got his breath back. “Bitch!”

A shocked hiss ran through the audience. Several of the men whom Jacqueline had met the previous night glanced uneasily at her.

“Cheating, rotten bitch!” Carter roared. “You stole that fucking book! You’d do anything to screw me, wouldn’t you? You’re out to get me, like everybody else! It’s sheer envy, that’s what it is, envy of a better writer. What did you have to do to get it, Kirby? Not just go to bed with Stokes, that wouldn’t be enough, he screws every client—”

“Hey,” said one of his listeners—a construction worker. “Hey, mister—”

“Keep out of this!” Carter shouted. “It’s between me and her—her and me—”

“No, sir, it ain’t,” said a stout little man with a face like that of a middle-aged cherub. (The manager of the Bon Ton, ladies’ and gents’ fine designer clothes.) “You can’t talk to a lady like that, not in this town.”

“Damn right,” remarked the mayor’s brother-in-law.

“Right on,” said the boy who bagged groceries at the supermarket. “Let’s throw the bastard out of here.”

A growl of agreement rose from the circle of listeners. They began to close in.

Jacqueline caught the eye of Bill Hoggenboom, who was leaning against the end of the bar. He winked, and settled back to enjoy the fun.

Jacqueline was tempted to do the same, but the role of interested bystander was not her style. “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Her voice was as sweet as the song of a robin and as piercing as the squawk of a crow. “Please, gentlemen. I am touched—deeply touched—by your gallantry. But refrain, I beg you. This macho hero will sue the whole town for assault if one of you so much as shoves him. If you’ll allow me… excuse me…”

She made her way through the crowd, which fell back before her, till she stood nose to nose with Carter. She noted, with detached amusement, that he had forgotten to put the lifts in his shoes. She was exactly five-nine, and their eyes were now on a level.

He was too close to the bar. She moved to one side. Carter moved too, watching her warily. When she had him positioned to her satisfaction, Jacqueline slowly raised her hand, forefinger rigid. “Ara felt the force of the god enter into her.” She poked him lightly in the middle of his chest.

Carter’s expression of mild apprehension did not alter. Slowly at first, then with the increasing momentum of a felled tree, he toppled over backward. The men around him hastily backed away. He hit the floor with enough force to raise a little cloud of dust and crumbs.

Jacqueline dusted off her hands and grinned at a farmer who had been one of her opponents at pool the night before. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” she remarked modestly.

A cheer arose. Several people offered to buy Jacqueline a drink, but she insisted the next round was on her. The gentlemen who rushed to take advantage of this handsome offer demonstrated the difference between big city and small town in their concern for the prostrate body; they stepped over it instead of kicking it as they passed.