Naked Once More (48 page)

“I wasn’t the one who found the outline,” Stokes said. “Nor the only one who read it. Both St. John and Craig—”

“That’s not a bad line of defense,” Jacqueline said. “Except that neither of them had any reason to change the outline. Nor, my dear Bootsie, would either of them be likely to remember much about it. They aren’t writers or agents or editors. Heavens, they aren’t even readers. If they bothered reading the outline at all, the chance that either would recall specific plot incidents two years later, when the book was finally published, was practically nil. You were perfectly safe in making the changes. And you had to make them, Boots—because one other writer had produced an outline that was much closer to Kathleen’s than mine. You didn’t want her to have the book; she wasn’t one of your clients. And you thought she wouldn’t know the difference, since she would never see the original outline. It didn’t occur to you—then—that there might be a very good reason why she came closer to Kathleen’s concepts than anyone else.”

Until that precise moment, Jacqueline had not been one hundred percent certain she was right. The story hung together with beautiful precision, but without an iota of real evidence until Brunnhilde admitted, in front of witnesses, that Stokes had entered into an agreement with her while knowing that the stipulations of Kathleen’s will could invalidate any such commitment. That wasn’t enough, though; the point was esoteric and obscure, and might not impress a judge and jury. Jacqueline knew she needed more. She had planned the narration in such a way that revelation would follow revelation so rapidly that the person she was after would be kept on the defensive, and her final statement had been couched in terms sufficiently vague that the damning implications might not have been immediately comprehensible. Several of her listeners still looked confused; but Stokes knew, not only what she meant, but whom she meant, and there was no way he could keep his face from betraying him.

Jacqueline didn’t give him time to recover. “When Kathleen began her second career, she needed a pen name. Her fondness for the works of the Brontës has been pointed out by a number of critics. But nobody seemed to notice that Augusta Ellrington had similar tastes. Her very name is derived from the Brontë juvenilia. Augusta Geraldine Almeda is the heroine of Emily’s Gondal epic, the great tragic queen; Zenobia Ellrington is a character in Charlotte’s drama, one of the women who succumbs to the demonic charm of Zamorna, the hero who, most critics agree, influenced the character of Kathleen’s protagonist Hawkscliffe. Once I had decided that Kathleen might be one of the other candidates, the identification with Augusta was irresistible. The name of Augusta’s cherished cat was Morning Star—the English version of the Latin ‘Lucifer.’ Like Kathleen’s cat, Augusta’s was big and black and bushy; he is shown in her jacket photos, and the snapshots of Kathleen in which Lucifer appeared depict an animal of identical appearance. Augusta was a recluse who never did publicity or signings. She wouldn’t dare; she knew too many people in publishing. She was the only one of the candidates who didn’t come to Pine Grove for an interview. She couldn’t risk face-to-face contact with members of her family, however skilfully she tried to disguise herself. Last night I read part of her latest book—and those of the other candidates, in order to be perfectly fair. When I finished, there was no doubt in my mind that Augusta Ellrington could have written
Naked in the Ice,
and that she was the only one of the candidates of whom that could be said. The similarities in style and in technique were unmistakable, especially to another writer who is on the lookout for such things.”

“You mean,” St. John choked, “you mean Kathleen is—she isn’t—”

“She isn’t dead,” Jacqueline said. “She is Augusta Ellrington.”

A distinct sense of anticlimax followed Jacqueline’s statement, in part because the name she had mentioned had no meaning for most of those present, and in part because her flat, matter-of-fact tone stripped the statement of drama. In the silence a mellifluous voice could be heard, announcing with hideously inappropriate cheerfulness, “With winter coming on, it is estimated that several hundred of the nation’s homeless will perish from cold over the next five months.” Jacqueline glanced at the TV, her lips tightening, and finally a voice said, “I don’t believe it. Kathleen would have to be crazy to do such a thing.”

It was the first time Sherri had spoken. Her brother put out a pudgy hand and patted her shoulder. “Quite right. I agree with Sherri. Kathleen would never—”

“Shut up,” Sherri said. The sheer venom in her voice made St. John pull back his hand as if he had touched a hot stove. “What do you know about it—about her? Maybe she was crazy. Maybe you’re crazy too, Mrs. Kirby. Why would Kathleen run away, stay away all these years?”

“Yes, that is the question, isn’t it? The question I haven’t touched on yet.” Jacqueline continued to crochet; the pile of string had piled up at her feet. “It’s not a simple answer. Kathleen was not a simple person. It took me a long time, talking to members of her family, learning to know and understand her, before I began to see why she would act as she did. The cathartic event, the discovery that drove her to act, was her realization that one of the people closest to her had tried to kill her—and would, she had to assume, go on trying. Her life was in danger; without concrete evidence, which she lacked, she had no way of defending herself except to run away. But it was more than that. I think the discovery shattered every belief on which Kathleen had based her way of living. Since childhood she had devoted herself to other people—catering to her mother’s selfish demands, protecting her sisters, supporting her brother, and trying to fit her own work into the cracks between their needs. Her writing wasn’t a hobby, it was a compelling urge, as necessary to her as breathing. I don’t suppose I can make you see the degree of frustration she suffered, having to subordinate her need—not her desire, her absolute need—to the petty harassment of others. How long she would have gone on playing the martyr I don’t know. Some women do it all their lives. But when the truth about those accidents dawned on Kathleen, it was a revelation. Bitter? That’s a mild word for how she felt. In a strange sort of way, it didn’t even matter that only one person was guilty of physical assault; all of them, in varying ways, had assaulted her emotionally. She may not have seen that clearly when she made her plans to leave; her original intention may have been to hire a detective, or make inquiries on her own, in the hope of discovering the identity of the would-be killer.”

The ball of string was in a hopeless tangle; Jacqueline dropped it into her purse and absently stuck the crochet hook through her chignon. “Picture,” she said, “Kathleen’s life as Augusta Ellrington. A comfortable, cozy little apartment, with only her cat for company. Work she loved. The opportunity to do that work whenever she felt like doing it, with no demands, no interruptions, no distractions. For the first time in her life she had a room of her own. She must have felt… How can I make you understand? Like someone who has spent her entire existence trying to breathe thick, poisonous smog, and suddenly finds herself inhaling clean air. She wasn’t crazy to take that step, Sherri. She would have been crazy to go back.”

Laurie Smith had covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders were shaking. Sherri looked from Jacqueline to her sister. After a moment she got up and sat down on the couch next to Laurie. Neither spoke, but their hands fumbled briefly and then clasped.

Jacqueline’s smile was more than a little ironic. She had succeeded in breaking down some of the barriers that separated the two sisters; in the end they would find common ground in their resentment of her. Paul wasn’t very happy with her either. She had had excellent reasons for concealing part of the truth from him, but he wouldn’t be able to see it that way. Just like a man, Jacqueline thought sourly. Even the best of them…

Nor was Ronald Craig one of her fans. He said sarcastically, “You’re slipping, Mrs. Kirby; you actually made a statement that can be checked. Where does this Ellrington woman live? Not that I believe a word of it—”

“You’d better believe it, because it’s true,” Jacqueline said. “I haven’t gotten to the good part yet, Ronnie. Don’t you want to know the name of the murderer?”

“Which one?”

“They’re one and the same. Jan was killed because someone thought she was Kathleen.” Jacqueline’s face was grim. “Kathleen had betrayed herself by writing those letters. She even made a telephone call—at least one, possibly more—during which she said something that was a dead giveaway. But the man who had tried to kill her had also betrayed himself. By falsifying Kathleen’s outline, he had exposed his motive, and thereby given Kathleen the clue she needed. Her accusations alarmed the criminal; her very existence threatened him. He had to find her and silence her. Eventually he might have identified her with Augusta, but he isn’t a reader, or a student of literature; the Brontëan clues passed right over his head. Nor was Augusta-Kathleen stupid enough to sit around waiting for him to catch up with her. In any event, before he could pursue that clue, I…” Jacqueline’s eyes fell. “I was partially responsible for what happened to Jan. I would like to believe that he would have found out about her from other sources; he was desperately seeking Kathleen, wherever she might be hiding. But it was I who told him about the bookstore, and I who mentioned, not once but twice, that there was a mysterious young woman in Pine Grove who had a strong sense of identification with Kathleen.

“What had he to lose? He went to the bookstore at closing time. He found Jan sitting in her favorite place, by the fire. He wouldn’t have noticed the difference in height when she was sitting down, and the wig she wore wouldn’t have surprised him; he expected her to be disguised. He started looking at the books, got behind her.… One quick blow, that was all it took. After he had locked the door, he had all night to set the scene and search the cottage to make certain Kathleen, as he believed her to be, had left no documents incriminating him. When he left he hung the sign up, so people wouldn’t wonder why the store didn’t open next day. His alibi for that killing wasn’t good; the longer the time that elapsed, the better for him.”

“Jacqueline.” Paul sounded like a man who was on the ragged edge of hysteria.

“Yes, all right,” Jacqueline said. “It should be obvious whose identity I am concealing behind the masculine pronoun. He had the opportunity and it shouldn’t be too difficult to prove he had the means to plan those accidents seven years ago. Several other people also had means and opportunity, though. The essential question is that of motive.

“That was always the biggest stumbling block when it came to making a case for murder. I couldn’t seriously consider passion as a motive. Kathleen had… well, let’s just say she was a normal woman with normal urges. However, none of the men with whom she was involved had reason to kill her. Frustrated lovers are convenient fictional suspects, but in real life they are more inclined to grab a gun or a knife than plan a subtle, complex killing. I’ve always believed that the profit motive is one of the strongest, but the only reason why one of Kathleen’s heirs might have had cause to kill her was if he feared Kathleen was about to cut him out of her will. Yet she did not make a new will until after the accidents occurred; they were the cause, not the result, of her suspicions of her family. As the will clearly indicated, she had not settled on any one of them as the culprit.

“But Booton Stokes had a lot to lose if, as I came to believe, Kathleen had decided to find a new agent. She couldn’t prevent him from collecting his percentage on
Naked in the Ice.
But the new book she was planning would be worth even more than the first. Stokes would lose his percentage on that book, and the defection of his most valuable and distinguished client would have damaged his reputation and his career. She had…” Jacqueline carefully didn’t look at Paul. “She had a friend who was trying to convince her to fire her ‘crook of an agent,’ as he put it. The friend believed he had convinced her—and so do I. Being the decent, fair-minded person she was, Kathleen warned Stokes of what she planned to do. She made no public announcement; there was no need for her to do so until the sequel was finished and ready to be marketed.”

“Hold on a minute, Jake,” Bill said, forgetting protocol. “I can’t buy that. To kill somebody for a percentage on a book—”

“How about killing somebody for a million and a half bucks?” Jacqueline asked. “Kathleen’s first book made over five million, including film rights. Her second could easily have made twice that much. Booton’s percentage is fifteen percent.” Bill’s expression brought a sardonic smile to her face. “You see? It makes a much more compelling motive when it’s expressed in dollars and cents.”

For a few moments no one spoke. Jacqueline went back to her crocheting, and the others stared at Stokes.

“It’s been a fascinating evening,” he said coolly, “but I don’t believe I’ll stick around for dinner. And, Jacqueline, I’m afraid that plot will never sell. It’s too farfetched.”

“Don’t go, Boots,” Jacqueline said. “You haven’t heard the best part yet. It’s a real grabber.”

“The most charitable explanation of this performance is that you are mentally ill,” Stokes said. “I’m leaving. You can’t stop me.”

“No, I can’t,” Jacqueline admitted. “But he can.” She pointed the crochet hook at Paul.

“That’s intimidation,” Stokes cried. “Officer, are you going to permit—”

“Hell, mister, I’m no cop,” Bill said mildly. “Just an ex-sheriff. Seems to me, though, that somebody might want to get in touch with that lady—Augusta… whatever her name is.”

“You won’t be able to find her,” Booton said shrilly. “She’s a recluse. She’s crazy. God, I’m beginning to think all writers are crazy! She might even be nuts enough to claim she is Darcy, once you put the notion in her head—”

“Fingerprints, fingerprints,” Jacqueline murmured. “Don’t forget the fingerprints, Bootsie. And don’t harbor any cute ideas about getting to Augusta first. Relax and enjoy it, as the old saying goes; you’ll probably enjoy it about as much as a woman likes being raped. I’m almost finished, and this is the best part. It’s so wonderful I can hardly believe it myself.”