Sacrificial Ground (26 page)

“How long did she stay here?”

“About an hour,” Linton said.

“What did you talk about?”

“I showed her my paintings. She seemed to like them. She had no education in art, no experience in it. But she seemed genuinely interested. She asked to see my studio, and so I took her into the back room and showed it to her.”

“May I see it?”

“My studio? Why?”

“Just to get a feel for the place.”

“All right,” Linton said with no further question. He pulled himself up and led Frank slowly into the back room.

A rush of bright sunlight swept the room, and Linton's white hair gleamed brightly in its rays.

“This is it,” he said, “my life's work.”

It was like a world of half-created things, canvases of ill-formed landscapes, half-colored faces, sketches, drawings, splotches of color that seemed little more than random, careless splatterings of red and yellow. It was as if Linton had spent his life in random, sporadic attempts to capture something that continued to elude him.

“This is where you took her that afternoon?” Frank asked.

“Yes.”

Frank peered about the room. There was something beautiful about it. The canvases were bound evenly, the frames neatly stacked. But it was not order which made it beautiful, it was the struggle to bring some order to everything outside the room, to all that was less tractable than mere frames and brushes.

“It's a nice place,” Frank said.

“I've seen worse.”

Frank glanced toward a vase of freshly cut flowers which rested on one of the tables near the easel.

“A friend of mine brings them here occasionally,” Linton said. “As a matter of fact, she brought them the day Diana came. We were in the studio when Miriam came in. She looked a little surprised to see the girl. She said, ‘Oh, it's you.'”

“She knew her?”

“I guess she did.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“No,” Linton said. “She just smiled and dropped off the flowers.”

“And the woman. What is her name?”

“Miriam Castle,” Linton said. “And if you're looking for the closest thing this city has to a real art patron, that's Miriam.”

“Where does she live?”

“She spends her summers in La Grange,” Linton said. “She's very rich. She has one of those huge plantations out there.”

“And the address?”

Linton laughed. “You won't need an address. Everybody in La Grange knows where the Castle plantation is.” He looked slowly around the room. “God, I will miss this place.” He nodded toward the corner. “The girl stood in that area right over there. I gave her a quick tour of the place. I showed her some paintings, some sketches, the usual stuff. It was like giving a lesson to a kindergarten kid.”

“Did she seem that young?”

“She seemed hardly to exist at all,” Linton said.

“Did you ever mention her to … is it Miss or Mrs. Castle?”

“Miss.”

“Did you ever mention her to Miss Castle?”

“No.”

“It never came up?”

“Never,” Linton said. “And that's not unusual for the two of us. We never talk about mutual acquaintances or anything having to do with each other's personal lives.”

“Why not?”

“We've had a certain division of feeling over the years,” Linton said. “She wanted something that I couldn't give her.” He stepped back toward the door. “I'd rather not stay too long in here.”

“Of course,” Frank said.

A few minutes later, Frank was on the porch again, staring at Linton through the gray screen.

“Thanks for your time,” he said.

Linton looked at him closely, his eyes still fixed on Frank's slowly healing face.

21

E
ven in his dreams, Frank could not have imagined the splendor that greeted him as he passed through the large gate and entered the grounds of the Castle plantation. It had taken him almost two hours to get to La Grange, but the beauty of the estate suddenly relieved much of the long drive's accumulated weariness and tension. Huge magnolias spread their great leaves in a rising tower of gently swaying green. To the left, weeping willows hung motionlessly over a blue lake, and beyond the water, almost like a phantom, he could see the great white portico that looked out over everything.

A small woman in a black dress and white apron greeted Frank at the door.

Frank took out his badge. “I called earlier. Miss Castle agreed to see me this afternoon.”

“You must be Mr. Clemons.”

“That's right.”

“Please come in, Miss Castle will be with you in a moment.”

The luxuriance of Karen's house was muted when compared to the sweeping foyer he entered now. An enormous staircase unfolded from the second floor and down along walls covered with paintings and brightly colored tapestries.

“May I take your hat, sir?” the woman asked.

“No, thanks,” Frank said. “I'll hold on to it.”

“Miss Castle has asked that you wait here,” the woman said. “She'll be down in a minute.”

“That'll be fine,” Frank said.

A few minutes later, Miriam Castle arrived. She walked down the long, winding staircase, and even from a distance, Frank could see that she was an elegant, graceful woman with silver hair and a remarkably unlined face.

She offered her hand gently as she stepped over to Frank.

“I'm pleased to meet you,” she said. She smiled politely. “I was just going out for my evening walk. I was hoping that you might join me.”

“Yes, fine.”

“Good,” Miss Castle said. “Come.”

A few minutes later, the two of them were strolling slowly amid the rich foliage of the grounds. Wisps of Spanish moss hung from the branches overhead, and in the distance a small clear stream meandered right and left through the oak and elm.

“We gained all this through slavery,” Miss Castle said. “One of my distant relatives was in the slave trade almost from its beginnings. Family legend has it that he was a kind man. But then, what family legend ever contained a cruel one?” She laughed. “A fact which Derek never tires of pointing out.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Forever,” Miss Castle said. “Or at least it seems that long. Actually, it's been about forty years. I still bring him flowers, you know.”

“Yes, I saw them.”

She turned toward him. “I don't know, Mr. Clemons, perhaps it's just the light or the way the lake looks right now, but I feel quite full of things.”

“Things?”

“Truths,” Miss Castle said. “Even difficult ones sometimes seem quite beautiful.” She walked to the edge of the lake and stopped. “What did Derek tell you about me?”

“Nothing.”

She smiled. “Of course. He's always been like that.”

“What should he have told me?”

“Well, for one thing, that I've been in love with him for all these many years.”

Frank said nothing.

“Does that strike you as tragic?” she asked him.

“No.”

She looked back at him. “Why not?”

“Because it lasted.”

“But others have a quite different opinion,” Miss Castle said. “They see me as a woman who's spent her life loving a man who … well … who cannot love women.” She laughed. “It's really more a comedy, don't you think?”

“Neither one,” Frank said.

Miss Castle looked at Frank sweetly. “Women of my class are attracted to two things, Mr. Clemons, money and character. Derek had character.”

“He still does,” Frank said.

“Yes, and he will maintain himself intact,” Miss Castle said. She allowed her eyes to follow the flitting movement of a starling in the tall white oak. “How is he?”

“He's dying.”

“Yes, I thought so,” Miss Castle said, “of that awful disease.” The bird took flight and she looked back at Frank. “I shall think of myself as a widow, even though he would not approve of that.”

“Perhaps, he would.”

“No, he wouldn't,” she said determinedly. “I won't lie to myself about that. I have desired a man who does not and cannot desire me. Tragedy or comedy, in either case, it is the truth.”

Frank took out his notebook. “Mr. Linton said that you met Angelica Devereaux at his house.”

“Yes.”

“And that you said, when you saw her, ‘Oh, it's you.'”

“Possibly.”

“So you recognized her?”

“Not as Angelica Devereaux,” Miss Castle said, “but only as a young girl I'd seen in various out-of-the-way galleries in the city.”

“Then you didn't know who she was?”

“No, I only knew that I had seen her before at such places. She was always dressed differently, but when you are that beautiful, dress cannot hide it.”

“You said the galleries were ‘out of the way'?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that they're not among those on the Northside, the more prestigious galleries,” Miss Castle said. “They are smaller places, with cheaper rents, that sort of thing.”

“Places like the Knife Point Gallery?” Frank asked.

“Yes, that's the sort of gallery I mean.”

“And you saw Angelica at places like the Knife Point from time to time?”

“Yes,” Miss Castle said. “I had no idea who she was. And she was always dressed somewhat differently. But she was very beautiful. Quite striking. If you saw her once, you weren't likely to forget it.”

“Did you see her often?”

“Not often, but on occasion.”

“How many times?”

“I didn't make a note of it.”

“Give me your best guess, then.”

“Five, maybe six.”

“Over how long a period?”

“I started running into her about four months ago,” Miss Castle said.

“Was she always alone?”

“Yes, and that struck me as very strange. After all, she is, as I've said, very beautiful, and that sort of girl is rarely alone. It would have been natural for her to have had some sort of escort.”

“But she never had one?”

“Not as I recall.”

Frank wrote it down. When he looked back up, he saw that Miss Castle had been eyeing him cautiously.

“I have a confession to make, Mr. Clemons,” she said.

“Confession?”

“Yes. I'm afraid that I had an ulterior motive for asking you up here this evening.”

“Which was?”

“To find out about Derek,” Miss Castle said. “Beyond that, I must tell you that I know practically nothing about your young girl. I never spoke to her or had anything at all to do with her.”

“I understand,” Frank said, “but you did at least see her from time to time, and that's important.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Frank said. “Now, about these places where you met Angelica, these galleries, where are they?”

“Actually, I never saw her at the Knife Point,” Miss Castle said. “No, she was always somewhere else.” She thought about it for a moment. “Yes, I remember now. She was always at one of those galleries on the Southside. There's a street of them. Not too far from Grant Park.”

“Grant Park?”

“Yes, there's a street of them. Three or four in a row. It's all pretty run-down for the most part, but once in a while I've been able to find some interesting work.”

“These galleries,” Frank said. “What are their names?”

Miss Castle ticked them off one by one, as Frank wrote them down in his notebook.

“And you said they're all on one street?” he asked.

“Yes. Hugo Street,” Miss Castle said.

Frank wrote the street name under the names of the galleries and underlined it.

“This girl,” Miss Castle said after a moment. “Was she in love with Derek?”

“I don't think so.”

“Where did they meet?”

“The Knife Point,” Frank said, “then she dropped by his house.”

“And that's all?”

“As far as I know.”

Miss Castle smiled. “Old as I am, still jealous.” She laughed sadly. “And of a woman, of all things.”

Frank walked over to her, and for a moment the two of them watched a small flotilla of ducks as it skirted effortlessly across the placid surface of the lake.

“I still find life quite mysterious, Mr. Clemons,” Miss Castle said at last. She looked at him. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

She smiled, and drew a long thin strand of Spanish moss from one of the limbs that hung low above her. “This particular species always looks dead,” she said. “It's always gray and dusty.” She laughed faintly. “My father used to take me to the window at night. He'd point to this moss and he'd say, ‘Look, Miriam, there in the moonlight, the ghosts are hanging in the trees tonight.'” She coiled the strand delicately around her finger. “How long does Derek have?”

“I don't know.”

“Does he look … frail?”

“You haven't seen him?”

“No, not for a few weeks.”

“But the flowers.”

“He finally gave me a time when I could bring them and he wouldn't be there,” Miss Castle said. “He doesn't want me to see him.”

She began to walk slowly along the edge of the lake. “I've seen others, of course. They look dead before they die.” She turned abruptly to Frank. “Does he?”

“He looks thin, that's all,” Frank said. “He doesn't really look like he's dying.”

“He had so much energy,” Miss Castle said.

“He still does.”

She looked surprised. “Does he?”

“Yes,” Frank told her.

She shook her head. “Such a stubborn man. I've offered him all sorts of help. I've done that for forty years. It wouldn't only have been him. I'm a patron, as they say, of the arts. I buy their works, and sometimes I get them jobs that won't destroy them. Restorations, touch-ups, museum work, that sort of thing. I could have done that for Derek.” She laughed. “God knows I've done it for artists far less gifted than he is.” She shook her head despairingly. “But he would never take anything. He would never even sell me one of his paintings. He would give me one from time to time, but money never passed between us.” She stopped again, her eyes drifting over to the lake. The water was turning red in the twilight. “So, you see, I wouldn't have found it unusual if that girl had loved Derek.”