Smoke and Mirrors (24 page)

The gardens of Magnolia Hill were famous, tended lovingly for generations. The lighting, it was safe to assume, had been added by Juliet. But even the garish spots and clusters of colored lanterns could not destroy the classic elegance of the landscaping. The waxy white magnolia blossoms were long since gone, but the glossy leaves glimmered with a more austere beauty;
azaleas and rhododendrons formed masses of soft foliage; and the fall flowers put on a brave show. There were shadowy alcoves along the winding, carefully manicured paths. As they moved farther from the house the music faded, allowing them to hear softer sounds—rustles and muted laughter and heavy breathing. They had to go some distance before they found a bench that was unoccupied, probably because it was brightly illumined by overhanging lanterns.

The garden it faced had been laid out in formal French style, with angular strips of low plantings outlining squares and circles of earth. A few roses still struggled to bloom; the circular pool in the center of the bed was as still as a dark mirror.

The lanterns were red, yellow, and blue—bright red, yellow, and blue. They turned Nick's face into a bizarre patchwork of color. Erin knew hers must look just as odd, but Nick didn't seem to notice. "Are you cold?" he asked softly. She shook her head, but Nick took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. She leaned against the warmth of his arm and shoulder; when his other hand touched her cheek and turned her face toward his she protested.

"We're absolutely spotlighted, Nick. Anyone can see—"

"So what?"

The distant beat of the music was drowned out by the rush of blood in her veins as his lips found hers, gently at first, then with growing insistence. Her arms went around him, hands moving slowly across the hard muscles of his back until they found a resting place, and she felt his response in the pressure of his mouth and the rhythm of his pulse.

She had forgotten about the lanterns overhead and the possibility of being observed. It was Nick who ended the kiss with a final soft touch on her parted lips. He guided her head into the curve of his shoulder and rested his cheek against her hair.

It was all very sweet and harmless and romantic, and Nick's kisses aroused her in a way she had never experienced, not with such intensity. There was no reason why she should have felt a gradual, rising unease. It might have been the soft sounds in the trees behind them: sounds that could have been wind, or night animals ... or something else. The sensation was as difficult to
define as it was increasingly peremptory. Erin stirred, and Nick's arms tightened.

"No," she said reluctantly. "Let's go back, it must be late."

"Not that late." His fingers curled around her cheek and turned her face toward his. The warmth of his breath brushed her mouth.

"No, don't. Nick, please."

"What's the matter?"

"Your forehead is blue."

Nick chuckled softly. "Yours is red. It looks wonderful. You look wonderful. You taste wonderful—like strawberries, and roses, and—"

"Nick." She knew now what the trouble was. "Somebody is watching us. I can feel them—eyes, staring, leering. ..."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Nick let her go so abruptly that she swayed backward. He jumped to his feet. "If you don't want me to kiss you, just say so. You don't have to invent horror stories to turn me off."

He loomed over her, arms crossed, face set in a scowl. Erin scowled back. "One of these days, Nick McDermott, you are going to believe me when I tell you something. It will probably be the same day hell freezes over. Until then ..."

"I get it. Sure, I get it! I don't need a brick wall to fall on me!" Nick raised his arms in an appeal to the starry heavens. "Women!" he told them.

"Men!" Erin shouted after his retreating form. There was no reply.

As soon as he was out of sight, the discomfort she had forgotten in her anger fell on her with the force of an avalanche. She started up and turned, scanning the clustered shadows. There was no sign of life or of movement, but she knew
it
was still there, watching and waiting. She said weakly, "Nick?"

No answer. He really had gone, gone and left her alone in this place of murky shadows and lurid lights. ... At that moment the lights flickered and went out.

Erin picked up her skirts and ran. Never mind common sense, never mind dignity; the fear that gripped her was primitive and primeval, as reasonless as it was compelling. She wasn't even
surprised when something long and dark snaked out of a shrub alongside the path and wrapped around her throat.

The hand that clamped over her mouth as she was dragged into the shrubbery was a little slow. She got out one shrill cry before her breath was cut off, not only by the fingers squeezing her face but by the arm pressed against her throat. She kicked and squirmed and tried to bite. When the deadly grip suddenly released her she thought for a moment that her struggles had succeeded. Then she heard him.

"Erin? Where the hell are you? Erin, answer me. . . . Oh,
damn!"

He had fallen over her feet, which were stretched across the
path.

The ensuing interval was a wild fumbling in the dark that ended with both of them kneeling, their arms around one another. Nick's conversation consisted solely of profanity and self-recrimination. "I never should have gone off like that. . . damn it, damn it, oh, shit, are you all right? Oh, damn it to hell!"

Finally they composed themselves, and, still embracing, staggered along the path until they found light. Nick stopped, held her off at arm's length, and inspected her.

"No blood," he said, his voice wavering. "Are you ..."

"I'm not hurt. Just shook up. What about my dress? It's torn, isn't it? I can feel a breeze down my back."

"Never mind your goddamn dress. I should be kicked from here to Florida and back. Leaving you alone with this place full of drunks and dirty old men—"

"Dirty old . . . Oh. Are you suggesting—" I m not suggesting anything, I'm too busy despising myself." Nick groaned and smote himself heavily on the brow. "And after you told me, begged me—you said there was somebody there. . . . How about if I lie down and you jump on me a few times? Then we'll go over to the pool and I'll quietly drown myself while you watch."

"Don't go to all that trouble just for me," Erin said.

He grabbed her, holding her so tightly she squeaked in protest. I've never been as glad to see anyone as I was to see you," she admitted. "But my dress—"

"Women, ' Nick said, grinning sheepishly. "Turn around and let's have a look. Hmmm. Seems to be a slit or a hole or something down the back. Very sexy. However, you might care to resume my coat until you can wend your way to the ladies' room and make repairs."

"Your coat! I had it. ... It must be back there in the bushes."

"I'll go look. You wait here. " It was evident from Nick's expression that he hoped to find something besides his coat in the bushes, but Erin refused to be left behind, and Nick didn't argue with her. He was doomed to disappointment; the coat was there, crumpled and dusty, but there was no sign of anyone.

Nick held her hand tightly as they retraced their steps. He was silent, having used up his stock of expletives, and Erin was absorbed in her thoughts. No doubt Nick was right, her attacker must have been one of Juliet's guests, too drunk to know what he was doing or too drunk to care. But there had been nothing even remotely sexual about that hard grip. She couldn't even be certain that it had been a man's arm and hand.

The majority of the guests had left but a few remained— the serious eaters and drinkers, and the journalists, hanging grimly on for fear of missing some titillating news item. They had some reason to hope for a damaging statement or embarrassing display; a goodly number of those present were far from sober, including the hostess, who was notorious for her after-hours performances.

The latter clung limpetlike to Rosemary. "You can't leave yet, dahling, I haven't had a chance to talk to you. Now that those other boring people have gone home, we could . . . dance, maybe? Or have a good old-fashioned singalong. Where's that damned piano player?"

"Things appear to be getting out of hand," said Erin, as the distinguished actress lifted the damask tablecloth and bent to peer under it—looking for the vanished pianist. "Where's Joe?"

"He's given up," Nick said, indicating the weary figure propped against a bookcase. From Joe's expression of satisfaction Erin deduced that the take had been even better than he had hoped.

"Poor Rosemary," she said. "She looks exhausted."

Nick squared his shoulders and straightened his tie. " 'Once more into the breach, dear friends. . . .'
"

The distraction proved effective, though it took the famous thespian a few seconds to recognize Nick. The contact lenses she wore to intensify the color of her famous sapphire-blue eyes seemed to be irritating them.

He succeeded in distracting her from Rosemary, but not from her determination to prolong the life of the party. "Dolls," she murmured, gazing into Nick's eyes.

"Uh," said Nick. "I don't think—"

"No, honey, you're right. Dollhouses. That was it. I was gonna show you my . . . Hey, Rosie! You haven't seen my collection." Her coordination was better than it appeared. Without loosing her hold on Nick she made a grab for Rosemary, who was edging away. "Come on. We'll all go see my collection!"

Nick went with Juliet—it was that, or have the sleeve of his rented suit ripped off. Erin joined Rosemary, who had waved away a proffered tray filled with brimming glasses. Rosemary's cheeks had a grayish tinge and her smile was as rigid as concrete.

"You must be ready to lie down and die," Erin said.

Rosemary studied her thoughtfully. Erin was suddenly conscious of her disheveled state—smeared lipstick, tumbled hair, and, most damning of all, Nick's jacket, which she still wore because she had not had a chance to examine the damage to her dress. That Rosemary observed these phenomena was obvious; that she misinterpreted them became clear when she tactfully refrained from comment.

"On the whole, I think I'd rather kill Juliet," she said. "Oh, well, such are the vicissitudes of politics. Maybe she'll pass out on the dolls."

It was a long walk, down crossing corridors, to the rooms where Juliet kept her collection. The rooms were unlocked but not undefended. A guard had been posted in the corridor. He saluted Juliet respectfully; she paid no more attention to him than if he had been a suit of armor.

No doubt the dolls were beautiful, rare, and expensive. Erin was too tired to give them more than a passing glance, or pay much attention to their hostess's lecture. Juliet admitted she couldn't
remember all the names, but she knew what each had cost, down to the last penny.

Most of the dolls were in glass cases, along with various accessories—clothing, doll furniture, and so on. In the center of the room, on long tables arranged in an open square, were a number of dollhouses. They ranged from an elaborately detailed Victorian mansion inhabited by a large family of blank-faced dolls to a reproduction of a Tudor cottage with a real thatched roof and an attached garden of tiny dried flowers. Erin stood swaying gently, her eyes half-closed, until a voice murmured, "You appear as animated and as charming as these dolls. I'm about to escape; I presume if I offered to drive you home, you'd mistake my intentions again."

Erin forced her eyes open and looked up at him. "Mr. Laurence, if this is your idea of an amusing game, get someone else to play with you. And if it's supposed to count as an apology for your boorishness, don't trouble yourself."

A faint but perceptible flush stained Laurence's high cheekbones. "I deserved that," he said with unexpected humility. "If you'd just give me a chance to explain why I behaved so badly ..." He broke off with a hiss of annoyance. "Joe, as I live and breathe. Have you no tact? Didn't you observe I was trying to make my peace with a justly offended lady?"

"Is that what you were doing?" Joe yawned till his jaw cracked. "Do me a favor and work on turning Juliet off. I can't stand this much longer. Dolls, for Christ's sake!"

"Juliet is one of those unfortunate individuals who can't endure her own company," Laurence replied. "Small wonder; no one else can endure it for long. Very well, old chap, since you ask me, I'll see what can be done."

But Rosemary had taken matters into her own hands. Erin observed the technique admiringly; it consisted of talking without drawing breath or allowing the other person to get a word in, while moving inexorably toward the exit. "Dahling Juliet, it's been so unbelievable, I cannot tell you; I'll call, write, bless you; come along, Erin, everyone, it's been so-o-o-o-o stupefying. ..."

She glided out of the room, followed by her hostess. Joe let out a sigh of relief. "Thank God. Hurry up, Erin, before Rosie has to stop for breath."

They were in the vestibule collecting coats and wraps when they heard the hoarse shouts and the pound of heavy running feet.

Joe swore long and loud, but they had no choice but to retrace their steps. One could hardly desert the ship without at least asking what had caused the alarm.

They were in time to catch one quick, unforgettable glimpse of the disaster. The cottage was burning, with a miniature fury as delicate as the flaming flowers in its garden. A golden lacework of fire covered the thatched roof. One of the doll-dwellers, dressed in flowered farthingale and tiny ruff, lay face down across the threshold as if it had fallen in a futile attempt to escape. Then the guard ran in with a fire extinguisher and a fountain of white foam buried the ruins.

8

BY
the time
Erin finally got to bed she was so tired she thought she could sleep through a hurricane. But some part of her mind must have remained alert and on watch; when the sounds from the adjoining room began, she woke instantly.

Every limb felt as if it were encased in iron, and for a while she argued sleepily with the warning mental voice. "It's just Kay going to the bathroom, she doesn't need me. ..." But the footsteps didn't cross the hall, they passed her door and went on. "She can't sleep, she's going down for a book or a glass of milk. ..." The silent sentry didn't believe that either. There was something about the footsteps. . . . They were too loud, they clicked emphatically, with no consideration for other sleepers in the house.

Erin struggled out of bed and ran to the door. She had opened her window and the night air was chilly, but she didn't stop to put on robe or slippers. Kay's footsteps, still Unmuted, made it clear that she was heading for one of the rooms on the second floor. Erin followed. The light on the landing, which was left burning at night, showed her that Rosemary's door stood wide open, though the room itself was dark.

Erin's alarmed imagination boiled with theories she would have been ashamed to voice aloud. But surely there was something wrong. No one would waken a weary friend except in a dire emergency, and if Kay were bent on a private conference she wouldn't make so much noise, or leave the door ajar.