The Hamlet Trap (8 page)

The trail had been level ever since she started on it; now one way led upward, and to her left it went down. Although it started down gently, it soon became steep, and the trees changed. They had been the black firs that made for the darkest forests, with fir branches sweeping gracefully to the ground, and so close together that little light penetrated. Now the trees were the more open ponderosa pines with a scattering of madrones. The madrones were so smooth they looked as if someone had peeled them, sanded them down thoroughly, then polished them until they glowed red. The pine trunks were deeply incised, also reddish. The ambient light became warmer, tinged with pink.

The ground turned rockier; she could not move soundlessly, but it was all right because overhead the madrone leaves were whispering in the wind that was up there and not below.
Stranger in the forest. Who is she? What does she want?
Were they whispers of alarm? Or simply comments? The madrones were broad-leafed evergreens, the wisest trees in the world, Peter had told her. They could live without bark; they could take nitrogen from the air and put it in the soil where other trees could use it; they reclaimed land after fires ravaged it, or loggers. And they talked when there was no apparent wind; perhaps they made the wind, he had said.

There was no way to go except down, even though there was no sign of a trail now, then suddenly the way was level again, and the trees were spread apart as if by a gardener. She started to move forward, then remembered that she should mark her own trail or she would not know where to start up and out of this valley. Carry a good length of twine, Peter had told her when he instructed her about what to keep in her daypack. She got out the twine and cut off a length, tied it to a tree, then went into the park-like setting. And after fifty feet or so, she stopped and caught her breath.

She had been plunged into a valley of giants! The trees were like the sides of buildings, soaring upward to a canopy hundreds of feet over her head. These were ponderosa pines of legends, mammoth, too large to comprehend. Awed, she walked forward slowly, feeling as if she had come upon a holy place, a place where spirits lived. But the spirits were alien, indifferent to her. She touched one of the giant trees; it was warm to her hand. She put her cheek against the trunk, touched it with both hands, and she whispered, “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” She didn't know what she said, or why, only that she had to tell those spirits something, that one thing, and that now it was all right to walk among them.

The trunks had diameters of at least twenty feet, thirty feet. She walked from one to another, touching them, feeling their aliveness, and then she came to a stop again. Rounding one of the giants had brought her out to face the biggest tree she had ever seen, so big it was overwhelming, almost frightening. This tree was twice as big as any of the others. It stood alone in a large circle it had cleared for itself; it glowed in the late afternoon light. She felt its power and found herself moving toward it without volition. When she reached it and put both arms out in an embrace, she looked straight upward and was overcome with vertigo. Slowly she sank to her knees and pressed her cheek against the trunk. She began to weep, silently at first, without any motion, then harder and harder, until she was racked by sobs and her grief shook her entire body.

When the outpouring of grief ended, she sat under the tree with her back against the trunk. Twilight came and soon the darkness deepened. She ate everything she found in her pack and put on her wool sweater, then a poncho and wool cap, mittens. Finally she wrapped herself in the space blanket and lay down on the thick bed of needles.

Sometime in the unrelieved black of night the towering trees she began to whisper. She talked to Peter, to the spirits of the giant trees, to the tree that had to be the god of trees, to the darkness itself. She talked of her childhood, of her mother, of things she had never mentioned to anyone, had not remembered in years. Eventually her voice trailed off and she slept.

In the morning she walked to the end of the small oval valley that had nurtured the giant trees for centuries. It was not more than two miles long, half a mile wide; all around it the mountain rose steeply, hiding this holy place. She returned to the god of the trees, and touched it reverently once more.

“I won't tell,” she said softly.

When she found her twine marker, she untied it carefully, then moved away from that trail, not wanting to leave signs, not wanting to make the trail down here more conspicuous than it was now. She started the climb back up to the ridge. She was in no hurry, the going was steeper than she remembered; she rested and looked behind her, but the valley was invisible already, the secret well hidden.

It was after nine when she reached the waterfall once more. She dug in her pack and found matches, and on the rocky ledge she burned the map and dipped water from the creek to wash away the stain of carbon. Satisfied, she got in her car and started the drive back. She was very hungry. She would stop in the first restaurant and have a huge breakfast.

When she got out of her car in her own driveway, a sheriff's deputy appeared from her front stoop and walked toward her.

“Miss Braden, Lieutenant Draker wants a word with you down at the theater.”

She stopped. “Why? Can I see him after I have a shower, change my clothes?”

“No, ma'am. He wants you now. I'll take you in.”

“But…” The deputy touched her arm as if to grasp it, force her; she flinched away from him, turned, and headed toward the car parked on the street. She had not even noticed it when she drove up. Another deputy was inside behind the wheel. “Can you tell me what's happened?” she asked.

“The lieutenant will tell you.” He opened the door, and after she got in, he got in beside her. She had her daypack on. When she started to take it off, he helped her, then held on to it.

At the theater the first thing she saw was that auditions were not going on. Eric and William were huddled with Brenda and Anna; Bobby and Amanda White were talking at the stairs to the dressing rooms. Other actors were in a clump before the wardrobe room. She felt a rising panic.

Some of them turned to look at her with open curiosity; William started to move toward her. The deputy waved him back.

“Where is Uncle Ro?” she demanded. “Tell me what happened, dammit!”

“This way, Miss Braden,” the deputy said, taking her toward Spotty's room. “The lieutenant wants to talk to you in here.”

The room was small, only ten by twelve, cluttered with Spotty's narrow bed, an overstuffed chair, a table with a white Formica top, two straight chairs that went with it. There was a hot plate on the table, dirty cups, a paper doughnut bag. There was a television on a second table and a stack of magazines, more magazines on the end of the bed. Spotty usually straightened up the room before going home; the mess in here now alarmed her even more. She stood in the middle of the room; the deputy stayed by the door.

After a few minutes Draker entered. He surveyed Ginnie with narrow eyes. “Where were you all night?” he asked abruptly.

“Tell me what happened! Is Uncle Ro all right? What's going on here?”

“Miss Braden, we are conducting a preliminary investigation in the death of Laura Steubins. It's my duty to tell you that anything you say may be used in evidence, and it's your right to have counsel present.”

Weakly she sat down in one of the straight chairs.

ELEVEN

The trouble with owning
a snow blower, Charlie Meiklejohn thought, wrestling the machine into the garage, was that you felt obligated to use the damn thing instead of being sensible and hiring someone with a tractor to come and dig you out. His face was hot and he was sweating, but his feet were frozen. And that, he thought, was the trouble with the human heating system. Not enough here, too much there. Brutus, the gray tiger-striped cat, stared at him malevolently through slitted yellow eyes. Now Charlie spoke out loud. “I didn't bring the snow. I didn't order it. I don't like it any more than you do, so fuck off.”

Brutus flicked his tail and stalked in front of him toward the back porch and the cat door into the kitchen. Brutus hated snow even more than Charlie did. But Brutus hated rain, and fog, and mist, and open country, and company, and a long list of other ills to which he was subjected. What Brutus liked was life in New York City with his own fire escape and his own crowd of night prowlers.

Charlie looked more bearlike than ever, Constance thought when he came into the kitchen. He was dressed in a down parka that seemed to expand his figure outward alarmingly. He put his boots on newspapers to drip and began to peel off garments. His hair was damp, very curly, shiny black, with only an occasional gray hair in no particular pattern. It would go salt and pepper, she often thought, and then silver, and he would be quite distinguished-looking. She timed the process of making Irish coffee so that when he was finished unwrapping, she was ready to place the steaming mug in his hand.

“I'd take you over a whole flock of Saint Bernards any day,” he said gratefully.

“I think it's a herd,” she said. “Or maybe a school. Or a snarl?”

He grinned at her and sipped the scalding drink. Just right. No whipped cream to muck things up, enough Irish to taste, and coffee thick enough to stand up to the whiskey. Just right.

What she didn't say, he thought, even more gratefully, was that if he hadn't told the Bradens to come on today, he would not have had to clear the driveway; he could have spent the afternoon before the fire with the other two cats who hated snow as much as Brutus did and were smart enough to stay inside and wait it out.

The kitchen was warm and fragrant with the aroma of Swedish limpa bread that was in the stove now. The recipe had been Constance's grandmother's, brought from the old country in her satchel along with her special cookie irons for the fried cookies that Charlie loved and Constance would make only at Christmas because they were not all that good for him. He had to watch his weight. Since he had retired, his tendency was to put on a pound now and then and never take it off again. He envied Constance her long, smooth body that never seemed to change. It was as alluring to him now after twenty-five years of marriage as it had been the first day he met and lusted for her.

They went to the living room where he opened the fireplace screen and stood with his back to the fire for several minutes. Brutus followed them and went straight to Candy, the orange cat with butterscotch eyes. He sniffed her ear and she jumped up and ran; he took her place on the hearth. Charlie laughed softly.

Constance nodded. The conditioning was textbookish, she thought. At first, when Brutus wanted to torment Candy, or eat her share of the food, or simply raise some hell in general, he had bitten her ears with some ferocity. Candy was a born coward; she ran. Now Brutus simply sniffed her ear and she fled. Any day she expected to see the same outcome if Brutus merely turned his wicked yellow eyes in the direction of her ear.

“That damn cat's too smart for his own good,” she said. She sat down in the wing chair; when Charlie sat down it was in his ancient Morris chair with the hand-carved lions on the arms. She sighed with contentment now that he was inside, no longer cursing the snow. She knew it was harder on Charlie living out in the country than he liked to admit. Ostensibly he was writing a handbook on arson and how to detect it, but for several weeks now the snow had marooned them, isolated them, and he had started to pace, absently at first, then with more energy. Like Brutus, she thought, and never said that.

Years ago they had made the down payment on this country house; they had spent summer vacations here, fixing it up, getting it ready. Was it like most dreams, she wondered, hollow when finally achieved? Instantly she denied the idea. It was just the snow and the middle-of-the-winter inactivity that were getting to Charlie. Since retirement, he had taken on investigative work now and then, but for the last few months there had been nothing that had interested him enough to stir out for. Meanwhile, her own book on the comparison of various psychological therapies that had sprung up in the past dozen years was advancing even faster than she had hoped for. Constance was a psychologist; when Charlie retired, she had quit her teaching job at Columbia, sighing a prayer of relief that they both had been able to get out of New York intact. Or almost intact. Charlie had scars that she knew no one else could see. She knew where they were, how painful they could become from time to time. Twenty-five years on the New York City police force left scars of one kind or another.

“The funny thing is,” Charlie said suddenly with a touch of surprise, “is that after I'm done with the damn snow again, I feel pretty good.”

“Another one?” She suspected the Irish coffee had contributed more than a little to his feeling of ease now.

“Later.”

She took both cups to the kitchen and checked on the bread. It was ready to come out. For the next few minutes she was busy, then the doorbell sounded and she returned to the living room in time to see Charlie ushering Dr. Morley Braden and his wife Louise into the house.

Charlie introduced her and she helped Mrs. Braden off with her coat, mink. Dr. Braden's coat was vicuna. They were old, Constance thought with surprise, in their seventies at least. Mrs. Braden looked it even more than her husband. He was straight and vigorous with iron-gray hair and steady, clear blue eyes. Mrs. Braden's eyes were hidden behind thick glasses. Cataracts? Constance wondered, and realized that they could not have driven themselves up from New York City. It was a two-hour drive, and in this weather, with snow on the various roads throughout the Northeast, she doubted that they would have started out alone.

“Do you have a driver?” she asked as Charlie led them into the living room.

Dr. Braden studied her with interest. “Yes. I was going to ask if it would be possible for him to come inside and wait.”

Charlie went out to bring him in and Constance offered coffee, tea. Courteously they refused. Dr. Braden settled his wife into a chair before he sat down. Charlie returned. The driver was in the kitchen having coffee, he said, and took his chair.

He looked from Dr. Braden to Mrs. Braden. “What can we do for you? I'm surprised you didn't ask me to come into the city for a talk.”

“Phil Stern warned me that you probably would refuse,” Dr. Braden said. “He also said you were the two people we should talk to. That meant we had to come to you.” He took a breath, then said, “We want to hire you both to investigate two murders in Oregon. We are afraid our granddaughter is going to be charged with them.”

Charlie glanced at Constance. She looked relaxed, mildly interested. He knew she was content to spend the rest of the winter snowed in, working on her book, planning the spring garden. He knew also how much she hated murder cases.

He said to Dr. Braden, “You'd better tell us what you can about it. If the police are looking into it, ready to bring charges, you may want a lawyer more than another investigator.” He was thinking that probably this was not for them, not if it had gone this far. He could not decide if he was sorry or glad.

Phil Stern was a friend from college days, now an independent insurance broker. Charlie and Constance had done a few things for him before. And Phil was jealous as hell, Charlie thought also, because he was still working and Charlie was retired. Phil had called to talk about the Bradens he was sending their way. Dr. Braden, he had said, was not the richest man in the world, but he was not counting pennies either. He had pioneered in microsurgery and, although he no longer did surgery himself, he was still one of the experts in the field, in great demand as a speaker, a seminar guest, workshop leader, all that sort of thing. Phil handled his insurance, and when Dr. Braden had asked for advice about investigators, he had supplied Charlie's name.

Dr. Braden did not speak immediately. He gazed at the fire as he collected his thoughts. “I think I have to start with some past history,” he said finally. “Louise and I had one child, Victor. He was intelligent, creative, happy, everything parents always hope for and seldom get in a child. We loved him very much.” Mrs. Braden gazed toward the fire with her clouded eyes and nodded slowly. He went on. “He was a student at Stanford, pre-med, when he met a girl, Lucy Cavanaugh. She was pretty, gay, talented, I grant all that. He fell in love with her, and presumably she reciprocated. We tried to talk to him, postpone any decisions until he was finished with his education, but it was hopeless. They ran off together. He dropped out of school and they went to Europe for nearly a year. There were… We argued bitterly, I'm afraid, and he didn't write, or call. …”

Louise Braden's hands clutched each other. She looked down at her small, pretty shoes.

Dr. Braden's pause was longer this time. Finally he continued. “We didn't know when they returned to the States. They didn't get in touch. I had a detective locate them for me in Ashland, Oregon, and I went there in the summer that their child was three years old. She was a lovely child, very much like Victor as an infant, busy, precocious, charming. I'm afraid I bungled it. I threatened him and his wife when I should have accepted whatever he wanted. I tried to make him agree to give up that life, to return to school, become a doctor. It wasn't too late, I kept saying, and he looked at me as if I were a stranger. It was far too late. Then he said that he was leaving Ashland as soon as the second child was born, in six months. They were going to Paris, where he would study art and architecture, not medicine. A week later he died in a terrible fire. He was twenty-five years old.”

His voice did not break; it simply stopped working. He looked at the fire. Charlie got up and added a log, poked at it and sent sparks up the chimney. Brutus protested in a deep voice and moved back a foot or two, then curled up again and tucked his nose under his tail.

“Lucy miscarried that night,” Dr. Braden said at last. “Virginia—Ginnie, they called her—was hospitalized for observation. She was in the house. Roman Cavanaugh, Lucy's brother, saved her life. I saw him bring her out; his shirt was on fire, his hair smoldering… It was horrible. Horrible.”

Now his voice broke. “God help me,” he said, “I blamed her, Lucy. Her own suffering, the suffering of her child, my grandchild, Ro's burns, none of that mattered. I blamed her for ruining my boy's life, destroying him. I left Ashland, left them all, and when I came to my senses, months later, she was gone with Ginnie. Out of sight. Ro swore he didn't know where they were, and I guess he was telling the truth. He sent her money through a lawyer, and the lawyer would not reveal her whereabouts. I tried to find her, find our grandchild, and I failed.”

His wife touched his arm. She said in a wavering voice, “I made him fire the detective. I was so certain that she had found another man, someone richer than Victor even, married, changed her name and Ginnie's name… We were so sure we understood her, it seemed the proper thing to do finally.”

Charlie waited for a time, then asked, “Who was Lucy? Ro? Why were you so certain she was after his money?”

“Victor told us about her,” Dr. Braden said heavily. “It was sordid. Her father was in radio, an announcer or something, gone most of the time, finally all the time. Her mother had a string of boyfriends. Lucy was twelve years younger than her brother, Ro. When she was about ten, he was gone, going to school and working. One of the boyfriends frightened her. I don't know if he molested her or not, but she ran away, went to her brother, and he kept her with him after that. He took her to the West Coast, cared for her, saw that she went to school, apparently did everything for her. They had no money, except for what he earned, but he was making a name for himself as an actor. Did some commercials, directed a little, things of that sort. The three of them, Victor, Lucy, and Roman Cavanaugh, went to Europe then to Ashland when Ro went there to buy the theater and rebuild it. When Victor's will was probated, there was only sixty thousand dollars in the bank, and the house that had burned to the ground. But when Victor was twenty-one, he had inherited a million dollars. It was all gone, spent, vanished. I know a million dollars isn't a vast fortune, but still, in five years… I blamed her, of course. But I don't know what happened to it. There were no papers, or if there had been, they were destroyed in the fire. Nothing in a safety-deposit box, nothing in a lawyer's office, nothing.”

“Did the brother get the money?” Charlie asked bluntly.

Dr. Braden shrugged. “Who can say? He never admitted it if he did.”

“Okay, so we have the background. What's happened recently?”

“Yes. Last year I was in San Francisco to give a speech at the AMA meeting there. The hotel had a stack of tourist-attraction pamphlets—wine tastings, shows, things of that sort. There was one about the Oregon Shakespearean Festival in Ashland. It's rather famous, you see. I glanced through it and found a second announcement concerning Ro's theater, Harley's. The announcement said that the sets were by Virginia Braden.

“After I was finished in San Francisco, I went up to Ashland,” he said, his voice firm again, his eyes steady. “The sets were marvelous; she's very talented. But she was not in town. I talked to a lawyer there, hired him to inform me when she was home again, to find out everything he could about her past from the time her mother took her away until then. I could have asked anyone, I think now. It seems an open story up there. Her mother was killed in a car wreck when Ginnie was thirteen and Ro has taken care of her since then.”