The Impersonator (16 page)

Uncomfortable, I stepped back out of reach. “I’ll be fine like this.”

“Well, my dear, I can’t forbid it, but we must go shopping right away. You need so much!”

When I reached the stables, Lady and Chestnut were saddled and ready. I was grateful that my first time on Lady would occur without any of the family watching. By the time the Carrs saw me ride, Lady and I would be old friends.

Buster led me east into a forest noisy with morning birds, and within minutes, I was hopelessly lost. Sometimes he followed a narrow trail, but mostly we picked our way through the woods, cantered across meadows, and forded shallow streams, stopping twice to stretch our legs and let the animals drink. Lady was a sweetheart, so placid and agreeable that I could actually relax and enjoy the scenery.

My nose told me we had reached our goal several hours later when it picked up the scent of a campfire. We broke out of the woods into a clearing where a few rude huts clustered between neat fields and a river. At first glance, the family farm seemed deserted except for some chickens, but I felt more than a few eyes trained on me. Dismounting, I called a cheerful, “Hello! Anyone home?”

A bent-backed old man appeared at the doorway of the largest cabin. Dressed in blue work pants and a clean checked shirt, he looked like every farmer in America except for the way he wore his hair—long and tied in the back with a strip of leather. His lips did not smile but his wrinkled eyes sparkled in recognition when he saw us.

“Welcome, daughter. It is good to see you after so many years. Welcome, brother.” I knew from Buster that this was Tom Mercier, one of the elders who used to tell stories to us children.

“Seven long years,” I said.

“We wondered why you did not come. Later, we learned you had run away. I was not surprised. You were very unhappy.”

“I am happier now.”

In my role as Jessie, I could hardly ask him whether Jessie had sought refuge here when she ran away. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. His conversation told me that she had not.

“You have had a long ride. Will you rest a while and honor us by sharing our meal? My grandson has caught two large fish this morning.”

I looked at Buster, who nodded eagerly. I was hungry too. “We can share,” I said, pulling out Marie’s scones and chicken sandwiches. “We’ll have a feast!”

A woman of middle years came out of a nearby hut carrying a skillet. Quickly she added fuel to the fire, and in no time, the fish and cornbread were sizzling away. A few more people appeared, but none approached. Buster walked to the woodpile and picked up an enormous log as if it weighed no more than a stick, setting it beside the fire for the two of us to use as a seat. I continued to talk with the old man while the younger generations went about their chores.

“How is my friend Hattie?” I asked, mentally blessing Buster for his phenomenal memory.

“My granddaughter is well. She lives across the river now, with her husband’s family near Old Grand Ronde. She married a good man. They have four children now.”

My hand flew to my mouth. “Four!” As he described each youngster, I could feel the pride behind his words reaching through the generations, binding every member of the family with fetters of love. I envied that connection to others. It was something I would never know.

“And Luke?” I asked.

“That grandson works as a logger.”

The fresh air and exercise had made me ravenous, and I nearly wolfed down the odd assortment of food. When it seemed Tom Mercier would not bring up the subject of the dead Indian girl, I was forced to ask. “When I came home last week,” I began cautiously, “I heard about an Indian girl who was killed. Was it someone from the reservation? Did I know her?”

The old man finished his bite and took another, chewing slowly, as if he had not heard my question. I knew enough to wait. Finally he said, “You knew her. She was my late sister’s grandchild, Lizzette Petit. She was older than you, but still very young.”

“How terrible. I am very sorry to hear it. Do the police know who committed this awful crime?”

He shook his head. “It was not an Indian, although my niece’s husband says the white sheriff thinks it was. He only says it was an Indian so he does not have to trouble himself to find her killer. My niece’s husband says Lizzette was working in Dexter, but he cannot learn where. She sent money home.” He heaved a great sigh. “The priest from St. Michael’s buried her yesterday at the tribal cemetery.”

As Buster and I began the long ride home, I thought about Lizzette and Jessie. One dead, one missing. Lizzette was older than Jessie—did they know each other well? Had they both stumbled into danger? It was beginning to look more and more like Jessie was dead. If she had run away, she had not taken her horse, nor had she done the logical thing and fled to her Indian friends. Yes, she could have walked into Dexter and hopped the train to Portland, but why not ride and leave the horse tied up at the station?

Uncle Oliver had told me that everyone first suspected Jessie had run away, until a search of her room revealed she had taken nothing with her. With her horse safe in its stall, a riding accident was ruled out. A dozen people combed the grounds and seaside to no avail. Only then did they notify the police on the chance that she had been kidnapped. When no ransom note came and no body was found, she was listed as a runaway. Some huge number of Pinkertons worked the case for years with no results. Jessie had vanished.

It was, of course, impossible to investigate Jessie’s disappearance when I was impersonating Jessie. But I could look into the Indian girl’s death on the chance that they were somehow related.

And there was another possibility. Maybe, just maybe, Jessie was still alive and on her way home at this moment, in time for her twenty-first birthday.

22

Being onstage fourteen or fifteen hours a day makes for a tough gig. The daily routine kept me in full view of my audience for long periods without any breaks between acts, and I found myself heading for the privacy of the Great Outdoors at every opportunity.

“Oh, checkmate! I win! I win!” Caroline exulted from the game table while Valerie glowered. Aunt Victoria looked up from the latest
Time
weekly and made a gentle remark about being gracious in victory.

We were a feminine group that afternoon. Grandmother sat in her favorite chair by the fire, her nose buried in the
Reader’s Digest
and so quiet that it was easy to forget she was in the room. Ross passed his days in the study hovering over the hired typist—a little blond looker—as she pounded out the final draft of his thesis, though Aunt Victoria assured me Ross was only interested in dark-haired intellectuals. Henry had left for political activities. I soon realized that he was seldom in residence at Cliff House, preferring his apartment in Portland or his yacht in Dexter’s harbor.

I recalled the day I’d arrived and first met Henry and Ross. Henry’s fear and Ross’s belligerence had vanished, replaced by a cautious tolerance that could only mean they were waiting for the trustees’ report to demolish my story. Although their behavior now was civil, it was far from friendly, and I did not believe either one had accepted Jessie’s return and the loss of all that money. I just didn’t know when the next attack would come.

“How about a card game?” I said, bored to desperation. “What do you like to play besides Hearts?”

“Slap Jack … umm…”

“Do you play poker?”

The twins shook their heads.

“I can teach you. It’s easy.”

At the word “poker,” Aunt Victoria’s nose came out of her magazine. “Perhaps you know another game, Jessie dear. One more suitable for young ladies.”

The twins grimaced. “Oh, Mother!”

“Certainly,” I said. “Let’s see now…”

“What about Go Fish?” Aunt Victoria suggested. “That’s always been a family favorite.”

“Sounds great,” I said. “Remind me of the rules, Valerie?”

Half a game of Go Fish and I was watching a housefly crawl across the windowpane for excitement. As I looked about the room for inspiration, my eyes came to rest on the coffee table where a crystal bowl of saltwater taffy called to me.

Mother used to say that if squash were called something nicer—a pretty word like “sassafras” or “calliope”—children would eat it up without complaint.

“Look, I’ve thought of a good game. It’s easy to learn. It’s called Give and Take.” A spark of interest lit the girls’ eyes, so I continued. “We’ll start with the basic form. Valerie, you shuffle the deck and deal seven cards to each of us, facedown. Caroline, you take this taffy and divide it into three equal piles.” I took a sheet of paper and a pencil and started making an ordered list: royal flush, straight flush, four of a kind, and on down.

“Now,” I said, setting the empty crystal dish in the center of the table, “here is the pot, and these are the rules.”

In no time I had created two little bluffers whose guileless expressions could have cleaned out Doc Holliday and Wild Bill Hickok without those gentlemen ever seeing beyond their angelic innocence. Gradually I introduced more rules and strategies, and soon we were shrieking with laughter as the taffy traveled back and forth across the table.

Finally, Aunt Victoria could resist no longer. “Can four play?”

“The more the merrier!” I said. “Grandmother?” She shook her head and sent me a look that told me she knew exactly what I was doing. The girls briefed their mother on the rules and we had a gay time before they started squabbling over whose turn it was to deal.

“Let’s take a break and go outside for a while,” I said. “Grandmother?”

She accepted the invitation and reached for her shawl. The twins opted for a game of tennis and ran upstairs to change clothes.

As soon as we were out of range, Grandmother began, “I hope that when you come into your fortune, Jessie, you can do something for those girls. They live boring lives in this isolated house. Young people need more activity—school, parties, friends.”

I was ashamed I hadn’t given it much thought. “I suppose when the governess is here, they spend a good deal of the day with their studies.”

“No doubt. But what a lonely existence. Their mother means well, but she sees only what she wants to see. I’m afraid she is the sort who would do anything for her children except let them grow up.”

We found Chen squatting in the flower bed, shaded by his grass hat, wearing grass shoes and mud-stained trousers, weeding vigorously. I gave him a perfunctory “Good afternoon” with no expectation of a response.

He stood, stretched his back, and smiled at us warily. “Good afternoon, miss, madam,” he said with an accent so slight most people would not notice it at all.

“Oh! I didn’t realize … You speak English?”

“Yes, miss. I was born in this country. My name is Chen Xingen but in English I am John Chen.”

“Oh, excuse my mistake. I thought … well, the other day…”

“It’s a natural mistake. Most Chinese immigrants speak very little English. But those born here, like me, grew up speaking English as well as Cantonese.”

I tried to guess his age. It was impossible. His skin was leathery from a lifetime of hard work out-of-doors and his face, lined with deep wrinkles that fanned out from his eyes and cut around his mouth, looked old, yet when he straightened up, there was nothing crooked or frail about him. He had the strong hands and powerful shoulders one expected in a common laborer and the sharp, intelligent eyes one did not.

“Well, I am delighted to know you do—now you can tell me something about all this. I’m afraid city girls like me know very little about gardening.” Grandmother perched on the nearest bench where she could soak up the sunshine.

“I will be happy to teach you. Most flowers have finished blooming for the year and will not come again until next spring. These”—he gestured to where he had been kneeling—“are hydrangea. They are great favorites in China and in America because they bloom from spring until fall.”

Of course I knew at some level that all flowers had names, but the idea suddenly intrigued me, and I looked about with new interest, like a stranger curious as to the identity of the guests at the party. Within moments Chen had introduced me to the prolific pink hydrangeas and rows of tall, happy-faced zinnias of every color in the crayon box.

“These roses are native to China,” he said, pointing to some bushes thick with small white roses. “Over there are traditional European roses, larger and more fragrant, but China roses bloom longer, as you can see. They will continue to bloom in this sheltered garden until early winter. America has welcomed many Chinese plants.” Chen pointed to a bed of bright flowers planted against the far wall. “Those have Chinese origins as well.”

“Daisies!”

“I regret to say they are not, although their petals do resemble those of the daisy. They are a type of chrysanthemum.”

“They are very pretty, aren’t they?” I threw my arms wide. “Do you take care of all this by yourself?”

“Now, it is not so much work and I am alone. In the beginning, about six years ago, Mrs. Carr hired four to build the wall and lay out the garden. And plant the red alder trees.”

“Oh, is that what they are? Why ever did she want them there, do you know? Most people pay money for an ocean view, and she has blocked it with trees.”

He nodded his understanding. “Erosion is a problem all along the coast. Little by little, the cliffs crumble into the sea. Some believe tree roots will help prevent that.”

So that was it!

“What do you think?” I asked.

He shrugged. “The earth is weak; the ocean is powerful. The outcome is not in doubt, but perhaps the trees will delay it a short while.” He must have seen the look on my face, for he hastened to reassure me, “The house is in no danger, miss, not for many, many years. Maybe never. You mustn’t worry. The weak part of the cliff is south of here where the rock is softer. A large chunk broke off and fell into the sea just last month.”

I had walked north along the coast a few days ago. Chen was pointing in the opposite direction.

“Perhaps I’ll walk that way and have a look.”