Authors: Elizabeth Peters
It didn’t seem so funny, however, when Mollie finally came to ask what she wanted for dessert. Her eyes were red—and not, Jacqueline thought, from the fumes of garlic and anchovies, though both had flavored the spaghettini alla puttanesca she had just eaten. And was that a bruise… No. Chocolate.
She ordered chocolate almond cake and coffee. After finishing it, she did not linger; it was clear that Mollie would not be available that evening.
Not until after she had showered and put on her nightgown and robe did she notice the package on the bedside table. Another box of chocolates? So it proved; but when she stripped off the wrappings, she saw that St. John’s tastes had deteriorated. The candy was not the expensive brand she had received before, it was a variety obtainable in any drugstore. The card was his, though, identical to the one she had already received.
Jacqueline’s face took on the look that had been described as “a cat smelling something disgusting.” Her eyes narrowed, her lips curled, her nose wriggled. If she had had whiskers, they would have twitched. Using only the tips of her fingers, she lifted the box top and removed the inner paper lining. The chocolates, of varied shapes and flavors, nestled cozily in little paper cups. Jacqueline selected a round, fat cream and turned it over.
The line where the bottom had been cut off and replaced was quite apparent. It was a clumsy job; only a greedy chocolate lover would have failed to notice it. But perhaps the perpetrator hadn’t had the time or the tools for a skilled job, Jacqueline thought charitably. Carefully she replaced the box top and tucked the box into her suitcase. After reading for a while she turned out her light and slept the sleep of the just.
Inquiries the following morning elicited the information that the candy had been left on the desk during the dinner hour, with a printed note: “Please give to Mrs. Kirby.” The note had been thrown away.
“They were all right, weren’t they?” Mollie asked anxiously. “Mr. Darcy would be furious if he thought one of the girls had eaten any, or…”
“No, they were—er—complete,” Jacqueline said. “They came from Mr. Darcy?”
“Well, I assumed so. He sent candy to all the writers.”
“Ah,” said Jacqueline. “I thought he might have.”
She paid her bill and took her leave of Mollie—a somewhat protracted leave, since Mollie insisted on carrying her suitcase to the car and further delayed her by repeated wishes for success and a prompt return to Pine Grove, wishes Jacqueline echoed with perfect sincerity.
Instead of heading directly for the highway, she took a last leisurely drive through the town. It was in its glory that spring morning; the fresh greenery, the primary brilliance of crimson and yellow tulips, the delicate brushwork of pink blossoms against blue skies and emerald lawns made a picture so seductive that Jacqueline was tempted to pull into the vacant parking spot in front of Pine Grove Realty. She went on without stopping, however. The idea of a charming old house in the country still held appeal, but this particular stretch of country had too many drawbacks. Kathleen Darcy country… If it was not haunted by Kathleen herself, it possessed other ghosts that would not make comfortable neighbors.
The breeze carried the scent of lilacs. Jacqueline inhaled appreciatively, but her forehead wrinkled in a frown. Even if she believed in ghosts, which she did not, it was a little difficult to believe in the ghost of a scent.
At the top of a hill just outside town, she pulled off the road and turned to look back. Roofs and church spires rose out of a carpet of greenery; the air sparkled with clear light. A slight sardonic smile curled Jacqueline’s lips as she recalled a favorite quotation. “ ‘There sleep hypocrisy, porcous pomposity, greed, lust, vulgarity, cruelty, trickery, sham / And all possible nitwittery.…’ ” The same could be said of any place, urban or pastoral, inhabited by human beings (especially one St. John Darcy). But she suspected Pine Grove harbored more than its share of those undesirable qualities. The mystery of Kathleen Darcy’s death intrigued her more than ever. She had found no answers, only additional questions; but she felt certain the answers lay hidden somewhere among those quiet roofs and groves.
She put the car in gear and drove away without a backward glance. It was to be five months before she saw Pine Grove again.
In September Chris fled to the wilderness, two weeks earlier than he had planned. “Coward,” Jacqueline exclaimed, storming up and down his denuded office. Her footsteps echoed hollowly.
Chris didn’t deny the accusation. “This town is too hot for me, in both senses of the word,” he said, as he packed the last of his books into cartons. “I want to be far, far away when the news breaks.”
“If it ever does.” Jacqueline flung her arms wide in a gesture as theatrical as it was heartfelt.
She’d make a good Lady Macbeth, Chris thought. She was wearing her hair in some antique style, piled atop her head; loosened tendrils curled around her temples and the nape of her neck. Her dress was long and loose and white, cut low in front and billowy as to sleeves and skirt. She was wringing her hands.
He sat back on his heels. “I told you it would take a long time to settle all the details. In fact, things have gone much faster than I expected. Somebody must be hard up.”
“Me,” Jacqueline snarled, spinning on her heel and retracing the path she had trodden down one side of the room. “I could have written a book and sold it by now!”
“There’s nothing to stop you from writing a book,” Chris pointed out. It was not the first time he had pointed it out.
“I can’t concentrate. I can’t create!” The last word was a melodious scream. Mercifully, Jacqueline’s sense of humor intervened; a reluctant smile touched the corners of her mouth. “I really can’t, you know. I’ve got myself geared up for this particular book—the most difficult challenge of my career. I can’t switch plots and characters in midstream. And the distractions! I’ve had to bargain, soothe wounded feelings, reassure doubters. Every time I thought the matter was settled, someone raised another objection. Even now I haven’t got it in writing. They could change their minds and choose another writer and I’d be out in the cold, after wasting months of my time.”
“You’ve got the job,” Chris assured her. “Booton told you that months ago. They’ve agreed in principle to all your demands—well, most of them—and have given you their verbal commitment.”
Jacqueline’s expression showed what she thought of verbal commitments. Chris went on quickly, before she could voice her sentiments. “And the contract is drawn up. When are you supposed to sign it?”
“Next week.”
“Uh-oh. I wonder if I can get the movers in a few days early.”
“Chicken,” Jacqueline said. “Faint of heart and lily of liver. They’re supposed to make the official announcement as soon as I sign. But they’ve postponed it twice already, so you may have months in which to make good your escape.”
“I hope so. You know what is going to happen, don’t you?”
Jacqueline sat down on a box of books. Her skirts spread around her like the petals of a peony and her eyes shone. “Tell me again.”
“They’ll want you for the
Today
show, the
Tonight
show,
Good Morning America,
and on
Donahue. Life, People, Newsweek
and
Good Housekeeping
will want to interview you. And you’ll love every bit of it, won’t you, you publicity hound?”
“Depends on how much they pay,” Jacqueline said crassly.
“They’ll pay. But not,” Chris added, “as much as you think you’re worth. The real payoff won’t begin until the book contract is signed. Before that can happen, you have to produce a second, longer outline. Booton will then set the date for the auction, at which time the interested publishers will read your plot summary and bid for the right to publish the book. I don’t know how Booton will manage it—I’ve been careful not to get involved. If it were I, I’d hope for five but I’d settle for a floor of two million.”
“Two!” Jacqueline looked outraged.
“It’s not the Bible, or
Gone With the Wind.
”
“But I only get twelve and a half percent,” Jacqueline moaned. “The rest of the advance goes to the heirs.”
“It adds up. Movie rights, first serial, book club. Your other books will be reprinted, and I should be able to sell more foreign rights—maybe even a film. Are you… You aren’t really…”
“Hard up?” Jacqueline smiled affectionately at him. “No. But thanks for asking. Is that why you’re in such a hurry to get out of town? You were afraid I’d ask for a loan?”
“Terrified,” Chris said dryly. “No, the real reason is that I don’t want to be around when Brunnhilde Karlsdottir and Jack Carter learn that they have lost. Carter punched out another waiter last week—”
“He only hits people who are smaller than he is,” Jacqueline said. “Little-bitty old waiters, and women. He hasn’t even hit a critic since the reviewer from
Publishers Weekly
hit him back and knocked him into the dessert table at L’Auberge Nouveau York. I’m not afraid of macho Jack Carter.”
“I am. He’s twenty years younger than I.”
“But you’re much better-looking. If he gives you a hard time, just tell him to back off or you’ll tell the world his real name is Humphrey Cottonfeld.”
Chris grinned. “I wonder if the same ploy would work with Brunnhilde. That can’t be her real name.”
“Obviously not. Hmm. I must give that some thought; she’s been very closemouthed about it, so her real name must be something particularly unsuitable. Confess, Chris, it’s Brunnhilde you’re really afraid of.”
“And so should you be. What about that box of chocolates?”
“That was months ago,” Jacqueline said airily. “And they weren’t poisoned, just shot full of ipecac.”
“I never heard of the disgusting stuff until you mentioned it,” Chris muttered.
“Your education has been sadly neglected, then. It should be part of any well-stocked medicine chest. In fact,” Jacqueline added, in her most irritating, “listen to mother” voice, “you definitely will want to keep it on hand after you move. It can be obtained without a prescription. If you are going to be wandering the woods nibbling on pretty bright berries and picking wild mushrooms—”
“I’ve no intention of doing anything so stupid.”
“Nobody poisons himself intentionally, Chris. Well… almost nobody. Nature is very dangerous. You’d be surprised how many innocent flowers and bulbs are loaded with deadly substances. Ipecac will empty your tummy quickly and efficiently if you accidentally ingest something nasty. Of course you shouldn’t use it if the poison is a corrosive substance like lye or acid—”
“For God’s sake, Jacqueline!”
“Now, Chris, you’re not used to living in the country. You should listen to advice from those who are better informed. I’m so glad the subject came up, I would never forgive myself if I had failed to warn you, and something unpleasant happened. I’ll get you some ipecac, and one of those little charts describing poisons and their antidotes, and you make sure you pin it up inside your medicine cabinet. What was I talking about? Oh, yes, the chocolates. The ipecac would only have made me sick, and I’d have had to eat the whole top layer to get the full effect. Only a blind person would have failed to notice they had been tampered with. Besides, I’m not a hundred percent certain it was Brunnhilde.”
“Who else could it have been?”
“Oh… any number of people. You have no idea, Chris…” She broke off. “Never mind. I admit Brunnhilde is the most likely suspect. The caper has her unmistakable trademarks, vulgarity and incompetence.”
Chris rose creakily to his feet and subsided onto a packing case. “Has she tried anything since then? Besides the slanderous remarks she’s made in print?”
Jacqueline’s face dissolved into laughter. “Oh, my dear—she keeps trying to push me under crosstown busses.”
“Jacqueline! You didn’t tell me that.”
“It’s so funny, Chris. She wears these preposterous disguises, but I can always spot her a block away, she’s so very
large,
you know. And so clumsy. She’s tried it twice. Once she slipped and would have skidded under the bus herself if I hadn’t grabbed her. And the other time—”
“It is not funny, Jacqueline.”
It was, though. The vision of Brunnhilde trying to skulk—swathed in a flapping black cloak with the hood pulled low over her brow?—was as delicious as the dimples and twinkling green eyes of the intended victim. All the same, Chris felt obliged to issue a fatherly warning. “Just watch yourself. You’ll be getting a lot of abuse from a lot of lunatics once the news is made public. You may need your karate before this is over.”
“Karate?” Jacqueline’s dimples disappeared and her eyebrows arched in ladylike disapproval.
“You told me once you foiled a killer by using your martial-arts skills. You said your son—”
“Oh, yes. He did teach me a couple of moves—or whatever they are called.” Jacqueline brushed a speck of dust off her sleeve. “That was an isolated and regrettable incident. I disapprove of physical violence.”
“Maybe you should ask your son to join you for a few weeks,” Chris said. “I’m not kidding, Jacqueline, fans are an odd lot. You can’t predict what some of them might do.”
“David wouldn’t be any help, he’d just tell the would-be-assassins incredible lies about me, and play dreadful practical jokes. It would be tantamount to rubbing red pepper in the wound instead of applying a Band-Aid.”
“Your daughter, then.”
Jacqueline’s eyes widened in genuine horror. “Beth? Good God, Chris, you don’t know what you’re saying. She’s worse than David. I thank heaven on my knees nightly that she’s off in the wilds of Turkey digging up bones.” Frowning, she smoothed a small wrinkle in her skirt. “I can’t imagine where they get these tendencies.”
Chris’s indecent haste, as Jacqueline termed it, proved to be a wise move. By a miracle almost unique in publishing, the contract was signed on schedule, all sixty pages of it; and Jacqueline wincingly accepted the bill of the lawyer who had guided her through it. He had earned his money, though. There had been a number of innocent little clauses that would have cost her considerable sums of money or left her legally responsible for a considerable variety of disasters, if he had not pointed them out. Jacqueline knew who had been responsible for those sneaky clauses. Not the Craig triplets; they had their own annoying qualities, but they didn’t know enough about publishing to invent them. It had to have been her own adorable agent, Booton Stokes.