Authors: Elizabeth Peters
To do her justice, she might have done so if her attention had not been distracted by the sight of another familiar face. Familiar, and wearing a much more attractive expression than she had seen on it the last time.
Kathleen’s little sister Sherri held out her hand. “Mrs. Kirby. I was hoping I’d see you. St. John sent me to leave a note for you; he’s such an old fussbudget, he says that’s more polite than using the mails.”
She giggled, at funny old St. John. Well, well, Jacqueline thought, shaking hands. What’s come over this town? Everybody is as bright as a button. Kathleen’s sister was quite a pretty girl, once she wiped that sulky look off her face. Prettier than Kathleen, in fact. But in every other way Kathleen was a hard act to follow. Fertile ground for sibling rivalries.…
Really, she must stop letting her mind wander this way. She gave herself a mental shake and concentrated on what Sherri was saying. Not that it was worth her attention, just conventional greetings and welcome to town, and let us know if there is anything we can do. She said she would, she certainly would, and accepted the note Sherri gave her.
Mollie was fidgeting. Jacqueline knew what was bothering her; she took her duties so seriously, poor woman. She was anxious to show her guest her new quarters, but remembering Jacqueline’s dire warning that she was not to tell a living soul where those quarters were located, she was afraid to say a word or take a step in front of Sherri. In this case the precaution was unnecessary. If the Darcys didn’t know where she was staying, it would not take them long to figure it out. The same thing applied to everyone in town, actually. It was outsiders, especially reporters, Jacqueline wanted to fend off, for as long as possible. She had no illusions about the ability of the press to track her down eventually.
Characteristically, she took matters into her own hands. “I’m looking forward to seeing a lot more of you,” she assured Sherri. “But I do hope you’ll excuse me now; I’m rather tired, after driving so far, and anxious to get settled.”
Sherri offered her assistance, but did not insist, nor did she follow when Mollie escorted her guest through the inn and out the back door into the parking lot. “You won’t have to come into the inn at all,” she explained. “Of course we hope you will, as often as you like, but if you want to be strictly private, just call and I’ll bring your meals, and your mail, and anything else you want. You can see how secluded the place is. Standing here you wouldn’t even know it was there.”
Jacqueline was forced to agree. All she could see was the parking lot, surrounded by a high wooden fence on three sides, a large dumpster at some little distance from the kitchen door, and the tops of trees above the wall. There were three gates, one on each side of the wall.
“That one goes to the street,” Mollie explained, indicating the gate on the south wall. “We usually keep it locked, in order to keep non-guests from using the parking lot. The gate opposite opens into the garden and the raspberry patch. We grow a lot of our own fruit and vegetables—and herbs, of course.”
“Of course,” Jacqueline echoed. She was getting impatient. When she wanted a guided tour, she would ask for one.
“Now that gate is yours,” Mollie said, pointing. “Here’s the key to the padlock; you can fasten it on the inside when you’re in residence, so to speak, and there is also a heavy bolt on the inside.” She demonstrated. Jacqueline nodded approvingly.
“That should do it,” she said. “I’m not expecting to fight off an armed attack, only discourage visitors.”
“I’ve sworn the staff to secrecy,” Mollie said, beaming. “And I haven’t said a word to anyone in town!”
Jacqueline smiled benevolently. She was happy to see Mollie entering into the game with such enjoyment.
After closing the gate, Mollie led her along a narrow path between overhanging branches. The enclosure was a good deal larger than Jacqueline had expected; it was true that from the front of the inn no one would have suspected a separate building lay hidden in the trees. It stood in a small clearing, with a pocket-handkerchief-sized lawn in front.
“It’s very popular with honeymooners,” Mollie said sentimentally. “The house has its own kitchen, you see, so they can stay all by themselves for days and days. There. Didn’t I tell you it was charming?”
Jacqueline was speechless. Window boxes, shutters, crooked chimneys, a bow window bright with potted plants.… In a strangled voice she said, “It’s Betty’s. And Kathleen’s. How many of the damned… the charming little places are there?”
“There were five or six of them originally,” Mollie said. Mercifully, she appeared not to have heard the pejorative adjective. “A whole row of them, along Main Street. The developer who built the bank wanted to tear them down, but then somebody got the bright idea of selling them, and asking the buyers to move them. They went dirt-cheap, of course. Tom’s dad bought one; he was thinking, even back then, of opening an inn. Kathleen Darcy bought another; I suppose she couldn’t resist, with her own name on it and all. Only one was left in the original location, because of some problem about property lines. Jan Wilson bought that one; she said it was perfect for a bookstore, and I guess it is. I don’t have much time to read.… What was I saying? Oh, yes. I don’t know why the original builder named them. It seems like a funny thing to do, doesn’t it?”
“Builders are funny people,” Jacqueline said sourly. “Maybe he thought it would be cute to name them after his children. What’s this one—Sophie?”
But Mollie didn’t hear; she had run on ahead, to unlock the front door and fling it wide in welcome.
Jacqueline followed more slowly. Talk about your am-bee-ants, and your atmosphere, and your inspiration.… Or maybe you should talk about your omens and your predestination, and like that.
Jacqueline opened one eye. Nothing alarming followed this action, so she ventured to open the other.
Her first night in the cottage had not been precisely restful. She had gone to bed early the night before, tired out by several hours of strenuous unpacking, followed by a heavy meal (courtesy of the Mountain Laurel Inn, she was not displeased to be told). The night air was delightfully chilly, and from the second-floor bedroom she could see the dim outlines of the mountains over the treetops. She opened her window wide to the night and lay in drowsy contentment, looking out at a sky filled with frosty stars and watching the filmy curtains sway in the breeze, until sleep closed her eyes.
She could not have said what awakened her, but wake she did, in the dark witching hour after midnight. She lay without moving, more curious than frightened; she couldn’t see anything, or hear anything, to account for her sudden arousal from sleep. Gradually, however, she realized that there was something strange in the room. Not a sight or a sound—a scent. The air was permeated with the smell of lilacs.
It shook her enough to induce her to turn on the light and make an inspection tour of the house. Nothing.
She left a light burning in the hall when she went back to bed. Presumably people could dream about smells, just as they dreamed about noises and music and places and other people. It must have been a dream, she assured herself. And she knew what had triggered it. Kathleen’s sister had been wearing lilac scent.
There was no trace of it in the room the following morning. Which was only to be expected, since it had been a dream product, not an actuality. Lying flat in bed—a very comfortable bed—Jacqueline sniffed vigorously. All gone, she told herself. You can get up now, the boogey-man won’t get you.
Sunlight should have been streaming in the window, but it wasn’t. The only thing that streamed in was a cold wind that made her snuggle deeper under the quilts Mollie had piled on the bed. The only thing she could see was foliage, mostly the dismal green-black of pines, with an occasional patch of scarlet. Dogwood, she hoped. Poison ivy, she feared. She turned her head to look at the clock on the bedside table. It read five-fifteen. She must have forgotten to plug it in.
The kitchen clock had been plugged in, and it informed her she had slept for a solid eight hours. Jacqueline stumbled toward the stove and put the kettle on. She had made sure to unpack a jar of instant coffee the night before, so she wouldn’t have to waste valuable time and energy looking for it. After a few sips of wonderful, deadly caffeine, her head began to clear and she was able to contemplate her new surroundings.
They were not extensive; only two rooms on the ground floor and a bedroom and bath on the floor above. Though the versions of the cottage she had seen were virtually identical on the outside, the interior plans differed slightly. Tom’s father had turned one of “Sophie’s” downstairs rooms into a combined kitchen-and-dining-room. The other room was the one Jacqueline planned to use as a study.
Carrying her second cup of coffee, she wandered into the quondam living room and observed, with satisfaction, that all her requests had been carried out. Sturdy tables for her word processor and printer, her copier and typewriter—check. Filing cabinet—check. A rolltop desk. As in the other cottages, the fireplace, flanked by built-in bookshelves, was on the right-hand wall. Mollie had assured her it was fully functional, and that firewood would be supplied. Overstuffed chairs flanked the hearth, with a table between them. A cozy room, altogether, despite the overcrowding of her office furniture and the obstacle course of boxes that still littered the floor. Country print in a soothing Delft blue covered both chairs and hung at the window.
Jacqueline nodded. “All in all quite satisfactory,” she announced to no one in particular.
She put on wool pants and a heavy sweater, and headed for the inn. The only disadvantage to the cottage was an inevitable product of its isolation; there was no way of getting close to it by car. She would have to carry her groceries and other supplies from the parking lot.
After a hearty breakfast she spent the rest of the morning laying in said supplies. No one at the shopping center showed the slightest interest in her, although in her expensive clothes she stood out like a bird of exotic plumage among the drab sparrows and gaudy finches of Pine Grove femininity. It was a salutary experience; as she watched the young attendant stow her bags of groceries in the car she reflected that it was indeed high time she left New York. Writers lived in their own small world; after a while they got the false impression that they cut as large a figure in the big outside world. The fact of the matter was that very few of the inhabitants of the country gave a damn about writers. Nor should they.
She stopped at the inn when she got back, to inquire about her mail and enlist the aid of a stalwart busboy to help her carry her groceries. It didn’t improve her mood to be met by a too-familiar blast of sound and to see Mrs. Swenson back in her usual place. “One of our regulars,” Mollie had said. She would be, Jacqueline thought sourly. Probably comes every month and stays for three weeks.
She screamed her request at Mollie, and added, in a piercing shriek, that she absolutely adored the cottage. Mollie’s face lit up. She looked almost pretty that morning. Tom must be in a good mood, Jacqueline thought. He ought to be treating her kindly these days.…
A very young man in a very dirty white apron was detached from his kitchen duties and assigned to Jacqueline. After he had done his job, she had to argue with him to make him accept a tip, and he addressed her as ma’am. That’s how these small towns get to you, she reflected; there is a lot of genuine goodwill and old-fashioned courtesy toward others. Toward middle-aged, well-to-do Caucasians, at any rate.
St. John had called and left a message, repeating the message in his note. Would she please telephone? He was anxious to greet her, and open the wonders of his sister’s papers unto her.
Jacqueline was just as eager to have a long leisurely look at those papers. However, it would be a fatal mistake to plunge in without some preliminary planning. She had no intention of actually working in Kathleen’s office. It was too close to the main house and too accessible. St. John would feel he had a right to drop in on her whenever he chose; Paul Spencer might be doing yard work; inquiring reporters could easily find the place. She wanted to be on her own turf, where she could enforce her own rules.
So instead of returning St. John’s call she had a leisurely lunch, put away her groceries, and unpacked the tools of her trade. The bookcases flanking the fireplace held her books, including her basic references—Bartlett, Webster, the Bible and Shakespeare. By the time she had finished adorning the desk with her cherished mementos, including a gruesomely realistic plaster fist (a gift from her son) that held pencils and pens, the room was dusky with twilight and rain was slipping gently down the windowpanes. Jacqueline turned on the light and surveyed her domain. It looked wonderful. All it needed was a cat curled up on the hearth.
Feeling that she deserved it, she made herself a husky martini and settled down at the desk.
St. John was thrilled to the core of his being to hear from her. He had begun to worry. What could he do to help? Would she join them for dinner? Just a simple meal, but one that would be transformed by the charm of her presence into—
Jacqueline cut him off. Everything was fine. She was fine. The accommodations were fine. She couldn’t join them for dinner; she was tired, and she hated to drive strange roads when it was raining… and besides, she didn’t want to. The last phrase was not spoken aloud, however, and St. John accepted her excuses with good grace. He could hardly wait to see her. First thing in the morning? He would try to contain himself until then.
The rain continued all right, but Jacqueline was not aware of it; she slept soundly, without a disturbance of any kind, olfactory or otherwise. By morning the rain had slowed to a drizzle and would, the radio assured her brightly, shortly blow away and be followed by several days of fine fall weather. It had not done so by nine-thirty when she drove away from the inn. “Mist veiled the mountaintops and twisted gauzy fingers through the trees.”
Cliché, Jacqueline thought sourly. Trite. Good enough for her potboilers, but not for the sequel to
Naked.
How the hades was an ambitious writer to find new, fresh images for weather? They had all been used, all the attractive ones at any rate. Which was probably why some desperate scribes, frantic for originality at any cost, resorted to analogies from the barnyard and the bathroom. “Steam rising from giant piles of dragon dung…” No, damn it—no. She ought to be able to do better than that.