Authors: Elizabeth Peters
“I try to. Sometimes.” She hesitated; then she laughed, the light, pretty laugh that was so painfully at variance with her appearance. “Oh, why try to hide anything from you? Like hundreds of other fans, I’ve been working on a sequel to Kathleen’s book. It’s pretty bad, I suppose, but if you’d care to see it…”
“I wish I could. Honestly. But I promised my agent I wouldn’t even glance in passing at anyone else’s manuscript. You’re quite right, a number of other people have played with the idea. If my book resembled theirs in the slightest way, I might leave myself open to a lawsuit.”
“Yes, I understand.” Jan was silent for a moment. “Would you excuse me for a minute? There’s a telephone call I forgot to make.”
Her chair had wheels. She steered it skillfully to the desk and picked up the phone. Jacqueline pretended not to listen, but it would have been impossible not to do so. All Jan said was, “Your book is here. Yes, that’s right. Fine.”
She came back to the table, to be greeted by a plaintive meow from the cat.
“I expect he wants his coffee,” Jacqueline said.
“He’s just politely reminding me I haven’t served him.”
Jan broke one of the remaining sandwich halves into small pieces, put them on her plate, and pushed it across the table. The cat rose. Planting one paw on either side of the plate, he began to eat.
“I hope that doesn’t offend your sensibilities,” Jan said.
“It’s your house.” Jacqueline found the sight more pathetic than offensive. Though, come to think of it, a cat could be better company than some of the people she knew. This one also had better table manners than some of the people she knew.
She said as much. The cat stopped eating and raised its head. It stared at Jacqueline with a green, unwinking gaze. Jan laughed. “I’m never sure how much he understands. It’s uncanny, sometimes, the way he responds. Do you know your eyes are exactly the same shade of green? Maybe you were related to one another in some other life.”
“Maybe.” Jacqueline wasn’t sure she liked the idea. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced—in this life.”
“Oh, haven’t I introduced you? No wonder he’s staring, he’s easily offended. Lucifer, meet Jacqueline.”
“The Dark God’s icy fingertip brushed Ara’s mind.” “That can’t be Kathleen’s cat!” Jacqueline exclaimed. “She had a cat named Lucifer, all her biographies mention it.”
“She adored Lucifer. Paul always says she preferred him to her human friends—including him. No, this isn’t Kathleen’s. I wish it were. It ran away, you know, after she… went.”
“Probably couldn’t stand living with St. John.”
“He hates cats,” Jan said. “I like to think this is one of Lucifer’s descendants. Paul found him in the woods. Guess where?”
“I’d rather not,” Jacqueline said.
“Curled up asleep on the top of the cenotaph. He was only a kitten—a little furry black ball—but he showed no fear of Paul. Almost as if he remembered him.”
Her voice was dreamy and soft. The cat, having finished his lunch, began to purr.
“Stone retains heat,” Jacqueline said, in a deliberately matter-of-fact voice. “Cats like to sleep in a warm place.”
“Yes, of course.” Jan’s eyelids dropped, veiling her eyes. “As I said in my note, I have a few books, about Kathleen, I thought perhaps you might not have seen. They’re on the corner of the desk.”
Jacqueline accepted the change of subject without comment, and went to get the books. They might all have been described as obscure—privately printed pamphlets on the mythic elements and literary sources of
Naked in the Ice.
“I have read them,” she admitted. “But it was kind of you to go to so much trouble.”
“It was no trouble. I collect books about Kathleen. You really do research a subject thoroughly, don’t you?”
“I was once a librarian. But that doesn’t mean I’m omniscient; if you have anything else you think I may have missed, I’d be glad to see it.”
“Of course.”
Lucifer looked at the door and mewed. “Customer,” Jan said. A second later the chimes sounded, and the door opened.
“Why, Paul,” Jan exclaimed. “How nice to see you.”
She had given him his cue, and he tried to respond, but he was not much of an actor. “You said my book had arrived, so I figured I’d stop in and pick it up. Hello, Mrs. Kirby.”
The broad smile with which she responded obviously surprised him. He didn’t realize it had been prompted, not by pleasure, but by amusement at his lack of finesse. If he had been as sneaky—no, make that clever—as some people, he would have claimed he just happened to drop by. The reference to the telephone call Jan had made shortly before was too direct to be overlooked.
Jan wheeled herself to the desk.
Paul reached for his wallet while Jan wrote up the bill and put the book in a paper bag. Jacqueline craned her neck to see the title. It was a new biography of Jefferson that had received critical praise.
Paul caught her staring. “Pretty highbrow tastes for a gardener, right, Mrs. Kirby?”
Jacqueline stood up and walked over to him. In her low-heeled walking shoes she was a good six inches shorter than he; she had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes. Raising one hand, she brushed at his shoulder.
Paul turned his head. “Dirt?”
“Chip. It’s still there, though.”
Jan chuckled. “Don’t bother fencing with this one, Paul. She’s already put me in my place.”
“Oh, really? In that case, maybe I’d better stick around so we can go two against one.”
Jacqueline returned to her chair. Paul started toward the other, and saw it was occupied, by Lucifer. He stopped as if he had been stung. The cat fixed him with a hard stare.
“Lucifer, get up and give the gentleman your chair,” Jan said, in the tone she would have used to a rude child.
Lucifer rumbled low in his throat and sat firm.
“That animal hates me,” Paul complained.
“He probably senses your dislike,” Jacqueline said. She got up, lifted the cat, and sat down in his chair, holding him on her lap.
“Watch out,” Paul said. “He won’t let anybody except Jan… Well, I’ll be damned.”
Lucifer reacted like a gruff old gentleman rudely rousted out of “his” chair at the club. His head swiveled a good ninety degrees, to fix Jacqueline with a look of astonished lèse majesté. Then he grunted and settled himself, making sure he stuck his claws into her several times during the process.
“I told you,” Jan said obscurely. “Paul, would you like coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’m on my lunch hour. Gotta get back.” But he sat down. “How’s the book coming, Mrs. Kirby?”
“There is no sensible answer to that question,” Jacqueline said irritably. “Nor to ‘how far along are you?’ ”
“Damned if I can understand why.” Paul’s dark brows drew together. “A book consists of a certain number of pages, right? Don’t you know how many pages you have written, and how many more you have to write? Admit it; when you finesse questions like that, you’re only trying to add to the writers’ mystique. Or find an excuse for squirming out of other obligations.”
“Obligations?” Jacqueline repeated. “I find it interesting that you should use that word, Mr. Spencer.”
The conversation appeared to have reached a dead end. Jacqueline returned Paul’s critical stare with interest; after a moment his face relaxed into one of his rare, genuine smiles. “You know something? You and that damned cat have eyes exactly the same color, and right now you’re both looking at me with the same expression.”
“I won’t ask what expression,” Jacqueline said.
“Lofty contempt.” Still smiling, Paul stood up. “I’ve got to get back to work. Going my way, Mrs. Kirby?”
For reasons of her own, Jacqueline decided to take the hint. Jan made no attempt to detain her. In fact, she was so anxious to speed the parting guest that she stood up, rather more clumsily than usual, and knocked a book off the corner of the desk. It was Brunnhilde’s latest opus. Jan bent to retrieve it, but Jacqueline got there first.
“I see she signed it,” said Jacqueline, looking inside the front cover.
“She was here last spring. I told you.”
Jan straightened, bracing her hands against the desk. Her narrowed eyes looked directly into Jacqueline’s.
“Right,” Jacqueline said. She put the book down. “Did Jack Carter come and sign books for you?”
Paul laughed. “I wondered if you would mention him. Did you notice how tactfully I refrained from referring to your knockout win?”
“There was no need to be tactful. I figured the story would spread, and I’ve no objections. I’m not ashamed of my part in it.”
Jan’s nose wrinkled fastidiously. “He sounds like a disgusting human being. No, he never bothered to come here. It wouldn’t be worth his while, a small bookstore like this.”
“He is not noted for his charm,” Jacqueline admitted. “Thanks again, Jan. Good-bye, Lucifer.”
Lucifer did not deign to reply.
Paul was going Jacqueline’s way—whatever it might have been. For a while he said nothing, only walked beside her, hands in his pockets and head bent. They had reached the inn before he spoke. “She likes you.”
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
He gave her a twisted, sidelong smile. It was the only way to describe it, Jacqueline thought, in defense of the cliché; the man was a walking cliché, another damned brooding Healthcliffe-variety hero. Or maybe he was the villain. Rogue had his own charm; some of Kathleen’s readers preferred him to Hawkscliffe.
“Let’s declare a truce,” Paul said. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. That was my doing, but you sure don’t accept apologies gracefully.”
“Did I miss one?” Jacqueline asked.
He turned on her with a snarl worthy of Rogue at his best, and took her by the shoulders. “You are the most.… Oh, hell—I’m sorry.…”
It was an unmistakable apology this time, and definitely called for; he had dislodged the strap of Jacqueline’s purse, which slid from her shoulder, hit the ground, and exploded, spraying its contents over a wide stretch of the path and the flowerbeds that flanked it.
Jacqueline seated herself on a bench and crossed her legs. “Well, don’t stand there gaping. Pick them up. All of them.”
Paul dropped to one knee, and began scooping objects back into the purse. Then he swiveled around to face her. “Is this position abject enough for you? I apologize—not only for this debacle, which I will do my best to remedy, but for my rudeness earlier. I misjudged you. Jan is defensive, for good reason; she doesn’t make friends easily. Any friend of hers is a friend of mine. Okay?”
He held out a big, earth-stained hand. Jacqueline gave him hers. He held it for several moments, his long fingers moving across the back of her wrist, his thumb searching the skin of her palm. “When Hawkscliffe released it, she could still feel the tingling imprint of his touch.”
“Don’t just dump everything back in without brushing it off,” she ordered, rather more sharply than was strictly necessary. “You’re getting twigs and leaves.… Give it to me, please.”
She joined him on hands and knees, wondering how the performance would look if anyone saw them. The shrubbery screened them from the street, however, and the inn door remained closed.
“I’ll collect the stuff and you put it in,” Paul said amiably, suiting the action to the word. “What the devil is this?”
“Can opener,” said Jacqueline, accepting it, dusting it off, and dropping it into her bag.
“You sure get a lot of mail.”
“My adoring fans.”
“I’ll bet. There should be one from me among them.” Paul crawled under a bush to gather up the rest of the letters.
“Containing the aforementioned apology?”
“Mmm.” His voice was muffled. “And an invitation to dinner. At your convenience, of course.”
“How nice.” Jacqueline studied the portions of Paul that showed. The view was magnificent. “May I let you know? I really do have to work. I have a deadline.”
“Sure, fine.” Paul backed out, still on all fours, holding a handful of papers. He sat back on his heels and started to straighten them. “I understand how it is. Kathleen…”
His voice cracked. The letters he was holding quivered visibly.
Jacqueline took them from him. “I haven’t asked you, Paul, and I won’t. Not unless you want to talk about it. Contrary to what you may have heard about me, I do have some decent instincts.”
At first he neither moved nor spoke. Then he got to his feet and again offered his hand. Weighted down by the purse and its contents, Jacqueline was happy to accept his help in rising to her feet; and his dour expression lightened. “No wonder you could punch out that character Carter so easily. That purse must weigh twenty pounds. Let me know about dinner… Jacqueline.”
At least he hadn’t called her Jackie.
Jacqueline lowered her purse onto the step in front of the cottage and sat down beside it. It was too nice a day to stay inside. She closed her eyes and stretched her legs out and replayed the scene, with subtitles.
The offer of the books had been only an excuse, but Jan’s real motive for wanting to see her was one she could not decipher. She mustn’t let cynicism color all her views of people; it was possible that Jan was only trying to be friends. She must be lonely. There were few people in Pine Grove who shared her interests.
Particularly her obsession with Kathleen Darcy. Surely that was not too strong a word; she had chosen to settle in Pine Grove because it was Kathleen’s home town, she had named her cat after Kathleen’s, she collected Darciana, and she had even tried her hand at writing a sequel. No doubt other adoring readers had done some of the same things; Jacqueline wondered idly how many tentative, incomplete sequels to
Naked in the Ice
existed. But after so many years most fans would have turned to other interests. And Jan was too savvy about the book business to fail to realize that no writer with an ounce of sense would risk a lawsuit by reading someone else’s manuscript.
A genuine dyed-in-the-wool cynic, like Booton Stokes, would have believed that had been Jan’s motive in summoning Paul Spencer. She wanted a witness to the fact that she had given Jacqueline her manuscript. Jacqueline didn’t believe that. Jan had wanted a witness to something, though—or else she had felt she needed support. Everybody wants witnesses, Jacqueline thought indignantly. You’d think I was Lucretia Borgia. Or Caligula.