Authors: Elizabeth Peters
She meant it; her face had the dreamy pleasure of a child who anticipates the ending of a well-known, much-loved story.
“If I were a horse,” Jacqueline said, savoring every syllable. “That’s one of the classic methods of inquiry. ‘If I were a horse, where would I go?’ Put yourself in the other person’s place, think as he thinks, and you’ll find the answer. I used to sneer at that methodology; but, by God, it worked for me this time. Kathleen and I are very different people. I would never have put up with the—forgive me—sacrificial crap she endured for so long. But we have one thing in common, and I don’t mean the fact that we are both writers. We like to be in control. That’s why Kathleen took care of her family all those years. She was the one who did the dirty work, made the money, settled disputes, arranged their lives. She didn’t sit back and let things happen to her. She made them happen. So I asked myself, what would she do once she had made good her escape and was safe? What would I do? Aside, of course, from enjoying my new life.
“One thing; for damn sure—I’d want to know what was happening. I would try to find out who had it in for me. And if I were Kathleen, afflicted with an outsized sense of responsibility for my aggravating relatives, I would probably feel obliged to keep an eye on them.
“That reasoning, and certain significant clues, convinced me that Kathleen had come back to Pine Grove at various times. It was one of the things that made me suspicious of Jan initially. I even wondered—all right, I admit it was farfetched—I even wondered about Marjorie, the cook. Several incidents supported my assumption. The first night I spent in the cottage I was awakened by a strong scent of lilacs, Kathleen’s favorite fragrance. Sherri wears that scent too, and Sherri could have climbed up to the window and sprinkled perfume around the room, though I couldn’t imagine why she would do so. There were reasons why Kathleen might have done so. At that point in time she was bitterly angry with Stokes and with all the other people who had foiled her plans for writing the sequel to
Naked.
Something else happened that night. I didn’t notice it immediately; I had just unpacked my things, and everything was in the state of confusion that inevitably follows a move. I was only mildly surprised to find that Kathleen’s purported outline—which I had extracted from Mr. Stokes with considerable difficulty—was not where I thought I had filed it. Not until some time later, after my theory began to take shape, did I realize that Kathleen must have seen, and perhaps copied, that outline. After Kathleen had read it over and considered the implications, she realized that I had also been duped by Mr. Stokes. That explained why the letters she sent me, signed Amicus Justitiae, appealed to my sense of fair play instead of reproaching me, like the letters she wrote to the others.
“But it was the question of keys that finally convinced me. Bill was right when he suggested the keys of the cottages were interchangeable. Kathleen had a key to hers. She used it several times to enter my cottage. Once she did something I believe she now regrets; it must have been done in a moment of outrage, when she read the outline I had produced.” Jacqueline smiled sheepishly. “It’s not a bad outline, but I have to admit it bears very little resemblance to anything Kathleen would have composed. And if I came across something that parodied or screwed up my work, I might react the same way. You see what this means, don’t you? It means Kathleen was here, in Pine Grove, when those things were done.
“Another thing Kathleen and I have in common is a sense of humor.” Jacqueline was enjoying herself; her eyes glowed green and her lips twitched. “She couldn’t have picked a better disguise, or a safer one—or one she relished more. I’d never have tumbled to it if I hadn’t tried to be nice, which goes to prove that virtue is sometimes its own reward. I tried to speak to her one evening; she was out of her chair and halfway across the room before I could blink. I was yelling in her ear, you see, because I thought she was deaf. And not long ago I learned that the only distinctive physical mark Kathleen Darcy had was a malformation of one earlobe.”
All the faces were blank except one—that of Mollie Kyle. “Oh, my,” she gasped. “Oh, my goodness! You don’t mean…”
Jacqueline got to her feet and walked toward the far end of the room. The television set had been turned off; no one had noticed the cessation of sound because of their absorption in Jacqueline’s story. Most of the viewers had gone. The only ones left were a stout, bespectacled female who was scribbling madly on a pad of lined paper, and the little old woman crouching in her chair like a cornered black cat.
Jacqueline held out her hands. Chris and some of the others who considered her emotionless and cynical would have been surprised at the unsteadiness of her voice when she said, “I had composed a witty, clever little speech, but I seem to have forgotten it. Welcome back, Kathleen.”
The silence lasted long enough for Jacqueline to experience the most agonizing qualm of her entire, self-confident life. She would never live this down if she was wrong.… But she couldn’t be. The chain of reasoning was perfect. Scarcely aware of what she was doing, she leaned forward, and squinted at the side of the woman’s head.
“Mrs. Swenson” began to laugh. Rising, she drew herself up to her full height of five feet two, and plucked the gray wig from her head, disclosing a mop of short dark curls. “I also find myself at something of a loss for words. That was very neatly done, Mrs. Kirby. May I call you Jacqueline?”
Jacqueline’s back was turned to the others; no one but Kathleen saw her purse her lips and let out a long, silent “Whew!” It prompted a fresh burst of laughter from Kathleen, and if the laughter had a tinge of hysteria, Jacqueline could hardly blame her. Taking the hand Kathleen extended, she turned to the woman who was writing.
“I told you you’d need someone else’s permission before you could print this, Sally. Did you get it all?”
“Did I get it? God, what a story! How about it, Miss Darcy? It will all come out eventually, you know; if I weren’t so damned ethical, I wouldn’t even ask you.” She glanced at Jacqueline and added, “And if I weren’t so damned intimidated by Mrs. Kirby.”
“Yes, all right,” Kathleen said wearily. “I can’t stop you, and to be honest, I don’t really care any longer.”
“Get moving, Sally,” Jacqueline ordered. “I chose you to pick this little plum because we’re old acquaintances and I consider you a reputable journalist—if there is such a thing. But I told you no interviews and no questions. If you don’t hurry, you won’t scoop the
Sludge.
”
“Thanks—I think.” The reporter got to her feet. “I owe you one, Jake.”
“Not one, two thousand,” Jacqueline said sweetly.
She turned back to Kathleen, who was clinging to her hand as if to a lifeline. Under the heavy makeup the younger woman’s face had turned pale, and her eyes were frightened. “I don’t think I can do it,” she whispered. “I’ve been hiding so long.…”
“You’ve done things that were a lot harder,” Jacqueline said. “One more river to cross. You won’t be completely free until you cross it.”
Kathleen’s slim shoulders straightened. “Are you always so pontifical, Ms. Kirby?”
Jacqueline grinned. “Give ’em hell, kid.”
Side by side they approached the group of people who had watched in the silence of pure astonishment. All had risen, as if by a single impulse.
Kathleen’s eyes moved slowly from one face to the next, and then returned, as if drawn by a magnet, to that of Paul Spencer. Jacqueline wasn’t the only one who waited with pent breath to hear what she would say, but it is possible that Jacqueline had a more immediate interest than any other.
What Kathleen said was, “I’m sorry, Paul.”
Paul smiled. “I’m not, Kathleen. I’m glad it turned out this way. Welcome back.”
Bill Hoggenboom coughed pointedly. “I’m glad you’re back too, Miss Darcy, but do you mind if we postpone the sentimental stuff till after we’ve decided what to do with Mr. Stokes? Jake—I mean, Miz Kirby—has accused him of killing Jan Wilson and trying to kill you, and it seems as if somebody ought to do something about that.”
“Of course,” Jacqueline said. “Do something. Arrest him. Or…” Her eyes lit up. “Can I arrest him? I’ve always wanted to make a citizen’s arrest.”
Stokes had backed up, into the farthest corner of the room. “Go ahead,” he said shrilly. “I’ve always wanted to bring a suit for false arrest. You can’t hold me. You can’t prove anything.”
“Oh, I think he can,” Jacqueline said. “You spent a lot of time in that bookstore, Bootsie baby. I’m sure you had sense enough to wear gloves—you’ve handled a lot of mystery writers—but modern forensic science is quite advanced. I’ll bet you left some traces of your presence. I advise you to go along with Bill. You’ll be safer in a nice comfortable jail than you would be on the streets of Pine Grove. Some of the local citizens take a dim view of killers.”
Stokes continued to bluster and threaten as Bill led him out, but he took care to stay as far away from Paul as possible.
“Thanks for casting me as the menace,” Paul said dryly, as he and Jacqueline stood in the lobby watching the pair go out the door. “I wasn’t about to do anything, you know. I feel numb. Why didn’t you tell me she was here, in the hotel? I still can’t take it in. Should I have said more? I don’t want her to feel guilty, I’m the one who should have said I was sorry—”
“Don’t go back in there.” Jacqueline took hold of his sleeve. “Bill was right, I can’t stand any more of that sentimental stuff either. Let her make her peace with her sisters and St. John in private. Ah—there you are, Brunnhilde. Such tact, leaving the family together. You are dining with me, I hope?”
“Well…” Brunnhilde’s nostrils quivered. “I am a bit peckish. Uh—Jacqueline… No hard feelings? It was his idea, you know. I didn’t mean any harm, I was just trying to scare you off. I still don’t know how you managed it, but after today I figure we’re even. Right?”
“Of course, dahling. You just go ahead and sit down. Ours is the table in the corner.” Brunnhilde gave her an uncertain smile and headed for the dining room. Jacqueline waited until she was out of earshot before she murmured, “We’re even on one score. I still owe you a broken staircase and a chamber pot.”
“She staged those accidents?” Paul asked. “But I thought Stokes—”
“That was one of the things that made the case so confusing,” Jacqueline said, staring at Brunnhilde’s retreating bulk with an expression that made Paul’s hackles rise. “There were several people working behind the scenes—Stokes, Brunnhilde, and Kathleen herself—and until I figured out who was doing what to whom, and why, I was unable to determine which actions were irrelevant. Brunnhilde’s clumsy doctoring of the chocolates was a spontaneous outburst of spite. She wanted the sequel very badly; to do her justice, which of course I always attempt to do, it wasn’t only a question of money. Her admiration for Kathleen was as genuine an emotion as…” Jacqueline coughed tactfully. “As a woman of her limited capacities is capable of feeling. She was the third of the candidates to be interviewed. Her curiosity about the identity of those yet to come prompted her to remain in the area; she had been here before and Willow-land was one of her favorite retreats. When she saw me, she lost her temper and pulled that childish trick with the candy. The inspiration came from the chocolates St. John had sent each of us, and of course she knew of Kathleen’s accidents from their correspondence.
“By the time I returned to Pine Grove as the chosen candidate, Brunnhilde, sulking at Willowland, had had time to develop her plan of intimidation. She actually broke into Kathleen’s cottage in order to set up that clumsy trick with the stairs. She was lucky not to be caught in flagrante; Marybee saw the lights, and Brunnhilde herself, but of course didn’t know who she was.” Jacqueline’s glare changed to a distinctly malicious smile. “Sawing through that step was a lot of work; I wish I could have seen her sweating and swearing.…
“Stokes had nothing to do with my accidents. They were Brunnhilde’s idea, and though they were ineffective and purely malicious, I have to admit they were more ingenious than any plot she’s ever invented for her tedious books. Booton had made her a proposition early on, before I appeared on the scene. He took pains to detach himself from her thereafter, and it wasn’t until a few days ago, when they met at Willowland, that they put their heads together. Brunnhilde was getting desperate; in order to show him how far she was willing to go, she told him what she had done to me. I’ll bet he almost had a stroke. Of course she didn’t know he had staged the original accidents, but Booton’s guilty conscience made him overly sensitive to innuendo—particularly from dear Brunnhilde. I was honestly and genuinely worried about her safety. It was pure coincidence that she chose to duplicate Kathleen’s misadventures; but the person who had tried to kill Kathleen might have feared she knew more than she did, and taken steps to eliminate her. Of course,” Jacqueline added, her nose in the air, “Brunnhilde will never acknowledge that I went to great lengths to save her precious hide. Never mind; I’ll deal with her, in due time, and in my own way.”
Seeing her lips tighten and her eyes darken, Paul was devoutly thankful he was not Brunnhilde.
The dinner party was a success after all. The food was superb, and the wine flowed like water, and Jacqueline filled in all the awkward gaps with her own inimitable style of conversation. As she stood in the lobby afterward shaking hands with the departing guests, Jacqueline accepted compliments and praise with unshaken complacency. She felt she deserved every kind word she had received, and more. Domestic harmony among the Darcys was far from perfect; she was glad she would not be present when St. John broke the news of Kathleen’s resurrection to his mother. If he took her advice—which she had freely given—he would never do so. But that, Jacqueline conceded, was up to him—and to Kathleen. She had done as much as she could, the rest was their responsibility.
Craig had congratulated her and drawn her aside. “I owe you an apology,” he said, gazing into her eyes. “Will you let me make amends?”