Stranger by the Lake (14 page)

“This was after Craig caught the other intruders?”

“This was no more than two weeks ago,” she retorted. “I've seen him several times since. Once he was sneaking towards the house.” She looked up sharply. “Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I do.” And I did. “Were—were you ever able to identify him?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Never saw 'im that close, just a dark form prowling about.”

Her choice of words caused me to shudder. Dark form … an apt description of what I had seen in the east wing. I had passed that off in my mind as a trick of the imagination, but now I began to wonder if I hadn't really seen someone after all. The experience, in retrospect, made my flesh turn cold. Althea was watching me closely, and she noticed my reactions. She bobbed her head up and down, nodding.

“At least
someone
takes me seriously,” she said.

“You've seen him recently?” I asked. “In the past few days?”

“Four or five nights ago. He was with the girl then.”

“The girl?”

“I saw
her
good and close. I saw her
first
, in fact, before I ever saw the man. About three weeks ago I was strolling around the grounds. It was right after sundown, not quite dark, the air all hazy with purple haze. She was standing at the edge of the woods, preoccupied like, like a statue. She seemed to be
waiting
for someone.”

“She didn't see you?”

“I don't think so. I was in the grove of oak trees, in the shadows. She just stood there for ever so long—not twenty feet away from me. She finally went on down towards the lake. I waited and waited, expecting her to come back. She never did.”

“And you saw her with the man?”

“Just that once. They were standing in back of the house. I was up in the bedroom, lookin' through my binoculars. It was around midnighs, very dark, but I saw them all right! He was wearing his raincoat, and she was clinging to him—a regular mantrap, small and delicate but pouting.”

Something registered in the back of my mind. Her description reminded me of someone I had seen, but I couldn't for the life of me think who it might be. Althea got up and stepped over to one of the tables, shuffling through a stack of papers, her brows pressed together. She finally found what she wanted and handed it to me.

“I made a sketch from memory,” she said, “made it as soon as I came in after seeing her standing by the woods that first time. It isn't a very good sketch, I'm afraid, but she looked something like this.”

I recognized her immediately. Althea had done a marvelous job. The girl had a pouting expression, the eyes dark and sexy, the mouth as sultry as it had been two nights ago, when she had come downstairs at the inn to meet the man in the raincoat. The face was stunningly beautiful, framed by the short-clipped hair. I studied the sketch, and my hands trembled a little, causing the paper to rattle.

“You look pale,” Althea said. “Do you
know
her?”

“N-no,” I replied. “I just thought—she reminded me of someone I used to know.” I was lying, but I didn't want to tell Althea about that mysterious conversation I had overheard at the inn. I gave the sketch back to her.

“Have you shown this to anyone else?” I asked.

“You're the first one who's seen it. I
told
Aggie I'd seen a girl by the woods, but she merely laughed and said it's a wonder I hadn't seen a pink elephant. Aggie is such a
trusting
soul. She doesn't seem to realize that——” She broke off, frowning. “This all started after that article came out about the Gordon papers, sayin' they might exis't, sayin' how
valuable
they'd be. Do you follow me?”

“I-I believe I do.”

“I think someone
else
is lookin' for those papers,” she said bluntly. “Gordonwood is such a big, rambling place, full of dark halls and staircases and nooks and corners—I think someone is slipping into the house.” She paused dramatically, her gray-green eyes very wide.

“But what about the dogs?” I replied. “Surely——”

“Those damn dogs!” she snapped. “They're so
corruptible!
Toss 'em a bone and they're your friends for life. I gave them some scraps one afternoon, and they followed me around for days!”

She narrowed her eyes. “Something's
afoot,
” she said.

I agreed with her silently. Something was definitely afoot, and I had a pretty good idea what it was.

Althea finished her gin and poured another. It was beginning to tell on her now. She was weaving just a little, her eyes slightly out of focus. Her cheeks were bright pink, her eyelids coated with violet, and she made a face, taking a gigantic swallow of gin. “I wanted someone else to
know,
” she said, voice slurring now for the first time. “As for me, I'm keepin' my doors locked. Agatha can get herself murdered if she wants to, but no one's sneakin' up on me!”

“I'm glad you told me, Althea,” I replied. “I-I don't know just what I'll do, but—I'll keep my eyes open.”

“You do that, ducks. Come back and see me again—don't forget those shoes.”

I picked up the shoes, having almost forgotten them.

“And be
care
ful,” Althea said. “I wouldn't stay in that house, I can tell you that. Not for a million.”

She led me to the door, orange robe billowing. I stood nervously as she slid back the bolt and unfastened the chain. I was eager to be gone, eager to sort everything out in my mind and think things over. Althea made a clucking noise and squeezed my hand and gave me a gentle push, slamming the door behind me. I heard her ramming the bolt back in place as I walked away.

The day was still gloriously bright, sky pale blue, sunshine splattering, but everything looked gray now, clouded by my own suspicions. Pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit together, and the picture taking place was a frightening one. I hurried toward the garage, glad that I was driving into Gordonville immediately. There were a great many questions I wanted to ask, and I was almost positive that Charlie Grayson could provide answers to all of them.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Bentley handled beautifully, and it was a pleasure to drive such an expensive, powerful car. The big body was dark brown, trimmed with glistening chrome, the interior dark yellow leather, the top down. The car roared over the country roads with scarcely a bump, and I had the feeling I was in control of a magnificent metallic animal, every spring, every coil, every intricate part created to do my bidding. The breeze stung my cheeks, and the sunlight poured down, making sunbursts on the hood and warming the leather. Approaching Gordonville, I slowed down, the motor purring now. I had been driving too fast, but it had been a release.

I found a parking place across from the village green, in front of the ponderous brownstone town hall with its grotesque Victorian architecture, and walked across the square, pausing to admire the tarnished bronze statue of the Robert Gordon who had established the village. He was a solemn-looking chap, stern bronze features made slightly ludicrous by the pearl-gray pigeon perched irreverently on his shoulder. The daffodils growing around the statue in a neat circular bed nodded bright yellow heads in the breeze, and sunlight washed the ancient blue-gray marble bench across from it.

With shoes in hand, I strolled on across the square toward the cobbler's shop, passing the pink brick tea shop and the beige brick bookstore with stacks of books behind the murky blue plate glass windows. It was difficult for me to walk past a bookstore without going inside to explore, but there was no time for it now. Perhaps I would come back after I had talked with Charlie.

I had been eager to come into town, eager to see Charlie, but now I found myself dreading that talk. I stepped into the cobbler's shop, glad I had a legitimate reason to delay a bit. Shoes hung from the ceiling. Racks of shoes stood against the wall, all of them tagged with squares of yellow paper. The cobbler was working at a table littered with tools and scraps of leather, punching tiny holes in a thick tan sole. He finished the job before acknowledging my presence. He was small and stooped, with dark-gray hair, grumpy-looking tanned face and steel-rimmed spectacles, and he wore an apron of thin black leather, the sleeves of his old white shirt rolled up over muscular biceps.

“Want a pair of shoes?” he inquired. “I can make you a smashing pair, quite stylish. I make 'em, I repair 'em. You won't find better shoes anywhere in England, and that's a fact. Here, take a look at this.”

He pulled out a stack of hides and slapped them on the counter. They were beautifully dyed: red, green, dark blue, tan, soft and pliable. “Take your pick,” he said eagerly. “You want a pair of red shoes? I'll whip one up. Factories! The curse of our times. No factory can produce a work of art. Look at those shoes over there.” He pointed to a pair of black patent leather pumps. “Every stitch hand sewn. Look at the craftsmanship.”

“Actually,” I said, “I'm not in the market for a new pair. I'd like to have this pair mended. The heel's broken off this one, and I think the other heel may be a bit loose.”

He looked disappointed, then disgruntled. He took the shoes from me and examined them, shaking his head. “Shoddy work,” he grumbled. “Sure, I recognize the name stitched inside. You paid a lot for these shoes, but they're shoddy. That actress woman, she brought in a pair almost exactly like these, with the same label.”

“Oh?” I said, trying not to show my interest.

“Instep was cracked on one of
hers
. I had to practically rebuild the shoe. Lotta good it did me—I've still got 'em. She never came to pick 'em up. Something funny going on there. All right, ma'am, I'll mend these for you. You want to leave 'em, or you want to wait? It won't take me more'n twenty minutes or so.”

“I'll wait,” I told him. He took the shoes over to his table, handling them as though they were contaminated. Clearing a space on his table, he assembled his tools and began to prise off the tiny nails that stuck out on the broken shoe. I was eager to learn more about the actress and wondered how I could bring the subject up again without arousing his suspicion. He tapped and tampered, mending the shoe, while I wandered about the shop examining the shoes and hides and machines. There was a strong smell of oil and sawdust and wax. Although I affected an air of casual curiosity, there was a purpose behind my survey.

I finally found the shoes similar to mine. They were smaller, I noted, and dark gray instead of brown, but the label was the same: chic, expensive. I was more interested in the square yellow tag the cobbler had tied on. It identified the owner as Vanessa Shaw and gave the date the shoes had been brought in, almost a month ago. The name meant nothing to me. If Miss Shaw was an actress, she was an obscure one.

“Are these the shoes you were talking about?” I asked casually.

He looked up from his work. He had secured the heel back on the shoe now and was tightening the heel of the second shoe. He nodded with an expression of disgust.

“Those are them all right,” he informed me. “Tacky things, not fit for a human foot, no matter how much they cost.”

“I find it strange that she wouldn't have come back for them,” I remarked, holding one of the sleek gray slippers in my hand. “Did she leave Gordonville abruptly?”

“Some folks think so,” he said brusquely.

“Vanessa Shaw——” I said, stretching the words out. “I wonder—you said she was an actress. I saw a Vanessa Shaw in a play a year or so ago. I wonder if it could possibly be the same woman? Small, delicate, quite beautiful, actually, with short black hair and dark blue eyes——”

I had captured his interest now. I had banked on that. Almost everyone in small towns like Gordonville thrived on gossip. The cobbler was no exception. He gave the shoe a final tap, tugged the heel to see that it was securely fastened, and then brought both shoes over to the counter. He wore that eager expression that all good gossips employ: eyes narrowed a little, mouth a bit pursed.

“Ah, she was pretty all right,” he said. “I'll hand 'er that. Pretty as a picture, but sly looking. I knew her sort right away. Carrying on with Charlie Grayson, she was, and making no bones about it. I don't blame Charlie, just felt sorry for 'im. Knew right away she was a fickle thing. A woman like that wouldn't be satisfied with the likes of Charlie, not for long. He's a good-lookin' lad, strong as a horse, makes a good livin' from the inn. Lotta girls'd be happy to have him, but this one—it was only a matter of time before she ditched him for someone else. Them city girls are a bad lot.”

He muttered something unintelligible and glanced up suspiciously, suddenly realizing that I was a city girl myself. For a moment he glared at me as though I had designs on his virtue or, at the very least, planned to snatch the shoes and dash out without paying. He actually pulled the shoes away from the counter, frowning. I smiled reassuringly and tried to look very sweet and innocent. It wasn't until I took some bills out of my purse that the look of suspicion left his eyes.

“You do beautiful work,” I said, handing him the bills.

He rang the amount up on the battered old cash register and started to return the change. I shook my head, smiling for all I was worth.

“Oh, no,” I said, shameless. “You keep the change. You did such a good job, and so quickly. I really should give you
more
.”

My ploy was quite obvious, but it worked beautifully. The grumpy old man rubbed the front of his leather apron and grinned. I could tell that I had made his day. “Take pride in my work,” he said. “Not everyone appreciates a good job nowadays. Some people think a
label's
all that counts.”

“What happened to the girl?” I asked, interrupting him before he had a chance to launch into another tirade about factory-made shoes.