The Saint-Germain Chronicles (20 page)

“Of course.” Mr. Rogers had started away from the table, but he paused as he said this, a flicker of amusement in his impassive face.

“I’ve always liked to hear him play. He knows all the old songs.” There was more of a sigh in her tone than she knew.

“He does indeed,” Mr. Rogers agreed. “He’ll be in the lounge after eight, as always.”

“Oh, good,” Mrs. Emmons said, a trifle too brightly before she turned her attention to the waiter who had appeared at her elbow.

Mr. Rogers was out of the dining room and halfway across the lobby when an inconspicuous door on the mezzanine opened and a familiar voice called his name. Mr. Rogers looked up swiftly, and turned toward the stairs that led to the mezzanine.

The door opened onto a small library comfortably furnished in dark-stained wood and substantial Victorian chairs upholstered in leather. There was one person in the room at the moment, and he smiled as Mr. Rogers closed the door. When he spoke, it was not in English.

“I just saw Mrs. Emmons in the dining room,” Mr. Rogers said with a tinge of weariness. “She’s looking forward to seeing that ‘nice Mr. Franciscus.’ ”

“Oh, God,” said Mr. Franciscus in mock horror. “I suppose that Mrs. Granger will be here soon, too?”

“She’s due to arrive on Wednesday.” Both men had been standing, Mr. Franciscus by the tall north-facing windows, Mr. Rogers by the door. “I’ve given them cabins A28 and A52, back to back over the creek.”

“And if the water doesn’t bother them, they’ll have a fine time,” Mr. Franciscus said. “I didn’t have time to tune the harpsichord, so I’ll have to use the piano tonight.” He came away from the windows and sank into the nearest chair.

“I don’t think anyone will mind.” Mr. Rogers turned the chair by the writing table to a new angle as he sat.

“Perhaps not, but I should have done it.” He propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and linked his fingers under his chin. His hands were beautifully shaped but surprisingly small for a pianist. “There’s part of the ridge trail that’s going to need reinforcement before winter or we’ll have a big wash-out at the first thaw.”

“I’ll send Matt out to fix it. Is that where you were this afternoon? Out on the trails?” There was a mild interest but his questions were calmly asked and as calmly answered.

“Part of the time. That ranger… Jackson, Baxter, something like that, told me to remind you about the fire watch.”

“Backus,” Mr. Rogers said automatically. “Ever since that scare in Fox Hollow, he’s been jittery about fire. He’s the one who put up all the call stations on the major trails.”

“It’s good that someone is concerned. They lost sixteen cabins at Fox Hollow,” Franciscus responded with a touch of severity. “If we had the same problem here, there’s a great deal more to lose—and one hundred twenty-four cabins would be a major loss.”

Mr. Rogers said nothing, watching Franciscus levelly.

“We’re going to need some improvements on the stable. The roof is not in good repair and the tack room could stand some sprucing up. The hay-ride wagon should be repainted. If we can get this done before winter it would be helpful.” He brushed his black jeans to rid them of dust. His boots were English, not Western, made to order in fine black leather. There was an elegance about him that had little to do with his black clothing. He stared at Mr. Rogers a moment. “Are there any disturbances that I should know about? You seem apprehensive.”

“No,” Mr. Rogers said slowly, after giving the matter his consideration. “It’s just the usual off-season doldrums, I guess. We’re a little fuller than we were last fall. There’s a retired couple from Chillicothe, name of Barnes in cabin 12, they’re new; a couple from Lansing with a teen-aged daughter in cabin 19. I think the girl is recovering from some sort of disease, at least that’s what her mother told me—their name is Harper. There’s a jumpy MD in cabin 26, Dr. Muller. Amanda Farnsworth is back again. I’ve put her in cabin A65.”

“It’s been—what?—three years since she was here last?” Franciscus asked.

“Three years.” Mr. Rogers nodded. “There’s also a new fellow up in cabin 33.”

“Cabin 33? Isn’t that a little remote?” He glanced swiftly toward the window and the wooded slope beyond the badminton courts and swimming pool. A wide, well-marked path led up the hill on the far side of these facilities, winding in easy ascent into the trees. Cabin 33 was the last cabin on the farthest branch of the trail, more than a quarter mile from the lodge and dining room.

“He requested it,” Mr. Rogers said with a slight shrug. “I told him he would find it cold and quite lonely. He said that was fine.”

“If that’s what he wants…” Franciscus dismissed the newcomer with a turn of his hand. “What about the regulars? Aside from Mrs. Emmons, God save us, and Mrs. Granger?”

“We’ll have the Blakemores for two weeks, starting on the weekend. Myron Shire is coming to finish his new book, as usual. Sally and Elizabeth Jenkins arrive next Tuesday. Sally wrote to say that Elizabeth’s been in the sanatorium again and we are not to serve her anything alcoholic. We’ll have all four Lellands for ten days, and then they’ll go on to the Coast. Harriet Goodman is coming for six weeks, and should arrive sometime today. Sam Potter is coming with his latest young man. The Davies. The Coltraines. The Wylers. The Pastores. Professor Harris. Jim Sutton will be here, but for five days only. His newspaper wants him to cover that murder trial in Denver, so he can’t stay as long as usual. The Lindholms. He’s looking poorly and Martha said that he has had heart trouble this year. Richard Bachmere and his cousin, whose name I can never remember…”

“Samuel,” Franciscus supplied.

“That’s the one. The Muramotos won’t be here until Thanksgiving this year. He’s attending a conference in Seattle. The Browns. The Matins. The Luis. Tim Halloran is booked in for the weekend only, but Cynthia is in Mexico and won’t be here at all. And that’s about it.” Mr. Rogers folded his hands over his chest.

“Not bad for fall off-season. What’s the average stay?” Franciscus inquired as he patted the dust from his pant-leg, wrinkling his nose as the puffs rose.

“No, not bad for off-season. The average stay is just under two weeks, and if this year is like the last three years, we’ll pick up an odd reservation or two between now and the skiers. We’ll have a pretty steady flow from now until Thanksgiving. We’re underbooked until just before Christmas, when we open the slopes. But those twelve cabins still have to be readied.”

Franciscus nodded. “Before the skiers.” He stared at his boot where his ankle was propped on his knee. “We’d better hire that band for the winter season, I think. I don’t want to be stuck doing four sets a night again. Have you asked around Standing Rock for winter help?”

“Yes. We’ve got four women and three men on standby.” He consulted his watch. “The restaurant linen truck should be here in a few minutes. I’d better get over to the kitchen. What time were you planning to start this evening?”

Franciscus shrugged. “Oh, eight-thirty sounds about right for this small crowd. I don’t imagine they’ll want music much after midnight. We can let Ross do a couple late sets with his guitar if there’s enough of an audience. If not, then Frank can keep the bar open as long as he wants. How does that sound to you?”

“Good for the whole week. Saturday will be busier, and we’ll have more guests by then. We’ll make whatever arrangements are necessary.” He rose. “Kathy’s determined to serve chateaubriand in forcemeat on Saturday, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to talk her out of it. I know that the chef’s special should live up to its name, but the price of beef today…” He rolled his eyes up as if in appeal to heaven.

“Why not indulge her? It’s better she make chateaubriand in forcemeat for an off-season crowd than for the skiers. Let her have an occasional extravagance. She’s a fine chef, isn’t she?” Franciscus leaned back in his chair.

“So they tell me,” said Mr. Rogers, switching back to English.

“Then why not?” He reached for his black hat with the silver band. “Just make sure she understands that you can’t do this too often. She’ll appreciate it.” He got to his feet as well. “I want to take one more look through the stable before I get changed for tonight. We’ve got six guest stalls ready. The Browns always bring those pride-cut geldings they’re so proud of. I’ll get changed about the time you start serving dinner.”

“Fine.” Mr. Rogers held the door open and let Franciscus leave ahead of him. “I’ll tell Mrs. Emmons.”

Franciscus chuckled. “You’ve no pity, my friend. If she requests ‘When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain,’ I will expire, I promise you.”

The two men were still smiling when they reached the lobby once more. A tall, tweedy woman in her early forties stood at the registration desk and looked around as Mr. Rogers and Franciscus reached the foot of the stairs. “Oh, there you are,” she said to the men and gave them her pleasant, horsey grin.

Mr. Rogers said, “Good afternoon, Ms. Goodman” at the same time that Franciscus said, “Hello, Harriet.”

“Mr. Rogers. Mr. Franciscus.” She extended her hand to them, taking the manager’s first. There were three leather bags by her feet and though she wore no makeup beyond lipstick, she now, as always, smelled faintly of
Joy
.

As he slipped behind the registration desk, Mr. Rogers found her reservation card at once and was filling in the two credit lines for her. “Six weeks this time, Ms. Goodman?”

“Yes. I’m giving myself some extra vacation. I’m getting tired. Six years on the lecture circuit is too wearing.” She looked over the form. “Cabin 21. My favorite,” she remarked as she scribbled her name at the bottom of the form. “Is Scott around to carry my bags?”

“I’m sorry. Scott’s off at U.S.C. now,” Mr. Rogers said as he took the form back.

“U.S.C? He got the scholarship? Well, good for him. He’s a very bright boy. I thought it was a shame that he might lose that opportunity.” She held out her hand for the key.

“He got the scholarship,” Mr. Rogers said with a quick glance at Franciscus.

“I’ll be happy to carry your bags, Harriet,” Franciscus volunteered. “I’m curious to know how your work’s been going.”

Her hazel eyes were expressive and for a moment they flickered with a pleasant alarm. Then it was gone and her social polish returned. “Thank you very much. I don’t know the etiquette for tipping the musician-cum-wrangler, but…”

“No tip,” Franciscus said rather sharply. “Call it a courtesy for a welcome friend.” He had already picked up the smallest bag and was gathering up the other two.

“I must say, I envy the shape you’re in. Lugging those things around wears me out. But look at you. And you must be at least my age.” She had started toward the door and the broad, old-fashioned porch that led to the path to cabin 21.

Franciscus was a few steps behind her. “I’m probably older than you think,” he said easily. He was walking briskly, his heels tapping smartly on the flagging.

They were almost to cabin 21 when a frail-looking teenager in an inappropriate shirtwaist dress stepped out onto the path. Franciscus recognized her from Mr. Rogers’ description of the new guests in cabin 19.

“Excuse me,” she said timorously, “but could you tell me where the nearest path to the lake is?”

Harriet Goodman gave the teen-ager a quick, discerning glance, and Franciscus answered her. “You’ll have to go past the lodge and take the widest path. It runs right beside the badminton courts. You can’t miss it. There’s a sign. But I’m afraid there’s no lifeguard, so if you want to swim, you should, perhaps, use the pool. We haven’t got the canoes and boats out yet, either. Two more days and they’ll be ready.”

“It’s all right,” she said in a quick, shaky voice. “I just want to walk a bit.” She clutched her hands nervously, then moved sideways along the path away from them.

“That’s one jumpy filly,” Harriet Goodman said when the girl was out of earshot. “Who is she?”

“She’s new,” Franciscus said, resuming the walk to Harriet’s cabin. “Mr. Rogers said that she’s apparently recovering from an illness of some sort.” Having seen the girl, he doubted that was the real problem, but kept his opinion to himself.

Harriet had made a similar assessment. “Recovering from an illness, my ass.”

There were five wooden steps down to the door of cabin 21, which was tucked away from the rest on the path, the last one of the twelve on this walk. Harriet Goodman opened the door. “Oh, thank goodness. You people always air out the cabins. I can’t tell you how much I hate that musty smell.” She tossed her purse on the couch and went to the bedroom beyond. “Everything’s fine. Let me check the bathroom.” She disappeared and came back. “New paint and fixtures. You’re angels.”

“The owner doesn’t like his property to get run-down,” Franciscus said, as he put the bags on the racks in the bedroom.

Harriet Goodman watched him, her hands on her hips. “You know, Franciscus, you puzzle me,” she said with her usual directness.

“I do? Why?” He was faintly amused and his fine brows lifted to punctuate his inquiry.

“Because you’re content to remain here, I guess.” There was a puckering of her forehead.

“I like it here. I value my privacy.”

“Privacy?” she echoed, not believing him. “In the middle of a resort.”

“What better place?” He hesitated, then went on. “I do like privacy, but not isolation. I have time for myself, and though there are many people around me, almost all of them pass through my life like, well, shadows.”

“Shadows.”

He heard the melancholy in her voice. “I said
almost
all.
You’re not a candidate for shadow-dom, Harriet. And you know it.”

Her laughter was gently self-deriding. “That will teach me to fish for compliments.”

Franciscus looked at her kindly before he left the cabin. “You’re being unkind to yourself. What am I but, as you call it, a musician-cum-wrangler?” He nodded to her and strolled to the door.

Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the door he had closed behind him. “Yes, Franciscus. What are you?”

He preferred playing the harpsichord to the piano, though the old instrument was cantankerous with age. He had his wrenches laid out on the elaborately painted bench and was busy with tuning forks when the teen-ager found him at work.