The Saint-Germain Chronicles (24 page)

“I will.” She looked across the curve of the lake to the hillside where cabin 33 was located. The path was a little less than a quarter mile around the shore, but from where she stood, the cabin was no more than a hundred fifty yards away. The still water was marked by a moon path that lay like a radiant silver bar between her and the far bank where Mr. Lorpicar waited for her in vain. “He has to see me,” she insisted, but turned back on the path.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Franciscus said and changed the subject. “Are you going to be at the picnic at the south end of the lake tomorrow? The chef is making Mexican food.”

“Oh, picnics are silly,” she said with the hauteur that only a woman as young as she could express.

“But Kathy is an excellent chef, isn’t she?” he asked playfully, knowing that Lost Saints Lodge had a treasure in her.

“Yes,” she allowed. “I liked that stuff she made with asparagus and walnuts. I didn’t know it could be a salad.”

“I understand her enchiladas and chihuahueños are superb.” He was able to speak with complete sincerity.

“I might come for a little while,” she said when she had given the matter her consideration. “But that’s not a promise.”

“Of course not,” he agreed gravely as they walked past the bathing beach and pier and turned toward the break in the trees and the path that went from the beach to the badminton courts to the Lodge itself and to cabin 19 beyond, where the Harpers waited for their daughter.

Harriet Goodman was deep in conversation with Madelaine de Montalia, though most of the other guests gathered around the stone fireplace where a large, ruddy-cheeked woman held court while she put the finishing touches on the meal.

“And lots of garlic, comino, and garlic,” the chef was instructing the others who stood around her, intoxicated by the smells that rose from the various cooking vessels. “Mexican or Chinese, there’s no such thing as too much garlic.” She paused. “Most of the time. Now, making Kung-Pao chicken…” and she was off on another description.

“I don’t know how she does it,” Harriet said loudly enough to include Franciscus in her remark.

“She’s an artist,” Franciscus said simply. He was stretched out under a young pine, his hands propped behind his head, his eyes all but closed.

Mrs. Emmons bustled around the wooden tables setting out the heavy square glasses that were part of the picnic utensils. “I must say, the owner must be quite a surprising man—real glass on a picnic,” she enthused.

“He’s something of a snob,” Mr. Rogers said, raising his voice to call, “Mr. Franciscus, what’s your opinion?”

Franciscus smiled. “Oh, I concur, Mr. Rogers.”

“Are you going to spend the entire afternoon supine?” Madelaine asked him as Harriet rose to take her place in line for food.

“Probably.” He did not look at her but there was a softening to his face that revealed more than any words or touching could.

“Madelaine!” Harriet called from her place in line. “Do you want some of this? Shall I bring you a plate?”

The dark-haired young woman looked up. “Thank you, Harriet, but no. I am still having jet lag, I think.”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Harriet asked, a solicitous note in her voice.

“Not at present.” She paused and added, “My assistant will provide something for me later.” Harriet, but no. I am still having jet lag, I think.“ had arrived with Madelaine. ”Where’s she?“

“Nadia is resting. She will be here later, perhaps.” She leaned back against the tree trunk and sighed.

“Nadia is devoted to you, my heart?” Franciscus asked quietly.

“Very.” She had picked up a piece of bark and was toying with it, turning it over in her hands, feeling the rough and the smooth of it.

“Good. Are you happy?” There was no anxiety in his question, but a little sadness.

Madelaine’s answer was not direct. “You told me many years ago that your life is very lonely. I understand that, for I am lonely, but I would rather be lonely, having my life as it is, than to have succumbed at nineteen and never have known all that I know. When I am with you, I am happy. The rest of the time, I am content, and I am always learning.”

“And the work hasn’t disappointed you?” His voice was low and lazy, caressing her.

“Not yet. Every time I think that I have truly begun to understand a city or a people, something new comes to light, and I discover that I know almost nothing, and must begin again.” She was pulling at the weeds that grew near the base of the tree.

“This doesn’t disappoint you?”

“No. Once in a while, I become annoyed, and I suppose if my time were short, I might feel more urgency, but, as it is…” She shrugged as only a Frenchwoman can.

A shadow fell across them. “Excuse me,” said Mr. Harper, “but have you seen my daughter, Emillie? She went out very early this morning, but I thought surely she’d be back by now.” He gave Franciscus an ingratiating smile.

Franciscus opened his eyes. “You mean she isn’t here?”

“No. My wife thought that she might have gone swimming, but her suit was in the bathroom, and it’s quite chilly in the mornings…” He held a plate of enchiladas and chalupas, and he was wearing a plaid shirt and twill slacks that were supposed to make him look the outdoors sort, but only emphasized the slope of his shoulders and the pallor of his skin.

Alert now, Franciscus sat up. “When did you actually see your daughter last?”

“Well, she came in quite late, and Doris waited for her. They had a talk, and Doris left her about two, she says.” His face puckered. “You don’t think anything has happened to her, do you?”

“You must think so,” Franciscus said with an odd combination of kindness and asperity.

“Well, yes,” the middle-aged man said apologetically. “After everything the child has been through…” He stopped and looked at the food on his plate as if there might be revelations in the sauces.

Franciscus got to his feet. “If it will make you less apprehensive, I’ll check out the Lodge and the pool for her, and find out if any of the staff have seen her.”

“Would you?” There was a weak, manipulative kind of gratitude in the man’s pale eyes, and Franciscus began to understand why it was that Emillie Harper had become the victim of the Reverend Masters.

“I’ll go now.” He touched Madelaine’s hair gently. “You’ll forgive me, my heart?”

She smiled up at him, saying cryptically, “The Count to the rescue.”

“You’re incorrigible,” he responded affectionately as he put his black hat on. “I’ll be back in a while. Tell Mr. Rogers where I’ve gone, will you?”

“I’ll be happy to.” Madelaine patted his leg, then watched as he strode off.

“He seems reliable,” Mr. Harper said to Madelaine, asking for reassurance.

“He is,” she said shortly, leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes.

Mr. Harper looked at her, baffled, then wandered off toward the tables, looking for his wife.

Kathy had served most of the food and had launched into a highly technical discussion with Jim Sutton about the proper way to cook scallops.

Emillie Harper was not at the Lodge, in the recreation building, at the swimming pool, the badminton courts, or the beach area of the resort. Franciscus had checked all those places and had found no trace of the girl. Those few guests who had not gone on the picnic had not seen her, and the staff could not recall noticing her.

At first Franciscus had assumed that Emillie was giving a show of childish petulance—she clearly resented Franciscus’ interference in her tryst the night before. As he walked along the shore trail past the small dock, he wondered if he had been hasty, and his steps faltered. He glanced north, across the bend of the lake toward the hillside where cabin 33 was, and involuntarily his face set in anger. Why, of all the resorts in the Rocky Mountains, did Mr. Milan Lorpicar have to choose Lost Saints Lodge for his stay?

A sound intruded on his thoughts, the persistent clacking of a typewriter. The door to cabin 8 stood ajar, and Franciscus could see Myron Shires hunched over on the couch, his typewriter on the coffee table, his fingers moving like a pair of dancing spiders over the keys. Beside the typewriter there was a neat stack of pages about two inches high. The sound stopped abruptly. “Franciscus,” Myron Shires said, looking up quickly.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shires. I thought you’d be at the picnic.” He liked the big, slightly distracted man, and was pleased to let him intrude on his thoughts.

“Well, I’m planning to go,” he said. “What time is it?”

“After one,” Franciscus said, smiling now.

“After one?” Shires repeated, amazed. “How on earth…”

“There’s plenty of food,” Franciscus assured him, not
quite smiling at Myron Shires’ consternation.

Shires laughed and gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I ought to have a keeper. My ex-wife hated it when I forgot things like this, but I get so caught up in…” He broke off. “You weren’t sent to fetch me, were you?”

“No,” Franciscus said, leaning against the door. “As a matter of fact I was looking for the Harper girl. Her parents are worried because she hasn’t shown up for lunch.”

“The Harper girl?” Shires said. “Is that the skittish teenager who looks like a ghost most of the time?”

“That’s her,” Franciscus nodded. “Have you seen her?”

Shires was gathering his pages into a neat stack and did not answer at once. “Not today, no. I did see her last night, walking along the trail on the other side of the beach. She stopped under the light and I thought that she was really quite graceful.”

Franciscus almost dismissed this, remembering his encounter with Emillie the night before, but his curiosity was slightly piqued: he wanted to know how long the girl had waited for Mr. Lorpicar. “When was that?” he asked.

“Oh, quite late. Three, three-thirty in the morning. You know me—I’m night people.” He had put the pages into a box and was putting his typewriter into its case.

“Three?” Franciscus said, dismayed. “Are you sure?”

“Well, it might have been a little earlier,” Shires allowed as he closed the lid of the case. “Not much earlier, though, because I had my radio on until two and it had been off for a time.” He caught sight of Franciscus’ face. “Is anything wrong?”

Franciscus sighed. “I hope not.” He looked at the novelist. “Do you think you can find your way to the picnic without me?”

Myron Shires laughed. “I’m absentminded, but not
that
absentminded,” he said with real joviality. “Kathy’s picnics are one of the best draws this place offers.” He had put his typewriter aside and was pulling on a light jacket.

“Would you be kind enough to tell Mr. Rogers what you’ve told me?” Franciscus added as he went to the door.

“That I saw the Harper girl go out late? Certainly.” He was plainly puzzled but too courteous to ask about the matter.

“I’ll explain later, I hope. And, if you can, contrive that her parents don’t hear what you say.” He had the door open.

“I’m not a complete boor, Franciscus.” He had picked up his key from the ashtray on the end table and turned to address a further remark to
Franciscus, but the man was gone.

The path to cabin 33 was well kept. There were rails on the downhill side of it, and neat white stones on the other, and at night the lanterns were turned on, making a pool of light every fifty feet. Franciscus knew the route well, and he walked it without reading any of the signs that pointed the way to the various clusters of cabins. He moved swiftly, though with such ease that his speed was not apparent. The trail turned and grew steeper, but his pace did not slacken.

Cabin 33 had been built eight years before, when all the cabins at the north end of the lake had been added. It was of medium size, with a front room, a bedroom, bath and kitchenette, with a screened porch which was open in the summer but now had its winter shutters in place.

Franciscus made a quick circle of the place, then waited to see if Mr. Milan Lorpicar would make an appearance. The cabin was silent. Coming back to the front of cabin 33, Franciscus rapped with his knuckles. “Mr. Lorpicar?” A glance at the red tab by the doorframe told him that the maid had not yet come to change the bed and vacuum the rugs, which was not surprising with the small staff that the Lodge kept during the off-season. The more remote cabins were serviced in the late afternoon.

A second knock, somewhat louder, brought no response, and Franciscus reached into his pocket, extracting his passkey. He pounded the door one more time, recalling with certain amusement the time he had burst in on a couple at the most awkward of moments, made even more so because the husband of the woman and wife of the man were waiting for their absent partners in the recreation hall. The tension in his neck told him that this occasion would be different.

The door opened slowly onto a perfectly orderly front room. Nothing there hinted that the cabin was occupied. There were no magazines, no papers, no cameras, no clothes, no fishing tackle, nothing except what Lost Saints Lodge provided.

Emillie was in the bedroom, stretched out with only the spread over her, drawn up to her chin. She was wan, her closed eyes like bruises in her face, her mouth slightly parted.

“Emillie?” Franciscus said quietly, not wanting to alarm her. She did not awaken, so he came nearer after taking a swift look around the room to be sure that they were alone. “Emillie Harper,” he said more sharply.

The girl gave a soft moan, but her eyes did not open.

Franciscus lifted the spread and saw, as he suspected, that she was naked. He was startled to see how thin she was, ribs pressing against her skin, her hips rising like promontories at either side of her abdomen. There were dark blotches here and there on her body, and he nodded grimly as he recognized them.

“God, an amateur,” he said under his breath, and dropped the spread over Emillie.

A quick search revealed the girl’s clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor. There was no sign of Lorpicar there, either—no toothbrush, no razor. Franciscus nodded, picked up the clothes and went back to the bedroom. He pulled the spread aside once more, and then, with deft persistence, he began to dress the unconscious Emillie Harper.