The Saint-Germain Chronicles (25 page)

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Doctor Eric Muller said as he stood back from the bed. He smoothed his graying hair nervously. “This isn’t my field, you know. Most of my patients are referred to me. I’m not very good at off-the-cuff diagnoses like this, and without a lab and more tests, I really couldn’t say…”

Franciscus recalled that Mister Rogers had warned him that the doctor was jumpy, and so he schooled his patience. “Of course. I understand. But you will admit that it isn’t usual for a girl, or a young woman, if you prefer, to be in this condition.”

“No, not usual,” the doctor agreed, refusing to meet Franciscus’ eyes. “Her parents ought to get her to an emergency room, somewhere.”

“The nearest emergency facility,” Franciscus said coolly, “is thirty miles away and is operated by the forest service. They’re better suited to handling broken ankles, burns, and snake bites than cases like this.”

Doctor Muller tightened his clasped hands. “Well, all I can recommend
is that she be taken somewhere. I can’t be of much help, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?” Franciscus asked. He had hoped that the doctor would be able to tell the Harpers something reassuring when he left this room.

“There aren’t lab facilities here, are there? No. And I’m not licensed in this state, and with the way malpractice cases are going, I can’t take responsibility. There’s obviously something very wrong with the girl, but I don’t think it’s too serious.” Doctor Muller was already edging toward the door. “Do you think Mister Rogers would mind if I checked out early?”

“That’s your business, Doctor,” Franciscus said with a condemning lift of his fine brows.

“There’ll have to be a refund. I paid in advance.” There was a whine under the arrogance, and Franciscus resisted the urge to shout at him.

“I don’t think Mister Rogers would stop you from going,” he said with an elegant inclination of his head.

“Yes. Well.” The door opened and closed like a trap being sprung.

Franciscus remained looking down at the girl on the bed. She was in cabin 19 now, in the smaller bedroom, and her parents hovered outside. Harriet Goodman was with them, and occasionally her steady, confident tones penetrated to the darkened room.

There was a knock, and Franciscus turned to see Mr. Harper standing uncertainly near the door. “The doctor said he didn’t know what was wrong. He said there would have to be tests…”

“A very wise precaution,” Franciscus agreed with a reassuring smile. “But it’s probably nothing more than overdoing. She’s been looking a little washed out the last few days, and all her activity probably caught up with her.” It was plausible enough, he knew, and Mr. Harper was searching for an acceptable explanation. “You’ll probably want to call the doctor in Fox Hollow. He makes calls. And he will be able to order the right transportation for her if there is anything more than fatigue the matter.” He knew that Mr. Harper was wavering, so he added, “Also, it will save Emillie embarrassment if the condition is minor.”

Mr. Harper wagged his head quickly. “Yes. Yes, that’s important. Emillie hates… attention.” He came nearer the bed. “Is there any change?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.” It was the truth, he knew, but only a portion of it. “You might like Ms. Goodman or my friend Ms. Montalia to sit with Emillie until she wakes up.”

“Oh, her mother and I will do that,” Mr. Harper said at once.

Franciscus realized that he had pressed the matter too much. “Of course. But I’m sure that either lady would be pleased to help out while you take dinner, or speak with Dr. Fitzallen, when he comes.” It was all Franciscus could do to hold back his sardonic smile. Mr. Harper was so transparently reassured by that very proper name, and would doubtless be horrified when the physician, a forty-two-year-old Kiowa, arrived. That was for later, he thought.

“Did you… anyone… give her first aid?” Mr. Harper asked in growing distress.

“I know some first aid,” Franciscus said kindly. “I checked her pulse, and breathing, and did my best to determine that no bones were broken.” It was a facile lie, and not in the strictest sense dishonest. “Mr. Harper,” he went on in sterner tones, “your daughter is suffering from some sort of psychological problem, isn’t she?” Though he could not force the frightened father to discuss his daughter’s involvement with the Reverend Masters, he felt he had to dispel the illusion that all was well.

“Not exactly,” he said, watching Franciscus uneasily.

“Because,” Franciscus went on relentlessly, “if she is, this may be a form of shock, and in that case, the treatment might be adjusted to her needs.” He waited, not moving, standing by Emillie as if guarding her.

“There has been a little difficulty,” Mr. Harper said when he could not endure the silence.

“Be sure you tell Dr. Fitzallen all about it. Otherwise he may, inadvertently, do the wrong thing.” With a nod, he left the bedside and went to the door to the sitting room. “Harriet,” he said crisply as he started across the room, “get Jim and join me for a drink.”

Harriet Goodman was wise enough to ask no questions of him, though there were many of them building up in her as she hastened after him.

“I was
horrified
!” Mrs. Emmons announced with delight as she told Mrs. Granger, who had been asleep with a headache, of the excitement she had missed. “The girl was white as a sheet—I can’t tell you.” She signaled Frank, the bartender, to send over another round of margaritas, though she still longed for a side-car.

At the other end of the lounge, Franciscus sat with Harriet Goodman and Jim Sutton. His face was turned away from the two old women who were now regaling Frank with a catalogue of their feelings on this occasion. “I can’t insist, of course,” he said to Jim Sutton.

“Let’s hear it for the First Amendment,” Jim said. “I don’t like to sit on good stories, and this one is a beauty.” He was drinking coffee and it had grown cold as they talked. Now he made a face as he tasted it. “Christ, this is awful.”

Harriet Goodman regarded Franciscus gravely. “That child may be seriously ill.”

“She is in danger, I’ll concede that,” Franciscus responded.

“It’s more than that. I helped her mother undress her, and there were some very disturbing…” She could not find a word that satisfied her.

“I saw them,” Franciscus said calmly, but quietly so that this revelation would not attract the two women at the other end of the lounge.

“Saw them?” Harriet repeated, and Jim Sutton leaned forward.

“What were they like? Harriet hasn’t told me anything about this.”

Franciscus hesitated a moment. “There were a number of marks on her and… scratches.”

Jim Sutton shook his head. “That guy Lorpicar must be one hell of a kink in bed.”

“That’s not funny, Jim,” Harriet reprimanded him sharply.

“No, it’s not,” he agreed. “What… how did she get the marks? Was it Lorpicar?”

“Probably,” Franciscus said. “She was in his cabin, on his bed, with just the spread over her.” He let this information sink in, and then said, “With what Emillie has already been through with that Reverend Masters, she’s in no shape for more notoriety. And if this gets a lot of press attention…”

“Which it might,” Jim allowed.

Franciscus gestured his accord and went on, “… then she might not come out of it very well. The family has already changed its name, and that means there was a lot of pressure on them to begin with. If this is added…”

“Yes,” Harriet said in her calm way. “You’re right. Whatever is happening to that girl, it must be dealt with circumspectly. That means you, Jim.”

“It means you, too. You can’t go putting this in a casebook and getting a big publicity tour for it,” Jim shot back, more caustically than he had intended.

“Both of you, stop it,” Franciscus said with such“ assurance and resignation that the other two were silenced at once, like guilty children. ”I’m asking that you each suspend your first inclinations and keep quiet about what is going on here. If it gets any worse, then you’ll have to do whatever your professions demand. However, Harriet, with your training, I hope that you’ll be willing to spend some time with Emillie once she regains consciousness.“

“You seem fairly certain that she will regain consciousness,” Harriet snapped.

“Oh, I’m certain. I’ve seen this condition before. Not here. I hadn’t expected to encounter this… affliction here.” He stared toward the window and the long, dense shadows that heralded night. There were patches of yellow sunlight at the ends of dusty bars of light, and the air was still.

“If you know what it is, why didn’t you tell the Harpers?” Jim Sutton demanded, sensing a greater mystery.

“Because they wouldn’t believe me. They want to talk to a doctor, not to me. Jorry Fitzallen is welcome to talk to me after he’s seen Emillie.”

Harriet tried to smile. “You’re right about her parents. They do need to hear bad news from men with authority.” She stood up. “I want to change before dinner, and I’ve got less than half an hour to do that. I’ll look in on the girl on my way back to the cabin.”

“Thank you,” Franciscus said, then turned his attention to Jim Sutton. “Well? Are you willing to sit on this story for a little while?”

He shrugged. “I’m on vacation. There’s a murder trial coming up in Denver that will keep my paper in advertisers for the next six months. I’ll pretend that I haven’t seen or heard a thing. Unless it gets bigger. That would make a difference.” He raised his glass in a toast. “I must be running out of steam—two years ago, maybe even last year, I would have filed the story and be damned. It might be time to be a teacher, after all.” He tossed off his drink and looked away.

The dining room was about to open when Franciscus came through the foyer beside the lobby calling out, “Mr. Rogers, may I see you a moment.”

The manager looked up from his stand by the entrance to the dining room. “Why, certainly, Mr. Franciscus. In the library?”

“Fine.” Franciscus was already climbing the stairs, and he held the door for Mr. Rogers as he came up.

“It’s about Lorpicar?” Mr. Rogers said as the door closed.

“Yes. I’ve been up to his cabin and checked it out. Wherever he’s staying, it’s not there. No one is staying there. That means that there are almost a hundred other places he could be. I’ve asked the staff to check their unoccupied cabins for signs of entry, but I doubt he’d be that foolish, though God knows he’s bungled enough so far…” He pounded the bookcase with his small fist, and the heavy oak sagged. “We don’t even know that he’s at the resort. He could be camping out beyond the cabins.”

“What about Fox Hollow? Do you think he could have gone that far?” Mr. Rogers asked, and only the slightly higher pitch of his voice belied the calm of his demeanor.

“I doubt it. That ranger… Backus, he would have seen something if Lorpicar were commuting.” He sat down. “The idiot doesn’t know enough not to leave bruises!”

“And the girl?” Mr. Rogers said.

“I think we got her in time. If we can keep Lorpicar away from her for a couple of nights, she’ll be all right. Certainly no worse than she was in the hands of Reverend Masters.” He laughed once, mirthlessly.

“What are you going to do?” Mr. Rogers had not taken a seat, but watched as Franciscus paced the area between the bookcases and the overstuffed Victorian chairs.

“Find him. Before he makes a worse mistake.” He halted, his hand to his forehead. “He could have chosen any resort in the Rockies!”

“And what would have happened to that girl if you had not found her?” He expected no answer and got none.

“Harriet thinks that giving Emillie a crucifix would not be a good idea, considering what she’s been through. She’s probably right, but it makes our job tougher. Because you can be completely confident that Lorpicar believes the myths.” Franciscus looked out the window. “I’ll see if Kathy can spare some garlic. That will help.”

“I’ll tell her that you want some,” Mr. Rogers promised.

Suddenly Franciscus chuckled. “I’m being an Uncle… what? Not Tom, surely. An Uncle Vlad? Uncle Bela? But what else can I do? Either we stop this rash youngster or Madelaine, and you, and I will be exposed to needless risk.” He gave Mr. Rogers a steady look and though Franciscus was quite short, he had a kind of majesty in his stance. “We’ve come through worse, old friend. I’m not blaming you, I’m miffed at myself for being caught napping.”

Mr. Rogers allowed himself to smile. “Thank you for that.” He took a step toward the door. “I’d better go down and start dinner seating. Oh.” He turned in the open door. “There was a call from Fox Hollow. Jorry Fitzallen will be here by eight.”

“Good. By then, I’ll have a better idea where we stand.”

Franciscus’ confidence was destined to be short-lived. He had left the library and had not yet reached the glass doors opening onto the porch when he heard an anguished shout from the area of the lounge and Harriet Goodman started toward him.

“Franciscus!” she called in a steadier tone, though by that time, Mrs. Emmons had turned on her barstool and was watching with undisguised enthusiasm while Nick and Eleanore Wyler paused on the threshold of the dining room to listen to the latest. Eleanore Wyler was wearing a long Algerian caftan with elaborate piping embroidery with little mirrors worked into it, and she shimmered in the dusk.

Assuming a levity he did not feel, Franciscus put his small hands on his hips. “Ms. Goodman, if that frog is still living under your bathtub…” It had happened the year before and had become a harmless joke. The Wylers had been most amused by it, and Nick Wyler chortled and began in a loud voice to remind Eleanore of the various methods that were used to rout the offending frog.

Under the cover of this hearty basso, Harriet nodded gratefully. “Thanks. I realized as soon as I spoke that I should have remained quiet. You’ve got your wits about you, which is more than I do.” She put her hand up to wipe her brow, saying very softly, “I’m sorry, but Emillie is missing.”

“Missing?” Franciscus repeated, genuinely alarmed.

“I heard Mrs. Harper making a fuss, so I went up the path to their cabin and asked what was wrong. She said she’d been out of Emillie’s bedroom for a few moments—I gather from her choice of euphemisms that she was in the John—and when she came back the bedroom door was open and Emillie was nowhere to be seen.”