Naked Once More (26 page)

Paul Spencer wanted to be friends too. Jacqueline’s smile turned sour. Just give me time, she thought. Sooner or later my charm, wit and beauty overcome all prejudice, and everybody learns to love me. Too bad that isn’t true of Paul Spencer. I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better. Kathleen’s ex-lover…

She was as convinced of that as if she had seen them together. O’Brien, among others, would have jeered at her reason for believing it. Paul’s tirade about writers using their work as an excuse to shirk their obligations… Jacqueline had heard that song before, not only from O’Brien but from certain other gentlemen of her acquaintance. It was the same old story; what they were really saying was that a woman’s first obligation was to the man in her life. After all these years Paul still resented Kathleen’s work—and her cat.

So what did Paul really want with her? Something must have happened to change his attitude from wariness to forced civility; the same something, perhaps, that had prompted Jan’s invitation? She had been out of touch for almost three days, but surely, if there had been any startling development, one of those telephone messages would have been marked “Urgent” or “Emergency, please call back at once.” St. John would have insisted on speaking to her if he had received another anonymous letter.…

The elements of an answer had all been there, in her mind, like the scattered parts of a machine someone has disassembled. Jacqueline sat quite still, watching them moving together. This goes here, that hooks on to it and that one…

Grunting with effort, she heaved herself and her purse up off the step and went into the house.

Every table in her study was covered with papers or books—or ashtrays or dirty coffee cups, or cookie crumbs. Jacqueline cleared one of them and started dealing out her letters like a pack of cards. The idea that had come to her was so bizarre and so tantalizing she was almost afraid to search for the evidence that might help confirm it. So she didn’t. She read each message in turn, carefully and deliberately.

One, from her son, made her grin and shake her head. Of all the transparent attempts to take a few weeks off from his studies… Not only did he offer to mount guard, with his Japanese hara-kiri sword, he offered to cook, run errands, and take over the writing when she got stuck. “Nice try, but no cigar,” said Jacqueline, putting it aside.

The letter from Paul was there—only two lines, in a bold black scrawl. And a telephone message she had overlooked, this one from Craig Two. “Please call back as soon as possible.” After due deliberation, Jacqueline decided that wasn’t the same as “Urgent” or “Emergency.” Just Craig being a lawyer.

She gave herself the pleasure of tossing two letters into the wastebasket. One demanded money, on the grounds that she must have a lot of it. The other called her a literary whore for stealing someone else’s book, and listed the reasons why the writer should have been selected instead of her. “Not only a whore, but a failed whore,” said Jacqueline, as she tore it across.

A few complimentary letters from her readers made her beam; Jacqueline’s appetite for flattery was unlimited. These had been sent on by her publisher, with all deliberate speed; one bore a date almost two months old.

She was almost at the bottom of the stack now, and the one letter she had hoped to find had not turned up. It was a crazy idea anyway, Jacqueline thought, tearing open an envelope that had been sent on by Chris’s secretary. It must have been enclosed in another envelope, for Marilyn had added Jacqueline’s address, in care of the Mountain Laurel Inn, under her name, which was in a hand quite different from the one Jacqueline knew so well.

The letter was also handwritten. Jacqueline read it. Then she went back and read it again.

“You have, I believe, some reputation as a searcher out of unpleasant truths. Instead of devoting yourself to a literary task that will never be completed, you might ask yourself which of her friends and family wanted Kathleen Darcy dead.”

It was signed “Amicus Justitiae.”

Jacqueline reached for the pack of cigarettes on the desk, and then pulled her hand back. She had had more than her quota that morning. Instead, she picked up the telephone.

Chris’s secretary was working out of her home these days. She was delighted to hear from Jacqueline, and asked a lot of friendly, well-meaning questions about how the outline was going, how she enjoyed her new quarters, and so on. Because Jacqueline was genuinely fond of Marilyn, she did not scream aloud. She chatted cheerfully for several minutes before asking the questions that were burning holes in her mind.

Marilyn was sorry, she didn’t remember that particular letter. A lot of them came that way—carrying only an author’s name and enclosed in an outer envelope addressed to the agent or publisher. No, she never kept the outer envelopes; was there some reason… Sure, she’d be glad to forward them after this. She hoped there was nothing wrong?

Jacqueline assured her this was not the case, thanked her, and rang off. She hesitated for a few moments before placing the next call, but decided she couldn’t wait until evening to pursue her entrancing new theory.

Her forebodings were justified. As soon as Sarah Saunders heard her voice, she began to giggle. “Stop that,” Jacqueline said severely. “You’re blowing your cover, and mine. If Bootsie hears you—”

“It’s okay, he’s not here. Oh, Jacqueline, you won’t believe what happened. I was just about to call you.”

The last words were muffled by something other than amusement. Jacqueline knew what had caused the momentary lapse. Sarah was lighting a cigarette. Reflexively she reached for the pack on her desk.

“Why were you going to call me?”

Sarah choked. She must have tried to inhale and laugh at the same time. “I thought… excuse me… I thought you might like to send a sympathy card. Or even flowers, if you happen to be feeling charitable.”

Jacqueline straightened. “Is he sick?”

“You could say that.” Sarah tried to control her voice. “Somebody pushed him under a crosstown bus.”

“Nobody pushed me,” Booton said. “Who told you that absurd story?”

“Several people,” said Jacqueline, who never lied unless it was strictly necessary. She had called two other people after talking to Sarah.

“Nonsense. I was running. Late for an appointment. I slipped. And it wasn’t a crosstown bus, it was one of those tourist buses. And I didn’t fall under it.”

“I assumed you hadn’t after I heard your cheery voice,” said Jacqueline. “They’d have had to scrape you off the pavement with a shovel if you had—”

“Please, Jacqueline!”

“So I needn’t send you flowers?”

“Just send me that outline,” Booton said grimly.

“Jacqueline raised her eyebrows. “It’s not due for another week or so. What’s the hurry?”

“No hurry. None at all. I just thought—ah!”

“Where does it hurt?” Jacqueline asked, with more curiosity than sympathy.

“Everywhere,” Booton said, groaning. “Don’t worry, though; it’s superficial, just scrapes and bruises.”

“All right, darling, I won’t. Worry. You’re sure you didn’t see a very large woman in some sort of bizarre disguise right behind you when you—er—fell?”

The ringing silence that followed this attempt at humor told Jacqueline that it had not been well received. She smiled to herself and proceeded to administer more consolation. “I just don’t want you to keep anything from me, in the hope of sparing me, Boots dear. I almost had a nasty little accident of my own the other day. Is it possible that somebody out there doesn’t like us?”

She had to admit that Stokes’s reaction was a good deal more sympathetic than hers had been. He sounded genuinely shocked. “Jacqueline, that’s terrible! I can’t believe Brunnhilde, for all her peculiarities, would do anything life-threatening. Are you sure there isn’t… You haven’t by any chance—”

“Made a few new enemies? It’s always possible,” Jacqueline said. “The people here in Pine Grove are a fascinating lot. Kathleen’s former boyfriend; a woman who never met her but says she knows her better than anyone in the world; another former boyfriend who served as the model for her hero; not to mention her poor old mother, who thinks she is still alive—”

She had reeled off the list in the hope of getting an unguarded reaction from Booton, but it was not until she mentioned Mrs. Darcy that he commented. “She’s always been crazy,” he said callously. “I don’t know how Kathleen put up with her—always whining and complaining. You haven’t received any direct threats, have you? Letters, calls?”

“Just the usual.”

“I must say you are very cool about all this,” Booton grumbled. “Some of the criticism I’ve received has hurt me deeply.”

“I’m used to it. And so ought you be, Caligula, my love.”

The silence that followed this time was prolonged, and absolutely unsusceptible to interpretation. Jacqueline scowled at the telephone. If this had been a film, the camera would have closed in on Booton’s face, which would have reflected in muscular reactions fifty feet high the sensations that affected him upon hearing that highly significant name. Consternation, guilty horror—or, most probably, blank indifference. The name in itself didn’t mean a thing. It was the kind of malicious, literary play on words that must have occurred to many of his acquaintances.

Finally Booton said, “I’m thinking of taking a little trip down your way.”

“To protect me?” Jacqueline made a vulgar face at the telephone. “You sweet man.”

“You will have your little joke,” said Booton. “I hadn’t planned to come to Pine Grove. I always hated the damned place. Isn’t there a well-known spa or resort nearby?”

“If you consider seventy miles nearby.”

“I need a rest,” Booton muttered. “I’ve been working too hard.”

“And you’re all covered with cuts and bruises,” Jacqueline cooed. “Poor dear. I understand that Willowland is a perfect place for recuperating invalids. They all sit in rocking chairs on the front porch, like pelicans in a row, and rock and rock and rock. When are you going?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Do that.”

It would have been hard to say which of them was more eager to conclude the conversation.

After Jacqueline had hung up, she sat in thought, adjusting her glasses, which had slipped slowly and inexorably down toward the tip of her nose as she talked. The fantastic theory hadn’t gone away. The more she thought about it, the more she loved it, not because it appeared any more plausible, but because of its pure, splendid consistency.

Should she try it out on Patrick? It would be fun to hear him sputter and fume and threaten to send little men in white coats to carry her away. Regretfully Jacqueline decided she had better not. Provoking Patrick was only fun when she had the ammunition with which to shoot him down after he had sneered at her from the lofty heights of common sense. She didn’t have it yet. But she would get it—or admit to herself, without the embarrassment of having to consume crow in front of O’Brien, that she had been wrong.

She hadn’t confided in Sarah either. Sarah might let something slip. But Sarah knew what she was supposed to look for, and with Booton out of the office for a prolonged period, she would have an excellent opportunity to snoop.

Jacqueline lit another cigarette and began to sing. “They asked her how she knew, / Her surmise was true; smiling, she replies, / Because I am so wise, / Bright and brilliant too.…”

She was also hungry. One tuna-salad sandwich, shared with a black cat named Lucifer, hadn’t satisfied the inner woman. She deserved one of Tom’s excellent meals. It had been a busy day.

She was so pleased with herself that even the sight, and sound, of Mrs. Swenson watching the evening news couldn’t destroy her good humor. Poor thing, she thought, watching the old lady glower at Dan Rather; it must be terrible to be hard of hearing and so desperate for companionship that you glue yourself to a television set.

The impulse that sent her toward Mrs. Swenson was genuinely kindly, and ought to have been better rewarded. Leaning close to the oblivious woman, she shouted, “Nice evening, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Swenson didn’t jump, she leapt clean out of her chair and scuttled backward like a little black crab, until she fetched up against a potted fern and could retreat no farther. More than slightly disconcerted, Jacqueline exclaimed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, I was just—”

“What?” Mrs. Swenson cupped her ear with her hand. “I can’t hear you. I’m deaf. Deaf as a post. There’s no use you talking to me, miss, I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

Jacqueline began, “I do beg your—”

“What?”

“I said, it’s a nice evening,” Jacqueline shouted.

“What?”

“I said…” Jacqueline tried to resist the impulse, but was unable to do so. “I said, why the hell do you turn the TV on full blast if you can’t hear it anyway?”

She regretted the rudeness as soon as it was out of her mouth. Before Mrs. Swenson could say “What?” again, Jacqueline smiled, nodded, and beat a hasty retreat.

If she had not been somewhat shaken by the encounter with Mrs. Swenson, she might have handled the next confrontation more tactfully. On the other hand—being Jacqueline—she might not.

The dining room was popular that evening. Several people were waiting to be seated; Jacqueline attached herself to the end of the line. The party of four immediately ahead of her stared, one and all, with the open curiosity small-town residents like to think of as friendliness. The two men, and one of the women, said “Good evening.” The other woman, wearing a polyester knit suit and a “coordinated” print blouse with a huge bow under her double chin, continued to stare.

“You are Mrs. Kirby,” she stated.

“You have the advantage of me,” Jacqueline said, not knowing how truly she spoke.

“I am Elizabeth Parker—Mrs. Parker—president of Women in Art and Literature. I was surprised not to receive a reply to my note, Mrs. Kirby.”

Jacqueline searched her memory. The pansy-bordered note, or the letter typed in Gothic script, demanding that she deliver a speech?

“I’m very sorry,” she said. “I’ve been working hard and I just haven’t had time to deal with my mail. I only got your letter this morning.”