Naked Once More (46 page)

Dazzling was the word, Bill thought—not just her smile, but the fancy dress she was wearing, black and clinging, covered with spangles and sparkly beads. Her hair was piled high on her head, like a crown, and if those weren’t diamonds in her ears they were good imitations. The glamour was part of her plan; it would help impress and intimidate her audience. But he suspected there was another cause for the brilliant color in her cheeks and the smile that somehow reminded him of Paul’s.

He sighed, without realizing he had done so. “There’s all kinds of harm in trying. If you’d told me this yesterday…”

“You’d have tried to stop me. That’s why I didn’t tell you. Be a sport, Bill. The only person who’s sticking her neck out is yours truly.”

He had no time to voice his objections—or so he told himself. The first of Jacqueline’s guests had arrived. It was the lawyer, Ron Craig, and the look on his face when he saw Paul Spencer and Bill made it hard for the latter to hide his amusement. Craig’s extramarital activities were an open secret around town, and obviously they were no secret to Jacqueline, who had taken merciless advantage of them. Clinging to Craig’s arm, she escorted him to a chair. Bill had to admit it was neatly done. Craig couldn’t walk out without tacitly admitting he had had something else in mind when he accepted Jacqueline’s invitation.

He had scarcely taken his seat when St. John appeared, with his younger sister in tow. Neither of them looked pleased to be present; if looks could have killed, Jacqueline would have dropped dead on the spot from the glare the girl directed at her. Determinedly oblivious, she indicated where they were to sit, asked them what they wanted to drink, and pushed a plate of snacks toward St. John.

Next to arrive was a man whose puffy, pallid face was vaguely familiar; it wasn’t until Jacqueline introduced him that Bill remembered him. He’d changed a lot in seven years.

He remembered the fat blond woman, the writer. She’d been here last spring. She stopped short in the doorway when she saw the others, but Jacqueline took her firmly by the arm, shoved her onto the sofa, and put a drink in her hand.

The waiter kept bringing more drinks. St. John and the fat blonde demolished the canapés, which were promptly replaced. Tom and Mollie Kyle came in, took the chairs Jacqueline indicated. Mollie looked… different, somehow. Her face was fuller and she’d put on lipstick, but that wasn’t all it was. Jacqueline fussed over her, adjusting cushions, offering her some special drink she had recommended. She didn’t speak to Tom, nor he to her. He didn’t speak to anyone, just sat staring at the floor.

Laurie Smith was the last to arrive. Jacqueline, who had been buzzing around the group like a hornet, darted out to greet her and lead her in. Laurie started apologizing; she hoped she hadn’t spoiled the party, Earl had been late getting home, and Benny had poured gravy all over himself and the kitchen.… Bill was struck by the change in Jacqueline’s voice when she answered. The subtle mockery that colored almost everything she said was missing. She introduced Laurie to the people who didn’t know her with as much deference as if she had been somebody important. The mockery was back again when she added, “Of course I needn’t introduce you to your family, Laurie. Or them to you.”

If that comment had been designed to make people feel more at ease it failed miserably. St. John, whose mouth was full, mumbled something; Laurie looked embarrassed, and Sherri looked daggers at Jacqueline. The cross-currents of suspicion and antagonism were innumerable and almost visible; the blond author kept glowering at the agent and he at her; Tom carefully avoided looking at Sherri, and Craig appeared to entertain the darkest suspicions of Paul Spencer. And practically everybody, except Mollie and Laurie, watched Jacqueline as if she were a bomb about to explode.

It was hard to avoid the impression that Jacqueline was enjoying herself. She waited until everyone had settled down before she rose to her feet. Slowly and deliberately she put a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on her nose and picked up a little pile of file cards. Her manner was that of a lecturer facing an interested audience—or a deliberate parody thereof.

“I want to thank you all for coming here tonight,” she began, in a cool, carrying voice. “This is a good-bye party. I will be leaving Pine Grove tomorrow. I will not be writing the sequel to
Naked in the Ice.
”

She stopped the rising murmur of protest and surprise by raising her hand, like a teacher controlling an unruly class. “Please, no interruptions. I won’t write that book, but I have a plot for another, which is a sure winner. I’m going to tell you that story now. I am going to tell you what really happened to Kathleen Darcy seven years ago.

“You all know the basic facts. Given those facts, the police investigation of her disappearance reached the only plausible conclusion. However, as I learned shortly after coming to Pine Grove, the police didn’t know all the facts. None of you who knew about them told the police that Kathleen had suffered three potentially serious accidents in the month before she disappeared.” Her eyes went to St. John, who was sputtering and trying to speak. “I’m not accusing anyone of deliberately concealing evidence. Only the person who planned those accidents knew the truth—that Kathleen was supposed to die.

“People have accused me of having a nasty, suspicious mind and an overactive imagination. But I wasn’t the only one who realized that those accidents suggested another explanation besides the ones the police had proposed. Suicide or accident—there were too many holes in those theories, too many things that didn’t make sense. And thank God no one had the audacity to propose the solution so beloved of writers of thrillers—the good old useful homicidal maniac.

“If Kathleen was murdered, not by a vagrant but by someone close to her—close enough to arrange those convenient domestic accidents—that could account for several anomalies the other solutions didn’t explain, such as the total disappearance of her body. The longer the elapsed time between a death and an autopsy, the more difficult it is to ascertain certain essential data—the time of death, and in some cases even the cause of death. It would also explain why it took the searchers so long to find the car. The entrance to that narrow track must have been deliberately concealed.

“That was the point I had reached in my reasoning by the time I came to Pine Grove for the second time. In the meantime, word had gotten out that a sequel was planned, and the announcement of my selection as author had been made. Shortly after that, a number of people received abusive letters from someone who signed herself Kathleen Darcy.

“Abusive letters from mentally disturbed people are not unknown in the publishing business. I received a number of them, as did Mr. Craig and the others. But it seemed a little odd to me that I didn’t hear from the woman calling herself Kathleen. If she resented having a lesser writer (as she believed) take over Kathleen’s work, why not abuse the writer as well as those who had selected her?

“Instead, I—and I alone, so far as I could determine—received several letters signed Amicus Justitiae. The most curious thing about them was the contrast between the startling accusations they contained, and their cool, reasonable tone. I’m going to quote one of them, because the precise language is important.”

She shuffled through her cards. In the silence someone cleared his throat and someone else coughed. No one moved or spoke. She was getting away with it, Bill thought admiringly. It was partly morbid fascination that held her listeners, partly that autocratic manner of hers, which dared anyone to challenge her. And partly the fact that she was building her case with cool detachment, avoiding a specific accusation.

“Here it is,” Jacqueline said. “ ‘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.’ ” She put the card at the back of the pile and let her eyes move over the staring faces. “Now that is an extremely odd letter. The writer was obviously a person of some intelligence; the grammar is not only correct, it is complex, even pedantic. Note also the structure of the last sentence. It does not say, ‘… which of her friends and family killed Kathleen Darcy.’ That may strike some of you as nitpicking. To a writer, who is conscious not only of the definitions of words, but of their implications, it is an important distinction and I felt sure it was meant as such.”

Jacqueline glanced at her watch. “Time is getting on, and we don’t want to be late for our nice dinner, do we? I’ll try to be as succinct as possible.

“Two weeks before her disappearance Kathleen made a new will, which cut in half the amount of money her heirs would receive, and put it into a trust so that they couldn’t touch the principal. She also left a curious and unusual letter ensuring that anyone chosen to write a sequel to
Naked in the Ice
would have to meet certain standards. These facts do suggest an anticipation of imminent death. They were used to support the assumption of suicide. But when you add to them the series of accidents, and the significant changes in that second will, another interpretation forces itself upon you. Kathleen knew someone wanted to kill her. She knew it was one of the people close to her; but she didn’t know which.”

That statement came too close to the bone. There was a murmur, like a collective growl, and Craig said forcibly, “That is pure surmise. On behalf of my client—”

“What about your own behalf?” Jacqueline turned on him, teeth bared. “You aren’t here as a lawyer, Mr. Craig. You are one of those who knew Kathleen well and who profited from her work. Every single person here might have had a motive for wanting her dead.”

She had to raise her voice to be heard over the chorus of denials. “ ‘Might,’ I said. I don’t intend to explore those motives in detail—unless you force me to do so. Is that what you want? I do not. I am not in the habit of exposing scandal for the sheer fun of it. I am interested in one thing—justice for Kathleen Darcy. If you’ll all shut up and let me proceed, all of you—except one—can walk out of here with only your consciences to condemn you.”

For a moment she was afraid she’d lost them. Booton had risen from his chair, Brunnhilde sputtered, and St. John said loudly, “I don’t have to listen to this. Do I, Craig? You’re a lawyer, why don’t you tell her she has no business talking to me this way?”

It was Tom Kyle who tipped the scales. “Shut up, everybody,” he said, in a voice that cut through the grumble of complaint like a hot knife through butter. “She’s raised some heavy questions here, and I for one want to know the answers. And—and, well, that was a damned fair offer she just made; a lot fairer than some of you—some of us—have a right to expect.”

Jacqueline gave him a long, thoughtful look over the tops of her glasses. “Well put, Tom. Now, as I was saying… Kathleen didn’t trust any of you. When I realized that, I realized that her disappearance became even more inexplicable. How did the hypothetical killer arrange that final incident? How did he or she persuade a woman who was both intelligent and highly suspicious to accept food or drink from his hands, or go with him for a drive?

“The answer was forced upon me. Kathleen’s disappearance was voluntary. There is no other solution that fits all the facts.” This statement was, at best, highly exaggerated, but Jacqueline knew the rules of the Famous Detectives Club and would have scorned to violate them. She went on, “Fact number one: a deliberate effort was made to conceal the entrance to the track where the car was found. A killer might have reasons to delay the discovery of the body, but there is no sane reason why he would want it to disappear forever. The estate couldn’t be settled until Kathleen was declared legally dead. But if Kathleen arranged the disappearance she needed time—time to get away, to cover her tracks.

“Fact number two: not the slightest trace of her was found. Given the wild terrain, it is conceivable that a body could vanish completely; and yet the search was intensive. Never mind conceivable; is it
likely
that nothing whatever would turn up? Not a scrap of clothing, not a single bone? There is, of course, the possibility that she survived the final attack on her life and made her way to safety. Now I’m a novelist by trade; thinking up fantastic plots is my job. But even I”—Jacqueline coughed modestly—“even I would be hard-pressed to explain how she could have done that. The attack was meant to kill her. The murderer would not have left her unless he believed she was fatally injured. She was therefore either comatose or badly wounded; is it conceivable that she had the physical strength to make her way through miles of difficult country, or the wits to cover up her tracks? No, it bloody well isn’t. Even I couldn’t have done it.

“I think this is what happened: Kathleen had decided to disappear. She had plenty of time in which to make her plans. She set up a bank account under another name. You don’t need to produce identification to do that. Then she rented or bought a car—probably the latter. The day before the final incident, or earlier the same day, she left the second car in or near the clearing—there was no one living there then—and walked, or rode a bike, home. It’s only five or six miles, and she was a healthy young woman. She had, several days earlier, registered at a motel under her new name and had transferred some of her belongings to her room. On the day she disappeared, she simply drove to the clearing, left her car, and picked up the other one. She went to the motel, got her luggage and checked out. She was out of the state before the alarm was raised, hundreds of miles away before the search was underway.”

“I’ve never heard such garbage in my life,” Craig burst out. “I’m not going to sit around and listen to some novelist’s farfetched plot—” He got to his feet.

“Sit down, Craig,” Paul said. He didn’t move or raise his voice; but after seeing his face, Craig hastily resumed his seat.

“Before the night is done you’ll have your proof,” Jacqueline said. “But not until I’m ready to produce it. I haven’t finished giving the evidence that supports my theory. I spoke of things Kathleen took with her. She would have bought new clothing and luggage; if her own had been missing, someone might have gotten suspicious. But there were two things she had to take—and it astonishes me that no one noticed the significance of their absence. Her unpublished work and her cat, Lucifer.