Shadows in Scarlet (17 page)

A bus rumbled into the parking lot, accompanied by the slamming of car doors. Quickly she settled her cap, opened her fan, and stood ready.

Wayne came hobbling along the path, leaning on an elegant walking stick, nursed along by Carrie. “Good morning!” he shouted to Amanda. “I'm back!"

"How are you feeling?” Amanda called.

"Fine, just fine, no prob...” He slipped on the gravel and grabbed Carrie's arm.

Between them the two women managed to get him up the steps. “You go and sit in the library,” Carrie told him. “We'll send people in to you."

"Are you sure you can manage?” he asked.

"We'll try."

Amanda had Carrie all to herself for two minutes. “What we need to do,” she told her, “is get hold of Lady Norah and The Honorable Malcolm and ask for more information. I tried looking them up on the Internet, but you can imagine how many Grants there are in Scotland."

"You searched for the word ‘Dundreggan', of course."

"Yeah, and I came up with a company called Preservation Imaging, Ltd. The address is Dundreggan by Glenmoriston, which is the right place. But, you know, Cynthia's never said the Grants are still living there. If Lord Dundreggan died and Lady Norah had to sell off some heirlooms, why not the ancestral lands as well? It happens all the time, what with taxes and death duties and everything. There're clan chiefs living in apartments in Poughkeepsie."

"So let's just ask Cynthia for the number,” Carrie said, and added with a laugh, “If it wasn't for you and your crazy crush, I wouldn't have done half this much research by now. In fact, I really should put you down as a co-author on that article. Okay?"

Visions of publication danced in Amanda's head. “Thanks!"

"Cynthia's coming out here this afternoon, by the way."

"Not another seance. Please."

"All she said was something about adding to the display."

Amanda glanced over her shoulder. The Lucite boxes gleamed in the light from the open door. Was that bit of silver moving? No, it was Carrie's reflection as she stepped out the door to greet the first group of sightseers.

"When we get a chance,” Amanda whispered, “I'll tell you a theory about why James was buried here."

"Great!” Carrie turned to the tourists. “Welcome to Melrose Hall."

Amanda assumed Sally's personality and went to work. By noon she'd had several interesting conversations with well-informed visitors, not counting the teenaged boy who eyed her bosom and asked, “Doesn't it hurt to be all squished up like that?"

"That, young sir, is a concern appropriate only to myself and my maidservant,” she responded tartly, and shut the door behind him.

She took a sandwich and some iced tea to Wayne. The dark paneling of the library seemed to absorb some of the sunlight flooding in the window, and the room was relatively cool. “Every time I step outside,” she said, “I feel like I'm going to run into Dante and Virgil."

Wayne looked at her.

"The
Inferno.
You know, the tourist's guide to hell."

"Oh,” he said. “That."

Amanda put the tray down on the desk, telling herself that James would have gotten the reference.

"You didn't take Mother's game with the seance seriously, did you?” Wayne asked.

"Was it a game?"

"Sure. She told me all about it. I'm sorry I wasn't here to see it. Damned ankle."

There was her opening. “Wayne,” she asked, “when you fell down the stairs, did you see anything—a shadow or something—that startled you?"

"No, I didn't see a thing. Why?"

"Just trying to figure out why you fell.” He wasn't lying. He was only a good actor when he played Page.

Wayne was still looking at her. Odd, how different his gaze felt from James's, even though the subtexts were so similar. “You don't have to lie to me, Amanda. I can take the truth."

"Excuse me?"

"You're going with somebody on the sly, aren't you? He comes out here after work, which is why you won't let me stay."

Amanda pretended to inspect a musty copy of
Clarissa Harlow.
Wayne was hitting too close to the mark with that one.

"You can tell me,” he persisted. “I can take it."

Maybe she should just make up someone, she thought wearily. Or name the guy she'd broken up with last winter. It'd be easier on Wayne's ego. But she'd said all along she didn't want him, and that was the honest truth. As distinct from the slightly dishonest truth about James. “No, Wayne, there's no one else. We're just not right for each other. You think we could move on past this, please?"

"Sure. Okay.” He picked up the sandwich and took a huge bite from it, chewing with sharp, peevish movements of his jaw.

Amanda retreated from the room and grabbed a sandwich for herself in the kitchen. Wayne was tenacious, she had to give him credit for that. Where had he gotten it into his head someone was visiting her after hours?

It was almost closing time when Cynthia appeared like a delicate cloud on Melrose's horizon. She was wearing a flowered chiffon skirt and a peasant vest that made her look cool in both senses of the word—her idea of weekend clothing, no doubt. The woman probably wouldn't be caught dead in a T-shirt and shorts.

"Hello, Amanda dear. And Carrie, how nice to see you again. How's Wayne holding up?"

"He's fine,” answered Carrie. “We've been sending people in to him in the library."

"He does a really good job as Page,” Amanda added.

"How sweet of you to say so.” Cynthia patted her arm.

Amanda's smile stiffened. James's “Sweeting” was endearing, not irritating. Amazing the difference made by a little sex appeal. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit, Madame?"

"How charming!” Cynthia cooed. “Actually I'm first on the scene, as usual. My work is just too fascinating."

"Who else is coming?” Carrie asked.

"The Benedettos, Helen Medina, Bill Hewitt's crew—he's over at Jamestown today—we had to hurry the lab along, but you'll be very impressed.” She wafted across the entrance hall and inspected the display. “Don't these prints add to the exhibit, though?"

Amanda elbowed Carrie and waggled her eyebrows in Cynthia's direction.

"Mrs. Chancellor,” Carrie said, “as you know, I've been researching James Grant for the journal article. Yesterday I got some very interesting information from Edinburgh. His sword was sent back to Dundreggan."

"Oh it was?” Cynthia turned back around. “How thrilling!"

"It wasn't for sale with the portrait?” asked Amanda.

"No, it wasn't. I'm sure the broker would have told me. It could have been sold years ago, I suppose. Or it might still be a treasured family heirloom. A memento of a brave and tragic ancestor, who went off to—well, he was defending
his
country, wasn't he?"

"We're planning to contact Lady Norah and ask her some questions,” Carrie persevered. “If you could..."

"Why, I was planning to call her tonight. I'd be happy to ask about the sword for you."

Carrie forced a smile. “That's very helpful, but we were wondering if the Grants are still living at..."

"I'll tell you all about it on Monday,” Cynthia rolled on. “I'm putting together a little luncheon for the people involved in the Grant project, and I expect both of you to come. My home, twelve noon sharp."

Resistance is futile,
Amanda intoned to herself, and said, “Thank you. I'll be there."

A shame the major character in this comedy of manners and errors wouldn't. She still wished James had jumped out at Cynthia during the seance. Several yards of tartan wool would make a great muffler.

Shreds of wool had survived longer than his flesh.
Go home to Dundreggan,
he'd said.

She tried planting another seed in Cynthia's fertile brain. “Mrs. Chancellor, we were talking the other day about a funeral for Captain Grant—what if there's an old family cemetery at Dundreggan, maybe you could ask Lady Norah if...."

Wayne hobbled through the library door. “Hello, Mother."

Cynthia spun toward him. “Wayne, darling, you mustn't walk on that ankle.” She pulled a chair from against the wall and seated him in it.

"Really, Mother, it's a lot better. Oh, hello, Mrs. Benedetto."

Lucy crept into the entrance hall. “Hello Carrie, Amanda, how are you? Wayne. Mrs. Chancellor."

Cynthia swept down on the elderly woman. “Why Lucy, where's Vernon?"

"Well, er, ah, he just couldn't.... “Lucy flushed. She opened her handbag and looked desperately around inside, as though her husband was hiding there. “He's not feeling well. Sorry, Mrs. Chancellor."

Carrie and Amanda shared an amused glance. Good for Vernon, not to answer Cynthia's summons if he didn't want to.

Roy conducted the last tour of the day through the hall and out the door. His voice faded into the distance. “If you would do us the very great honor of visiting the gift...” Not bad, Amanda thought. Just keep on going into the parking lot and away home.

Two of Hewitt's assistants trudged up the steps. “Here it is, Mrs. Chancellor.” They started opening boxes and bundles and setting up lights.

"Wonderful! I can hardly wait!” Cynthia stepped between Lucy and Amanda. She dropped her voice, but her whisper could penetrate steel. “Lucy, have I set your mind at rest about those footsteps?"

"The ones going up the drive at night.” Lucy nodded soberly. “I hope I wasn't telling tales out of school."

Behind Amanda Wayne emitted an aggrieved sigh. Carrie, on Amanda's other side, looked around curiously.

Amanda thought,
footsteps?
Was that why Lucy brought the apple pie and checked to make sure she was all right, because the Benedettos had heard footsteps? Sure, they could have belonged to a prowler. But between paranoia and the paranormal, Amanda chose a dazed and disoriented James, whose newly awakened perceptions had been drawn toward Melrose Hall. Not that she was going to announce,
Oh that's all right everyone, it was only a ghost.

"I so appreciate your telling me,” Cynthia went on. “The mother's always the last to know.” She turned to Amanda and gave her a delicate little half-hug. “I'm so pleased, dear."

Whoa, deja vu!
Cynthia and Lucy were looking at her the same way they had the day the display was set up, like tigers eyeing a goat. Suddenly Amanda remembered Lucy's embarrassment the night of the pie. The older woman must have decided the footsteps belonged to a guy sneaking in to see Amanda after hours. Trying to make points, she'd mentioned her suspicions to Cynthia. And to Wayne—everyone knew he had a major crush on...

Amanda backed off, only to collide with the banister and the edge of staircase.
No way! I have not been getting it on with Wayne after hours!

The faces in front of her swelled and deflated like balloons, Cynthia smug, Lucy indulgent, Carrie dumbfounded, Wayne puzzled. Had Cynthia even bothered to ask him about it, for God's sake? But even if he denied everything she'd just think he was being coy—she never listened to anyone, especially him.
Shit,
Amanda thought.

"I've embarrassed her, I'm so sorry, Amanda sweetheart.” Cynthia made soothing gestures. “Yes, yes, I know, you and Wayne were intending to keep it a secret—like naughty children, weren't we—but that's all right, I know how to be discreet. Mum's the word, right, Lucy? No announcements yet."

Lucy nodded eagerly, no doubt delighted to be treated, however briefly, as an equal. Cynthia turned to give Wayne a hug, too. His face emerged from her vest flushed with gratification. He looked like a kid taking down his Christmas stocking and discovering Santa had come through after all.

Shit,
Amanda repeated. But,
I'm not all hot and bothered over Wayne but over a man who's been dead two hundred years
wasn't going to cut it. “Mrs. Chancellor,” she attempted, “I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding, I'm not..."

Helen Medina burst in the door, juggling pieces of camera equipment. “Got it all set up? Super. Cynthia, I'm sure you want to do the honors."

Cynthia, diverted onto another scent, bustled across the entrance hall. Hewitt's assistants had erected a tall display stand beside the panels of the exhibit. Whatever stood on top of it, something about the size of a large vase, was draped with a cloth. Helen turned on the lights and focussed them on the stand.

Amanda sidled away from both the staircase and Wayne's chair, trying to stop hyperventilating. No wonder Sally looked so bland in her portrait. If she splurged on an emotion she'd have suffocated herself.

"Ready?” Cynthia asked Helen.

Helen gave her a thumbs-up. “Have at it."

To the accompanying whir of Helen's video camera, Cynthia posed, smiled, and lifted the cloth from the display. She revealed James's head. Everyone oohed and ahed. The few drops of blood that remained in Amanda's face drained into her feet, leaving her cheeks prickling cold.

"Normally,” Cynthia told the camera, “we would do a skull reconstruction with computer graphics. But a 3-D display can be enjoyed by so many more people. Our labs made a cast of Captain Grant's skull, and measured skin depths and muscle connections...."

Her words faded out and in like the whine of a siren. Amanda scrabbled after her wits. The lab technicians had really strutted their stuff with this one. They had the patrician lines of James's face down beautifully—the high forehead, the straight nose, the chiseled lips, the square jaw. The skin was painted in lifelike tones. The glass eyes glinted too dark a blue, but the techies had only the portrait to go on. And the white wig made him look like a fop. Which, in spite of the wig and even the snuffbox, he most emphatically was not.

James wasn't a dummy, staring blankly ahead without intelligence, or emotion, or character.
He was real.

The entrance hall strobed. Her stomach lurched. She was going to faint. She was going to throw up. She was going make a spectacle of herself right here in front of God, Cynthia, and the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

Amanda spun, stumbled down the hall to her apartment, and collapsed on the couch just as the black dots spinning through her vision coalesced into darkness.

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