Smoke and Mirrors (25 page)

Noiseless, on bare feet, she crept toward the door, not entirely certain of what she intended to do. As she stood in brief
hesitation, a light went on within; and in its glow Erin beheld an eerie sight: Kay, standing at the foot of the bed, perfectly perpendicular and totally unconscious. Her staring eyes looked past Rosemary at some vision only she could see, and her hands fumbled across the blankets like those of a blind woman.

Rosemary's face was crumpled and sallow. The muscles in her throat contracted as she swallowed. "Kay," she said hoarsely. "What is it?"

Kay's hearing was as distorted as her vision. She did not respond. Bending stiffly, she raised the ruffled flounce and looked under the bed. Then she straightened, crossed the room, and went into the closet.

"I'm sorry," Erin whispered from the doorway. "I heard her moving around, and there was something odd. . . . She's sleepwalking, isn't she?"

"It would seem so." Rosemary showed no surprise at seeing her.

"Has she done this before?"

Rosemary shook her head. "Not for years. ..." She started violently. A voice—obviously Kay's, but eerily unlike her normal tones—echoed from the depths of the closet.

"Nobody. Nobody here. Have to make sure. Where else? . . . The dressing room? Have to look. Make sure he is all right. ..."

Rosemary threw back the covers. Her nightgown was an astonishingly flimsy feminine concoction of ruffles and lace and ribbons, but she didn't seem to be aware of the cold.

Kay was groping among the garments hanging on the racks. She had not turned on the light, and Erin shivered with a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Could a sleepwalker see in the dark? Impossible. There was nothing supernatural about the phenomenon, it was a purely explicable, if not exactly normal, aberration. . . .

It's all right, Kay," Rosemary said quietly. "There's no one here."

She had to repeat the reassurances over and over before they penetrated Kay's sleeping and obsessed mind, but when Rosemary finally took her gently by the arm she went along,
docile as a child. Between them they got her up the stairs and into bed. The moment she lay down, her eyes closed and she began to snore.

Rosemary let out a long, shaken breath. "She'll be all right now. Try to get some sleep."

"But what if she—"

"She won't. At least ..." Rosemary fell silent; every strained muscle in her face mirrored her thoughts as she grappled with the problem, considering alternatives, and decided on a course of action.

"I'll lock her door," she said finally. "If she wakes before I can unlock it—well, that can't be helped, I'll have to tell her anyway. . . . Take action to prevent this from happening again. Perhaps you had better lock the connecting door as well. Don't worry, it's extremely unlikely that she would repeat the performance twice in one night. I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this, not even to Kay. I'll tell her she woke me when she came into my room and that I got her into bed without disturbing anyone. She'd be distressed and humiliated to think anyone else knew about her weakness, as she would view it."

She had it all figured out. "I'll do whatever you want," Erin said.

Rosemary put an affectionate hand on her arm and exclaimed, "Good heavens, child, you're cold as ice. Hop back into bed. Don't give this another thought, it's not your responsibility. "

Whose then? Erin wondered, as she curled up under the covers and tried to defrost her frozen feet. Rosemary's, of course. How long had it been since Kay 'stopped being a prop on which Rosemary could lean and started to become just another burden? Days—or years? Jeff had mentioned Kay's increasing inefficiency, but that was only part of the problem. Kay was devoted and dedicated to someone—but that someone wasn't Rosemary. The single revealing pronoun that had slipped from her subconscious gave her true feelings away. "He" could only be Edward Marshall—long dead, but still the object of her fanatical concern. Erin could only wonder that she had been so slow to recognize the truth. Kay never referred to Rosemary by the title she had won;
"congressman" was reserved for Edward. And whose idea had it been to preserve his office like a shrine?

It must have been sheer hell to live like that, Erin thought drowsily. To be, not just the shadow of your predecessor, but the shadow of a ghost.

She fell asleep before she could decide what, if anything, she could do about the situation. The sentry went off duty; she didn't wake until sunlight stroked her closed eyelids.

Her first thought was for the occupant of the adjoining room.
J
umping
out of bed, she went to the connecting door and turned
the key.

Kay's room was unoccupied. The bed was neatly made. Rosemary had been as good as her word.

From the strength of the sunlight Erin realized it must be late morning. Her watch had stopped; she had forgotten to wind it the night before. She put on jeans and a sweatshirt emblazoned with "Rosemary White Marshall for Senator" and ran downstairs.

There was no one in the commons room—not even Will. Erin remembered he had said something about having to go to Charlottesville. She was filling a cup from the coffee urn when Christie came in. "Good morning, Cinderella. Or should it be Sleeping Beauty?"

The tone was less provocative than the words, however, and Christie went on, "I guess you're entitled to sleep in. What happened last night? I tried to worm it out of Jeff, but you know him, he just primped his mouth and looked stern."

She splashed coffee into a cup and sat down next to Erin. The latter took her time about answering. If she had learned one thing since she started working for Rosemary, it was to think before she spoke. Not that she always succeeded in following the rule. . . .

The brilliant scarlet and mustard-yellow stripes of Christie's skirt made her eyes ache. Christie also wore a sweatshirt, they were standard issue, but she had added a few strands of bright beads and shoved the sleeves up to her elbows. On her, the baggy garment looked like a designer creation.

With an effort Erin forced her memory back past the sleepwalking episode—which Christie couldn't possibly know about—to the reception. How much did Christie know—how much should she
be told? Was she only curious about the life-style of the rich and notorious, or had she heard of the evening's blazing conclusion?

"It was a great place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there, " she said cautiously.

"Then you're crazy. Who was there? Did you talk to Juliet? What was she wearing? How was the food? Did you get to meet Paul Newman and Stevie Cortlandt?"

"Stevie . . . oh, the singer. I didn't get to meet anybody," Erin admitted regretfully. "The famous names were surrounded all evening."

Christie didn't bother to conceal her contempt. "Why didn't you walk right up and introduce yourself? I can't imagine being in the same room with Robert Redford and not having the gumption to meet him."

"It was a rather—confused evening," Erin said humbly. Knowing Christie wouldn't give up until she had squeezed some vicarious excitement out of the event, she launched into a description of the buffet, Juliet's gown, and the guest list. "I gather it was a success financially, ' she added. "At least Joe implied it was."

"Yeah, he is even talking about hiring a direct-mail company. How was Nick?"

"Haven't you seen him?"

"No. He left you a message."

"With you?"

"How could he leave a message with me when I didn't see him?"

Erin bit back a sharp retort. She didn't blame Christie for resenting her evening out; in Christie's place she would have felt the same. Passing over a highly placed worker in favor of a newcomer still wet behind the ears wasn't just or kind. It was not the first time Erin had wondered why she was so extraordinarily favored.

"He left a note," Christie said, rising. "It's on your desk. You do remember where your desk is?"

That didn't deserve a reply either. Erin followed Christie into the office, where she found Nick's note lying on her desk blotter. It was brief and to the point: "Had to go out, see you lunchtime. We need to talk."

An emphatic black slash underlined "need." Erin slipped the
note into her pocket. She "needed" to talk to Nick too. They had barely spoken on the drive home.

She worked steadily until twelve. Nick hadn't shown up, so she went looking for him and found him in the commons room browsing among the cold cuts. On the table next to him was a fat green-eyed calico cat devouring a piece of salami.

Another tribute to the memory of Edward Marshall. . . .Erin picked the cat up and carried it out, the salami still dangling from its mouth. When she returned, Nick looked at her sourly. "If you are quite finished playing with the kitties," he began.

"They aren't supposed to be in here, much less eating off the plates. Are you too hung over to notice such minor details?"

"I am not hung over. '

"Preoccupied, then. Your note was somewhat peremptory—'

Nick cleared his throat loudly and gestured. "You haven't said hello to Will."

"I didn't see him. Hello, Will."

"Hello," said Will.

"I thought you were in Charlottesville."

There was no answer from Will; by his standards none was required, since it was obvious he wasn't in Charlottesville.

"He just got back," Nick said. "Want to go for a walk?"

"I haven't had lunch."

"Oh." Nick slapped a piece of ham between two pieces of bread and handed it to her. "Here."

"Thanks," Erin said. There were other things she might have said—yearned to say, in fact—but Nick didn't give her the opportunity. "Nice day for a picnic," he mumbled, nudging her toward the door.

It was a nice day. Jackson and Jan had taken advantage of the sunshine and were sitting on the porch eating their sandwiches. Instead of lingering to talk as he usually did, Nick replied to their greetings with an abstracted wave and kept walking.

He had made it clear that he wanted a private conversation, so Erin waited till they were some distance from the house before she spoke. "Has something happened?"

"Has something happened?" Nick directed his query to the unheeding sky, arms flung wide in appeal. "Listen to the woman!

You saw what happened. Too many things have happened. Doesn't anyone but me wonder why they're happening and who is making them happen?"

Erin came to a stop. "Nick, if you want to talk, I'll listen. I can't concoct sensible answers to incoherent cries of woe. Let's sit down. This isn't much of a lunch, but I want to eat it."

Nick stared. "My God, you sounded just like Rosemary. Aren't you going to yell at me for treating you like an object?"

"No, but I may throw something. There's a lot to be said for Rosemary's methods. She seems to get more respect from you guys than I do."

"I'm sorry. I lay awake half the night brooding about this, and I've got to get it off my chest before I explode. '

Two cats joined them on the bench under the pines—one gray Persian, one tabby of questionable ancestry—and Erin fed them bits of the sandwich while Nick sat in silence scowling at his dusty shoes. Finally she said, "For a man who threatened to explode if he wasn't allowed to talk, you aren't being very vocal."

"I'm trying to find a good lead." Nick ran his fingers through his hair. "How does this grab you? What lunatic has been setting all the goddamn fires?' "

"Too wordy. If there is such a word as wordy.' '

Nick wasn't listening. "Politics is a weird business and a lot of weird things can happen during a campaign. Hate mail, demonstrations, even assault and battery. But I've never heard of anything like this. Taken singly, the incidents are meaningless and
non
-
threatening
. When you add them up. . . . And please don't utter the word coincidence.' '

"I wasn't going to. You seem to have forgotten that we discussed this same subject a week ago. You were the skeptic then. You laughed at me when I suggested—"

"Laugh! I did not." Erin fixed him with a steady stare. After a moment Nick's eyes dropped. "Anyhow, things were different then. The fire last night was one coincidence too many."

"He's slow but he's sure," Erin informed one of the cats, who opened its mouth as if to reply but yawned instead. "Why don't you admit it, Nick? You didn't want to see a pattern in these incidents because it was Laurence who proposed the theory."

"Er—never mind that. Laurence's theory is off the wall, Erin. Even in sensational fiction it's against the rules to make the criminal a homicidal maniac."

Erin protested. "Don't use that word. Nobody has been killed, or even hurt."

"Not yet."

The dry sandwich stuck in Erin's throat. She divided the rest of it between the drooling cats.

"These incidents are not the work of a lunatic, homicidal or otherwise," Nick went on. "The first two fires could have been accidental. The third, in the cemetery, was no accident; but its significance, insofar as Rosemary is concerned, was questionable. Any anonymous loony could have done it, for any one of a hundred reasons. Last night. . . That could have been an accident too. The material of that dollhouse was highly flammable and there were a lot of drunks wandering around brandishing cigars and cigarettes. But that makes four fires in a row, four in less than two weeks, and all of them connected in one way or another with Rosemary. There's a recurrent theme, isn't there?"

"You're forgetting something," Erin said reluctantly. "The doll, or poppet, or whatever you want to call it."

"I hadn't forgotten. I was waiting for you to bring it up. Same theme, Erin. It was smeared with ashes."

Erin sighed. "Fire again."

"Yeah."

"What about the attack on me last night?"

"Obviously I considered that. But it doesn't fit the theme. Unless there was something you forgot to mention."

No lighted matches or smell of smoke," Erin said wryly. "I guess it was just your common garden-variety rapist. That's a relief, in a way; I'd rather not be part of your pattern. But Nick, what's the point of it all? Without some logical connection—some common, underlying motive—the incidents don't fit together. Are they meant to be threats—warnings of worse to come? Like, for instance, setting fire to the house?"