Stranger by the Lake (15 page)

“The actress? She vanished. Lotta people thought Charlie had something to do with it. Some even said he'd murdered her. You know how people talk. Long-tongued gossips—a bunch-a old women wagging their tongues. This town is full of 'em. If you want to know what I think, I think she ran off with that man she was seeing.”

“She was seeing someone else?”

“Oh, she was sly about it, all right, but she was seeing him. I was working late one night, went out to the alley in back of the shop to throw some scraps away, and I saw her with him. They were standing just inside the alley, talking real intensely. Both of 'em looked startled when they heard me rattling the lid of the trash bin.”

“Did you know the man?” I inquired, ever so casual.

“Couldn't rightly say. His back was to me, and he was wearing a heavy overcoat and a black hat, brim pulled down. Could've been anyone, though there're not many men in this town who'd be brainless enough to fool around with a piece of goods like her. No, I figure it was some stranger passing through. I figure she ran off with him.”

He started wrapping the shoes up in brown paper, and I didn't want to press him further. I had already learned a great deal, and it wouldn't be wise to ask any more questions. He handed me the neat brown parcel, and I thanked him again.

“You ever want a new pair of shoes, you let me know. I'll make you a smashing pair. Red shoes, or even boots. I make smashing boots.”

“I'll do that,” I replied. “You've been very kind.”

I stepped back outside, very pleased with what I had learned. Gordonville was such a quaint, peaceful little town with its mellowed brick shopfronts and shady sidewalks and turn-of-the-century atmosphere, yet my aunt had compared it to Peyton Place. I was beginning to see why. I strolled toward the inn, immersed in my thoughts, and at first I paid no attention to the man peering into a shop window halfway down the block. He was wearing a pair of hand-tooled leather boots. They were unusual boots, and I wondered vaguely if the cobbler had made them. A bell seemed to ring in my mind, and I stopped abruptly, staring at those boots.

They were cowboy boots, the kind a Texan would wear.

The man was tall and lanky, loosely built, wearing an expensive pearl-gray raw silk suit elegantly tailored to fit his rangy frame. His face was deeply tanned, the features broad and open, and his hair was sandy blond, cut much shorter than was currently the fashion in England. Despite his expensive attire, there was something essentially rugged about the man. I had no doubt that he was American, and the boots indicated that he was probably from one of the Western states.

I frowned, wondering why I should be so interested.

It seemed someone had mentioned a Texan. Who? Where had I heard something about a man from Texas? I pressed my brows together, concentrating, and then I remembered. Last night at the dinner table Aunt Agatha had told us about a Texan named Stephen Kirk who had been pestering her about the Gordon papers. He had phoned her from London. He had wanted to drive down to Gordonwood to discuss a sale. He had offered her over a million dollars in American money for the manuscripts. I was willing to bet twice that amount that the man peering into the shop window was the same Stephen Kirk.

I had to find out. It took me only a moment to decide my approach, and then I removed the ribbon that held my ponytail in place and shook my hair loose and tugged at my sweater until it fit outrageously tight. I took a deep breath and got into character and walked towards him, stopping a few paces from where he stood.

“Why—Stephen
Kirk,
” I cried. “As I live and breathe—what are
you
doing in Gordonville?”

The man whirled around, startled. He stared at me, clearly not recognizing me but intrigued just the same. His eyes were very blue, and they lingered on the sweater for a few seconds. His wide, thin mouth spread into a pleasant grin and he nodded.

“Howdy, ma'am,” he drawled. It was quite a drawl.

“Do Texans actually say ‘Howdy'?” I inquired, batting my eyelashes. “It's such a charming word——”

“We're pretty charmin' fellows,” he replied, quick on the uptake. “Do I know you?”

“Don't tell me you've forgotten,” I said, pouting. Think sexy, I told myself.

“Uh—let's see, was it that party in Mayfair last month? Lady Somebody-or-other——”

“Lady Florence Whitelaw,” I said.

“That's right. I'm not very good at names. Swell party——”

“
You
seemed to enjoy it. You were drinking quite a lot, as I recall, and all the women found you absolutely fascinating. They simply flocked around you, and you were telling the most interesting stories.”

He smiled sheepishly and shuffled his feet. Stephen Kirk was a tall, good-looking man with a considerable amount of boyish charm. He reminded me of one of the Western heroes in the American television series that were so popular over here. He looked like he could rope a steer or knock a man down without blinking an eye, yet at the same time he could blush and stammer in the presence of a pretty girl. There wasn't a sophisticated bone in his body, and that made him all the more appealing. I felt rather guilty at my deception, but he was buying it.

“Nice to see you again—uh——”

“Winifred,” I said, “but all my friends call me Winnie.”

“Nice seein' you, Winnie,” he said. His blue eyes were full of boyish pleasure. As though he'd suddenly been handed a brand new slingshot, I thought. He tried not to stare at the sweater, but it was a losing battle. There was an honesty about the man. Honesty, not innocence. He knew his way around where women were concerned. I sensed that immediately, playing upon it without the least shame.

“Look,” he said, “is—uh—is there anyplace 'round here where a fellow could buy a girl a drink?”

“It's rather
early,
” I replied, “but the tea shop is right down the street. They serve tea and cakes——”

“I'd be mighty pleased to treat you,” he said, that wonderful grin still lingering on his lips.

“I'd be mighty pleased to accept,” I replied.

Stephen Kirk threw back his head and roared with laughter. It was a rich, lusty sound, thoroughly enchanting. Hooking his arm in mine, he led me down the sidewalk, taking great, manly strides, the heels of his boots clicking loudly. I had to trot a little to keep up with him. People stared at us, undoubtedly amazed to see such an unusual couple in their midst. I was elated with my success. I was really rather good at this sort of thing, I thought, wondering if Mata Hari had found it as easy. When we reached the tea shop, he held the door open for me, executing a curt little bow as I passed in front of him.

The tea shop was charming, with soft beige walls and lace curtains and small marble-topped tables. On each table there were vivid blue larkspurs and yellow daffodils, freshly cut, arranged haphazardly in white vases. The proprietor was a tall, thin woman with fluffy gray hair and wrinkled face. She wore a long-sleeved mauve dress and a white organdy apron, and she was obviously startled to see us come in.

“Howdy, ma'am,” Stephen Kirk greeted her as she approached us. “Can you fix us up with some goodies?”

She raised her eyebrows, alarmed, not understanding a word he said.

“Tea and cakes,” I said, “and some sandwiches if you have them.”

“Cucumber or watercress?”

“Ham,” he said. She stared at him in bewilderment.

“Watercress,” I told her, smiling.

Stephen pulled out a chair for me, helped me get seated, and then sat down across from me, spreading his long legs out awkwardly. I noticed his hands: long and slender, very tan, quite strong. He stared at me, his blue eyes open and honest, and I wondered just how I was going to go about getting the information I needed. Everything had worked well so far, but I was suddenly at a loss. I would have to be extremely careful. Stephen Kirk was no fool.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said. I loved his drawl. He drew each word out slowly, slurring it just a little. “What's a pretty lass like you doin'——”

“In a place like this? I'm visiting relatives, actually. My aunt lives in Gordonville and I came to see her. I simply had to get away from London for a while. Frightful drag, all that rush. Gordonville's a bit of a drag, too. No interesting men around.”

“What do you do? For a livin' I mean.”

“Well, as a matter of fact I—I'm a writer.”

“A writer?” He looked suddenly suspicious, thrusting his jaw out. “Are you a reporter?” he asked gruffly.

“A reporter? Gracious no! I write—poetry. Nothing elaborate, just free verse. A reporter? Do I look like one of
those
dreadful people?”

“I guess not,” he said, relaxing. “They're all the time botherin' me. Wanna know what I'm doin' in England, wanna know if I'm plannin' some kind of deal. One of th' rascals slipped into my hotel room in London a few days ago, snoopin' around, tryin' to find something he could use.”

“You don't
mean
it?” I said. “Why, I've never heard of such a thing. You must be very important——”

“Not important, just rich. You see, I've got all these oil wells——”

It went very smoothly after that. I knew from past experience that men liked nothing so much as talking about themselves, and Stephen Kirk was a case in point. His eyes lighted up and he grew very enthusiastic as he told me about his business ventures—terribly complicated, having to do with oil and stocks and bonds and private corporations—and in his zeal he forgot all about me and my sweater. The woman in mauve brought over a tray of food: tiny frosted cakes, delicate sandwiches with the crust trimmed off, a thick blue pot of tea with matching cups. The Texan continued to talk as I poured the tea.

“My, that's terribly impressive,” I said when he finally paused for breath. “All that money——”

“That's just the problem,” he replied. “All that money—how to spend it. We've established this foundation, you see, and we give grants, scholarships, all that sort of thing, but there's still too much money left. I'm over here lookin' for a way to unload some of those dollars.”

“Oh?” I reached for one of the small sandwiches, politely interested, rather vague. In truth, I wanted to bombard him with questions, but that would have spoiled everything.

“Something big,” he continued, “something we can write off on the tax returns. You see, I went to this small Methodist college, and I've already built 'em a library and a science building and a couple of new dormitories. I was thinkin', we've got this great new library, but there's nothing special about it, nothin' to distinguish it from hundreds of other libraries in colleges all over the states. I decided to start a collection. You know, private letters and journals and manuscripts of famous writers and painters and poets, that sort of thing. The University of Texas has one of the best collections in the states, and at Baylor they've got the Browning Library. Waco's the Mecca of Browning scholars. They have the largest collection of Browning papers in the world. That's the kind of thing I'd like to get started at my old alma mater.”

“Fascinating,” I said. “Here, have some more tea. These cakes are delicious. And so you came over to England to try and find things for your collection?”

He nodded. “I heard about some Shelley items. There were some letters he'd written to Claire Clairmont and the original drafts of some of his minor poems, privately owned. The fellow was plannin' to sell 'em, and I was ready to buy, but then I got wind of something much more exciting.”

“Indeed?”

He nodded. This is it, I thought. He's going to tell me about the Gordon papers. I waited, but Stephen Kirk sipped his tea and lounged back in his chair, silent for the first time. It was terribly frustrating, but I knew I couldn't prod him. He gave the impression of an innocent abroad, a simple, genial fellow with hayseed in his hair, but that impression was vastly deceiving. He was extremely intelligent, extremely capable, but these traits were worn like a loose garment. His brash charm and boyish mannerisms could be terribly misleading to the unwary.

“And did your business bring you to Gordonville?” I inquired, my voice light and airy.

“You might say that,” he replied. “Uh——surely you've read about the Gordon manuscripts?”

“It seems like I remember something in the papers——”

“They haven't been located yet,” he continued, “but there's a strong possibility they exist.”

“You hope to buy them?”

“That's right. It'd be a coup, a real coup.”

“What if they're not for sale?” I asked.

“They will be,” he said firmly. “This fellow——” He paused, frowning. “I can't really discuss it yet. All very hush-hush, you know, but I've been in touch with someone who promises me he can deliver the papers when and if they're found.”

It was pure hell, not being able to ask him the name of. the man he was in touch with. I finished my tea and ate one of the tiny cakes. I didn't really need to ask the name. I felt sure I knew who it was, and I wondered how he planned to work it. Stephen Kirk was a genial philanthropist, colorful in his way but, I was sure, scrupulously honest. Aunt Agatha had made it clear that she wouldn't sell the papers, but … Aunt Agatha could be dealt with. A horrifying thought entered my mind. My face must have turned pale, for Stephen Kirk leaned forward, a look of concern in his eyes.

“Somethin' wrong?” he inquired.

“No. I—I just remembered an appointment.”

Stephen Kirk smiled, relieved. “Glad you said that,” he told me. “I have an appointment myself.” He glanced at his watch. “Guess we'd better break up this little party. Shame I'm driving back to London tonight. I'd like to see you again.”