Time After Time (17 page)

"But the petty thieves are
all on this side," Liz said morosely.

"Hey— what's with you,
missy? This is a
good
thing."

"I know, I know. . . but.
. ." She almost hated to see the barbed wire go. It had Jack's
blood — sacrificial blood — on it.

Had
she been misjudging him?

She sighed and pressed the
monitor button on the answering machine. There was one message, in
a deep, baritone voice: "Elizabeth; Jack. It's false logic to say
that Grant Dade coveted the letters, the letters were
stolen,
ergo
Grant Dade is the thief. If you need help with that one, give
me a call."

"Ho!" said Victoria,
delighted. "He's right, you know."

"I sounded too smug when I
left my message," Liz admitted, rewinding the tape. "It's a mistake
to sound smug around him. He takes it so personally. Oh, well; it
doesn't matter. I'll make tea while you read me your exciting
discovery."

"This
isn't as big a deal as
that,"
said Victoria, waving her hand theatrically at
the workman by the fence. "But it does deepen the mystery about our
artist-ghost."

"Wonderful," said Liz
dryly. "God forbid the mystery should be solved."

"Oh, but it will be!"
cried Victoria. "And when it is, the mystery of
me
will be solved. It's all
connected. I know it is."

"What if Victoria St.
Onge
never
names
him?" Liz dared to ask as she filled her big copper teakettle — a
gift, like every other copper object in the house, from relatives
in Portugal. "What then?"

"In that case I'll die,"
Victoria said simply. "But she'll name him. Okay.
Ready?"

My dear Mercy,

I write you from my
stateroom aboard the SEA GODDESS, to which we adjourned after
viewing a tennis match at the Casino in what can only be described
as bone-melting heat. I became quite angry at the players for
continuing to play in such perishing conditions. If only someone
had collapsed of stroke! The rest of us could have boarded our
yachts for lunch that much sooner and enjoyed the cool sea air that
is now tumbling through the large open porthole above my writing
table.

I have a delicious bit of
gossip to pass on to you. Do you remember the masked marauder who
so stole your heart at the Black and White Ball several years ago?
I had occasion, with a group of two other gentlemen and three
rather reckless ladies, to tour the young man's studio yesterday.
I'm sure I wrote that he was an artist. Well, he is, and quite a
good one at that, but his talents seem to me to be terribly
misdirected.

He paints
nudes,
my dear Mercy! Or
rather, one particular nude, in quite breathtaking detail. The
subject is quite beautiful, with pale, porcelain skin and deep
auburn hair, rich and glowing in every portrait. Unless he has
idealized her, I may say without exaggeration that her form is as
lovely and slender as ever I have seen.

In every painting — there
are seven or eight in his studio, of varying sizes — she is
wearing, as her only adornment, a band of deep green around her
neck. The velvet neckband, I think, is what enables her to retain a
certain dignity in her bearing. Certainly there is nothing
lascivious in her expression, but only a rather wistful and loving
look.

Here I must confess to an
embarrassing encounter with the artist himself. The nude portraits
had been stacked in one corner of the studio, facing the wall. I
was curious about them — you know how I can be — and was in the
process of browsing through them when your young artist, whose
attention had been diverted, caught sight of me. He became quite
angry — as I say, it was most embarrassing — and immediately
afterward ushered us all out.

We were puzzled by his
manner, but the mystery was explained to me just now over lunch,
and that is why I write to you, while events are still fresh in my
mind. Mrs. Le Fevre explained to me that the auburn-haired woman is
— or was — an upstairs maid of the artist's parents.

After learning of their
son's passionate involvement, the parents of course dismissed the
maid. But I have it on Mrs. Le Fevre 's authority that the artist
is quite madly, seriously in love with the girl and refuses to give
her up. Can you imagine? This town is quite the hotbed of scandal.
In any case, I shall keep you posted of developments.

Victoria, who'd read
without pausing, now looked up and said to Liz, "The rest of the
letter describes the polo match she went to after her lunch aboard
the yacht, and the ball she attended that night. Do you want to
hear it?"

"Does she mention the
artist again?" asked Liz, barely emerging from the trance she'd
fallen into while Victoria read.

"Nope."

Liz shook her head. "Never
mind, then." She filled two cups from the copper teakettle before
realizing that she'd forgotten to boil the water. "I know who the
artist is," she murmured as she emptied the cups, filled the
kettle, and started over.

"Liz!"

"No, that's not true," Liz
amended quickly. She was remembering her not-necessarily-logical
conclusion about Grant Dade. "I know where the
studio
was. No, that's not true,
either," she said scrupulously. "I
think
I know where the studio
was."

"For God's sake, stop
sounding like a lawyer!
Where?"

"Here. The studio — some
studio, anyway — was built on this property, and then it got torn
down and the property became a service access to East Gate. Jack
told me."

"Why didn't you tell me
this before?" demanded Victoria.

"I don't know; it got lost
in the shuffle, I guess. It's been a busy couple of
days."

"So the younger-brother
artist-ghost is an
Eastman?"
Victoria's voice dropped an octave as she said
the name. She laid the letter down on the table and nervously began
to smooth its edges, as if she'd been somehow disrespectful of
it.

"It makes sense," said Liz
with a limp smile. "I saw the apparition in Eastman's house. A
studio once existed on this property. Ghosts don't haunt places
arbitrarily, do they?"

Victoria frowned. "But how
does Victoria St. Onge fit in? And for that matter, why would she
buy a house on this side of the tracks — or fence — or
whatever?"

"It
doesn
't
make sense," Liz agreed, instantly reversing herself.
"Victoria St. Onge was a social climber. She had some money; she
could've bought something better than a tiny house on a street
occupied by millworkers and fishermen."

"But if she really could
channel — aha! — then maybe the Eastman artist ended up being her
spirit guide; maybe
that's
why he's hanging around. He's waiting for me to
resume my mediumship duties!" cried Victoria, sliding back into her
alter ego.

Suddenly tired of the
endless, bizarre speculation, Liz snapped, "How can you possibly
say that? They were both alive at the same time, he threw her out
of his studio, and his ghost — if it was his ghost — appeared
to
me,
not to
you. Get a grip."

Undaunted, Victoria said,
"Good points. Okay; we'll just have to keep reading. But let's read
chronologically from this letter on — this random sampling is too
confusing. I'll get the 1895 shoebox."

"Oh, no. Oh, hell," said
Liz, looking up with a blank, ashen look. "Those are the letters
that were stolen."

"Ah," whispered
Victoria.

The single, heartwrenching
syllable was the exact same response Liz had given her doctor when
he told her she wouldn't be able to have any more children.
Ah. A postpartum infection. Ah.

Ah.
It was the sound of hope dying.

"Then we may never find
out who he is," Victoria said in a dazed, dull voice. "I may never
know why Victoria St. Onge has come back in me. This isn't supposed
to be how karma works. I can't ... this isn't fair," she said,
tears beginning to trickle down her pale, freckled cheeks.
"Burglars aren't fair."

"Victoria," Liz said
gently. "I've done some reading. Reincarnation — you know it's
supposed to begin at birth, don't you? Not at thirty?"

Victoria made an effort to
bring herself under control, wiping away her tears with the heels
of her hands; wiping her nose on the back of her wrist. "Not
necessarily," she said with a tremulous lift of her chin. "There's
another possibility. You've never heard of the walk-in
process?"

"Walk-in?" said Liz,
amused by the term. "You mean, as in a hair-styling
salon?"

Victoria said softly,
"Okay. Never mind."

"No, no, Tori, I want to
hear! Really I do. I'm sorry. This stuff is just so new to me. I
haven't been probing this — this area of knowledge the way you
have. Now tell me: what's a walk-in?"

Mollified, Victoria tried
to explain it as well as she could. "Sometimes a problem on earth
is so pressing that a soul-mind doesn't have time to be born and
develop. The soul-mind takes the drastic step of assuming an
adult's body — with that adult's permission, of course — so that it
can go about its task more quickly."

The teakettle began
hissing away; Liz took it off the burner again and filled two cups.
"I see," she said cautiously. "So Victoria St. Onge took over from
Judy Maroney with a definite, urgent purpose. Yes. I
see."

She brought the mugs over
to the table and said, almost casually, "Then where does Judy
Maroney go for the duration?"

Victoria shook her head.
"I don't know."

"And another thing —
wouldn't it seem reasonable for Victoria St. Onge to know the
history of the adult form she was assuming? For example, if the
person had any allergies or was diabetic or whatever?"

"You're making fun," said
Victoria with a look of despair.

"Oh, Tori, I'm not; I'm
not. Believe me," said Liz, reaching over and squeezing her
friend's wrist. "But I can't help wondering how these things work.
Reincarnation was confusing enough, but this walk-in process — it's
like using express mail instead of parcel post, but there's nothing
in the envelope when it gets there. You see what I'm saying?
What
is
the task
at hand?"

"I don't know," Victoria
said, the tears beginning to flow all over again. "It's in the
letters. We have to keep reading. And we have to find the ones that
are missing."

****

Saturday was all-out
gorgeous, one of those superb June days that bring the crowds
flocking to Newport. Bright, dry, sunny, and warm, with a smoky
southwest breeze to keep things comfortable—Newport did June better
than anyone else on the East Coast. Providence might be warmer in
April, and Bar Harbor might be cooler in August; but June? June
belonged to Newport.

"Can we go for a boat ride
when we get to the shipyard, Mommy?"

Liz bent down to retie her
daughter's shoe and said, "I don't think so, honey. Mommy has to
talk with Mr. Eastman about business. It shouldn't take long, but
you're going to have to be very, very good and very, very
quiet."

She unzipped her
daughter's Little Mermaid backpack. "Do you have all your Madeline
books? And your colors, just in case there's a table you can
use?"

Susy nodded solemnly and
said, "Maybe if I'm good, you can take me for a boat ride
after."

Again this obsession! Liz
smiled noncommittally and said, "Let's go; we don't want to keep
Mr. Eastman waiting."

The news that Liz's
parents were driving to Massachusetts for a funeral had come as a
blow. It was Liz's fault, of course; she took her parents so much
for granted that she hadn't even heard her mother's remark that
they'd be away Saturday until early afternoon. Too late to find a
sitter; they were all at the malls.

Even Victoria wasn't
around. After helping Liz coordinate a high-energy bridal shower on
Friday for a group of Boston professionals who were renting a house
in town for the summer, Victoria had driven off early to Point
Judith and caught a ferry for Block Island. (Dr. Ben was possibly a
part of the scenario, but Victoria didn't say, and Liz didn't
pry.)

It's so much harder when
there's only one,
thought Liz, giving in
to a little self-pity. But she wasn't comfortable feeling sorry for
herself, not when there were so many single parents shelling out
hard-earned wages for day care and struggling against greater odds
than hers.

She scanned her image in
the shield-mirror on the hall landing, dissatisfied with the outfit
she'd chosen — a button-front canvas skirt and a salmon-pink blouse
— despite the fact that it was no better or worse than the other
seven or eight she'd tried on that morning.

Heaving one last sigh, she
loaded her clipboard, her proposal, and her daughter into the
minivan, hoping Jack wouldn't notice that she had a papoose in tow.
Professional, it wasn't. And Bachelor Jack, who apparently had zero
tolerance for anything short that had the same number of hands and
feet as little bratty Caroline, would probably consider Liz more
unprofessional than most.