To love and to honor (16 page)

"Seems to be something missing," she mused aloud. "I remember. There were two broad copper bracelets not of the Pocahontas period, but effective. I'll hunt in the chest for those."

She hung the dress on the old-fashioned form to take out the wrinkles and perched the wig with its quills and long braids on top.

On her knees in front of the chest she burrowed for the bracelets. Funny. They must be here. Dam! Would she have to take out everything? What in the world-something that felt like a bag. When she packed the chest she hadn't put in a bag—or had she? She had had so much on her mind at the time she might have forgotten. She wouldn't swear now that she hadn't.

She'd swear she hadn't packed this one, she told herself as with an effort she pulled up a grayish-white cotton bag so full of something that there had been little room for the stout twine tied round and round at the neck. Looked like a five-pound salt bag washed clean of printing.

She sat on the floor, dropped it into her lap and regarded it curiously. Was it something the movie people had planted here last summer and forgotten? They had photographed the turret room. It was humpy as if filled with stones or pebbles. Icy fingers closed about her heart, chills feathered along her nerves. What was in it? "Don't sit here staring at the thing, open it," she prodded herself.

Her fingers worked at the hard knot till they were numb. At the imminent peril of loosening a tooth she tugged with her teeth till she could have cried from frustration. It must be opened. She wouldn't take it out of this room till she knew what was in it. If only she had a hairpin. The wigl

She laid the bag aside and tiptoed across to the dressmaker frame. Eurekal four hairpins and not the useless invisible ones either, they were of stout old-fashioned black wire.

Back beside the chest, seated on the floor, legs outstretched, she attacked die knot. Had she started it? A little. Another pry. That loosened it. One more—it—it was giving—that last poke did it. She pulled off the twine acquiring a few rough splinters in her fingers as it came. The bag spread open quickly as if glad of the release.

She looked into the gaping opening. Rubbed her left hand over her eyes. Looked again. This must be a dream. Those just couldn't be jewels winking and sparkling up at her. Had sudden sleep overcome her again? Mentally she backtracked: I stopped at the kitchen door—told Sary I was coming up here—I know that was real—I couldn't dream the delectable smell of that freshly baked apple pie. I came up the turret stairs. Opened the chest—there's Pocahontas, complete with wig and beads on the dressmaker fonn—perhaps this will tell the story. She placed a finger between her teeth and extracted a twine splinter. Glory be, that hurt. Now I know I'm awake, with a cache of jewels, real or fake?

She emptied the contents of the bag into her lap. A few brooches tumbled out, three sensational bracelets came after, too many rings to count, all set with diamonds plus emeralds or rubies or sapphires, followed by a veritable cascade of unset precious stones.

She stared at them incredulously. This wasn't motion-picture stuff. The jewels were real as rain. Remindful of the value of fingerprints, with die bent hairpin she hooked up a ring with one huge diamond. Curious setting. For a guess it was Oriental and very old. Were these stolen jewels? Where had they come from? By whom had they been hidden in the chest?

Memory flashed a close-up. The tenuous shadow she had seen in the hall, the man with the turned-down hat brim? Could be. He wouldn't leave them here indefinitely. He would come back. Should she hide them or—

"Cin—dy!" Sarah Ann Parker's voice, Sarah Ann Parker opening the door at the foot of the stairs.

"Cindy, why don't you come down? Want I should come up and help you find things?"

"No, no, Sary." She scrambled the jewels back into the bag. "I'm coming. I'm just closing the—the trunk." She had almost said chest, which might reveal later where she had found the bag.

"Did you find what you wanted, Cindy?"

"I did. Everything. I'm bringing the things down to my room. Wait till you see me tonight—I'll knock your eyes out. Run along and serve lunch. I'm starving.*'

"Want to know somethin', Cinderella Clinton? You're always starving. I don't know how you keep thin as a wilier wand. You come along now, quick."

Cindy twisted the twine round the neck of the bag and considered. Should she leave it here and set a trap for the person who had hidden it or take it to her room and hide it? Better take it and make sure it wasn't retrieved by the thief.

She closed the chest and with the bag gripped in her left hand stood up. Oooch, her knees were stiff. What had rolled across the floor and under the spool bed? Her heart stopped, thundered on. One of the jewels from her lap?

Can't stop to hunt for it. If I stay here longer Sary will be on my trail. How shall I get this hefty thing down? I might meet her in the hall. My wardrobe case. I'll tuck the jewels under Pocahontas.

She opened the blue leather case marked CCS. and filled it. She looked back before she left the turret room in the hope of seeing the glitter of the missing jewel. With the sustaining thought that if it wasn't visible to her no one else would see it she went down the stairs with the blue wardrobe case bumping against every step.

Now what, she asked herself when she reached her room. I'll leave this just as it is until after lunch. No one can possibly get in while Sary and I are downstairs.

Some one had come in, she discovered as she opened the door to the patio. Bill Damon laughed as he rose. Had Sary expected him? There was an extra place set.

"I dropped in to return the enlarged snapshot I borrowed. I've been on and off long distance to Washington

the entire morning," he explained. '*Mi.ss Parker invited me to stay for lobster salad—phis apple pie. I might have resisted the first, but not the last. I don't like your attitude of incredulous surprise, Miss Clinton. You make me feel like an intruder."

"Intruder. I would rather see you at this moment than any other person in die world." The fervor of her declaration startled her and sent a dark wave of color under his bronze.

"That's a greeting one doesn't get every day." He cleared his husky voice. "I'd like an explanation of it after lunch. I can't believe I owe it to my fatal charm."

"You'll get the explanation if I can wait that long."

"Sit here." He drew out her chair. "Stop shivering. What an excitable child you are."

"Are you referring to the dynamics of my emotional conflicts? I cribbed that from a psychiatrist's report." Her light voice was a triumph of will over seething excitement.

"I am glad to hear the laughter in your voice. You frightened me for a moment."

"How did you come out at contract with the fascinating Sally Drew last evening?" she asked in the hope of quieting her tingling nerves by switching her thoughts from the jewels. "Did she call you 'sugar'?"

"No. I heard her call you sugar. You said that Harding used that endearing word instead of your name several times. I wonder if he picked it up from her?"

"No, because that morning in the patio he declared he never had met the woman, didn't want to, objected when I said I planned to call on her. Tell me about the game."

"She was absorbed in her hand. Every few minutes her lips would move as if she were repeating rules recently learned. I hadn't supposed that an intelligent woman— and something tells me she is intelligent-could be so dumb."

"I heard you tell her you weren't good. I don't believe

that."

"Goodness, like happiness, is a relative term, Cinderella. I was trying to give the lady courage, also to help my

host and hostess. They are experts. Ally planned that we were to play with them. If Mrs. Drew were as new at the game as she claimed, no card sense, she said—I thought that the Armstrongs' evening would be ruined if one of them drew her as a partner. Miss Parker approaches with rolls that look light enough to have snowed down." It seemed to Cindy that aeons passed before Sarah Ann Parker, who talked volubly while she served luncheon, mainly about the casualties of her favorite ball team, closed the patio door behind her.

"What's on your mind, Cindy? You've been so tense I was afraid Miss Parker would begin to cross-examine you."

"Can what I say be overheard here?" She looked behind her at the house, then across the putting green to the vast expanse of ocean.

"Let's go to the seat on the point. No one can overhear there."

"No. No, I don't dare be so far away for fear—** "Suppose we talk in your workroom? With the door closed—"

"No, I couldn't see the front stairs. Don't look at me as if you suspected I am losing my mind. Wait till you hear-"

"Take it easy, darling.**

"Don't call me darling as if you thought me an invalid or an incompetent."

"That wasn't the idea back of the word but we'll take up that also some other time. I'll sit at the table, smoke and keep my eyes on the house. You face me and watch that no one approaches from the garage or putting green. Let's go."

To the accompaniment of the hum of bees dipping into the hearts of the colorful blossoms in the flower borders and the tinkle of the fountain spray dropping back into the pool, she told of her reason for the trip to the turret room, started to tell of taking out the Pocahontas costume, stopped abruptly. "Why the period?" **I almost told what I plan to wear to the masquerade

tonight. It would have spoiled the fun. I'm sure no one will recognize me till we unmask."

"Want to bet on that?"

"I would be willing to. Let's go back to my STORY in capital letters."

She talked in a low voice without interruption from him. When she finished she clasped her hands tightly on tlie table and leaned forward.

"What shall I do?" she whispered.

*'You left the bag of jewels in your room?"

*'Yes."

He paced back and forth across the patio, smoking, thinking. He stopped beside her chair. She rose and laid her hand on his arm.

"What shall I do?" she repeated.

"Put the bag back where you found it."

"Put it back? Suppose—suppose the person from whom it was stolen—it must have been stolen, there's no other explanation—were to trace it to the turret room? I would be accused of stealing it."

"I'll look out for that. Go up now, quickly, and put the salt bag—if it is a salt bag—of jewels exactly where you found it and replace every article as it was when you opened the chest."

"If I do that I won't have anything to wear at the masquerade. What difference does that make? I shan't go. I won't leave the house until the mystery of that bag has been solved."

"You must go. You may give away the whole shootin'-match if you don't. You can think up something. There must be other clothes in the turret room you can wear. Repack the chest as it was, that's vital. Step on it, Cindy. While you are upstairs I'll engage Miss Parker in a baseball argument that will keep her occupied, I promise."

"I don't understand why you want the jewels hidden again. I haven't had much experience in crime, but I think we should turn them over to the police."

"Then eight chances out of ten we'd never find out who put them in that chest."

"Do you think we will now?" She came close to whisper.

"I'm sure we will." He bent his head and lightly kissed her parted lips. Straightened quickly.

"You shouldn't tempt me. Miss Clinton. Hustle. Get the jewels back where you found them before anyone comes. Trust me, will you?"

"Trust you? Didn't I tell you I'd rather see you than anyone else in the world? That's my exit line. I'm going."

"I'm sure we will," Cindy repeated his words as she ran up the turret stairs. I have a feeling that Bill Damon suspects who hid them. How could he? He doesn't know anyone in this place. He appeared cool as a glacier, but—she brushed her right hand across her lips—I'll bet underneath he was so excited he didn't realize he kissed me.

EIGHTEEN

He watted till Cindy had had time to reach the turret room, then entered the kitchen. Sarah Ann Parker was at the open icebox.

"That Colonel Damon is an awful nice person, Cindy. Kind of exciting like a movie actor," she said without turning. "He has Hal Harding licked to a finish. I wish he was Ken Stewart."

"He is, Sary."

She whirled at the low assurance. The plate she held fell with a crash. She adjusted her spectacles hanging by the band and peered at him through the thick lenses.

"If that's the truth what's the idea comin' here under a false name?" she demanded caustically. "Surprised you didn't wear a fake beard."

He gave her a tabloid version of his explanation to Alida Barclay. As she listened she became intent on collecting the casualty at her feet.

"You wrote that letter to me, didn't you, Sarah Ann Parker, alias P.A.S.?" he accused.

She deposited the pieces of broken plate and its contents in the sink, pulled out a chair at a white enamel table which held a basket overflowing with green peas, and sank into it with a sigh.

"You've kinder taken the stiffenin* out of my knees. I did write that letter. I sneaked the address from the envelope of one to you Cindy left to be mailed. Want to know somethin', I'd do it again if I thought it would help keep her safe from that Hal Harding. This is the second summer he's been courtin' her. Besides havin*

two wives already he's supportin', folks think he's sidin' with those men bein' tried for treason. I laid awake lots of nights before I sent it wonderin' if I was takin' a chance at upsetting her life by doing it."

"It's a ticklish business to play Fate, Sary."

"That's what I kept tellin' myself, I'd think, suppose Kenniston Stewart came back because I sent that letter; suppose he turned out to be a no-gooder who would pester her by remindin' her she was married to him. I was scared for fear I'd be like the woman Cindy told me 'bout one time, Pan someone, who opened a box she found on the seashore and let a whole flock of troubles out on the world. I sweat blood over that letter before I posted it. You've been playin' possum so long how come you're out with the truth now?"