Darcy Meets Elizabeth In Kentucky

by Glenna Mason

  She received the biography within minutes. It revealed very little new information, but did explain that Claire Evans was originally from Southern California, where she received a Bachelor's in Fine Arts from UCLA.

  Elizabeth contacted UCLA by phone, pretending to be a high school classmate, desperate for more information for an upcoming twenty-fifth reunion. They did have some updated data on this alumnae. According to UCLA, Miss Evans, her maiden name, married a renowned Los Angeles architect, Carl Cameron, four years after graduation. Mr. Cameron died tragically due to a car accident. Then Miss Evans married a renowned James Joyce scholar, who recently died due to a car accident. Ms. Evans currently lived in Claysmount, Kentucky. They were not at liberty to give out addresses or phone numbers, but they advised her to check long distance for James Joyce Carstairs or Claire Evans in Claysmount, Kentucky.

  Elizabeth then searched the Los Angeles Times archives for the time frame when Claire, age twenty-five through thirty-three, had been married to Carl Cameron, architect, for information this time about the husband. He did seem to have been immensely successful, as three houses he designed ended up in the Features Section of the Sunday LA Times.

  Elizabeth scanned the articles, which were about the houses of three famous Hollywood celebrities. The celebs were pictured in front of palatial residences. Big splashes of accolades were also accorded to the “architect of the stars,” Carl Cameron. He was photographed with the “rich and famous,” their arms around his shoulders. He was praised by them in glowing terms. There was not one word in the eight years about his wife, the poet Claire Evans.

  Then there it was on the front page of the LA Times: FAMOUS ARCHITECT REPORTED MISSING.

  Then two days later: CARL CAMERON FOUND DEAD IN CANYON. And then two days after that a front page obituary, Claire's name listed near the bottom, as a survivor along with a son, Carl, Jr.

  Elizabeth scanned back to the “Dead in Canyon” article and printed it out. She relaxed back in her chair to read the news article carefully. “Carl Cameron, age forty-five, a world renowned architect, has been found dead in his car in ______Canyon. The top model Mercedes crashed around the architect, protecting him, but he was trapped by the resulting damage. The jaws of life were brought in to remove his body from the wreckage. His only apparent physical injury from the accident was a gash to the back of the head. However, he died, according to initial police reports, due to dehydration, exposure, and heat exhaustion. No cell phone or car phone was found in the vehicle. His wife Claire did not report him missing for five days, believing him to be on a business trip to San Francisco. Thus he was left in a deep canyon unnoticed for six days, before a pair of hikers called in after sighting the wreckage. No reason for a drop over the cliff's edge has been reported by the police. There were no skid marks on the highway above the jagged cliffs, at least by the time the police were summoned to the location.”

  Elizabeth bolted upright at the similarities. Both husbands: forty-five years old, famous, respected, recognized nationally and internationally, wife ignored by the press. “Why is that familiar?” she queried herself sarcastically. Not definitive, but intriguing. Another husband in a mysterious car accident. She underlined one statement. “Apparently his only injury was a gash on the back of the head.” The back? Elizabeth tried to envision the circumstances wherein a man flying over the side of the mountain hit the back of his head rather than the front or the side. It stymied her. “Fancy that!” Elizabeth remarked loudly.

  “What, sweetheart?” Darcy asked, entering the room, having just arrived home from his conference with Kitty.

  “Guess what!”

  “What?”

  “Claire's first husband, also well-respected and well-known, died in an automobile mishap. He lived in the canyons around LA and conveniently plummeted over one.”

  “I have been conferring with Kitty, as you know. And we may have a solution. Monsieur Chevalier has a dear friend who visits him often, who has expressed an interest in his own residence in Claysmount. We texted Chevalier, who in turn texted the Count. The response came in while I was still there. “Oui, tres bien!” Once Kitty works out a fair offer, Chevalier and the Count will charm Claire out of her farm. Then she will be free to terrorize some new neighborhood.”

  “Oh, darling, thank you, and merci beaucoup, Count.”

  “Count Francois Demarier.”

  “Now,” Elizabeth said, placing her new information in the Jimmy Joyce file, “I must go face the devil-woman.” Elizabeth stared intently at her husband and stated, “Fitzwilliam I am going across the street to give Claire back her Chapters Three and Four. I will only be gone a short time.

  “Fitzwilliam,” she said, grabbing his face between her hands and staring penetratingly into his eyes, “if I am not back in an hour, come and get me.” She paused and then admonished, “I am serious.”

  “Shall I go too? That's safer.”

  “I'll be okay. I am not actually going to accuse her of murder—at least not today,” Elizabeth said.

  “Well, in that case I'm not needed,” Darcy joked.

  “Seriously, Fitzwilliam, if you go too, it will be too much like a social call. We'll have to stay, and I do not want that.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “I'm going to walk over and take the two German shepherds with me. They can be my excuse not to linger. And they will also be a reminder to Claire that I am not fooling around here. Mutt and Jeff are trained to do exactly what I say, including attack.”

  “I'll be sure to remember that.”

  “You do need to be cautious, Mr. Darcy. My cats are trained to attack too.”

  “My darling Lizzy, it is quite clear that your entire menagerie worships at your feet—your husband included.”

  Elizabeth kissed Darcy lightly and went in search of the leashes and her dogs.

  Mutt and Jeff were excited beyond bounds, since they seldom got to walk on a leash. They were well-trained to the leash and command, but usually had full rein of the house and yard. So they enjoyed the special treat of having Elizabeth to themselves, even though on a restraint.

  Mutt, Jeff and Elizabeth leisurely strolled down the Longbourn driveway. The day was hot, but the trees provided shade and lots of goodies for the dogs to snuff out. They started enthusiastically off after squirrels and leaves, only to be reminded that today they were on a lead. Soon the two were walking sedately and contentedly beside Elizabeth, licking her toes and legs.

  “Good, boys,” she praised, as she had them “sit” to look before crossing Pope Road. Safely on the other side, the three gamboled up the long drive to the Carstairs house. “I wish Jimmy Joyce were still here lapping you every morning,” she spoke to the familiar surface. “I miss him so,” she said, sadly. There had been so much going on since his death that Elizabeth had hardly had time to mourn her dear friend and colleague of EKU and Pope Road.

  Elizabeth, now quite distraught, knew she would miss popping her head in his office door, listening to his lovely Joycesian logic, watching his jolly mannerisms and so many other things. The dogs, naturally prescient, sensed Elizabeth's change of mood and stayed close, nudging her hands with their wet noses and brushing close against her legs. She petted them affectionately. By the time she reached the Carstairs porch steps, Elizabeth was in a strange state of mind, a mix of bewilderment, sadness and outrage.

  The three climbed the steps to the elegant Victorian porch and Elizabeth rang the bell. A maid answered, “Is Mrs. Carstairs in, Susie?” she queried, suddenly hoping the answer was no.

  “Yes, ma'am. Please come in.”

  “No, Susie, I'm on a walk with the dogs, as you see. Could you ask Mrs. Carstairs to see me on the porch please? I'll wait out here.”

  “Certainly, ma'am.”

  In what seemed an interminable stretch of time, but was actually only about five minutes, Elizabeth, her nervous agitation increasing by the second as her continued reflection brought more memories, was a wreck by the time Claire flau
nted onto the porch. Elizabeth rose to greet her.

  “No, Elizabeth, please sit back down. I am sorry to take so long, but I was getting us some tea ordered.”

  “Thank you, Claire. I'd like a glass. I've walked over with Mutt and Jeff. I need exercise sometimes, besides bouncing my bottom on a horse,” Elizabeth said smiling, but it was a faded attempt, for her heart wasn't in it.

  “In fact walking up here just now, I thought of Jimmy Joyce and his daily runs. I got quite sad. I am not very good company right now,” Elizabeth said.

  “I understand,” Claire said, almost smirking.

  Elizabeth looked up at her hostess, reddening, remembering Chapter Three's libelous innuendo that she had had an affair with Jimmy Joyce. Elizabeth's nostalgia evaporated in a flash, and she remembered why she was here. Her primary purpose was to return the chapters to a mean, may-be murderess.

  Elizabeth started to rise, but just at that moment the iced tea arrived. Elizabeth understood that she was stuck for at least five more minutes. But she was exceedingly glad that Mutt and Jeff were here too, resting their heads on her sandals.

  “I've brought back Chapters Three and Four, Claire. I am sorry it has taken me so long, but with my wedding and honeymoon and the Lucas/Pope wedding, my life has been a whirlwind, and I do have a farm to run.”

  “I'm glad they're back, although I have more copies certainly. I'm also glad you came by today, or I would have missed you. I am leaving tomorrow morning for a week in NYC, where my agent and I will shop my novel.

  “I'm going to give my poetry publisher the first crack, but my agent doesn't think that firm is the best choice for a work of popular fiction. He and I will make the rounds Thursday and Friday. Then I'll just have fun with friends Labor Day week-end, so I can be available on Tuesday for any follow-ups or visits to additional publishers.”

  “It is certainly a treat just to be in New York City. Fitzwilliam and I enjoyed our one day there en route to London,” Elizabeth said, her mind was racing with the news that Claire would be out of town for a week. Elizabeth handed the manila envelope to Claire. “I want no doubt that she got it back from me,” Elizabeth thought.

  Sipping the tea, the two sat momentarily in silence. Elizabeth was already planning to ride Gypsy over on a little search party. “Gypsy and I will find out if that barn and truck exist,” Elizabeth decided, quite elated at the prospect.

  Tipping her glass to drink the last sugary sweetness of the tasty tea, Elizabeth gathered her dogs' leashes and prepared to leave. “I must run, Claire. Fitzwilliam is waiting for me.”

  “Of course, he would be,” was Claire’s snippy reply.

  “Good luck in New York, Claire. The novel is a fine work from a literary point of view, but almost impossible for me to read under the circumstances.”

  “Yes, it would be, wouldn't it?” Claire said in a tart manner.

  “Claire, I will read Chapters Five and Six, since I have them already, but under no circumstances send me more chapters. Is that understood?”

  Emboldened by Claire's hesitation, Elizabeth said, “Claire, let me be clear. I'd consider any further communication from you through your novel harassment.”

  Even Elizabeth was startled by her own bold audacity. Claire's countenance turned frighteningly dark, any pretense of a friendly, neighborly chat was irrevocably erased. Claire's face was a study in uninhibited rancor.

  Elizabeth was, oh, so glad she'd brought the German shepherds with her. Elizabeth, Mutt and Jeff retreated off the porch with Claire Evans seething behind them, a stare of pure malice evident on her face.

  Elizabeth willed herself not to turn around to see it, but she acknowledged it was there, perceived the malevolent penetration on her back, as she and the dogs almost loped down the driveway.

  Singing “My Way,” slightly off key as usual, Elizabeth entered the safety of her own doorway and immediately strode down the hall to the library, where she knew Darcy was anxiously waiting. He stood as she entered, a grin bringing dimples to his cheeks.

  “I assume from your song that the interview went better than anticipated,” he said.

  “No, worse, but I feel like Atlas has just shrugged the weight of the world off her shoulders,” she said. “Four down and two to go.”

  “Come here, princess,” Darcy invited, returning to his seat in the large armchair.

  Elizabeth curled happily into his lap.

  Sinking way down into the soft leather of the comfortable arm chair, the couple nestled and quietly relaxed in each other's arms. They sat silently, Elizabeth's head on Darcy's shoulder, and his arms gently wrapping her to him. There was no need for words; their love communicated through nearness.

  Finally Darcy broke into the meditative silence, saying, “I've spoken to Richard and Gilbert. The Fitzwilliams and the Hursts would like to join us for dinner Saturday night. They'll drive over to Lancaster and foist the kids on Gilbert’s parents and spend the evening and the night at our house. It is perfect timing because of Labor Day. They can then spend Sunday night visiting the Hursts and go home on Monday.”

  “What a great plan! What a fortuitous coincidence that Labor Day came just at the right time.”

  “I thought an old fashioned slumber party would be fun. That way we guys can talk and play all night, if we've a mind.”

  “Wonderful! I am so pleased they can come.”

  “Now we must remember our lavender.”

  “Yes! Lavender is the catalyst that got a new tradition off the ground. We'll always be grateful to lavender, my darling. Years of future fun will owe much to lavender,” Elizabeth advised, winking at him.

  “I think lilacs on the table will be just the right touch!”

  “Indeed!”

  “Ideal!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Elizabeth decided to be cautious and not reconnoiter Claire's barn on Wednesday, since she was not sure what time Claire was leaving for New York City. However, after her barn rounds on Thursday, Elizabeth trotted Gypsy across Pope Road. Remembering the detailed description in Claire’s novel, she headed for the gravel drive just down from the farm’s main gate.

  “Gypsy, let's try this route first. If the novel is indeed non-fiction, this lane should lead us directly to the barn,” Elizabeth explained to her mare.

  Elizabeth dismounted. Holding Gypsy's rein tight, so the mare would not accidentally back onto Pope Road, Elizabeth swung the gate far enough to lead the mare through, noticing as she did so that there was a large rock available to prop the gate open. Elizabeth nonetheless re-latched it. The gravel lane was surrounded on both sides by white board fencing; the fence to the left separated it from the main yard to the house. The fence row to the right should be adjacent to the field, which would lead to the tobacco barn. Elizabeth and Gypsy easily sailed over that fence.

  A five minute gallop was all it took to top a hill and spy the old tobacco barn in the distance, down one hill and half way up the next, sitting silently in the middle of a field. A dusty path snaked from the barn to the gravel lane. The late August sun sprayed the antique boards with golden hues, to Elizabeth a beautiful sight. She admired the peace of fields of bluegrass, striped with black or white plank fences, displaying charming, aging barns settled in their midst.

  “Come, Gypsy,” encouraged Elizabeth, spurring the horse cautiously down the hillside, watching for rabbit holes and other obstacles, which could send them both to their knees in an unfamiliar field. When they reached the barn, Elizabeth wrapped Gypsy's reins around an old wagon wheel, which had been left to deteriorate in the elements, and with great difficulty Elizabeth finally finagled the creaky, warped old barn door open far enough to glance inside.

  Voila! There was the infamous farm truck, looking exactly as described in the novel. Elizabeth surveyed the interior of the barn cautiously; just being on Claire's property raised alarm bells in Elizabeth. “I hope she didn't lie about going to New York, setting me up for a trap,” Elizabeth cautioned herself, suddenly a
little wary. “What a thought! I must be becoming paranoid.

  “One thing for sure,” Elizabeth assessed, feeling better, “if she turns up, I can outride her. That is a given. Gypsy and I will take off over the fields and jump her fences.” That thought squarely in her mind, Elizabeth eased through the minimal opening and ventured over to the battered truck.

  Remnants of hay and tobacco littered the floor, their familiar odor permeating Elizabeth's nostrils. She breathed deeply, imbuing her whole self with the strong sensual sense of an undisclosed murder. Elizabeth then returned back outside to Gypsy, glanced in all directions and retrieved her riding gloves from her small saddle bag. She didn't want to be the one to leave fingerprints on a potential murder weapon. “See,” she said, “all those murder mysteries have taught me something: do not leave your prints at the scene of a crime.”

  Back inside the barn, Elizabeth examined the truck with great perseverance and care. There were definite blood stains on the front bumper and the front fender on the passenger side of the truck and possibly the tires.

  Elizabeth walked back to the door and peeked out. Claire was so devious; Elizabeth just could not be sure she was in New York City. Elizabeth remembered that she had told no one where she was going. “I won't do that again,” she said. “In fact today I could have brought Fitz.”

  Once again comfortable that Claire was not lurking around the corner, Elizabeth obtained a small cellophane bag and a pocket knife from the saddlebag. She scraped a small sampling of the blood spatter into the bag. Returning to the saddle bag a third time, she secured a strip of adhesive tape to the bag and labeled it, only then placing everything back into the pouch.

  “I certainly feel better out here in the open, beside you, my beauty,” Elizabeth whispered to Gypsy, patting the horse's neck and giving her a peppermint. “We're almost finished, Gal.”

  Elizabeth wondered at Claire's disdain for the evidence so apparent on the truck. However, she was confident Claire would dispose of it prior to the publication of her tell-all novel. Claire was a lot of things, but one of them was not suicidal. Claire might be using actual events from her own distorted life, but Elizabeth was certain she was using her imagination and literary prowess also. Claire did not see herself as a raving maniac, and she certainly would not want to be caught. Elizabeth was confident that Claire, unlike her frightening heroine, expected her fame and renown to come from publication of the literary masterpiece, not some infamous high profile trial. Hence Elizabeth was satisfied to have had such a successful foray, pre-the-inevitable-car-wash-down.