It was the little cuckoo clock he was working on, and I saw that the back was open. I made no sound until he fumbled inside, drew out a folded slip of paper, and started to open it.
Then, still ready to run, I spoke to him sharply. “You’d better give me that.”
He whirled to stare at me, but it took him no more than a moment to recover from his surprise.
“Snoopy, aren’t you, Miss Hamilton?”
“Exactly what are you?”
“I’m only obeying orders. Miss Arlen told me to come down here and bring her what was in the clock. So that’s what I’m going to do. But now that you’re here, we might as well have a look together.”
Before I could stop him, Ralph opened the slip and read the penned words aloud:
“‘Darling, I’ll see you on the ninth in Acapulco.’”
Nothing earthshaking. Only a lovers’ rendezvous.
“What do you suppose they were up to in Acapulco?” The leer in Ralph’s voice was exaggerated. “She must have been quite a gal in her day.”
I couldn’t be sure whether he’d really come to look for the note because Monica had sent him, or because he was curious on his own. In any case, the time had come to retreat. The house was too empty down here with just Ralph and me.
“You’d better take her the note,” I said. “I’ll check with Monica later about this.”
He stopped grinning and scowled at me. I waited for no further response, but fled upstairs, and heard his laughter ringing after me. He really did enjoy scaring people.
In our room I stood looking down at my sleeping son. The soft curve of his cheek, the way damp locks clung to his forehead, the dewy look of young skin—all wrenched at my heart. I bent to kiss his cheek lightly, and then sat down to talk to myself at the typewriter.
There were things I wanted to set down about Monica. Not so much the new facts I’d collected as my new feelings toward her. Today we’d moved a little closer together, and I had glimpsed her with her defenses down. The words Saxon had written so many years ago tucked into the back of a clock saddened me all over again.
I knew one thing. On the night of the benefit I would stay as close to Monica as I could. If she wanted support from me, I would give it. It was possible that I could find a new affection for the real woman, and forget my fantasies of the past. In spite of all that was devious about her, in spite of the terrible things she had done, she was trying now in her own way to face the past with something like honesty and courage. To these I could give my allegiance.
FOURTEEN
Unfortunately, Monica’s mood had changed completely by morning. I was up early, to be ready for Jason, and Keith and I were having breakfast when the call came. Once more it was an imperative summons.
I hurried upstairs and found her waiting, dressed in a flowing India print of saffron and black. She sat regally in a high-backed chair, and I knew at once that she was ready for fresh battle. Yesterday’s softening had been the mirage.
Annabella sat at her feet, on watch as usual, while the two Persians curled together asleep on a cushion. Apparently Ralph wasn’t up at this early hour, and we were alone.
“You’re not going to Idyllwild,” Monica announced the moment I came into the room. “I’ve just telephoned Saxon. I’ve told him that I don’t want you stirring up things that are better left alone, and he has agreed. He’ll let Alva know that we don’t want you bothering them.”
“Do you mind if I sit down?” I asked.
She waved carelessly, and I saw how bright her eyes were, how ready she was for a fight.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “You’ve already told me what happened to Peggy, so why are you concerned about my talking with Alva and Nicos?”
“They’re not my friends. Not anymore. I don’t want you to see them.”
“Because there’s more than you’ve told me?”
“That’s none of your business!”
“Maybe you’re right. I’m beginning to think that from your viewpoint none of this book is my business.”
“If you don’t want to write it my way, I’ll get someone else to do it. There are dozens of ghost writers who would jump at the chance.”
“I’m not a ghost writer. I can only write a story as I see it.”
She was fuming, but I wondered if she might also be bluffing a little. Perhaps I could bluff too.
“Then it’s settled,” I said. “If you won’t help, if you must keep blocking me, I’ll have to go ahead on my own. I’ll find the people who knew you in Hollywood. I can work from printed material too. Of course I won’t be able to write as good a book as I might with your help. And I won’t be able to check details with you. But I am going to write about Monica Arlen, one way or another, and I’m going to Idyllwild today.”
I started for the door, hoping she would stop me. When she let me go, I returned to breakfast feeling both defeated and strangely freed. The threat of Monica’s censorship had hung over me from the first. I didn’t want to write what the trade called an “authorized” biography. I had to go my own way, or not do this book at all. Not that I meant to be unkind or merciless. Hatchet writing wasn’t my thing. But I didn’t want to write something colored by Monica’s own rosy self-deceptions. Yesterday she had spoken to me frankly, and those confidences were not ones I would betray. Nevertheless, even though I might censor my own words, I first had to know as much as I could. So Alva was an important link.
Linda looked up as I rejoined her and Keith at the table. “You’re not going to Idyllwild, are you?”
So she was in on this too. “I haven’t changed my plans,” I told her quietly.
I was just finishing my coffee when Monica swept into the room in her saffron silk, her hair freshly brushed, and a touch of coral on her lips.
“We were both too hasty, don’t you think, Carol dear?” she said as she sat down at the table.
I didn’t mean to be beguiled as easily as I had been yesterday. She had something up her sleeve, and I waited for her to go on.
When she spoke, it was to Keith. “Since your mother plans to be away this morning, perhaps you can spend some time with me, young man. After all, you’re my nephew, a few times removed, and we ought to get better acquainted. I’ve some interesting things I’d like to show you.”
Keith was still in awe of Monica, and he looked at me, questioning and uncertain. I decided to accept her offer at face value. Perhaps she was having second thoughts about the book, and this was a way of making an overture.
“That should be fun,” I said to Keith.
“I’ve collected a good many things in my travels,” she went on, “and I’d like to show you some of them. Of course there are still treasures packed away in my Beverly Hills house, and I’ll need to sort them out one of these days before I sell the place. Perhaps you and your mother can go there with me. I haven’t seen Cadenza for years, but it’s a fascinating house, and I think you’d like it. But today I’ll just show you some of what I have here.”
She gave me a sudden smile, and I knew she wouldn’t mention who it was that had made an offer to buy her house. Her reversal of moods didn’t reassure me, since I knew she was still up to something, but at least she would entertain Keith while I was gone.
When he’d finished breakfast, Monica took him off with her, leaving me with a bright, slightly malicious smile.
Linda sighed, looking after her. “You’ve really upset her this morning, Carol.”
“She seems to rally very well. Maybe you’ve kept her packed in cotton batting too long.”
Linda glowered a bit, but said nothing.
I was ready to leave, and as soon as Jason arrived, I hurried out to the car, eager to be on my way. Just as I was getting in, Linda came running from the house.
“Telephone call for you, Carol. It’s Alva Leonidas.”
So here it came! I went inside and picked up the phone. “I’m sorry, Miss Hamilton …” Alva’s voice was light, a little breathless. “N
icos and I won’t be able to see you after all today. We’ve a big luncheon party coming here, and we’ll be tied up for hours. Perhaps some other time.”
I knew there wouldn’t be another time. Monica, via Saxon, had taken care of that. No wonder Monica had been willing to distract Keith, playing her games, because she knew I wouldn’t be going anywhere anyway, and she needn’t take him for long. Now I would have to play a game of my own.
I told Alva I was sorry, and went back to the car, where Linda was waiting, talking with her brother. When she turned with a question, I shrugged.
“It was nothing. Just a word about when we should be there. We’d better get started right away.”
Linda looked bewildered, but I smiled at her and waved from the car window as we left the terrace. Not until we’d driven through the gate at the bottom, did I tell Jason what had happened.
“If you’re willing, I want to go,” I finished. “I can’t let Monica get away with this, or it will be impossible to write the book my way. I’ll just have to play it by ear with Alva and Nicos when we get there, and hope I can talk with them. I wonder what Monica said to Saxon to change his mind?”
“All right—we’ll go,” Jason agreed, but he sounded curt and I had the quick impression that he had removed himself to some distant mental place this morning.
I’d been looking forward to being with him again, perhaps more than I’d admitted to myself, and his new remoteness depressed me further. This wasn’t going to be an easy day.
We followed Palm Canyon Drive with silence growing between us, and I tried to give my attention to our route. All through this area there seemed to be numerous places called “palms,” “springs,” “desert,” and “canyon,” with combinations and variations that completely confused the newcomer.
At Palm Desert, near the southern end of the San Jacinto range, the Palms-to-Pines highway began, and we left the valley floor to follow a road that wound toward the crest.
For the first time, Jason offered a terse comment. “We’re taking the long way around, so you can see more of the country.”
As we climbed, leaving towns and desert below, the vegetation changed and I found that I could identify some of the growth, both because of books I’d read and because of Mrs. Johnson, who had so long ago filled my head with her own desert memories.
“I can tell the creosote,” I said. “And I think that’s cheesebush and dyeweed growing out there.”
Later these gave way to larger plants like juniper and scrub oak, which grew at a higher elevation.
“How do you know these plants?” Jason asked, “Have you been boning up?”
“A little. Linda loaned me a book about the valley. Mostly, though, I remember the stories Mrs. Johnson used to tell me. She loved the Southwest, and she made me want to see it. She could sketch a little and she used to draw pictures for me in pencil. That was the best place I lived in as a child. When she moved away and I went to someone else, I kept all her drawings—a lot of them of plants and animals. But I don’t really know anything—I’m just guessing and remembering.”
“You’re doing all right,” Jason said gently.
His change of tone put me on guard. I didn’t want him to be sorry for me because of foster homes in my background, and I became as quiet as he had been.
When the car had climbed fairly high, we stopped at a point where we could look east over the entire Coachella Valley—an enormous sandy stretch, broken here and there by oases, where little towns clustered. Mostly there was sand, rimmed in on the far horizon by brown mountains. I remembered the diorama at the museum. It had indeed been true to life.
When we drove on and reached the crest, Jason parked again, and we followed a path on foot to a lookout point, from which we could see the San Bernardinos. Plumes of smoke rose above them in ominous columns. I’d heard on the radio of new brush fires burning near Los Angeles.
“It’s such beautiful, terrible country,” I said.
Jason stared off at the smoke, lost in his own moody thoughts. I was sharply aware of him beside me, his sun-streaked hair blowing over a tanned forehead, his look concentrated more on something inner, than on the scene before us.
“You’re troubled this morning,” I ventured. “Has anything happened?”
He took a folded sheet from his pocket and held it out to me. “I received this from my daughter yesterday.”
I took the paper, sensing his pain. For a child nearly seven years old, Gwen’s letters were well-formed, and she expressed herself briefly and clearly: Dear Daddy, please come and get me. I want to come home. Words to wrench the heart.
“I’ve been too full of my own troubles,” I said. “I’m sorry. Can you tell where it was mailed?”
“The postmark was a small town in Arizona, but I have no idea whether they’re staying there, or just passing through. She must have known that her mother wouldn’t let her write to me, because the envelope was addressed in an adult hand. Some kind person must have seen her need and mailed it for her.”
“Is there any way to follow it up?”
“I’ve sent the envelope to the detectives I’ve hired. It’s at least an indication of where they’ve been recently. The fact that the law’s on my side doesn’t help as long as they keep moving. The police only say that if I can find them, they’ll slap on a court order good within the state. There’s a national law coming, but that doesn’t help much now. Or protect you. Though it may be a deterrent to others who try to snatch their children.”
How well I knew. And no comfort existed for him except to recover his daughter. I could only murmur how sorry I was.
Perhaps he sensed something of the feeling I couldn’t put into words, for he held my hand for a moment as he took the note, and his own words had a rueful sound.
“When I first heard about you from Linda, I sided against you, Carol. I’ve already told you that. Because you were a mother holding your child away from his father. But it isn’t as simple as that, is it? Everything depends on the individual case. We seem to be parents in the same boat.”
More than anything at that moment I wanted to turn my palm in his and clasp his fingers, cling to the lifeline of his warm brown hand. Perhaps he sensed the sudden surge of need in me, for he let me go abruptly and turned to leave. The rejection was slight, but it hurt. Not that I blamed him. We’d both been burned very badly, and he was no more given to trusting than I.
“Let’s get back to the car,” he said, and I went with him in silence. The road had leveled and we passed a mountain lake before turning north. Now the pines—ponderosa and white fir and cedar—grew cathedral tall. The sight was a contrast after the dead browns of sand and rock. Pines, instead of palm trees! Yet, strangely, I missed the desert, to which I was finding an affinity. Or perhaps the affinity was also to the man.
Jason, of course, knew about everything that grew, every tree and plant—and about the animals as well. Assured now of my interest, he was willing to talk about topics that opened no threatening quicksand under our feet. In spite of the fact that I liked him very much, and wanted to know him better, I was on guard too. This time I must be very careful of my emotions, so they wouldn’t get out of hand. The thought made me smile to myself. When had I ever managed such caution?
Now, as we followed the top of the San Jacinto range through parklands, an anxiety I’d been holding away moved in again to occupy me. Ever since Owen had appeared at Smoke Tree House, Monica’s “fortress” had grown less safe. Once he’d made his connection with her, his attack could get in almost anywhere. Perhaps even through Linda? I didn’t think his reach could touch Idyllwild as yet—though I wasn’t even sure of that. I could believe that both Linda and Monica would protect Keith. But what about me? If Owen knew of my trip to the mountains, how vulnerable might I become?
It was late in the day to think of that, and probably foolish anyway. Jason was with me, and I was safe enough. I mustn’t let my too ready fears and vivid imagination make me a prisoner.
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We traveled now through the beautiful green belt high above the desert. Small communities and isolated cabins offered desert-dwellers an escape from summer heat, as well as skiing in winter. Yet whatever was built up here also had to weather storms, and many of the houses were built in the A-frame style, with steep roofs to shed the snow.
Idyllwild was a small mountain town tucked in among the pines. Jason had been to the Lindos, and knew the way, turning off the main road as it ran through a rustic business section. The building perched on a ledge halfway up a steep hillside. Nicos Leonidas, as Jason told me, had come originally from the Isle of Rhodes, and he’d named his inn rather whimsically after Athena’s temple on the rocky cliffs of that Greek island.
My uneasy anticipation grew. I still had no idea what I might be getting into by coming here against the wish of these people, or how I was to persuade them to talk to me.
The Lindos was alpine brown, and looked like anything but a Greek temple, built low and wide, with an encircling porch glassed in on three sides, forming the main dining area. Wide steps led up to double screen doors, and when Jason had parked the car, we got out and climbed toward the entrance.
Sitting on the top step, smoking a pipe and watching our approach, was Wally Davis. All my vague self-warnings began to clamor through me at once.
He stood as we came up the steps. “Hi,” he said, sounding surly. An unwilling messenger? “I’ve made a lunch reservation for you, since you decided to pay no attention to Alva and come up anyway. I’d better warn you that you’re not exactly welcome. You won’t get what you want, Miss—uh—Hamilton.”
So Wally had taken sides against me. With whom, and why?
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