Since I could think better with a pencil in my fingers, I usually made my notes in longhand, and I’d invented my own system of abbreviation that only I could read.
When my writing hand began to cramp and my eyes blurred, I put my books and papers away and went through Linda’s office to an open terrace door. There were two alarm systems in the house, and Linda had taken care of setting the one that covered Monica’s end of the house. She had left the alarm off at this end, and I knew how to set it when I was ready for bed. So the door was still open to the cool night air. There were no guards up here, but only at the lower gate that opened onto the road.
As I looked out, I saw in surprise that someone occupied the lighted terrace at night. A man sat on the wall, silhouetted against the starlit view beyond.
Ralph? But Ralph was in Beverly Hills. He had phoned today from Monica’s house, and talked to Linda. In spite of Monica’s growing concern that Owen meant to back out, Linda was pushing the project of emptying the house. It must be sold—if not to Owen, then for a lesser sum to someone else, and Ralph might as well do some of the physical work of packing.
I stood in the doorway, startled and uncertain. Except for Keith and me, this end of the house was supposed to be empty. Linda had moved into Monica’s apartment while Ralph was away, and of course Helsa went home after dinner. I had only to reach for the key to the alarm system, and with the doors open, I could set it off. But first I had to know who was out there, and I called.
The man left the wall and came across the terrace. “Hello, Carol,” he said softly.
It was Wally Davis, and I didn’t feel reassured. “How did you get here? I didn’t hear a car.”
“I walked up,” he said. “The guards down at the gate know me, and Linda has left word that I can come in whenever I like. I didn’t want to wake the house by driving up the road.”
“I’ll call Linda,” I said. “She’s with Monica tonight, and I suppose they’re both asleep by now.”
“No, don’t call her. I didn’t come up to see anyone. I was feeling restless and uneasy. So I drove to the gate and walked up to make sure everything was all right. Since what happened to Saxon …”
What he was saying sounded reasonable, and he seemed less bouncy and excitable, less pushy than usual. When he put off the veneer of excessive exuberance, he could be quite likable.
“Did Linda tell you?” I asked. “Monica thinks something is going to happen to her.”
“Yes, I know. Maybe she’s right.” Then he shook his head despairingly. “I don’t mean that. Linda’s got me doing it too. But someone is around who shot Saxon. Sax was a secretive man, and he had his own fears and concerns—apparently justified. But he didn’t talk to me about them, or, I think, to anyone else. I understand you’re working hard on the book about them both?”
“I’m trying to get it organized. I’m not ready to write yet.”
“This may be a more colorful book than you expected. Now they’ll buy it for the murder alone.”
“If anyone buys it, I hope it will be because I’ve done justice to both Monica Arlen and Saxon Scott. I’m not interested in the sensational.”
“You don’t need to be. There’s no way to keep it out of an account of their lives. If you write about either of them, it will be there. Beginning with whatever it was they covered up when Peggy Smith died.”
“What do you know about that?”
“Linda’s told me.”
“Did Saxon ever talk to you about that time?”
“Once. He said he’d made the worst mistake of his life, and that he’d spend the rest of his life paying for it.”
“Because of his affair with Peggy Smith?”
“So you are interested in the sensational?”
Wally could get under my skin, whether he was being jolly and affable, or pricking me with verbal pins.
“I’m interested in finding out the truth,” I said.
“Ah, truth!” He began to walk up and down the terrace, flapping his arms. Then he paused to grin at me. “Don’t worry—I won’t expound on the subject of truth at this hour! Do you want to know why I came up here tonight?”
I waited, and when he went on he wasn’t grinning. “I came to pay a call on Ralph.”
“He’s at Cadenza.”
“I know. That’s why I came. I didn’t know if I could get past the house alarm system, but luckily you were working late. So I went up to Ralph’s room.”
“To Ralph’s room! You had no business coming inside the house without letting Linda know!” This argument might be reasonable with anyone else, but Wally wasn’t likely to be bound by convention.
“Let me ask you something,” he said. “You know about Ralph’s collection of firearms?”
I nodded.
“Did you know it’s gone? He’s taken every one of those guns down and stashed them someplace else.”
“I’m sure he has licenses for them.”
“No doubt. But why are they gone—and where?”
“Why does this worry you?”
His cocky air returned. “Oh, no reason at all. Just idle curiosity.”
“You mean you’d do something that outrageous—sneaking in the house on your own on a mere whim?”
He stared at me for a moment—soberly. “No, Carol, I don’t expect you to swallow that. I do have Linda’s interest in mind, remember. I wanted to know about those guns, and I knew she wouldn’t let me search.”
“But I don’t understand why—”
“Don’t try to. I got what I came for, so I’ll leave now. It might be better if you don’t mention this to Linda.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“Okay. Do as you like. I understand Jason is taking Keith and you up the tramway tomorrow. Have fun.” His salute was mocking as he left the terrace.
I went inside, closing doors and windows, setting the alarm. Then I climbed the stairs and looked into Ralph’s room. Wally was right. The collection of firearms, new and antique, had been removed from the walls. The fact seemed ominous, though I had no idea what it meant.
Back in my room I stood looking down at my sleeping son. Tomorrow I would see to it that he’d have a wonderful time. He was excited about the trip, and I knew that Jason would make it live up to his expectations. I hoped the day would go well between Jason and me too. So much of the time now there was an underlying uncertainty in me about Jason. Not about myself—not anymore.
In the morning we drove north on Palm Canyon, curving around the mountain to the straight-lined road that rose steeply to the foot of Mt. San Jacinto. The Valley Station, where the tram started, was 2,820 feet above sea level, and there would be another rise of nearly 6,000 feet to the top.
When Jason had parked the car, we climbed wide steps to the lower building. Jason carried the picnic basket that Helsa had packed, so that we could have lunch in the pine grove on top of the mountain. Trams ran frequently, and we could return whenever we pleased.
It felt wonderful to be free of Smoke Tree House and out in the open with only Jason and my son. This morning Jason seemed more relaxed than I’d seen him in a long time, and easier to be with. It always pleased me to see how well he got on with Keith, who liked and trusted him. Both Ralph and Jason were helping Keith to overcome his suspicion toward men. That, at least, I must give Ralph credit for.
We’d caught the first car up the mountain and we stood at the front in order to watch the precipitous rise up the canyon. The blue and white car filled quickly and we started up, with Keith wildly excited by the adventure. The steep lift upward was spectacular. Tramway towers, connected by long ribbons of cable, had been built straight up Chino Canyon, with sharp rock cliffs rising on either side. Far above the gorge we could glimpse the Mountain Station that was our goal at the top. It would take about fifteen minutes to go up, and while the car was never more than eight hundred feet above the floor of the canyon, the ground seemed farther away as we rose, because of those towering cliffs. As our
elevation increased, the vegetation that seemed to grow out of sheer rock changed in character.
“It’s much colder and wetter at the top,” Jason said, “so desert plants won’t grow up there. And the high elevation growth doesn’t take root below. So this is a special place where you can see plants at different levels all the way up—depending on the climate of each level.”
As we reached the five towers in turn, our suspended car would teeter for a moment, and then move upward again, with Keith squealing over the slight disruption to our balance. Sheer granite pinnacles seemed very close as we neared the top, and looking backward through rear windows, we could see the canyon and all of the Coachella Valley falling away below.
“Mom, look!” Keith was pointing ahead, and I saw a wide fall of ice encasing the lip of the mountain, where water had spilled. From desert to ice in a few minutes’ time!
The building at the top housed a restaurant and seating areas, but we didn’t linger inside. Jason took us first to a lookout point where we could see the entire spread of the valley with its distant rimming of mountains. On a morning so marvelously clear, we really could see forever. Jason pointed out the San Andreas Fault, where it struck its own line of demarcation across the desert—a natural dividing line where barren sand met darker soil.
Up here in the clear, cool, pine-scented air, we seemed far removed from all that troubled us in the world below, and I wanted to savor every moment with Keith and Jason. For this little while I could feel safe and carefree.
When we could absorb no more of the view, we turned to the heart of the mountain, where tall Jeffrey pines filled a steep-sided, hidden valley. Here the pine bark smelled strongly like vanilla. Railed cement walks led in a steep zigzag to a grove below, where rustic tables offered pleasant picnicking. Keith, finding this freedom heady, ran ahead down the walk. He’d been penned in for so long, and I had no wish to keep him on any tight leash. Few people were about at this early hour, and those in our car had dispersed in different directions—some with backpacks for a day of hiking.
Lower on the walk, Keith shouted, pointing upward. “Look, Mom—a real cave over there! Ralph told me there was one up here. Can I climb up to it?”
“Later,” I said. “We’ll see.”
We left our basket on a table, and roamed among tall pines. The trees were well spaced, so we could see out between them. Yet in this little pocket of a valley at the top of the mountain, where no distant view was visible, I had no disturbing sense of enclosure.
A stream ran among the trees, and Keith found a small bridge he could run across, his feet pounding on the planks. All around, rocky hillsides cupped us in, and the Mountain Station overlooked us far above. We could see straight up through dark branches to where an intensely blue sky sent morning sunlight slanting down in shimmering bands of gold.
While Keith explored the bank of the stream, Jason and I sat on a boulder and watched. It seemed desecration to disturb this lovely place, but what had been happening at the house must be faced, and I couldn’t put unpleasantness off forever. So while we had these moments alone, I plunged in and told Jason of Monica’s new aberration.
Jason was still more concerned about Linda than about Monica. He was deeply worried over the way his sister had been caught up in what he felt was the dangerous make-believe of Smoke Tree House.
“Saxon’s death wasn’t make-believe,” I said.
“Yet it must have been some sort of strange fantasy that led to it. Someone imagining Saxon as a threat. I wish Linda would marry Wally, if she’s going to, and move away. She’s letting her own life slip by, and it’s growing harder for her to leave, as Monica becomes more dependent upon her. Now your book ties her there all the more.”
“I want to write it,” I told him quietly.
“I know. I might feel a little better if the sheriff would turn up a lead in Saxon’s death. I wish Linda hadn’t gone to see him that day.”
“But Owen saw him alive after she left.” I heard the hollowness in my own words. Who knew what Owen might say or do, if it served his purpose? Or if he became angry enough to lie.
I asked Jason about Gwen, and he told me of another lead he’d received, though it hadn’t been solid enough to follow at the moment. The awful thing was that the entire country was available to them, and Gwen and her mother could cross any state line they chose.
The FBI had kept a hands-off policy until now. “They’ve been more interested in snatched cars than snatched children,” Jason said. “Even when kidnapping parents have been caught, it’s only meant a contempt of court charge. But there’s a new law that will make it a felony and the FBI will come into such searches actively. This may even stop a few parents from making that first move. Just the same, people who want to disappear usually can, and children grow up all too quickly.”
Yes, I thought. If it took him years to find Gwen, she might no longer recognize him, and she would certainly have been prejudiced against him.
I shivered and looked around for my son. He was no longer by the stream, and I jumped down from the rock. “Where’s Keith? Jason, do you see him?”
He was nowhere in view, though I was sure no one could have come into that grove without our being aware of the fact. I called for him, trying not to feel foolishly frantic. Strangely, there were no echoes up here. Perhaps the pines absorbed sound, so my voice had a flat ring. Nevertheless, Keith heard me and answered from a distance. When I looked upward in relief, I saw him high above us on the zigzag path, climbing toward the cave he’d noticed earlier. His red jacket stood out vividly against the pines, and he waved at us, laughing and mischievous.
“Come and find me!” he called. “Up on top!”
“Keith! Don’t go up there alone!” I shouted.
He only laughed again and ran on up the path.
Jason and I started after him, but it was some distance to the top, and his young legs had a good start. When we reached the entrance to the building above, Keith was nowhere in sight.
From the first, I was frightened, though Jason pointed out that he could be anywhere at all, teasing us. As soon as he got hungry he’d come out and join us, with no real idea of the fright he’d caused me.
When our shouting brought no response, however, we returned to the building and asked questions of ticket sellers and other attendants; even of people who had been out on the mountain. No one had seen a small boy in a red jacket.
The tramway authorities pointed out that with an entire mountain to roam, Keith could have gone in any direction, and it was possible that he had fallen and hurt himself. Now a real search began. The forest rangers were notified, a few hikers enlisted, and the nearby woods and mountain were combed. With no result at all.
Hours later, we found a woman who remembered Keith’s red jacket and claimed that she’d seen a little boy getting into a car with a man up near the road. She couldn’t remember what the man looked like, or the make or color of the car. She had noticed Keith and could describe him clearly.
I knew almost from the beginning that the police wouldn’t find my son. There was only one answer. Owen Barclay had reached out across a continent and scooped him up.
TWENTY-ONE
During the next few days a full alarm went out—with no results at all. If this were an “ordinary” kidnapping, then all authorities would be interested. On the other hand, if Keith’s father was behind it, there could be a backing off. So I said little about Owen, and let the general alarm go out. The unknown man in the unknown car had vanished into anonymity. All he had to do was remove Keith’s red jacket and become less conspicuous at once. We couldn’t even tell which route they’d taken along the top of the mountain.
Jason was with me as often as he could be, and now we had a mutual grief in common. Most of all, I was haunted by the thought of Keith’s terror. His father would inflict on him all the fury he felt toward me. Not only for the past, but because of what had happened at Saxon’s. That would be something he would never forg
et or forgive—and I would be to blame.
My anxiety was made all the more intense by a state of helplessness. My imagination worked overtime, creating pictures of Owen and Keith that tortured me. I ate little and slept less.
One thing I did was to put through a call to Owen in New York. I was unable to reach him, since no one would tell me where he was. And that alarmed me even more.
Sometimes I stood in our room at Smoke Tree House and touched Keith’s clothes, his toys and games that waited for him so innocently. And when I could stand the pain no longer, I drove myself into futile action. Christmas was a week away, and I wrapped packages feverishly, as though this would assure that my son would be here to open them.
Linda tried to be helpful. She took messages for me and offered vague counseling, but I felt farther away from her than ever. Her obsession was with Monica Arlen, and nothing else mattered enough to her as long as she felt that Monica might be in danger—even if it was only from herself.
Strangely enough, it was Monica who finally took me in hand. One morning I climbed up to the garden, just to be out in the sun and open air. I was sitting on the marble bench where the stone nymph stood in a tangle of neglected growth nearby when Monica joined me.
This morning she wore an old pair of slacks, a tan shirt, and scuffed loafers. Her hair was smoothly combed, her face clean of makeup, so she looked like the woman she was—as though she’d stopped pretending. At least her fear of unknown disaster had lessened.
For a few moments she said nothing, staring past me at the stone nymph. When she spoke, she directed my attention to the little statue with the fawn at its feet.
“I can remember when Peggy carved that,” she said. “I knew by then that she was foolishly in love with Saxon. Yet she threw herself into the work of carving that piece, and I recall something she said at the time. A cliché, of course, but very true. She said, ‘Work is the only cure, the only force that heals.’”
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