Under the Skin

by Vicki Lane

  This was ridiculous. I couldn’t pretend not to know who it was. Taking a deep breath, I turned and summoned up a polite smile.

  “Mr.… Mr. Tyler? I thought I recognized your voice. It’s been quite a while.”

  Did his eyes seem to burn into mine? Why was I suddenly so exquisitely aware of this dark-eyed preacher from the Church of Jesus Love Anointed—the snake-handling church in Tennessee?

  I couldn’t help making a quick inventory of his shopping cart—canned biscuits, Treet meat, a bunch of bananas, dried pinto beans, margarine, two loaves of Bunny bread, four pouches of chewing tobacco, a gallon of cherry vanilla ice cream, and a box of Little Debbies.

  He caught me looking. “Been doing some shopping for Daddy,” he said, his voice low and confidential as if we were sharing some secret. “They’s a widder woman in the next holler that brings him soup or a big pot of stew now and again, but Daddy, he’s a fool for them Little Debbies.”

  What was it in his sleepy-eyed gaze that had me tongue-tied and ransacking my brain for something innocuous to say?

  “Did I hear you say your father still has the trout farm?” I finally managed. “I keep meaning to go get some but—”

  “Ain’t nothing better than fresh trout,” Harice Tyler assured me. “You come on over this evening, Miz Goodweather, I’ll see you get treated right.”

  A nice change, I thought as I pushed the cart out to my car.

  And immediately wondered what, exactly, I’d meant. Trout, trout for supper—that would be a nice change, I told myself as I put the groceries into the back of the car. No need to hurry home—for once I’d remembered to bring a cooler with ice packs for the cold groceries—there’d be room for some trout …

  In the next row of cars, Harice Tyler was sauntering toward his truck, two bulging white plastic bags in each hand. Dark-haired, slim-hipped—what an older Elvis might have looked like if no one had ever told him about deep-fried peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches.

  Almost as if he’d heard my thoughts, Harice Tyler stopped, swiveled around, and fixed his gaze on me.

  “I’m on my way to Daddy’s place right now—you come along, Miz Goodweather, and I’ll fix you up. All the trout you want—it won’t take no time.”

  I could feel my face flush again, as if he’d just made an indecent proposal.

  “You remember how to get there, don’t you?” he persisted.

  It took me a minute to find my voice. Why did this man have this effect on me?

  “Yes, I do remember. But I—”

  “I thought that you would. You just come along if you’ve a mind—I got to get going afore this ice cream melts—Daddy asked for it special.”

  And I found myself following his truck out of the parking lot onto the road that led back to the bridge at Gudger’s Stand. By the time I got to the bridge, I told myself, I would have decided whether or not I really wanted trout for dinner. That’s all.

  IV~The DeVine Sisters

  The Mountain Park Hotel~May 9, 1887

  At the Mountain Park Hotel

  Hot Springs, North Carolina

  May 9, 1887

  My dear sister,

  Yours of the 29th ult. received three days ago. They tell me that such speedy mail service is still a nine days’ wonder here, the rail not having been laid till the year ’82.

  Pray, dear Nell, put yourself at ease as regards my health. The bracing mountain air, the health-giving baths, the sumptuous meals—these have all helped to heal my body. You would not credit the change that has been wrought. The pale, debilitated skeleton that you bade farewell at the train station has all but vanished and I am, for the most part, close to regaining my former strength.

  The other trouble—that melancholy, which has held me in its iron grip since the loss of my dearest Emmeline—while still a daily companion, has not now so strong a hold on my mind. I attribute this in part to the continuing solicitude of my friend Peavey and to my wonderful good fortune of having made the acquaintance of Miss Theodora DeVine.

  No, dear sister, rest assured, ’tis not a matter of the heart. I doubt I shall ever love again. It is that I have at last been able to communicate with my Emmy, to beg forgiveness for my harsh words on that fatal morning and to hear, in the sweet lisping tones I know so well, that she forgives me and is waiting on the other side.

  Miss DeVine is, you see, a medium—a bridge between our world and the next. And although she and her similarly gifted sister are here at the Mountain Park precisely to recuperate from their labors (for labor it is—Miss Theodora is quite wrung out at the end of a successful sitting), good Peavey (who is, by the by, fairly smitten with Miss Dorothea) prevailed upon the sisters to take mercy on me and vouchsafe me an interview with my lost Emmeline.

  Oh, Sister! Could you but have been one of the hand-clasp’d circle round the table in that darkened room; could you but have heard the beautiful young medium calling for the guide! Could you but have seen the pale trumpet floating before our astounded eyes, alight with an unearthly glow! Could you but have heard the voices of the departed speaking through it!

  My eyes overflow. My heart is too full to go on. Trust me, dear Nell, to relate the story fully on my return and believe me to be—

  Your loving brother,

  Roddy

  “I believe that our fish is well and truly hooked, my dears.”

  Lorenzo refolded the creamy pages and replaced them in the envelope, taking care that the resealing of the flap should leave no traces.

  Theodora extended a graceful hand and studied her narrow bare wrist. “Indeed, I can almost see that lovely bracelet now.” The sleeve of her deep amethyst robe fell back to her elbow as she made a regal gesture in the air. A thought seemed to strike her and she frowned.

  “Renzo,” she said, lowering her hand. “Need we be in a great hurry to dispose of the bracelet?” Her voice was light and cajoling. “For one thing, who would buy it in this backwater? And for another, I should very much like to wear it on tour this winter—think how effectively it would catch the light onstage. Paste jewels are all very well but—”

  “You don’t have it yet, Theo, so you can stop playing the great lady.” Dorothea looked up from the wispy garment she was hemming with tiny even stitches. “Counting your chickens before they hatch is dangerous—as you should know. Besides, it’s one thing to take a little gift of money in return for bringing comfort to the bereaved. What you and Renzo are contemplating is more akin to theft—”

  “Higher stakes require higher risks.” The elegant Lorenzo’s tone was stern and reproving.

  He sauntered over to the window seat and leaned down to inspect Dorothea’s needlework. “Just as the tangible evidence afforded by this cherubic nightshirt will no doubt give some bereaved mother a lasting solace—and may I say that those slits for the putative infant wings are an especially nice touch—would it not bring comfort to poor Harris if he could believe that his late lamented Emmeline accepted the jeweled token of his apology and that its earthly brilliance would grace her heavenly wrist through all eternity?”

  He leaned lower still, till his mustachioed face touched Dorothea’s hair. “Perhaps we should discuss this later. I’m sure I can win you to my point of view.” He drew in a deep breath, savoring the scent of her hair. “Ah, Dodo, I feel the most unbrotherly affections on the rise. Your—”

  Laughing, the green-clad young woman brandished the almost invisible needle she held in the direction of Lorenzo’s crotch.

  “Take care, Renzo, lest I prick those rampant affections in the—”

  A clatter of knocking on the sitting room door interrupted the foolery and the two women glanced at one another. With silent accord the sisters rose and hurried to their bedchamber, leaving Lorenzo to answer the door.

  “Express letter for Mr. Lorenzo DeVine.”

  The voice was young—betrayed by an adolescent crack on the second syllable—and a pronounced twang hinted at the local origin of the speaker.

&
nbsp; Feeling in his pocket for a coin, Lorenzo strode to the door. He opened it, received the missive, and silently tipped the messenger, closing the door firmly as the boy struggled to express his appreciation.

  Carrying the bulky envelope over to the window seat, Lorenzo took a small mother-of-pearl-sided penknife from his trousers pocket and slit open the thick brown envelope. He extricated the contents—a single folded sheet and a sheaf of newspaper clippings.

  He was frowning at the contents of the letter when Dorothea emerged from her room.

  “Has Murchinson secured another engagement for us? I had thought that our fall schedule was already tight-packed. And what are these? More reviews from the Charleston engagement?”

  Laughing, she picked up the topmost paper—the front page of The Charleston Courier—but the laugh died as she saw the headline. Quickly she scanned the first few lines of the story, and then glanced at the engraving illustrating the article.

  Her eyes widened and a choked sob escaped her lips. Shaking her head in negation, Dorothea thrust the page at her companion.

  “Renzo, this isn’t our Mrs. Waverly, surely? Please—”

  He looked at her a long moment before nodding. “I’m afraid it must be, Doe. But—”

  He broke off his attempt at reassurance as he saw Dorothea sway. At once he was on his feet, hands outstretched to assist her but too late—uttering a despairing little cry, she had slumped to the carpet in a faint.

  NOTE FROM THOS. C. MURCHINSON

  THEATRICAL AND BOOKING AGENT

  Here’s a hell of a thing, DeVine. All Charleston was singing the praises of your sisters and clamoring for a return engagement at the earliest possible date. I’d secured some very favorable terms for a suite at the best hotel—Theodora let me know pretty sharply that the boardinghouse wasn’t up to her high standards. The girl has a short memory, is all I can say.

  But now that’s neither here nor there. Here’s one of your recent clients—a grieving mother—gone and hanged herself. You can see for yourself in the clippings I enclose. “Distraught with grief when the comfort of communication with her departed child is revealed to be nothing more than a heartless hoax—”

  “Angelic garment ‘materialized’ from the other side proves of earthly origin.”

  “I done found it on the floor in their rooms where it had fell behind a table. I put it back in Miss Dorrythea’s workbasket. I knowed it wuz hers for they wuz more of the same fine cloth folded up in there.” Testimony of Negro chambermaid. “I wondered whuffo she had made them slits there on the back.”

  Read it for yourself, DeVine. Of course Charleston is out in the future—the whole southern seaboard is likely out. And in these days with communication as rapid as it is, you might consider a change of name or relocation to the West Coast.

  Yours, etc.

  TCM P.S. My friend RB tells me there was some talk in the taverns of Charleston of tar and feathers! In all likelihood, he exaggerated. Still, a word to the wise … P.P.S. Damn and blast that careless sister of yours! I am at a stand as to where to place your act this fall.

  Chapter 12

  Mrs. Robinson? Mr. Hawkins?

  Thursday, May 17

  There’s no sign of any Hummer; I think it would be safe for you to sit up now.”

  Phillip glanced across at his passenger, slouched low in her seat. A bright green scarf covered her hair and big goggle-like dark glasses hid her eyes. Damned if she doesn’t look like some weird bug, he thought and fought back the grin that was starting to spread over his face.

  “Are you positive?” Gloria inched a little higher and peered cautiously up and down the almost deserted highway. “Aren’t we there yet? That sign said that it was only fourteen miles to Hot Springs. It’s been almost a half hour.”

  “This isn’t Florida, Gloria. Mountain miles are different.”

  The bug eyes turned and fixed him in their black lenses. “Phil, I know for a fact that’s not true. And, by the way, I am not a dumb blonde, whatever my sister may have told you.”

  He suppressed another smile. “All I meant is that you can’t make the kind of time on a twisting mountain road that you can on a sixty-five-miles-per-hour highway. I’ve noticed you Florida people always seem to think that twenty miles means twenty minutes.”

  Gloria sighed and looked away. “I guess I do think that way. I just can’t quite get used to how long it takes to get anywhere up here—at home almost everything is five or ten minutes away.”

  Was that a note of wistfulness in her voice? he wondered. She was gazing out the window at the wooded mountain slopes flashing by.

  “See that overhead bridge up ahead? That’s the AT—the Appalachian Trail.” He pointed at the footbridge spanning the highway. “It runs through Hot Springs—we’re almost there.”

  He had awakened earlier from a blissful sleep and stumbled blinking into the kitchen in search of food, only to find that Elizabeth was gone and Gloria was in the living room—with a pile of luggage waiting by the door.

  “I decided that I can’t sleep in that room another night.” Her tone of voice said that this was not a matter for discussion. “Knowing that creature was there—well, I’m sure you understand, Phil. Anyhoo, I called the Mountain Magnolia again and fortunately they had a room free tonight. If Lizzy hadn’t slammed out of here in such a hurry to go to the grocery, she could have run me over but—”

  Still stupid from the unaccustomed daytime nap, he had rubbed his eyes and offered to take her and her suitcases down to her car.

  “Oh, no—I need a ride to Hot Springs, Phil. Couldn’t you do that for me? I thought it would be best not to take the Mini because the Eyebrow is on the lookout for it. And if he comes back and sees it, he’ll think I’m still here.”

  Really, it had been worth the aggravation, Phillip thought as he followed the innkeeper and Gloria up the stairs of the big Victorian house. Get Gloria away from the farm for a while and maybe Lizabeth would stop acting so strange. A little normal, quiet time together would do it. There would be a Gloria-free week ahead in which they could restore the harmony they had enjoyed till so recently. He would happily have toted twice as many suitcases up twice as many stairs if he could have the old sweet-tempered, easygoing Elizabeth back.

  “And this is the Rose Room,” the innkeeper announced, swinging wide the door to a luxurious-looking room, “and there’s your private balcony and in here,” she gestured with a bit of a flourish toward the bathroom, “is your two-person Jacuzzi. It’s very popular, especially with our honeymoon couples,” she added, looking at them with obvious meaning.

  “We’re not—” he began, only to be cut off by Gloria.

  “Thank you so much, I’m sure we’d enjoy it. But poor Phil won’t be staying with me. Too sad, but the old sweetie pie can’t get free till later in the month. Of course, my sister will be joining me next weekend for the psychic workshop—I reserved a room for her when I called earlier.”

  Phillip stared at Gloria and shook his head as if clearing his ears. What had she just said?

  The young woman nodded eagerly. “Oh yes, we have her down for the Sycamore, beginning Thursday the twenty-fourth and running through Sunday.”

  “That’s fine then. Now, if you’d be a dear and bring up that champagne I ordered earlier …”

  “Certainly! It’s on ice right now. Back in a jiff, Mrs. Hawkins!”

  Mrs. Hawkins? Phillip sat down abruptly in the less delicate-looking of the two armchairs by the fireplace. As the innkeeper bustled off, Gloria closed the door and turned toward him.

  Unable to find the words right away, he raised both hands before him as if to fend her off. “I don’t know what you have in mind here, Gloria, but it’s not … well anyway … And another thing—you want to tell me why that girl called you Mrs. Hawkins?”

  She regarded him with a look that managed to be both amused and skeptical—a look that brought to life a hitherto unnoticed resemblance between her and Elizabeth—strange to see
that expression of suspended judgment on this perfectly made-up face.

  “Well, think about it, Phil. Obviously I didn’t want to give my real name when I made the reservations, and I went with the first thing that popped into my head. And then, since you were here with me, I thought it wouldn’t hurt for people to believe that I had a husband around. You aren’t upset about that, are you?”

  He considered, wondering where this was leading. But Gloria, standing there, hands on hips, was waiting for an answer.

  “Okay, I guess that makes some kind of sense.” He was still uncertain, though, as to what exactly was going on … the whole thing with the champagne felt like a real Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson? moment.

  All at once he realized that he had shrunk back in his chair with his arms folded protectively across his chest, seriously wimpy body language there. So he sat forward with his hands on the arms of the chair and, clearing his throat, leaned forward to take charge of a situation that seemed to be eluding him.

  “Just tell me what the hell you want, Gloria.” His voice was harsher than he’d meant it to be but she only laughed … and again he was reminded of Elizabeth.

  “What I want, Phil, is a relaxing glass of champagne to help me settle in. You can join me if you like.”

  Sinking gracefully into the other chair, she explained. “You see, my late husband Harold and I traveled a lot and Harold always insisted on ordering champagne whenever we checked into a hotel. He said that was one sure way of getting good service during a stay: Start by ordering champagne—good champagne—and tip well. And it really is a lovely way to slow down a bit and unwind—that’s all. Good heavens, what did you think I had in mind?”

  There was a tap at the door and Gloria sprang up to open it.

  “Oh, lovely!” she cooed at the innkeeper and the silver tray with a pair of crystal flutes beside a dewy silver wine cooler. A gold-foil-covered cork peeked from the snowy napkin that swathed the bottle’s neck and a bowl of smoked almonds completed the presentation.