The Turquoise Mask

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “I know. He told me. Doña Sebastiana still hasn’t turned up. But I don’t know why anyone should want to attack Grandfather.”

  “I don’t believe anyone did. I think I was the one they were after. He was struck down so whoever it was could get away.”

  She regarded me coolly, appraisingly, her earlier pretense of amiability gone. “Then I should be very much afraid, if I were you, Amanda.”

  “Why? Because I’m coming close to something revealing?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  I told her then—told her I’d remembered that there had been three figures struggling together the day when my mother had gone to meet Kirk, and not two as Clarita claimed and everyone believed.

  She listened with a bright avidity that I found chilling. Yet I’d felt I had to tell her. She would spread this around, of course. She would tell Paul and perhaps Clarita. She might even tell our grandfather. And now I might be in greater danger than ever. But this was the only way I knew in which to bring that hazy third figure into the open where he could be recognized.

  She gave my painting another glance of pretended interest, and then said a casual Hasta la vista, and went off toward the house. Though it was past noon, the sun seemed a little less bright, and the air a trifle more chilly.

  I moved about, stretching and flexing my fingers. Then I sat down on a low adobe wall and ate my sandwich, drank from a thermos. To go back to the house would break my mood even more than Eleanor had broken it, and as soon as I could I returned to my work and let it absorb me.

  Only once after that did I surface, returning to the thought of the Cordovas with a jolt. In spite of my preoccupation with my work, and the successful distraction it offered, the thought of tonight and what I’d promised to do for my grandfather was not as far away as I would like. His plan still repelled me and I wished I hadn’t agreed to something I didn’t want to do. I had let his will overpower me again. When I returned to the house, I would simply tell him I’d changed my mind. I no longer felt safe and protected by adobe walls, and I had no intention of frightening myself further with the errand he had set me.

  Coming to this decision gave me a sense of relief, and now I could paint the afternoon away, nearly finishing what I’d started. Sometimes it took days to complete a picture, but today I’d worked long and steadily and accomplished a lot.

  I scraped my palette, dipped my brushes in turpentine and wiped them and my hands on the paper towels I’d brought along instead of paint rags. My sketchbox would hold a wet canvas without smearing it, and I packed everything away and returned to the house.

  Clarita met me in the living room, and she seemed in something of a fluster. “Father is coming down to dinner tonight, Amanda. And we are having company. Sylvia and Paul. Sylvia was over just now and my father invited them. So put on a good dress and come down on time.”

  She looked as though some ordeal were facing her, and I think she might have rebelled if she could. I wondered what had given rise to this sudden party, and the unusual factor of Juan Cordova coming down for dinner. But Clarita rushed off toward the kitchen to supervise preparations, and there was no time to ask.

  When I reached my room, I took out my painting and set it in the embrasure of a window where it could dry in the air. I liked the look of my adobe walls and winding road, yet it was not a sentimental picture. There was a certain starkness about the hot sky and baking earth. It was not really a Santa Fe picture, but one that suggested the oasis of a village in desert country in midsummer—a timeless scene. A brown-clad brother who was new from Seville might come riding up that road on a burro at any moment. Perhaps I would even paint him in. A glow of satisfaction was my reward. This was the first of my New Mexico paintings, and I knew there would be more. I had a special feeling for this land that lent emotion to my brush.

  Painting had brought relaxation from tension for a time, but it had tired me too, and now I might lie down and rest before dinner. My room was cool and dim with late afternoon light, and I turned toward the bed, about to throw back the coverlet—only to stop in surprise. Slightly mounded, something lay beneath the covers—something with a vaguely human form.

  A tremor of warning went through me, and with it came that awareness of something menacing and secret that I’d first felt about this house. With my deepest senses I knew what the house knew—and there was terror all about me. Yet still my conscious mind told me nothing.

  With an effort, I managed to fling back the covers and stood staring at the thing that grinned back at me from the pillow. All of last night’s horror re-engaged me, and I could almost feel the sting of that three-pronged whip across my shoulders. Doña Sebastiana stared at me with hollow eyes, and bared, grinning teeth in her skull’s head. Her bow and arrow seemed pointed at my heart and it was her bony figure which made the slight mound beneath the covers.

  I ran to my door and called shrilly for Clarita. She heard me and came running up the stairs, to stand beside me, staring at the thing on the bed.

  “La Muerte,” she said softly. “The carts are rolling. The footsteps are coming nearer. The death march.”

  If I listened to her I might go a little mad too. I grasped her by the arm and shook her roughly.

  “Stop that! I won’t be frightened by such tricks. I won’t be threatened. This is Eleanor again, isn’t it? Just as the fetish was Eleanor!”

  “And do you think it was Eleanor who whipped you last night?” Clarita whispered. “Do you think it was Eleanor who whipped her grandfather?”

  “Juan must be told about this,” I said, and moved toward the door.

  At once she blocked my way. “No. He has borne enough.”

  I pushed past her and ran down the stairs. Juan was no longer in the living room and I went up to his balcony and looked into his empty study. Then I stepped to a window and looked down into the patio. Only a little way off he lay in a lounge chair with a pillow under his head and the late afternoon sun warming him. But even as I found him, Clarita came outdoors, and I saw agitation in the way she bent above her father. She had reached him first, and I couldn’t know what she might be telling him. Nevertheless, I must see him for myself.

  When I went out to the patio she was still there, but though she faced me with a bitter anger in her dark eyes, Juan saw me, and there was nothing she could do when I dropped to my knees beside his chair. There was no way in which Clarita could stop me from telling him what I had found in my bed. He closed his eyes at my outpouring, but he heard me through before he spoke. Then he opened his eyes and looked at Clarita.

  “Leave us, please,” he said.

  She was reluctant to obey, and for a moment I thought she might take a strong enough stand to oppose him. But old habit ruled, and she bowed her head so that the blue earrings swayed at her jawline. When she’d gone into the house, Juan spoke to me.

  “You will go away soon, Amanda,” he said weakly. “Tomorrow we will arrange for your plane back to New York. The risk is becoming too great. I should never have brought you here, but I had thought this was one way to stop Paul Stewart from trying to use you for his book. Here we could protect you from him. Or so we thought.”

  It was time to tell him. There was no longer any secret about what I knew, since I’d told Eleanor.

  “There were three on the hillside when my mother died,” I said. “I don’t know who the other was, but there were three figures struggling together.”

  Weakness seemed to leave him, and he sat up in his chair and reached for my wrist with strong, thin fingers. “This is what Katy tried to tell me before she died. This is what I would not believe.”

  “Do you know who it could have been?” I asked.

  He stared at me, not answering, and his fingers hurt my wrist. “It’s too late to do anything now,” he said. “I will not have all that old tragedy resurrected again. What is done is done.”

  “To protect the living?” I said.

  He flung my hand away from him as though the touch of it
had become suddenly distasteful. “To protect you. Doro’s daughter. You must leave here at once.”

  “I won’t go,” I said. “Not now when I am coming so close to the truth. Don’t you want to know, Grandfather?”

  The weakness was upon him again. “I am old. I cannot bear any more. Tonight there will be a little party I have planned for you in farewell. And after dinner you will slip away and do for me what I asked. I am in danger too, Amanda, and only you can help me now. Then we will talk again about your returning to New York.”

  I rose from my place beside him without answering. His dark, fierce eyes watched my face, and I think he saw my opposition, my disbelief in his danger.

  “I have told Clarita to take that—object from your bed and give it to Paul Stewart when he comes tonight. It must be returned to the display in the store. We will meet again at dinner, Amanda.”

  I walked slowly back to my room. I didn’t know whether I would go away or not, but I knew now that I would have to do as he wished and carry out the mission he had set for me later tonight. Perhaps it was the last thing I could do for him.

  Doña Sebastiana was gone from my room, but Rosa was there changing the sheets and pillowcase. I was grateful to Clarita, for I’d have felt a repugnance to touch the sheets where that figure had lain. Rosa’s eyes looked big and a little frightened, and I knew she must have seen what had been hidden in the bed. She made no attempt to talk to me, but hurried with her work, and escaped as quickly as she could—almost as though an evil spell had been laid upon me and she didn’t want to come too close.

  I lay down on top of the covers and tried to rest. I wanted nothing more of terror, of threat. Perhaps it would be better to do as Juan Cordova wished, and go away. But I knew that my life could never be the same again, and always there would be the unanswered questions and the memories of Santa Fe and this old house. There would be memories of Gavin, too, but I couldn’t help that. I was never able to put him completely from my mind. Where was the borderline between being whole of heart and foolishly in love? I might rage against him when he angered me, yet a part of me yearned toward him, and that made me angry with myself. There must be a way out of this tunnel.

  When it was time to dress, I did so with care, since this might be my last night in the Cordova house. Perhaps whatever occurred at tonight’s dinner party might help me make up my mind. I must watch for some answer.

  I had brought one dinner frock with me. It was an eggshell white, with long sleeves that fell in points over my wrist, a long slim skirt with a slit to one knee, and a rounded neckline. The lines were simple and it was without decoration, so I pinned my Zuni brooch near the neckline and clipped on my mother’s earrings. No matter whom they might upset I wanted to wear her little birds tonight. My lipstick was a light mandarin—not too pale, and I left my eyes alone. Men weren’t fond of heavy eye shadow—that was a female choice of make-up—and tonight I dressed for Gavin. Never mind whether I had any good sense or not. Very soon now I might never see him again.

  When I went downstairs a little late, I found them having drinks in the living room—all except Gavin, who was missing. Eleanor wore black in contrast to my white, with a diagonal of fringe across the front, like a Spanish shawl, and she had piled her hair high upon her head, graced with a Spanish comb and a flower, and plastered down her bangs in spit curls. There were pearls about her neck, and at her ears, and she looked stunningly beautiful. Apparently recovered from his earlier weakness, Juan sat near the fire, and could hardly take his eyes off Eleanor for pride. She need not, I thought, worry about losing her fortune to me. His look approved my own appearance when I entered the room, but it was Eleanor who held his real affection.

  Clarita, surprisingly, wore a long robe of claret velvet, trimmed with an edging of old gold, and her earrings were great golden hoops. I found myself staring at her, seeing for the first time that she could be a remarkably handsome woman when she chose not to efface herself. Sylvia Stewart was thoroughly modern in a powder blue tunic and trousers, and Paul had pleased himself and worn a comfortable plaid jacket with a southwestern bolo tie. I wondered where Gavin was, but no one mentioned him.

  Though Paul’s attention often wandered to Eleanor, he shortly attached himself to me, and I knew he’d probably had her latest report about my elusive memories. He drew me aside and tried to probe a little, and when I had nothing more to tell him, he grew insistent.

  “I’ve always been sure that something was kept off the record that day,” he told me. “And you’re the one who knew what it was, Amanda. Are you sure you haven’t found the answer?”

  Intent, his yellow-green eyes seemed to demand the truth from me, and I found myself resenting him more than ever.

  “Perhaps it would help if we could know exactly where you were that day,” I said, deliberately baiting him. “You told me that you and Sylvia were coming along the upper road together on the way to the picnic, but Sylvia says that she was alone that day.”

  He stared at me fixedly for a moment, and then laughed aloud, so that heads turned to look at him.

  “So you’d like to tie me into it,” he said. “Do you think I’d really want to write about a murder I’d committed?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Sylvia must have forgotten.” His words were casual.

  I let the matter go. “Anyway, I’m not sure of anything—except that they all want me gone.”

  “I can see why. They want you gone before you turn their comfortable lives upside down to any greater extent. I’ve heard about the will. Eleanor was pretty furious for a time, but she seems to have calmed down. I advised her to.”

  “It won’t matter,” I told him lightly. “I’ll probably be gone by tomorrow.”

  “So they’re sending you away?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I said, and moved off toward Juan Cordova, where he sat on the leather couch near the fire.

  He nodded to me and I saw his gaze flick to my earrings, but he did not tell me to take them off, as he had done before. Nor did he attempt to engage me in conversation. I suspected that he was more tired tonight than he wanted us to know and was concentrating on his inner forces so that he could get through the evening.

  Paul had returned his fascinated attention to Eleanor, who was thoroughly alight in her black gown, moving once more like a dancer, her long fringes swaying as though she played a role, and as though her dance might be mounting to a climax. Not only Juan Cordova watched her, and Paul, but Clarita too, and I saw the pride of maternal possession in those dark eyes. To Clarita, Eleanor would always be her child. But Clarita watched Paul too, with a certain fondness born, I wondered, of long ago love?

  Oddly, Sylvia, who usually fitted in anywhere, was on the outside tonight. She stood a little apart from the others and watched them all as though she held a seat at a play in which she wanted no active part. When I was able, I moved quietly to her side.

  She looked at me with a start that told me I hadn’t been one of those she studied. “Why tonight?” she said. “Why a party tonight?”

  “I suppose because I’m expected to leave tomorrow. But you were looking at them so strangely. Tell me what you see.”

  “Calamity.” She grimaced. “That’s what Eleanor is—calamity. She’s like Doro in that. She won’t be happy until she blows everything sky high.”

  “Did my mother really want to have that effect?”

  “Perhaps not consciously. But she never saw what was coming.”

  “Is that why Gavin isn’t here tonight? Because of what Eleanor might do?”

  “But he is here,” she said.

  I looked past her and saw him in the doorway. Without defense, our eyes met across the room, and for an instant I saw his light. Whether my own betrayed me in return, I didn’t know, and he looked away at once, his guard immediately raised. Clearly he was surprised by the party.

  Clarita went quickly to welcome him and explain, and I suspected that they’d deliberatel
y not warned him ahead of time, lest he stay away. So one more factor of disruption had been introduced into the room.

  Strangely, it was Clarita who pulled everything together as we went into the dining room and took our places at the table. She dominated the room quite magnificently in her claret red gown, and I saw Eleanor watching her in astonishment. Something had enlivened Clarita and given her a strength I had not seen before. By way of contrast, Juan seemed to shrink to a lesser size, and the usual hubris he radiated was gone. If it hadn’t seemed impossible, I might have thought that my arrogant grandfather was afraid of his elder daughter.

  It was Eleanor, however, who dropped the first pebble into the pool and started the ripples widening across already muddied water.

  “I happened on an interesting fact today,” she announced. “Have any of you remembered that this is Kirk Landers’ birthday?”

  Sylvia gasped softly and Clarita flashed a look at her.

  “No, it is not,” Clarita said.

  With an effort, Juan Cordova reached for his wine glass, ignoring his daughter. “There was a time when Kirk was very dear to us, as you are, Sylvia. Why should we not remember a lost son with a toast?”

  I had the feeling that he was defying Clarita in some way, and perhaps tormenting Sylvia.

  Eleanor caught up her glass at once. “You give the toast, Sylvia.”

  Juan nodded benignly at his foster daughter, appearing more like himself. “We are waiting, Sylvia,” he said.

  Looking about to dissolve in tears, Sylvia did not touch her glass, but only sat there, shaking her head miserably. “I—I can’t. Eleanor is being cruel.”

  “Let me then,” said Paul, and that bright green gleam was in his eyes as he raised his glass. “To one we all miss. To one who died too soon and too young. To Kirk Landers!”

  I remembered that those two had quarreled, and knew this for mockery. Juan and Eleanor raised their glasses. Gavin looked angry and did not touch his. Nor did I touch mine, since I’d never known Kirk Landers except as a small child, and I had too many questions in my mind. Clarita reached for her glass last, as though she forced herself—and knocked it over. In the ensuing distraction, with cries for Rosa and the process of mopping, Sylvia jumped up from her place and ran from the room.