Rosemary for Remembrance

by Christine Arness

  Celeste was singing the tune the band had been playing as they left the hall, her head nodding sleepily. She’d matched Austin cup for cup at the dance and now the alcohol seemed to hit her all at once, blurring her features into the softness of putty. Tomorrow the tattered butterfly at his side would metamorphose again into a buxom dairy maid with plump apple cheeks. Austin couldn’t fathom his father’s desire to match him with Celeste. If one discounted an ancient descendancy from Swedish royalty and 1,100 acres of farmland, her only assets were a head of blond hair and the intellect of a milk stool.

  A raccoon ran across the road and Austin honked the horn and stepped on the brakes, his reactions blurred by the liquor he’d consumed. Small patches of ground fog loomed like misshapen ghosts as the driver peered over the long bonnet of his car into the pool of light cast by one headlamp and cursed the burned-out bulb. He had a lot of driving ahead that night.

  But he took pleasure in reviewing the plan that had seemed so simple with Rosemary’s hand caressing his cheek. Take Celeste and Nathan home, drop Julia at the door of the house, and drive off as if to put the car in the carriage house. Load his suitcases and collect the bag of gold coins hidden under an overturned flower pot in the gardening shed. Pick up Rosemary.

  Celeste’s smooth flaxen head fell against his shoulder and she snored, the raucous sound at odds with her placid appearance. A match flared in the dimness of the car’s interior as Nathan, obedient to Julia’s curt gesture, lit her cigarette and then one of his own. Austin’s head was already swimming; the arid smoke made his stomach queasy.

  He shifted his thoughts to the miniature and the scene with his father. He’d knuckled under and handed it over like a child caught with his hand in the candy dish. A real man would march into the house and demand the miniature of Rosemary. But the flesh-and-blood Rosemary would be waiting for him in her glorious gown. The car swerved again, but he managed to pull the wheels out of the ditch.

  Nathan leaned forward. “Want a nip to steady your nerves? Still got a few drops in my flask.” His sour breath testified that he’d enjoyed more than one nip himself.

  “He’s had enough, you drunken fool.” Julia’s tone was cutting. “Just get us home in one piece, Austin.”

  Nathan sank back. The rustle of Julia’s skirt preceded the sound of flesh against flesh and her voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t touch me when you’re in this condition. If you try that again, you can walk back to town.”

  The contempt in her tone would have shriveled a stronger man and Austin experienced a twinge of sympathy for Nathan as Julia’s escort subsided, mumbling under his breath. Austin caught the word “bitch” and wondered if Julia had also heard the insult. Around his sister, Nathan was usually a man walking on eggs but the liquor seemed to have soaked his self-control as well as his brain. Julia’s dress rustled again as she moved closer to the window and, in the mirror, he saw her fingers clench the ruby pendant at her throat.

  The car, with one unconscious occupant and three in disharmony of spirit, sped on through the night…

  Julia sat at her dressing table, still clad in the silver gown, which glittered with an unearthly radiance and shot sparks of light at her slightest movement. An open japanned black-and-red box sat before her and she reached inside to caress the pearls covering the velvet-lined bottom of the box, rolling them like marbles against the cool lacquered sides. The pearls clicked, pale worry beads through her fingers, as she reviewed an evening planned in such careful detail, only to be ruined by a woman’s intrusion.

  Playing the role of a gracious hostess, Julia had apologized for Austin’s failure to reappear at his own reception. She’d detailed a nonexistent migraine and smiled, smiled, smiled, smiled while the memory of another celebration haunted her, one where Julia had also struggled to stop Austin from keeping a disastrous liaison with a woman.

  “Rosemary.” She whispered the name to the woman in the mirror. Rosemary had been the cause of all their troubles. Even in death, she reached back to taint Julia’s life…

  Julia stood outside Lawrence Kyle’s study and rapped on the door. Although she knew this confrontation couldn’t be postponed any longer, it took all of her courage to enter after the deep voice gave permission. She saw a flash of silver as her father slipped an object into his middle drawer. The miniature—he’d been staring at that girl’s face again.

  “Where’s Nathan?” Lawrence’s harsh voice cut into her troubled thoughts. He reached for the cigar smoldering in the ashtray, his customary glass of amber whiskey cradled in his left hand.

  Her father kept up his businesslike front at all times; Julia accepted his tone without dismay while her fingers automatically straightened the edges of the newspaper covering the glossy patina of the desk’s surface. “I sent him home. He’s plaguing me about wedding plans again.”

  Lawrence sent another cloud of smoke to mingle with the scents of whiskey and bay rum. “If you’re planning on a June ceremony, you’d best get cracking, Julia. Guest list to prepare, extra servants—and judging from the reports of turmoil overseas, it’ll take time to get special orders from Europe.”

  “I need to talk to you, Father.”

  He waved at the chair in front of the desk, but she shook her head, determined to meet him as an equal and not like a child pleading for her first pony.

  He’d been in a strangely good humor the past several weeks and she knew why—he’d become involved with that woman. Although his conduct sickened her, Julia was determined to use it to her own advantage, even if she had to resort to blackmail. Through stiff lips, she said, “I don’t want to marry Nathan.”

  Lawrence’s eyes had strayed again to the newspaper spread across the desk but his head shot up at her words. “Not marry Nathan? What’s this? You sat in that chair three months ago and told me you wanted the spineless jackass for a husband.”

  “He is a jackass, isn’t he?” They exchanged mirror-image looks of amused contempt before Julia continued. “I thought marriage might mean independence but I realized tonight I won’t be satisfied with a well-trained lap dog. Or in Nathan’s case, a rabbit.” At her father’s sharp bark of laughter, she plucked an ivory comb from her hair and pressed the sharp edges into her palm, the pain giving her the courage to introduce a forbidden topic. “I’ve decided to go to college instead.”

  Lawrence Kyle bit down hard on the end of his cigar. His eyes narrowed and a dark red tide crept up his neck as his daughter stood unflinching under the baleful stare.

  He broke first and folded the paper shut. “That foolishness again.” He snorted.

  “Why is it foolishness? You’re sending Austin, but he has no desire to go. I could be a much better lawyer—it’s unjust! You’ve said yourself that I’ve a much better brain—”

  The thud of his fist on the desk cut off her words. “Enough, Julia. God didn’t mean for women to exist in a man’s world. Just? I’ve been more than just. I’ll give you a dowry, I’ll let you pick out your husband, but I’m the master of this house and my daughter isn’t going to burn out her eyes on dusty books. You’ll have a wedding attended by the cream of society and you can set up housekeeping wherever you please, but I’ll not hear another word about college.”

  She began to pace. “A man’s world—most men don’t possess the sense God gave a peafowl. I crave more than the responsibility of running a house and I don’t intend to be forced into bearing children like a prize cow given to a bull.”

  “Julia!” His voice was a roar. “You’re being obscene. Get out and don’t mention college again. I’ve made my decision.”

  During her impassioned speech, her hair had tumbled down around her shoulders and now she tossed back the silken strands and planted both hands on the desk. “I won’t be silent—I can’t go on knowing that this stifling, stinking hog wallow is my destiny. I won’t be paraded around like a pedigreed dog with the diamond collar of matrimony fastened around my neck.”

  She swept the crystal decanter off the de
sk and it shattered, a pool of whiskey soaking into Lawrence’s prize Chinese rug. With an oath, he leaped to his feet and skirted the desk with a swiftness that surprised her; Julia cried out as his powerful fingers bit into the flesh of her upper arms.

  Sobbing and clawing at his shirtfront, she recoiled from the whiskey fumes as he shouted into her ear. “You’re my daughter! You’ll do as I say! Now get out!”

  He flung her from him; she slammed into the wall and crumpled to the floor. A landscape fell, jarred by the impact, and the glass covering the painting shattered. The tinkle of broken glass, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, and Lawrence’s harsh breathing were the only sounds in the study.

  Bruised and shaken, Julia huddled against the wall. She looked up to meet her father’s eyes and saw the wrath of a man unaccustomed to opposition. Her own eyes blazed with spirit and, as if in answer to her rebellion, Lawrence Kyle deliberately trod on the ivory comb that had fallen from her hand, his weight snapping the delicate teeth like matchsticks.

  “Don’t defy me, Julia. You’ll only get hurt.”

  Gripping the doorknob, she pulled herself to her feet and stood regarding her father with silent contempt as he wiped the spittle from his beard.

  As his spasm of rage abated, Lawrence’s voice softened and he reached out to stroke her cheek. “You’re still my little girl, Julia, and I want to do what’s best for you.”

  She did not flinch from his touch but her face was set and cold, her eyes tearless. Her lack of reaction brought a puzzled frown to his brow. “Julia? What’s wrong?”

  With a sweep of her hand, she indicated the smashed comb on the floor. “If only you had the courage to break that woman—but instead you’ve profaned Mother’s memory by defiling her bed with that cheap tramp. God must judge you for your sins—I’ll never forgive you.”

  His gaze fell to the comb and flicked up to meet his daughter’s gaze, comprehension, surprise, and the seeds of fear sprouting as he realized that somehow his daughter knew about his tryst with Rosemary.

  “Julia!”

  But she was gone, the door slamming behind her with a force that jostled a winter landscape free to join its pastoral twin in ruins on the floorboards.

  With a start, Julia returned to the present. She was nothing but a hostess, a polished nonentity in the eyes of the world while Austin received undeserved credit. She had envisioned that the prestige of a seat on the court, even if the glory were filtered through such an unworthy receptacle as Austin, might solace her bruised spirit, but the heady sensation of being a dignitary, if only vicariously, began to fade as Julia remembered her brother’s character.

  Austin was as sturdy as a soggy paper bag. If only he’d act like a man! Another minute with that James woman and he’d have spilled everything. The attorney must suspect some of the truth, or else why was she here tonight badgering Austin?

  Removing the diamond-studded loops from her ears, Julia placed them in her jewel case, all her concentration bent on the problem of who could have cast the slightest vestige of the suspicion upon the proud name of Kyle.

  Connie, Rosemary’s head-jerking puppet. Julia remembered that the girl had been standing at the refreshment table that summer evening—Rosemary had called her a witness.

  Twisting the ring on her finger as if it possessed magical powers, she reflected that at least her father’s memory would remain untarnished. Lawrence Kyle had spent the evening in his study reviewing a stock market report—Jeffrey had been well paid to remember that fact. No breath of suspicion had ever fallen on her father or brother, and with Julia’s help, it wouldn’t now. But how much had Rosemary confided in her friend? Had Connie talked?

  If Flora died, the funds and driving force behind the investigation would be cut off. She was a dying woman—perhaps the process could be speeded up. And Connie must be kept quiet. But securing the two women’s silence would be costly; the Kyles would sink deeper into the toils of that blood-sucking leech.

  Abigail’s firm chin and clear gaze were superimposed over Julia’s reflection. She wouldn’t give up once she had begun to unravel the truth. Abigail James, too, must be dealt with.

  Without warning, the image in the mirror changed to Rosemary’s features. Julia herself had delivered the miniature into her father’s hands—she tasted the bitter knowledge that it would have been better for Austin to moon over the painting than for her father to worship it like a sacred icon at his desk. He’d been lusting after Rosemary the night he threw his only daughter against the wall.

  Julia’s fingers tightened into claws and she flung an expensive scent bottle at the younger face she saw reflected there. Cracks radiated out from the splintered hole.

  Rising, she reached the telephone by her bedside in four long strides, only to stand and listen as it rang in an empty apartment. Why wasn’t he home from the party?

  Chapter 32

  The reflectors on the bicycle leaning against the far wall of the garage glowed ruby red as the car’s headlights struck them. Abigail switched off the engine and thumbed the button; the chain hissed and the garage door ran along the track and swung down. Hobbling into the house, Abigail winced; her right ankle gave a twinge each time she put her weight on it. Going directly to the bathroom, she kicked off her shoes and turned on the lights.

  A chalky-faced woman with a fiery nimbus of hair, lipstick outlining her mouth with the exaggeration of a clown’s makeup, and a vivid scratch tracing the jawline looked back at her. Her dress was ruined; the misty green fabric fluttered like a tattered banner across her breasts.

  She touched her swollen lips.

  Abigail opened the medicine chest above the sink and shook three aspirin into her palm. Reaching for a glass, she winced; the muscles of her arm ached where both Ross and Quincy had grabbed her. Abigail put the aspirin into her mouth and raised the glass to her lips, closing the medicine cabinet with her left hand. As the mirrored door swung shut, she glimpsed the reflected bulk of a man in the doorway behind her.

  Whirling to fend off the anticipated attack, she drew her hand back to hurl the glass at the intruder but the tumbler struck the shelf over the sink and shattered. Abigail sank to her knees, and saw that the broken glass had slashed her palm open and a river of blood was gushing out. A pair of shiny black shoes entered her narrowing field of vision. Then the floor rushed up to meet her.

  The hard coolness pressed against the back of her neck and the pebbled surface of tile under her hand told her that she was propped up against the bathtub.

  “Drink!” a voice like far-off thunder commanded.

  She gulped a mouthful of water; the rest ran down her chin and dripped onto her chest. Struggling to raise heavy eyelids, she managed to open them enough to see that the hand lying in her lap was swathed in a bloodstained towel.

  “Your hand needs stitches, Red. I’m going to take you to the hospital.” Ross Stewart, his dinner jacket rumpled and dusty and a bloody handprint smeared across his white shirt, was kneeling beside her, steadying her. The bright lights of the bathroom cast deep shadows under his eyes and along his jaw, shuttering his expression with dark bars.

  Abigail remembered the indecent state of her dress. “Can’t go like this,” she muttered. “My cape…left it at the party.”

  “Forget your coat.” Although she was almost five feet ten inches, Ross lifted her to her feet with ease as if she were a rag doll and pressed her towel-wrapped hand against her stomach, ignoring her feeble protests. “Use your good hand to keep the pressure on the cut,” he commanded.

  I must be in shock, Abigail thought as her feet dragged on the walkway and her wooden legs refused to obey her commands—letting a man I suspect of threatening my life half carry me out of my house and bundle me into his car without a fight or even screaming for help.

  Ross settled her in the front seat, draped his dinner jacket under her chin, and tucked the fabric behind her shoulders. Another door slammed and the car was in motion.

  Abiga
il’s head lolled back as lighted houses and street lamps rushed by the window. She knew he was taking her somewhere and she should be frightened, but her muzzy thoughts floated in all directions like a bunch of helium-filled balloons. If Ross was going to kill me, wouldn’t he have let me bleed to death on my bathroom floor—make it look like a tragic accident? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a stoplight flash red and the motion of the car stopped. She stared at the brilliant glow as if mesmerized—the same red as the ember that had destroyed Michael’s heart, red as passion-ripe lips, ruby-red reflectors on a bicycle.

  “Stay with me, Red. I don’t want to lose you.”

  The thunder was rumbling again, but here, in the car, she was cozy and warm. Her head fell back against the seat as something brushed her cheek as lightly as a butterfly wing and a flash of lightning and the howl of a siren followed her into complete darkness.

  The lights in the emergency-room cubicle stabbed through her closed eyelids and she whimpered in protest, remembering Flora’s description of the glaring eye of the light in the morgue. Perhaps this hospital had been built on the site of the one where Rosemary’s body had been brought fifty years before and another doctor had cut the peach silk dress from her cooling flesh.

  Abigail shuddered and the young woman stitching her hand swore. “Hold still, Ms. James. We’ve got the victims from a three-car pileup on their way in and we’ll need this cubicle.”

  Abigail opened her eyes to find the needle had vanished and a gauze pad was being pressed into place. More gauze was wound around the injured palm. “I’ll be giving you some procaine for the pain.”

  Abigail wondered when the numbness from the shot would wear off as the doctor continued, “Although there’s no sign of head trauma, you’ll be shaky for a few days. Get plenty of rest.” The brisk young woman with the black cap of hair was itching to leave this ditzy female who’d obviously partied too hard, in order to attend to more deserving victims.