A Trick of the Eye

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  Just before I went to bed, I ordered a taxi to pick me up at six-thirty sharp the next morning, even though the plane for Denver wasn’t scheduled to take off until nine. Harry finally called at ten-thirty, out of breath, with a million excuses for not having gotten back to me sooner.

  “All set, old cowgirl?” he said.

  “Very funny. Now we’re meeting at the ticket counter at eight sharp, right?”

  “Right,” he concurred.

  “And you’ve got your ticket, right?”

  “I’ve got mine,” he assured me. “Have you got yours?”

  “Got mine. I bought a parka. I’m bringing herbal tea and antibiotics, and a first-aid kit. I’m trying to think what else,” I said.

  “How about two six-guns and a covered wagon?” he volunteered.

  “I know, I know, I’m just being ridiculous.”

  “Now I spoke with Mr. Madi again, and he’s looking forward to meeting with us,” Harry said on a more serious note. “We’re going to have dinner with him in the hotel tomorrow night. Apparently he’s off on a trip around the world, so we’ve just caught him in time. He’s leaving in a couple of days.”

  “God Harry, isn’t it amazing how this whole thing’s working out?! By the way, I have a new theory about the case.”

  “What?”

  “I think the father must have done it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s Mrs. Griffin anymore. I think you’re right, I don’t think she’s capable of it. But she admitted to me that she knows who did it and she just can’t say who it is. So that sounds to me like it must be the father, doesn’t it to you? But the question is why? I mean why would a father murder his own daughter?”

  “All I can say is I sincerely hope Mr. Madi will clear things up for us. And now I’ve got to go.”

  “Harry, wait. Why do you think Madi wants to talk to people after all this time?”

  “I have no idea. We’ll just have to ask him. Look, Faith, I’ve got to get some sleep and I’m not packed yet, and Mr. Spencer is feeling under the weather, so forgive me if I sound abrupt.”

  “Okay. See you tomorrow. Love you.”

  “Love you too,” he said and hung up.

  I tossed and turned all night, fretting over details already attended to. The taxi arrived promptly at six-thirty. I was at the airport by seven-fifteen. I got a cup of coffee, a roll, and a newspaper, and planted myself down in the middle of a row of orange plastic seats opposite the ticket counter where Harry and I were meeting at eight. I became so engrossed in an article in the paper about a major archeological discovery in Umbria that I completely lost track of the time. When I looked at my watch, it was eight-fifteen. Still no Harry. Then I became aware that I was being paged.

  “Miss Faith Crowell, please pick up a courtesy phone, Miss Faith Crowell to a courtesy phone, please,” said the soothing, disembodied voice over the loudspeaker.

  I rushed up to the ticket counter, where a man directed me to one of the airline’s phones.

  “Hello, Harry?!”

  “It’s me, Faith,” he said in a raspy voice.

  “You sound awful. Where are you?”

  “Mr. Spencer died.”

  “Oh Harry, no! Oh no! Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

  There was a pause. I could hear Harry sobbing on the other end of the phone.

  “I can’t go with you, Faith. I’m sorry, I just can’t. I’m too upset.”

  “I know you must be. But I can’t go all by myself. I can’t.”

  “Why not?” he said.

  “Well, I just can’t go out there all by myself. What if Madi turns out to be the murderer or something? I just can’t. I’m too frightened.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Faith, he’s not the murderer, or he wouldn’t have agreed to see us.”

  “I’ll tell you what, why don’t we wait until you’re feeling better, and then we’ll go out there together like we planned?”

  “Do what you want, but he’s going away, I told you. Around the world. It’s now or never, Faith. You’ve got to do this on your own. Listen, you’re the one who started it all.”

  I could feel my heart racing.

  “I know, but—”

  “Look, my darling, I can’t talk now. I’m just too stricken. I have to make arrangements for the funeral. I’m going to have him cremated so I can keep the ashes with me always,” Harry said, his voice choking. “I’m sorry I can’t go with you.”

  He hung up. I stood holding the receiver in my hand for a long moment, paralyzed, wondering what to do. I heard the flight being called over the loudspeaker.

  “All passengers on flight 182 to Denver, please proceed to gate 3. The flight is now boarding . . .”

  Harry was right. It was now or never. I decided to take that timid, safe little life of mine and throw it up into the air. I banged down the phone and ran for the gate.

  Chapter 14

  To my amazement, everything went ahead on schedule. The weather was clear, the plane was on time. I found myself sitting comfortably in the back of a large jet, staring out at the sky, being lulled to sleep by the hum of engines. Now that I was on my way, I relaxed. There was something about being lifted off the ground and going on a quest that gave me a sense of power.

  I fell asleep. When I awoke, we were landing in Denver. My connection to Grand Junction was two hours off. I had plenty of time to have a cup of coffee and observe my fellow travelers. A man in a shiny brown suit, wearing cowboy boots and a Stetson, was doing a crossword puzzle. I watched a little boy sucking on a candy bar waddle by while his anxious mother called him back. Every so often, people appeared out of nowhere, hurried on, then scattered like beads rolling into the crowd. I forgot how much I disliked airports, finding this one to be a lively, impersonal place where I felt comfortably lost in the noise and traffic. Finally, a voice announced the boarding of my flight to Grand Junction. I walked to the gate and got on the plane.

  As we took off, I pressed my nose against the window and watched the brown-aired city of Denver shrink to the size of a smoky topaz. I read the airline magazine for a while, then lost interest and dozed off. When I awoke, I looked out the window at a horizon rippling with mountains. Fiery sunbeams flitted around the cabin, momentarily blinding me. Then we landed. Stepping out of the plane, I was hit by a curtain of bracing, cold air which made my eyes water. I looked around as I walked toward the terminal. The light was different here. There was a purple cast to the air. Objects in the far distance stood out clearly. I picked up the rental car Harry had reserved for us and started driving the seventy miles to Broken Ridge. According to the map the agent at the counter had given me, it was a relatively easy place to find.

  The West was a vast place but not at all frightening, as I thought it would be. The quirky formations of the mountains and the nearly recognizable shapes of the large boulders made the landscape look as if it had been chiseled out of the earth by a lost race of giants. Occasionally I slowed down to look at a shawl of pine trees thrown over one of the great granite slabs in the distance, or a silver stream spilling down the rocks to a hidden valley too deep for me to see. The mantle of royal blue sky was flecked with clouds. On it hung a pale afternoon sun. Once I’d accustomed my eye to the immense scale of things, I was exhilarated by the hard, haphazard beauty all around me. I began to feel like a pioneer, a hunter.

  As I drove, the deepening colors of evening descended on the land in successive veils. For a few precious seconds before dark, the dying sun glowed furiously behind the mountains. I stopped the car and watched as red-and-gold flames paled into wispy feathers of light drifting through the air. When they faded, it was night—not the small familiar night I’d known back east, but a big strong night, tattooed with a million stars.

  I started up the car and drove on. On the highway a few mile
s past a big ski resort, there was an exit sign with several names written on it. Broken Ridge was one of them. I got off onto the ramp and headed into the darkness. There were no lights on this road as there had been on the highway. Only my car beams illuminated the faded white dividing line. After fifteen minutes or so, I saw a faint aureole of light up ahead. Soon there was a large sign on my right with a pair of steerhorns on top of it which read, ENTERING BROKEN RIDGE.

  I drove through a single street lined with old-fashioned wooden buildings and some parked cars on both sides. Several people were walking around, but there didn’t seem to be a great deal of activity. I drove slowly looking for a turnoff to the main part of the town when another steerhorned sign loomed up on my right proclaiming, LEAVING BROKEN RIDGE. The light gone, there was only darkness ahead and a flat wooden arrow attached to a tree reading, SHADOW CREEK—2 MILES.

  As far as I could tell, the town of Broken Ridge consisted of one main street, and I’d just driven through it. I turned the car around and drove back, this time very slowly, looking from one side to the other for the Fortune Hotel, where Harry had booked our reservations. I drove up and down the street a couple of times without success. I stopped alongside a passerby, rolled down my window, and called out to him.

  “Excuse me, could you tell me where the Fortune Hotel is?”

  “That’s it down there with the blue lights,” he said, pointing to one of the buildings near the center of the street. A pair of blue lanterns hung on either side of the door.

  “That’s the hotel?” I said.

  “They got rooms, yeah.”

  He walked on. I drove up to the hotel, parked the car, and got my suitcase out of the trunk. Walking up the wooden steps to the entrance I noticed a small brass plaque above the door which read, FORTUNE. A man on his way out wearing jeans and cowboy boots, reeking of liquor, held the door open for me as I stepped inside.

  The lobby was a dimly lit place filled with heavy Victorian furniture, paintings of the Old West, and framed “wanted” posters. Several people were milling around, a couple of whom stared at me as I stepped up to the desk to register. One, a tall, strikingly handsome woman talking to two men, seemed to take a particular interest in me. She had straight blond hair down to her waist. Her face was tan. She was wearing a long denim skirt, a suede coat with fringe dangling from the sleeves, and red lizard cowboy boots. It was my impression she whispered something about me to her two companions as I came in. I tried not to pay any attention.

  I heard music and laughter coming from the next room. The Fortune, in particular its bar, seemed to be the center of whatever activity there was in Broken Ridge.

  There was no one behind the desk. There was, however, a bell next to a framed handwritten sign reading, PLEASE RING FOR SERVICE. I tapped the top of the bell lightly with my palm. After a moment, the blond woman walked over and stepped behind the desk.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling broadly. “How’re y’a doin?”

  Up close, she looked much older than I’d first thought her to be. Her features were youthful, but her skin was deeply lined and mottled. It looked oddly patched together. I guessed she was somewhere in her mid-forties, whereas from a distance she looked as if she might have been in her late twenties. She had the air of an aging flower child.

  Opening an old-fashioned register, she handed me a pen.

  “If you’ll just sign in, please.”

  She looked at my signature.

  “Oh, Miss Crowell. Your room’s been prepaid, and I understand Mr. Pitt’s not coming.”

  “No, that’s right,” I said. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone here for dinner.”

  “Uh-huh, well, there’s the dining room,” she said cheerlessly, closing the register and taking a large key down from a board.

  “How late do you serve dinner?”

  “Nine. But you can get a hamburger or a taco up ’til we close at two. Welcome to the Fortune. I’ll show you up to your room.”

  She came around the front of the desk and picked up my bag. I followed her up the staircase, running my hand along the wide oak banister. We walked up two flights of stairs. She turned down a corridor on the second landing. The wallpaper was patterned all over with brownish roses, on which woodframed old prints, mainly catalogue illustrations from the nineteenth century, hung in groups of four.

  “How old is this hotel?” I said, as we continued down the hall.

  “Oh, the original part dates back to about 1880. They built it during the mining boom. Then it got abandoned. Someone converted it into a private house in the fifties. My ex-husband and I bought it and two of the neighboring houses in the seventies and turned them back into a hotel. There’s literature about it in the room. The reason it’s called Fortune is because the original owner built it with the stake he made mining.”

  “You’ve done a great job restoring it,” I said.

  “Oh, well, you know—my ex-husband was a carpenter with a Ph.D. in philosophy. You don’t know the meaning of the word obsessive until you’ve met a carpenter with a Ph.D.”

  She unlocked the door and switched on the light, revealing a large room, painted pale yellow, decorated with nineteenth-century pictures of ladies of fashion. A big brass bed took up most of the center wall. Alongside it an old-fashioned pitcher and basin rested on a nightstand. There was a pine armoire in one corner and a writing desk in another, on which hotel literature as well as picture postcards of the region were laid out neatly on top of the blotter. Everything was fresh and clean.

  “No room service,” she said, putting down my suitcase on the luggage rack at the foot of the bed. “Breakfast is served from six to eight-thirty sharp. The bathroom’s in there. So holler if you need anything. My name’s Sally.”

  “Sally,” I said, as she was leaving, “you must know most of the people around here, don’t you?”

  “Every single one. Dyin’ for a new face.”

  “Have you ever heard of someone called Roberto Madi?”

  “Bob Madi? Sure. I was just talkin’ to him when you came in. That who you’re havin’ dinner with?”

  I felt the blood rush to my head. I’d seen him and I hadn’t known it.

  “Yes,” I said, trying not to betray my excitement.

  “Bob, you sneaky bastard, never sayin’ anything. ’Course he’s always here. Always at the bar ’til closing time. You a friend of his?”

  “Uh, not exactly. We have some friends in common.”

  “Okay, so just lemme know when you come down. I’ll point him out to you,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

  I unpacked, freshened up, and changed clothes. I stared at myself in the blotchy old mirror inside the armoire door. There wasn’t a trace of fear or apprehension in my expression. Though I had no idea how I was going to approach Roberto Madi or what on earth I was going to say when I did make contact with him, I nevertheless left the room confident of my mission. Walking downstairs, I shivered once or twice. I felt Cassandra’s ghost was hovering around me, guiding me and protecting me from harm.

  Sally was nowhere to be seen when I reached the lobby so I went into the bar by myself. It was a large room decorated with cowboy memorabilia and Indian artifacts, dimly lit by gaslight wall sconces which had been electrified. A jukebox played softly in one corner. A few diners were scattered around the room at the round tables covered with red-and-white-checked tablecloths. I sat down, lit a cigarette with the candle in the middle of the table, and looked around the room.

  Four men were standing at the long oak bar and I knew immediately which one was Madi. It wasn’t that I remembered seeing him talking to Sally on my way into the hotel or that I’d had a specific image of him in my mind. No, I just knew who he was.

  Madi turned and looked at me. I assumed that Sally had told him of our conversation. I didn’t flinch. I looked back at him and smiled.

 
; He appeared to be somewhere around forty-five, though I knew from the newspaper accounts he was older. He had thick dark hair he wore on the long side combed straight back. He was medium height, and he showed his lean body to advantage in tight blue jeans and a checked shirt, opened one button too many at the neck. He was extremely handsome. I could see where he must have been dazzling as a young man. He had darkly glittering eyes, a straight nose with nostrils flaring slightly over a strong, full-lipped mouth. With his smooth olive complexion, he might have passed for a number of nationalities—Spanish, Italian, even Arab. There was something feral about him. He began ambling toward me, drink in hand. When he reached my table, he stood still for a couple of seconds without saying a word, looking down as if he were ready to either lick me or pounce.

  “Miss Crowell?” he said.

  I detected the accent Harry had mentioned. I nodded and motioned for him to sit down.

  “Mr. Madi?”

  I held out my hand and he shook it, holding it a little longer than necessary. He kept staring at me. There was a moment of awkward silence.

  “So,” I said self-consciously, “you’re Roberto Madi.”

  He chuckled. “No one has called me that in years.”

  “What?”

  “Roberto.”

  “What do they call you?”

  “Bob. What do they call you?”

  “Faith.”

  “Faith, as in faith, hope, and charity?”

  “Or as in ‘ye of little faith.’ ”

  “How do you do, Little Faith? Would you like a drink?”

  “Thank you. I’d love a glass of red wine, please.”

  “Red wine is not the best thing to have here unless you get a bottle. Permit me.”

  He got up from the table and went over to the bar, giving me a bit of time to think about this first encounter. I thought I’d pegged his accent as Italian, but I still wasn’t quite sure. He was much gentler than I thought he’d be when I first saw him. He didn’t seem to have an edge to him. On the contrary, there was something sweet about him, even endearing.