“You know you have the power to torment me and are reveling in it, aren’t you, Cinderella? Watch your step. I’m not playing. Why didn’t you wear your pearls?”
It took her an instant to rally to his quick change of subject.
“I couldn’t stand up under what I knew would be Lyd Fane’s barrage of questions as to where they came from. I’m getting soft. I can’t take it.”
“We shall have to come out with the truth about them later. They would have been perfect with the pink frock. I like the long stem and leaves of the rose tucked under the shoulder strap. I’ve noticed that you never wear rings. I know why you didn’t wear one. Don’t you like them?”
“Mad about them, big, sensational choice ones. I haven’t any. All the family jewels were sunk in oil wells.”
“Those infernal oil wells. How they twisted your life.”
“My life isn’t twisted,” she denied indignantly. “I’m on my toes with the thrill of being alive, free, I mean unencumbered by business cares. I’m fairly tingling with Monte Cristo’s ‘The world is mine’ spirit. Don’t you catch the vibrations?”
“I do. Something else, too. You are an exciting person, Cindy. May I take you home tonight? I have a story to tell you and — here’s where I stoop to bribery — a present for you.”
“Another?”
“The pearls were from Ken Stewart.”
“I wasn’t referring to those, I meant the chocolates. I love them. Sary and I have been on a candy binge. I adore presents but I can’t fall for the bribe. And while we are on the subject, I don’t have to be bribed to go with you anywhere.” There was too much emotion behind that statement. Sounded as if she were throwing herself into his arms. She laughed. “There’s a whole bunch of orchids for you, Sirrah.”
“Think I don't realize that?'” He cleared his gruff voice. “Why can’t you fall for the bribe?”
“I came with Tom. I can’t let him down. Didn’t you bring Lydia?”
“At Mrs. Barclay’s request. She has turned me down for Harding. By the way, is he on calling terms with Mrs. Drew?”
“No. He hadn’t met her before this evening.”
“Sure of that?”
“The morning you and he met for the first time and almost came to blows in the patio he said he hadn’t. Why?”
“Just wondering. They both spend so much time on the water seems as if they would have a lot in common. I remembered that you told me he gave you a detailed description of her yacht.”
“But I explained then that he hadn’t sailed on it since she owned it.”
“I remember that also. Here comes the broadcast. Our host is sitting on the edge of his chair.” He stepped back to stand in front of the fireplace banked with ferns, set the cup and saucer on the marble mantel and lighted a cigarette.
From her seat at the coffee table Cindy could see the occupants of the room in the gilt-framed pier mirror between the open windows where blue-green hangings swayed lightly in the sea breeze. It reflected Mrs. Drew in sparkling white seated on a Louis XV couch below a portrait of a lady in the costume of his court, languidly twirling a lace fan with mother-of-pearl sticks; it gave back Tom Slade beside her; the bulky host in a low chair near, leaning a little forward inflating and deflating his cheeks as he listened; Lyd Fane, a brilliant splash of green on a twin couch, Hal Harding holding a light to her cigarette; the back of a tall, spare figure as Minerva Armstrong crossed the threshold to the hall; Ally Barclay in her lovely mauve frock on a low fauteuil beside the door.
Cindy had been so absorbed in the mise en scène that she missed the opening of the broadcast. She was looking at Bill Damon’s mirrored reflection when she saw his brows draw together, saw him lean a little forward as if intent on what a voice was saying. She listened.
“He had been AWOL for three years. Tired of dodging gave himself up at army headquarters. Explained that he deserted because he couldn’t stand being bossed by a woman, a WAC Captain.”
Cindy heard Bill Damon’s soft chuckle. I’ll bet no woman could boss him, she thought as she looked up at him standing straight and tall before the mantel from which vantage he could see each person in the room, for all the world like a general reviewing passing troops.
“The next case also has an army background,” the announcer went on, “though this time we are looking for a missing person. A Captain of Infantry recently returned to Washington after several years service in the Orient has reported the loss of his wife.”
A sound drew Cindy’s eyes to the mirror. It reflected Hal Harding’s quick catch of Lyd Fane’s cup as it tilted dangerously; gave back the spots of rouge on her white face as he set the saucer on a stand and whispered to her. Seth Armstrong glanced over his shoulder, muttered a low, annoyed “Ssshh.” At the sound Mrs. Drew looked up at Tom Slade, smiled, shrugged and with elaborate care closed the large lace fan she had been wielding.
I hope I didn’t miss the crux of the story, Cindy thought as she caught up with the voice:
“Three years ago the wife sailed for this country to establish a home as the Captain expected to be sent back soon. She took furnishings and some valuable objects of art and jewels they had collected. He has received no word of her since. Orders were changed and he was kept abroad. Agents here have searched for her. No clue. She was an expert bridge player and had planned to teach the game and earn money tor their home. He still hopes to hear of a slender, dark-haired, extremely pretty woman, who because of amnesia doesn’t know who or where she is, whose nickname was Patty.”
At the word amnesia Cindy looked up with startled eyes at Bill Damon, who was looking at her. He smiled and shook his head, as if he knew that for a frightened moment she had wondered if amnesia had caused that strange sleep the morning the oil property had been transferred. Seth Armstrong snapped off the radio.
“Thanks for listening,” he said.
“Did you get what you wanted, Counselor?” his sister inquired.
“No.”
“Then we will start our contract.”
Lydia Fane sprang to her feet
“I’m all for it. Those missing persons reports give me the willies. Thank goodness my hair is red, my eyes are green, I’m a rookie at bridge. I’ll never be mistaken for the slender, dark-haired, extremely pretty woman who doesn’t know where she is. No one will tap me on the shoulder and growl, Tatty, you’re wanted.”
There was a hint of hysteria in her voice. Cindy remembered that her face had whitened, she had almost dropped the cup and saucer she was holding when the announcer had spoken of the returned Captain of Infantry who had lost his wife. Lydia had lived abroad. Could it be possible —
“Do we cut for partners, Colonel?” Sally Drew’s wistful voice broke in on her reflections. “Heaven help the person who draws me. He’ll slay me. I haven’t played much bridge, and I have been told by an unfeeling critic that I haven’t card sense. Now, who dares take me on?”
“I’m your man, Mrs. Drew. I’m distinctly in your class. We’ll play together, then the pot can’t call the kettle black.”
“Before we begin let’s make that sailing date. How about Monday, Colonel? You and Mrs. Barclay and the Counselor. We’ll dine on board first.”
“Sounds out of this world to me, Mrs. Drew. Here come our host and hostess to take us on. You can invite them now.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CINDERELLA stopped in the doorway of the white kitchen. Darius, the black Persian, rubbed his sleek body back and forth against her skirt to the accompaniment of a loud and rhythmic purr.
“I’m going to the turret room, Sary.”
Sarah Ann Parker drew a delicately browned pie from the oven and set it on a trivet on the enamel table. Juice bubbled from the opening in the top crust and spread the delectable smell of baked apples, cinnamon and sugar. She sniffed.
“Smells good, don’t it? The Duchess apples, on the tree your father planted years ago, are just ready to use. No flavor like ’em. What you goin’ to the
turret room for?”
“To select a costume for the Bal Masqué at the Inn tonight.”
“What’s that?”
“A masquerade party.”
“Then why didn’t you say so in plain English?”
“Don’t scowl, Sary. Remember one smile in the morning is worth two in the afternoon. Now there’s a line. It’s original, woman.”
“Hmp!” In spite of her disdainful sniff Sarah Ann Parker drew her right hand across her forehead as if to smooth out the frown. “You’re right on your toes this mornin’, Cindy. Thought the other night at dinner after you came home from Court you was going to cry instead of being happy you were Cinderella Clinton again. You’ve been kinder sober all this week, never knew rainy weather to depress you before. Guess you had a good time at Ally Barclay’s last evenin’. You’re so perky now. Was the dinner nice?”
“Nice! It was dee-licious, delectable. The filet mignon was done to perfection, and I haven’t seen mushrooms under glass bells since before the war. The mere memory of them makes my mouth water.” She clasped her hands on her breast and rolled her eyes in ecstasy. “They were out of this world.”
“Quit your play-acting, Cindy, and get down to earth. Was the New York cookin’ any better than mine?”
“No cooking could be better than yours, Sarah Ann Parker. Cross my heart an’ hope to die.”
“I guess you’re kind of prejudiced, Cindy.” Sary attempted unsuccessfully to discipline a pleased grin. “I guess pickin’ apples in the sun was what made me scowl. What you countin’ on to wear at the party tonight? Seems to me you’re pretty late getting a costume together.”
“I have two ready to slip into. I went to several masquerades while I was in the West. The costumes I wore are in a chest in the turret room. I hope the moths haven’t feasted on them.”
“Moths in clothes I have the care of? I’d die of shame. Want to know somethin’? Last time I went through the trunks up there I come across that skating costume of your great-grandmother Clinton’s. Full bright red skirt with black velvet bands, an’ big pockets just like women are wearin’ today, and the cutest panties. White fur jacket; cap, muff to match, even the skates are there. Looks just like new. Remember it?”
“I do. It’s a collector's item.”
“I don’t approve of masquerades an’ such goin’s on, Cindy, they can lead to a lot of deviltry.”
“And a lot of fun, Sary. At midnight everyone unmasks, and ten to one the man you are with isn’t the person you thought or hoped he was.”
“I still don’t believe in it. Get a lot of folks together with their faces covered up an’ how do you know who you’re dancin’ with? A crook might slip in and hold you up. I’ll be anxious about you every minute you’re gone.”
“That’s a foolish fear, Sary. The committee which is selling tickets at five dollars per will do a little screening, I hope. Lyd Fane put on a great selling campaign at Ally Barclay’s dinner last night. Mrs. Sally Drew took five tickets, Judge Shelton five.”
“That would be fifty dollars!”
“For the hospital, remember. What time lunch?”
“Bout an hour. Got a surprise for you. Something you like. Better put an apron over that light green linen dress. May be dusty in the turret room.”
“Dusty in a house you have the care of? You’re fishing for another compliment, woman. No, you can’t come with me, Darius. I don’t want you.”
“That cat loves you, Cindy, but he’s layin’ it on extra thick tryin’ to make me jealous because he knows he’s in disgrace with me.”
“Why, Sary?”
“This morning when I opened the patio door, there were three field mice laid out nice as could be on the flaggin’, an’ that cat stood looking up at me with a robin danglin’ from his mouth. I spanked him good.”
“Darius the Persian king laying gifts at the feet of his queen. I hope he won’t express his love for me that way. I’m off. If I don’t appear within an hour send up a rescue party. I may have cracked my head against a beam and been knocked senseless. After which cheery suggestion I will depart.”
A few minutes later she read the tag on a chest pushed back under a window and dropped to her knees in front of it. Before she raised the cover she glanced out at the illimitable stretch of ocean — had pirates sailed that sea, had they been in this very room, she asked herself.
Nice old place. Clean as a whistle. Each box and chest and trunk labeled. What fun she and a little girl named Grace Temple had had playing with the big dollhouse in the corner. She never had dared come up here alone. She remembered how she had hurriedly shot the bolt on the outside of the door at the foot of the stairs when she heard weird creaks behind it as if someone were stealing softly down. She had been brought up on the story of the smugglers and their shuffling steps.
Gay boxes held hats in which she and her small friends trailing their mothers’ long skirts had fared forth to call on the neighbors. An old-fashioned dressmaker form in front of the narrow door that opened on the secret stairs had an uncanny resemblance to a human watching her. Framed pictures, a motley score, were turned faces to the wall; the head and foot boards of a spool bed leaned companionably close to a dark chintz-covered wing chair. Vases in infinite variety, plates, colorful dozens of them, vegetable dishes of her greatgrandmother's set of Canova were loaded on an oak dining table. The girl in green linen with a pink rose at her collar gave her a start. Silly. It was her own reflection in the long gilt-framed pier mirror.
Things. Things. Things. Too bad her put-my-house-in-order attack hadn’t started on this accumulation. She would tackle it next. She was the last of her family, there were no relatives to whom it would mean anything, but it ought to be of use to someone.
I won't give away these costumes, she decided as she lifted the cover of the cedar chest. They represent too much fun and the fun one has had can’t be snitched away, she philosophized as she held up a ragged dark blue denim work dress. She shook it and between the pendant rags glittered a frock of silver sequins. She remembered the night she had worn it, how at the stroke of twelve she had caught the tags of two zippers and with the prayer they would not fail her had dropped the dark blue garment to the floor. The lightning change from rags to elegance had been a sensational success.
How about wearing it tonight? No. Tom Slade had seen her in it, and Lyd Fane had wisecracked about shedding a glass slipper at midnight, apparently she was expecting a Cinderella costume; also she had suggested that Ken Stewart might appear. Better push that thought out of her mind and quick.
She drew out a fringed Indian costume, richly beaded.
Pocahontas. No one had recognized her the night she wore it. This would be perfect. A white box held a wig and hairpins with which to adjust it. One red and one dark blue quill were thrust into the black hair at the left of the middle part; two waist-length braids were tied at the ends with red and blue ribbons. She looped a half dozen strings of gay beads over her arm.
“Seems to be something missing,” she mused aloud. “I remember. There were two broad copper bracelets not of the Pocahontas period, but effective. I’ll hunt in the chest for those.”
She hung the dress on the old-fashioned form to take out the wrinkles and perched the wig with its quills and long braids on top.
On her knees in front of the chest she burrowed for the bracelets. Funny. They must be here. Dam! Would she have to take out everything? What in the world —something that felt like a bag. When she packed the chest she hadn’t put in a bag — or had she? She had had so much on her mind at the time she might have forgotten. She wouldn’t swear now that she hadn’t.
She’d swear she hadn't packed this one, she told herself as with an effort she pulled up a grayish-white cotton bag so full of something that there had been little room for the stout twine tied round and round at the neck. Looked like a five-pound salt bag washed clean of printing.
She sat on the floor, dropped it into her lap and regarded it curiously. W
as it something the movie people had planted here last summer and forgotten? They had photographed the turret room. It was humpy as if filled with stones or pebbles. Icy fingers closed about her heart, chills feathered along her nerves. What was in it?
“Don’t sit here staring at the thing, open it,” she prodded herself.
Her fingers worked at the hard knot till they were numb. At the imminent peril of loosening a tooth she tugged with her teeth till she could have cried from frustration. It must be opened. She wouldn’t take it out of this room till she knew what was in it. If only she had a hairpin. The wig!
She laid the bag aside and tiptoed across to the dressmaker frame. Eureka! four hairpins and not the useless invisible ones either, they were of stout old-fashioned black wire.
Back beside the chest, seated on the floor, legs outstretched, she attacked the knot. Had she started it? A little. Another pry. That loosened it. One more — it — it was giving — that last poke did it. She pulled off the twine acquiring a few rough splinters in her fingers as it came. The bag spread open quickly as if glad of the release.
She looked into the gaping opening. Rubbed her left hand over her eyes. Looked again. This must be a dream. Those just couldn’t be jewels winking and sparkling up at her. Had sudden sleep overcome her again? Mentally she backtracked: I stopped at the kitchen door — told Sary I was coming up here — I know that was real — I couldn’t dream the delectable smell of that freshly baked apple pie. I came up the turret stairs. Opened the chest — there’s Pocahontas, complete with wig and beads on the dressmaker form — perhaps this will tell the story. She placed a finger between her teeth and extracted a twine splinter. Glory be, that hurt. Now I know I’m awake, with a cache of jewels, real or fake?
She emptied the contents of the bag into her lap. A few brooches tumbled out, three sensational bracelets came after, too many rings to count, all set with diamonds plus emeralds or rubies or sapphires, followed by a veritable cascade of unset precious stones.
She stared at them incredulously. This wasn’t motion-picture stuff. The jewels were real as rain. Remindful of the value of fingerprints, with the bent hairpin she hooked up a ring with one huge diamond. Curious setting. For a guess it was Oriental and very old. Were these stolen jewels? Where had they come from? By whom had they been hidden in the chest?
To Love and to Honour Page 13
