Snow Shadow (7 page)

Donner’s support was firm and ready. It gave me the secure feeling I needed. Still, Mark said nothing at all as I was towed gently away. Donner snapped on his own flashlight to show our path. I went eagerly, still
tense, still expecting to hear even a single word of protest. When that did not come, I was perversely angry.

Now I was fully aware of my smarting hands, my soaked feet and hair. I must look like a perfect witch. No wonder he had not known me. I was grateful for Preston Donner, the ever-perfect gentleman of a model I had sometimes been—reluctantly—exposed to in Aunt Otilda's narrow world.

“I was only going over to see Mrs. Cantrell.” My voice sounded peevish, and I did not try to correct that. “And I became mixed up on the paths in the dark. Then that very officious policeman started chasing me. And, well, I didn't know he was the police—” Babbling, yes, but that explanation was the first which came into my mind at the moment. I was not going to say more until I had time to do some uninterrupted thinking.

There was warm pressure on my arm, a note of comfort in his voice as he answered:

“A most frightening experience. I trust you are not hurt?”

“Just a few minor scrapes and bumps.” I was very glad to see the side door not too far ahead.

However, when once within the house again, I had some difficulty in persuading my too-sensitive cavalier that I could indeed proceed by myself, achieving my way only after some argument. Miss Elizabeth's door was firmly closed as I went down the upper hall. I paused by it. Under my touch the knob turned, I must satisfy myself—I looked in.

From the bureau top, a shaded lamp gave very limited light. Miss Elizabeth lay in the bed, two braids of
hair, as white as the linen of the pillow cases, resting over her shoulders to prove she had retired for the night. On the chaise longue Maud rested, her prim cap askew, her black and gray hair straggling from its daytime knot. Her breath bubbled between her lips in a series of snorts. But someone had pulled the folds of an afghan over her body.

Save for that, I could not criticize the innocent-appearing stage setting. Whoever might come to investigate—if that did happen—would see no more than was proper for that hour. I guessed that if I attempted to arouse the mistress of the house, I would be treated to an excellent performance of a dazed old lady being shaken from a much-needed rest. Not that I was going to put Miss Elizabeth to any such test. Even the door was unlocked, though I was certain Miss Austin did not so usually invite any invasion of her privacy. This scene had been arranged to entice a viewing of innocence at rest.

Once more I wanted to laugh. But I closed the door as quietly as I had opened it and went on to my own room.

There I took inventory of my deplorable condition. My shoes—I kicked off those swishy blobs—could probably never be worn again. My pantyhose were a mass of runs, spreading up and down from bloody knees. There were splatters of melting snow on my coat, circles of damp on my slacks. My hair hung in sodden rings across my face.

Late as it was, I had to trust in soundproofed walls and soak in a tub. I was shivering, and my cold was
certainly going to be much worse unless I applied some heroic measures.

Wrapped in my robe, I went down the hall and soaked. Then, feeling really warm again, I turned to the serious task of dealing with my hair. I was twirling rollers with veteran ease, when there came a knock at my door. I froze—but of course it could
not
be—

“Who's there?”

“Leslie.” There was, I thought, a demanding inflection in that indentification.

“Come in.” I must stick to that story I had told Donner—he had seemed to accept it without question. The trouble was I thought Leslie Lowndes might be a little less ready to believe in such foolish action on anyone's part

She might have been just aroused from a well-earned rest, but her blue caftan was fashion-inspired, and she apparently did not sleep in either face cream or rollers. Or else she had waited to get rid of them before venturing out of sanctuary.

“What's going on? Someone in the bathroom at this hour—lights all over the garden. This is the middle of the night! What do the police think they are doing?”

“It is really very simple.” I must not let her seem formidable. Was my present confidence born of the fact that the worst I had expected had now happened and the world had not come to an end—rather, I was in firm command of myself? I was not even too conscious of the rollers, of my semi-broiled face. “I was going over to see Theodosia, and one of the police must have followed me. I took a wrong turn and got
lost. Then he started chasing me and scared me out of my wits. I had no idea who he was—”

I watched Leslie's reflection in the mirror behind my own. Had or had not her head moved a fraction at my mention of the garden? That man on the path earlier—someone coming to the house? But I was certain Leslie was not going to challenge my story. And I had the rest of the night to polish it—iron out any weaknesses.

My exultation grew. This feeling of being in command of my destiny—it was wonderful! I watched my lips curve into a small smile. Despite rollers and no powder on my shiny nose, I had, I thought critically, never looked better in my life. Then, remembering my audience, I yawned.

“I'm guilty about the bathroom. Sorry I disturbed you, but I came in soaked and took a precaution against a chill.”

“I understand.” Leslie moved back to the door. “It must have been a most frightening experience.”

She was interrupted by a rap. I stiffened and then forced myself to relax, dared to ask a favor. Waving an explanatory hand towards the door, and then to my head, I whispered:

“Will you see who that is?”

She nodded, opening the door a thin crack to ask: “Who is it?”

“Miss Jansen?” inquired a masculine voice, kept to a corresponding whisper. It was not the one I had feared to hear.

Leslie glanced at me. I had already kicked off my
slippers and was shedding my robe. Then I spoke, loud enough to be heard outside.

“I have had a very disturbing time and I am going to bed. Since I do not want to catch the flu I shall remain there.”

Leslie smiled and nodded. Then she slipped out to confront my midnight caller, apparently to testify I was doing exactly what I had said. I waited but heard nothing more. Then I turned out the light, and, for the first time in my life, locked my bedroom door before going to bed.

7

In spite of my desire for thinking out what had happened in the garden, I fell into the deepest sleep I had known for days shortly after I stretched out between those chilly sheets. When I roused, I was half within another dream, one I tried to prolong but which, after the manner of our best dreams, swiftly faded.

As I sat up in bed I saw the draggled clothing I had dropped the night before. Certainly I was right in thinking I would never be able to wear those shoes again. The suit must be sent to the cleaners. I would have to wear my best, whether I wanted to or not Having been raised to believe that the wearing of “best” was done only on important occasions, I began some planning to justify it.

The feeling of freedom which had carried over from my dream puzzled me. This energy, the desire to be
doing—doing what I did not exactly know—was new. My thoughts kept turning to those moments when I had met Mark face to face and stood my ground. He never, I told myself exultantly, could guess I carried a burden from the past—that was pure sentimental trash, nonsense!

I needed only to continue as I had last night, and I would have no worries. Did Leslie, and those poised women like her, always feel this sort of self-confidence?

Shedding my rollers, I regarded the result in the mirror. Under a scarf, it should not look too bad. I knew I was going to get out of the Abbey. I wanted to see Theodosia, buy a new pair of shoes—take a shopping tour.

Now I transferred my wealth of possessions from the plain plastic handbag which did daily duty to the elegant snakeskin box which matched my best pumps. Nine-thirty by my watch. There was a car parked in the drive, another closer to the gate. Perhaps I had better take the garden path to the coach house.

I paused in the hall. One more duty. I tapped on Miss Austin's door. It opened just enough for Maud to squeeze through. Her face was not quite as dourly set as usual, as she looked at me.

“How is Miss Austin?” .

“Sleeping, miss. Ever since last night. And she's going to keep on sleeping as far as them police know. She's been all shook up, Miss Elizabeth has, and that ain't good—not at her age.”

“She won't be disturbed with you on guard, Maud.”

“ ‘Deed she won't, miss! I've been with her all night, and the poor dear lady slept like a lamb. Nobody's going
to get in to trouble her, not while I'm around. You going out, miss?”

“Yes. Anything I can get for Miss Austin?”

“No, miss. Not that I know of. But thank you kindly, just the same.” She retreated crabwise into the room and closed the door. I almost lingered to listen for the sound of a barricade in erection. It would be a very determined law-enforcement officer who would dare to enter that fortress.

I went to the lower hall and looked up Theodosia's phone number. A distant ringing made me impatient. I wanted to get out of the house.

“Theodosia?”

“Just a minute.” Gordon, and by his tone in no good mood. But Theodosia's warmth of greeting a moment later made up for his curtness.

“Erica, what in the world is going on? I have called five times, got some policeman, but no logical answer. And somebody came over last night with the weirdest list of questions. He froze me out when I tried to ask some of my own. Has there been more trouble? And what's going on down by the old theater?”

As she paused for breath I managed a question: “What theater?”

“The little one—where the Austins used to give the Jane Austen plays—I told you. There are two police cars and an ambulance there, and they won't let anyone near. Ordered Gordon away when he tried to go over this morning. What
has
happened?”

I was not prepared to tell the story over the phone. Perhaps if I did not bolt for freedom now I might be
stopped by Lieutenant Daniels or one of his zealous underlings.

“Listen, Theodosia, I have to go downtown. Are you going to the library this morning? Can I get a ride?”

“Do they have you in a state of siege? No, I'm not going in, but Gordon is, and he'll give you a lift. Come over, I'll even provide breakfast if you haven't eaten. But you'll have to tell all in return.”

“I'll be there.” But as I put down the phone, I wondered if I would be able to escape.

Irene Frimsbee came down the stairs. I could hear the distant crying of a fretful child. Her face, bruised as it was, also showed drawn and haggard, her eyes tired. Over her arm was the plaid coat, and she had a scarf tied over her head.

“Are you going out, Mrs. Frimsbee?”

She stared at me glassily, looking, I thought, as if she had not really slept soundly for days.

“To the drugstore. I have to leave a new prescription. They'll deliver it later.”

“See here.” I touched her coat. “I have to send my coat to the cleaners’. Let me borrow yours. I'm planning to go out, and I'll do your errand for you.”

Irene glanced down, as if surprised to discover she was holding the coat. “This old thing—but you're all dressed up—” Then she brightened. “Would you really, Miss Jansen? I hate to leave Stuart. These colds of his are so bad. Maud has to stay with Aunt Elizabeth. There's no one to sit with Stuart while I'm gone. It's the drugstore right on the corner near the inn. Leave the prescription, and their boy will bring it up as soon
as they have it ready. They're good about delivering. Sure—take my coat if you want.”

She pushed the plaid horror at me and hurried up the stairs as if she feared I would change my mind. I shrugged the wrap on. I was near the same height as its owner, if, I thought smugly, a lot slimmer. Now I also had a legitimate excuse for leaving the house.

Pulling the hood up about my chin, I paused only to put on the boots I should have worn last night. There was a policeman outside, but on my producing the prescription he waved me on.

Around the corner would bring me to the carriage house by the way of Emma Horvath's drive. Ahead, I could see two men in uniform, moving people away from the front of another gate farther down. Behind them I caught a glimpse of the rear of an ambulance.

Why an ambulance? Surely no one had been hurt during our exercise in the garden last night. Unless—I stumbled.

The idea of what they might be dealing with made me a little sick. In the grave Miss Elizabeth had visited last night, there might already have been a burial. This was still murder—a murder which Miss Elizabeth had helped to conceal, by all I could guess.

I tramped up the Horvath drive, sure now I
was
going to leave the Abbey. If the police said “no"—at least I would have this day free.

Theodosia answered the door at once, ready with a spate of questions. Gordon Cantrell, his face pinched looking, as if he were beginning to shrivel into middle age without ever having fully matured, stared moodily into his coffee cup with the sullenness of a schoolboy
who has been rated for some omission or commission. Yet there was no atmosphere of a recent quarrel. In fact, Theodosia appeared so intrigued by what was going on at the Abbey, she might have forgotten his presence. But I remembered, so I was not as frank as I might have been, giving only a slightly expanded version of what I had told Preston Donner.

“So that's what went on last night! Gordon went over and one of the police caught him and wanted to know what he was doing!”

“Stupid ass!” Gordon did not raise his eyes from his cup. “Had to hammer it into his thick skull. It wasn't until the other fellow came along he let me go. At least
he
had some sense.”

“But it is all so unbelievable,” Theodosia cut in. “If I wrote this into a book, the editor would make me yank it out as being too fantastic for any reader to swallow! I'd like to have Roger Whittleby here right now listening to this. Teach him to shake his head over manuscripts in the future. I wish I didn't have this foul deadline to meet. I’d take the day off and we'd have a good time chewing it over. No.” She must have read the expression on my face. “It hasn't been any fun for you, or for the Austins, has it? I'm being cold-blooded again.” She shot a glance at Gordon.

“You are.” He struck in at her waspishly. But his wife paid no attention.

“Perhaps my attitude comes from dealing with murders by and gone. With those you can read the evidence in full, act as a biologist with strange insects to study. Somehow this Abbey affair does not seem real to me.”

“Over here it doesn't.” I agreed with her. Coming
into the carriage house had been walking out of an uncomfortable shadow into the light. “Over there, unfortunately it is. That is why I want to escape today—I need to get back a true perspective.”

Gordon was glancing impatiently at his watch. But I was not going shopping in Irene's coat, and Theodosia agreed with me, producing a smart tan carcoat in its stead. Gordon stood near the outer door, by now drumming fingers on the edge of a briefcase. I wished I had thought of a taxi. Nor was our exit made any better when we had to wait for the police ambulance to pull out.

Had they discovered what they had been searching for? What grisly secret had been in the old burial plot?

“What's Rohmer doing working with the cops? I never heard of him joining up with the police before.”

I blinked. “Rohmer? I haven't met any Rohmer at the Abbey.” I thought I was entitled to hedge the truth that much. That abrupt scene last night had not been a real meeting. “It was a Lieutenant Daniels who seemed to be in charge—”

“Mark Rohmer was in the garden last night. And I'd like to know why. This isn't the sort of deal he's usually in on.” When Gordon lapsed into silence, scowling at the windshield before him, I dared to pursue the subject.

“What does he do?”

“Oh, he's one of the hush-hush boys from Washington. He may be MI, or something like that. I wonder—” Gordon's scowl lightened a little. “Did they definitely identify that body as Roderick Frimsbee?”

“As far as I know.”

“Then that may have brought Rohmer in. There were a lot of tales about Frimsbee some time back. Though I always thought he was a pretty small fish on the wrong side of the law. Unless he started moving into the big time lately.”

“I heard that he had to go abroad to escape some kind of trouble here—”

“Too true. Drugs—though they could not get the connecting link to be more than suspicion at the time. He did something pretty raw, though the details never came out. I think if he'd stayed to hand he might have landed up in the pen sooner or later. The family can still swing enough weight—through Miss Emma and his mother knowing a few top brass in the Navy—so they got him out on bail. He skipped then, and I think the Austins were relieved in spite of the money loss. Then they said he was dead—maybe they hoped it Yes, Roderick was a bad boy—a real black sheep.” Gordon had regained some of his usual jauntiness. “But he must have outdone himself lately to bring Rohmer in.”

“Then Mr. Rohmer
must
be important—” I could not stop, I wanted to know more—to hear all Gordon Cantrell could tell me. But he did not appear to think my interest out of the ordinary.

“He's a colonel now—but the word is that he deals with strictly top-level cases—things which have to be given the cover-up sometimes when there is a so-called sensitive angle. Yes, he's important. Pretty lone-wolf—I only got the word about him through a contact at the news center. He was pointed out to me there. Well.” Gordon shrugged. “If this is the usual sort of
case he handles well probably never know the inside story, close to it as we are. That is going to disappoint Theo.”

He laughed. I did not like the harsh note in the laughter. It was plain that he was pleased at the thought his wife was going to be disappointed in something even so minor.

“I think,” he continued, “I'm going to ask around a little, see what the official story is about Rohmer's being here. Rumors circulate, they always do.”

There were more questions I would have liked to ask, but I knew the folly of pushing. The last thing I wanted was to arouse any interest in Gordon Cantrell, which could be turned in my direction so he would begin to wonder what tie I might have with Colonel Mark Rohmer.

“If Rohmer comes around asking questions, you had better be careful.”

I was so startled by that I was afraid I had already betrayed too much interest.

“Why—why should I have anything to hide?”

“He's a fair-haired boy for some security department. And you've certainly heard what's gone on in that direction in the past.”

I regained my composure. “You flatter me by thinking I have any deep, dark secrets to hide. And there is no reason why he would be at all interested in me. I had no contact at all with the Austins before last Saturday. And as soon as I can move I'll have no contact now either.”

But Gordon might not have heard me. “I'd sure like
to know just what he's after at the Abbey.” His voice plainly held an interrogative note.

Did Gordon expect me to provide him with reports of detection in progress? I could hardly accept that But even as I speculated, his manner underwent a change, before my eyes he became another person. For the first time since our introduction I must be seeing the Gordon Cantrell Theodosia had seen when she married him. And, if the turning on of that charm had not been so calculated, I might have been moved by it Once he must have played that role with conviction. Now his action creaked a little.

My first disgust became amusement. I relaxed to enjoy the show. He did not mention Mark again, but his reminder that tomorrow was Saturday, and why didn't I drop in in the evening, had the wrong touch. I thanked him for the lift, without agreeing or disagreeing with his invitation, as I got out of the car, took a deep breath of winter air, which, though tainted with exhaust fumes, was invigorating.

Holly wreaths hung in the windows; signs reminded one there remained just so many more days for Christmas shopping. For a moment I was troubled. Christmas is the day which is the hardest for those without families. We are told by psychiatrists and others dealing with our modern emotional ills that it is the season in which depression strikes the deepest for those prone to it, that grayest of ills. While Aunt Otilda's holiday celebrations, if one might term them that, had never been on the lavish side—far from it, indeed—the day had been sedately observed, with duties of cards written and strictly useful “gifts” exchanged. And this
year I would not even be among the acquaintances I had had.