STAR FLIGHT

        by Phyllis A. Whitney

           Copyright 1993 by
         Phyllis A. Whitney

           All rights reserved.

       BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

  The hauntingly beautiful mountains of North
Carolina provide the stunning backdrop for the
latest novel from the best-selling Grand Master of
classic suspense. Phyllis A. Whitney
spins a chilling tale of Lauren Castle's
search for the truth behind her husband's accidental
death and her famous grandmother's suicide. Two
generations divide these tragic events, yet both
seem curiously and inextricably linked.
  In 1938, two of Hollywood's most
glittering young stars, Victoria Frazer and
Roger Brandt, were cast in a movie set in these
mountains. Drawn to each other with a passion that was
destined to cool, their ill-fated affair ended with the
birth of an illegitimate daughter,
Victoria's death, and the end of Roger's career.
Ostracized by the movie industry, judged morally
corrupt by his fans, Roger Brandt stayed on
in North Carolina, but still the scandal became the
stuff of Hollywood legend.
  Many years later, Lauren Castle is
drawn into Brandt's orbit by a more recent
tragedy: the death of her filmmaker husband.
Only Lauren knows that she is the daughter of
Roger and Victoria's love child. As she begins
to make sense of what happened to her husband and
what happened in her family's past, she risks
exposing herself to an evil that reaches with
undiminished virulence across two generations.

  "Phyllis Whitney is, and will always be, the
Grand Master of her craft."
    --Barbara Michaels

  "Phyllis A. Whitney is a superb and
gifted storyteller, and a master of suspense.
Her contributions in this genre are legend. Star
Flight may well be her finest novel."
    Mary Higgins Clark

             About the Author

  Phyllis A. Whitney was born in
Yokohama, Japan, of American parents, and
has also lived in the Philippines and China.
After the death of her father in China, she and her mother
returned to the United States, which she saw for the
first time when she was fifteen. This early travel
has exerted a strong influence on her
work; many of her novels are set in areas she has
visited in Europe, Africa, and the Orient,
as well as in the places she has lived.
  Phyllis A. Whitney is the author's
maiden name (the A stands for Ayame, which is the
Japanese word for "iris.") She is a widow
and lives near her daughter in Virginia. In
1975, she was elected president of the Mystery
Writers of America, and in 1988 received the
organization's Grand Master Award for lifetime
achievement. She is also the recipient of the
Agatha Award for lifetime achievement given
by Malice Domestic.
  Since 1941, when she attained her first
hardcover publication, she has become an
international success. More than forty million
copies of her novels are in print in
American paperback editions. Her novels for
adults now number thirty-seven, and her
devoted following has made best-sellers of
most of these titles, including The Ebony
Swan, Woman Without a Past, The
Singing Stones, Rainbow in the Mist,
Feather on the Moon, Silversword, and
Dream of Orchids.

             Books by
         Phyllis A. Whitney

Star Flight
The Ebony Swan
Woman Without a Past
The Singing Stones
Rainbow in the Mist
Feather on the Moon
Silversword
Flaming Tree
Dream of Orchids
Rainsong
Emerald
Vermilion
Poinciana
Domino
The Glass Flame
The Stone Bull
The Golden Unicorn
Spindrift
The Turquoise Mask
Snowfire
Listen for the Whisperer
Lost Island
The Winter People
Hunter's Green
Silverhill
Columbella
Sea Jade
Black Amber
Seven Tears for Apollo
Window on the Square
Blue Fire
Thunder Heights
The Moonflower
Skye Cameron
The Trembling Hills
The Quicksilver Pool
The Red Carnelian

       For Julie Fallowfield,
            for so many years my
             friend, agent, and
         counselor. Thank you.


             STAR FLIGHT

                Foreword

  The most exciting part of discovering a new
setting for a novel is the role played by the
unexpected. When my daughter and her husband
drove me to Asheville, North Carolina, I
had never heard of Lake Lure. I'd read about
Chimney Rock, but had dismissed it as being out of
my reach, with too many steps to climb. (to my
delight, there is an elevator!)
  When we started out from Asheville, our
direction was chosen arbitrarily. We drove
along the Blue Ridge and down into Hickory
Nut Gorge. The gorge itself was beautiful, but
nothing spoke to me until we came out upon the
shore of a narrow lake that stretched below the flank
of a rock-scarred mountain. We drove into hills
above the water, where we could better view the
entire enchanting scene. I knew immediately that
I'd found my setting, even though at that moment
I had no idea of the treasures that waited
to enrich my novel. Lake Lure and Rumbling
Bald Mountain provided the atmosphere and
legends that would build my story.
  A number of people helped me along the way.
Edward J. Sheary, Director of Libraries
for the Asheville-Buncomb system, made me
welcome and helped with information and introductions.
Laura Gaskin, of Central Adult
Services in the Pack Memorial Library,
furnished me with the names of those who might help in
my search and provided me with numerous copies of
articles about the area.
  Martha Schatz, Director of the
Rutherfordton County Library, became my main
contact after I returned home, sending me
packets of material on all aspects of
Hickory Nut Gorge and Lake Lure.
Her enthusiastic report on my manuscript
was the first reading I received. Thank you, Martha.
  Joanne Okpych, innkeeper of the Esmeralda
Inn, sent me information about the historic inn, where
early movie stars came to stay when they were making
pictures in the area. Since I am a movie
buff, my imagination took off and I created my
own movie stars.
  Dale Miller, then a manager at Lake
Lure Inn, gave us a tour of the inn, where so many
notables of the past had stayed. He also showed
us the kudzu-covered barn behind the inn where square
dances were once held. The barn was being used for
storage, but I cleared it out with a flick of my
typewriter and held a costume ball in that
cavernous space.
  Of special help to me were Laney Harrill
and his wife, Lyvonne. I met Laney on
top of Chimney Rock, and we were invited to his
home on Lake Lure. There I could catch the
feeling of what it would be like to live on the shore of
that mountain-framed stretch of water. Laney also
introduced me to some of the marvelous legends that
abound in Hickory Nut Gorge.
  For every book I write, I visit the local
chamber of commerce. In the chamber's little building
in the village of Chimney Rock, I struck
a special lode of gold. Ann O'Leary
took us up the mountain to see the set of the Indian
village that was used in the movie The Last of the
Mohicans. We took photos and videos of
that remarkable and very complete Huron village, so
that when I was working at home, I could visualize
it again. For the movie, sadly, much of the village
ended up on the cutting room floor. I'm
glad that I could preserve more of its detail in
my story scenes.
  Thank you, David Easton, for loaning me
your miniature pig. Sigmund von Hogg
brings his own individual personality to several
scenes. I met Siggy when he was a rather large
baby. Now at one hundred pounds he is full
grown, but still is considered miniature.
  My special thanks to Edith Edwards of
Kudzu Konnections in Rutherfordton. I
once wrote about the destructive qualities of
kudzu in a book called The Glass
Flame, but now I have learned about its
virtues. The Book of Kudzu provided
me with a fascinating collection of recipes, not
only for culinary purposes but for healing as
well, all helpful in my fiction writing.
  The handsome drum in the story was the work of Edward
King, who makes each drum an individual work
of art. I acquired one of his drums for myself so
that I could hear its varied tones whenever I wished,
and try to catch the sound in my own amateur
thumping.
  Two scenes in the story take place in
Asheville itself. One is set in the famous
Grove Park Inn high above the city. The
other takes place in the Captain's
Bookshelf, a delightful antiquarian
bookshop. My thanks to Chandler Gordon, son
of the original "captain," and to his wife,
Megan Gordon, who created the wall
decoration of a Japanese silk dragon that
I've described in the bookshop scene.
  Randy Williams drove us around the
Fairfield Mountains vacation complex, where I
was able to set some of the action in my narrative.
He also took us to the unique Mountains
Library--where my books were on the shelves.
Dorothy Dunlap, the librarian, and a
volunteer, Eileen Harrison, made us
welcome and provided me with still another scene.
  I have taken a few liberties with the
geography of Lake Lure's shoreline,
building houses as I pleased, and setting down
paths where there may be no paths. For a writer, the
imagined and the real are so mingled by the end of a book,
that it's difficult to know which is which. For more than a
year I have lived in these pages with this setting and
these people. I hope they will come to life for my readers
as they have for me.
         Prologue: The Legend

  For nearly sixty years, the mountain had kept
its grisly secret. In North Carolina's
early days, the mountain had been called Old
Bald. No trees grew along a rocky
space near the top, so the name was born
naturally. But that was before the "disturbances" occurred
in 1874 and again in 1880. On the first date, the
mountain's dime of notoriety arrived.
  Farmers in the valley were alarmed when rumbling
sounds emerged from deep inside Old Bald and
smoke was seen rising above its massive spread.
A religious revival began and preachers
called sinners into church to save their souls before the
coming of doomsday. Rumors of volcanic
activity flew quickly, so that newspapers sent
reporters from nearby Asheville and from as far
away as New York City to investigate.
Soon scientists swarmed in to begin arguments that
would never entirely resolve the mystery of what was
now being called Rumbling Bald Mountain.
  The theory most accepted was that long-ago
earthquakes had caused fissures to open inside
the mountain. When great boulders crashed into these
hollow caverns, the rumbling sound
resulted. The smoke that caused alarm among the
residents was simply dust rising through crevices
when huge rocks fell precipitously from great
heights within the mountain.
  In those days, there was no lake, only a long,
deep valley along the foot of the mountain. The
valley was part of Hickory Nut Gorge, through
which flowed the Rocky Broad River. In the
1920's, the vision of a newcomer, Dr.
Lucius W. Morse, would become a reality and
change the valley and the surrounding countryside
forever. Dr. Morse had come to North Carolina
from St. Louis for his health and stayed because the country
suited him. The results of Dr. Morse's
dream began to transform the area with the building of a
hydroelectric dam that created Lake Lure.
Soon this part of the state became famous for its
beauty and its reputation as a resort flourished.
  Film companies in a budding industry heard
about the beauty of these Appalachian mountains and,
in particular, the spectacular appeal of the
gorge. Actors and crews came to stay at the
Esmeralda Inn and the Lake Lure Inn came
into being to entertain the wealthy and famous.
  The mountain had been quiet for more than a
hundred years and the volcanic theories that had
proliferated during the brief period of
geological activity had long since been
ridiculed and dismissed, so no one who now lived
in the area had any concern.
  Interest moved to another source when the
resort's first widely publicized scandal and
tragedy occurred in the late thirties.
Victoria Frazer, a beautiful and glamorous
film star, had come from Hollywood to make a
picture with Roger Brandt, already famous for his
cowboy roles in Westerns. The very combination of these
two opposites in the same picture excited
the imaginations of moviegoers across the country and the
movie magazines had a field day.
  It was inevitable that two such beautiful and
dynamic people, cast in intimate scenes, should
fall in love. Victoria possessed a
passionate quality that played well on the
screen, while Roger was an educated and
well-read man--something seldom revealed in his
movies, most of which featured monosyllabic
dialogue. The two were magnets for each other.
  As inevitable as their falling in love might have
been, Roger was already married to a young
woman of Spanish descent from a fine old
California family, and no divorce was
likely. The studio stood on its ear trying
to avoid a scandal that might destroy two
valuable properties. In those
less-than-tolerant days, repercussions had
to be avoided at all costs.
  The studio was not entirely successful. While
in North Carolina, Victoria gave birth
to a baby girl who was quickly spirited away
to adoptive parents in California, a childless
couple who were friends of Victoria. Perhaps all
might have been saved, even then, had Victoria
lived, but she chose instead to drown herself in the
lake at the foot of Rumbling Bald Mountain.
Her scarf was found wrapped around the pilings of a
dock. She had left an unfinished letter to the
daughter she had sent away, and the message had
been interpreted as a suicide note. In any
case, the divers who searched the deep waters of the
lake never recovered her body. And whatever the
mountain knew, it wasn't telling.
  Juicy reports of the scandal appeared in
magazines and newspapers across the country, and
Roger's career plummeted. At the age of
twenty-three, with one of the most recognizable
faces in America, no studio would touch him.
Movies were made in a few months in those days,
and when his last picture was released--one made
shortly before Victoria's death--audiences
booed and walked out. The public, which had accepted
him as the pure and noble rescuer of maidens in
distress, could not handle the reality presented by the
press.
  The behind-the-scenes story was as romantic and
tragic as any screenplay, but the truth was not
to be known until many decades later.
  Oddly enough, Victoria's roots were in
North Carolina and quite a few Frazers still lived
there. She'd been born in Asheville, where a
talent scout, home for a holiday visit, had
discovered her while she was very young. So, in a
sense, she had come home to die. Roger Brandt,
on the other hand, was a native Californian.
While Blue Ridge Cowboy was being
filmed, he rented a house on the lake and brought
out his wife of two years to stay with him until the
end of the picture. Rumor had it that Camilla
Brandt had come to Lake Lure to keep an eye
on her husband. If so, her presence had
no effect.
  After the scandal broke and Roger Brandt
became an untouchable in Hollywood, he
defiantly bought the Lake Lure house he had
rented and moved in permanently with his wife. No
one could ever figure out why he wanted to live
near the scene of a tragedy that had destroyed his
career. Equally mysterious was how he had
persuaded Camilla to uproot herself from her
family and move to so isolated a spot in
America's South. Since Roger answered no
questions and never allowed reporters near his wife,
no one knew their reasons. Soon the Brandts
had a son and the family became as much a part of
Lake Lure's legend and scene as the mountain
itself.
  Over the years, the romantic story of the two
ill-fated lovers grew. To this day, when
visitors are taken on pontoon boats to tour
the lake, they are shown the very place where
Victoria Frazer drowned. The house where
Roger Brandt still lives is pointed out as well,
though boats are asked not to approach its dock.
One guide even began to add his own
embellishments. He claimed that in the
early-morning hours, when mists rose along the
water, a lovely white spirit appeared, drifting
at the foot of the mountain. A spirit that always whispered
the same name over and over--that of Roger Brandt.
Of course, when Brandt got wind of the story, he
immediately put a stop to such nonsense. As a
longtime resident whose privacy was accepted and
respected, he had influence. Strangely, the
uprooted Camilla made herself more a part of the
community than her husband was willing to do.
  Not until more than fifty years later did the
daughter of the baby who was sent away--the
granddaughter of Victoria Frazer and Roger
Brandt--come at last to Lake Lure. Only
then did the mountain give up its terrible
secrets--though not without a good deal of travail
for those who were involved with Roger and Victoria's
past.






                 ONE

  Something awakened me so suddenly that I sat up
in bed, my heart thumping as I stared at the
unfamiliar reflection of water rippling across the
ceiling of my room. Being disoriented by my
surroundings wasn't my problem--I knew where
I was well enough. Back home in Palm
Desert, there was no nearby water to cast ceiling
reflections, so I began to wonder whether there had
been something out there on the lake--some strange
ambience that had reached out to disturb my dreaming--or
whether I simply found it hard to sleep in the
watery surroundings.
  As I came fully awake, I dismissed the
former notion. I was here in North Carolina to find
the answers to important questions, some of which had
plagued me for years. I knew I needed
to search for solutions with logic and good sense. A
sound plan, certainly, but one that made me
smile as I considered it. I wasn't sure that
I was capable of such a sensible approach.
Confusion and concern were too much a part of my
emotional baggage at the moment.
  I'd arrived at Rumbling Mountain Lodge
in the early evening, after a long flight from
California, with several changes before I finally
reached Asheville and picked up the rented car that
had brought me here. A glance at my watch told
me that it was a little before 3:00 A.m. locally,
though not yet midnight at home.
  Finding myself sleepless, I put on a robe
and slippers, opened the door to the long balcony
that ran past several rooms, and stepped outside.
The late-September day had been warm, but the
night air of the mountains felt wonderfully
refreshing. Driving here while there was still some
daylight, I had realized how lushly green
everything was, very different from the desert browns I
was used to. Leaves were just beginning to turn, with the
promise of even greater beauty to come.
  I had never meant to come here. I knew the
story behind my mother's birth and had absorbed some of
her prejudice against the man who still lived at
Lake Lure and was my grandfather. I knew about
my grandmother, who had sent her child away to old friends
in California before her own suicide. All this was
a part of my family history and responsible,
I was sure, for the uneasiness I was trying
to dismiss.
  Even though my real grandparents had
never been a part of my life, I had grown up
curious about them, my young imagination fired by the
glamour of those two legendary figures.
Once, when I was sixteen, I had said to my
mother, "Don't you want to know the truth about your
mother's death?"
  But her sense of having been rejected was too
strong and her guard was always up. To the day of her
own death, she remained unforgiving toward a past
she really knew very little about. She had wanted a
life that was safe and secure, and her foster
parents had given her that. I remembered them as
loving but old, with whatever young leanings toward
adventure they might have had long subdued.
  As I stood on this balcony, high above the very
waters where Victoria Frazer had drowned, some
disturbing enchantment seemed to fill me--as though
something in me already knew that how and why she had died
would have a startling effect upon my own future.
What did Roger Brandt really know about her
death?
  I was the one who wanted to know. Once, I
sneaked into a movie theater where one of Roger
Brandt's old pictures was playing. In spite
of all that seemed sentimental and corny to me,
I'd been able to catch a bit of the fascination he
must have held for the audiences of his day. He'd been
very much a man's man, strong and vital in his
adventure pictures, yet women, too, were
clearly susceptible to his special charm.
  A veteran of more than thirty movies since
his teens, he would have been in his early twenties in
the film I saw. He appeared tall and lean--
perhaps lanky was the word--yet possessed a
natural grace of movement that was appealing. The
camera loved him. His eyes said more than any
lines they gave him, and a crease in one cheek
brought an interesting twist to his smile. He had
a special way of walking off with his back to the
camera and then pausing to look over one shoulder,
almost mischievously, as though some secret existed
between him and the audience. Of course, his prowess on
a horse was famous and the palomino in his films
belonged to him. All these things I knew about from
old fan magazines I'd picked up in
secondhand stores, hiding them from my mother.
  My father, I didn't remember at all;
he'd died in an accident when I was only two,
so he held less reality for me than my grandfather
did.
  Unfortunately, I had never seen the movie
Blue Ridge Cowboy, which starred both of
my grandparents. Those same old magazines had
shown me her entrancing, tender young face with those
great eyes that must have held me spellbound. I
knew they were green, because the magazines said so,
though all the photographs I saw were in black
and white. My own eyes were green as well, and
sometimes I'd felt a certain pride of distinction
because they'd come from my famous grandmother. She must have
been a glorious shooting star across the film
screens of the world, only to have her light quenched in
the dark waters of Lake Lure. At least she
would never grow old. Roger Brandt was over
seventy, and probably growing feeble, with all that
young charisma long gone. Yet I was curious about
him.

  My room at the lodge was on the second
floor, at the rear, above the lake. The building
was set among tall evergreens, oaks, and
maples that offered shade by day and a certain dusky
seclusion by night. Beneath my balcony, the
hillside dropped steeply to the water. With the
lodge's lighted standards all around, I could
make out wooden steps leading down to a slanting
walkway that ended where a house stood near the
water.
  My coming here still seemed strange and unreal
to me. It had less to do with Victoria and Roger
and the distant past than with the death two years ago of
my husband, documentary-film maker Jim
Castle, in this remote place. Nevertheless, what
was happening now seemed strangely fateful and
destined--if one believed in such things.
  Jim's interest in Roger Brandt had been
sparked by the fact that he was my grandfather, but it had
quickly grown to be more. He had watched his films
and read hundreds of books written
by Hollywood insiders, and those invariably made
some mention of Roger Brandt. When Jim decided
to travel here to get footage of his film's
subject, I had refused to accompany him.
  As a film writer, I had worked on some of
Jim's past efforts, but I'd wanted nothing to do
with this one. I was still resisting destiny. When he
died on that trip, I'd suffered a good deal of
guilt, perhaps because our marriage was no longer
close. I kept thinking if I'd come here with
him, Jim would still be alive.
  The startling letter that finally had brought me here was
nearly anonymous. I knew the few lines
by heart, and as I looked out over the water toward
that great crouching mountain, they ran through my mind:

Lauren Castle:
  Your husband's death was not an accident, as I
have only just learned. If you want to know what
happened to him, you must come to Lake Lure as
soon as possible. Stay at Rumbling Mountain
Lodge, and I will find you.
    n.

  The note had forced my hand. I had comforted myself
knowing I could come as Jim Castle's wife, so that
my connection to Roger Brandt would remain a
secret, except to one person. Gordon
Heath, who had been working with Jim and who was an
old friend of his, still lived here. But Gordon's
presence in these parts and his knowledge of my family
history was something I wasn't ready to deal with
yet. I had written to Gordon to say I was
coming--though not why or when. I didn't want him
to know more than that for now, but I was aware I would
need his help. So where was I to find cool logic
to guide me now?
  Gordon had sent me a letter at the time of
Jim's death--a letter that had been kind but
impersonal. Clearly, what had happened between us
eleven years ago in San Francisco was to be
ignored. He wrote that Jim had been filming
a scene for his documentary on an abandoned movie
set--an Indian village on the mountain above
Hickory Nut Gorge. A heavy beam had
fallen, killing him instantly.
  Gordon had returned Jim's possessions
to me--everything, that is, except the work he'd been
doing on the documentary. After I received his letter,
I had written to him, but there had been no further
communication between us. His silence had spelled
disapproval of me. Yet here I was and the first
person I would need to find was Gordon Heath.
  As I stood at the rail, someone turned on
a light in the house near the water's edge and my
attention returned to the present. I wondered who
lived there and why they were up so late. Someone
else must also be sleepless.
  However, I had no patience for idle
speculation at this hour. Tomorrow--today!--I must find
Gordon Heath and talk to him, whether I
liked the idea or not. I hoped he could
identify the n who had written to me. I also
wanted him to show me the place where Jim had died
and tell me more about the accident.
  A door opened in the house below and someone came
out to stand on a walkway that led down to a
boathouse. The figure was tall and wore a
long robe, but I couldn't tell whether it was a
man or a woman. When the person looked up in
my direction, realized that I was visible against the
lights of the lodge.
  "So you're not sleeping, either?" a woman's
husky voice called up to me. "If you want
to come on down, I'll fix us tea and a snack.
Don't bother to dress--I'm in my
pajamas."
  Her manner seemed so assured that I didn't
feel I could refuse. Intrigued by her informal
invitation, I stopped only to put on shoes before
starting down steep wooden steps to the walkway.
When I reached the landing that passed her door, the
woman held out her hand in a clasp that seemed as
assured as her words.
  "You're Lauren Castle, the guest who came
last evening, aren't you? I knew your husband.
Mrs. Adrian, at the desk, told me you'd
arrived. Come on in and we'll get acquainted.
I'm Gretchen Frazer."
  I'd known, of course, from the lodge stationery that
Victoria Frazer's sister owned and managed
Rumbling Mountain Lodge, but I wasn't
prepared for this sudden impromptu meeting with the
woman who was my great-aunt. I didn't intend
to reveal myself to her, or to anyone else. Not
yet. I would play everything by ear for a time until
I began to get a feeling for the place and the people.
First I must know what had really happened to Jim
--assuming, of course, that there was more to the story
than I knew.
  She led me into a big room that was clearly the
main living space of the house--both kitchen and
dining area. Following a wave of her hand, I
sat down at a round oak table and watched her
prepare tea. Blue pajama legs showed beneath a
comfortable-looking plaid robe that she had tied around
her waist with a frayed cord. She was tall and
bony--a bit gaunt--but her body gave the
impression of great strength. Her face--a
somber, life-worn face--wore a map of
deep lines. It seemed a little forbidding in
its cast--or at least that was my first impression.
  By now, Victoria Frazer would have been in her
early seventies--a few years younger than
Roger Brandt. This woman must have been a younger
sister to Victoria, for she seemed active and
ageless. When her sister died, she could have been no
older than seventeen or eighteen. I counted
myself lucky to meet her informally as Jim
Castle's wife, since she might be a source
of much that I wanted to know about my mother's family.
  When Gretchen Frazer had set down a tray
with two blue glazed mugs, into which she had poured
a dark brew, accompanied by a plate of brown
cookies, she joined me at the table.
  "Tell me what you think," she said, and when I
looked at her blankly, she smiled. All the
lines of her face lifted, so she now seemed
less formidable and austere. "I mean the tea.
It's made from kudzu. And so are the cookies--
from kudzu flour, that is. I don't imagine
you've tasted kudzu before?"
  Of course I hadn't, though I knew the
reputation of the voracious vine from Japan that was
devouring the South. "I don't think we have
kudzu in California," I said. "I didn't
know it could be eaten."
  "It's time people found out instead of just sitting around
cursing it," she said pleasantly.
  The aroma of the tea was inviting, and I flavored
it with a little honey and sipped. "It's quite good."
  "And not full of caffeine. It will help you
sleep."
  I realized suddenly that she was staring at me.
Her eyes were a deep, dark brown and for a moment
they held me. Then she blinked and relaxed,
releasing me.
  "Your eyes are an unusual color, Mrs.
Castle. I've seen eyes like that in only one
other person in my life."
  I knew she meant her sister, Victoria,
so I leaned forward to take a cookie, avoiding
a reply.
  "Your husband told me that you are a film
writer, Mrs. Castle. I hope you don't
plan to continue his work on the Brandt story."
  I wasn't sure why she would oppose this, but
I tried to reassure her. "Those aren't my
skills. I write mostly for television, and
I like to get away now and then and find fresh
settings to write about. Jim's
description of Lake Lure in his letters made
me think I might find something for my own work
here."
  "You waited long enough to come," she said, sounding
tart.
  I had planned my story, my excuses.
"It would have been too painful to come sooner."
  She seemed to accept this. "In the old days,
when I was young, this area attracted a number of
film companies. We were quite famous before World War
II. Then everything fell apart."
  "It seems remarkable that Roger Brandt still
lives here." I hoped that I sounded casual.
  She shook her head as if puzzling. "I
expect you know the local stories about Roger and
my sister, Victoria?"
  "I've heard some of them," I said, and changed
the subject slightly. "Since Jim got to know
Roger Brandt through his work and admired him, I'd
like to meet him sometime."
  "I don't know if you'll succeed. He
doesn't take much to visitors. He and I are
not exactly friends, as you might expect. Though his
wife, Camilla, is all right. Sometimes I
feel sorry for her."
  I let this talk about the Brandts pass and
finished my tea. "Thank you," I said. "I'd
better get back to bed now."
  She rose and came with me to the door. "If
you're looking for a good setting for a story, you've
come to the right place. You must be sure to take one
of the boat tours around the lake."
  I followed her onto a long, open porch that
ran across the front of the house. From there we
descended steps to the big flat roof that covered the
boathouse. Metal railings protected us from the
water and outdoor chairs and benches had been set
about invitingly. The night was less than quiet,
with water sucking rhythmically against pilings beneath us,
while the orchestra of insects on the shore
seemed to herald the end of summer.
  A cloud covered the moon, making me aware
of a sudden enveloping darkness in which the even darker
mountain shapes around the lake were visible.
  Gretchen Frazer pointed. "You can't see the
place from here, but way down there across the water is
a building that was used in the movie Dirty
Dancing. Several scenes were shot here--so
Hollywood has discovered us again. And of course
some of the mountain scenes around Chimney
Rock were used for The Last of the Mohicans.
They even built a village of longhouses up
there. Huron Indians in North Carolina! But
it's all good for business."
  Reference to the village caught my attention.
"Miss Frazer, can you tell me anything about my
husband's death?"
  Her shoulders seemed to droop a little. "I'm
sorry, I shouldn't have reminded you of such sadness.
I only know that he died in that very village.
I've never wanted to go there myself. I liked this
place better in the old days. In the twenties,
everyone came to Lake Lure--Franklin
Roosevelt, F. Scott Fitzgerald,
Emily Post, Frances Hodgson Burnett.
The list goes on and on. You must be sure
to visit the Lake Lure Inn--you'll find a
lot of history there. Of course we enjoyed a
long, peaceful time without visitors, but we need
the money outsiders bring in, and it's good to see
everything opening up again."
  A wave of tiredness swept through me and I
turned toward the walk leading back to my room.
Gretchen came with me as far as her house, where
we were stopped by a large animal that came through the
screen door it had apparently managed to open.
It trotted over to snuffle around my ankles,
startling me.
  "Behave, Siggy," Gretchen told the
creature. "Don't mind him, Mrs. Castle.
He'd like to sit on your lap, if you'd let him
--he's very friendly. Spoiled."
  Since the fat bronze-colored animal
seemed to weigh a hundred pounds at least, I
didn't mean to offer him a lap. Siggy looked
up at me hopefully with bright little eyes and I
could have sworn he was smiling.
  "He's a miniature pig," Gretchen
explained, "and full-grown. Meet Sigmund
von Hogg, Mrs. Castle. He's
housebroken, of course, but very mischievous, and
smarter than most people."
  Gretchen's manner had softened, grown
affectionate, and I liked her a little better because
of the pig. I ventured to pat his head and felt
stiff bristles that were definitely piglike.
Siggy wriggled with pleasure when I scratched,
and showed signs of becoming even friendlier.
  "That's enough now," Gretchen told him. She
opened the door and pushed him inside with her
foot. "Thanks for coming down, Mrs. Castle.
I was glad to have company and meet you. I'd
better get back to bed now myself, since I have a
patient coming early this morning."
  "Patient? You're a doctor?"
  "Hardly. But people come to me and I try
to help."
  She explained no further, so I said good
night and climbed back to my room. When I
got into bed again, I was no longer as aware of the
rippling water reflections on the ceiling. It was
interesting to have met my grandmother's sister so quickly.
There were doors to be opened there, but Jim was my
first concern and upon waking I must find Gordon
Heath.
  I went to sleep almost at once, and I was still
sleeping soundly when a maid knocked at my
door with breakfast rolls, fruit, and coffee.
I sat up in bed to thank the young black woman
as she set her tray on a drop-leaf table.
  When I'd showered, I sat down hungrily
to enjoy my breakfast. Then I dressed in
jeans, tucked in a white shirt, and put on
sturdy walking shoes; ready or not, it was time
to start looking for Gordon.
  In the lobby, I found Mrs. Adrian again
on duty at the front desk. I asked her
whether she knew Gordon Heath and she smiled.
  "Everyone knows Gordon. But I think he's
on vacation now, so I'm not sure where you'll find
him. His mother runs a gift shop down the road a
piece, just opposite the landing. You might talk
to her. She'll know where he is. Her name is
Finella Heath, and she calls her shop
Finella's."
  I thanked her, but before I started on my way,
I asked a question that had been puzzling me. "I
had a cup of tea with Miss Frazer late last
night and she mentioned seeing a patient this morning,
though she told me she isn't a doctor. What
did she mean?"
  Mrs. Adrian's face lighted. "Isn't
she wonderful! At her age, she can outdo most
of us. She can put her hands on you and make you
feel better instantly. It's a gift. And she
knows all the right herbal remedies. She's
taught herself. I suppose you'd call her a
healer."
  I had wondered what it might have been like to be
the younger sister of a woman as famous and
beautiful as Victoria Frazer, and I was
glad Gretchen had her own remarkable talents.
  I thanked Mrs. Adrian and went out to the
parking area, where I'd left my rented Ford.
When I'd backed into the drive, I followed a
narrow road that wound down through thick woods that
showed a few splashes of brilliant color where
oak and maple had begun to turn. I felt an
exhilaration about waking up in a new place and
discovering wonders I hadn't been able to see on
my arrival the night before. I didn't want
to think that part of this feeling might be the anticipation
of seeing Gordon again. What had been between us was
over long ago, and our last meeting had hardly
been amicable. But since he had been Jim's
friend, I knew he would see me. I wondered
whether he, too, had suffered guilt because of what
had happened in San Francisco.
  At the level of the water, the highway led past
open spaces that formed a parklike area on the
lake. Several large willow trees with drooping
branches added to the beauty of the scene. Moored
to the landing was a long pontoon boat that bore the
name Showboat, and the flowing water knew nothing of
old tragedy.
  I drove along slowly until I saw a
rustic building on my left. It had
probably been a barn at one time and was still
painted bright red, with a sign above the door that
announced Finella's in large white letters. A
smaller sign on the screen door told me the
shop was open. I parked at the side of the building
and sat for a moment considering. It was unlikely that
Gordon had ever told his mother about knowing me
eleven years ago in San Francisco.
Yet, for me, that episode of my life had
changed my destiny. Jim had promised a more
certain life and we had the film industry in
common. A life with Gordon had seemed
riskier, a question mark, and I hadn't been brave
enough to take a chance with him. It was a few years before
I realized I'd made the wrong choice. Not that
I was sure Gordon would have been right--but Jim
was wrong for me and I for him.
  I left the car and climbed several wooden
steps to a small landing. As I opened the screen
door, a bell chimed musically.


                TWO

  The shop's interior was spacious--indeed a
barn, with plenty of room for well-spaced tables
and counters filled with enticing treasures. At
once I was enveloped in light and color. A
golden radiance shone from pine floors and walls,
and I looked up into shadowy reaches where oak
beams crossed empty space. Color glowed
all about me, in woven hangings on the walls, in
scatter rugs of Indian design, and, of
course, in all the rich contents of cabinets,
counters, and display tables. Yet there was no sense
of crowding--just an overall effect of cheerful,
open light.
  I was prepared to like Finella even before I
stumbled over her. With my gaze fixed high and
wide, I didn't notice the woman kneeling
on the floor beside a pine counter until I almost
stepped on the painting that lay before her.
  She raised a hand to stop me and looked up,
smiling--a warm, friendly smile for a stranger.
  "Hello. Come in and browse, if you like.
I'll be with you as soon as I've finished mounting
this watercolor."
  Finella's hair was vividly red and cut in
what used to be called a page boy. When she
moved her head, her hair swirled thickly and
settled in its own shining pattern. Her mouth,
touched with a soft red, was generous in size and the
dimple her smile encouraged deepened as she
looked up at me. I remembered just such an
indentation near her son's mouth and for a moment I was
distracted. Her look and manner were so
vibrantly young that it would be difficult to guess
her age without knowing that she had a son a little older
than my thirty years.
  I returned her smile, but instead of moving
to look around the shop, as she suggested, my
attention was caught by the watercolor she was about
to frame. Clearly, the mountain the artist had
depicted was Rumbling Bald, its long, uneven
top and rock-scarred flank easily
recognizable even in the storm that appeared to be
crashing over its summit. The lighting was strange
--almost too vivid, as though the artist had caught
what must have been a momentary flash of lightning as
it illuminated the scene. I could sense a wind that
bent the trees at the mountain's foot, where lake
waters were whipped into white-frothed waves. The
painting possessed a wild power that made
me shiver--as though it threatened me in some way.
  "Does the mountain really look like that in a
storm?" I asked.
  Finella nodded. "Her work is strong, isn't
it? Do you see what's happening on top?"
  I looked more closely and saw that an
elliptical lighted shape appeared to be tilted
dangerously toward the mountain.
  "It looks as though a plane is about to crash
in the middle of a storm."
  "Mm," said Finella, sounding enigmatic.
  She was still on her hands and knees, and I
knelt beside her to get a better look and to search
for the artist's name in the right-hand corner. The painting
had been signed with a first name only: Natalie.
I was startled but decided it would be too
coincidental if the first name I came across that
began with n happened to be the person I was
looking for. Still--there was the matter of serendipity that
was forever fortuitous and unexplainable.
  "Who is Natalie?" I asked.
  "She's a very talented artist. I'm showing
several of her paintings in my shop, but they're
hard to sell, since she picks such wild,
disturbing subjects. They're uncomfortable
to live with. Of course, what's happening in this
painting is straight out of Lake Lure legend,
of which we have many. That's not a plane that's about
to crash. Look again."
  I studied the tilted shape and smiled. "Not a
UFO?"
  "Right out of history."
  "You mean that people around here really saw such a
thing?"
  "Or thought they did. A few were absolutely
positive, even though they were doubted and
pooh-poohed. Natalie's father--a teenaged
boy at the time--and her grandfather are positive about
what they saw. Because of the storm, they couldn't get
to the top that night. This was in the fifties, when such
sightings were popping up frequently."
  "Did they go back to investigate?"
  "They tried to the next day, but army
intelligence was already on the job, brought in
by helicopter. So no one was allowed to go up.
Because of army maneuvers, they were told. Days
later, when a party of the curious climbed the
mountain, the government men were gone and the whole
episode--if anything did happen--was
swept under the rug. There was nothing to be
seen except a circle of scorched earth. But
Roger and Justyn are convinced that a spaceship
came down that night."
  "Roger?" I couldn't help echoing the name.
  "Roger Brandt, Natalie's grandfather. Though
she doesn't like to use the name Brandt, since
she's determined to make it as an artist under her
own steam. I think that shows a lot of good sense;
she doesn't need any of that old baggage
hanging around her neck. I suppose you know about
Roger Brandt and Victoria Frazer?"
  "I've already met Gretchen Frazer at the
lodge," I said evasively.
  "Gretchen's a remarkable lady. I like the
title Natalie has given to this painting: Star
Flight. Perfect, don't you think?"
  I stood up and began to move about the shop. I
still hadn't introduced myself and I didn't want
her to see my face. Natalie Brandt? It
might make a weird sort of sense if she had
been the one to send me that note. She would have no
idea that Roger Brandt was also my grandfather.
Jim had promised me that he would tell no one.
Only Gordon Heath had known back in San
Francisco. In any case, I realized that
I must meet Natalie Brandt as soon as
possible. First, however, I still had to talk
to Gordon.
  I continued wandering about the shop, busy with my own
thoughts. One corner of the large main area had been
partitioned into a small separate room, and I
walked over to the door to investigate. A sign
read: Come in and meet Kudzu, the friendly
vine.
  I looked back at Finella. "Friendly
kudzu?"
  She stood up, stretched widely, and came
toward me. I had seen only the back of her
jacket and pants as she knelt before the painting,
but now I received the full effect of bright patches
of green and rose set into the denim jacket that
fell smartly from her shoulders. Big square
pockets vibrated with yellow and green. Vivid
color suited her, bringing a sparkle to lively
blue eyes that matched the denim.
  "Kudzu isn't appreciated," Finella
told me. "Some of us are trying to change that.
Nobody is using the vine as it should be used. Go
inside and look around."
  I was interested, but now wasn't the right
time. I had postponed introducing myself
to Gordon's mother long enough--perhaps because I couldn't
turn back once she knew who I was.
  "I'm Lauren Castle," I said, walking
toward her. "Jim Castle's wife."
  She came at once to shake my hand warmly.
"Gordon said you might be coming, but we didn't
know when."
  "I was able to leave suddenly," I said.
  "We were very fond of Jim. As you know, he and
my son were old friends. The accident shocked us
terribly. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Castle, but
I'm glad you've come. I don't know why, but
I always felt you should."
  Nothing in her words suggested that her son had
told her how well he had known me out in
California. Jim had told me that Gordon
had married and then divorced, but that was all I
knew about what he had done over the past eleven
years. Most of the time, Jim and I had an
unspoken agreement not to discuss Gordon.
  "Where can I find your son?" I asked.
  Finella shook her head and her glossy red
hair swirled again. "I can't tell you offhand.
He works for Chimney Rock Park, but he's
taken ten days off, and when he's not working, I
never know where he's likely to be during the day.
However, we share a house on the lake, so
I'll see him tonight, if not before."
  "Then perhaps you can tell him I'm here and staying
at Rumbling Mountain Lodge."
  "Of course. I know he'll want to see you as
soon as he can."
  "When Gordon wrote to me, he mentioned a
movie village as the place where Jim died.
I'd like to go there, if you can tell me how to find
it."
  "That's easy enough. It's only a short
drive from here, though the road up is rough and
bumpy. Just follow the gorge beside the river to the
next little village of Chimney Rock. Watch
for the small chamber of commerce building up an
embankment on your right. If you drive around behind
it, you'll find a dirt road leading up the
mountain. Keep going until you come out at the
Indian village. The movie trucks used
to bump over that road with all their heavy
equipment, and the ruts are still there."
  She accompanied me to the door and touched my
arm in a reassuring gesture. I thanked
her and said I'd like to come back to explore her
shop later.
  "I'll tell Gordon you're here as soon as
I can, and do come back whenever you like."
  I went out to my car, feeling slightly dazed.
Everything was happening faster than I expected.
I felt excited about the discovery that n
probably stood for Natalie Brandt, to whom
I was related through our mutual grandfather. My first
cousin! I cared very little about the man who had
betrayed Victoria Frazer, aside from a
natural curiosity. According to my mother, he was the
villain of this piece. And her prejudice,
naturally, had become mine.

  Once I'd driven past the end of the lake, the
gorge lived up to its name: Steep mountains
crowded each side of the narrow road. The Rocky
Broad River tumbled over huge boulders below
the highway, making this a road that could never be
widened. This must make a fine bottleneck in the
tourist season. I watched for the chamber of commerce
sign and turned off, making my way behind the
small building to where the dirt road started.
  It was as rough and jarring as Finella had warned.
The car rattled as it climbed around twists and
turns, until the road came out at a large,
fiat, cleared area that stretched ahead. A steep
mountain rose on one side and a drop-off that
looked out over a valley descended on the other.
There were ten or more structures of various sizes
rising from bare, dusty white earth edged by the
remains of crops that had been planted here and there
--to lend authenticity, I supposed. A wide
path led straight ahead past very real log and bark
structures that had weathered to gray.
  I left my car, walked twenty feet, and
passed into another time and culture. These were not the
wigwams of the western plains, but the traditional
Huron longhouses of the North. Several were
truly long and covered with strips of bark over
sapling frames bent to form rounded tops.
Trapdoors used to let out smoke were propped
open in the roofs. During inclement weather, they could
be closed against rain, but now they stood open,
oblivious of the elements. The movie company had
come and gone, carelessly abandoning the historical
details they had so carefully constructed.
  One structure, still unfinished--perhaps for the
purposes of the movie--showed the open
basketwork of the walls which normally would have been
covered by bark. Whole tree trunks had been
split and laid side by side to form a floor that
was set a foot or so up from the ground.
  Several buildings were smaller than the
longhouses--more like huts with rounded domes. One
large structure caught my attention. It was
disguised as a longhouse on the side that would face
a camera, but behind that facade it was built with the
anachronism of two-by-fours. Looking in,
I could see that its big central room was large
enough for tables that would serve the crew, with a proper
roof to shelter them. It still housed an abandoned
refrigerator.
  Outside, in the realm of the cameras, the hide
of a deer had been stretched against logs for drying.
On an open porch, I glimpsed a weathered
pile of skins left behind, having served their
purpose as props. Here and there, all about the
village, were round cribs built of intertwined
branches and still holding dry cobs of corn that
looked as though they had been stripped long ago
by foraging mice. Meticulous attention seemed to have
been given to details. Later, when I saw
The Last of the Mohicans, I discovered,
sadly, how little of all this had been used. As I
stood looking about this deserted place, a curious
sense of having entered another time possessed me.
As though, just out of sight, Indian women were busy
with their cooking fires, awaiting the return of their
men from the hunt. Strangely, I felt as if
I were part of some play that had yet to begin. I had
no idea of my role, but soon the curtain would
go up and I would find myself onstage. Would I know
my lines when the time came?
  I shook myself free of such fantasies and
walked on. In the center of the village, I saw
a circle of white stones on the ground. Tall
poles had been set in the center of the circle and
lashed together, reaching more than seven feet into the
air. A stake, perhaps, for burning an enemy? This
seemed a little too real for my taste. A
weatherworn blanket had been tied around the
poles--perhaps to spare an actor's back from
discomfort during long filming? I had no idea
how the illusion would be managed in the movie, but
I recalled such a scene in my long-ago reading
of The Last of the Mohicans. Curiously,
placed a little ways in front of the stake, there was
a second, smaller circle of stones,
with evidence of hardened ashes at its center. At
a loss to explain any of this, I kept walking.
  The thickly forested mountain towered above the
village, creating a magnificent backdrop
on one side. On the opposite side, where the
village looked out toward other mountains, a
cliff dropped off steeply to the valley below.
Only an occasional bird broke the deep,
peaceful silence--a silence empty of any
human intruder except myself. Hickory Nut
Gorge was out of sight here, though I could look out
to see the high, jutting pillar of granite that was
Chimney Rock. Directly across from the
village, a waterfall streamed down a steep
mountain.
  Certainly all this must have made a marvelous
setting for actors in a movie, but for me it was
frighteningly real. This was the place where my husband
had died--where some malevolence might have touched
him, if the note from n had any truth to it.
  I discovered a long, thin tree trunk,
supported at either end by the crotch of a growing
tree. I perched myself on the rough bark of the
makeshift bench to rest and wait. Though for what,
I wasn't sure. Perhaps for the play to begin, so
I could discover the part intended for me. Or had this
play begun eleven years ago in the city of
San Francisco?
  I found myself returning in memory to a time when
I was nineteen and engaged to marry Jim Castle.
He was nearly ten years older than I was and
already successfully established as a creator of
documentary films. I aspired to scriptwriting
and he had become a mentor when I took some
special courses that he was teaching at
Berkeley.
  Jim had seemed to be all the safe things my
mother wanted for me. His attention was flattering and
he was fun to be with. We had common interests and
I thought I was falling in love. When he asked
me to marry him, I agreed. My mother met him and
approved, assuring me that he was nothing like my
father, who had taken off on his own when I was
small, and had died in a car accident.
  My life had seemed comfortably settled, and
then Jim had introduced me to another
instructor, a graduate student who had become
a good friend of his. I still don't know exactly
what happened. An immediate recognition seemed
to strike fire between Gordon and me. The
attraction was immediate, and it was more than physical.
This was something I'd never experienced before. What
I felt for Jim paled beside this shattering new
emotion.
  Jim was going to Los Angeles for two
weeks to meet a producer about a new project
he was planning. He relegated the task of
looking out for me to Gordon, never dreaming of the
spark that had lighted between us--something we were both
trying to resist. That was the most devastating part--the
way Jim had trusted us. Gordon was finishing
up a harried year of graduate work and teaching that
had left him little time to see the fascinating city
across the bay. We agreed that I would show him
San Francisco, since he'd be leaving the
area in six weeks.
  In so many ways, Gordon was Jim's
opposite--more rugged, yet not nearly so
good-looking or easy to be with. Gordon was
unsettled and unsettling. He wasn't sure
what he wanted to do with his life. In fact,
life seemed to him something to taste, to savor,
to experiment with. Nothing about him seemed "safe."
But for me everything seemed exactly right and as it
should be. His face, wide at the cheekbones, had
a serious cast, with a lot of determination in the chin.
His eyes could dance with a secret amusement--not
laughing at me, but delighting in me and what we
had every time we were together. My first feeling was one of
alarm and then denial. I wasn't brave enough,
or wise enough at nineteen, to deal with what was
happening to me, so I convinced myself that Gordon and
I were destined to be good friends and nothing more.
  I could still remember the words Gordon said to me
the first time we were alone. "I've known you somewhere,
Lauren--I'm sure of it." I hadn't yet
experienced the mystical side of him, but even as
I said I didn't think so, I felt the same
way. I knew this man very well indeed.
  The sense of recognition continued between us.
Sometimes each knew what the other was going to say.
We liked the same books, movies, causes.
We both loved animals and the outdoors.
Gordon read some of my writing and thought it was
promising--but told me that I still had a lot
to learn.
  For nearly two weeks, we went about together--
innocently at first. We explored not only
San Francisco but the wonders we found in
each other. I don't think we forgot
Jim Castle as we wandered the streets and
picnicked in the park. Except for clasping hands
as we walked, or Gordon's arm draped
casually around my shoulders, there was no physical
contact in the beginning. Perhaps we both knew, without
conscious awareness, that when we took that step, there
would be no turning back.
  I suppose we moved for a while in a dream,
not fully accepting the significance of what was
happening. When Gordon told me he was from
North Carolina and that his home was at Lake
Lure, I was thoroughly shaken. The hand of some
mysterious destiny seemed to be at work and it was
too strong to be ignored. I told him who my
grandparents were and we marveled together. He had
actually met Roger Brandt, though he didn't
know him well.
  I couldn't bear to remember what had happened
next. When Jim came home, reality had to be
faced. Gordon, who was going home to North
Carolina shortly, wanted me to break up with
Jim and go with him. He insisted that we tell
Jim what had happened and ask him to understand that I
couldn't possibly marry him now.
  This frightened me, woke me up to my safe,
everyday world--to what my mother had instilled in me.
I was too young and confused to accept such ruthlessness.
It seemed impossible to wound someone so deeply
whom I'd thought I loved. What Gordon saw
in a future together was surely an illusion, to be
dispelled by reality and good sense. And never mind a
broken heart or two along the way. At that
point, I didn't know what a broken heart was
going to feel like. I hadn't lived long enough to find
out who I was.
  For the first time, Gordon was cruel, and I saw
a side to him that I hadn't known and that frightened me
further. I still remember his words. "What you
mean, Lauren, is that you lack the courage
to tell Jim. Hard for me to say and probably
harder for you to hear, but right nevertheless. Neither of us
meant for this to happen, but it has, and we need
to tell Jim and get on with our lives."
  "I can't," I said miserably.
  "I expected more of you; you haven't discovered
your own strength yet."
  "You don't know me--not really!"
  I never forgot the cool gray of his eyes at
that moment. "I'm beginning to and I don't think I
like what I see," he said, and walked
away.
  He went back to Lake Lure the next day,
abandoning his classes and leaving Jim puzzled but
ignorant. Though he wrote to my husband now and
then, I never heard from him again--until the letter
came informing me of Jim's death.
  I'd been sure that Jim was my best friend and that
marrying him would keep me safe forever. At
nineteen, one could use foolish words like forever.
  Of course I didn't know Jim Castle
any better than I knew myself. He had
seemed to dote on me and all that affection had
even lasted for a year or two after we married. But
it was his nature to love other women with equal
enthusiasm, while still wanting to keep me as his
wife and friend. This was the way he was, he told
me, and I was foolish to think one woman was enough for
any man.
  I'd hate it that Jim's interest in Roger
Brandt had grown since our marriage and was leading
him toward Lake Lure. North Carolina had
come to mean Gordon Heath to me and that felt like very
dangerous ground indeed. Jim had entertained a
fantasy of my going there with him and meeting my
grandfather. I refused point-blank, and when he
decided to go ahead with his documentary, having already
won Roger Brandt's consent, I made him
promise not to reveal my identity. All my
mother's prejudice against her father had been instilled
in me. It was my grandmother I wanted to know more about,
but I never expected to have an opportunity
to learn.
  Jim might never have come here if it hadn't been
for me. The guilt I had felt ever since his
death never left me. Afterward, there had been no
point at all in coming to this place--not until the
cryptic note from n forced my hand.
  The sun was climbing higher now, warming me where
I sat on the log above the open space that
looked out toward the waterfall. Later, when I
saw the movie, I realized that this was the very log
on which the chief had sat near the end of the
picture.
  I roused myself and turned from the view to examine
the dusty make-believe Indian village where
Jim had died. Had I expected that being there would
tell me something--help me understand in some way?
I only knew that I was glad to be here alone
on my first visit. There would be other times, of
course, when I would come here with Gordon
and he would tell me exactly what had happened,
though this was something I'd begun to dread.
  All around me were small indications of the movie
that had been made here. A multitude of
extras must have swarmed about this place, springing
to life at the call for "action." The remnants
of cigarette butts lay in the white dirt,
never to appear on the screen. A discarded twist of
faded red and green cloth might have been a
headband. A scrap of aluminum foil caught the
sun--a definite reminder of the twentieth
century.
  A sound startled me, quickly bringing me out of my
reverie. I stiffened, listening in disbelief to the
faint thumping of a drum. This was not my imagination.
The sound was real, and it grew in volume as I
listened, insistent in its beat, pervasive as it
rose from beyond the farthest longhouse.
  A drum sounding in this very real Indian
village! The curtain had gone up and the play
had begun.



                THREE

  I swung about, listening, suddenly lost again in
my own imagining. For a moment, the village around
me belonged to a real past, so that the sound I heard
came down to me from another century.
  But my common sense told me these were not ghostly
hands playing a drum. I listened intently. The
first beat came down hard, followed by two lighter
taps on a different note--the whole repeated
over and over, as though it might go on forever. I
slipped from my perch and started along the path of
white dust that led past the stake and on among the
huts.
  As I moved, the drumbeat changed to a steady
booming--first on a low note, then shifting
gradually up the scale to something higher. I had
never heard a drum as versatile as this and I
wanted a glimpse of the player before he saw me.
Somehow, I knew it was a man playing the drum,
though a woman could have held those sticks just as
well.
  The sounds seemed to come from one of the smaller
huts at the far end of the village. As I drew
near, I noticed that part of the bark had been
stripped away, or perhaps had
disintegrated, from this hut, so that I could stand
outside and look through open basketwork to the
interior. A man sat cross-legged before the
drum, which was a large oblong wooden box.
Thick gray hair, shaggy as a mop, tumbled
over his forehead, joining eyebrows equally thick and
shaggy. A beard so tangled that it was almost neat in
its matting started below a full lower lip and hid
his chin. His eyes were closed and brown gnarled hands
held the drumsticks with loose wrists, so that they
seemed to move of their own volition.
  Since he didn't see me, I had time
to examine this strange spectacle. He wore
corduroy pants, colorless from many washings, and
his brown shirt had seen a good many mendings. Though
he was unkempt, he didn't seem dirty, and
I suspected that he bathed in mountain streams.
  Increasingly curious, I moved around to stand below
the open space of the door, where I could view him
without the interference of basketwork squares.
  The drumbeat grew more monotonous now.
While he couldn't have seen or heard me, he
knew that I was there. Suddenly, he paused with
both drumsticks in the air and tilted his head
back so that he could see beneath a fall of hair that
was as rough as the gray bark outside the hut. I
found myself staring into sharp blue eyes that didn't
welcome the sight of me.
  After the drum, the ensuing silence seemed
to reverberate with accusation, and I broke it
hesitantly. "Hello. Your playing is
wonderful."
  His two drumsticks had round orange
plastic heads, and he dropped the sticks
into holes at the front corners of the drum. Then
he jumped up and rushed toward me so swiftly and
unexpectedly that I might have been knocked over
if I hadn't jumped out of his way. I watched
in astonishment as he dashed off between huts and
disappeared into the woods--a scarecrow figure with
extraordinarily long arms and legs. The forest
wall looked solid as he hurled himself into the
green barrier, but he must have known where a path
lay, for in a moment it was as though hardly a leaf
had stirred. He simply disappeared, leaving his
drum behind.
  "You frightened him," said a voice behind me, a
voice I had never been able to forget.
  I turned to face the man who watched me.
All the defenses I had built up
against a first meeting with Gordon vanished. I
felt as though someone had wiped away the years and
I was nineteen again--with no sense at all and my
wounds out in the open for anyone to see.
  "Hello, Lauren," he said. "I didn't
know you'd arrived."
  "I--I was suddenly able to get away, so I
just booked a flight and came. I stopped in at
your mother's shop, but she didn't know where to find
you." As I spoke, I was trying to get myself in
hand. I hadn't dreamed that I would be so shaken by the
sight of him.
  This was an older Gordon, and I sensed an
inner stillness about him that hadn't been there before--a
stillness that seemed to wait and listen.
  I found myself almost chattering to conceal my
reaction. "A few minutes ago, I thought I
was the only inhabitant of this movie set. Now
it appears to be populated. Who is the wild
man who was playing the drum?"
  He accepted my lead. "That's Grandpa Ty.
He's what folks used to call a mountain man,
though he hasn't always been one. Nobody knows
exactly where he lives now--probably in one
of the many caves around here. He's harmless unless you
upset him. Which you seem to have done."
  "He almost knocked me down."
  "Almost is the key word. He didn't even
graze you. He's probably developed almost
an animal sense about the physical world."
  This conversation seemed totally unreal. I
wasn't even thinking about the old man anymore.
Suddenly, we both stopped talking and stared at
each other. I didn't know what either of us was
looking for, but I was the one to drop my eyes first.
Neither of us was the same person we'd been in
San Francisco. We were strangers all over
again--people who didn't know each other at all. Or
could we ever really be strangers?
  He was smiling, though I didn't understand the
source of his amusement until he spoke.
  "Ty was Victoria Frazer's younger brother.
Which makes him--what?--your great-uncle?"
  I tried to hide my surprise at this
information. "Then Gretchen Frazer, who runs the
lodge, is also his sister?"
  Gordon nodded, losing interest in the
Frazers. "What took you so long to come here after
Jim died?"
  Gordon was the main reason I'd never
come, but I could hardly tell him that, so I went
off on a tangent. "Your wild man left his
drum behind."
  "It's not his drum--it's mine. I keep it
up here for him to play, since the sound seems
to belong to the mountains."
  He stepped past me into the hut, picked up a
large canvas square, and started to cover the
drum.
  An impulse seized me. "I've never seen
a drum like this before. Do you mind if I try?"
  I didn't give him time to mind, but joined him
inside the hut and picked up the two sticks with
their round orange heads. When I bounced these
lightly, the sounds were dissonant. I stopped
to study the surface of the wood more carefully.
  "The drum is hollow," Gordon told me.
"The top--all those small sections--have been
carved from a single piece of wood and then fitted
to the rest. Each one carries its own tone."
  He took the drumsticks from me. "Let me
show you," he said, and tapped the wood more lightly
than the old man had done. The sound was almost
hypnotic in its repetition. Now he seemed
aware only of the drum, so I was able to watch him
openly.
  His faded blue jeans and gray work shirt,
unbuttoned at the throat, were outdoor clothing.
His rather square face with its determined chin had never
fitted any obvious category of male good
looks. To me, he had always seemed individual
--different--a complete contrast to Jim Castle.
His hair was straight and thick and slightly
reddish--an inheritance from his mother, undoubtedly.
  Watching him, I felt increasingly shaken, far
more disturbed by this meeting than I cared to be.
Needing to be farther away from him, I stepped down
outside the hut and looked around.
  "This is such a beautiful spot--peaceful,"
I said when he stopped playing.
  "It wasn't quiet while the movie company
was here." He dropped the sticks into their slots and
covered the drum. Then he lifted the large
block of wood and stepped down beside me.
  "Why did you come now?" he asked.
  I didn't answer for a moment. "You wrote
me that Jim's death was an accident. Please
tell me what happened."
  That air of inner calm was still there and his movements
seemed unhurried as he turned toward
another part of the village, speaking to me over his
shoulder.
  "I'll need to put this out of the weather. The wood
is sensitive to temperature changes."
  He hadn't answered my question, and I followed
him to the longhouse that had been used to serve the
movie company. Inside, he went directly
to the abandoned refrigerator and opened the big
door, storing the drum inside. An ingenious
solution.
  "I'll show you where Jim died," he said as he
rejoined me, and we started across the village.
  "Why did you come here now?" he repeated.
  "I didn't mean to come at all. It always
seemed too painful after Jim died. Perhaps I
never would have, but someone wrote me a note asking
me to come. The note implied that Jim had been
murdered. After talking with your mother and learning about
Natalie Brandt, I began to suspect that this
had come from her. The person who wrote me signed
the letter with the initial n. But why wouldn't she have
suspected foul play sooner?"
  We walked on toward an unfinished longhouse
and I found myself all too aware of his nearness, of
wanting to look and yet not daring to. "You may be
right about Natalie," he said. "She didn't know
what I suspected until recently. From the
first, I've had a strange feeling about what
happened, but I had no proof."
  "Why didn't you write to me about this?"
  "What good would that have done? I don't know what
Natalie thinks you can do now. A short time
ago, she came up here with me and I sounded out my
suspicions because they were troubling me. Natalie
can be pretty emotional, so she must have
embellished what I said in her own imaginative
way and then written to you."
  "If Jim's death wasn't an accident, I
need to know what happened."
  We walked past the ominous stake, which gave
me the creeps, even though it was only
make-believe. White dust spurted from beneath our
feet and I wondered how long it would take for
green growth to reclaim its own right to the land.
  Gordon stopped and I stood beside him. "That's
where the log that killed him fell." He spoke
quietly, sadly.
  Slender saplings curved over the unfinished
roof of the longhouse. I puzzled aloud: "Nothing
here seems heavy enough to do any damage."
  "Look around at the finished longhouses and
you'll see that they're all propped up by strong
tree trunks. There's one missing here--the one that
fell."
  "But if it wasn't an accident--how could
anything like that be planned?" None of this seemed
real to me--especially not my husband's death in this
place. Or that I should be standing here beside a man
I'd once loved--and given up.
  "It couldn't have been planned, but perhaps someone
simply waited for an opportunity. If a
tree that formed a support was pried loose from its
lashing and Jim happened to be standing beneath it, someone
could have pushed it down easily. Someone who came
here with him and whom he trusted. But who? That's the
part that stumps me; I can't think of anyone who
didn't like Jim Castle."
  "I don't understand why he was up here, in the first
place. An Indian village wouldn't belong in
a documentary about Roger Brandt, would it?"
  "I think Jim was trying to think of a logical
way to lure Roger up here. The village
fascinated him and he wanted to find a way to use
it in his film."
  "That would have been like Jim. When did you begin
to suspect that it wasn't an accident?"
  "Ty figured it out. His instincts run deep
and he was obsessed by Jim's death. They'd
struck up a friendship because Jim accepted the old
guy as he is, warts and all. So Ty is the
one who finally made me believe that what happened
was deliberate."
  I was still questioning, reluctant to believe. "Perhaps
the wood rotted and it was Jim's bad luck to be
in the wrong place at the wrong time?"
  "Ty thinks that log wouldn't have come down on its
own for years--that it had to have had help. But what
he believed and my gut feelings aren't any
sort of proof. The police were satisfied at the
time that it was an accident. Somehow, though, it
wouldn't let me be. Finally, I had to talk
to somebody about Ty's claim. Natalie was
deeply troubled by Jim's death, so I brought her
here to talk it all out with me. I wanted to show her
what might have happened, see if we could both
believe it. What I told her put her into high
gear, apparently, though I think it was foolish of
her to get you involved in this."
  Natalie and Jim, I thought. Logical, of
course--that was the way Jim had been with
pretty women. The movie village seemed
to close in around me with its sense of a wilder, more
primitive time. Or had it been, really? Today,
violence was an everyday affair in many places.
So why not here?
  "Natalie has done some sketches of this
place--pretty haunting stuff," Gordon
said, watching me. "She's tried to sell them, but
she doesn't have much luck. I think they scare
people."
  I remembered the painting of the spaceship coming
down in the vivid lightning of a storm. Natalie
Brandt would have even more to tell me.
  Gordon moved off away from me, walking the
length of the nearest longhouse. I watched him,
wishing I could rid myself of my memories, my
old feelings. We had both married other people. I
had been the first to make that choice. Since then,
he had been divorced and my husband had died.
Whatever attraction he had felt for me was
surely over long ago. I must remember that.
  Suddenly, Gordon turned to look at me.
"Natalie had a feeling that Jim wanted you
to come here. She thinks he's been trying to reach her
since his death and that you might be a catalyst."
  This startled me. "Do you believe that?"
  "I don't disbelieve." He looked off
toward distant mountains, and I was reminded again that
he'd sometimes revealed a mystical side in the
past.
  He came back to me abruptly.
"Anyway, you're here, and Natalie seems to have
brought this about."
  A deepening sadness filled me. A sadness that
a woman I had never met had felt my
husband's death more profoundly than I. Sadness
for Jim's lost gifts. Sadness, too, for the
love Gordon and I had allowed to slip out of
our hands, a lost love that would never come again. If
I had chosen a different fork in the road--what
then? But that didn't bear thinking about.
  I walked to where a big tree trunk,
stripped of its limbs, lay on the ground. It was
one that might have supported a side of the longhouse
that was beginning to sag.
  "Is this the log that killed Jim?"
  He nodded, not wanting to tell me. "Lauren,
I'm sorry--"
  "What can I do?" I spoke the words aloud,
but they were addressed only to me. I
didn't expect him to know.
  He spoke abruptly. "Let's get out of
here. This isn't a good place for us to talk."
He looked around as though the trees themselves might
be listening, and I wondered whether Ty Frazer still
lingered out there. "It's nearly noon, so let's go
down to Chimney Rock for lunch. Then we can
try to sort things out. Natalie should never have
brought you here, and perhaps you shouldn't stay. I don't
think there is anything you can do, and as Jim's wife
you may not be entirely safe."
  I didn't want to accept that idea and I
didn't want to leave; there was still my connection with
Victoria Frazer to hold me here. I
didn't mean to be frightened away, whether I could
do anything about Jim or not. And there was still the
matter of a grandfather I couldn't help being curious
about. I needed more time.
  "Lunch will be fine," I told him.
  "Good. Then let's get back to our cars and you
can follow me down the mountain."
  I went with him, turning my back on the
ghostly Indian village. I didn't think I
would come here again--which is an example of how little
we can ever foretell the future.
  Once I was behind the wheel, Gordon loped
down the road ahead in a long-legged stride that
I remembered. By the time I drew up beside his
Jeep, he was ready to lead the way.
  The bumpy road seemed shorter going down.
When we reached the open area around the tiny chamber
of commerce building, he parked nearby and I
left my Ford beside his Jeep. Below us, the
highway narrowed, forming the bottleneck for which there
was no cure.
  On foot, we followed the narrow verge at the
side of the road for a short distance and then crossed
to a small restaurant where Gordon was greeted
as a friend. We took the one remaining booth and were
given flatware wrapped in paper napkins. When
the waitress had taken our orders and gone, I
asked a question that had been troubling me since I'd
seen the place in the village where Jim had
died.
  "Are you sure Jim didn't make any
enemies while he was here? I know he could be
pretty pushy in order to get what he wanted,
so I wondered--"
  "Not enemies--as I told you, everyone
seemed to like him. Of course there were a lot
of people who were curious about what he would do with the
Roger Brandt story--especially when it came
to Victoria Frazer. But I don't think he
stirred up any real resentment. Natalie
told me that Roger actually relaxed and talked
to him. And even Camilla Brandt, Roger's
wife, seemed to accept what Jim was doing, though
she was against it at first. She guards her husband's
well-being carefully."
  I sensed an uneasiness--something Gordon
wasn't saying. When the waitress arrived with a
sizzling hamburger for him, along with my chef's
salad and two glasses of iced tea, I
changed the subject.
  "What do you do, Gordon? Jim said you were
connected with Chimney Rock, but I don't know
much about your work."
  "I manage the park. With a lot of help.
It's a spectacular place and the work keeps me
outdoors a lot of the time. I've been sharing a
house on Lake Lure with my mother since my
divorce, and it seems to work out well for both of
us. Though all this is probably temporary. I
like what I'm doing, but who knows what the future
holds?"
  So he was still unsettled? A quality in a
man that my mother had abhorred. Somehow I no
longer minded. I felt unsettled myself.
  I wanted to ask about his ex-wife but didn't
dare.
  He smiled at me--rather a fierce smile that
challenged me to comment--as he answered what I
hadn't put into words. "Betty deserved better
than I could give her. She's happily
remarried now."
  For a little while, we concentrated on our food,
perhaps both of us too unsure of ourselves to speak.
Then Gordon returned to the subject of Jim
Castle. "Did you notice anything unusual in
Jim's last letters? I had a feeling that he was
keyed up about something--like a firecracker getting
ready to go off."
  "He didn't say anything specific, but the
last time we talked on the phone he hinted that he
was onto something important, perhaps even
newsworthy. Is there any way to find out what it
was? Do you think Roger Brandt would know?"
  "Brandt isn't an easy man to talk to.
Besides, all his contacts with Jim were at his house,
and usually Camilla was present, so I
doubt that Roger knew about Jim's interest in the
Indian village or that he'd struck up an
acquaintance with Ty Frazer."
  "Would it be possible for me to meet Roger
Brandt, do you suppose?"
  Gordon's smile was pointed. "You don't
plan to tell him you're his granddaughter?"
  "I don't think so. That might put him on
guard. I can't imagine that Camilla Brandt
would welcome the appearance of Victoria's
granddaughter. What is she like?"
  "They were married out in California two years
before he made the film with your grandmother. He was
only twenty-one, but he'd been a big star
since his late teens. In a way, Camilla's
fitted in here better than he has. She's a very
grand and beautiful lady who looks years younger
than her age. Perhaps by now she's forgotten that
Victoria Frazer ever existed. Though I'm not
sure about Roger. Rumor has it that he keeps
a secret collection of Victoria's
films."
  All this caught my imagination. It might be
interesting to meet Roger Brandt without his knowing that
I was related to him.
  We finished our meal and walked back to our
cars. Gordon opened the door for me and held out
his hand. He wasn't mocking me now and some of the
stiffness I'd sensed in him earlier had fallen
away--as though he had begun to accept me without
reference to the past. But could I accept him as
casually?
  "Where are you going now, Lauren?" he asked.
  "Back to your mother's shop. I want to see her
again and explore that fascinating place."
  "Good. I'll try to get in touch with
Natalie. If you aren't busy tonight, would you mind
if the three of us got together for dinner?"
  "Of course not. I'd welcome the chance
to meet her--and to see you again." I had meant
to sound casual and friendly, but more feeling had come through
than I intended, and he seemed to withdraw a little.
  "Fine. If I can reach Natalie, I'll
phone you at my mother's. Otherwise, I'll
leave a message at the lodge."
  I watched as he drove down into traffic, but
I made no move to start my car. How did I
feel about Gordon Heath now? He was no longer
that young man I'd fallen in love with out in San
Francisco. Neither was I the same young
woman who had made a choice. The wrong
choice, but that was over and done with. So why was I
sitting here shaking?
  Impatient with myself, I started the car and
followed the road Gordon had taken toward
Lake Lure.

                FOUR

  When I reached Finella's shop, I found her
busy with a customer, so I wandered back to the
kudzu room to discover just how friendly the
ubiquitous vine might be.
  The room was small, with a two-burner
electric stove at one end, shelves where
books tilted against one another--mostly
cookbooks--rows of glass jars, and an oak
table with a chopping-block surface. Obviously,
cooking with kudzu was done in this room.
  A large poster asked whether I knew that




Kudzu makes wonderful nonbloating forage
  for cattle?
Kudzu is a healthy and tasty food for
  humans?
Kudzu powder can be used in hundreds of
  recipes?
Fresh kudzu shoots, picked right off the vine,
  are delicious in a salad?

Kudzu flowers can be pickled in vinegar?
Kudzu roots can be steamed?
Kudzu can be used as treatment for many bodily
  ailments?
Cloth can be woven from kudzu fibers?

  I was beginning to see why kudzu was considered
friendly. A stack of books and pamphlets,
including The Book of Kudzu: A Culinary
and Healing Guide, stood on a display table.
  When her customer had gone, Finella found me
leafing through the kudzu material and her eyes
brightened. "If you like to cook, you must try some of
those recipes."
  I smiled at such missionary fervor. "I can
tell from your enthusiasm that it must be delicious."
  "You can buy the flour in health-food and
specialty shops and have a ball. It's such an
inexpensive way to feed people and animals and it's
the best way to stop the vine's needless encroachment
where it isn't wanted. Some of us are trying
to spread the word. Harvesting would be so easy in the
South and kudzu is free!"
  Finella's red hair moved with its own grace
as her animation grew, and I warmed to her all
over again. "I'll take some flour home with
me," I promised.
  "Did you find the Indian village?"
  "I not only found the village but I saw your
son. It doesn't seem possible that you're old
enough to be his mother."
  Her smile rewarded me. "I like that! He was
born when I was seventeen and didn't have much
sense. Neither did his father, and we didn't last
long together. I'm glad he's turned out as well
as he has. In a way, we grew up together, so
we're good friends. What do you think of him?"
  So she really had no idea that he'd known me
eleven years ago in San Francisco. The
subject of my feelings about her son was something
I didn't want to get into, so I was
relieved when the bell on the shop door sounded.
  Finella looked out toward the door. "That's
Ty now with my new batch of kudzu. He
keeps me supplied. You'll have to come meet this
remarkable mountain man."
  Obviously, Finella didn't know of my
relationship to the Frazers, either, and I was glad that
Gordon had been discreet.
  "We've already met--in a way," I told
her, following her across the shop. "He was playing
a drum up in the village, but he rushed off before
I could talk to him. Gordon told me a little
about him."
  As she went to greet Ty, Finella waved
me toward a table. "Those are some of Gordon's
drums over there."
  I walked over to the area she'd designated.
The drums were so big and heavy that they'd been
arranged on the floor. Gordon hadn't mentioned
that he'd made the drum I'd seen, and now I
could admire more of his meticulous work. Each
drum was different, each beautiful in its own
way. I tapped my fingers lightly across a
sectioned surface, catching the faint musical
echo.
  Ty had come into the shop with his burlap
bag of kudzu vines. He heard the sound and
looked over at me. "What's she doing here?"
  "Mrs. Castle is a friend--she's Jim
Castle's wife. You remember Jim, don't
you?"
  His eyes widened as he looked at me from beneath
his bush of eyebrows and hair. "She shouldn't have
come here."
  I walked toward him cautiously, not wanting
to alarm him again. "Why is that?" I asked
quietly.
  He seemed to dismiss me and spoke directly
to Finella. "I thought I'd bring you another
batch before there's a nip in the air and it goes
to sleep for the winter."
  "Thanks, Ty. Will you put it in the bottom
of the refrigerator back there so it won't wilt
before I can get to it. The flour is beginning to sell
pretty well."
  Now that I knew of my relationship to this
wild-looking character, I watched him with all the more
interest. It hardly seemed possible that he was
related to the legendary Victoria. My mother had
come to Lake Lure just once. It was when I was
about ten, and when she returned she had only harsh
things to say about the place. She'd said nothing about
Ty and little about Gretchen, the one relative
she'd seen when she was here.
  I wondered what Ty's reaction would be if
he knew that I was not only Jim Castle's
wife but also his own great-niece.
  On his way to the kudzu room, something caught
Ty's eye and he dropped the bag to give his
full attention to the painting by Natalie Brandt that
Finella had been framing when I walked in that
morning.
  "Hmph!" It was both grunt and comment. "She
paint that?"
  "You mean Natalie?" Finella said. "Yes
--it's pretty good, isn't it?"
  Ty stared fixedly at the painting with its storm
blues and midnight purple overcast, through which the
glowing elliptical shape slanted toward the top
of Rumbling Bald Mountain.
  "Sure is," he said. "Looks just like I
saw it when those space people came down. Too bad
they disappeared. I'd like to've had a closer
look."
  Finella spoke softly. "I didn't know you
saw the ship, Ty."
  "Sure--I was on the mountain. I was keeping
an eye on Justyn and Roger. Brandt-watching!
So I saw it come down in the storm."
  "Finella was telling me that no trace of the
ship was ever found," I said, cautiously entering the
conversation.
  "Who knows what those army fellas found--or
didn't find. Maybe they missed a thing or
two."
  Something in Ty's voice seemed to alert
Finella. "Would you know where to look, Ty? Was
something left up there on the mountain?"
  He waved his long arms, startling us both.
"Don't you go poking into stuff like this. That's what
that young fella from California did. And look
what happened to him!"
  I spoke softly, to not excite him further.
"Gordon told me what you believe, Ty.
I'd like to know more about my husband's death. That's
why I've come here."
  He ignored me, studying the painting again.
"How come she could do it like that?" he asked
Finella. "She wasn't even born when it
happened."
  "Imagination," Finella said. "And perhaps
Natalie's extrasensitivity. Artists can
see things in their own minds. Besides, I'm sure
Roger and Justyn have talked a lot about what
happened. I must ask Justyn what he thinks,
now that I've seen his daughter's painting."
  The old man turned a sudden close
scrutiny upon me, coming closer, so that I could
smell the aura that floated around him--of pine
needles and forest growth, with perhaps a hint of
moonshine thrown in.
  "You were the one up in the village. When I was
playing the drum. You look like her."
  This was startling--did he mean Victoria?
"Who do you think I look like?"
  He had a way of not answering direct questions.
"You better go home real soon--before something
happens to you, the way it happened to young Jim."
  "Please tell me about that."
  His mouth seemed to clamp shut in the mat of
shaggy whiskers and he picked up his sack and
walked past me toward the kudzu room.
  Finella shrugged and rolled her eyes
graphically. Just as Ty returned, clearly in
a hurry to get away, a man came into the shop.
For an instant, the two stared at each
other, and I could sense the tension, the animosity that
leapt between them.
  The newcomer scrunched up his face and waved
a hand in the air as if to clear the room of a bad
aroma. He wore a billed nautical cap and
his face had the weathered look of an
outdoorsman. Ty seemed to have caused his grim
expression, for he smiled cheerfully enough at
Finella as Ty went out the door, muttering
to himself.
  Finella shook her head despairingly.
"Hello, Justyn. Is the old feud still on?"
  Justyn? So this was another relative on the
Brandt side--Roger's son and Natalie's
father.
  "It's not likely to end," he told
Finella. "Not as long as there's a Brandt or
Frazer alive."
  And what, I wondered, if there was someone
alive who was both Brandt and Frazer?
  Finella introduced us. "Justyn, this is
Jim Castle's wife, Lauren. Justyn
Brandt."
  As he took my hand, he gave me a look
that I couldn't fathom. A look of suspicion,
of distrust?
  "What brings you here now?" he asked
abruptly.
  I didn't tell him that a note from his
daughter had summoned me. "I suppose it was
time to come."
  Clearly, he considered this no answer. He
continued to study me, his eyes hidden beneath the bill
of the cap he hadn't bothered to remove. His
scrutiny made me uneasy, but now he seemed
to make up his mind about something.
  "While you're here, you ought to see the lake,"
he said as abruptly as before. "There's a boat
leaving in twenty minutes. Would you like to come?"
  This invitation out of the blue seemed puzzling. I
looked at Finella, but she appeared to see
nothing unusual.
  "Go ahead, Lauren. Justyn conducts tours
of the lake, so you'll be in good hands."
  Perhaps this was a way of getting closer to the
Brandt establishment. "I'd like that," I said.
  "Good." He sounded somehow unenthusiastic.
"I'll take you over to the boat. Finella, my
mother wanted me to stop in and see if you can be
available when it comes to supervising the
decorating of the old barn. Lake Lure Inn
has been using it for storage for years, but now
it's all to be cleared out so we can hold our big
party there."
  "Of course I'll help," Finella
agreed. "I'll give her a call and see what
I can do. Lauren, let me get you a sweater and
scarf before you leave. It can be cool and windy on
the water."
  She went to a closet and came back with a
white sweater and flowered scarf, and I thanked
her.
  "We can walk across to the dock," Justyn
told me when we were outside. "Just leave your car
here."
  I had a feeling that he was on the verge of
disliking me--yet wanted contact at the same
time.
  "What is this party you mentioned?" I asked as
we crossed the highway together.
  "It's a fund-raising affair for the Lake
Lure area," he told me. "A costume
ball that my mother's been cooking up. The barn behind
the inn used to be used for square dances way
back, but this will be more spectacular. It's less
than a week away, so all the invitations have gone
out. Will you be here, Mrs. Castle?" He gave
me a sidelong look as he asked, and I
wondered about his odd, not-alt-friendly interest in
me.
  I said I wasn't sure. But I was thinking it
might be fun, if Gordon was still my friend.
  Near a strip of water where the Showboat was
moored, several blue-haired ladies sat on
a bench, watching ducks on the water as they
waited to board the boat.
  "I'm Captain Matt now," Justyn warned
me. "Otherwise, the Brandt name causes too
many questions."
  "Are people still interested in Victoria Frazer?"
I ventured.
  "Yeah, I reckon they are. Of course all
sorts of stories are told around here. Just
don't believe everything you hear. I always point
out the place where she's supposed to have drowned.
My passengers expect that." He sounded
dismissive, as though this was something he did
reluctantly.
  "I'm staying at Rumbling Mountain
Lodge," I told him, "so I've
met Gretchen Frazer. It's strange to think of
her and that peculiar old man who brings the kudzu
to Finella as the sister and brother of Victoria
Frazer."
  Justyn didn't comment--he was busily
greeting the women and two men who waited to come
aboard. A green carpet along the dock
contrasted with a band of red paint at water level
on the boat. Railings and seats were a sparkling
white and a yellow awning spanned the central
section's rows of seats.
  I heard my name called and looked toward the
road. Finella was hurrying across as I went
to meet her.
  "Gordon asked me to catch you if I could.
He wanted you to know that dinner's all planned.
Natalie and you and he will meet at the Lake
Lure Inn at eight. Is that still good for you?"
  "Oh, yes. Thank you for coming to tell me.
I'm looking forward to meeting Natalie."
  "Well, have fun," she said as she dashed off
with a quick wave.
  Justyn handed me aboard and I went to sit on
a wide, upholstered sofa set in the stern, above
the outboard motor. Two women sat down next
to me, one explaining to the other what we could see from
the boat. I listened unobtrusively.
  "That's the Lake Lure Inn over there," one
told her friend, pointing. "You can see the red roof
just above those willow trees. In the old days,
all sorts of celebrities used to stay there.
There's new management now and it's waking up
again."
  I looked with interest at the great white
building with a red tile roof that suggested Spanish
architecture. It had been built imposingly in
the old, grand hotel style. I would be dining there
tonight with Gordon and Natalie, and a small
stirring of excitement ran through me. A great deal
might hang on whatever happened at the inn this
evening.
  Having seen everyone aboard, Justyn continued
his Captain Matt role--cheerful and garrulous.
Clearly, this was something he enjoyed doing, and his rather
morose manner had disappeared.
  Once the motor was running, he told us, no
one would be able to hear him, so he would point out a
few things to watch for now. There would be other
pauses on the way, when he'd turn off the
motor and explain a bit more.
  The ducks paddled away on rippled water as
we started off, apparently familiar with human
antics and not alarmed. In a moment, we were out on
the lake, and I was glad to slip into Finella's
sweater and tie the scarf over my head. Except
where our wake stretched white and frothy beneath where
I sat, the water was calm, reflecting the
greenish cast of trees that grew thickly down
to the lake's edge. At the far end toward the
gorge, where I'd been this morning, high peaks
cut into the sky. A scene of dramatic beauty.
  Old Rumbling Bald was closer now,
directly across a narrowing strip of water, its
reflection in the lake doubling its ominous
strength. I looked up at the rock-scarred
face and felt again its strange spell. Perhaps
Natalie's painting had added to my sense that the
mountain had something to tell me--an urgent something
that might be frightening. I could imagine a sky
lighted by a purplish overcast, out of which an
elliptical form slanted toward unfamiliar
territory--our planet earth. Star Flight,
she'd called her painting.
  While the boat moved smoothly on its
pontoons, I began to notice interesting
irregularities along the shoreline. The
original valley, as Justyn had told us, was
very deep, carved out eons ago by the Rocky
Broad River and formed roughly in the shape of a
cross, with two coves cutting into either shore to form
the arms. There were numerous other small indentations,
as well--sheltered inlets where boats were moored,
and homes had been built on the banks above.
  The lake shimmered with color from the sky, the
richness of dark evergreens along the shore tinting
otherwise murky water. No roads were visible
from here, no cars, only the dots of rooftops
among the trees. Coves and boathouses became
mere trimming along the water's edge, and when
Justyn turned off the motor, a sense of the
lake's beauty and peace possessed me.
  The boat rocked gently and I began
to relax. The haunting vision of Natalie's
painting faded and the long, narrow lake held me
gently. I needn't think of death. I needn't
think of Jim, or Victoria Frazer. I could
let everything go and give myself up to this entrancing
scene. Autumn was becoming evident where mountains
cast their reflections across the mirror of the lake,
lending color to its surface.
  By the time Justyn turned to speak to us, I was
lost in reverie. "Some old-timers claim that down
there in a deep part of the lake a little Baptist
church is still standing," Justyn said, warming to his
story. "When the valley was flooded, the church was
left to receive the waters through its open doors and
windows. I'm told that if you're out in a boat
above that spot on a Sunday morning, you can hear
the ghostly echo of a church bell tolling. Though the
only congregation down there these days consists of fish
--of which Lake Lure has plenty."
  I liked the story and I stared into the water,
wishing I could see into its mysterious depths and
glimpse the little church. Justyn's next words
spoiled my new contentment.
  "Over there on the bank just below the mountain," he
told us, "is where Victoria Frazer, the
famous young movie actress from the thirties, is
supposed to have drowned." This time he seemed
to speak by rote, without feeling, performing a duty.
  Even though I'd known this might happen, I
felt shaken. In spite of buzzing voices around
me, I found nothing romantic about Victoria
Frazer's death--or in the part Roger Brandt
might have played in whatever had happened. My mother
had come home from her single visit to Lake
Lure believing that her mother had not committed
suicide and that somehow my grandfather was more to blame for
her death than anyone realized. This idea seemed
to have come from a conversation she'd had with someone during
her visit. The one relative she'd seen when
she had come here--her aunt, Gretchen Frazer--
had refused to discuss her sister's death. My mother
had told me this much but no more. I never learned
who had made her think my grandmother hadn't taken
her own life. So now I hated to hear Roger's
son pandering to the idle curiosity of his
passengers. When one of the women asked whether we
would see Roger Brandt's house, I stiffened.
  Accustomed to the question, Justyn waved an arm in
a broad gesture toward thick forest growth at this
end of Rumbling Bald. When I turned my
head, I could see a big white house set high
among the trees. It had two chimneys and
decks at three levels, looking as though it had
grown there over many years, not all of its additions
architecturally compatible. I could feel no sense
of connection to the house where my grandfather lived. It
meant less to me than that vague spot near the
shore where Victoria Frazer was
supposed to have drowned.
  Cameras were out now, pointing toward the house.
One woman asked whether we could get a little
closer, but Justyn shook his head.
  "Mr. Brandt asks that all boats keep
away from his dock. He values his privacy and
doesn't welcome visitors. We respect
that."
  One blue-haired lady rejected this
discouragement and spoke to her husband. "Maybe
we could drive around by the road and get closer?"
  Justyn stepped on this notion at once. "The
road doesn't go all the way around the lake.
Mr. Brandt has a private access road with a
gate across and warning signs for trespassers."
  He cut off any further questions by starting the
motor. I watched the shore as we glided past
the Brandt house. At water level, it boasted
two boathouses. A tower with glass all around
rose from one corner, offering a tremendous view
down the lake. As we moved on, the rocky
face of Rumbling Bald reduced the house to a
miniature set high among the trees.
  Now Justyn gestured toward what lay ahead.
We were approaching the long white dam that had
made Lake Lure possible. A road
crossed over the top and I could see a car moving
above the spill of water. While I felt no
emotion about it, I turned in curiosity to watch
the Brandt house as we slipped past.
  There would be no opportunity for me to set
foot on those grounds unless I made my
identity known, and I didn't think I would do that,
so I wanted a last look. Because I was the only
one still watching, I saw the woman who came
running out along a dock that reached into the water.
She was waving something white--a sweater, perhaps.
Waving it urgently at the boat.
  I called to Justyn over the din of the motor,
waving my own hands to catch his attention.
"Someone's trying to signal you from the Brandt
house," I shouted.
  He looked toward the dock in surprise and
then grinned at his passengers as he cut the
motor for a moment. "You're in luck. It seems
we're wanted over there. Maybe for an
emergency."
  Everyone aboard buzzed eagerly as Justyn
restarted the motor. As we approached the shore,
cameras clicked and people got visibly
excited as Justyn pulled in beside the dock and
tossed a rope ashore. The woman caught it and
wound it expertly around a post as Justyn used a
boat hook to pull us to the dock.
  "What's up, Natalie?" he shouted.
  "Is Lauren Castle aboard?" she called.
  Justyn nodded toward me, and Natalie
Brandt spoke to me directly. "Would you care
to come ashore, Mrs. Castle?"
  This was an interesting surprise. Meeting
Natalie Brandt in her own setting would be far
better than waiting until the formality of dinner
tonight. Besides, I might even catch a glimpse of
my grandfather. I was unexpectedly excited.
  "Of course," I said, while my fellow
passengers stared at a possible celebrity in their
midst.
  "I'll drive her back," she told
Justyn, "so you won't need to pick her up."
  I looked at Justyn and saw a surprising
anger in his eyes.
  Natalie reached out a hand to help me ashore.
Justyn touched a finger to his cap in a mocking
salute before pulling off into the middle of the lake.
He hadn't spoken to his daughter at all after
his initial inquiry.
  When I stood on the boards of the dock, I was
aware, first of all, of the great white house rising
high on the hill above, with all its many windows like
curious, staring eyes. Nothing moved up there, but
I wondered who might be watching. Of course,
I would be no one exceptional to anyone here, just
Jim Castle's wife.
  Natalie's scrutiny was open and searching, so
that I felt wary and a little suspicious. She
might very well have responded to Jim's easy
appeal, and he would have found her attractive and
interesting. This other granddaughter of Roger
Brandt's was distinctive-looking in her own way.
Her oval face and long black hair, left
free to float down her back, could be a
heritage from Spanish ancestors on her
grandmother's side. Black eyebrows with an
upward tilt accented dark eyes. Her only
makeup was the touch of crimson burnishing her
unsmiling mouth. She wore well-faded jeans and
an outsized blue shirt, its sleeves rolled
up.
  I studied her as intently as she was studying
me, and the coolness between us was evident.
  "Finella phoned me to say that she'd confirmed
our dinner plans with you," Natalie said. "When
she told me you were on Dad's boat, I thought
it might be easier if we met before tonight--on our
own."
  "Your father didn't seem pleased," I
ventured. She shrugged and gestured toward the walk
that climbed to the house.
  "Let's go up to my studio, where we can
talk. My grandfather and grandmother stay in their own part
of the house, so we won't be interrupted."
  I felt cautious and uncertain as I
followed her up the walk. She had planned this
meeting. She had brought me to Lake Lure in the
first place and I wanted to know more about why.
  A flight of rustic steps led from the walk to a
stretch of porch at the lower end of the house.
Natalie climbed the steps and I followed her.
  "We can go in here," she said, opening a door
into the wide, light-filled room that was her
studio. I looked around with interest. Paintings
stood everywhere--some leaning against the wall, some
mounted, some in frames. One rested on an
easel, though I didn't focus on it until
later. I remembered what Finella had said about
Natalie's paintings being hard to sell and I could
see why.
  Many were of the lake, but it was never depicted in
bright sunlight. Eerie moonlight or grayish
mists of early morning were often shown. One painting
in particular held me. Under a lowering sky, mist
gathered near the lake shore beneath the rocky face
of Rumbling Bald--mist that seemed to drift
into the form of a woman even as I stared.
  "Our local legend," Natalie said
carelessly. "It's a good thing my grandparents never
come here--they'd hate that picture. Come and sit
down, Lauren." She used my name easily,
probably having heard it from Jim.
  I went to a cushion-heaped sofa facing the
windows, where I could look out at lake and
mountains. I had arrived here all too suddenly
and I still had a sense of unreality about where I was
and whom I was with. This was my grandfather's house.
This woman was my cousin. Yet blood didn't
speak to blood and I could feel no kinship. I
was Victoria's granddaughter before I was Roger
Brandt's.
  "Coffee?" Natalie asked. "I have a little
kitchen back here."
  I shook my head. "No, thank you." Shared
coffee seemed too intimate for my detached
mood. It was time to make the plunge, so I
asked a direct question.
  "Why did you send me that strange note?"
  She made no denial. "It brought you here,
didn't it? An ordinary letter might not have worked."
  "Why did you want me to come?"
  A faint spark came into her eyes. "I thought
you might bring things to a head. Gordon Heath
told me what he suspects, what Ty
Frazer believes. I didn't know any of this
until recently. When Gordon told me that
they thought Jim had been murdered, I felt I
had to take some sort of action to bring you here. Your
presence might attract the truth about Jim's
death."
  "I don't see how you can possibly expect
that to happen."
  Natalie had been staring off toward the
opposite shore--a more serene vista than this
wilder side. Now she looked at me
directly, challenging.
  "Don't you care about what happened to Jim?
Don't you want to know?"
  The depth of her feelings for Jim became
obvious. If there'd been any doubt in my mind
about their relationship, it was gone. She and Jim had
undoubtedly been lovers and I could only feel
sorry for her.
  When I didn't respond, she went on,
sounding defensive. "Jim said you were breaking up,
that things had been bad for a long time. He said he
wasn't tied to anyone."
  "Then why bring me here now? If Jim's death
was no accident, the trail has been cold for
nearly two years."
  "It was probably cold in the first place. I
think the murderer was very clever. Any indications must
have been carefully removed, or hidden. But once
Gordon told me his conclusions, I began
to see the possibilities if you came here."
  "What conclusions? What game are you
playing?"
  She jumped up, her long black hair swinging
across her back--a lithe figure, with nervous hands
that were seldom still. I began to sense that she knew
more than she was admitting; there was something she
wasn't yet ready to tell me. I didn't
trust her, but she fascinated me. I
waited silently for whatever course she would
choose next.
  She stopped before a window that looked out toward
Rumbling Bald and rested her forehead against the
glass, as though she welcomed the cool touch.
  When she didn't answer me, I challenged
her further. "There's something else you want from
me, isn't there? Something that has nothing to do with
Jim's death--at least directly?"
  She turned back to me, her expression
calmer, and she almost smiled. "You're as
perceptive as Jim said you were. There is
something else. Something you may say no to at first.
That's the other reason I took the dramatic
course to catch your attention and bring you here. It's
why I snatched you off Dad's boat today. Dad
never liked Jim, and I know he wasn't pleased
that I did. I want you to think about what I'm
going to say before you dismiss it. Give the idea time
to settle in."
  She hesitated, as though unsure of how to win
me over to whatever she wanted me to do.
  "I'll listen," I said quietly.
  "All right. What I want is for you to finish
what Jim Castle began--the documentary about
Roger Brandt. Jim told me that you're a good
writer. You know how to tell a story, and he said
you'd done some fine scripts for TV movies.
So I think you're the right person to do this. You can
carry on where Jim left off."
  I was already shaking my head. "I couldn't
possibly! I'm no good at all with a camera,
and besides, this would need a director with experience."
  "But you know what works on a screen. I'm
pretty good at the camera part. I've even had
a show or two of my photographs, and I've
done several videos that Jim thought were good. For this
work, we'd need a written script--at least
an outline to follow, questions to be asked. We'd
need some sort of plan that would give us form before
interviews ever started. Jim wanted to use me
to interview my grandfather, though I was never sure that
was a good idea. You could be more objective. I'd
rather stay behind the camera."
  What she was suggesting came as a total
surprise, but suddenly the possibilities
began to seem exciting. If I interviewed
Roger Brandt, all sorts of opportunities
to know this family might open for me. It was a way
to get a toe in the door. I might
even be able to question Roger Brandt about Victoria
Frazer--and open up a source of information
unavailable to me otherwise. Still, I owed nothing
to the Brandt side of the family, and I was puzzled
by Natalie's request.
  "Why do you want to do this?" I asked.
  Emotion deepened her voice and I sensed her
sincerity. "I care about my grandfather. He means
more to me than anyone else. What happened to him
when his career was destroyed by gossip and all the
false stories was unfair--wicked."
  Wicked seemed a strong word. What about
Roger Brandt's treatment of Victoria? In
what direction did wickedness lie?
  Natalie continued more quietly. "Jim
Castle gave my grandfather a new hope that his
side of what had happened would be honestly told.
Since Jim's death, he's become depressed.
He has a foolish notion these days that anything
he touches is sure to be doomed."
  I didn't want to feel sympathy for Roger
Brandt. "How do you think the Victoria Frazer
part of the story should be handled? Your grandfather can't have
come out of that completely free of blame."
  Natalie sighed. "I don't think we've
ever heard the whole story. Of course that was the
big romance of the day, as far as the press was
concerned, but I'm not sure it was that important
to my grandfather. I suspect that he'd had other
affairs that my grandmother had to put up with--she's a
strong woman. Victoria must have been weak--
to drown herself like that. She must have known that he would
never leave his wife."
  Clearly, more than Roger Brandt's story
needed to be told. Whether there was ever a
documentary or not, perhaps I owed it to my grandmother
to take this on. Someday I might write a book
about her story--if ever I knew enough about what had
happened. This might be a way to learn one side
at least.
  I pushed Natalie with another question. "How
does your grandfather feel about Victoria Frazer
now?"
  "He won't talk about her. Jim was just
beginning to get past his guard when he died. You
won't have an easy time." She paused, studying
me thoughtfully. "Still, Grandfather likes pretty
women, and he just might be willing to see Jim's
wife. Gran may be dead set against this, of
course, and she won't trust you. She
distrusted what Jim was doing at first. Often she can
seem as modern as tomorrow, then in the next minute
she's an old-fashioned, very proper lady." A
spark of amusement came into Natalie's eyes.
"It's possible that her opposition may make
Grandfather all the more willing to do this. They love
each other and sometimes hate each other at the same
time. First, of course, he has to meet you. He
liked Jim, so that's a start. And if you can get
Gran to trust you, this will be even easier."
  I drew back a little. I didn't like the
aspect of playacting. "I don't want to stir
up old feuds. If your grandmother doesn't
approve ..."
  Natalie laughed, an unexpectedly harsh
sound. "What lies between my grandparents is no
feud. I'd call it a gentlemen's war.
I've often wondered why they stayed together over the
years, or why on earth they came here to live in
the first place. That's something he won't discuss
any more than Gran will. She must have been hurt
by his affair with Victoria. Apparently, it was
a bit more than one of his casual flings, though I
don't think my grandmother ever considered leaving him,
any more than he'd have left her."
  "What about your father?" I asked. "Will he
approve of this?"
  "Probably not. But he's often at odds with
my grandfather. I don't think he'll try to stop
it."
  "There are other aspects of the story I'd
want to look into," I warned.
  "Like what?"
  "I'd want to talk with Victoria's sister,
Gretchen. I met her last night. How will your
grandfather feel about that?"
  "Jim asked the same question. He knew
Gretchen and liked her. He'd talked to Ty
Frazer, thanks to Gordon, and he'd even
gotten him on tape. Finella told me on the
phone that you've already met our local character. Of
course you'd have to persuade Ty not to run off in
fright, if you decided to interview him, too. But
as far as I'm concerned, you can explore in any
direction you choose. We can always edit later."
  So there would be censorship? Not that this would
matter, since there might never be a finished
script, anyway. My own purpose in doing this
was not the same as Natalie's.
  "Will you think about this, Lauren?"
  "I'll think about it, and if you can set it up,
I'd like to meet Roger Brandt."
  "Yes, of course. Before anything else will work,
we must get Grandfather's agreement to see you. If
you can't win him over, it's hopeless. Let me
talk to him. Perhaps I'll have some ideas for you tonight
at dinner. Gordon can help, too. He liked
what Jim was doing--and my grandfather likes
Gordon."
  I decided to bring up something that had troubled
me. "When Jim's things were sent to me, I
didn't receive his notes on this project or any
of the film he'd shot. There should have been film at
least."
  "I pulled everything out myself," Natalie
admitted. "I didn't want what had been
completed to be lost. Jim had a lot of plans,
but he only got around to filming one interview.
You can see that, if you like. And I'll give you his
notes."
  I wasn't sure I wanted this to happen.
There seemed something terribly unsettling about
watching a film Jim had started so shortly before
his death.
  Natalie must have registered my concern, for she
spoke abruptly. "You're looking tired,
Lauren. I'll drive you back to the other side
so you can rest before dinner."
  I quickly accepted. I had a lot to think about
and I wanted to be alone.
  As we started down the long studio, I stopped
before the painting on the easel, my attention
suddenly riveted. This was one of Natalie's
Indian village scenes that Gordon had
mentioned.
  She had chosen a chilling subject--the stake
I'd seen planted in the center of the approach to the
village. As always, Natalie had let her
imagination soar. A figure, his arms secured
by an overhead pole, was already obscured by a veil
of gray smoke rising from wood where low flames
were beginning to burn.
  Pale green moonlight permeated the scene,
with the darker forest rising on one side, the trees
bending a little as though some high wind touched them.
All around the stake, ghostly figures moved in
a circling dance. My focus was upon that central
figure--whether man or woman, I couldn't
tell, though agonized facial features were
visible, the most arresting being the haunted
eyes turned toward the sky. For an eerie
moment, it was as though I had exchanged places with
that figure so soon to die. I shook myself
impatiently. What an odd thought for me to have.
  Natalie came to stand beside me. "A bit
weird, isn't it? Sometimes what I paint has
very little to do with my own will. Something takes control of
my brush and then a scene just happens. I was
painting like that when I did the Star Flight
watercolor Finella has in her shop. Sometimes
it's as if I've painted something out of a past
I've never seen. Though other times the subject
seems prophetic--as if the occurrence is yet
to happen. With this one, I was probably seeing
what had already taken place for the movie."
  I didn't know how the scene in the film was
managed, but it was unlikely that flames and
smoke of this magnitude would have been started around
an actor. I was glad to turn away from that
agonized face whose pain and fear reached out to touch
me.
  Natalie led the way to the door, and, as we
stepped outside, a woman appeared, coming down the
walk from a higher part of the house. I knew at
once who she must be. Though she was over
seventy, her back was straight and she was
arrestingly beautiful. Natalie's resemblance
to her grandmother was clear, but Natalie's beauty was
sharp and young and a little edgy. Camilla's had grown
more controlled and seemingly serene. She carried
herself with a dignity that I suspected would never be
easily ruffled. Taller than her granddaughter,
she looked tan and fit, as though she must spend
effort and time to keep herself in good physical
condition.
  There must have been face-lifts to preserve the
integrity of chin line and neck. Only one flaw
detracted from her almost-perfect beauty--a scar
on her right cheek. As far as possible, it had
been hidden with skillful makeup, but nothing could
conceal a puckering of flesh where something had cut in
a deep diagonal slash.
  She paused at the sight of us. "I'm
sorry, Natalie. I didn't realize you had
company."
  "It's all right, Gran. We're just leaving.
This is Lauren Castle, Jim's wife.
Lauren, my grandmother, Camilla Brandt."
  The cool look she gave me was intimidating.
She wore, like a garment, a manner that
seemed almost royal. Her pale violet silk
dress flowed around her, revealing a perfection of
figure that would have been the envy of women half her
age. I wondered whether pride was mainly what
had held Camilla Brandt together for all these
years.
  Natalie went on to explain my presence.
"I kidnapped Lauren from Dad's boat,
since I wanted to meet her. Now I'll
drive her back to her car."
  Camilla Brandt held out her hand to me with a
natural courtesy that I suspected nothing could
ever shake. "We were all grieved about Jim's
death, Mrs. Castle." Her speech had a
cultivated ring; her voice must have aged little,
since there was no quaver in her tones, no
faltering.
  I thanked her for her sympathy and she bowed
slightly before turning back to her own part of the
house, moving with a natural grace that was timeless.
  Feeling a little stunned, I followed
Natalie to the garage on the upper level, where
she'd left her car.
  "You resemble your grandmother," I remarked.
  "I only wish! You should see pictures of
her when she was young and a great beauty. If only
I could have known her before all that legendary
wildfire went out of her. I think Grandfather was
always a little intimidated by her. There are stories
about her when she was young. They must have been madly in
love."
  She opened the door of the Mercedes and I got
in, lost in my own sober thoughts. Madly in
love for a time, perhaps? But then there had been
Victoria Frazer. How much, or how little, had
she meant to Roger Brandt? His career had ended
because of Victoria, but not his marriage. For the first
time, I wondered whether Victoria's death could
have been a relief to him. If he had turned
away from her when she was pregnant, she might
well have committed suicide in despair. There was
a great deal I wanted to know, and working on this
film, even if nothing came of it, might help
me answer those questions.
  "Your grandmother should be part of the film, if we do
pick up Jim's work," I said. "It would be
interesting to talk with her."
  Natalie shook her head. "That wouldn't be
allowed."
  "Who would oppose it?"
  "If Grandfather didn't allow Jim to talk with
her, he certainly wouldn't permit you to do so."
  In that case, I thought, I must find a way
to talk with Camilla Brandt on my own.
  As Natalie backed the car out of the garage,
she turned her head to look at me. "You are
working on a script in your mind, aren't you? The
writer in you is taking over. I can tell by the
way you look."
  I smiled vaguely, impressed by her
perceptiveness but promising nothing.
  We wound through the woods on the Brandts'
private road and came out upon an open stretch
that offered a view of the lake. Rumbling Bald was
behind us now, and when we descended to the level of the
dam and started across, I could look straight up the
gorge to where it narrowed near Chimney Rock.
The Indian village that I'd visited this
morning, and that Natalie had painted so
disturbingly, was somewhere up there.
  "Have you lived here all your life?" I asked
Natalie.
  She drove easily, relaxed at the wheel.
"Yes, except for four years at the
University of Virginia."
  There was another story here--the story of
Natalie Brandt. For just a moment, I wanted
to tell her who I was and claim our relationship.
But I didn't know her well enough yet to guess
what the result of such a revelation might be.
It was better to wait and go slowly. So for now I
would continue to play my hand as Jim's wife.
I'd already been given more glimpses of the Brandts
than I'd ever thought possible.
  Natalie spoke quietly as we neared
Finella's, where I'd left my car. "You're
a deep one, Lauren. There's something you're
holding back, but you'll tell me eventually."
  I had nothing to say to that, so I left the car
with a brief "See you tonight." When I reached my
own car and looked back, I saw that she still sat
there with her hands on the wheel, looking after me, her
expression not altogether friendly.

                FIVE

  When I entered the lobby of the lodge, Mrs.
Adrian spoke to me from the desk. "If you have
time, Mrs. Castle, Miss Frazer would like you
to come down to see her. She said you would know
the way."
  Tired as I was beginning to feel, this was an
invitation I couldn't refuse. I went out to the
walkway that led toward the water and stood there for a
moment, the view holding me all over again. In
afternoon sunlight, Rumbling Bald looked more
serene, less frightening. Across the lake in the
direction of the dam, I could now recognize the
roof of Roger Brandt's house. How remarkable,
I thought, that I might have access to that house and
to Roger Brandt. Providing, of course, that he
agreed to see Jim Castle's wife.
  As I reached the level of Gretchen's small
house, I heard voices and paused on the
walk. The big room she'd taken me into last
night was farther along, but these sounds came from
nearby, where a door stood open. I went
to look in at a surprising scene.
  The small room was square, with white plastered
walls and very little furniture. Its central
focus was a white bed, upon which lay a child--a little
girl of about ten, dressed in pajamas.
Gretchen Frazer sat in a chair drawn up
to the opposite side of the bed from where I stood.
Her eyes were closed and she wore a beatific
expression, as though held by some inner rapture.
The deep lines of her face had lifted and she
almost glowed with a peaceful radiance. This was a
different woman from the one I'd met last night
--a woman who had been a little rough-edged and
curt. I watched, fascinated.
  She sat with her hands straight out before her,
held an inch or two above the child's chest. Her
lips moved as though she uttered some whispered
prayer. In contrast, Siggy von Hogg sat
on his haunches on my side of the bed, observing
the ritual with complete attention.
  Someone stirred in a corner to my right and I
became aware of a woman who sat on a straight
chair, her coloring as fair as that of the child on the
bed. When she caught my eye, she raised a
finger to her lips, warning me to be quiet. The little
girl's mother, undoubtedly.
  Like Gretchen's, the child's eyes were closed, and
she was breathing harshly. But even as I watched, the
rasping breaths lessened and color began
to return to her small face. Gretchen rested a
light hand on her forehead.
  "The fever's gone. She doesn't need it
anymore, and her coughing will stop now,"
she told the woman as she bent over the child,
brushing the girl's hair away from her face.
"Let me get you some herbs to give her in a
drink and leaves that you can use to make into a
poultice to put on her chest tonight."
  She started to rise and saw me. For just an
instant, she looked startled. Then, without speaking,
she went to busy herself at a cabinet and put a
small parcel into the mother's hands. The woman
began to fumble with her purse, but Gretchen stopped
her.
  "There isn't any charge. This is my
reward." She touched the little girl's head again as
the child sat up and smiled.
  When they went out of the room, Siggy came
to snuffle at my ankles, seeming to smile up
at me when I bent to scratch between his ears.
  Gretchen shooed him away. "Manners,
Siggy," she said, and the pig ambled away. "I'm
glad to see you, Lauren. Come into the other room,
please. I have something to show you."
  I was still under the spell of what I'd just
witnessed. There seemed to be a goodness at the core
of this woman that she tried to hide with her brusque
manner.
  I spoke warmly. "How wonderful to have a
healing gift like that!"
  We'd entered the kitchen area, where I'd sat
last night. She waved me to a chair and flicked
a hand, dismissing my words.
  "It's not always wonderful. Sometimes nothing
happens and I blame myself for not knowing enough."
  "Have you always been able to help the sick?"
  She answered openly. "Whatever gift I
possess seems to have come to me after my sister,
Victoria, died. That was a difficult time for
me spiritually and I was reaching out for--for anything that would
help me. When I found out what I could sometimes
do, it frightened me at first. It seemed to happen
serendipitously, until I began to understand that this
was why I was here on earth. I couldn't help my
sister, but I could use my powers for others." She
broke off for a moment and then went on abruptly.
"We need to talk, Lauren."
  I'd always found that phrase ominous: It
usually meant that something would be said that I didn't
want to hear. I sidetracked her with a question,
postponing.
  "What were the leaves you gave the little girl's
mother for a poultice?"
  "Kudzu. The Japanese have used it in healing
for centuries. I'm afraid I'm only a
beginner when it comes to understanding its virtues."
  "I saw the kudzu room at Finella
Heath's shop today."
  Gretchen looked pleased. "I introduced
Finella to the miracle of kudzu. She's taken
off like a crusader. How did your day go,
Lauren?"
  Perhaps she, too, was postponing the need to talk
to me.
  "I've covered some unexpected ground," I
said, and gave her a brief account of my
adventures. My visit to Roger Brandt's
house caught her attention.
  "Did you actually see him?"
  "Not even a glimpse. Though I was
introduced to Mrs. Brandt."
  "The formidable Camilla! What did you think
of her?"
  "We barely met. She's an impressive
lady, but I had a sense of coolness toward
me."
  I decided to tell her about Natalie's
request. "I may pick up the work Jim
started. Only the writing part, of course.
Natalie Brandt said she could handle a video
camera, if I would do the interviewing. As
Jim's wife, there's a chance that Mr. Brandt
might talk to me now. I would have to come up with
questions, of course, and an overall plan that would
give me a framework."
  Gretchen regarded me somberly. "Don't
let the Brandts twist you around to their own
purposes. I don't think this is a good idea.
Who cares about Roger Brandt these days?"
  "There's been a revival of interest in his
films around the country. Why does the idea
upset you?" I could guess, but I wanted
to challenge Victoria's sister.
  "Because it would all be done to glorify .his
career. After what happened to my sister, I can
hardly be enthusiastic."
  I wasn't ready yet to tell her that I
might be a lot more partisan to Victoria's
story than that of the Brandts, though I touched on this
lightly. "I've always been fascinated
by Victoria Frazer--so her life will be part of
whatever is covered. That is, if you are willing
to help me."
  She closed her eyes and seemed to go far away
in her thoughts. When she looked at me again, I
knew that she'd rejected the idea. "It's
better to let the past go, Lauren, and get on with
your own life. I have a feeling that you've been
marking time since your husband died."
  Gretchen had a quick, blunt perception that
disconcerted me. She saw too much too
clearly. But perhaps I could be perceptive, too.
  "Is there something about your sister that you don't
want to see published?"
  "A great deal," she said. "An artist's work
should be judged--not her life."
  I let that go, though I was all the more curious.
"I met your brother, Ty, this morning," I
told her.
  "Tyronne? Did he bring Finella a bag
of kudzu? He keeps me supplied through her."
  Tyronne? It was difficult to connect so
romantic a name to that rough old man with his
quick-moving nervousness.
  "He came in while I was in the shop," I
told her. "But I'd also seen him earlier up in
the Indian village where the movie was made.
He was playing a drum--wonderful, eerie
sounds!"
  "Poor Ty. Perhaps he suffered more than
anyone else after Victoria died."
  "Oh?" I waited, and she went on sadly.
  "When he was young, his ambition was to become a
doctor, and Victoria was helping him. She
easily earned enough to send him through medical school.
He was bright and eager for life, and he had the
healing gift, too--though not in the same way it
developed for me. In the early days,
Victoria was good to everyone."
  "What happened?"
  "After she fell in love with Roger Brandt,
she changed. She lost interest in everything and
everyone else. Maybe she wouldn't have withdrawn
her support for Ty, but he thought that was what she
meant to do. We all lived together in this house in
those days. That was long before the lodge was built.
I remember when Tyronne sat right here in this
kitchen, and he was angrier than I'd ever seen
him. He called Roger Brandt a seducer.
After Victoria died, he forgave her, but by that
time he'd gone off the deep end and become the way
he is now. At first, I was afraid he might
try to kill Roger. But the Brandt
house was a fortress in those days--Camilla saw
to that--and he'd never have gotten past the guards."
  "It didn't seem to be guarded when I was there
this morning."
  "Nobody bothers anymore. Celebrity
seekers are after younger prey and many of his old
fans don't know he's here. Though if you go through
with this documentary, that may change. How did you
happen to get into the place?"
  "I was on Justyn Brandt's boat and
Natalie invited me ashore. But tell me about
Tyronne."
  "He lives in the mountains. I think he knows
every cave on Rumbling Bald, and he likes
wild animals better than he does people. That's
where his healing gifts come in." Gretchen's words
seemed heavy with an underlying sadness. "Everything
would have been different if Victoria and Roger
hadn't fallen in love."
  "I liked Ty, even though he shied away from
me."
  "I suppose he's happy as he is, and we
let him alone. He doesn't miss what we
call civilization. Gordon Heath is one of the
few he's made friends with. And, of course,
Finella. She's a free soul in her own way.
You know, I suspect he believes that
Victoria's spirit still haunts the lake out there, but
I don't talk with him about it. Although I do know
that he thinks she wants him to do something now--something
that will make up for all that happened."
  "What did happen?"
  "She died," Gretchen said simply. I had
the feeling that she knew more than she was willing
to tell me, but I didn't press her.
  "It was all such a long time ago, Lauren.
When she died, it was a terrible thing for Tyronne
and me. We've both learned to live our own
lives, but it was hard for us to welcome Jim's
efforts to dredge everything up again. He's still doing
that, in a sense. But you can stop it if you just let
everything alone."
  I wasn't sure I could do that. If Jim
hadn't died by accident, I owed him. Because of
Gordon and San Francisco and too many
years of a less-than-ideal marriage. And because
Jim had been my friend, even though our marriage
hadn't worked out. I owed him a great deal.
  Gretchen went on, rambling a little. Mental
and emotional exhaustion seized me as
I listened, and she saw this.
  "You're about out on your feet, Lauren." She
reached out to take both my hands in hers. Her touch
was light. It sent warmth flowing up my arms
to envelop me, and for the first time I experienced the
energizing force of Gretchen's power.
  "You needed this," she said with satisfaction. She
released my hands. "Go and rest now. You'll
wake up refreshed and ready for the evening."
  I hadn't told her that I was meeting
Gordon and Natalie, and I wondered whether
her talents ran to clairvoyance. In any
case, I felt better, and I seemed to float
toward the door without effort, completely relaxed.
As I went up the walk toward the lodge, she
stood outside, watching me go. A curious thought
came to comfort me. Gretchen was my family. She
was my grandmother's sister, and I had a feeling that
she wanted me to know that she was on my side, even
though she might only think of me as Jim's
wife. I realized that she hadn't told me why
she wanted to see me, but perhaps she'd accomplished
what she wanted indirectly.
  I didn't want to think ahead to the coming meeting
with Gordon, since that might upset me all
over again. In fact, I didn't want anything
to interfere with the sense of serenity that Gretchen's
hands had induced.
  In my room, I slipped on a robe,
drew draperies across glass doors, and lay
down on the bed. Gretchen's spell held me and
I fell asleep instantly.
  When I began to dream, the experience seemed very
real. Someone had come into my room from the
lakeside--a woman in a white dress.
Fair hair stirred on her shoulders as she
moved to the foot of my bed. My eyes were
closed, but I could see every detail of the room
clearly, including the shimmering, ethereal vision who
raised her hands toward me as though entreating.
  Let me go, she whispered. The sound was in
my mind, but the words were clear. Please let
me go.
  In the dream, I spoke to her, though I made
no sound. "I'm not holding you--so how can I let
you go?"
  The whispering voice pleaded. Find me and
let me go.
  Even as I answered her, part of me rejected
what seemed to be happening. "You're at
the bottom of the lake. How can anyone find you?"
  Outside, a dog bayed mournfully.
Immediately, I was awake and sitting up in bed.
No shimmering vision hovered in the room and no
voice whispered through my mind. But the dream had
been disturbingly real, brought on, no doubt,
by all that had just happened, but with no connection
to reality. I didn't need to worry about
fulfilling the request of a figure in a dream.
So why did this strong connection with Victoria
Frazer persist now that I was awake?
  I tried to make peace with the dream. If in some
fantastic way I should be given the opportunity
to free Victoria Frazer from whatever bonds still
held her to an earth where she no longer belonged,
I would do everything in my power to succeed. My
wide-awake self promised her that.
  I had a bond with Victoria that my mother had
never known about. In my early teens, I'd gone
into a secondhand bookstore that specialized in
old movie magazines. There I had found an
issue printed a month after her death and devoted
to her. It contained several photographs. She
had been impossibly beautiful. I studied her
delicate face with its huge, expressive
eyes.
  No man could have resisted falling in love with a
face like that--not only because of her enchanting
appearance but also because of a vulnerability that showed in
her softly rounded chin and full, voluptuous
mouth. It was a face that waited to be kissed and that
invited protection. But Roger Brandt had not
protected her.
  The magazine writers romanticized that
Victoria and Roger had fallen in love during
the making of Blue Ridge Cowboy. There was
even a photo of them together--a publicity still for that
picture. It showed a tall, handsome man with an
amused, slightly wicked look in his eyes--
something that had appealed to a nation of newly born
moviegoers and to my grandmother.
  In the photograph, the beautiful young woman
looked up at her hero with love and adoration.
And the entire country swallowed the fantasy. In
reality, it must have been very different. There had been
a wild, uncontrollable passion, suffering,
scandal, and death. And I was the child of the baby that had
been born of that less-than-ideal union. Was
I, perhaps, more like my grandmother than I'd ever been
like my mother?
  I wondered what Camilla Brandt had thought
of that photograph. She must have seen it when it
appeared. But perhaps she had known even then that
Roger would never leave her for some movie
actress.
  My dream still haunted me and I tried to shrug
it off. I didn't subscribe to the legend of a
great romance, and I found there was an indignant
part of me that wanted to meet Roger Brandt in
order to tell him just what I thought of him.
  Suddenly aware of the lateness of the hour, I
took a shower that was cool and bracing and put on a
white cotton peasant blouse with a round neck.
A smoky blue chambray skirt flared out from a
wide blue leather belt, and I liked the
effect. I was dressing in self-defense, needing
to give myself confidence and courage. I didn't have
to look like Victoria Frazer--only like a
woman far removed from that foolish young girl in
San Francisco. The full-length mirror
on the bathroom wall seemed to approve of me
and I gave it my best smile.
  When I went down to the lobby, I found
Gordon waiting for me. I managed to be friendly
but casual, discounting the way his eyes lighted when
he saw me.
  "I thought perhaps we could go together. Natalie will
meet us at the inn," he told me as we went out
to his car. Not a Jeep this time, but a small,
sleek sports car, midnight blue. On the
way, he told me that he'd given Natalie a
call before he left home. "She said she'd had
you up to the Brandt house and that you'd met her mother.
What do you think of Camilla?"
  My reaction to Roger's wife had been
mixed. "She's beautiful and she carries her
years well. But she chilled me a little."
  "She can do that. Jim never got very far with her,
though he felt she should be part of his project."
  "Natalie wants me to pick up Jim's
work and continue with the writing. Perhaps even do the
interviewing on-camera. She would handle the
photography part."
  My news surprised him. "That's a switch!
When Jim died, she said she'd never want
anyone to finish his work. I wonder why she's
changed her mind. Will you take her up on it?"
  "I don't know. Roger Brandt would have to be
convinced, and I doubt if he'd accept me for the
job."
  "You're still not telling anyone about your
relationship to Victoria and Roger, are you?"
  "No, I'd rather keep that quiet for now. A
sort of ace up my sleeve, though I don't
know how I'll use it."
  He seemed intrigued by the possibilities,
though he didn't comment.
  The Lake Lure Inn was so close that the
drive took only a few minutes. There was no
time to tell him about other matters that disturbed me.
  We drew up before the long white stucco
building that I had seen earlier from the boat. Its
Spanish-flavored architecture had been
popular in the early years of the century, though its
style was more likely to appear in California than
North Carolina. The inn's great resort days
had ended in the forties, but now all of Hickory
Nut Gorge, with Lake Lure at this end and
Chimney Rock at the other, had become
popular with tourists once more and the inn was coming
to life.
  We climbed wide cement steps under a green
canopy. Once, carriages and early
motorcars must have drawn up to this entrance. Just
inside the door, a round walnut table held a
massive fresh flower arrangement in charming
pastels, the polished wood gleaming beneath. Beyond
rose an impressive staircase that climbed
to a landing and branched on either side to the floor
above. To my right and left, the lobby was furnished
with dignified sofas and a variety of
comfortable-looking chairs.
  Natalie Brandt rose to meet us--a
colorful, rather surprising figure. She had
changed from her artist's work clothes to indigo blue
trousers banded in silver at the ankles. The
plain silver top was hung with long strands of
shells and bright beads. Even her dangling earrings
dripped with tiny shells. Altogether, she looked
stunning and exotic, and I could imagine that her
appeal for Jim Castle would have been immediate. Jim
had liked and enjoyed women, and I was just as glad
that I hadn't been desperately in love with him.
We'd done better as friends.
  Natalie seemed a bit more wary toward me
than she had been earlier, and I wondered whether
her grandmother's seeming disapproval of me had
succeeded in turning her against me.
  We went out to a long, enclosed porch, where
well-spaced tables and a wall of windows
created an attractive dining area. Heavy
white tablecloths were overlaid with squares of
pale peach and chairs were upholstered in the same
color.
  A waitress seated us beside a window and
provided us with menus. Feeling uncomfortable about
Natalie's manner, I absorbed myself in
listening to a recitation of the specialties of the
evening. We ordered rather quickly, and as soon as the
waitress had gone, Natalie spoke to me,
putting my suspicion into words.
  "I must tell you right away, Lauren, that my
grandmother is absolutely opposed to your continuing
Jim's work. I should never have suggested this without
consulting her first."
  "Perhaps your grandfather is the one to consult," I
said. "However, I'm more relieved than anything
else. I never really thought I'd be right for this."
I kept out of my voice any regret I
might feel for the loss of this access I could have had
to our mutual grandfather.
  Gordon had little to say, watching Natalie and
me but leaving the exchange mostly to us.
  I asked a direct question. "Have you seen the
film that your grandfather made with Victoria
Frazer?"
  "No one is supposed to see it. Grandfather
owns what I believe to be the only print in
existence and he keeps it locked in a safe.
He's never run it for me, though he's shown me
.his earlier pictures."
  "Why won't he show it to you?" I asked
bluntly.
  A spark flared in Natalie's dark eyes.
"Maybe he's afraid that if he takes it out,
my grandmother will get her hands on it and destroy it.
She still has enough temper to do that."
  "Does she feel that strongly about Victoria
Frazer after all these years?" I asked.
  "I expect that she was forced to put up with a great
deal. She has a right to feel any way she
wants. I admire her tremendously."
  I noted the use of the word admire rather than
love.
  Gordon said, "I've heard some of the story--
that Camilla was the one who held everything together when
the going got rough."
  Natalie spoke more quietly, her annoyance
with me subsiding. "That's the way it must have been.
My father was born the following year, but
he's told me stories he heard from
Great-grandmother Brandt. She told him that when the
scandal broke, the house was in a state of siege
from reporters and the curious public. Audiences
can be unforgiving toward an idol with clay feet.
That was when my grandmother engineered a trip
to Switzerland and took the family out of the country.
They didn't come home until everything quieted
down. Then they returned secretly and Gran
made the house a fortress."
  "Home was really California, wasn't it?"
Gordon asked.
  Even as I listened intently to Natalie, I
was still all too aware of Gordon across the table.
Everything about him had changed--and nothing had. I
seemed to be two women--the one putting on a
front and pretending she didn't care, the other
much more involved than I wanted to be.
  Natalie answered him. "My grandfather couldn't
bear to stay in Hollywood after all that happened.
It can't be easy to suddenly become a fallen star
after so many years of fame. His supposed friends were
cutting him off, and suddenly no work was available.
I expect there was enough money to live wherever he
wanted--between what he'd been earning and my
grandmother's private wealth. But he'd become
attached to the house they occupied here and the beautiful
Lake Lure area. He's told me that much."
  Perhaps not even Natalie Brandt knew the real
reason why Roger Brandt had stayed here and I
wondered whether it might be something more sinister than
she suspected.
  Natalie puzzled out loud. "For me, Gran
has always seemed a much bigger mystery than my
grandfather. She must have loved him a great deal
to forgive him for Victoria and stay with him in this
place where one of the biggest scandals of their day
happened. She certainly wasn't sympathetic
when Grandfather first agreed to let Jim Castle do
a documentary. Though I must admit that when
Grandfather puts his foot down, she gives in, and
I think it's Grandfather who would oppose any
plan to finish Jim's film."
  "Why was he willing to talk to Jim in the first
place?" Gordon asked.
  "Perhaps because then he could have told his own side of
what happened for the first time. No one with Jim's
obvious integrity had ever wanted to listen. The
press and his studio simply leapt to conclusions.
But when Jim died, I think he must have
soured on the project."
  "Would he have addressed the mystery of
Victoria Frazer's death if Jim had been
able to continue working with him?" I asked.
  For just an instant, Natalie seemed
uneasy. Then she took up the challenge. "How
could he? How could anyone? Who knows what state
she may have been in? It didn't help that her
body was never found, but part of the lake is a
hundred feet deep. Divers searched for days
without any success. There was only her scarf,
caught on a dock piling, to show what might have
happened. And she left an unfinished letter to her
baby daughter that was taken to be a suicide
note."
  I knew about that. "Roger Brandt could hardly
do a documentary about his career and leave
Victoria out."
  "Of course not. He'd have had to face up to that.
Jim meant to interview Victoria's side of the
family--those who are left--Gretchen and Ty.
Grandfather didn't want that, but Jim was beginning
to win his trust, and perhaps a few secrets might have
surfaced. If there'd been enough time. If Jim
hadn't died."
  Natalie stared at me challenging and then
continued with a bite of scorn in her words--perhaps
to hide the pain she might feel.
  "The great romance between Roger and Victoria that
the papers went overboard about lasted for a little over
a year. Their affair began in California,
months before they were both cast in Blue Ridge
Cowboy. After the movie was finished, the
infatuation must have been over for Grandfather. Now I
suspect that Gran wants to pretend that it never
happened."
  "But it wasn't over for Victoria Frazer,
who had a baby," I said dryly.
  Natalie bristled. "Victoria must have been
a silly fool, and she probably got what was
coming to her. I think that woman was a born
seductress! The parts she'd played in her own
movies weren't all that innocent. That's what
made her acting in a film with a folk hero like
Roger Brandt all the more dramatic. She was a
woman who had no scruples about taking another
woman's husband. If she could. In this case,
she hadn't a chance against my grandmother."
  I simply looked at her, and was glad to see
her flush. I suppose she regarded
herself in quite a different category from Victoria
Frazer, and her affair with my husband didn't
seem to trouble her. Now, more than ever, I wanted
to search out Victoria's side of the story and find
out who had really done the seducing.
  Our meal had been served and the food was good, but
I was hardly paying attention to what I put in
my mouth.
  "I have something to give you--something from Jim,"
Natalie said abruptly.
  While I waited in surprise, she reached
into her purse and handed me a sealed white
envelope. My name was written on it in Jim's
familiar scrawl.
  "I don't understand. If there was a letter from my
husband, why wasn't it mailed to me?" I
asked.
  "When I saw him that last evening, he was
pretty keyed up. He hinted that he'd learned
something that would blow everything sky-high. Whatever that
meant. He didn't show me what he'd written
or what he'd put into that envelope before he sealed
it. Your husband and I had become close friends,
Lauren, and he said I was the only person he
could trust to give this to you--other than Gordon, of
course. But Gordon was away that week, so
Jim said that I should give you the letter only if you
came to Lake Lure. He seemed to imply that
he might not be here to give it to you himself."
  She stopped and stared out the window for a few
moments. "After he died and it was considered an
accident, I didn't know what to think or do. You
didn't come to Lake Lure, so I waited."
  She thrust the envelope into my hands as though she
wanted to be rid of it. I felt something
slightly thicker than a sheet of paper at its
center, and I knew that once I opened this
envelope, I would never be able to turn back from
whatever course lay ahead.
  "Do you think Jim had a premonition that something
would happen to him?" I asked.
  She shook her head and tears came to her
eyes. "I don't know. I wish I did."
  I slit the flap with my finger and took out a
folded sheet of paper. Inside was a rough
circle of green material about three inches across
that looked as though it had probably been cut from
some larger piece. Its edges seemed to indicate
the clean cut of a knife. It was apparently
made of some synthetic that I'd never
seen before--too tough to tear and strangely luminous
--almost unearthly! Or perhaps radioactive?
  Jim's handwriting scrawled across the page.
He had always written as though he was short of time
and in a breathless hurry, but this was ragged, even for
him.

Dear Lauren:
  It will probably be better if this never comes
into your hands. I don't expect that it will, because the
puzzle is almost clear, and I'll handle it
myself. That is, as soon as the last piece
clicks into place.
  Gordon Heath is away, or I would leave
this with him, but I know Natalie will follow my
instructions. Talk to Ty Frazer, since he
knows where this fabric came from. If he takes you
to the source, as he did me, everything will become
clear.
  Be careful. Victoria Frazer didn't
drown herself--she was murdered.
  I hope there'll never be a reason for you to receive


this letter.
    Love,
    Jim

  I sat for a moment with Jim's letter and the scrap
of green material in my hands, feeling shocked and
deeply shaken by this confirmation of my fears--both
about Victoria's death and Jim's. The letter
hinted too much without saying enough.
  Silently, I handed it to Gordon and watched
as he read it.
  "What is it?" Natalie cried. "What
has he said?"
  As he read Jim's words, Gordon looked
as disturbed as I felt. This was support for what
Ty believed. Gordon gave the letter
to Natalie and when he covered my hand with his own,
I tried to take some comfort from his touch.
  "So Jim's death wasn't an accident and
neither was Victoria's," he said quietly,
picking up the piece of fabric.
  Tears filled Natalie's eyes again as she
watched.
  The green iridescence shone in the lamplight as
Gordon turned the scrap about in his hands. It
looked as though it would glow in the dark.
  "It's almost as thin as paper," he said, "but very
tough. And it doesn't crumple. I have no
idea what it is. Maybe some new sort of
synthetic?" He handed it to Natalie, who
examined it silently and gave it back without
comment, along with the letter.
  "Maybe I should send this piece away to have it
tested, Lauren," Gordon said.
  I didn't want to wait for tests. "I'd rather
show it to your friend Ty and ask him about it, as Jim
suggested in his letter. Could you set up a meeting with
him, Gordon? He has a tendency to duck when
he sees me."
  "I'll see what I can manage," Gordon
promised.
  Natalie appeared to be studying the dessert
offerings on the menu from which we had ordered earlier,
as though it absorbed her full attention. I
noticed that her hands were trembling. Gordon stared
suddenly in the direction of the door, and I saw his
look of surprise. He pushed back his chair
and stood up as the hostess led Finella to our
table. She still wore her blue denim jacket with the
patches of color at the shoulders, but she had
lost the poise I'd sensed in her at the shop.
She was agitated now.
  "I'm sorry to interrupt, Gordon," she
told him the moment she reached our table. "Something
has just happened that you'd better know about." She
glanced at Natalie and me. "All of you."
  Gordon pulled out a chair and she sat down,
waving away a menu and asking only for coffee.
  "I've just had a surprising visitor in my
shop," she said. "It was your grandfather, Natalie.
I hadn't seen him in years, and he still looks as
handsome and distinguished as ever."
  "Why on earth--" Natalie began, but
Gordon motioned for her to wait, and she was
quiet.
  "He came into the shop like a storm cloud,"
Finella continued. "I remember how dramatic
he used to be, and he hasn't lost his touch. He
wanted to know if I'd seen Jim Castle's
wife, and I said you'd gone to dinner with my son and
his granddaughter. That seemed to upset him still more.
He strode around vigorously--you'd never guess
his age!--and stopped before your Star Flight
watercolor, Natalie. Apparently, he
hadn't seen it before, and he appeared even more
disturbed."
  "I don't see why," Natalie said. "He
and my father were on the mountain when that--whatever it was
--came down. I painted from his own
description."
  "Well, he didn't like it, and he turned
away as though he couldn't bear to look at it.
He wants to talk with you, Lauren, as soon as
possible."
  This didn't bode well for my first meeting with
Roger Brandt, and I began to feel alarmed.
"Did he say why he wants to see me?"
  "Not a hint. He just went off in the same dark
cloud. So I thought I'd better come over here and
warn you right away. He really scared me."
  "Before I met you for dinner tonight, Camilla
told him you might continue with the documentary,
Lauren," Natalie said. "He was against it.
He said you couldn't possibly pick up Jim's
work--no one could. But I didn't think he'd go
running around trying to find you. At least he
hasn't come here."
  Looking a little guilty, Finella said,
"I'm afraid I told him where you're staying,
Lauren."
  Natalie pushed back her chair. "I'd
better get back to the house and talk to him--get
him calmed down. Sometimes he listens to me."
  I tried to reassure her. "Just tell him that
I could never fill Jim's shoes, so he
needn't worry. Though I would like to meet him before
I leave, if it's possible. Perhaps he could
tell me more about what Jim was doing."
  "I still think you should finish the film, whether he
approves or not," Natalie said. "I wonder
if I could win him around, in spite of my
grandmother."
  She left us rather abruptly and rushed off with her
shells and beads clashing.
  I didn't want any dessert, but I
drank my coffee, feeling tired and scared, and
I told Finella that I might be leaving Lake
Lure soon. I would stop in to see her before I
went home. All the while, I was aware of
Gordon listening quietly, though he'd made
no comment about all this drama. When we left the
dining room, we walked Finella to her car and then
Gordon drove me back to the lodge, with
hardly a word between us. What was there to say? When
we reached the driveway and he stopped the car, he
kept me for a moment longer, and his words
surprised me.
  "I wonder if you should leave so soon,
Lauren? Are you being frightened away?"
  "Perhaps I am," I told him, though one of the
things I was most afraid of was my confused feeling
about Gordon himself.
  "If you leave," he said, "I suspect that
everything will stop. All the questions will fade away and
no answers will ever be found. That's the safe and
easy course." His tone hardened. "You're
pretty good at taking the easy course, as I
remember."
  Perhaps the sudden anger that shook me came from the
fact that he was speaking the truth. But that young girl
who had loved him and been afraid to act didn't
exist anymore. I might be afraid of a lot
of things, but I wouldn't run away from Gordon
now if there was a real reason to stay.
  "You don't know anything about me," I said
sharply. I opened the door on my side and got
out to run up the steps and get away from him as
quickly as I could.
  By the time I reached the lobby, I felt tired
all over again. I wanted only to go up to my
room and do nothing for the rest of the evening. The last
thing I wanted was to think about Gordon, either in the
past or the present, and I wasn't sure that was
something I could turn off.
  When Mrs. Adrian spoke to me from the
desk, I paused unwillingly.
  "Mrs. Castle--there's someone here to see you."
She nodded toward the far end of the lobby, where a
sitting area had been arranged. She looked so
excited that I knew at once who must be here.
  "It's Mr. Brandt, Mrs. Castle. Mr.
Roger Brandt! He's waiting for you."
  There was nothing else to do but face him. I
took a long, deep breath and went to meet my
grandfather.

                SIX

  He rose as I approached, and I would have
recognized him anywhere. His hair was white but still
thick, and lines had deepened in his face. Yet
the look of the young man was there. His bearing, as
erect as ever, indicated a man who kept his
body in shape.
  Until now, I'd seen him only in black
and white. He seemed far more
impressive in color and he still had a presence
that was part of Roger Brandt's film mystique.
His skin was well tanned and a patterned red silk
scarf--his signature in the old days--was
tied jauntily at his throat. His corduroy
jacket appeared to have been tailored to fit him and
corduroy pants ended in expensive,
well-worn leather boots that had undoubtedly
been made to order. Added to the charisma that had
belonged to the young man was an intimidating
assurance. He looked both angry and for some
reason surprised at the sight of me. I had
to stiffen my inner resolve and stand up to him. I
raised my chin--a chin cleft as deeply as his
own--and gave him look for look.
  "Mr. Brandt?" I said before he could attack.
"I'm Lauren Castle, Jim's wife."
  He didn't trouble to acknowledge this. "Sit
down," he said curtly, gesturing toward the far
end of the sofa where he'd been sitting.
  I stayed where I was. "I prefer to stand,
since this will take only a few moments. Your
granddaughter has suggested that I pick up my
husband's work on the documentary about you. But of
course that's out of the question. I haven't the skills
or the interest to carry on Jim's work. So if
you've come here to tell me not to, you needn't have
troubled."
  He blinked, and I suspected that his vanity
would reject an excuse that indicated a lack of
interest--in him. But before he could dismiss me and
stride out of the lobby, I continued.
  "Perhaps you'd like to know why I don't want
to touch this project. I have a strong feeling that the
real story concerns Victoria Frazer. But
to learn about her life would be much more difficult
than to learn about yours. So I won't even
try."
  I expected his anger to explode around me.
Bristling white eyebrows, more unruly than when
he was young, seemed to climb his forehead above eyes
that had widened as he stared at me. Then a faint
quirk appeared at one side of his mouth, creasing
up one cheek--not a smile, but possible
amusement because someone so insignificant would dare
to mention Victoria's name in his presence.
  "Please sit down," he said. "We can talk
more comfortably if you'll stop looking like a
firecracker about to go off."
  So much for what I'd considered
defiant dignity. I sat down in the farthest
corner of the sofa from him, my feet close together and
my hands clasped like a schoolgirl's on the
knees of my blue skirt. At once, I
unclasped them and folded my arms--the body
language of defiance. I would not allow him either
to intimidate or ridicule me.
  His own relaxing into the opposite end of the sofa
seemed casual enough--but then, he was an actor.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Castle. I seem to have
misunderstood what my wife told me. I liked
your husband, and his death was a shock and a great
loss. But now you've made me curious. I
want to know why you think Victoria Frazer's
story is so important. Her career was hardly
more than a flash in the pan."
  "Through no fault of her own," I told him.
"There was a revival in Los Angeles of all
your films that have survived. I've seen most of
them. But never the one picture you made with her.
Years ago, I found in a secondhand
bookstore an old movie magazine that carried
Victoria's picture on the cover. When I
bought it and read the article, I could see why men
must have fallen in love with her."
  He didn't seem to care for that conclusion.
"You're young and romantic. Almost any female
face can be given extraordinary beauty with
makeup and lighting and the right camera angle. On
the street, you might not have noticed her."
  I tried not to rise to the bait. "I don't
believe that. I don't think you believe that."
  He looked away as though I'd touched him in
some way. "This is a very strange experience,
Mrs. Castle. I haven't talked with anyone
about Victoria Frazer in a good many years.
What is it that appeals to you about an actress who
is mostly forgotten, except here at Lake
Lure, where she has become part of a sentimental
legend?"
  I tried not to sound indignant at such a
dismissal coming from him. "I suppose the mystery
of her death is part of the appeal for me. Why was her
body never found? What really happened?"
  He showed his impatience clearly. "Do you think
every effort wasn't made at the time to find her?"
  "Not every effort. Haven't you wanted to know
what happened to her?"
  This time, I'd really gotten through to him, and he
looked uncomfortable. "I think you'd
better go back to California, young lady. Your
decision not to try what Natalie has suggested
is the correct one."
  He was an arrogant man, and I disliked
arrogance. "You shouldn't allow yourself to become
antique, Mr. Brandt. Young lady is a
patronizing term, and as old-fashioned as all
those cowboy movies you used to make." If he was
arrogant, I was rude, but I didn't care.
  Once more, I thought he would rise and stalk out
of the lobby. Instead, he surprised me by laughing.
"Touch`e! You remind me of my granddaughter.
She never lets me get away with anything. Just the
same, there would be no point in opening up that old
tragedy again. The only reason I was seeing your
husband was because he stayed away from all reference
to Victoria Frazer, except when it came to the
one movie I made with her."
  Of course Jim would have touched on all that
later, as he won Roger Brandt's confidence, but
I let that go.
  "Did you ever really care about her?" I asked
bluntly, holding my breath.
  He looked at me and then away--a look more
sad than angry.
  Now it was I who baited him. "Jim wrote
me that all this was a closed book--so far."
  "And it would have stayed closed. Now, if you'll
excuse me ..." He rose, ending our
discussion.
  I stood up beside him, aware of how tall he
was--over six feet. There'd been no shrinking
of his spine with age.
  I made one last attempt to pierce the armor
he wore. "Natalie told me you may have the
only existing print of Blue Ridge
Cowboy. I'm going away soon and I won't
try to do anything about your story--or Victoria
Frazer's. But I would give anything to see that
film. I would love to know how she looked and
moved and spoke."
  He asked me the same question he'd asked before,
phrasing it in a different way. "Why are you so
drawn to an actress who lived before you were
born?"
  For just a moment, I was tempted. I wanted
to say, Because she is my grandmother. But I
held back the words. Once he knew, he
might shut me out altogether. As Jim Castle's
wife, I would seem more harmless. For a
moment, I looked at him as my grandfather--not as
an intimidating and famous actor but as someone I
might get to know, someone from whom I had inherited
part of myself.
  I smiled for the first time since we'd met, and
he looked startled, peering at me a bit
myopically.
  "You remind me of someone. What did you say
your first name is? Lauren? A beautiful name."
He paused and then seemed to make up his mind
suddenly. "If you will call Natalie tomorrow, she
will bring you across the lake to my house. Set a time
with her and I will show you the film."
  Taken by surprise, I found myself stammering as
I thanked him, and he looked pleased to have
reduced me to shaky gratitude. He
probably still fancied himself as having a way with
women.
  "Good-bye, Lauren," he said, holding out his
hand. When I put my own into his, he clasped
it warmly for an instant. "I'll see you
soon," he added, and started across the lobby. As
he neared the door, he turned and looked at me
over his shoulder. The gesture was deliberate and
exactly the way he had done it so often in his
films, his look amusing, captivating,
engagingly mischievous.
  I was not captivated, and I knew the dueling
between us had not ended, even though I was now, so
surprisingly, to see the movie he'd made with
Victoria Frazer. It was as though a ghost out
of the past had winked at me. Then he was gone, and
I shook myself back to reality and started
upstairs. A flirtatious grandfather was not part of
my plan.
  At least I no longer felt tired, but
surprisingly elated and alive. I saw Mrs.
Adrian watching me curiously from the desk. The
town would probably buzz tomorrow with the story of the
reclusive Roger Brandt actually turning up
at Rumbling Mountain Lodge to see Jim
Castle's wife. I wondered what Gretchen
Frazer would think about this.
  As I went upstairs, my exuberance
lessened. The meeting with Roger Brandt had been
too sudden, too unexpected. I began to think
of all I had said to him and what I hadn't said.
At least I was to see him again, and I was to learn
what my grandmother Victoria had been like on the
screen. I would actually see her as she
had been when the world loved her--forever young.
  The moment I unlocked the door of my room,
I knew someone had been there. The sliding glass
door to the balcony stood open and a breeze from the
lake swept through my room. Perhaps one of the
maids had come in and forgotten to close the door.
  I crossed to take care of this, then became
aware that someone stood outside, looking toward the
water, his back to me. After an instant's shock,
I relaxed. My visitor was only a small
boy.
  "Hello," I said. "How did you get up
here?"
  He turned to face me without alarm--a child of
about ten in jeans and a plaid shirt. "Over there,"
he said, pointing.
  Below the railing, the hill dropped away
steeply. However, at the far end a thick branch
of an oak tree reached toward the balcony that
ran past all the rooms on this side.
Obviously, it had been no trick for my
visitor to climb out along the limb and drop
onto the deck. Since I hadn't locked the
glass door, he had been in and out easily.
  "Do you mind telling me who you are and why you're
here?" I spoke quietly, not wanting to frighten
him off before I had a few answers.
  "I'm Zach," he said. "Grandpa Ty sent
me."
  This was even more surprising. "Ty Frazer is
your grandfather?"
  "Not really. But all us kids call him that.
He teaches us about mountain things. Stuff our
dads and moms don't know."
  "I see. And why did Grandpa Ty send you
here?"
  "He said I should give you this and tell you
to take it and go away."
  Zach fumbled in a jacket pocket and brought
out a small, somewhat battered jewel box. When
I'd accepted it from him, he ran along the
deck, swung himself onto the tree branch, and
disappeared before I could ask him anything more.
  I took the little box into my room and sat down
at the desk to open it. Packed into grubby
cotton was a slim bracelet of silver links.
Every few links along, a tiny silver bell was
attached. When I held the bracelet up, the
bells tinkled musically. It was a beautiful
trinket, but I wondered why Ty had
sent it to me. However, I had a very good
suspicion about the woman it might have belonged
to.
  Ty was Victoria's brother, and who else
could this lovely bracelet have belonged to but
Victoria? And if I was right, even more questions were
opening up. Some of these could be answered only
by Ty himself. Did he know who I was?
  I picked up a phone book of the Lake
Lure area and looked for Finella and
Gordon's number. In a moment, I was dialing
their home. Finella answered, sounding cheerful and
warm, welcoming whoever called. I told her that
something had come up and I needed to talk with Ty
Frazer.
  She showed no surprise. "He's not easy
to reach. Mostly, we just wait until he turns
up. Gordon's out back feeding our two cats,
but I'll let him know you want to see Ty, in
case he runs into him."
  When I'd thanked her and hung up, I went
back outside and stood at the rail, once more
looking out at that great crouching mountain that always
drew my eyes.
  Movement on the walk to the boathouse caught
my attention. Gretchen Frazer was climbing
toward the inn. She saw me at the railing and
stopped below me.
  "Mind if I come up?" she asked.
  I didn't feel like talking to anyone else
tonight, but I suspected that her request was more like a
command, so I invited her up cheerfully enough. If
the grapevine had been busy, she would know about
Roger Brandt's visit.
  I waited for her at my open door and she
strode in, bristling with indignation. "That actor
isn't welcome on these premises," she told
me.
  I explained at once that I'd had nothing to do
with bringing about his visit. She slumped into the
room's one armchair while I sat in the
straight desk chair and waited for her to go on.
  "What did he want?" she demanded.
  "I suppose he intended to tell me off."
  "About what?"
  "Remember, I told you that Natalie
Brandt had asked me to continue with my husband's
documentary about Roger Brandt. He came here
to make sure I wouldn't touch Jim's
project."
  "And will you?"
  I shook my head. "No, probably not."
  Her indignation faded a little. "Of course
he'd be afraid that you wouldn't be as sensitive
to his story as Jim had been. He likes
to control people and events. He was slowing Jim down,
setting limits. I heard about this from Jim
himself."
  "Do you suppose that Jim uncovered something the
Brandts don't want to see exposed?"
  She hesitated, and I wondered whether
Gretchen knew more than she was willing to tell
me.
  "Who knows? They're strange people, the Brandts.
What does it matter now, if the whole thing's
being dropped?" She dismissed my question with a wave of
her hand.
  "It might matter if it had something to do with how
Jim died."
  She considered this somberly. "I suppose
that's a possibility. Ty thinks--" She
broke off, shrugging.
  "Gordon has told me what Ty thinks,"
I said.
  She shook her head wearily. "It never does
any good to count on what Ty thinks. He's been
confused for a long time about a number of things."
  "Natalie would really like me to pick up this
work. She feels her grandfather should be remembered."
  "Hah! Don't talk to Natalie. Talk
to Camilla--if they'll let you. Roger
wouldn't let Jim Castle interview his wife.
So of course Jim was all the more eager to ask her
questions he knew he couldn't ask Roger."
  "You talked to my husband quite a lot, it
seems."
  "We'd become friends to some extent, since I
can be a good listener. I know he wanted me
to talk about Victoria, and maybe I would have
eventually, if only to spite the whole Brandt
clan. Of course, Jim was a romantic. He
built up the Victoria Frazer-Roger
Brandt legend into something bigger than it really
was. I suspected that he'd sensationalize the
story--in a dignified way, of course. I
liked your husband very much, Mrs. Castle. He
was what my mother used to call a "gentleman,"
back when the word had meaning."
  "Thank you," I said, and then abruptly
changed the subject. "Did you see your
sister's baby before it was sent away?"
  Gretchen stared at me for a moment and I saw
her sadness. "Of course I saw her. I
wanted to keep her, but Victoria didn't
want her to grow up around here. Even though I
promised to move away if I could keep her,
she chose to send her to friends in California."
  "Couldn't Victoria have kept the baby?"
  "How could she in that day? The scandal would have
made it impossible, much as she loved her baby.
Besides, Victoria must have had other plans for
herself by that time."
  "You mean suicide?"
  "What else?"
  But Gretchen didn't look at me now, and
I sensed that there might be more that she wouldn't tell
me. After a moment, she continued.
  "I tried to keep in touch with Margaret after
Victoria died. But she wrote only
occasionally. When she grew up, she came to see
me just once. The visit didn't go well,
since we were strangers. I don't know now whether
she's dead or alive."
  Her sadness and loss ran deep, and my
feelings toward Gretchen softened. I knew about
my mother's one disturbing visit to Lake Lure.
  "What was she like--Margaret?" I spoke
softly. Now I was getting close to old
mysteries my mother would never talk about.
  "She was afraid of this place. She hated the
lake and that mountain out there. She didn't try
to meet her father, and he never knew she was here. That
was just as well. No matter what he pretends,
I can't believe that he ever forgot Victoria
or forgave himself for what he'd done to her. He
might even have tried to claim his daughter."
  "That wouldn't have pleased Camilla."
  "Of course not. But Roger usually does as
he pleases."
  I asked the same question I'd heard before. "Why
would he live here, after all those terrible things had
happened?"
  Gretchen looked out at the dark lake. "He
is the Keeper of the Legend."
  "What does that mean?"
  "Anything you like. Perhaps the real reason why he
stayed was to punish Camilla."
  "Why? Wasn't she the injured one?"
  "He loved my sister. He couldn't imagine
losing her. That's why he insisted on
staying at Lake Lure after Blue Ridge
Cowboy was finished. The studio was trying
to avoid scandal, so they came up with another
movie for him set in these mountains. He wouldn't
leave Victoria, you see, and she was in
seclusion about ten miles from here, waiting for the
baby to be born. Camilla would never have
permitted a divorce. Oh my, no! And laws
were pretty strict in those days. I could never
understand Roger's appeal, but I think Camilla
loved him. And she would never have given him up. So
when he decided to stay here, and bought the house
he'd rented, he forced her to choose--either live
here with him or go back to California alone."
  None of this quite satisfied me. "Have there been
other women?"
  "Who knows? He doesn't stay here every month
of the year. He was a young man--he had to do something
with his life. Now and then, he leaves his family
and goes off on his own."
  "He doesn't sound like a very lovable person."
  "Lovable!" The word rang with derision.
  "If I could have kept Margaret--such a
sweet little baby!--everything would have been
different."
  Again sadness touched her voice, and I could
guess how empty the years must have been for her--
with the sister she'd loved gone, her brother lost to the
strange life he'd chosen, and the baby out of her
reach.
  She pulled herself back to the present and stood
up abruptly. "It's better not to poke into all
that unhappiness, Lauren."
  She went to the door without further ado. "Good
night, Mrs. Castle." She'd turned formal
again. "I just wanted to tell you to stay away from
all the Brandts. Don't let Roger beguile
you with that actor's role he plays. And be
especially careful with Ty. These days, he
lives in his own fantasy world."
  I assured her that I would be careful--whatever
that meant--and closed the door.
  When I went to bed, I slept soundly, with no
vision from the lake to disturb my peaceful dreaming.
Breakfast arrived early, as I'd requested, and
when I'd eaten, I phoned Natalie to set
up the date for the meeting with Roger. Apparently,
she had already been told that I was to come over.
Though she sounded puzzled, she asked no questions.
She would pick me up in the early afternoon
--around two o'clock.
  So now I had a free morning on my hands.
My primary mission at the moment was to locate
Ty Frazer, since I wanted to know more about the
bracelet he had sent me.
  Around nine, I got into my car and drove down
to the little cluster of buildings near the landing that was
Lake Lure's business center. There I found
Justyn Brandt walking along the dock where the
Showboat was moored. I hadn't seen him since
Natalie had taken me off his boat yesterday.
Though his look didn't seem to approve of me,
I had something to ask him, so I ventured over.
  "When I was in Finella's shop yesterday, I
saw the painting your daughter made of a spaceship
that seemed to be crashing on top of Rumbling
Bald. Finella said that you and your father were actually
on the mountain when this happened."
  He lighted up with an animation I had seen in
him only when he was talking to his passengers on
the lake tour. The story was one he had
probably told many times before and he seemed
willing to repeat it again.
  "I was only a teenager when it happened, but that
was the most exciting experience of my life. Dad
and I were climbing Rumbling Bald that afternoon, when
a fierce storm broke. A strong wind came
up and the sky turned dark as midnight. But before
we could take shelter in a cave, lightning
flashes showed us some strange sort of aircraft
just above the summit. We were free of trees there
and we could see it clearly. It was like nothing I'd
ever seen before. It looked as though it was about
to crash, but we couldn't hear anything because of wind and
thunder. With the next flash, the sky was empty, and
we were pretty sure it had gone down."
  He stopped, lost for a moment in his own vivid
memories, and then continued.
  "We tried to fight our way to the top, but it
took us another half hour just to go five hundred
yards. It was rough going because of all the debris from
the storm and the mud. I'd never thought much about
UFO'S, but I'll never question their existence again.
I know that's what we saw; it couldn't have been
anything else. But we couldn't get to the top that
night to verify what we'd seen.
  "Afterward, of course, nobody believed us. That
was back in the fifties and our own government was
telling us there wasn't any such thing as a UFO.
By the time we got back--in the middle
of the next day--army intelligence had soldiers
up there restricting access to the area. They
claimed they were on maneuvers and that's why the area
was off-limits, but Dad and I suspected a
cover-up was going on. Two days later, they were
gone and so was every trace of whatever we saw. There
was still a scorch mark on the ground where something had
slid along, but that was it. Even today, that same
hush-hush policy is in effect--though the
public is waking up to what's going on."
  We had been walking along the boards of the
landing, but now Justyn turned back toward the
boat, where passengers had begun to gather.
  I stopped beside him. "Did you talk to Jim
about this?"
  He hesitated, as though wondering how much he
should tell me.
  "My father doesn't like me to discuss what we
saw--which wasn't much, really. You have to remember
that the whole thing was pretty scary at the time, with the
sky filled with black rain and rolling thunder. I
was seventeen, but, believe me, I was pretty
frightened. Dad said people would make fun of us, and we
needn't look like fools."
  Justyn stared off toward Rumbling Bald.
"We searched the woods all around, but we never
found any other trace, and we never knew for
sure what had happened. It was as though the whole
thing had been a dream."
  We had been walking slowly toward the boat as
we talked, and now there was more I wanted to ask
him. I searched my handbag for Jim's letter and
drew out the scrap of green material. Justyn
took it from me, seemingly puzzled.
  "What is this?"
  "Jim left it for me in a letter he gave
to Natalie. I think it was cut from something larger.
He wrote that I could trust Gretchen and Ty,
but no one else. He had come to believe that
Victoria was murdered."
  Justyn spoke sharply. "I doubt that. And
I'm not sure your husband's views could be
trusted."
  "You didn't like Jim, did you?"
  "I had no reason to," he said coldly, and
I remembered that he was Natalie's father, and
Natalie had been all too interested in Jim.
  He was still examining the scrap I'd given him.
"Will you let me have this piece of material?"
  I didn't mean to give it up, and
I took it back. "First I want to find out
what it means."
  "I wish you luck," he told me dryly, his
manner dismissive. I watched as he herded his
passengers aboard the Showboat and started the
motor for the noisy trip around the lake.
  Finella's shop was just across the highway, and I
walked over to see whether she had heard from Ty.

                SEVEN

  When I stepped into Finella's shop, she was
waiting on a customer who was examining woven
wall hangings. Today a mint green jumpsuit
seemed to complement her cheerful manner. She
brushed a strand of red hair from her cheek and
smiled at me.
  I waited until she was free and then told
her about Natalie's request that I continue with
Jim's work.
  "And will you?" she asked.
  "That's what Roger Brandt was upset about, but
I've said I wouldn't. The only reason I would
go ahead is because it's a project that would give
me access to more people I'd like to talk to. About
Victoria Frazer, especially."
  Another customer came in and I wandered off
idly among display tables. I still wanted to ask
when she expected to see Ty. As I rounded the
display of Gordon's drums, I saw a
woman sitting on a couch at the back of the
store. It took a second glance to recognize
Camilla Brandt. This morning, she looked
trim in white twill trousers topped by a navy
shirt. Her black hair was covered by a
wide-brimmed straw hat with a navy band. Again
she seemed completely assured and just as
intimidating as I remembered.
  I wasn't anxious to talk with her and I would
have disappeared into the kudzu room, but she looked
up and saw me. Instead of the polite mask she'd
worn yesterday, her face lighted, her smile
surprisingly friendly.
  "Mrs. Castle! I've been wanting to see
you again ever since my granddaughter told me that she
had asked you to continue your husband's work. Can we
talk about it? I do hope you will consider doing this."
  Her words astonished me, after everything
Natalie had told me.
  When she gestured to a place on the
couch, I went to sit beside her, feeling hesitant
and a bit wary.
  "I'm glad to have this opportunity to talk with you
away from the house, Mrs. Castle. Can you tell
me about your plan for this film?"
  I had no idea whether she knew that her
husband had come to the lodge to see me last evening
or that I was to visit their house this afternoon, and her very
friendliness made me uneasy and uncertain. She
seemed to be a complex woman, whose motives
might be difficult to read.
  "Nothing is decided yet," I told her
evasively. "I'm not at all sure I have the
ability or even the wish to pick up Jim's
work. Your granddaughter's suggestion came as a
surprise." I said nothing about her husband's
opposition to any such plan.
  "What you have," she assured me calmly, "is
an intimate understanding of the subject because your
husband cared so deeply about this project. You would
bring a certain sympathy to it, and you're not an
outsider."
  Her interest mystified me. "Did you like what
Jim was doing?" I asked.
  "I was against it at first, since I thought it
might create problems. Along with all his
success and national popularity, my husband
endured a certain amount of--shall we say--
adversity."
  To put it mildly, I thought. "I'm not sure
my approach--if I tried to do this--would be the
same as Jim's. From what Natalie has
told me, his focus was on Roger Brandt. But
I might want to take a different approach."
  Finella was free again and had come near us,
listening with interest.
  "What do you mean?" Camilla asked.
  I answered quietly, watching for her
reaction. "I would want to include Victoria
Frazer. After all, the actress made an
important picture with Roger Brandt. I would
talk with Gretchen Frazer, Victoria's
sister, if she was willing to help me. And perhaps
to her brother, Ty. Though of course this may be
futile even to think about."
  Camilla Brandt crossed her knees and
swung a long, aristocratic foot in its white
pump. The movement seemed to give her time
to consider. Beneath the brim of her shadowing hat, I
could see again the puckering of the scar on her
cheek.
  "It might be interesting if you could accomplish
this," she mused. "Something of Victoria
Frazer's true nature might even emerge with
such an effort."
  I nodded, but I suspected that Camilla
Brandt's prejudiced viewpoint would not be mine.
  "Since I'm staying at the lodge, I've
already spoken to Gretchen Frazer a couple of
times," I said.
  "Does she know what you intend to do?"
  "Not intend," I insisted. "I haven't
made up my mind yet."
  "Of course Gretchen would have an idealized
memory of her sister, and that would hardly help you
to present the truth. The old man is completely
unbalanced and would be useless for your purposes.
Interviewing him would be like trying to interview a
squirrel."
  I knew what she was doing. Her real
purpose, no matter how friendly she seemed, was
probably to put barriers in my path and
discourage me from finding out more--which made me all the
more interested.
  Although Finella had overheard Camilla's
remarks, she didn't appear to sense any
undercurrents. As though a thought had just occurred
to her, Finella clapped her hands and said, "I
know just the person who could tell you about
Victoria, Lauren. Her name is Betsey
Harlan. She was Victoria's dresser and a good
friend. Talking to her might help you make up your
mind."
  "Where can I find her?"
  The look Finella turned on Camilla was
speculative. "Perhaps you could drive Lauren out
to see her?"
  The request surprised me. Finella must
realize very well what she was asking, and of whom.
I full expected Camilla to back away from
such a suggestion, and she was already shaking her head.
  "I don't think that's a good idea.
Betsey's very old now, and an invalid. She
wouldn't want to be disturbed."
  Finella further surprised me, and I
wondered whether she was baiting Camilla just a
little. "She's not much older than you are,
Camilla. But if you don't want to do this,
I'll ask Gordon."
  The other woman remained serene in her
manner. Perhaps it occurred to her that it would be
better to be present during any conversation I had
with Betsey Harlan.
  "I'll take you," she decided. "If you're
free, we might as well do it now. I'll be
busy this afternoon."
  I accepted readily and we went out
to Camilla's Lincoln. The Brandt family's
taste apparently ran to expensive cars. We
drove away from the mountains and into wide, rolling
valley land.
  "This is apple country," Camilla told
me. "Wonderful fruits and vegetables grow in
the area because of the thermal belt."
  "Thermal belt?"
  "It's a narrow strip that runs through this part of
North Carolina; it exists because of the
topography. Our temperature never gets as
cold or as hot as the surrounding mountains and
countryside. So the growing season is long. Of
course this makes Lake Lure ideal for a
resort and this valley ideal for farming. We're
going to an apple farm now."
  Though she spoke easily of the countryside and
her manner remained cool and assured, I still had
the feeling that taking me to see Betsey Harlan
was the last thing Camilla wanted to do.
  "Can you tell me something about the woman you're
taking me to see?" I asked.
  "She lives with her grandson's family. Of
course, she may refuse to talk with us, you
realize."
  "Did you dislike her in the old days, Mrs.
Brandt?"
  "I've had little reason to like anyone connected with
Victoria Frazer."
  I felt chided and put in my place. "Of
course," I said. "I'm sorry."
  "Don't be. While Betsey and I had our
problems, a lot of time has passed, and neither of
us is the same woman she was when Victoria was
alive. I must warn you, however, that Betsey can
be sharp and spiteful. She doesn't mince words,
and you may not hear flattering things about any of us.
Though she's confined to a wheelchair, she's still
lively and independent. Unpredictable."
  "You've seen her recently?"
  "Natalie's seen her--she painted a
picture of her not long ago--and she's reported
to me."
  "How did Betsey happen to become
Victoria Frazer's dresser?"
  "Victoria was from this area originally, so she and
Betsey were childhood friends. When Blue
Ridge Cowboy was being made, Victoria
brought her to help with her makeup, her hair, her
costumes, and I understand she was very good with a needle.
I think she made some of the things Victoria
wore in that picture. Everything about making a
movie was simpler in those days. Now a battery
of professionals works on the stars. I imagine
that Victoria picked Betsey not only for her
natural skills but because she was young and
impressionable and devoted. She would do exactly
as Victoria wished. She was certainly a friend and
confidante."
  All this sounded promising. There might be a
great deal that Betsey Harlan could tell me--
if Camilla's presence didn't silence her.
  "Were you ever on the set while the film was being
made?"
  The tilt of Camilla's hat brim was away
from me and I could see her lovely profile, which
lost none of its clean line until it reached her
throat. In the bright light that came through the
windshield, the scar on her cheek looked white.
The pause before she answered me might have been because
she was remembering something.
  "I wasn't often on the set. Roger
didn't like to have me there when he was filming. Of
course, since many of his scenes involved outdoor
action, I couldn't possibly watch."
  "But you met Betsey on the set?"
  She didn't answer immediately. We had turned
into a side road and I saw signs for apples
along the way. The mountains had receded and the land
rolled with small hills. When she finally
spoke, her voice seemed casual enough, almost
as though she were telling me of everyday matters.
  "I knew her, of course. And she also came
to see me after Victoria drowned herself."
  This was a surprise, but I had no time to question
her because we'd turned through a gate set in a
rail fence. Camilla pulled into an open
space where several cars were parked.
  "We're here," Camilla said. "Perhaps you can
ask Betsey to tell you the rest. She came
to see me for a curious reason."
  Across the open yard, a large farmhouse painted
sunflower yellow stretched its
hospitable width in a long porch with low steps.
Several families were purchasing apples and
carrying loaded baskets out to their cars. A boy
in his early teens came toward us when Camilla
beckoned.
  "We've come to see Betsey Harlan," she
told him. "I am Camilla Brandt."
  He regarded us doubtfully. "She don't
hardly see people these days, but I'll go ask."
  In a few moments, he was back, looking
surprised. "My great-grammaw says you kin
come in. I'll take you to her room, if you
want."
  We followed our guide up the steps to the low
porch that ran the width of the house, then through a big
sitting room filled with furniture not yet old
enough to be antiques. He motioned us toward an
open door at the rear.
  We stepped into a room that was immediately cheerful with
color. A bright homemade quilt covered the
bed and several served as wall hangings, as well.
A crocheted throw that picked up the colors of the
quilts covered the knees of the woman who sat
watching us from her wheelchair. Though Camilla
Brandt must have been only a few years younger,
Betsey Harlan seemed decades more ancient
--a small, wizened figure wrapped in a
fringed gray shawl that was the only drab spot in
the room. Brown eyes that looked out of a face
mapped in wrinkles were bright with intelligence and
curiosity.
  Camilla quickly went to the wheelchair and took
Betsey's small, bony fingers into her own
well-cared-for hands. Hands more than faces give
age away, and in spite of care, Camilla's
were touched with veins and brown spots. She bent
to kiss Betsey's cheek, surprising me. I
hadn't thought of her as especially gentle or
kind, and I wondered whether the gesture was
genuine.
  When Camilla introduced me, Betsey
turned her sharp, bright look on me, searching for
something. "I remember your husband, Mrs.
Castle. He came to see me two years ago.
But I wouldn't talk to him." Her look snapped
back to Camilla. "I never told him anything
about Roger."
  "That was probably wise," Camilla said
calmly. "But Mrs. Castle is especially
interested in Victoria Frazer. She
may pick up her husband's work and I thought you
might like to tell her something about the past. No one
else knew Victoria as you did."
  The shrunken shoulders beneath the shawl seemed
to straighten and her small, pointed chin came up.
"Your husband only wanted to know what I thought
about Roger, Mrs. Castle. I never liked
Roger." She threw a quick glance at
Camilla. "Miss Victoria was too good for
him!"
  She motioned for us to sit and we drew two
chairs closer to the wheelchair.
  "Tell Mrs. Castle whatever you care to,"
Camilla said. "I don't mind. You know that,
don't you?"
  Though she spoke to Camilla, Betsey's
eyes remained fixed on me with a sharp intensity.
"Yes, Miss Camilla. I understood that when
I went to see you after Miss Victoria died."
  Her light, whispery voice filled with loving
praise as she told me of Victoria's
beauty, of her kindness, her goodness. Later
Betsey had worked on other films made in the
South, starring other actresses, but she'd liked
none of them as well.
  "Miss Victoria trusted me. She knew
I wanted what was best for her when I did her
face and hair and helped with her wardrobe. I was
handy with a needle, and that was useful to her. I made
her dress and that beautiful turban she wore in
her last picture. But when it came to that wicked
man, she wouldn't listen to me at all." As she
spoke, she seemed to forget Camilla's
presence. "She thought he would leave his wife and
marry her. I tried to tell her he couldn't be
trusted, but she went her own way--and look what
happened to her."
  I didn't dare to look at Camilla and I
spoke softly. "What did happen to her,
Betsey?"
  "He killed her, of course. He done the
deed so's she'd never be found."
  I had to look at Camilla now, but her
expression remained calm, as though she'd heard
all this before and discounted it.
  Betsey ran on, wandering a bit. "I
remember Miss Victoria's darling baby.
Miss Gretchen would have kept that li'l ol'
baby and raised her, but maybe it was better
to send her away and do it quickly. Out of that
man's reach."
  I asked a direct question. "Betsey, did you
have any evidence at the time that Victoria's death
wasn't suicide?"
  "I knew Miss Victoria better than
all of 'em." Her voice strengthened with new
vehemence. "When she was strong again, she meant
to follow her baby out to California, where she had
friends because of her movie work."
  Camilla spoke quietly, calling her
back. "I think Mrs. Castle would like to know why
you came to see me after Victoria was gone."
  Betsey's eyes brightened, as though this was something
she might relish. She didn't answer at
once, however, because she was staring fixedly at
Camilla. Camilla casually covered the scar
on her cheek with one hand, as though all too aware
of what Betsey saw. For the first time, she seemed
ruffled. "Betsey, tell Mrs. Castle why
you came to see me."
  The old woman lowered her eyes to the crocheted
throw over her knees. "I thought you ought to know about
your husband. That's why I came."
  "It's all right to tell Mrs. Castle what
you believe."
  Betsey looked up at me with tears in her
faded brown eyes. "I think he wanted to be
rid of Miss Victoria before she could tell
too much and ruin his career. That's what I wanted
Miss Camilla to know."
  "Of course I didn't agree with you. My
husband would never have hurt anyone."
  Betsey turned away, wheeling her chair
over to her dresser to take out a tissue before
answering. "She should have stayed here where she was born
and bred. But if she had gone out to California,
maybe I'd have gone with her for good, even if it
meant leaving Ty."
  "Ty?" I asked, startled, as she wheeled
back toward us.
  "Tyronne--Miss Victoria's brother.
In those days, he fancied me. I reckon I
fancied him, too, for a while."
  Camilla looked amused at my expression.
"You should have seen us all when we were young, Mrs.
Castle. Betsey was the prettiest girl to come
out of North Carolina. And Ty was a handsome
boy. He loved the mountains even then--but he
might have loved Betsey more. Who knows what
might have been if his sister Victoria
hadn't disappeared--died. That was what destroyed
him and turned him into the caricature you see now."
  "Ty came to see me once after we were old."
Betsey's voice dropped to a whisper. "He
brought me honeysuckle. Imagine! When that
stuff grows like a weed everywhere. We didn't
talk much. He took a look at me, and I
took a look at him, and we knew those two young
kids were long gone and that we wouldn't even like each
other anymore. I felt a little sad about that, but
I've had another romance or two since Ty,
and I've been married." She stopped and looked
at Camilla. "You didn't do so well with your
marriage, did you? My man may have died, but
at least he never wandered in the years we were together."
  A faint irritation touched Camilla's
voice. "Suppose we talk about Victoria.
What else can you tell Mrs. Castle that might
be useful if she decides to go on with her
husband's work?"
  Betsey paid no attention to this. "Roger
Brandt came to see me once after Miss
Victoria died. Bet he never told you that,
Miss Camilla."
  Camilla looked surprised. "What did
he want, Betsey?"
  "He wanted me to stop talking about him. He
told me he would send a lawyer to see me if
I went on telling the things I knew."
  "What are the things you know?" I urged.
  Betsey hesitated, her bright, faded eyes
sweeping my face. In the pause, I had a
sense of Camilla's stillness--as though she had
braced herself against whatever might come.
  Betsey, however, was following her own side
road. "I don't want no truck with
lawyers. I don't want him sending some city
fellas to see me, making threats."
  "That was a long time ago," I assured her.
"I don't think anything you might tell me now
would get you into trouble."
  But Betsey had mixed up her many decades
and was wandering. I knew by Camilla's expression
that she wanted to get away. Since talking with
Betsey now would be hopeless, I thanked her and
asked if I might come again sometime. She looked
past us, through us, without answering. Nevertheless, as we
went toward the door, she called after us, her
voice strong again.
  "Of course there was that fight Miss
Victoria had with Ty. But you know about that,
don't you?"
  Camilla turned back quickly, surprised.
"No, Betsey, we don't know. Will you tell
us?"
  Now she stayed with her subject. "Ty loved
his sister a lot. And he went kinda crazy when
he knew she was going to have that man's baby. He
threatened to kill Roger Brandt--he was talking
real wild. I was there, so I saw what happened
when Miss Victoria slapped him. Ty went
off crazy mad. Miss Gretchen was there, too.
She was the youngest, but she always sort of looked after
Ty, and she was the only one who could calm him
down when he went outta control."
  "Did Ty ever try to carry out his threat?" I
asked.
  "Not so far." Betsey drifted off again and
Camilla touched my arm.
  "We'd better go. Thank you for seeing us,
Betsey. Is there anything I can do for you?"
  Unexpectedly, Betsey nodded. "Yes,
Miss Camilla--you can go on out and wait in the
car for Mrs. Castle. I got to talk to her for a
minute."
  Clearly, this didn't suit Camilla and I
knew that the last thing she wanted was to leave me
alone with Betsey.
  "I'll only be a moment," I told her, and
she could do nothing but give in and return to her car.
  "What's your name?" Betsey asked me when
Camilla had gone.
  At first, I thought she was wandering again. "I'm
Jim Castle's wife," I reminded her.
  "I mean your real name. What's your first name--
what do they call you?"
  "I'm Lauren Castle."
  She shook her head. "Get me that Bible over
there."
  Her request sounded urgent, so I went to a
nearby table and picked up the black
leather-covered book she'd indicated. It
wasn't a big family Bible, but of ordinary
book size, with shiny gold on the edges of the thin
India paper. She took it from me with hands that
shook a little.
  "Sometimes I have the sight, though not always when I
want it. I knew right away when you walked in
who you are. But I didn't want to say anything
while she was here. She doesn't know,
does she? Victoria was your grandmother. You're that
little baby's baby. I always knew you would come and
that you'd be the right one, even if your mama
wasn't."
  For a moment, I couldn't speak. Then I
dropped to my knees beside her chair and looked
into eyes that seemed suddenly clear. An
unexpected sense of relief poured through me.
  "No one else knows," I told her,
deciding not to mention Gordon. "No one else
must know--not yet. I'm not ready."
  She patted my hand. "We won't tell
anyone. There are bad feelings out there, though I
don't know from where. Anyway, I'm real proud
that you come to see me. I got something for you I been
saving all these years." She flipped the Bible
open to the place she wanted and I saw a spray
of dried flowers pressed between the pages. There was
also a piece of something hard wrapped in tissue.
It had formed a depression that made the place
easy to find.
  "Ty gave me those flowers when he was young and
knew better than to bring honeysuckle.
Violets and forget-me-nots. Hah! Never
mind the flowers--this is what I been waiting
to give my pretty lady's granddaughter."
  She picked up the bit of yellowed tissue and
opened it, holding it out to me. It contained a tiny
stone--something that looked like a bit of gravel.
  "Take it," she ordered.
  Mystified, I did as I was told. The
grayish bit of stone felt rough in my fingers and
I had no idea what it was.
  "Hold it up to the light," Betsey said.
  Now I saw that a tiny cap of dull green
emerged from the socket of gray rock. When I
held it toward a window, the cap gleamed
translucent with green light.
  I wondered out loud. "It's an emerald?"
  "That's what it is. Uncut. Not worth
anything because it's too small. Cutting would make
it just about disappear. Miss Victoria gave it
to me for fun. There's an emerald mine hereabouts,
and she and that man dug some of those little stones right out
of the earth for a scene in the movie. You're the one
who should have it now."
  "I'll treasure this," I told her, and bent
to kiss her crumpled cheek. "May I come and
see you again before I leave?"
  "You sure can. But first maybe you'd like
to see something else. Something I hid away and
kept when they packed off all your gramma's
things for charity. Look behind that door over there."
  I opened the door of a small closet and found
a clear plastic garment bag--a zippered bag of
more recent vintage than the dress it protected.
I took out the long gown and held it up on its
padded hanger. Yards of white cloth had been
used and it frothed out over my hands, released from the
restriction of years.
  "She wore that dress in the movie she made
here," Betsey said softly. "It was a funny
scene because she wore an evening dress and he
wore cowboy clothes. She tore it once--"
She broke off, as though she'd stopped herself from
saying something more. "It was a bad tear, but I
mended it so you can hardly tell."
  The gown was made of some filmy material that
had been popular at the time. It was sleeveless,
with a scooped neck and a softly full torso that
would cling around the bust and then float out in an
ageless style that fell to the floor.
  As I held up the gown that had once been
worn by Victoria Frazer, I felt again a
strange enchantment. It was as though my grandmother
touched me--as though, through the dress, she could reach
out to me.
  "You're about the same size," Betsey said.
"You could wear that dress."
  I smiled at her. "Hardly. But thank you for
letting me see it." I returned the gown
carefully to its protective bag and touched it
gently--almost a caress--as I hung it back in
the closet.
  "Nobody ever knew I kept that dress,"
she told me. "Nobody missed it. All those
strangers picking over her things. She was six
months pregnant with your mama when she last
wore that dress, but I made it so cleverly that
no one could tell."
  Suddenly, I knew what I must show her. I
dropped the tissue-wrapped emerald into my bag
and drew out the silver bracelet. Tiny bells
chimed as I held it out to her.
  "Do you recognize this?"
  She put her hands in her lap so they wouldn't
touch the bracelet. "He gave her that. I
hated everything he gave her because I knew how
false he was. How come you've got it now?"
  "Ty sent it to me by a small boy.
But I don't know why."
  Her face crumpled into even more lines and I
thought she was going to cry. "Put it away. Get
rid of it. He is a wicked man."
  I knew she didn't mean Ty.
  Suddenly, all the energy faded out of her and she
looked tired and very old. It was time to leave.
  "Thank you for seeing me, Betsey. And for
recognizing me."
  She roused herself for a few more words. "Don't
show her that bracelet. Or the emerald. After
all, she's .his wife."
  "Roger Brandt is my grandfather," I reminded
her. "And I can't help that."
  "So long as you don't do anything about it. It's
not your fault. My beautiful, magic lady was
young and foolish and too much in love. I can still
remember what that's like. I'm sorry about your
husband. He seemed like a nice man."
  She closed her eyes, looking even more
ancient, and appeared to doze off gently. I
went out to where Camilla waited for me in the car.
  "That took a while," she said as I got in
beside her. "What did she want?"
  I couldn't tell her all of it. "She wandered
a bit, but I think she wanted to tell me how
sorry she was about Jim."
  "Yes--she can wander, poor old thing."
  As Finella had pointed out, not all that many
years stretched between Betsey and Camilla
Brandt and I smiled to myself. This woman would never
think that old applied to her. And in a way, it
really didn't.
  We were driving away from the apple farm when she
spoke again. "I'd hoped that Betsey might
give you something you could use for the documentary. Did
she?"
  I had a feeling that she was simply probing.
"I'm not sure. Why do you want to see Jim's
work continued, when your husband doesn't?"
  Her attention was fixed on the road ahead and
her patrician profile told me nothing. It
took her a little while to answer me.
  "Roger deserves to be remembered, whether he
appreciates that fact or not."
  Somehow I doubted that this was her true motive.
She might simply be quoting Natalie.
  "What if something comes to light that you don't
expect? Something that might hurt him? Betsey
seems to think she might be able to damage
him."
  Camilla turned her head to look at me and
I saw a flash of excitement in her eyes--
quickly hidden. "Perhaps it's time for all that's been
concealed for too long to come out. The terrible, as
well as the good."
  The intensity in her voice shocked me more than
her words. Had I detected a vindictive
quality in Camilla Brandt, directed toward
her husband, that the passing years had never erased?
Perhaps she had even wanted Betsey to say those
things about Roger Brandt. Yet Camilla had
stayed with him all these years. Natalie had said
that they loved and hated each other.
  I could find nothing to say, and if Camilla
sensed that she had shocked me, she gave no
sign. We spoke very little until we reached
Lake Lure. Then I asked her to drop me
at Finella's. She left me there with a careless
wave of her hand and drove away. It might even
be that she wanted to use me in some way against her
husband--so she hadn't minded what Betsey
might say.
  When she heard the bell at the shop door,
Finella came out from the back room. "You're just
in time, Lauren. Gordon and I are about to have
lunch. I hope you'll join us."
  I thanked her and followed her into a small
sitting room pleasantly furnished with informal
odds and ends. A gateleg table had been set with
woven yellow place mats and china in soft
delft blue. A tiny vase of asters
celebrated the season.
  Gordon was setting out cold ham and potato
salad while Finella brought hot rolls and a
pot of coffee to the table. Without warning, the shock
of seeing him struck me all over again--even more
piercingly than when I'd met him in the Indian
village. When we sat down to eat, I said
hardly anything. Luckily, Finella filled in
the gap with a story about a customer she'd met that
morning in the shop.
  I said nothing because I wasn't really present.
Some treacherous, long-buried emotion had pulled
me back to San Francisco. I stood all
over again with Gordon on a hilltop and watched
the fog roll across the bay. That day, I had been
totally aware of everything about him--as I was now.
There had been such sweetness for me in those few
days, and a sharpening of my senses. I had
never felt as much alive since then.
  There'd been only a handful of days, yet they
had seemed timeless. Nothing existed for us except
each other. All that mattered were the moments we
shared. Underneath the tremulous sweetness, I was
aware as well of a new lacing of excitement and
anticipation as we moved toward a new closeness
that now seemed inevitable.
  I had not hesitated when the time came. Nothing
could ever take the memory of our loving away from
me. Now, when I looked at Gordon, I
knew how the crisp texture of his hair would
feel to my touch. I knew the tracing of his fingers
down the line of my chin and throat. I knew so
much more, and something in me shattered into little pieces of
pain.
  Gordon was watching me and I dared not look
at him. I must remember that he had become
someone I no longer knew as I'd known that man
in California. Finella saved me when she
asked about Camilla's and my visit to Betsey
Harlan. I steadied myself and told her how much
I'd liked Betsey and about my surprise that
Ty had once courted her. Gordon listened but
remained silent, remote. He had distanced himself
from me, and my heart, already cracked, felt about
to break.
  Now and then customers came into the shop and
Finella went out to wait on them, leaving us
alone.
  Somehow I had to reach him, and I spoke
quietly. "We both loved Jim. Can we
accept that and find some common ground?"
  He listened coolly. "I can understand why you
wouldn't let Jim talk about his wife's real
identity. But why are you playing out this deception
here in Lake Lure now? Don't you think you could
at least tell Natalie?"
  I tried to explain the way I felt. "I
know I can learn more if no one is aware that
Victoria Frazer was my grandmother. I'm sure
Camilla would never have taken me to see Betsey
if she'd known who my grandparents were. I
don't think she'd want to have anything to do with me
at all. So I'm sorry if you think this is a
cheap deception, but I feel it's necessary."
  He didn't seem impressed, though he
made no comment.
  I went on. "This afternoon, Roger Brandt is
going to show me the film he and
Victoria made together. I expressed an
interest and he made the offer. But I wonder if
he would have done so if he knew that I was his--
his illegitimate granddaughter."
  "How did that happen?"
  I was explaining about Roger Brandt's visit
to the lodge when Finella returned, and she
listened with delight when she heard what I
planned.
  "That's exciting. He never shows that film
to anyone."
  "Why don't you tell my mother about your connection
with the Brandts?" Gordon asked.
  I felt betrayed. I didn't mind having
Finella know, but not in a way that forced my hand.
Now I had no choice.
  "Victoria Frazer was my grandmother and Roger
Brandt is my grandfather. When Victoria sent
my mother to California friends, she told them that the
baby's father was Roger Brandt. There was no
reason to doubt this, considering the way the fan
magazines had carried on in print."
  Finella was delighted. "How dramatic!
Gordon--you knew about this?"
  "I've known for a long time. Lauren and I first
met at the university in Berkeley years ago.
I've gone along with Lauren's playacting, but
it's begun to wear on me. I don't know that her
reasoning for this is justified."
  Finella ignored the impatience in his voice,
but I could not, and it cut through me.
  "Will you tell Roger this afternoon, Lauren?" she
asked.
  "I don't think so. I'm not enthusiastic about
telling either Roger or Camilla. What would be
the point? I'd like to see that film and know what my
grandmother was like. Then I'll just go home."
  "In spite of what happened to Jim?"
Gordon asked. "Not that there's much you could do about
that."
  His words stung, and he'd meant them to. What
had happened to Jim was the one thing that held me
here. Someone knew what had happened to him.
Someone knew what had happened to Victoria, and
perhaps these two deeds were connected--because of whatever
Jim had discovered. Something I might still discover.
But there was nothing more I could say to Gordon
Heath. He had set himself against me--for reasons
that probably went deeply into the past. And how
could I blame him? I was the one who had
lacked the courage to take a different road from the
one I'd so comfortably planned.
  If I stayed now, Gordon would go on
hurting me--perhaps punishing me for the past. And,
worst of all, enjoying it. I wanted none of that.
  I glanced at my watch. "Thank you for
lunch, Finella. I'd better get back to the
lodge, since Natalie will be picking me up."
  She came to the door with me and Gordon
followed me outside. When we reached my car,
he was still with me, a bit doggedly. I got behind the
wheel and when he leaned in the open window, his words
surprised me.
  "Maybe I owe you an apology."
  "You don't owe me anything," I said.
  He changed the subject abruptly. "Would you
be willing to get up before dawn tomorrow morning,
Lauren?"
  I stared at him blankly and he continued.
  "There's something I'd like to show you, but we'd need
to make it by sunrise."
  I couldn't follow this change in him. It was
too sudden. Unless--during our recent lunch--
he, too, had remembered San Francisco?
A pulse of excitement beat in me--but I must
be careful, very careful.
  "Where are you taking me?" I asked.
  Small lines that I remembered crinkled at
the outer corners of his eyes. "Let's make it
a surprise. It will be more fun that way. Just be
ready by four-thirty. I'll wait for you in the
lobby of the lodge."
  He turned away, as though I might change
my mind, and went back to his mother's shop. I
drove up to the lodge feeling light-headed. I
was afraid of anticipating more than might be
offered, but that was what I was beginning to feel. Now,
however, I must get ready for the visit to my
grandfather. Much as I wanted to go, I knew an
ordeal lay ahead.
  Back in my room, I considered the few
clothes I'd brought along. My turquoise
blouse was fresh and my full blue skirt would
serve again, but this afternoon I would wear white coral
instead of lapis.
  While I waited for Natalie, I took out
the tiny emerald that Victoria Frazer had dug
from the earth so long ago. A million years
might be nothing in the life of this stone, but it was
only the time since Victoria had dug
it out of the earth that interested me.
  I held it on my palm, closing my fingers
around it, and willed it to "speak" to me. Something
light as a feather seemed to touch my cheek and a
sense of well-being I could think of only as loving
breathed through me. Her presence--as I'd felt
it when I held her gown in my hands?
  The jarring ring of the telephone broke the
spell. Natalie was waiting for me in the lobby
and I hurried down to meet her.
  This afternoon, she wore jeans again and a man's
shirt, so I felt dressed up and aware of the
way she looked at me when I got into her car.
  "Would you mind explaining what this is all about?"
she asked as we turned onto the road that wound
high above this end of the lake. "Why does my
grandfather want to see you?"
  There seemed no reason not to tell her, though
apparently Roger had not. "When I returned
to the lodge last night, your grandfather was waiting for
me. He wanted me to know how opposed he is
to my picking up Jim's work. But when I asked
about the film he'd made with Victoria Frazer
and showed an interest in seeing it, he offered
to screen it for me." That wasn't all, but it was enough
to tell her for now.
  Natalie braked the car and turned abruptly
into a parking space beside a house set high above the
lake. It was closed and shuttered--probably
occupied by summer people who had left when the season
ended. Now it offered a private spot to sit and
talk without interruption.
  She plunged in at once. "My grandfather has
never shown me that picture. So why you?"
  "I'm not sure. I told him about finding an
old magazine with pictures and an article about
Victoria Frazer. I said I wished I could
have seen her in Blue Ridge Cowboy, so
I would know what she really looked like at that time,
and he invited me to see his print of the movie.
That's all there is to it."
  So simple an explanation didn't satisfy
Natalie, but before she could push me further, I
asked a question of my own. "Yesterday, when you took
me off the boat, you were the one who wanted me to go
on with Jim's work. Then, last night at dinner,
you'd changed. I could sense your edginess toward
me, and it's there again now. Why?"
  Her sigh had a rueful sound. "I'm sorry.
It really has nothing to do with you. Jim
said I would like you, and I do. But my grandfather's
reaction turned me in a different direction. So
I backed away. After all, I wanted the
film finished for his sake--and Jim's."
  "But your grandmother seems to want this. I met
her at Finella's shop and she took me to see
Betsey Harlan--a fascinating experience."
  Natalie sat with her hands on the wheel and I
saw the way her fingers tightened. When she
spoke, her voice was tense. "If Gran
wants this enough to try to catch your interest, then perhaps
my grandfather will change his mind."
  I had wondered about any possible
vindictiveness on Camilla's part. It must have
been very difficult to live with the scandal of Roger
Brandt's betrayal. I could only imagine the
toll Victoria's life and death had taken on
Camilla's marriage.
  She backed the car away from the empty house and
drove down to the road that ran across the top of the
dam. "Theirs is a complicated relationship,
Lauren. Sometimes I've even wondered if he
thought he might be rid of her by moving here
permanently--that she'd go back to California.
But she stayed with him in spite of everything. Still,
I don't think she's ever let him forget what
he owes her because of Victoria."
  "What a terrible way to live."
  "I know. Either love or hate is bad enough.
But when you mix them, the results can be
explosive. Sometimes I think he's protecting
her--or maybe she's protecting him. I keep
waiting for the spark that will set off a fire storm."
  She watched me speculatively, as though she
wondered whether I might furnish such a spark.
Of course she couldn't know how large a
conflagration I might create once those two
knew that I was Victoria Frazer's
granddaughter. Suddenly, the matter of revealing
my identity became a little frightening--no longer a
simple choice for me to make.
  When I didn't respond, Natalie said,
"No matter what anyone says, I hope you
won't pick up my foolish suggestion about
Jim's work. If I had dreamed what
Grandpa's reaction would be, I would never have
written to you in the first place."
  "There's still the matter of how Jim died," I
reminded her.
  "I think about it all the time, but
maybe it was just an accident. I don't know what
I think anymore."
  We were nearly there; I braced myself for the coming
encounter with Roger Brandt. By this time, I was
feeling far more uneasy than I'd expected to.
Natalie's change of attitude raised all
sorts of questions in my mind and I didn't think
she had told me all her reasons for trying
to dissuade me from following through on her suggestion.
  I knew one thing: I must step carefully and
cautiously with every member of this family.

                EIGHT

  When we reached the house, Natalie took me
into her grandparents wing on the upper level.
  An entryway led into a large open area that
contained a sunken living room; a higher level
formed the dining room and kitchen.
  Across the living room, sliding glass doors
opened onto a stunning view down the lake
to hazy blue peaks at the far end. The colors
of this entire space were warm and strong, complementing
both the view through the glass and the green and gold of
two Japanese screens that had been used
to partition off the far end of the room.
  "He's waiting for you," Natalie said, and led
the way toward the screens.
  There was a space between them where she could step through
into Roger Brandt's own wide living room. He
sat in a well-worn green leather armchair, his
feet up on an ottoman and a book in his hands.
I had time for a quick glance around at a desk, a
wall of pictures--from his movies, no doubt--
and many shelves that held books and objects he
might have collected in his travels. Then my
entire focus was on the man.
  He stood up to greet me and I had the immediate
sense of an actor performing. He meant to charm
me--for whatever reason--and I stiffened to resist his
easy attraction. There was nothing I wanted to like
about Roger Brandt.
  His handclasp was cordial. "Thank you for coming,
Mrs. Castle," he said as though he was indebted
to me.
  I murmured something polite and
noncommittal, aware of Natalie's
skeptical look.
  "We might as well start right away.
Natalie has things to do, I'm sure." He
gave his granddaughter a glance of dismissal.
  Natalie stood her ground. "I'd like to see
this picture, too, Grandfather."
  His smile showed a brittle edge. "Not this
time, my dear. I want you to watch for your grandmother
and keep her away while I'm showing Mrs.
Castle this film."
  This, Natalie would accept, however
grudgingly. "I don't expect her home
soon, but I'll keep her away if she shows
up."
  He thanked her and she went off, giving me a
look I couldn't interpret. I was aware again of
his striking appearance--gracefully worn--perhaps more
seasoned and impressive because of his years. The
silk scarf at his throat might hide the
damage of age, but it also gave him a jaunty
air that I remembered from the screen. Vertical
lines creased his cheeks when he smiled and gave
his face more character than the young man had possessed.
  Roger Brandt touched a button and a movie
screen was revealed on the side of the room away
from the view. Two armchairs were set before it and he
motioned me into one of them. When he'd turned off
the lights and drawn the draperies across the
glass, he came to sit beside me. The
projector stood on a table before him and he
turned it on.
  The black-and-white picture began to run and
my attention was wholly absorbed. Roger Brandt
was immediately on-screen in full cowboy regalia.
He'd skipped the movie titles and gone
straight to the action, where he seemed to be riding
to the rescue of a beautiful society girl who
had been kidnapped by the villains. His handsome
palomino was climbing a wooded trail above a
river that tumbled across black rocks.
Undoubtedly, the Rocky Broad, since this was
no western landscape. When he dismounted before a
tumbledown mountain shack, a rough-looking character
came to the door. There was a heated verbal
exchange and then the cowboy thrust the bigger man
aside and strode into the shack. How well he
knew how much the camera loved him!
  But now Victoria Frazer was on the screen
and I had eyes for no one else. There were no
close-ups at first, but she looked utterly
beautiful in the careful disarray of torn shirt and
well-cut jodhpurs, dirty at the knees.
At once, Roger released her from her bonds.
There was no talk between them--it was straight action as
he carried her from the shack in strong young arms.
  Obviously, the character he played in the film was
not in awe of her patrician elegance, and her
half-amused response to this high-handed rescue
reminded me of later actresses who had played
such roles with less sophistication than
Victoria Frazer. She was like no one I had
ever seen on a movie screen. If she had
lived, she would have been one of the greats, and my own
emotional response surprised me.
  "This is a picture that should be revived," I
whispered to the man beside me.
  He stared at me, then looked away, nodding
toward the screen, so I watched again. The first real
close-up showed Victoria's enormous eyes,
which could express every nuance of emotion, even though
their green was lost in black and white. Only in
the eyes did we resemble each other. I couldn't
imagine anyone would ever take me to be related
to Victoria Frazer, and I sighed with a certain
regret. Again Roger glanced at me and then
back at the screen.
  The slightly foolish story ran on and I
didn't try to follow it. I simply watched
those two whenever they were on, watched the
electricity that sprang between them. This wasn't
acting and I could understand why Roger had no wish
to have his wife know that he owned a print of Blue
Ridge Cowboy.
  The scene changed and I missed the transition.
The cowboy and the lady were dining together in a lavish
private room that I guessed to be at the
Lake Lure Inn. A room apparently
engaged by the wealthy young woman--much to the comic
embarrassment of the cowboy, unused to such
surroundings. It was obvious to the audience that their
love affair was doomed from the first, since they were
totally unsuited to each other. After some awkward
conversation, the cowboy brought out a gift for the lady.
He handed her the crudely wrapped box across the
table.
  "It's something that belonged to my mother," the cowboy
said. I heard the ardor beneath his words and knew that it
was real.
  Victoria's voice was low, throaty,
filled with tears as she expressed delight,
unwrapping the tissue to reveal a satin box.
If cameras whirred around them and booms moved,
with the whole movie crew watching, to say nothing of the
director--one would never know. I'd often
wondered how movie actors could lose themselves so
completely in a scene, carrying an audience with
them into the story, in spite of the mechanics of
moviemaking that surrounded them.
  The camera moved in for a close-up as
Victoria held up a silver bracelet
decorated with tiny silver bells. She gasped
with delight, and the camera caught the shine of tears
on her cheeks.
  Roger Brandt whispered in my ear.
"I really gave that bracelet to her when we
played the scene. She was happy then--her tears
were real."
  I heard the catch in his voice, the sadness.
Though all this was long ago, the record of a living
moment between them was still there in the film--and he had not
forgotten.
  How strange to consider that we, the audience who
watched old movies, knew so much more than the
actors on the screen ever could. We knew what
hand fate had dealt them--who had lived and who had
died. We knew what the future held for them,
and that made such films all the more poignant.
  The bracelet shone with its own silver light
and the tiny bells, silent now in my purse,
chimed from the screen. Victoria held out her hand
and Roger clasped the bracelet about her wrist.
  I wanted to take out my treasure and show it
to him, but I didn't dare. I had no idea
what the consequence of such a move would be and I
wasn't ready. Not yet. One day soon, perhaps,
I would show it to him and tell him who I was. Not
because I felt affectionate or sentimental but because
I wanted--rather fiercely at that moment--to hurt
him, punish him for what he had done to my
grandmother. Now, however, I simply watched in
silence.
  The story on the screen continued to unfold
rapidly. The villains showed up again and there was the
usual fistfight. The cowboy and the meanest
assailant did a dive through breakaway glass
in a prepared window frame, sailing out into space
and then dropping to the ground, where they finished the
fight.
  Beside me, Roger Brandt laughed softly. "That
fellow didn't like me, and he punched pretty
hard, though I gave as good as I got. It was a
fine fight. You did your own stunts in those days
--that was really me flying through the window. Not like the
easy course actors take today."
  I nodded politely and then looked back to the
screen, where there was another scene that held my
rapt attention. The cowboy and the lady were
scrambling around in the dirt, digging for gems. I
missed how this tied in to the story, not that it
mattered. My grandmother held out her hand to show the
cowboy her assorted treasures. He picked out
one small stone and swept the rest from her hand.
Then he kissed her palm warmly.
  I knew this, too, was real. The
love scenes were all real--and, of course, even
more passionate offscreen, since a baby had
resulted. On impulse, I reached into my bag
for the scrap of tissue that held the tiny emerald
Betsey had given me. This I could show him. Like
Victoria on the screen, I held it out on
my palm for him to see. Even uncut, the green
end that emerged from its sheath of stone caught a gleam
from the screen.
  "Is this the emerald she gave you?" I asked.
  He took it from me and for the moment we both forgot
actors and screen as the projector wound on.
  "Where did you get that?" he demanded.
  "It really is the same emerald," I told
him. "Your wife took me to visit Betsey
Harlan this morning. Before we left, Betsey
sent your wife out to her car so we could talk
privately about Victoria. She gave me this
and she showed me a beautiful white gown she said
Victoria wore in the picture."
  Whatever Roger's reaction might have been, he
revealed nothing. He held the stone in his fingers and
watched the screen. "Look," he said, "you'll
see the dress."
  Time had passed while we were talking and a ball
was in progress far from the small mountain town where
the earlier scenes had taken place. Victoria
wore the white dress Betsey had shown me,
her beautifully shaped head bound in the
gracefully folded white turban Betsey had
probably made for her.
  Waltzing in the arms of an officer in uniform,
she looked so sad that it broke my heart. I
knew this sadness, too, was real, since she could
never have her cowboy for keeps either in the story or
in real life.
  But then--dramatically--the palomino mare, with
Roger Brandt in the saddle, stepped onto the
polished floor of the ballroom, with silver
chandeliers glowing overhead. Alarmed and
indignant, dancers scrambled out of his way. When
he reached Victoria and her partner, he dismounted
and took her from the officer's arms to whirl her down
the room in a waltz so beautiful that the other
dancers stood apart and watched. The dress flared
out as the camera followed them and then came in for a
close-up of Victoria's face as she watched
her partner with her heart in her eyes. One might
wonder where a cowboy had learned to waltz like that,
but this, of course, was Hollywood.
  The mare, well trained not to take alarm,
stood still, waiting. Suddenly, Roger Brandt
swept his partner down the room and then left her as
he vaulted into the saddle. The camera showed the
agony in Victoria's face as she looked up
at him. Then, in a sudden graceful move,
Roger leaned down to her. She took his hand and
sprang with skill and ease into the saddle in
front of him, hooking a knee over the western
pommel. His strong arms around her, they rode
away into a staged sunset. At the last minute,
Roger turned his head and glanced back at the
camera, speaking worlds in that familiar look.
Strangely, Victoria never looked back for the
camera to catch a final close-up of her.
  Startling me, Roger left his chair
abruptly to turn off the projector before the
credits ran. He made a great business of
opening the draperies and flooding the room with
trembling light from the lake. Perhaps he didn't
want me to see whatever emotion had touched him and
might show in his face.
  When he returned to the chair beside me, he had
himself in hand. "So there you are." He spoke with a
deliberate lightness, as though he discounted any
earlier feeling he might have shown. "I haven't
watched that in years. I ought to burn it, really--
it's not my best picture."
  "But you won't," I said softly. "Why did
you let her go? Why did you let the baby go?"
  Anger sprang to light--not in the actor but in
the man. "That is nobody's business. Now that
you've seen what she was like, Mrs. Castle, what
will you do with this remarkable knowledge?"
  His cold fury frightened me, but I managed
to answer quietly.
  "I'll feel it--savor it. I'll
remember. How graceful she was, flying up
into that saddle in front of you. What riding skill
that must have required."
  "Hah!" he said, irony evident in his
voice. "Such great skill!" Whatever momentary
mood the movie had roused in him was gone. He was
an old man--impatient, and perhaps a little put
off by young love.
  "Why are you so interested?" he demanded. "Your
husband didn't care in the least about
Victoria's side of the story."
  "He wouldn't have let you know if he did."
For a moment, I was almost ready to tell
him the truth. But once taken, the step would be
irrevocable, and I had no idea what the
result might be. Roger Brandt was unlikely
to open his arms to a granddaughter whose mother he had
long ago rejected.
  "How did she die? How did she really
die?" I asked.
  He turned away from the light, so that whatever
he felt about the question was hidden. His next words
astonished me.
  "Will you have dinner with me tonight, Lauren?" It was
the first time he had used my first name. "I would like
to take you to the Esmeralda Inn, where we all
stayed while that picture was being made."
  Perhaps I'd been wrong. Perhaps remembrance of
how the young man felt had remained. I tried
to keep too much eagerness from my voice. "I would
enjoy that."
  "Fine. Then you can tell me about your visit with
Betsey Harlan and why Camilla took you
to see her."
  So, as I suspected, he'd had no knowledge of
what his wife had done.
  "I'll pick you up at the lodge at
seven," he continued. "Though I don't advise
letting Gretchen Frazer know that you're meeting
me. I'm not a favorite of hers."
  "I've already discovered that. But I don't
consult with Miss Frazer about anything I do."
  This time, his smile once more belonged to the actor
--warm and approving. He still held the tiny
emerald and I didn't ask for it back.
  "I'll be waiting for you," I promised.
"Thank you for the privilege of seeing Blue
Ridge Cowboy."
  Whatever emotion had shaken him after the picture
ended was now under control. Suddenly, he looked very
tired, and I took my leave quickly.
  When I reached the door by which I'd entered,
Natalie was waiting for me. "Let's go out
another way. Gran has just driven in, and it's
better if she doesn't know that you were with my
grandfather. She has an uncanny ability
to figure things out, and it would be disastrous if she
got wind of this screening."
  She led the way to the lower part of the house, where
I had visited her yesterday, and then went out on
the walk that ran down to the boathouse.
  "I'll take you back to the lodge by boat,"
she said, hurrying ahead of me. "I just
hope Gran doesn't look out a window and see
us."
  All this secrecy and caution disturbed me.
"Does everyone in this family keep secrets from
everyone else?" I asked as we reached the stretch
of dock that ran beside the boathouse.
  Natalie didn't answer. A small
pontoon boat was tethered to the dock. I noted
its name wryly: The Jolly Roger.
Natalie held it steady while I stepped down
to sit in one of the four seats. But before she could cast
off, Justyn came running down from the main
house, looking upset. What a family at
odds this seemed to be.
  "I'd like to talk with you, Mrs. Castle," he
said as soon as he reached us. "You seem to have
caused my mother to act in an odd manner this
morning. I came back to the house with her just now
and I'm worried about her state of mind. We do
try to protect her and my father."
  This seemed surprising. Protect them from
what? I'd seldom seen a lady more in control
of herself than Camilla Brandt. I'd have thought
she was always one to guard her emotions.
  "Get in, Dad." Natalie sounded
impatient. "Let's get away from the house.
Grandfather has just shown Lauren his print of
Blue Ridge Cowboy. If Gran should
suspect he has that movie, much less that he's
shown it to Lauren, she'll really be upset."
Justyn took the seat opposite me. I
suspected that he was the one who was upset.
  As we chugged out of the little cove and reached the
body of the lake, I tried to give myself up
to savoring the beauty of this place. I mustn't
allow these crosscurrents in the Brandt family
to upset me. I had a lot to think about before my
dinner with Roger Brandt. More than anything, I
wanted to see Gordon and tell him all that had
happened and find out what he thought about these
developments. But that must wait until morning.
For now, I looked down the lake to where distant
high peaks stood in hazy blue contrast against the
sky. Bright sunlight gave the lake a golden
cast. All around, thick tree growth tapered
down the banks to the water's edge, reflecting its
deep green shade. At no point was the lake very
wide, conforming as it did to the shape of the original
valley that had been filled in. This made it
possible to grasp a clear, lovely
vista almost all at once. A luring lake
indeed.
  Along the route, I could look into little inlets
where boats were moored and where houses showed through the
trees. The houses sat at the water's edge and
also high on the steep hills beyond.
  When we were out of sight of the Brandt place,
Natalie turned off the motor and we drifted
on calm water.
  Justyn was ready to explode. "Why did
Dad show you that movie, Mrs. Castle?
Nobody ever mentions Victoria Frazer around
him--so why?"
  I tried to answer quietly. "Your mother
wants me to continue Jim's work that was left
unfinished, so I felt I needed to know more about the
Victoria Frazer side of the story. I
mentioned to your father that I wished I could see the
picture and he offered to show it to me. That's
all."
  Justyn looked more shocked than seemed
justified. "Why is everyone so put out about this?"
I asked. "It all happened so long ago--what
can it matter now, except as an interesting
story?"
  Justyn and Natalie exchanged a look I
couldn't read. He made an effort to control his
temper and speak more quietly.
  "I never approved of Jim's project in the
first place, Mrs. Castle. It's pointless for
you to try to pick up his work."
  I rather agreed, but I wouldn't tell him that.
"Your mother seems to think this is something that should be
done."
  "She's off on one of her enthusiastic
notions," Natalie told her father. "She even
took Lauren to see Betsy Harlan this
morning. A prejudiced viewpoint if ever there
was one. I wondered if Gran might want
to stir things up."
  "I'd better talk to her," Justyn said.
"Not that she's likely to listen. Mrs. Castle,
you can't possibly know all the ramifications
involved, but, believe me, it's better to let this
alone."
  "Ty Frazer thinks my husband was murdered.
Perhaps that brings everything into the present?" I
suggested.
  For a moment, Justyn looked disconcerted.
"Ty's a crazy old coot,
unbalanced and dangerous to himself and others. He should
have been committed long ago. Both my parents
put on a good show most of the time, but they're more
fragile than you might think. I want to see
them left alone."
  "Even if they don't want to be left
alone?" I said. "Your father invited me to dinner
at the Esmeralda Inn tonight and I've accepted."
  He looked so worried that I felt a little
sorry for him. "I don't think you should be concerned
about this. I'll probably go back to California
soon and nothing will come of this documentary. I never
did think I was the right person to carry this on."
  "And Jim's death?" Natalie asked
softly.
  Justyn threw her a guarded look but said
nothing.
  "Unless I get some sort of lead besides Ty
Frazer's suspicions, I don't see what
I can do about that," I continued. Neither of us dared
mention Jim's unsettling letter. Gordon had
cautioned us not to let anyone else know about its
contents.
  "What happened when you visited Betsey?"
Justyn asked.
  He still seemed too intense, but I gave him
part of the story. "She seems devoted to the
memory of Victoria Frazer. She showed me
a dress Victoria had worn in the film with
your father. When I watched the movie just now, it was
strange to see her wearing that very dress and the
turban Betsey probably made for her. How
sad that clothes outlast the people who wear them."
  "What did you think of the movie?" Natalie
asked.
  A larger boat than ours went past and wide
ripples spread, rocking us gently.
  "I was more interested in the actors than the
story," I said, and then ventured further, watching
these two--father and daughter. "It seemed to me that
Roger Brandt and Victoria Frazer were very much
in love in those scenes they played together. They
seemed too absorbed in each other to be acting."
  Justyn snorted rudely, but before he could say
anything, his daughter answered me.
  "That was a passing thing. It happens sometimes when
actors are thrown together, playing love scenes
day after day. But when the moviemaking is over, so
is the affair, if there really was one. I don't
think my grandfather has ever truly loved
anyone but his Camilla."
  "And does she love him?" The question came from
me unbidden, and Natalie looked away off
toward Rumbling Bald.
  "What happened with Victoria must have hurt
deeply," she said.
  "Of course it did!" Justyn sounded angry
again. "As it would any woman whose husband had an
affair."
  "I expect it upset Victoria, too,"
I pointed out, ignoring this last comment but noticing
the embarrassment it caused Natalie.
"Especially since she was carrying his child."
  "What if that mysterious baby is just a part of the
legend, too?" Natalie speculated aloud.
"After all, who knows by this time what's fiction and
what's fact--since neither my grandfather or grandmother
is willing to talk."
  I was proof that the baby, at least, wasn't
fiction. "I've talked to Gretchen Frazer and
I know about the baby. She wanted to keep it. And
years later, when Victoria and Roger's child was
a grown woman, she came here to see
Gretchen."
  Both Justyn and Natalie looked
surprised, but Natalie shook her head at
me. "Let it go, Lauren. Gretchen would say
anything to hurt my grandfather. It's only a story
to you, and dredging it up is hardly worth the hurt
to those concerned. I'll take you back to the lodge
now."
  We were silenced by the motor, and I could sense
the hostility that I seemed to have roused in both
Justyn and his daughter. Yet, at the same time,
I had a feeling that they were not wholly in sympathy
with each other.
  The little boat moved at a slow, steady pace
down shining, land-enclosed waters. I could see the
lodge set among tall trees high on the
bank as we approached. When we turned in
toward the boathouse near Gretchen's house, I
saw that she was out on the dock, busy with her own
pontoon boat and with Siggy, who was waiting
eagerly, snout in air, to get aboard.
  Gretchen was hardly pleased to see us and I was
able to observe how strongly the old feud held.
She completely ignored us as Natalie steered
around to the opposite side of the boathouse, out of
Gretchen's sight. There Justyn helped me,
none too graciously, onto the narrow
walk. Natalie said a hasty good-bye and they
chugged away across the lake, apparently no more
anxious to see Gretchen than she was to see them.
  When I walked around the end of the boathouse,
however, Gretchen was waiting for me. She spoke
cheerfully enough, with no reference to the Brandts.
  "Hello, Lauren. You're just in time to come with
me, if you'd care to. I'm going to visit a
patient across the lake."
  My preference just then would have been to go straight
to my room, but this woman was my great-aunt. She
would know the details of what I'd begun to call
the legend better than anyone else.
  I got into the boat safely, in spite of
Siggy's enthusiastic effort to assist me.
Gretchen rapped him lightly on the snout and he
quieted like a child whose feelings had been hurt.
She heaved his hundred pounds into the boat and he
settled down happily, poking his nose into the
rushing air like a dog as we moved away from the
dock.
  These little pontoon boats with their noisy
outboard motors seemed to be used by homeowners
around the lake, both for fishing and as a means of
getting about on the water.
  We moved diagonally toward the opposite
shore at the gorge end of the lake. When a long
white building showed among the trees, Gretchen
pointed and shouted, "Dirty Dancing." As we
went past, I recognized the setting where part of
that film had been made.
  The farther shore of the lake was more sparsely
settled than the side we'd left. Gretchen
turned into a small inlet and headed toward a
dilapidated dock that seemed about to fall into the
water. When she'd cast a looped rope
skillfully over a post and pulled us in, I
looked up at the house above. Like the dock, it
seemed ready to fall to pieces.
  Siggy began to wriggle and make squealing
sounds. With his short legs, he needed help again.
Once he was happily ashore, grunting his
pleasure, Gretchen spoke to me.
  "Want to come in?"
  "Does anyone live here?"
  "My brother, Tyronne, is here now because
he's had an accident. He got word to me--so
I've come across to tend to him."
  My quest to find Ty was to be solved more
easily than I'd expected. I
followed Gretchen onto the dock, watching as she
tapped Siggy with her sturdy walking stick and he
managed the rickety steps on his own.
  "Your brother lives here?" I asked.
  She snorted. "Tyronne doesn't tell
anyone where he lives. This place is deserted
and due to be taken down, so he takes shelter
here sometimes when it's necessary to find a roof of
sorts."
  The front door hung open on broken
hinges. Weather had done a good bit of damage
inside, but the far reaches of the big room were
mostly intact. It was furnished--if that was the word
--with a three-legged kitchen table, a stool, and a
broken-down couch with sagging springs. On one end
of this couch, Ty Frazer sat, nursing his shoulder
and obviously in pain. Siggy snorted with joy and
rushed over to his friend.
  Ty pushed him away with one foot. "Hold
off, boy--this isn't the time to play."
  The pig sat back on his haunches, sticking
out the tip of his tongue.
  "That's a smile," Gretchen explained to me
as she set down the bag she'd brought and went
to examine Ty's shoulder. He gave me an
uneasy look that indicated no welcome and then
paid attention only to his sister.
  "Ouch! That hurts."
  "Of course it hurts. It's lucky you could
get a message to me. Hold still now--this will
hurt even more."
  I sat down on the stool and watched as she
gave her brother's shoulder a quick wrench. Ty
yelped and then put up a wondering hand.
  "You did it! It's back in place."
  "No big deal," Gretchen said. "I'll
fix you a kudzu poultice you can renew yourself.
But you can't do much for a few days--that shoulder needs
time to heal."
  He grinned at her, offering no argument, and she
went to the back of the room where there'd once been a
working kitchen.
  I took the silver bracelet from my purse
and spoke to Ty. "I received the package you sent
by the small boy. This belonged to Victoria
Frazer, didn't it? Why did you want me to have
it?"
  "Who else would I give it to? Jim
Castle told me about you." For once, the eyes
that looked out of his whiskery face met
mine directly. "He told me all about you.
We already had a secret between us, so he felt he
could trust me. I don't talk to nobody about
what I know. Of course the bracelet had to go
to you."
  Gretchen returned to her brother with the kudzu
poultice. As she placed it on his shoulder, he
grunted again, sounding like Siggy. "This will help, so
I'll tape it in place. Hold still now."
  When the poultice was arranged to her
satisfaction, she turned to me and saw the
bracelet in my hand. Her eyes widened and she
looked completely shocked.
  "Where did you get that?"
  "Ty sent it to me. I understand that it belonged
to Victoria."
  She almost snapped at her brother. "Why?
Why would you give it to her?"
  Clearly, this wasn't something he wanted
to discuss. "Maybe this isn't a good time
to talk."
  "It's as good a time as any--while I've
got you under my thumb. So explain."
  He shot me a look from beneath shaggy brows and
scowled at his sister. "Who else should it go to?
Maybe it's time you woke up. This here's
Victoria's granddaughter. That's who she is--
not just Jim Castle's wife."
  Gretchen stared at me, and whatever she saw in
my face appeared to confirm Ty's words. "I
don't like being deceived," she told me, and held out
her hand for the bracelet. "Give me that!"
  I shook my head. "I'm sorry, but I
want to keep it for now. There's someone I want
to show it to."
  She understood at once. "Him? Roger
Brandt? Much good it will do you."
  So I was to be accepted by Gretchen with no more
pleasure than I'd been shown by Ty. Though at
least he had claimed me as family.
  She admonished him again about caring for his shoulder,
asked whether there was anything she could bring him, and
gathered up her medical equipment.
  "Go on home," he said grumpily, "and
take her with you."
  Gretchen spoke over her shoulder to the pig, not
looking at me. "Come along, Siggy. We're
going now."
  Siggy stopped rooting in a cobwebby corner
and trotted after her as she went through the
door.
  I'd returned the bracelet to my purse, but
I wanted to know a lot more about where it had come from.
My questions, however, had to be postponed and I
left my stool to follow Gretchen. She,
however, was off and down the steps to the dock, while
I was still telling Ty I hoped he'd feel
better.
  To my astonishment, I heard the boat start
up, and when I looked out the door, it was heading
for the entrance to the little cove.
  "She's left me behind!" I cried. "How could
she do that?"
  He grunted again and put a hand to his shoulder.
"I reckon you gave her a shock."
  "How will I get back to the lodge?"
  "Walk, I suppose. That's what I do.
You know how, don't you?" His eyes noted my
flimsy sandals and he shook his head in disgust.
"You better get started. There's a sort of path
not far from the water. The next house is only a
couple of miles around this end of the lake. If they
didn't leave at summer's end, they'll take
you back. If nobody's there, just keep going.
Walk far enough and you'll get around to the other side
on your own."
  I began to wonder whether I would reach the
lodge in time to be ready when Roger Brandt
came for me tonight, and I grew angrier with
Gretchen Frazer by the moment. Nevertheless, before I
left, I had to ask Ty the question to which I needed
an answer.
  I opened my handbag, took out the patch of
luminous green "leather," and held it out to him.
"Do you know what this is?"
  He didn't touch it--he clearly didn't
want to touch it. When he said nothing, I spoke
again.
  "Jim left this for me in a letter he gave
to Natalie shortly before his death. Do you know where
Jim got it?"
  He seemed to rouse himself and his voice grew
stronger. "I gave that to Jim."
  "Why? What is it?"
  "Never mind. Just throw it away and forget about
it. Maybe if I hadn't taken him there, Jim
Castle would be alive now."
  "Ty, I don't know what you're talking about.
Who would have wanted to hurt Jim? Everybody
liked him."
  "Not everybody. There was more than one person he
scared. So you better go home now before somebody
gets scared of you. There's some pretty powerful
people around here--people who don't want to be interfered
with."
  "What about the bracelet you sent me?"
  He closed his eyes. "She gave me that.
She wanted you to have it. She knows you're here--
she's watching."
  "Victoria? A dead woman?" I said.
  "You're stupid," he said. "Nobody really
dies. She's still around, just the way Jim Castle
is. They didn't want to stop living--neither of
'em."
  "Ghosts don't hand out silver bracelets,
Ty."
  "You know a lot for somebody so young, don't
ya?"
  "What do you know about what happened
to Victoria?"
  "Everybody says she drowned," he muttered,
turning his head to check the poultice on his
shoulder.
  "I don't think so. Not of her own accord.
I think there's something else you know. Maybe
something you never even told Gretchen."
  He shifted his weight on the sagging couch.
"Ask your grandfather if you want to know. He's the
one to ask. Go away now--start walking."
  I still hesitated, wishing there was some way to get
him to open up to me. "You'll be all right alone?"
  "I'm always alone. That's the way I like it."
Then he added something he must have been turning over
in his head. "Gordon said you saw Betsey today.
I saw her once a few years ago. She's
an old woman now."
  I bristled. "As you are an old man. I
thought she was beautiful. I expect we all
carry the maps of our lives on our faces when
we get older. Hers is an interesting one. Of
course I can't tell anything about yours because you've
buried it in whiskers."
  I slung my bag over my shoulders and went
through the door.
  "Don't step on a copperhead!" he called
after me. Hardly reassured, I went down
toward the water to look for the "sort of path" that I
must follow in my flimsy shoes. I could only
pray there'd be someone home at the next house.

                NINE

  Somehow I got through that long, stumbling walk,
hating Gretchen every inch of the way. A blister
started on my heel, but at least no snakes
appeared. Most of the time, I felt buried in
thick woods. Only glimpses of the lake
appeared now and then, and treetops hid the
mountains. The path was totally overgrown in
places, but I managed at last to reach the house
Ty had mentioned.
  Fortunately, I was in time. The retired
couple who summered there weren't leaving until the
next week. They offered sympathy for my
predicament and the man drove me back to the
lodge in his station wagon. By the time I reached the
lobby, there was just time to go up to my room to shower and
change my clothes before Roger came for me.
  As I reached the stairs, Gretchen came from
behind the desk to hurry after me. She was the last
person I wanted to see. I started up, turning
my back on her.
  "I need to talk to you," she told me.
  "I don't think we have anything to say," I
said curtly.
  "Wait, Lauren." We'd reached the upper
corridor and I didn't wait. She hurried
on. "That was no way for me to act, going off and
leaving you like that. I thought about driving back for you,
but a car can't get through to where Ty's holed up, and
I didn't think you'd stay put."
  "I'm in a hurry now," I told her. "I
don't understand why you left me, but I haven't
time to talk about it. There's no point. I need
to shower and dress before dinner, and there's a blister
on my heel I need to fix."
  "Please." She sounded surprisingly meek.
"It's about Victoria that we need to talk."
  This hooked me. If she wanted to talk about
her sister, Roger would have to wait.
  "All right," I said. "Just for a moment."
  I opened the door of my room and she followed
me in, taking over in her own way. "Let me
see your foot, Lauren."
  I didn't want her ministrations. "I'll do
fine with a Band-Aid."
  She motioned me toward the bed. "Take off your
shoes and lie down."
  When she spoke in that tone, one obeyed.
Unwillingly, I slipped out of my
sandals and lay down. She sat at the foot of the
bed, where she could reach my foot.
  "Just relax. Let everything go."
  That wasn't easy, but I closed my eyes.
Her hands were gentle as she touched me. I turned
on my side so she could reach my heel and I
showed her the place. When her hands hovered above
my foot, I could feel a subtle current of
warmth play over my leg. Tension fell away
and I relaxed, though I opened my eyes so I
could watch her.
  She was quiet now, with her eyes closed--as
though she'd gone away to some inner space. Her
face seemed to glow with a light that came from within.
I lay very still, and after a few moments she sat
back and smiled at me--a smile that reminded
me of one I'd seen only that morning--on
Victoria Frazer's young face. Gretchen
spoke to me in what was now a restrained manner,
and I was compelled to listen.
  "What Tyronne said was a shock to me,
Lauren. I rejected it at first and only
wanted to get away from you because I was terribly
angry that the two of you would play such a mean
trick on me. But when I had time to think, I
realized that it must be true. I don't understand why
I didn't sense who you were from the first. Your eyes
are like Victoria's, but I refused to make the
connection. Now I can feel who you are with my
entire being. You are the child of my dear sister's
baby. Oh, how I wanted to raise her. If
Margaret had stayed with me, I would have fought the
Brandts, if necessary, just to keep her."
  She closed her eyes, lost in another time, and
I wondered about her words. I couldn't imagine that
the Brandts would have wanted the child. Certainly not
Camilla, and probably not Roger.
  When Gretchen opened her eyes and spoke
to me, her words were startling. "Now you have come in her
stead. Victoria's granddaughter--my own
blood kin!"
  Old emotion was welling up out of long
suppression and I wasn't ready for the change.
But before I could say anything, she continued.
  "I want to warn you about your grandmother, Lauren.
Don't open any doors that will let her in.
She used to hurt people--she was very unkind
to Tyronne."
  "What do you mean, warn me? What doors
could I open?"
  "Just don't get caught up in what must seem
like a romantic story. It wasn't that. It was
sordid and ugly--especially for Roger Brandt.
So be careful about stirring up sleeping passions."
  I wasn't sure what to make of any of this,
and I spoke abruptly. "This afternoon, Roger
Brandt showed me his copy of the movie he made with
Victoria Frazer. There was a scene in it when
he gave her that very bracelet Ty sent me."
  Gretchen shivered. "You're already going too
far. I remember that picture very well. It was
released before she died--even before the baby was
born. They made movies quickly in those days.
I saw it in Asheville. A foolish
picture--not worthy of the actress she had
become. I never wanted her to make it. But she
was attracted by Roger's fame. They had met
at a party in Hollywood six months before they
came to Lake Lure to make Blue Ridge
Cowboy. They were almost inseparable from the first. She
didn't know it when shooting began, but she was already
three months pregnant with his child."
  I could begin to understand the past a little better and it
saddened me.
  I told her that Camilla Brandt had taken
me to see Betsey Harlan and that Betsey had
shown me the white dress Victoria had worn
in the picture.
  Gretchen's mood changed at once. She
didn't want to hear any of this. "Stand up," she
ordered, "and tell me how your foot feels."
Obviously, I was not to learn whatever she thought of
my visit to Betsey. were her memories of the
past too painful to be resurrected?
  I sat up on the edge of the bed and when I
touched my heel to the floor, I found the soreness
gone. The red mark was no longer a budding blister.
By this time, I could almost take such miracles for
granted.
  "Thank you," I said.
  She turned gruff again. "Hurry now and get
ready for your date."
  I watched her intently as I told her who
I was planning to see. "I'm to have dinner tonight with
Roger Brandt."
  If I'd expected anger or indignation, she
showed neither, only shaking her head sadly. "I
suppose this had to happen. Just watch your back
when you're with Roger, Lauren."
  "I know. I've seen some of his little
tricks, so I won't be taken in."
  "Does he know who you are?"
  "No, and I don't want him to until the right
moment comes. Victoria belongs to the past, and for
now I want him to see me in the present."
  She turned as she reached the door. "You are
part of his past and that may be pretty upsetting
to him."
  "I hope it will be," I said, "if he ever
finds out." Gretchen nodded and went away.
  Now I hurried to get out of my stained clothes
and showered quickly. I'd brought one other dress that
was suitable for dinner--a rosy mauve silk in a
chemise style. Its high, round neck was right for
my gold chain with a Japanese dragon
pendant. The chain was a gift from Gordon in those
San Francisco days I didn't want
to think about, but it tied me to the present. I combed
my hair carefully, twisting it into a chignon at
the back, and slipped a tortoiseshell comb into the
knot. Gold earrings were the last touch, and I was
ready.
  I stood before a long mirror and smiled at
myself ruefully. I had dressed as carefully as
if I was going to meet a lover--not an elderly
grandfather--but this meeting might involve far more than
I could anticipate. Certainly more than Roger
Brandt expected.
  I assured myself that I didn't look in the
least like Victoria. For tonight, I wanted to be
only Lauren Castle. Tucked safely in my
purse was the tissue-wrapped silver
bracelet, though I had no idea when or if
I might take it out.
  The desk rang to tell me that Mr. Brandt
had arrived. I heard the excitement in Mrs.
Adrian's voice and I told her calmly that
I'd be right down. Then I braced myself and went
to meet my grandfather.
  He watched as I came down the stairs, a
look of approval in his eyes. When he came
to meet me, his shoulders were straight under a dark
blue jacket that was out of style, though it must have
been expensive in its day. His gray flannel
trousers were well creased, and again he wore his
signature scarf twisted about his throat--blue
and white in a geometric pattern. Tonight he was
no cowboy, but a man well seasoned by the years,
slightly heavier than he'd been when young, but still
a man very sure of himself and his charm.
  He'd brought the beautiful old Mercedes in which
Natalie had driven me--a car that was
probably valuable--but not as ostentatious as
expensive California cars could be. He opened
the door for me, seated me, and went around to the
driver's side. One would never have guessed his
age by his easy movements. Both he and
Camilla clearly kept themselves in top shape.
  "The Esmeralda is on the other side of
Chimney Rock," he told me as we reached the
highway beside Lake Lure. "It's only a
few minutes' drive." He glanced at me and
then back through the windshield. "You said earlier that
you visited Betsey Harlan this morning. I
haven't seen her in years--not since she was a
pretty young woman who worked as a dresser for
Victoria Frazer. She's only a little older
than my wife."
  "Really? She looks a great deal older. It
was your wife who took me to visit her, as I
think I mentioned."
  "How did that happen?"
  "Your wife seems anxious for me to continue
my husband's work on the documentary he was doing
about you."
  He didn't seem surprised, so perhaps someone
had told him.
  I continued. "I told her that there's another
side of the story that interests me, if I'm
to continue Jim's work. Victoria Frazer's
side."
  He spoke calmly. "How did my wife
react to that suggestion?"
  "She seemed to think it reasonable, though that
surprised me, considering all that happened."
  Again he spoke casually andwitha seeming openness,
as though the subject mattered very little.
"Camilla's father was a studio executive, so
she understood what could happen in the making of a
picture. Of course, love scenes are stronger
if the actors like each other."
  His manner irritated me. Like seemed a
pretty weak word, if one remembered what had
happened. "Perhaps with Victoria it was a little
different."
  He ignored that, slowing the car to the pace of
traffic through Hickory Nut's steep-sided
gorge. In a short distance, he turned the car
up a driveway that climbed the hillside on
our right. The Esmeralda was set well
above the highway and screened by a line of tall
pine trees. Roger parked the car and we climbed
side steps to a veranda that opened into the lobby of the
inn.
  We entered a square, open space, rustic in
character, contrasting with the Lake Lure Inn's more formal
style. This space was rimmed by two floors of
galleries, off which guest rooms opened at
intervals. At the far end of the lobby, a wide
fireplace had been set into the rough fieldstones
of a chimney, with a set of handsome antlers placed
above the mantelpiece. Wherever possible, whole
logs, stripped of their bark, had been used.
  Roger Brandt stood looking around, as though
lost in his own memories. "The inn opened in
1892," he told me. "But there was a fire that
destroyed the original building. It was rebuilt
in 1917. It has stood here ever since. Our
film company had rooms on the top level, so
we had a good view of the gorge and Chimney
Rock. I haven't been here in years. After
all that happened, my memories of this place
aren't very happy, though at the time we couldn't have
been more light hearted." He stopped abruptly.
"Let's find our table. I asked for one on the
veranda."
  We were led through an attractive inner dining
room and out to where long picture windows formed the
front of the inn. A line of tables dressed in
turquoise and white invited us, and ceiling fans
kept the area comfortable. The wall of pines I'd
noticed as we approached the inn protected
diners from the intrusion of traffic sounds below. When
I was seated, I found I could look out toward the
natural phenomenon of Chimney Rock--that
granite tower that had separated from the mountain behind
to jut out in its own high column.
  Menus were presented and I asked Roger
to order for us both. At the moment, I had very little
interest in food. I wanted to get past his easy
self-assurance and stir up whatever he kept
hidden underneath.
  "Why did you invite me to dinner?" I asked
when the waitress had gone.
  The shrug of his shoulders beneath his impeccable
jacket was still casual. "I liked and admired
your husband. And of course I'm still curious about
what you thought of the film."
  "Tell me about Victoria," I countered.
"She seemed so beautiful, so talented
--but what was she like as a woman?"
  "It's a shame to spoil the illusion, but she
could be vindictive--even dangerous."
  This startled me. "Betsey Harlan said she was
gentle and kind. It's hard to believe--"
  He broke in on my words. "You've
probably noticed the scar on my wife's
cheek? Victoria did that. I really don't
care to talk about her, if you don't mind. Let
me tell you about the Esmeralda."
  He had shocked me into silence, and I tried
to listen.
  "The road down there used to be the old pony
express and stagecoach road--the one route through
the gorge. There are all sorts of legends about
the gorge--tales of little people, of visions and
magic. I've always relished those stories.
Earlier film companies than ours came here.
Mary Pickford, Gloria Swanson, and
Douglas Fairbanks all stayed here. Lew
Wallace wrote the novel Ben-Hur in a
room upstairs."
  His voice still held a hint of its youthful
timbre as he warmed to his subject, and I was
caught in spite of myself. Victoria could wait
a little while--I would get back to her.
  "Where did the name Esmeralda come from?" I
asked.
  "Frances Hodgson Burnett wrote a
play called Esmeralda when she stayed in this
area. It's long forgotten now, but Colonel
Turner, who built the inn, named it after it. Of
course the area appealed to moviemakers because of its
marvelous scenery. And now Hollywood is
discovering it all over again. You know about Dirty
Dancing and The Last of the Mohicans?"
  "I saw where some of Dirty Dancing was
filmed today, and of course I've visited the
Indian village. Gordon Heath told me
that's where Jim died."
  He spoke gently, with a sympathy I hadn't
sensed in him before. "Your husband became my friend.
I could trust him. He was a good man."
  "Thank you," I said softly. Our wine
arrived and when the waitress had gone, I went
on. "Tell me about Victoria. I really
want to know."
  He sighed as though this was a question he had tired of
over the years. "What do you want to know about her?"
  "Anything you can tell me. You were in
love with her. That much came through on the screen."
  "She wasn't always lovable, as I believe
I've made clear."
  I ventured into more risky territory. "She
bore you a baby. That's an accepted fact. So
are you telling me you didn't love her?"
  For a moment, I had shocked him by speaking so
directly. I suspected that people had been
pussyfooting around this subject for years. He
recovered quickly, however.
  "Are you going to make me sorry that I've
asked you to dinner, young woman?"
  I wasn't going to be put off by this comment and I
gave him a look that must have lacked the admiration
he expected. I could almost hear the tinkle of
silver bells in my purse, as though some misty
hand had reached in to touch the bracelet. Soon now
--soon.
  The waitress brought our soup. I tried
to relax and pay attention to food that hardly
appealed to me at the moment.
  "If you're so interested in Victoria," he
said, "there's an old book you might like to read--
if you can find a copy. It was published after
Victoria's suicide, and it's been long out of
print. It was widely read when it first came out.
The title was The Firefly. That was also the
title of Victoria Frazer's last picture
before the one she made with me--probably her most
famous picture, although sadly it's been
uncirculated for decades, like her other films.
The author of the book knew her when she stayed here
at the Esmeralda. He followed her around,
studying her--not always sympathetically."
  "Was the book he wrote accurate?" I
asked, dipping my spoon into the soup. "How did
you come off in it?"
  Irritation with me returned. "I warned
Victoria against being open with the fellow. I
didn't like him. But she was always an off-and-on
creature--like a firefly. You could never be sure
what she might do next. In a way, I
suppose, that was part of her fascination."
  "I'd like to find a copy of the book."
  Suddenly, he looked doubtful, as though he
had just recalled something. "Perhaps it's not a good
idea to follow this up, Lauren. All these
happenings were over so long ago, and it can only
roil calm waters to stir them up again. I
don't think your husband meant to do that."
  "It's not so long ago, if Jim's death was
somehow tied to Victoria's."
  Again he looked shocked, but the waitress
came with our entrees. When she'd gone, he
didn't pick up on my remark about Jim.
  Darkness had fallen outside and between the pines
I could glimpse the lights of cars following the
old road that was now a highway. As the evening
wore on, I felt no closer to carrying out my
main purpose. I didn't know how to jump into this
and perhaps I was hesitant, because I had no idea
how he might react to what I had intended
to tell him.
  Our fresh trout, broiled in country butter,
was as delicious as Roger had promised, even
though he regaled me with amusing stories of his
filmmaking days, part of me still listened to the whisper
of tiny bells. I wanted the reality of those
bells to be heard. I wanted to see his painful
reaction--yet I waited. Not until the
waitress took our dessert orders did I
force myself to act. My hand shook as I dropped
the bracelet abruptly on the table between us.
  His look was more than one of pain and shock.
"Where did you get that?" he demanded, all the
color draining from his face.
  "What does it matter? It's the same
bracelet that you gave Victoria in the scene in
the film, isn't it? She showed her delight and
her love for you when you clasped it on her wrist.
I don't think either of you was acting."
  "She was wearing that bracelet when she died,"
he said. "I must know how it came into your hands."
  "How do you know that? If her body was never
found, how can you know that?"
  "She always wore it. She told me she would
never take it off."
  Now I recognized the emotion that shook him--
it was fear. Roger Brandt was a frightened man. I
wasn't going to give away Ty, but I had more
startling news for Roger.
  "What matters," I said quietly, "isn't
really the bracelet. It's that I am
Victoria Frazer's granddaughter. I am your
granddaughter."
  He recovered himself and smiled at me almost
tenderly. "I know. I began to suspect from the
first moment I saw you. Why do you think I showed you
the film? Why would I have invited you to dinner?
It's not so much a matter of features--
though your eyes are like hers. There's an overall
impression that comes through. Her look is there in your
face."
  I felt thoroughly disconcerted and perhaps a little
frightened because of the door that had opened so suddenly,
leaving me with a role I didn't know how to play.
  I put a hand out in pleading across the table,
feeling guilt along with everything else. "I'm
sorry. I've been playing games. I wanted
to jar you. You seemed so complacent, so sure of
yourself. It never occurred to me that I resemble her
so much that you would guess."
  His eyes must once have been a bright and
penetrating blue. Now their color was pale,
faded, and they were haunted by some dread that had taken
a toll on him.
  He didn't touch my extended hand. "Am I
the only one who knows who you are?"
  "No. Gordon Heath and I met many years
ago. I told him then because he came from this area.
But I asked him not to tell anyone, and he
hasn't. Now his mother knows, and so do Gretchen and
Ty. Though Betsey Harlan is the only one
who sensed immediately who I was."
  "Ah yes--Betsey. She always had a sixth
sense." He was silent for a moment, as though trying
to collect himself. My identity hadn't shocked
him, but my possession of the bracelet had.
"Does Natalie know?" he asked.
  "My newly found cousin? I don't think so.
And of course your wife doesn't know."
  He seemed relieved at that. "Why did you
come here after all this time?"
  "Natalie summoned me. She believes that
Jim was murdered, though she only decided this
recently. There's no real proof, but she thought
I should come."
  Again there was a long silence. His face had
changed. It was as if he had gone into some inner
space where I could not follow.
  The waitress had taken our dinner plates
moments before and now she returned with two slices
of carrot cake. I waited until she had gone
before I continued.
  "I came because I wanted to know more about Jim's
death. But I also want to know much more about
Victoria. My mother never believed that her death
was a suicide. She told me that once."
  As Roger reached absently for a dessert fork,
a woman stopped beside our table. I
looked up, startled, to see Natalie Brandt.
  She spoke hurriedly to her grandfather.
"Gordon said I might find you here. Camilla
needs you. She knows who Lauren is, and so do
I. Betsey Harlan phoned her--for spite,
I think. She wanted to hurt her and she did.
You know Gran's heart isn't strong. You'd
better go to her right away, Grandfather. I'll
take Lauren back to the lodge."
  He pushed his chair out and stood up. For an
instant, his look turned--not to me but to the silver
bracelet that lay in a puddle of light on the
turquoise cloth. Then he was gone.
  Natalie sat down at his place. "No
use wasting good food," she said, picking up a
fork. As she ate his untouched portion of cake,
she watched me, bright-eyed, with a malice I'd not
seen in her before.
  "I must say you're rather a nasty surprise,
Lauren! If you really are Victoria's
granddaughter. What does that make us,
exactly?"
  I had nothing to say to that.
  I really didn't care to discuss any of this with
Natalie right now. "What happened--I mean
when Betsey phoned?"
  "Grandmother, who is a very strong lady, simply
fell apart. It was a good thing my dad was home.
He's closer to her than anyone else. She
forgives him a lot."
  "What is there to forgive?"
  "The crime of being dull and unimaginative in
this family. But it's what Gran said that upset
me. She was crying--actually crying!--and she said,
"It's happening all over again, and I can't bear
it!""
  "What is happening all over again? Even if
I am Victoria and Roger's granddaughter,
why should she be expecting something bad out of this?"
  Natalie's fork pursued a crumb of carrot
cake around her plate. "Who knows? I love
my grandparents, but I can't deny their
eccentricities. So now you are part of the legend,
Lauren," she added. "How does that feel?"
  I hated her cynical tone. "Don't you
care about what's happening?"
  She regarded me coolly, with no more liking for
me than I had for her at that moment. "Perhaps a
second spaceship has just crashed and there's
nothing I can do except try to save my
own sanity."
  I said nothing to that. In a way, I had more
sympathy and admiration for Camilla Brandt than
for anyone else who carried the Brandt name. The more
I saw of the Brandts individually, the less I
liked any of them. Where was Victoria in all
this?
  "You're really stirring things up, aren't you,
Lauren? Better watch your step."
  She sounded more entertained than alarmed, as though
she was a spectator observing from a distance.
  "Don't you care?" I asked her again.
"Don't you care about your grandfather and your grandmother?"
  "Of course I do. I love them both, and
I'm proud of them. I'm sorry that my grandfather
had to suffer the loss of his career because of your
grandmother."
  "So now we are supposed to feud? Is that
it?"
  She laughed, as though my words entertained her
further. "Don't be foolish. I like you,
Lauren. But that doesn't keep me from feeling that
when the curtain comes down on this play, the ending
won't matter to me. I'm not really involved,
except at second hand."
  I wished only that I was not involved. I
wasn't able to reject the sense that I was in the
middle of some terrible turmoil, whether I
wanted to be or not. The knowledge that the scar on
Camilla's cheek had been caused
by Victoria still shocked and disturbed me.
  "I'd like to go back to the lodge, if you'll
take me," I said. "And I'm sure you'd like
to get back to your grandparents."
  "Of course, Lauren," she said, but then wandered
off down what seemed to be a side road. "I
do hope all that's happened won't interfere with the
big party Camilla has been planning."
  "Party?" I'd heard something mentioned, but it
hadn't really registered. This seemed frivolous
to me now.
  "She's been working on this for months. It's
to be a big fund-raiser for the Lake Lure
area. Lake Lure Inn is going to provide the
place, since they have a big barn out back that can
be used. It's overgrown with kudzu, but
Camilla has persuaded the management to clean
it up inside and do some renovations. Nobody
refuses her when she goes after something. There's
already a good dance floor."
  I still felt lost, since partying hardly seemed
important in the face of her grandmother's
collapse. "Is this to be a square dance?"
  Natalie smiled. "Can you see Camilla
Brandt doing a do-si-do? It will be a ball--a
costume ball. Very posh and socially
important. The money raised will go to the fire
department, the emergency ambulance service, and
all the other things that Lake Lure needs to take
care of. Gran has been giving herself to this for
months, and it's no little thing if she's suddenly not
up to it. The Asheville elite will come, all
dressed in expensive costumes. Camilla is
paying to bring in a band that will play old dance
tunes. This won't be popular with the young crowd, but
that's not where the money is. Of course Grandfather will
do whatever Gran wants, as usual. If she's
up to this now."
  "Why does he give in to her? I should think
he'd hate being in the center of things in this way."
  "Because he loves her," Natalie said
simply. "Nothing's ever changed that, and she knows
it. Even if her Spanish blood does get
riled up over Victoria and the past."
  "I wonder where that leaves my grandmother?" I
said.
  She regarded me speculatively. "A
suicide, of course. Because she couldn't live
without Roger."
  I didn't believe that, and I didn't think
Natalie did, either.
  "When is this affair to be held?" I asked.
  "On Saturday night. Camilla has a
gorgeous Spanish dress that she used to wear in
California--mantilla, comb and all. It
belonged to her mother, through whom she gets her
Spanish blood. She still has the figure for it,
but I haven't convinced her to put a rose in her
teeth. And guess who Roger will be?"
  I didn't need to guess. Who else would he
be but the cowboy actor Roger Brandt? Though I
hoped without his horse this time.
  "Even if he loves her," she chattered on,
"I wonder sometimes why he is still so anxious
to please her." Natalie seemed honestly
puzzled.
  "His infidelity with Victoria, perhaps?"
  "It's hard to believe that could still matter after
all these years. Though of course because
Victoria's body was never found, questions
surrounding her death were never really answered."
  Natalie spoke lightly, but I shivered, and
she gave me a quick look.
  "You'll come, won't you, Lauren? Gordon
can bring you."
  I had no interest in partying and I shook my
head, surprised that she was so intent on having me
come. "I don't think so. Let's get out of
here, Natalie."
  But something had caught her eye. She reached to the
center of the table and picked up the silver
bracelet. "What is this?"
  I gave her a bare account. "In the film
your grandfather made with Victoria Frazer, there's
a scene where he gives her that bracelet.
While we were watching the movie, he whispered that
he'd actually given it to her then."
  "I remember the scene," Natalie said.
"It was all very sentimental and pretty."
  "You've seen the movie?"
  "Oh, yes, but he doesn't know that. Blue
Ridge Cowboy has always been forbidden
territory. Gran doesn't even know that he
has a print. Which is funny, because there isn't
much she doesn't know. But since it was
off-limits, of course I had to see it. When
I was about fourteen, I got hold of the right key
and ran it when they were away.
  I took the bracelet from her and returned it
to my purse. It belonged to me now--no matter
what reverberations these little bells were ringing down the
years.
  "Where did you get it?" Natalie asked.
  "From Gretchen's brother, Ty. He sent it
to me by a small boy who turned up on the
balcony outside my room at the lodge.
Though I still don't know why."
  "That's interesting. Of course the real question is
where he got it."
  "I asked him this afternoon, but he wouldn't tell
me."
  "If anybody can keep his mouth shut, it's
Ty. It's funny to think that he and my grandfather
used to be good friends when Roger first came here--before
everything went wrong. Ty never forgave Grandfather for
what happened to Victoria. But enough of all that."
  She signaled the waitress and asked for the
check, but we were told Mr. Brandt had signed
for it. As we left the Esmeralda, I
experienced a strange sense of
nostalgia for a time I'd never known. Of course,
Victoria Frazer had stayed here, and it was as
though she descended the steps with me, still happy, still
innocent of what lay in the future. A pretty
picture, if it hadn't all ended so
tragically.
  We walked out to Natalie's station wagon and
I got in beside her. As we drove away, I
looked back at the Esmeralda set high among
the pines.
  But no nostalgia filled Natalie. "I have
a wonderful idea," she told me as we went
down into light evening traffic. "You can come
to Camilla's ball dressed as Victoria
Frazer! Think what a stir that would cause.
Betsey Harlan can probably help. Of
course, Victoria was a famous blonde, so
you'd have to wear a wig. I'm sure we can get
one in Asheville."
  She was warming to her foolish idea, and I put
a stop to it.
  "Of course I won't do any such thing. I
wonder if all the Brandts are crazy?"
  Her laughter carried an exultant ring. "Of
course we are! Just as the Frazers are,
Lauren. Only my father is sane, so he's the
dull one nobody ever worries about."
  As we drove past the lake, the water was
only dark glass, with a few ripples of light
cast from some boathouse or dwelling.
  When Natalie dropped me off and I stopped
at the desk for my key, a note waited for me.
Gordon's handwriting was as strong as I
remembered. I carried it up to my room to read.
  There were only a few words:

  Remember, Lauren. I'll come for you before
sunrise. Wear jeans and a warm jacket. Good
shoes too for climbing. I promise an
interesting experience.
    Sleep well,
    Gordon

  This sounded more like the man I remembered, and I
couldn't help the sense of anticipation that rose in
me. But I must count on nothing, expect nothing.
There'd been only that brief time when Gordon and
I had existed for each other. I was the one who had
gambled away our happiness by betting on Jim.
I'd thought that he could make me feel
"safe"--as my mother's fears and attitude toward
life never had. In his way, Jim had been good
to me and I had let him down, as well. So I
still carried a burden of guilt that I resented and
didn't know how to be rid of. Gordon had never
forgiven me for that choice, and I couldn't blame
him.
  Now his note sounded a little softer than his
manner had been, and I fell asleep climbing
the hills of San Francisco. We'd gone
at dawn that time, too, and we'd watched as first
daylight touched the ruler-straight line of Market
Street far below.
  Somehow I must learn how to forgive myself.

                 TEN

  The next morning when I went out the door of the
lodge, Gordon's car was already parked across the
drive. When I saw him, I again felt an
emotional jolt, an almost uncontrollable
desire to run to him. But I was no longer a young
woman of nineteen, even though my heart played
tricks at the sight of this particular man and
left me in a state of self-conscious confusion.
  He got out to open the door for me. I pulled
up the hood of my jacket against the cool
early-morning air and as an excuse to hide
anything he might see in my face.
  "The hood's a good idea," he said, his
manner friendly but impersonal. "It will be windy and
cold where we're going."
  "Where are we going?" I asked as we drove
along the main road beside the lake.
  "Let's just say the top of the world."
  By now I knew the road we followed and I
guessed where we were heading. "Chimney Rock?
Will it be open this early?"
  "That's why I picked this time--no visitors.
We'll have the sunrise to ourselves. I have keys
since I work for the park."
  As I listened, I tried to gauge his mood.
Did he remember San Francisco and
another sunrise? I wondered.
  The little shops and restaurants along the road
through the gorge were dark at this hour and there were few
cars. The Rocky Broad tumbled over great
black rocks below the highway, rushing toward the
lake, white foam catching our lights as we
went past.
  The entrance to the park consisted of two great wings
built of fieldstone, with gates in the center.
Gordon got out, opened the gates, drove through,
and closed them again. Ahead lay a bridge over
the river; we crossed to drive up a
well-engineered road that wound toward the base of
Chimney Rock.
  "There are several hiking trails for those who
want to make the climb on foot," he told
me. "But we'll take the easier way."
  The light was still gray when we passed a small
visitors' building and continued in hairpin
turns until our headlights picked out a
wide, cleared area for parking, rimmed around the
edge by a low stone wall. Here, in the protection
of the cliff above, we were sheltered from the wind. I
knew that a tremendous view must lie out there, but
in this predawn hour I could see only scattered
lights.
  We left the car near the wall and Gordon
took my arm, guiding me through darkness.
  "Chimney Rock goes straight up from here,"
he told me. "When it's light, you can look up
and see the whole column standing above us."
  A door had been cut into the base of the cliff
and Gordon unlocked it. Dead, cold air from
inside the mountain rushed out to us, and I could see
nothing but blackness until Gordon reached for
switches and turned on lights and the ventilating
system.
  Dynamite had blasted out this nearly
two-hundred-foot tunnel into the mountain. It
stretched straight ahead through granite, a low
ceiling arching in rough stone overhead. On my right,
rock had been cut away to form a low ledge, a
foot or two high, into which lights had been set
at intervals all down the tunnel. Each
sunken lamp threw its reflection upward on the
irregular wall, forming an eerie pattern of
light and shadow that was rather spooky.
  We walked between solid granite walls--the
entire creation a remarkable engineering job.
  "There's an elevator at the end," Gordon
said, his voice rousing echoes down the empty
passageway.
  When we reached the far door and stepped into the
waiting car, he activated the machinery and we
moved slowly upward. For a few moments, I had
a feeling of the mountain closing around me.
  "How high is the shaft?" I asked.
  "It's twenty-four floors up. We're still
inside the mountain, of course, not in Chimney
Rock itself."
  When the door opened at the top, Gordon
turned on more lights and we stepped into a
gift-shop area, bright with counter displays, racks
of clothes, and souvenirs.
  "Come along," Gordon said, as though I
might dawdle. "There's still a climb to the top
of the chimney, and we don't want to miss the
rising curtain."
  We went through doors to an open terrace where a
few tables had been placed--for those who might
bring lunches or purchase food at the shop's
lunch counter. The air felt wonderful after being
shut in by all that granite. The sky was just beginning
to brighten, so it looked as though we would make it in
time.
  The steps to the top were wide, with sturdy
railings, so I had no sense of vertigo, though
they spanned a chasm below. Halfway up, a
landing offered a breather, and then we climbed the last
flight to the top. Some forty-seven steps. I
counted them.
  The top of the chimney was formed by a level cap
of granite that overhung the column below and was
spotted with low out-croppings of rock. Cement
paths offered smooth footing among the
protrusions. Ahead, at the highest point,
stood a flagpole, and I watched as Gordon
went over to raise the flag. In this high, windy
space, its folds flew out, cracking and whipping
in the wind, the colors challenging the slowly
spreading dawn.
  The outer rim of this wide space was well
protected by a decorative iron fence.
Inside, two small pine trees seemed to grow
out of solid rock--rather scraggly trees that had
withstood the storms that would savage this high,
exposed place.
  Slowly, the sky brightened in the east as a pink
blush turned into widespread golden flames that
burnished the world. We watched together and I found
myself even more aware of the man beside me than I'd
been in those long-ago days in San
Francisco.
  "Thank you for bringing me here," I said softly,
savoring the ever-changing colors and the sweet,
cool air.
  Gordon seemed to have lost the
hostility I'd felt in him since our meeting in
the Indian village. "Look out there,
Lauren." He pointed toward the long, narrow
stretch of Lake Lure, where it opened from the
gorge. Now I could see the arms of the cross
formed by two coves. Rumbling Bald was clearly
visible, reflected in water that shimmered with pink
and gold, the colors fading as the sun rose.
Overhead, the sky changed even as I watched,
turning into a shining blue.
  Something made me speak as I'd not have dared
to under other circumstances. "Do you remember the
sunrise we watched together in San
Francisco, Gordon? Up near
Tamalpais?"
  "Why else would I want to show you another
sunrise?"
  Tears burned behind my eyes, but before I could
say anything more, he stood up. "Come over to the
other side, Lauren. I want you to see
something."
  The mountain across from us rose higher than our
column of rock, dwarfing it. Its granite
face made a sheer cliff, against which I caught
fluttering movement. Scores of butterflies
fluttered against the rock, and I stared in wonder.
  "They migrate at this time of year," Gordon
said, watching me.
  They looked almost like tiny birds hovering against
the cliff. "What a beautiful sight!"
  "Let's go down and find a place to have
breakfast and warm up," Gordon suggested,
breaking the spell.
  He had changed the subject quickly from the
personal, but I didn't want to leave yet.
  "Could we sit down for a few moments? I'd like
to tell you what happened after I saw you
yesterday."
  "Natalie phoned me last night. She
seemed upset about your dinner with Roger Brandt."
  I told Gordon about it--from watching Blue
Ridge Cowboy in Roger's company and seeing
Victoria on-screen for the first time to the dinner at
the Esmeralda, where I'd dropped the silver
bracelet on the table between us and Roger had told
me he knew I was his granddaughter. I mentioned
the book that had been written about Victoria
Frazer--The Firefly--and said I wished I
might find a copy to read.
  "I'm sorry Natalie arrived when
she did," I finished. "He and I were on the
brink of a really important conversation. But after
she came with her news, he could think only of
Camilla. He left quickly, and then Natalie
drove me back to the lodge."
  I must have shivered, and Gordon noticed.
"Let's go down, Lauren. Hot coffee will
help."
  How could I ever forgive the young girl I used
to be for not being wiser? I stayed where I was,
looking up into Gordon's eyes, letting him
see what was in my own.
  He shook his head at me sadly, but when he
spoke, his words were kind, though he made it clear
that long ago was long ago.
  "You were only nineteen. You were so young. Even
though we were almost the same age, I was older and
ready for what I wanted. But I wasn't all
that smart, either. I wanted you to fall in love with
me as I had with you."
  "Do you think I hadn't?"
  "I don't think either of us knew much about love
at that point in our lives. First love doesn't
always survive the clear light of logic. I
shouldn't have blamed you for being so unsure. You chose
what you thought was right for you. Coming with me might have
spelled disaster. I expect it's just as well that
you chose a sensible course, even though I was
angry with you at the time."
  I answered him, reckless now, wanting only
to speak the truth and make him understand--if ever I
could understand myself.
  "What I did was cowardly. I married Jim
--which I should never have done. But by the time I came
to my senses, you were gone and I knew that what we
had shared was over. So I tried to make the best of
things. That was all I could do, but I never got
over you and I never forgave myself."
  I couldn't look at him now. I turned my
head away and fought back a dreary impulse
to cry.
  He drew me up from the rock and touched my
cheek gently with the palm of his hand so that I had
to look up at him. "Let it go, Lauren--cut
it all loose. That's what I've been trying
to do since you came. I know now how useless anger
is. We can't go back and change anything, but we
can give up resentment and self-blame."
  There was nothing I wanted more. With all
hesitation gone, I put my arms around
his neck and kissed the deep crease near his mouth
that I knew so well. When he held me
tightly, it was as though I'd come home to where
I'd always wanted to be.
  In that intense moment, I was acutely aware of
everything around me: the butterflies, a soaring
cloud in the sky, the high rock that put us at the
top of the world--all these made up a moment I would
never forget. When he kissed me, we were not only
together, as we were meant to be, but we were a part of
everything around us. Now I could respond to the
fierce tenderness of his embrace, and I didn't
ever want him to release me.
  "We'd better go down," he said against my
ear. "You're shivering and it will take time for the sun
to warm us up here."
  "I'm ready to go back now," I said. I would
never lose him again, no matter what.
  But as we moved toward the steps that led down from
the chimney, he stopped me, his hand on my arm.
"Listen! Someone's coming. Someone who's climbed
up one of the trails on foot."
  We waited as a man appeared on the steps,
and I saw that it was Ty Frazer. If he had
suffered a dislocated shoulder yesterday, he showed
no sign of discomfort now. He wasn't even out
of breath. I felt only dismay at the sight of
him. Ty belonged to that whole world of problems that had
brought me to Lake Lure, and I didn't want
to face them now.
  "Caught you!" he cried in obvious
triumph. "I brought Finella some kudzu before
her shop opened this morning and she said this was where you'd
be. I wanted to talk to the both of you. But
especially her." He glowered at me from under
shaggy brows, and his very excitement alarmed me.
He seemed a different, wilder creature than
the man Gretchen and I had visited yesterday.
  I made an effort to distract him from whatever
he intended. "How is your shoulder, Ty? I
thought your sister said you shouldn't move around until
it healed."
  He shrugged off my words. "Gretchen has the
gift. She can heal better than she knows. She
thinks it's kudzu and all that stuff she uses, but
it's her hands that do the trick. I didn't keep
that gunk on for long. Gretchen's spirit is what
counts--that and what's inside my own head.
Victoria told me that I must come and talk
to you."
  His look grew a little glassy, and I waited
in alarm. Gordon's arm tightened around me.
  "She came to me in a dream last night. She
won't let me be. Minute I get to sleep,
there she is. She won't let me alone till
I do what she wants. She wants you,
Lauren."
  I kept my voice low. "What do you mean,
she wants me?"
  "You're her granddaughter. Give her a chance
and she'll get inside you. She scares me when
she sneaks into my dreams. I think she wants
to make me pay."
  "Pay for what, Ty?"
  He shook his head so vigorously that his hair
and beard lifted and then settled. "I don't owe
her--she owes me. For everything she did and
didn't do--pretending to be a loving sister and then
leaving me high and dry."
  I looked at Gordon as Ty began to hop
about excitedly, but he shook his head, indicating
that we'd better listen. Now I knew what it was
that so alarmed me about this strange man. It was fear
that drove him. Just as fear had touched Roger last
night. Ty was deeply afraid of something about which
he didn't want us to know. Perhaps he was trying
to warn me or scare me off with this wild tale about
Victoria.
  He stopped in front of Gordon. "None of
those Brandts are good people. She"--he nodded toward
me--"needs to watch out for them. Put her on a
plane for California--get her away from here!"
He stared off toward lake and sky. "You hear
me, Victoria. She's going away! It ain't
good for her to stay around here. Look what happened
to you--and to me."
  "I'm not going anywhere yet," I told him
quietly. "But if you know something that will help me
to find answers, then you can free me to go."
  "Roger won't let you have any answers.
He's the Keeper. But if you go away now, you can
stay alive--the way Jim Castle didn't
manage to do."
  He was beginning to frighten me. "And Victoria?
What happened to Victoria?" I asked.
  Ty went off on a tangent. "You think
Victoria was everything wonderful and beautiful--that
she didn't deserve what happened to her.
Isn't that so, Lauren? Your grandmother! My
beautiful, talented, wonderful sister!"
  "Isn't that the way you saw her?" I asked.
  He threw up his hands. "Ask anybody who
knew her back then! She was a magnet for
trouble."
  "Betsey Harlan is still devoted to her. That
counts for something, doesn't it?"
  "Never mind Betsey. Just ask Camilla
Brandt. She can tell you about Victoria."
  I thought of Camilla's scarred cheek.
"It's possible that Roger's wife is
prejudiced. I'm asking you, Ty."
  He came so close to me that I could smell the
earth and forest odors that were part of his very being. He
belonged as much to the mountains as some small wild
animal. Yet he had been the one to send me
Victoria's bracelet--the bracelet that had
caused Roger Brandt to go white when he saw it.
  "Hear me real good," Ty said, his face almost
in mine, so that I drew back. "Natalie
Brandt came to Finella's shop early this morning
while I was there. She told us what happened
last night at the Esmeralda. You sure stuck
your neck out, didn't you, Lauren? I never
meant for you to show that bracelet to Roger.
Victoria wanted you to have it."
  "Where did you get it, Ty?"
  He wasn't going to tell me--I could see
that--and he ignored my question. "Now Camilla
knows who you are!"
  "Why are you so scared?" I challenged. His
eyes seemed as bright as a chipmunk's as he
peered at me intently. "Victoria's the one
who kept Betsey from marrying me. Did me a
favor, maybe. Back then she was the one who was
going to pay for me to go to college. Then I could have
married Betsey. Her folks wouldn't look at
me the way I was--young and pretty much good for
nothing. Victoria cut off the money and that
finished me."
  The truth about my grandmother must lie somewhere in between
the stories I'd heard about her. Right now, I
knew only that I had to learn more.
  "Ty," I said, "last night my grandfather
told me about a book that was written about
Victoria Frazer--The Firefly. Would
anyone in your family have a copy?"
  "That was a book full of lies. Gretchen
wouldn't have a copy in her house, and I don't have
any place to keep books."
  "Did you read it, Ty?"
  "Books don't matter now. Victoria
wants you to visit her. But you better not go--"
He broke off dramatically, as though promising
dire consequences.
  "Tell me where to find her, Ty."
  "She's in a lot of places. She can get
inside people--the way she does in my dreams. She
made me come here today. She wants you to help
her."
  Gordon had heard enough and he tried to change the
subject. "Natalie called me last night,
Ty. She told me that Camilla was sick. Have
you heard if she's better?"
  Ty answered shortly. "I wouldn't be hearing
stuff about the Brandts."
  "If you know what happened to Victoria,
Ty, please tell me," I urged.
  His eyes took on an angry gleam. "Why
don't you ask your grandpappy? He knows better
than anyone else." He broke off and ran
toward the steps that led down from the top of Chimney
Rock. We had to let him go.
  "Maybe he's got something when it comes
to putting you on a plane for home," Gordon
said.
  I shook my head, wishing that Ty had never
climbed up to this rock. The magical moments between
Gordon and me had been interrupted and we
couldn't recapture them now.
  "You know I won't leave," I told him.
"I need to know what happened to Jim. And to my
grandmother. I feel as though I'm getting close
to something, and I owe them both that much. And perhaps I
owe it to Victoria to find out what she was really
like." I smiled uncertainly. "Perhaps that's what
she wants--for me to know, for me to help set the
record straight. Roger Brandt is remembered
even today, but she's been forgotten. I wonder if
it's up to me to change that? I don't believe
all the things Ty says about her. In the long
run, maybe he didn't like Victoria. And
right now he seems wild and disturbed, so how can
he be a good judge of anyone?"
  Gordon shook his head. "Don't dismiss
Ty too easily. There's more to him than you might
think--even in the times when he seems a bit
off."
  My thoughts, however, were already wandering from Ty as
an idea began to take hold in my mind.
  "I have a notion, Gordon.
Natalie says there's to be a costume party
held at the Lake Lure Inn. I told her
I wouldn't go, but I've been wondering if I
might be able to stir up some of the secrets about
Victoria Frazer--and even about Jim--if I
picked up her suggestion. Will you be there,
Gordon?"
  "Of course. This is a civic event, and
Finella would never let me off. If you want
to go, I'd like to take you. But first, tell me what
you have in mind."
  "Natalie wanted me to dress like
Victoria Frazer, and at first I rejected
that. But if I followed it through, I might be able
to startle a few people and force something into the open."
  "I don't like that," he said quickly. "You could
make yourself a target."
  "If you were with me, I'd be all right. And
Betsey has just the dress I might borrow."
I was beginning to feel excited--as though something
urged me into this. "It's a gown Victoria
wore in Blue Ridge Cowboy. That ought
to cause a stir!"
  "No! It's a foolish idea. You don't
look like any of the pictures I've seen of
Victoria. She was blond and you're dark. No
one could possible confuse you."
  I knew he was setting himself against this because he
wanted to protect me, keep me out of possible
trouble. But a vision had begun to possess me and
I wouldn't listen.
  "I'd wear a wig, of course. Don't you
see? That first moment of shock when I appeared,
looking--if only for an instant--like my grandmother,
might tell us something."
  He gave up for the moment, though he was clearly
not convinced. "Let's go down and have breakfast."
  I was hungry and also eager to do anything that would
keep me in Gordon's company. He seemed
to have drawn back from me just a little--perhaps we'd
gone too fast--but I wasn't really worried.
I could still feel his arms around me.
  At the little lunch counter on the shop level,
Gordon picked up rolls and butter and bought
mugs so that we needn't drink coffee out of
Styrofoam cups. We sat near long windows
that looked out toward Lake Lure, shining in the
morning sun--its entire length revealed from this
high place. I could see the massive shape of
Rumbling Bald, as well--that mountain
of secrets that was always a magnet for my eyes.
  It was good to be with Gordon quietly. In
spite of Ty's interruption, I was sharply
aware that something new had come to life between us. We
had both changed.
  His next words surprised me pleasantly.
"Finella asked me to invite you to our house for
dinner tonight. Will you come?"
  I liked Finella and I would go anywhere to be
with Gordon. "I'd love that." But there was still that
one track in my mind. "How will you dress for the
party?" I asked.
  There had been times long ago when he could look
playful--nothing like the serious man he had
become. It was this glint I saw in his eyes now.
  "Let's just wait," he told me. "Maybe
I'll surprise you."
  I had to let it go at that, and I turned in
another direction.
  "I wonder if there's any way I could get
hold of a copy of The Firefly?"
  Gordon considered. "There's an antiquarian
bookshop in Asheville that might have a copy.
I could phone and find out."
  Phoning was too easy. I wanted to stay with
Gordon as long as I could manage it.
"Let's just go," I said. "I'd like to see the
shop, anyway." I knew my own eyes were
dancing in the old way--as they'd done when
Gordon and I embarked on some little adventure.
Once he had found that look irresistible, and it
didn't fail me now.
  He leaned across the small table and kissed me.
"Finish up and we're on our way."
  We went down in the elevator, walked back
through the tunnel and out to Gordon's car. He
chose the high road over the mountains
to Asheville and we followed the Blue Ridge
Parkway for a while. It was a road of hairpin
turns, and when the trees opened up, there were
far-flung vistas of distant valleys and
mountains. The many turns slowed us down, so the
trip to the city took nearly an hour.
  Gordon drove to the old downtown section,
where he parked near a pedestrian mall that wound
its course among elderly buildings of interesting
geometrical design. A short walk took
us to where a sign hung over a door, indicating
the Captain's Bookshelf.
  High, steep stairs led to the second
level. Originally, Gordon told me, the
bookshop had been started by a retired naval
captain, and now it was run by his son and
daughter-in-law.
  This was the sort of old bookstore I'd always
loved. The walls were solid with ancient
volumes and there were counters and stacks, as well as
a couch and comfortable chairs to encourage browsing.
On the far end wall, a fanciful dragon
made of patches of Japanese obi silk formed
a dramatic decoration. In the center of the shop,
an enormous rubber plant that was practically a
tree dominated the space.
  Gordon knew the proprietor and called her
Megan. I quickly recognized her interest in a
myriad of subjects and her knowledge of the books that
crowded around her. When Gordon asked whether she
had a copy of The Firefly, she looked
surprised.
  "What an odd coincidence. That's the second
request I've had today. A man called earlier
and said he would come in to pick up our one copy.
He didn't give me his name or say where he
lived, but he should be in any minute now. If you
like, I can let you see the copy before he comes."
  She gave me the book by Dennis Ramsay,
and while Gordon explored the shop, I sat
down to look through it. The jacket had been torn
and mended with tape, but the pages were intact. There
were a few photographs and I looked through them
at once.
  The author had devoted the early chapters
to Victoria's childhood, and for the first time I
saw pictures of my great-grandparents, whose names
I'd never even known. Because of the strange
circumstances of her birth, my mother had known little
about her family. There were pictures of
Victoria with her brother and sister, and she had
been a beautiful child. Gretchen looked a little
stodgy; it couldn't have been easy for her, growing
up with so stunning an older sister. Ty looked
small for his age but bright-eyed, as if he could be
naughty.
  I was most interested, however, in later
pictures, when Victoria had become a
successful screen actress. Her parents had
apparently died while the children were still young, so they had
never known about her fame.
  The writer pointed out that Victoria Frazer,
a slightly younger contemporary of
Garbo, had possessed a special quality of
her own. What she might have achieved if she had
lived would never be known. The Firefly had
been her most impressive starring vehicle, and the
author claimed that her magic could flash on and
off--like the light of a firefly--though it had never
burned more brightly than in the picture she had
made with Roger Brandt--her last.
  Dennis Ramsay warmed a bit maliciously
to his subject at this point as he went
into detail about the love affair between Victoria
Frazer and Roger Brandt. Dipping into these
paragraphs, I wondered how he could possibly
know such things and how much had been created out of his
own imagination. He seemed more disapproving of
Victoria than of Roger, who he indicated was
devoted to his wife.
  I was startled to read that Betsey had taken
care of Victoria for the last three months of her
pregnancy. It seems Victoria needed a
secluded place where the press wouldn't find her.
If she could keep her condition a secret, which she
managed to do during the filming of Blue
Ridge Cowboy, then her career might continue
unaffected. The baby had been born at
Betsey's house and from there it was taken by a
trusted friend to the couple in California who were
eagerly awaiting my mother's arrival.
  My sympathy turned wholly to Victoria and
I had little patience with Roger. I had just come
to Victoria's supposed suicide and the
resulting scandal that had ruined Roger's career.
But before I could read further, I heard steps on
the stairs. A moment later, Roger Brandt
walked into the shop. I was screened from his view where
I sat, and he didn't see me. I gave up
the copy of the book to Megan reluctantly.
  While it was being wrapped, I went to stand beside
Roger. "Good morning," I said. "I see you
needed a copy of the book you were telling me about
last evening."
  He hid any surprise he might feel at
my presence. "So it seems," he said shortly.
  "Why do you want a copy after all these
years?"
  He looked off toward the silken dragon
winding its colorful way across the end wall.
"To keep it out of your hands, of course. Ramsay
wrote a number of lies into his account, and
I'd hoped they were long forgotten. I
should never have mentioned the book to you. Now you are
stirring up unhappy occurrences all over again."
  "Lies about you, or about Victoria?"
  I had seen that same expression of angry
distaste on the screen--usually followed by some
violent action. But he could hardly draw a gun
and shoot me. He wasn't even on a horse.
  "Lies about my wife," he said.
  I hadn't expected that, and I was silent.
He smiled wryly, pleased that he had startled
me. Now I was all the more curious about whatever
part Camilla had played in the famous tragedy.
  "How is your wife?" I asked.
  He surprised me with his own question. "Where did
you get that bracelet?"
  Ty's earlier visit made me hesitant
to tell him, but I could find no real reason not
to answer his question. "Victoria's brother, Ty,
gave it to me. But that's all I know."
  What that might mean to him, I couldn't tell.
He thanked Megan, picked up his package,
and walked out of the shop. Far from being accepted as his
granddaughter, I was clearly less than nothing in
his eyes.
  Gordon had stayed out of this exchange, but he
had been listening. "I'd certainly like to know
what's in that book," he said. "Do you know where we
could get another copy, Megan?"
  "I don't think I can get you one. It's
been out of print for quite some time, but you might look
up the author," she suggested. "I believe
Dennis Ramsay is still alive and living out at
Fairfield Mountains at Lake Lure.
Perhaps he would loan you a copy."
  Gordon and I looked at each other, and I
knew we were again on our way.
  "We'll have lunch first," he said, "and then
we'll look him up. That's a good tip--
thanks, Megan."
  I felt a new stirring of excitement.
Dennis Ramsay, whether I approved of what
he had written or not, had lived at the time of
all those happenings and he had known the principal
players.
  As we walked back to the car, Gordon told
me about Fairfield Mountains.
  "It's a residential resort on Lake
Lure and Bald Mountain Lake. There are
homes for family living, a golf course, and a
beach. It's exclusive and well
protected. You don't just walk in. I'll
phone when we get to the restaurant and find out if
Ramsay will see us."
  Gordon seemed more relaxed than he'd been
earlier, and I began to relax a little myself. We
were sharing something in a search we could make together.

               ELEVEN

  We drove up Sunset Mountain high above
the city. Grove Park Inn, Gordon told
me, was one of the grand old hotels of the South. It
had opened in 1913 and had received distinguished
guests from all over the world. William Jennings
Bryan had given the opening address, and
presidents had stayed there. It had been
modernized considerably over the decades, but the
basic rocks with which it was built could never be
changed.
  A winding road took us to the top, where I had
my first view of the astonishing building. Thousands of
tons of rocks of all sizes, from huge
boulders to smaller stones, had been carried up the
mountain and painstakingly fitted into the walls--
by Italian masons, Gordon said. The
visual effect of the massive structure of
gray rock was overpowering. One had almost the same
sense of awe that would be felt at viewing some
natural phenomenon.
  Windows had been set into the walls at
intervals, overhung by a brown roof of
surprising curves and scallops. Two more high
rows of windows had been set into the roof itself.
  Inside the great hall, more stonework was evident,
framing doorways, mounting stairs, and set
into gigantic fireplaces. We walked down a
long corridor to one of several dining rooms, where
we were seated at a table from which we could look out
over Asheville.
  When we'd ordered, Gordon went off
to telephone Dennis Ramsay. "Wish me
luck," he said. "I didn't know the man was still
alive, so he must keep a pretty low
profile."
  I waited eagerly for Gordon to return.
More than ever, I wanted to know why Roger Brandt
had tried to keep Mr. Ramsay's book out of
my hands.
  Gordon came back quickly enough. "We
don't exactly have an appointment, but
we'll take a chance that we can see him. He was
asleep when I called and I talked to his
granddaughter, Carol Ramsay. Apparently,
he has made it a rule for some time not to discuss
anything about The Firefly or the events that
made him write it. She said his memory isn't
as sharp as it once was and that he has become rather
frail. But when I was insistent and told her who
you are, Lauren, she gave in."
  As we ate our lunch, Gordon made an
effort to distract me from my growing concern.
  "I've heard," he said, "that a scene from
Blue Ridge Cowboy was filmed in a
ballroom here in the Grove Park Inn."
  I remembered the scene where Roger Brandt had
ridden his palomino into that room, scattering the
dancers, waltzing with Victoria and then taking her
up onto his saddle. She had risen so
gracefully that I'd wondered how many takes it
had required to achieve that smooth ascent.
  At any other time, I would have wanted to see the
real ballroom, but now something more important
drew us, and we ate quickly. When we were on our
way back to Lake Lure, Gordon said there was
one more stop we might make to see whether we could
find a copy of The Firefly--in case the
author failed us.
  Mountains Library was not far from Fairfield
grounds and staffed by volunteers. There was just a chance
that it might have the book we were looking for. Though of
course it would be a plus if Ramsay would
agree to see us.
  Again we followed the high, winding road from
Asheville until we descended into Hickory
Nut Gorge and drove on past Lake
Lure. Along the road, kudzu had made
beautiful sculptures, hiding everything that lay
beneath. Trees, old shacks, abandoned cars--all
disappeared under the mantling of lush, destructive
green. Ty Frazer would never run out of vines
to harvest, and it was certainly time for the South to wake
up to the way kudzu might be put to use.
  The little library was set close to the road and
interesting in itself. Three small six-sided huts
had been joined to make a whole. Inside, the
carpeting was bright and there were comfortable chairs.
Shelves with colorful book jackets added to a
cheerful atmosphere. Paintings by local artists
had been hung wherever there was wall space.
While a volunteer searched the shelves
for a copy of The Firefly, I looked at the
paintings. One in particular caught my eye and
I recognized Natalie's style.
  Again she had painted the Indian village from
an angle that included the ominous stake, with
longhouses stretching back beyond it. At first
glance, the scene seemed empty of any human
figure. Yet I had the curious feeling that
someone was watching me from around the corner of one
longhouse. I moved my eyes quickly from one
spot to another in the painting, as though I might
surprise something I hadn't seen at first glance.
Of course there was nothing there, but the effect of
Natalie's curious spell reached out to the
viewer.
  I studied the picture carefully once more, and
when I glanced sidewise from the corner of my
eye, I caught the impression of a misty
figure that hovered there--not quite in view. Gordon
came to stand beside me, and I pointed out the illusion.
  "I'm never sure how she does it," he said.
"In fact, I wonder if Natalie herself
knows what can be present in her painting."
  "She's good--but unsettling. I can see why
your mother has a hard time selling her work."
  The librarian came to tell us that they owned one
copy of The Firefly, which had been donated
by Dennis Ramsay. It had sat on the shelf for
years, only to be checked out just an hour or so
ago.
  Gordon and I looked at each other.
Roger, of course.
  We drove to the main gateway
into Fairfield Mountains. The guard had been
told to expect us, and he gave Gordon
directions for finding the house where Dennis
Ramsay lived with his family.
  We found it easily, set on a rise of
ground and apparently built from local timber,
with a cantilevered deck that looked out across a lake
on the highest level.
  Carol Ramsay had told Gordon on the
phone that her parents were away and she was looking after
her grandfather. She waited for us at the rustic
front door as we climbed the incline to reach
her. She was a round-faced, pretty young woman
who greeted us anxiously.
  "I'm not sure I should have let you come," she
told us immediately. "He's awake now, but not
feeling too well. ..."
  I felt that she was about to turn us away, but
Gordon spoke smoothly. "Perhaps we'll be
good for him, since we're interested in his writing.
As a journalist, he should want to meet
Victoria Frazer's granddaughter."
  She was still uncertain. "I've had second
thoughts about this. If I'd known where to reach you,
I'd have told you not to come."
  "Was Roger Brandt here?" Gordon asked,
and everything fell into place.
  "Well, yes. He hoped I would keep you
away from my grandfather if you came."
  Gordon persisted. "Why don't you let your
grandfather decide whether he wants to talk to us or
not?"
  "All right--we'll find out. But please
don't stay if he gets the least bit upset."
  We followed her out to the cantilevered high
deck, where Dennis Ramsay lay stretched in a
deck chair in the sun. In his youth, he must have
been a big man, but now corpulence had taken
over, so that his face was heavy with jowls and his flesh
had grown ruddy.
  "Grandfather, you have visitors," Carol told
him. "They'd like to talk to you about your writing."
  That seemed to bring him wide awake, and he
looked us over curiously. "Are you connected with a
paper?" he asked. "Is that why you want to talk
with me? Nobody's bothered for a long time."
  I decided to tell him straight out. "I'm
Victoria Frazer's granddaughter. I know that
you wrote about her in your book The Firefly.
Not many people are left who actually knew her, and
I've wanted to find out more about my grandmother."
  He reached to a table beside him and put on
thick-lensed glasses, the better to see me. I
couldn't tell whether he was accepting or rejecting
me. His question sounded cautious. "What do you want
to know about her?"
  "Anything you can tell me." I pulled over a
chair and sat beside him while Gordon drew
Carol down the deck, leaving me alone with the
author.
  "I'd love to hear whatever you remember about
her, Mr. Ramsay," I went on. "I know so
little, since my mother was sent away days after her
birth."
  He closed his eyes. "Yes, I remember.
I didn't much like Victoria, but she
fascinated me and I thought it was time
someone wrote about her. I suppose I fell
all over myself when I first met her and she consented
to let me interview her. Later she turned against
me. Nobody really got near her except
Roger Brandt. Maybe I was envious of him at
first--until I got to know Camilla and saw how
badly he was treating his wife. What
Victoria saw in that cowboy, or what
Camilla saw, for that matter, I'll never
know."
  "Roger Brandt is my grandfather," I reminded
him.
  He closed his eyes behind the glasses, shutting
me out. "At least that's how the story goes."
  I quickly called him on that, startled.
"Don't you believe what was said?"
  "I didn't say I didn't. As their
granddaughter, I suppose you want
to glamorize Victoria and Roger, but that's not
what I did in writing the book. The
Firefly is also about the beautiful woman they
both betrayed."
  "Camilla Brandt?"
  His sigh suggested a wistful memory, and I
watched him closely as he continued.
  "Camilla was strong as well as beautiful and
she could hold her own well enough. She knew when
to give Roger his head, and I don't think she
ever really worried about Victoria. He'd had
a wandering eye before."
  "This time there was a baby," I reminded him.
  "That must have been hard for Camilla to take, but
she stood by him when all that scandal broke into the
open and his career went down the drain. A lot of
good Victoria did him then. It would have been
convenient for everyone if she had simply
disappeared, but since she upped and died, everything
became known."
  "Drowned in Lake Lure?" I said. "A
suicide?"
  "I never believed that, either. All that
propaganda the studio tried to put out to make the
story sound romantic! A lot of good it did."
  "But you wrote about Victoria--not
Camilla?"
  "Of course. She was the one who would sell my
book, and Camilla never wanted to be written
about. Strong, noble women aren't as interesting
to write about as those with a great deal of self-love
who are flamboyantly wicked."
  I spoke quickly, indignantly. "I can't
believe that Victoria was wicked. What do you
think she did?"
  "Ask Ty Frazer and Betsey Harlan.
Ask her sister, Gretchen. And of course
Camilla could tell you, if she was ever willing
to talk. It was all too neat--the suicide.
What I asked in my book was who most wanted
her out of the picture. Are you sure you want
to dig into all this? How can it matter anymore?"
  I was silent for a little while, wondering how much
to tell him.
  "There was another death," I said. "My
husband, Jim Castle, died a little more than two
years ago under mysterious circumstances. He was
making a documentary on Roger Brandt's
career."
  Ramsay stopped hiding behind closed lids and
stared at me with a bright, curious look--still the
journalist. "Of course! That's who you are--
Jim's wife. He came to see me a few
times and he seemed to want to talk more about
Camilla than about Victoria. I suppose
because Roger was the subject of his film."
  I spoke softly. "You'd fallen in love with
Camilla, hadn't you?"
  He answered me indirectly. "I couldn't
see why Roger would stray from a woman like
Camilla and take up with Victoria Frazer.
Roger came to see me one time while I was working
on my book. I was staying at the Esmeralda
at the time, and maybe I had had a few drinks
one night and said a few things about Victoria.
He got pretty nasty and I had to throw him
out."
  Interesting, I thought. "You knew them all,
didn't you--Ty, for instance?"
  "Of course. I always liked Ty, even after
Betsey turned him down and he took to the
hills. He has a good heart, no matter what
happened in the past, and he loved Victoria--
even after he found out how much his love was
misplaced. She never loved anybody but herself.
Ty still comes to see me now and then and Carol always
lets him in, though my son doesn't think much
of him."
  "And Gretchen?"
  "It was pretty hard on her when Victoria
disappeared. I guess she'd lived her life through
her older sister for a long time. Gretchen
still comes to see me, too. I have arthritis, high
blood pressure--the works--and she helps me,
though she scolds a lot, too. She tells me
I have these problems because I haven't respected the
temple, as she calls the body. But she brings
out her pots of goo and touches my swollen
joints with her hands--and I'm better for months
after she's been here."
  I wanted to draw him back to the subject of
Victoria, but I could see that he was tiring.
Before I asked any more questions, I wanted to make
sure I had a copy of his book.
  "Mr. Ramsay, would you loan me a copy of
The Firefly?"
  He studied me doubtfully before he looked
away again, as though he couldn't meet my eyes.
"You won't like what I wrote about your grandmother."
  "That doesn't matter. Whatever she was like--and
some people think she was an angel--I want to know her
a little better."
  He made up his mind. "I'll do more than
loan you a copy. I'll give you one and sign
it for you. It's not often that I get to play author
these days." He spoke to his granddaughter, who
was still talking with Gordon down the deck.
"Carol, can you find a copy of The Firefly
for Mrs. Castle?"
  When she went off on her errand, he had nothing
more to say. I asked a question, but he seemed not
to hear me, and when Carol returned with the book, it
was as though he had forgotten who I was. She had
to remind him of my name and how to spell it.
  It was time to leave, so I thanked him, though
I'm not sure he heard me. Carol came with us
to the door.
  "I'm sorry," she said. "He can fade out like
that when he tires--sometimes in the middle of a
sentence. He did very well to talk to you this long.
You caught his attention."
  "I think he wanted to talk about Camilla
Brandt," I suggested.
  "Of course." She smiled affectionately.
"His great love! In his imagination, I'm
sure she was that. I'm very fond of him. In his
day, he was a top journalist. He even won
an award or two, and I have an album of
clippings--pieces he wrote for various
papers. Though he never did another book after this
one."
  We thanked her and went out to the car, and
Gordon explained what Carol had told him.
  "Roger was in a fierce mood when he came
here. Carol was even afraid of him. But she
felt indignant at the same time. He was going
to such extremes to keep the book out of your hands that
she decided to let us in. Now that you have the book
--what?"
  "I'd like to go back to the lodge and read it
carefully."
  He looked uneasy. "Okay. Let me
see anything that strikes you. And, Lauren--
don't go wandering off anywhere alone. I feel
uncomfortable about Roger's behavior."
  I agreed, but wished I could recapture that
wonderful feeling I'd had on Chimney
Rock. Roger and Dennis Ramsay had taken
over.
  Gordon left me at the lodge and said he'd
come back at six to take me to Finella's. The
moment I reached my room, I sat down
to examine my treasure more carefully than I'd
had time to during the drive. The jacket was
old-fashioned and suggested the lake, with Rumbling
Bald in the background. I wasted no time on
jacket copy, however, but turned first to the
surprising dedication. The words were brief:

         For Camilla Brandt
              with the respect
             and admiration of
               the author

  What was surprising was that Dennis Ramsay
had declared his admiration for Camilla in so open a
manner. The dedication itself would make anything he
wrote about Victoria suspect and perhaps
prejudiced.
  Now, with Roger's warning to Carol in mind, I
read carefully from the beginning.
  Ramsay was anything but admiring when it came
to the woman about whom he'd chosen to write the
book. Only as a screen actress did he
give Victoria any credit. There he
recognized her fascination and admitted to feeling
something of her spell himself. Nonetheless, through most
of the book, Victoria and Roger came through as
shallow and untrustworthy. No wonder Roger
had dismissed it. Victoria, especially, was the
firefly of the movie. Still, Roger's behavior
seemed extreme.
  I came upon an interview Ramsay had done
with Victoria, where he'd quoted Victoria in
detail. He had asked about the coming marriage between
her brother, Tyronne, and young Betsey,
Victoria's dresser. Victoria had said
carelessly that such a marriage would never take
place.
  Ramsay set down her very words: "I would never
allow my darling Betsey to marry someone like Ty.
He is undependable and filled with ridiculous
notions. I will see to it that Betsey realizes
exactly what she might be getting into."
  However, though I read carefully until it was
time to meet Gordon, nothing surfaced that gave
any indication of why Roger had been so anxious
to keep the book out of my hands. Whatever it was must
still lie ahead; I would get back to it later.
  I dressed somewhat absently for my visit
to Finella's house because Ramsay's words still
haunted me, left me troubled. What had
Victoria Frazer really been like? What might
she have done to bring on her own death? Assuming, of
course, that Jim and Ramsay were both right and that
her death had not been a suicide. Was this what
Roger didn't want me to think about?
  There were other matters to consider, but I put off
my main concern for now--my day with Gordon and
what it had, or had not, meant. There had been those
moments up on Chimney Rock when the old
feelings we'd had for each other had seemed
renewed in a fresh way.
  I could hope only that tonight would be a pleasant
experience--as Finella would probably make it.

               TWELVE

  Gordon and Finella lived on a tiny island
on the lake. We drove across a bridge to a
road that circled the small wooded area. Bright
leaves were falling, whipped by a wind that had risen
after a calm day. Since land was at a premium
here, houses were built at various levels.
Finella's was on the water, so Gordon left
his car near the road and we went down wooden
steps to the inevitable boathouse with a deck area
above.
  Finella's preparations were attractive. There
was still light in the sky, but hurricane lamps had
been placed about on the big square deck. A
round table, covered with a yellow cloth and
set with colorful dishes, stood in a corner where
the view down the lake was best. Thanks to the
island, the wind that whipped the water to froth farther
out bypassed this sheltered spot. It would be
pleasant to dine outdoors.
  Gordon and I were not the only guests.
Natalie and Camilla were already there, sitting in
outdoor chairs.
  At the sight of Camilla, I felt immediately
uneasy. If she had collapsed last night in
order to get her husband away from Victoria's
granddaughter--and his--how would she greet me this
evening? I needn't have been concerned. Both she and
Natalie behaved as though nothing had happened
last night to upset anyone. I still had no idea
how Roger had reacted after he got home.
  In any case, this supper appeared to be a
means of bringing the three women together for further
discussion about the coming costume ball. I'd been
invited simply because I was here. Gordon went
to help his mother with the chef's salad she'd prepared,
and then set the bowl in the middle of the table. As we
sat down, I saw that a fifth "guest" was
present. Already at his place sat a
life-size dummy figure, limbs sprawled,
vacant of face.
  Natalie looked delighted at the sight of
him. "So Ezekiel is back." Then she
explained to me. "We've nicknamed him that. He
was one of the stand-ins that was thrown off the cliff at the
end of The Last of the Mohicans. His arms and
legs are articulated and can be worked by remote
control so as to give a lifelike appearance as
he goes through the air. These dummies are
pretty valuable, and locals were beating the woods
to find them after they'd been tossed over from the top
of the falls. Who discovered this one, Finella?"
  "Ty came across him in a remote area and
brought him to me. I think I'll display him in
my shop for a few days before I send him off
to California to his rightful owners."
  "He spooks me a little," Natalie said.
"I think he knows more than he's telling us."
  "I remember the filming," Camilla said.
"For once, I was invited to view some of the scenes
in the Indian village--though so little of what I
saw appeared in the final picture."
  As Finella brought out a chilled bottle of
white wine and a loaf of warm bread, I watched
Camilla in both doubt and admiration.
She looked as beautifully composed as ever, and it
was hard to imagine her collapsing as she'd
supposedly done last night.
  "The burning at the stake was so cleverly
managed," she went on. "The illusion on the
screen was perfect."
  "I painted that same scene," Natalie said,
"though I had to do it from my imagination."
  I told Natalie that I'd seen her
watercolor of the empty Huron village that
hung on the wall at the little Mountains
Library, and then asked the question that puzzled me.
  "When you were working on that painting, did you have a
sense that someone was watching you?"
  She sipped the wine Gordon had poured and
smiled ruefully. "I never meant to paint
anything shadowy into that picture, but when I was
finished, there it was! Though it was only something I
caught out of the corner of my eye. I don't much
like it that something can take over when I'm painting.
I want to be fully in control."
  "Natalie has a special vision,"
Camilla said, "though she doesn't always
appreciate it." She took the bowl of salad
from Finella, helped herself, and passed it along.
"Natalie's gift is one I'd love
to cultivate."
  "You have your own gifts, Gran," Natalie
said, and I was aware of the look of affection that
passed between them.
  Gordon listened as we talked and ate, though
he had little to say. There wasn't a moment when I
was not sharply aware of him beside me at the table.
  The three women began to talk about preparations
for the coming ball and I found myself watching the
twilight view out over the lake, paying little
attention until Natalie spoke to me
directly.
  "Of course you're coming, aren't you, Lauren?"
  I wanted to give away nothing that I was
planning for that night, so I merely shrugged.
"I'm not sure. There would be so few people there I'd
know." I held my breath, hoping she wouldn't
give away the suggestion she'd made that I come
as Victoria. There would be no point to my plan
if the shock value of to such an appearance was
spoiled.
  Natalie interested herself in a plate of
succulent shrimp and tomato wedges set in a
nest of bright green kudzu leaves and then
went on.
  "It's going to be an exciting night. You
mustn't miss it, Lauren. You might even learn
more about us than you want to know." She laughed
wryly at her own comment, but her grandmother caught
her up.
  "What do you mean by that?" Camilla asked.
  "Nothing, really. You and Grandfather will be the center
of attention--and that's excitement enough. I've
started a watercolor of you both dancing together, with the
crowd standing around watching. I've even begun
to spot in a few faces among the watchers."
  "Am I there?" I asked curiously.
  "Maybe. I haven't gotten very far. Though
I've discovered a monk standing just beyond the dancers.
There's a hood over his head, so I can't make
out his face. That's when I stopped painting--because
I began to have a bad feeling about the monk."
  "Who do you think might come dressed as a
monk?" Gordon asked.
  Before Natalie could answer, Camilla
broke in. "It's only a painting, for heaven's
sake! Let's talk about something else.
Lauren, I understand that you and Gordon visited
Dennis Ramsay this afternoon. What do you think of
him?"
  I must have shown my surprise, for she smiled.
  "The Lake Lure grapevine works quickly.
Carol Ramsay called to ask my advice about
you."
  "Advice?"
  "She felt that you might upset her grandfather.
I told her you were just trying to follow up on your
husband's research and that if Dennis didn't
mind, it was fine. Of course you won't be here very
long, as I told Carol. So one visit
isn't going to matter."
  Too many people seemed to want me gone, and I
dug in my heels. "I'll be here for as long as
I need to be," I said, and heard my words echo
hollowly in the odd silence that followed. They were
all looking at me, and suddenly I wanted
to ruffle Camilla's calm assurance.
  "Mr. Ramsay was kind and quite willing to talk
with me. He didn't seem to think much of
Victoria Frazer. Perhaps because he was in love
with you in those days, Mrs. Brandt?"
  All around us, the light was fading, so the
hurricane lamps on the rooftop deck softened
our outlines. I hadn't disturbed
Camilla in the least. Her smile was fond.
  "A dear man, and a good writer. He was there
when I was in need of a friend."
  There when Roger was not? I wondered. Gordon
gave me a warning look, but I paid no
attention. "What kind of friend was he, Mrs.
Brandt?"
  Natalie laughed softly, entertained by what was
happening.
  "You're still young, Lauren," Camilla said.
"Perhaps you haven't discovered that there may be a time
in a woman's life when she needs a man who will
be a helpful friend and who asks nothing more. Have you
started to read the book he loaned you?"
  "Yes--it's fascinating. It reads like
fiction."
  "Much of it is fiction."
  This time, it was Natalie who spoke. "Which
parts, Grandmother? I read some of the book years
ago--before you took it away from me."
  "You were too young for it, dear. Dennis liked
to exaggerate, to embroider. Sometimes he distorted
the truth."
  This time, Gordon pressed her. "In what
way, Mrs. Brandt?"
  Her answer was casual--perhaps a little amused.
"I'm afraid Dennis had a crush on me for a
time, when we were all young. So perhaps he wasn't
always fair to my husband in the book."
  Was that the answer? I wondered. That Roger's
determined actions were only an effort to protect
his fragile ego? "Has the grapevine
reported that my grandfather has been snapping up
copies of The Firefly from here
to Asheville? And that he went out to Dennis
Ramsay's to persuade him not to see me?"
  She still seemed unperturbed. "Roger can play
dramatic roles at times. He gets carried
away, so perhaps that's what happened. The book
upset him when it was published--much more than it
did me."
  Because it had been so critical of Victoria,
whom Roger still loved? "What is in that book that
he doesn't want me to know?" I asked.
  She looked away from our small group, off
toward Rumbling Bald. "Why don't you consult
him, my dear?"
  Roger wasn't likely to tell me anything,
and she knew that perfectly well. I stared at the
mountain, too, wondering how many
secrets were held by that sleeping giant.
  Finella had had enough of this curious dueling; she
rose to clear away the dishes. Natalie got
up to assist. Gordon was talking to Camilla
about the coming ball, so I joined the others in helping
clear the table.
  All through the meal, the dummy from the movie had
seemed to watch us. Long weathering outdoors while
he was lost in the woods had left its traces.
He looked a bit battered and his clothes were
beginning to shred. None of this mattered so long as his
inner machinery continued to work. Perhaps his next dive
would be off the top of some high building on the
West Coast.
  "You must live an adventurous life," I
remarked whimsically as I folded the yellow
tablecloth. When I joined the others in the kitchen,
Finella shooed me back outside, explaining that
I was the "real" guest and that I must sit and
relax.
  "This won't take long, Lauren. We'll just
pop everything into the dishwasher. So go talk
to Gordon and Camilla."
  But when I returned to the deck, Camilla was
leaving. Gordon followed her into the house as she
stopped to tell Finella good night.
  I stood at a side railing of the deck,
looking up at the rising moon--a plump moon
that cast a shimmering face on the water. Voices
drifted across from the opposite shore. Above
Finella's house, the windows of two higher
dwellings were dark, their summer people gone.
  Wisps of mist had begun to gather near the
water and I watched as they thickened around the lower
part of the boathouse. Not far from where I stood,
steep steps led down to a strip of dock, almost
invisible now in the veil of white. I decided
to walk down toward the water and enjoy the sights and
sounds of this beautiful night.
  I was halfway down when a voice spoke out
of nothingness and I froze. "Come down, Lauren.
I have something to show you."
  The voice seemed to come out of misty darkness at
the foot of the steps. It was only a whisper and I
couldn't tell whether it came from a man or a
woman. I peered down into opaque depths through which
a watery moon wavered.
  "Who are you?" I called. "What do you
want?"
  "Hush!" the voice warned. "I will
speak only to you. You want to know how Victoria
died, don't you?"
  I caught my breath, but I would not put myself
at risk. I ventured down three more steps,
trying vainly to see whomever was down there. The
speaker was silent now, hidden by the silvery
floating veil. The unseen movement of lapping
water had a hypnotic effect and I began
to feel disoriented. Distant sounds from the house
reached me and I heard Gordon's voice. I
shook my head to clear it, and, without warning, a
strong voice sounded in my head--as clearly as
though the word had been spoken aloud: JUMP!
  I obeyed the command instinctively, even though it
meant leaping out into space from these high steps. Because
I was moving away from the blow when it fell, it
only grazed my shoulders. Heavy and hurtful,
it would have been much worse if it had struck across
the back of my head. As I dropped into space,
a flash of awareness went through me. Now I knew
how Victoria had died.
  Cold water closed over my head, enveloping
me, and I seemed to drop endlessly before I could
change my plummeting descent and fight my
way, sputtering, to the surface. I paddled in the
water and searched the lighted area of dock and
boathouse for any indication of who had struck
me. Through the mist, which was translucent now with the
lights behind it, I could see that stairs and railing
stood empty. Pilings below the dock were only a
few feet away, but I didn't want to swim
into those shadows, lest my attacker be hiding there.
Nor would I dare swim toward the nearest
shoreline, where the bridge to the island ended. But the
water's chill was growing painful, and, despite the
mist, I knew my whereabouts were all too visible.
  Far above, I could see the lighted window of
Finella's kitchen, and I began to shout, calling
Gordon's name. With kitchen clatter going on,
how could they possibly hear me? In a moment,
I would have to swim to the dock and take a chance that
my attacker was gone.
  Then I heard someone running down the steps,
calling my name, and I put more volume into my
voice. Gordon ran along the dock to where I
paddled fiercely against the cold.
  "I'm here! Here in the water! Help me,
please!"
  He kicked off his shoes and dove in to swim
over to me.
  "Oh, Gordon!" I cried between chattering
teeth, and clung to him.
  He put a hand under my chin and towed me to a
ladder that ran from the dock to the water. As I
hung on to its rungs and looked up, I
realized that this ladder bypassed the steps and continued
to the top deck over the boathouse. My mind was
clear now, no matter how frozen my body
felt. Whoever had called to me from the foot of the
steps could have climbed this ladder to come around behind me
up there.
  Then Gordon was pulling me to safety, and the
moment my feet touched the dock, my legs
turned to rubber. He picked me up and carried
me through a doorway at the land end of the
boathouse. I smelled fresh sawdust and
varnish as he laid me down on a cot covered
over by an Indian blanket and turned on
lights. This was where he worked on his drums, and I
felt safe for the first time as he wrapped the
blanket around me and shouted for Finella.
  She came down at once and took over,
asking no questions. "Can you carry her up to the
bedroom, Gordon? I'll get her out of those
wet things."
  I tried to tell them I could walk, but
Gordon picked me up again, and I relaxed with
my head against his shoulder, perfectly willing to be
helpless. When he set me down, blanket and
all, on Finella's bed, he bent over me and
rubbed his cheek against mine. I looked into his
eyes, surprised, but he left quickly. His mother
helped me out of my wet clothes and gave me an
enveloping terry-cloth robe to put on.
  "Now then," she said, "something hot to drink.
Then you can talk. I want to hear what
happened."
  Apparently, both Camilla and Natalie
had left right after dinner, and I needed to talk
to only the two of them. Gordon, too, had
changed from his wet clothes and had put on a soft
old sweatshirt and a faded pair of jeans.
  Hot herbal tea restored me a little. I
sat at the kitchen table, warmth seeping through me,
calming me as I told them both what had
happened.
  "Something told me to jump," I finished,
feeling weaker now that I had gone over what had
happened, realizing how close to death I might have
been. "Perhaps Victoria warned me.
Perhaps she wouldn't let it happen again--not to me."
  Finella accepted my notion quietly, but
Gordon shrugged this idea aside. "You sensed
someone's presence, and now we have to find out who was
there. Someone wants you gone because you're coming too
close--just as Jim may have done. You've got
to go home, Lauren. Get away from here and let
it all go."
  I shook my head weakly, warming my hands
around the hot cup. "If I'm that close, then
I'm close enough to find out the rest."
  He gave me a worried look and went back
to the dock to see whether he could find any traces
of an intruder.
  "You haven't any idea who called to you?"
Finella asked when we were alone.
  "Not the faintest. But there are only four people
left from Victoria's generation--Gretchen,
Ty, Roger, and Camilla. Not counting
Betsey, who is helpless and who loved
Victoria most of all."
  "We shouldn't limit the search to that group,"
Finella said. "It could have been someone younger who
wants to protect an older member of the
family."
  "You mean Justyn or Natalie?" This was
possible, but it didn't lead me anywhere.
Natalie would never have harmed Jim--and his death was
an important part of this whole dreadful
puzzle. Of course, I had no clear idea of
where Justyn's loyalties lay or how he
felt about anything--except that he disliked Ty
Frazer and didn't approve of me. Just as he
hadn't approved of Jim.
  Gordon came back to report that he'd found
nothing. Whoever it was hadn't come by boat, since a
boat with a motor would have been heard and a rowboat,
while fairly silent, would not have been a fast,
efficient means of getting away. It would be
easy enough to leave a car up near the road and come
across the bridge to watch the goings-on at
Finella's house. Or perhaps the person had some
other reason and I had simply offered an
opportunity that was too good to pass up when I
appeared on the steps.
  Finella went to get my clothes from the dryer,
and Gordon sat next to me, drinking a mug of
coffee, looking a bit disoriented himself. I
remembered how tenderly he'd carried me, how
worried he had been, and I touched his
hand lightly. "I won't do anything foolish or
risky, I promise."
  "You might not even know it was foolish or
risky." He did his best to glower, but I knew
now how he felt about me.
  When I'd dressed, I thanked Finella and
was grateful for her warm hug and kiss on the
cheek. Gordon drove me to the lodge and
insisted on coming up to my room to check it out. I
promised I would lock myself in, and when he
stood outside my door, looking more uncertain
than I'd ever seen him look before, I kissed
him quickly and closed the door before he could react.
If he was still fighting against the past, that was going
to end.
  When I was ready for bed, I settled myself
against the pillows with Dennis Ramsay's book,
still curious about what it was that Roger had not wanted
me to read.
  Ramsay's infatuation with Camilla was more
evident as the book progressed and it
prejudiced me against what he had to say. He
saw Victoria only through Camilla's eyes.
  In my haste to find answers, I stopped
reading carefully and began to search, scanning the
pages for the answer I sought. One passage must
have upset several people when it appeared in print.
Camilla, Ramsay wrote, had possessed a
spectacular Spanish temper. When the love
affair between Roger and Victoria became too
obvious and was more than she could take, she'd
proceeded to indulge in a petty revenge.
Petty was my word, not Ramsay's, and perhaps it
was no small thing to Roger Brandt that Camilla
had taken a pair of shears and cut up her
husband's favorite Stetson hat. He had
come upon her in the act, and the fight between them had
nearly blown off the roof. Ramsay wrote:

  I was outside on a balcony at the higher
level of the house at the time, and I heard the
whole thing. The violence in their voices alarmed
me, and I tried to go to Camilla's aid--I
thought he might injure her.
  But both she and Roger turned on me, and I
backed out quickly. At least the heat between them
subsided at my interruption.
  Roger took the shears away from Camilla before
she could stab him with them, and he swept the remains
of the Stetson into a wastebasket. For the
rest of the film, he had to wear a newer hat,
without the well-worn marks of the one that had appeared
in the earlier scenes of the picture.

  I put aside the book and thought about what
I'd read. In spite of the ugly violence that had
flared between them, Roger had never left his wife.
Had he, in the end, wanted only to protect
her? Or was she in some way protecting him?
Certainly, they seemed locked together in some
love-hate relationship that perhaps still existed. I
wondered if this was the scene he didn't want me
to read.
  All that night my dreaming was uneasy, and I
woke up early, ready for the next step I meant
to make. When I telephoned Betsey to ask
if I might come out to see her, she sounded pleased
and not at all surprised. I could come any time
I liked, she told me.
  I had no difficulty following the route to the
valley where apple signs abounded and was able
to locate Betsey's farmhouse easily. She
was out on the porch in her wheelchair, waiting for
me when I drove into the yard, and her eyes were
bright with an anticipation that made me suddenly
uneasy. I thought about turning my car around and just
driving away. But, of course, that would have been
too sensible.

               THIRTEEN

  Betsey was in a lively mood when she
greeted me. She had dressed in a
multicolored gown that completely enveloped her
small person--a gypsy sort of dress that
belonged to the past--plus a pair of cowboy
boots that were clearly hand-tooled. She had wound
a turban of white silk crepe around her head.
I recognized at once that it was the same
turban Victoria had worn in Blue
Ridge Cowboy.
  As I came up the steps, she held out both
hands to greet me warmly. "I was waiting for your
call. I knew you'd be coming today."
  By this time, I could accept that Betsey had
talents of her own that one didn't question.
  Her thin, sweet-faced granddaughter came out
of the house to hover anxiously, but Betsey waved
her away. "Lauren will look after me, dear.
I'll call if I need you."
  I held the screen door as Betsey wheeled
herself inside. Her legs might not carry her
anymore, but her arms were strong and helped her
to move vigorously.
  In her own bright room, she added a further
colorful touch that reminded me of paintings I'd
seen by Matisse.
  "Sit down, Lauren." She gestured toward
the chair where I'd sat before. "I hope you like my
costume. It really is a costume from a movie.
Victoria arranged a bit part for me in Roger
Brandt's movie that he made at Lake Lure
after Blue Ridge Cowboy. I played a
gypsy who could tell the future. When my bit
part was done, she bought this dress for me to keep."
  "I recognize the turban," I said.
  She nodded dreamily. "It hasn't been
worn since I wound it around Victoria's head
in preparation for that ballroom scene. The one where
Roger Brandt rode in on his horse. They
filmed that at the Grove Park Inn in
Asheville, you know. Ever since Victoria
died, I've kept the turban with the dress I
showed you. You've come for that gown, haven't you?"
  "How did you know?"
  "I have my ways."
  "No wonder they cast you to predict the
future in that movie. What else do you see?"
  The brightness went out of her face for a moment, but
she quickly regained her composure. "Let's just
talk about the costume party they are holding. Of
course you must wear Victoria's dress--it will
keep her from being forgotten. Bring it out of the
closet now and try it on. You're about her
size, though perhaps a little taller. That won't
matter, since it doesn't need to drag on the
floor. I've mended the place where Roger
tore it."
  I went to the closet and drew out the garment bag
that protected the treasured gown.
  "You can dress in my bathroom. There's a
full-length mirror out here, when you're ready.
Hurry, so I can see how you look."
  I hooked the bag over the shower rail and took
off my slacks and blouse. A full white
satin slip hung in the bag with the dress and I
put that on. Its thin straps sat perfectly on
my shoulders and I pulled the gown over my head
carefully. There'd been no zippers in common
use in those days, and tiny pearl
buttons ran down the back. I went to work
fastening those I could reach. Clearly, no one had
ever put this dress on without help, and I
returned to Betsey and knelt before her chair.
  Though her knuckles were bumpy with arthritis,
she managed to fasten each tiny pearl to its loop.
There was no d@ecolletage to this gown;
Victoria's perfect face had been enough to show it
off. Even before I looked in the mirror, I
knew my own shortcomings.
  When I stood up, I saw tears on
Betsey's cheeks as she looked at me. "The
last time I fastened those buttons, Victoria
was wearing that dress. She looked so beautiful."
  "I know," I said humbly. "I saw her in
the film when Roger Brandt showed it to me.
Imagine--he has kept a print for all these
years. He seemed deeply moved when we
watched it together."
  Betsey shook her head impatiently. "He
wasn't moved because of my beautiful lady, but
only because he played that silly cowboy role.
Narcissistic--that's what he always was." She
broke off, flicking her fingers as though brushing
him away. "You look well in that dress."
  "I know I don't resemble my grandmother,
Betsey. But perhaps I'll startle a few people when
I wear it."
  She looked at me critically. "Your hair
is too dark. She had hair like a canary's wing
--soft and golden and beautiful. She never did
anything to touch it up, the way some of those other
actresses did. So now you must wear her
turban to cover your hair. The turban was my
idea for the picture--to show off the lovely
sculpture of her head. I made it myself, and
I showed her how to wear the folds tight to her
head, crossing gracefully, with no knot at the
top. I tucked in the ends at the back so it
showed only the shape of her head. Garbo wore a
turban just like this a few years later, and I
suspect her costume designer got the idea from
me."
  Betsey began to unwind the long white bands from
around her own small head and motioned for me
to kneel again--this time facing her.
  When I was on her level, I could count every
wrinkle in her face. The creases, I
suspected, were not marks of sadness, but had been
earned by wisdom, by life, and perhaps most
of all by laughter. In spite of losing Ty and
Victoria and a husband of many years, she had
clearly not been a sorrowful woman. Even her
present handicap was something she handled with simple
courage. Her breath touched my face with a faint
odor of mint leaves, and on impulse I leaned
forward and kissed her cheek.
  "I know why Victoria loved you,
Betsey."
  "We did fine together. You know she stayed with
me, hiding away here at the farm until the baby
was born? Her studio approved of that. Of
course they wanted to hush everything up; an
unmarried woman just didn't have a baby in those
days. She did as they instructed, but she couldn't
let Roger off so easily. After the baby
arrived, she went back to the lake for a little while
to stay with her sister, Gretchen. I suspect she
was giving Roger one last chance to leave Camilla
and do right by her. I never knew exactly what
happened, only that she asked me to take the baby
away, because by that time she wanted to be sure that
Roger would never get his hands on her. I'm the
one who carried your momma out to those good friends in
California. She told me to do it right away because
she was afraid she wouldn't be able to let her go if
she looked into that little baby's eyes again. She
died while I was gone."
  I held very still, listening to these revelations. She
paused in her winding and sat with an end of white
crepe in her fingers, her gaze on something far
away.
  "You must understand the truth, Lauren, or you can't
wear this dress honestly. Victoria wasn't
always an angel, even though she looked like one."
  "I can accept that," I assured her. "I've
been reading a book by Dennis Ramsay, and even
though Ramsay was in love with Camilla and
prejudiced against Victoria, some of the things he
wrote about her must have been true."
  "Dennis was a fool! He turned
to Camilla only because Victoria wouldn't give
him the time of day. But no matter what nasty things
she could do, she was always good to me."
  "Of course you must have worshiped her,
supported her, and perhaps she needed that."
  "I loved her," Betsey said, "and there
weren't many people who did. Only Ty and
Gretchen. Though Ty came to resent her because she
cut off the money that would have sent him
to college."
  "How could she have done anything so cruel to her
own brother?"
  "In the long run, it was the right thing to do.
Maybe she knew him better than anybody
else did. She knew he'd never stick it out
through four years of college."
  "She kept him from marrying you."
  "Thank God she did! Imagine what my
life would have been like if I'd been Mrs. Ty
Frazer! First love can be pretty idiotic.
Maybe you've found that out by this time."
  It wasn't always idiotic, I thought.
Sometimes it was right--though one might not have the
wisdom to recognize that fact when it happened.
What I wanted now was a second chance.
  "What about Gretchen?" I asked. "Did she
really love Victoria?"
  "Yes, in her way. Trouble was, she wanted
her older sister to be more perfect than
Victoria could ever be. Even though she was the
youngest, Gretchen was the little mother in that family, and
maybe she had better sense than the other two.
She hated it when Victoria got pregnant,
and she hated Roger for what he did to her sister.
After Victoria died, disappeared--whatever--she
wanted to keep the baby. But Victoria had
other ideas and Gretchen couldn't get it back."
  "Do you think Victoria drowned herself because she
couldn't live without Roger?"
  Abruptly, Betsey returned to winding the
folds of white crepe around my head, and I
knew she wouldn't talk about this anymore. The
smooth overlapping folds had to be exactly right
and they took all her attention.
  "I'll teach you how to do this," she said. "Now go
look at yourself in the mirror."
  The pier glass across the room gave back the
reflection of someone I didn't know. Here was an
illusion I hadn't expected. The full white
gown with its high, molded bodice made me
look almost glamorous. The turban was the last
touch to make Lauren Castle disappear. I
wasn't sure I liked this. If I wasn't
Victoria and I wasn't Lauren Castle,
who was I?
  Betsey uttered a soft humming sound of
satisfaction. "You don't look like her--but
there's something. ... Your head is the same shape,
and the way you hold it reminds me of her.
And your back is as straight as hers was. But
that's about all. Yet there's something--an essence
--that is your grandmother."
  She paused, suddenly troubled, and then went
on, "I hope this won't worry anyone too
much."
  I intended to answer her, but for an instant an
unexpected delight rushed through me, then was as
quickly gone. My reflection in the glass frightened
me more than it pleased me--I suddenly felt as
though Victoria herself might step into my body
when I wasn't looking.
  "I wonder if she's around--watching," I
said, only half-joking.
  "Of course she is. She can't let go when
there's so much unfinished business."
  "You don't think she drowned herself, do you?"
  "It's better to leave all that alone, my
girl. Let Victoria take care of it in her
own way, if that's what she wants."
  "Perhaps I shouldn't wear these things to the party?"
  "That's up to you. I don't think anyone will
take you for her, but they'll recognize what
you're wearing, and you may make quite an impression
on more than a few of her contemporaries."
  "What do you think I should do?"
  Quite suddenly, she covered her face with both
hands. "I wish I could see what lies ahead.
Sometimes I can, but now it's all misty--the way
the lake can get at times."
  "I know," I said. "I fell into Lake
Lure last evening." I told her what had
happened--all of it.
  She kept her hands over her face as she
listened. When she took them away, she'd
clearly made up her mind. "Don't go to the
party. Take those things off and leave them here.
Let me unbutton you now."
  While she worked on the buttons, I unwound
the length of crepe from my head and folded it
neatly. Then I went into the bathroom and put on
my own clothes. I didn't return
Victoria's clothes to the garment bag because I
knew what I meant to do and no one was going
to dissuade me.
  "Do you have something I can put these things into,
Betsey?" I asked briskly. "If you'll
let me, I'll take them back to the lodge
now."
  She knew I had made up my
mind, and she didn't oppose me, although she
looked unhappy. "There's a canvas tote
bag at the bottom of the closet. Use that."
  When everything had been folded into the bag, I
bent to kiss her cheek again. "Thank you, dear
Betsey."
  She blinked at me, owl-like, and closed her
eyes. I doubted that her trick of suddenly
falling asleep was real, but it was better to accept
it and go away.
  "I'll let you know what happens," I told
her as I left, though she gave no sign that she
heard me.
  I drove back to the lodge on automatic
because my mind was busy going over all that had
happened. I wanted to tell Gordon about the
dress, but since he had been uneasy about my
going to the ball, I knew I'd better not. I
still didn't know what he planned to wear that evening.
  I parked my car, picked up the bulging tote
bag, and went inside. Mrs. Adrian saw me
and beckoned urgently. I stopped at the desk
and she handed me a phone message.
  I didn't look at the slip until I
reached my room. It appeared that Finella had
been trying to get in touch and wanted me to call
her as soon as possible.
  First, I took Victoria's dress and
turban out and hung them in my closet. I'd
folded the gown carefully so it wouldn't wrinkle,
and it hung smoothly enough--a slim ghost from the
past. Waiting to possess me--to take me over?
  From the moment I had tried it on, I had
believed that I would delight in wearing this gown to the
costume ball. Anticipation of the stir I might
cause had brought a tingle of almost mischievous
excitement. I especially wanted to see
Roger's and Camilla's faces when I walked
in. Yet now I felt suddenly reluctant.
There had been moments lately when I'd almost
sensed some restless spirit hovering close--as though
waiting. If I wore this dress, would I open
a door to some unknown place, so that she could come
in?
  But that was nonsense. I was allowing the
atmosphere, the very "legend," of Lake Lure
to affect me. Someone who was far from being a spirit had
struck out at me last evening. Only the flash of
warning in my mind had saved me. My enemy was
real enough, and I began to feel more
angry than frightened. I must be very close to something
or such an attack would never have been risked.
If only Jim had shared whatever knowledge he'd
unearthed. Or--perhaps he had? What if he had
shared it trustingly with the wrong person and sealed his
own fate?
  I closed the closet door, and when I
phoned Finella, she asked me to come to the shop
at once. "Ty is here and I've never seen him
so upset. He thinks Victoria is after him and
that only you can persuade her to leave him alone.
I can't talk sense into him and he won't leave
until he sees you. So please come over right
away, Lauren. This is more than I can take."
  Finella had always seemed perfectly able
to deal with whatever happened, so her plea alarmed
me. "Of course. I'll be there in a few
minutes."
  I left Victoria's ghost behind and went out
to my car. A few minutes later, Finella
met me at the door of her shop. While her
manner was still disturbed, she tried to maintain a
semblance of calm.
  "How are you, Lauren? I've been concerned
about you."
  "I'm fine. One shoulder carries quite a
bruise, but that's all. I went to see Betsey
this morning and I'd just gotten back when I
spoke with you."
  Ty heard us and came scurrying across the shop.
"Better you stay away from that one!" he told
me. "She'll give you all the wrong ideas.
She let Victoria fool her most of all."
  "I can make my own decisions," I told
him, sounding sharper than I intended. "Why do you
want to see me?"
  "You know why. She tried to knock you off those
stairs yesterday, didn't she?"
  This was likely to be rough going. "Let's sit
down where we can talk," I said, and led the way
back to the couch where I'd sat so recently with
Camilla Brandt.
  He trotted after me, but when I sat down at
one end, he dropped to the floor and sat with his
legs crossed, looking up at me.
  "All right," I said. "What is this about
Victoria? She certainly didn't try
to knock me off those stairs at Finella's
boathouse yesterday."
  Finella had come with us, clearly
interested, though she didn't sit down.
  "They can be all over anywhere--all at the
same time."
  "They?"
  "Spirits."
  "I don't believe in spirits."
  "You mean you haven't felt her around?"
  I didn't want to admit that to Ty. "I'm
like you--I have an imagination that runs away with
me."
  "Why did you go to see Betsey?"
  "That's between Betsey and me, Ty. I'm still not
sure why you wanted to talk with me."
  "Victoria will listen to you. So tell her
to let me alone. She didn't treat me right when
she was alive, and I don't want her tormenting
me now."
  "Just how am I supposed to tell Victoria
anything?"
  "Stop holding her off. Just let her come in."
  "What if I don't want to do that?"
  "You better try. She can tell you things you
need to know. If she feels like telling you the
truth. She used to lie a lot in the old days--
my loving sister!"
  "Betsey seems more generous toward her, Ty.
She admits that Victoria wasn't always kind,
but Betsey loved her and admired her good
qualities."
  "What good qualities?"
  Old bitterness was so deeply a part of his
nature that I didn't try to argue with him.
"I'm not sure I want to let her in, as you
say. If you're right and there are spirits around us, it
may not be a good idea to encourage them to become
real."
  The telephone rang and Finella, who had
been listening with interest, went to answer it.
  Ty leaned toward me, his arms on crossed
knees. "You can reach her right now, Lauren.
Close your eyes and let your thoughts drift.
Here--this will help you."
  He fumbled in the knapsack he carried and
drew out a dried twig. "It's rosemary. You
know what that's for, don't you? Remembrance."
  "But I don't have any memories of
Victoria or that time. What do you expect me
to remember?"
  "Don't worry, you'll know. Go ahead--
sniff the rosemary and close your
eyes. She will remember."
  "Not here," I said, and dropped the sprig
into my purse. "I'll take it with me and perhaps
I'll try it later."
  Finella returned and shook her head at
Ty. "That was Gretchen. I told her you were here,
and she says you're not supposed to be running around
with that bad shoulder. She's out shopping and she's coming
over to get you right away."
  Ty looked alarmed. "I don't want to see
her. She'll put me back inside a house--
where I don't want to be. Just tell her I'm
fine and she needn't go chasing me around."
  "She isn't coming just to see you," Finella
told him. "Lauren's the one she most wants
to see."
  "Then I'm off!" Ty gave me an intent
look. "Just think about what I told you. She
won't talk to me anymore now that I've given
her to you. So tell me what she says if you get
through."
  He started toward the door, but he wasn't quick
enough. Gretchen must have been phoning from close
by, because she came hurrying into the shop.
  "I'm okay," he assured her. "It's
Victoria you need to worry about now. She's
loose again, and she's going to make everybody who
ever crossed her pay."
  Gretchen snorted. "Sometimes, Ty, you've
got about as much sense as Siggy. Less, in
fact."
  He gave her a look that was far from brotherly
and flung himself out of the shop.
  At once, Gretchen turned to me. "Come
along, Lauren. It's time I showed you something."
  I'd had enough of both Frazers, and when she
reached for my arm, I pulled away. "I'm not
going anywhere unless you tell me why."
  Startling me, she put a hand on either side of
my head. "Just be quiet for a minute, Lauren.
There's too much turmoil now for you to think
clearly."
  In spite of myself, I stopped resisting. When
she took her hands away, I felt somehow
calmer and more relaxed. Whatever resentment was
left in me had dissolved at her touch.
  Apparently, Finella had seen Gretchen do
this before, for she nodded her reassurance. "You'll be
fine, Lauren. Whatever Gretchen wants to show
you must be important, so come and see me
later."
  The bell on the shop door sounded musically and
she went to greet a large group of customers who
had just come off the tour bus parked outside. I
followed Gretchen out the door.
  "We'll go back to the lodge first," she told
me. "I'll meet you in the parking lot."
  My actions had begun to feel strangely
normal. "Are you part witch, Gretchen?" I
asked.
  "Only about one percent," she told me, and
her smile reminded me of Siggy's grin. Perhaps
it was true that we come to resemble the animals we
love.
  Her car was parked not far from mine and I followed
as she drove uphill over the familiar road
to Rumbling Mountain Lodge. There she put her
car into her own garage, while I left mine in the
space reserved for guests. As she emerged from her
garage, she waved me over.
  "We'll go down to my house and use the
boat." She walked ahead of me so quickly that I
could ask no questions.
  When we reached the house at the foot of the
walk, a curious sight met us. Siggy was
trying to come out through his doggie door, but he'd
foiled his own efforts by carrying a handbag of
Gretchen's in his mouth. It was too wide for the
opening and he was stuck, with only his snout
protruding.
  Gretchen laughed. "He's trying to leave
home again. If we give him time, he'll
figure it out and turn the bag sideways.
He's plenty smart. Here, let me give you a
hand, Sigmund."
  She reached in and relieved him of the bag. He
trotted through, looking up at her hopefully.
"You can leave if you like, my boy, but you can't
take my good bag. You've got an old one of
your own. Go and get it."
  Siggy sat back on his haunches, the tip of
his tongue out and his little piggy eyes entreating.
  Gretchen threw up her hands. "Oh, all right
--come with us. I don't know how you always know when
I'm taking out the boat, but you can come if you'll
behave."
  He trotted happily down to the boathouse and
went around to the side of the dock where the small
pontoon boat was moored. "In you go," she
told the pig, and he launched himself
heavily onto the boat, setting it rocking. When
it had quieted, Gretchen got in and gave me a
hand. We sat side by side, as we'd done when
we went to visit Ty. As before, Siggy sat at
the back of the boat where he could watch the wake, which
apparently fascinated him.
  "I hope you're not going to leave me somewhere this
time," I said, but my tone was calm and I
wasn't really worried.
  She had the grace to look ashamed. "That
wasn't a positive thing to do. Usually, I'm
pretty good at rejecting negative actions, but
that time I got upset."
  She started the outboard and there was no more talking
as we headed across toward Rumbling Bald.
Justyn's sight-seeing boat was coming down the
lake, but Gretchen steered calmly in front of
it, waving at him insolently. He slowed to let
her cross, though I thought he gave us a
troubled, questioning look as we headed toward shore.
  I'd wondered whether we could be going
to Roger's house, but the stretch of shore
Gretchen approached seemed empty. As we
drew near a rickety dock, I saw that the
same rough sort of path that had run past Ty's
shack followed the lake here, as well. Gretchen
tied up to a rotting post that didn't look too
secure.
  "You stay here and mind the boat," she told
Siggy.
  He whimpered a little, but, with his bulk and short
legs, he couldn't get out on his own. He
watched unhappily as Gretchen and I started
along the overgrown path. The dam was ahead at
some distance, and, through an opening in the trees, I
could see the roof of Roger's house.
  Gretchen seemed sad, or perhaps grim would be
a better word, her manner far from reassuring. I
knew this was no time for questions, though I had many.
Her "witch's spell" had stopped being
effective and I found myself apprehensive, though
unable to do anything but go along.
  The shoreline turned in to accommodate a little
cove where no houses had been built. Gretchen
stopped on the path ahead of me.
  "The tour boats have it wrong," she told me.
"This is where Victoria died."
  I froze on the path behind her and she turned
to face me, her expression blank--as though she
held whatever she might be feeling under
stern control.
  "It was time for you to know, Lauren--now that I know
who you are. There are too many lies being told.
You need to know the truth--or at least part of it.
There's only one person who could know it all.
This is where we found her."
  The shock of this new reality held me still,
frozen.
  Gretchen knelt on the path and moved her hands
through the weeds as though she could touch what had once
lain there. A snake wriggled away and slid
into the water, but she didn't move. I
suspected that no snake would choose to tangle with
Gretchen Frazer. I asked no questions but waited
tensely for her to continue.
  After a moment, she looked up at me. "She
was dead when we found her. Roger and I. I think
she died immediately from a blow to her head." Gretchen
sat back on her heels and covered her face with
her hands. I saw the glint of tears and knew that
remembered grief could be as painful as grief in
the present.
  A blow to the head? That was the message that had
come to me yesterday when I'd plunged into the water
and had known how Victoria died.
  Gretchen continued, her voice muffled. "It was
toward evening when we found her. Roger and I were
walking along this very path you and I just took. We
were angry with each other and we walked over here so
no one would hear us argue.
  "I was wild because of the way he was treating
Victoria, but he couldn't take criticism from
anyone. He had the gall to tell me she had
enjoyed their little escapade as much as he had.
Escapade! Then we came around that curve in
the path and she was lying there. She loved to wear
white, and her dress shone in the dusk, with a bit
of her skirt drifting in the water. Even in the
fading light, I could see the red stain in her
hair and the blood on her dress. I can still see
it!"
  Gretchen seemed to be forcing herself to remember,
and I could only wait in horrified silence for
her to continue.
  "Roger practically fell apart. I don't
think it was because he really loved her, but because her
death frightened him into seeing what lay ahead.
Everything the studio had hushed up--their affair, the
birth of the baby--would come out now and the fingers of
accusation would point to him. Victoria's
murder would never be hidden. Unless--"
  She broke off and rose from her knees,
brushing off her jeans. "It was time for you to know,"
she repeated. "Your grandmother didn't drown.
Someone utterly evil murdered her. Part of me
knew that at the time, even while part of me
wondered if she had caused this to happen.
Sometimes I still wonder. Who was good and who was
evil? When Victoria died, a beautiful
light went out of the universe. Until now,
I've returned to this place only in my worst
dreams. When there's been an act of violence, the
very ground can stay haunted for a very long time."
  She turned to go back to the boat, as if that was
all she had to say. I ran after her and caught
her by the arm. "Wait! You have to tell me the rest
of the story. You can't stop now. What happened after
you found her?"
  "I made a terrible mistake." She turned
to face me. "I listened to Roger. He told
me that she mustn't be discovered like that--murdered.
He said her career, everything she had accomplished,
would be forgotten in the lurid scandal of her
murder. It would be better if she was thought to have
simply disappeared. Her body would never be found
and people could only speculate about what had happened
to her. He took the white sash from around her waist
and caught it around the pilings of the dock down there so
that part of it floated in the water. Then he told
me that he knew a place where we could hide her
body, a place where it would never be found. But he
couldn't carry her up Rumbling Bald alone--the
way was too rough. So I would have to help him. I
began to see how terrible it would be for all of us if
she was found like that, and I was afraid."
  "For Ty?" I whispered.
  She ignored my question and continued her story.
"While we were struggling up the mountain, I thought
of a letter Victoria had shown me but hadn't
mailed yet. It would sound like a suicide note
and we could use it."
  I could see how the plan must have evolved--it was
all a way to keep the damage to a minimum--or
so they hoped. The lake was deep in some places,
and even divers might never find what was down there.
But who had most needed protection? Victoria
or the last person she had seen that long-ago
afternoon?
  Perhaps at that point, Roger might still have thought his
career and reputation could be saved. He
hadn't seen that a baby plus a missing young star
thought to be a suicide would be enough for the press to run
withand blow everything into the open. I felt sure the
uproar must have been far worse than either he or
anyone else expected.
  "Where did you take her?" I asked softly.
  Gretchen stared up at the great dark mountain
crouching above us. "It was a terrible climb, but I
wouldn't let her be dragged--even though she was
impossibly heavy. By the time we reached
Roger's cave, it was dark. He had a
flashlight and we managed to take her inside,
deep inside. In a sense, we buried her in the
heart of the mountain and left her there. The cave is
still her tomb."
  "Did you ever go back?"
  "Once I tried to find the cave, but the opening
is only a slit in the rocks and it isn't
visible unless you know what landmarks to look for.
Roger knows, but I would never ask him. We both
went through all that ordeal that lay ahead as though
we'd never been on the mountain that night. Once
we'd conspired to hide her murder, there was no
going back."
  Her story left me shaken. "Why have you told
me now?"
  "So you will stop stirring things up and go home.
Just let it be, Lauren. What difference can it
make to anyone today? Let her sleep in peace.
The mountain makes a noble tomb."
  I rejected this at once. "I don't think
she's at peace. I don't believe that anyone
connected with Victoria is at peace. Jim
died. Perhaps he died because he'd found the cave and
Victoria's bones and knew that she'd been
murdered. Now there's been another attack. On
me."
  She caught up my words. "What do you mean--
an attack on you?"
  I told her then--the whole story of how I'd
barely escaped the same sort of blow that must have
killed Victoria. Gretchen listened in stony
silence, but if she had any thoughts about this, she
gave nothing away. When I finished, she stepped
into the boat and helped me aboard without saying a
word. Siggy was beside himself with joy--as though he thought
she might never return. He wiggled, rocking the
little boat on its pontoons. Gretchen
scratched him absently between the ears and he calmed
down. When she started the outboard,
talking was impossible, so we crossed the lake in
forced silence.
  On the other side, she turned off the motor
and boosted Siggy onto the dock. Before she could
escape, I stopped her.
  "I'm glad you told me this, but now we must
talk. You've been thinking about all this for years,
and you must have come to some conclusions."
  She took my hand in hers. "You're my
blood kin, Lauren. I held your mother in my
arms when she was a baby. I feel connected to you,
and I worry. I've been worried ever since you
came. But there's nothing more to talk about. Now you
know what I know."
  I had to leave it at that. But just as I was about
to start up the walk to the lodge, I remembered
something and turned back.
  "There was an odd piece of green material with
Jim's letter that Natalie gave me. Do you have
any idea where it came from? Do you think Jim
found it with her body?"
  She answered me with what little patience she could
summon. "I wish I knew, Lauren, but I
don't." She threw up her hands wearily.
"Can't you just let it go? I've already told you
all I know."
  There was no point in pushing her further. She
went inside abruptly and I returned to the
lodge. Once more in the quiet space of my
room, I sat down to consider all that I'd
learned. From the beginning, I'd believed Jim's
letter, believed that Victoria was murdered, and now
I knew this was so. But the puzzle was larger than
ever.
  I went over to my window and stood staring out at
the lake. I thought of Natalie and her paintings
and particularly the one of the spaceship that Finella
had in her shop. I repeated the title
Natalie had given it, sounded the syllables out
loud--Star Flight--and a new thought occurred
to me. What if her title carried a double
meaning? What if it was a play on words, since
another star had taken flight?
  Ty's sprig of rosemary was still in my bag.
Feeling only a little silly, I took it out,
lay down, and closed my eyes, holding it to my
nose. The scent of the herb was still strong and I
allowed it to envelop my senses. When darting
lights behind my lids subsided, a strange
vision framed in cavernous darkness began
to form on the screen of my mind. Shimmering with
movement as I watched, a sparkling white ribbon
of water fell vertically down the center of my
dream picture.
  Ty had reminded me that rosemary was for
remembrance, but what was I remembering? The
only waterfall I'd seen was the one that fell
over the cliffs opposite the Indian village
where I'd heard a drum playing. Was this memory
or prophecy?
  A sharp mechanical ringing broke into my
reverie. I reached for the phone.
  "Lauren?" Gordon sounded excited.
"I've found out something pretty interesting. There's
someone you ought to meet. Can I pick you up in about
fifteen minutes?"
  He sounded like the young man I remembered, and
I knew everything was right between us. I told him
I'd be ready. The waterfall could wait.

               FOURTEEN

  Gordon was still excited when he picked me up
and his mood reminded me of San Francisco.
There was satisfaction for me in thinking that we might
really be able to have a second chance. Now I knew
what I wanted.
  He explained our outing when we were on our way
toward Chimney Rock. "We're going to see a
man I've known for a long time, though I never
recognized his connection with Victoria and Roger
until Justyn tipped me off. I have a feeling
that Justyn is trying to get back at his father in
some way."
  Just before we reached Chimney Rock village,
Gordon pulled in before a long, low building that
had once been a lumber warehouse. A sign
outside read Doll Heaven. We went in through
a wide door and I looked about in delight.
  Dolls were on display everywhere--dolls of every
size and shape and age. Tables and counters and
shelves were crowded with a fascinating doll
population--rag dolls, bisque dolls, old
kid dolls with china heads, Kewpies with fat
stomachs that dated back to early in this century.
But I knew we were not here because of the dolls.
  A middle-aged woman who obviously
recognized Gordon came toward us.
"Hello, Amy," he said. "This is Mrs.
Castle. Lauren, Mrs. Osborn."
  She held out a friendly hand. "I remember your
husband, Mrs. Castle. What can I do for you,
Gordon?"
  "Is your father-in-law in? Do you suppose
we could see him?"
  "He's always in these days, and he enjoys
company. He'll be glad to see you. Go right
ahead. You know the way." Nevertheless, she gave us
a curious look as Gordon led the way back
through the shop.
  "He'll like it if you recognize him,"
Gordon said to me. "See how long it takes
you."
  I was puzzling over what he could mean when I
passed a glass case that caught my eye and
stopped to look. The display was of two dolls and a
china horse--clearly a palomino. The female
doll had long golden hair and wore a white
dress; the man was clearly a cowboy. The
actors in the legend had been carefully
reproduced.
  Gordon drew me on. "You can come back and
look later. If you want to."
  We stopped before the open door of what appeared
to be a small office.
  "Hello, Gerald," Gordon said. "I've
brought someone to see you."
  An elderly man turned from his desk, and when
he saw me, he got to his feet in a courtly
manner. Gordon introduced me, and while
Gerald Osborn was shaking my hand, Gordon
surprised both of us.
  "Lauren is not only Jim Castle's wife
--she is the granddaughter of Victoria Frazer
and Roger Brandt."
  As startled as I was, Osborn peered at
me through his glasses and then took both my hands in
his. "Yes--I can see it. Your eyes are like
hers." He sounded wistful, as though the discovery
made him sad.
  "You knew my grandmother?" I asked.
  He waved a hand toward the wall, and I saw
several framed photographs of Victoria
Frazer, though none of Roger. I recognized
some shots from Blue Ridge Cowboy, though
mostly in scenes where Victoria was alone. One
of them was signed "To My Darling Jerry."
  Gordon was still waiting for some recognition on
my part, but nothing clicked. I went closer to the
wall and moved from picture to picture.
One was of a young officer in the uniform of the First World
War. In another, the same officer held a
beautiful young woman in his arms--Victoria.
And of course I knew.
  "You're the actor who danced with her in Blue
Ridge Cowboy! In the ballroom scene.
I remember how beautifully you danced together before
Roger rode onto the scene."
  Pleased, Osborn came to stand beside me.
"Yes--that scene was shot at the Grove Park
Inn. You must have seen the movie?"
  "My"--I hesitated and then went on--"my
grandfather showed it to me. You and Victoria danced so
perfectly together that I was almost sorry when Roger
came riding in so dramatically to take her away
from you."
  Osborn's eyes were bright as he remembered,
but there was sadness in his look.
  "I was so sorry for Victoria that day. It was
dreadful that she had to be so humiliated. Roger
could be short-tempered, and they had such trouble
shooting that scene. It wasn't Victoria's
fault. She'd never even been on a horse
before, and she couldn't get up into that saddle
gracefully. Much later, of course, we all
realized she must have been five or six months
pregnant at that time, which is shocking to think about.
Anyway, it looked as though he were pulling her
apart, and she was making terrible faces. She was
terrified of the horse, and of course Roger was
impatient because he wanted the scene to be right. The
palomino got skittish and we all knew it was
hopeless. Roger decided that they'd have to get
Victoria into the saddle offscreen. By that time,
she was in tears. I knew how much she wanted
to please Roger, and he wasn't even thinking about
her--just the movie. I tried to comfort her, but I
wasn't the one she needed just then."
  He stopped as though lost in time. Of course
he, too, must have been in love with Victoria,
as so many men had been, and this could only be a
painful memory for him.
  "What happened?" Gordon asked gently.
  Osborn sat down at his desk, not looking
at me now. "I'm not sure I remember the
details clearly anymore. Everything got out of
hand, though I never blamed Victoria for what
she did. It was Camilla Brandt's fault,
really." He paused and the silence in the room
grew. Finally, he pushed himself up and
said, "I'm sorry--I can't talk about it."
  Amy Osborn had come to the door, her
disapproval clear. "He hasn't been well,"
she whispered to Gordon.
  Osborn pulled himself together. "You'd better
see Dennis Ramsay, Mrs. Castle. He
left a lot out of his book because he was in love with
Camilla. If he wants to, he can tell
you."
  We thanked him and let Amy Osborn draw
us out of the room. "I didn't know you would upset
him," she said reproachfully. "All that ancient
history--but he still feels it."
  Back in Gordon's car, we looked at
each other. "Let's go see him," I said.
  "Right. We won't phone Ramsay this time--
we'll just go and take our chances. I have a feeling
that a few more pieces may fall into place."
  It was past lunchtime, but we didn't bother about
food. We were both intent upon learning more about what
had happened. I'd begun to feel a real
sympathy for Victoria and new anger against
Roger for his insensitivity. I had watched that
scene in the picture and I'd seen Victoria
rise gracefully, competently, onto his
saddle. So how had it been managed if everything
was going so wrong on the set?
  When we reached his house, Ramsay came to the
door. His granddaughter was out and he seemed glad
to see us.
  "Have you read my book?" he asked me at
once.
  "Most of it, and it was fascinating," I told
him. "Though I think you were too hard on
Victoria."
  "Not as hard as she deserved," he said
curtly. He stepped out of the doorway to invite
us in.
  Gordon wasted no time. "We've just talked
to Gerald Osborn and he thinks you can fill us in
on a part of the ballroom scene that you didn't
write about."
  "Come on back to my workroom," he said
readily. "I'm writing about that very thing now."
  He led us into a small room that held a
desk, typewriter, bookcases, and a slant
table with a chair before it. A handful of typewritten
pages lay stacked beside the machine.
  "I'm slow these days, but I've been working on
a new book about the whole Lake
Lure legend for over five years. I want
to set down the whole story this time. Too much had
to be left out of the first book."
  Because of threats from Roger? I wondered.
  "I'm not sure why any of this matters
anymore, or if anyone will be interested in reading
it. Please sit down and tell me why you're so
interested in what happened so long ago."
  "I want to know more about my grandmother," I said.
"Is that so strange? Mr. Osborn described
the scene where he waltzed with Victoria Frazer
and Roger Brandt came riding in on his
palomino. He told us that Victoria had
trouble getting up on the horse, but that's all he
would tell us."
  Ramsay sat down before his slant board,
picked up a pencil, and began to scribble idly.
He seemed to be doodling something that looked like a
military saber.
  "I didn't see everything that happened. Some
of the time, they were in Victoria's dressing room
with that woman who used to look after her clothes and
makeup. What's her name--Betsey Harlan?
I had to coax her to tell me what happened.
All I can repeat is what Betsey told
me."
  He closed his eyes and leaned back in his
chair.
  "Victoria came off the set in tears and
Camilla Brandt, who was there that day, followed
her into her dressing room. They exchanged words and
things got emotional. Victoria didn't want
to take off that beautiful dress, but Camilla
made her. By this time, Victoria was tired and
her makeup was ruined by her tears, so she didn't
have much choice. Camilla put on the dress and
came back to the set. When she appeared, it
might have been Victoria herself--just for a moment.
The dress fitted her perfectly--they were about the
same size. And she'd wound that white thingamajig
around her head to hide her black hair. The
camera started and Roger mounted his horse and
pulled Camilla up onto his saddle without a
hitch. With no close-ups, no one could tell that
it wasn't Victoria. Camilla was right for that
scene--she knew horses and she knew riding."
  He broke off, just as Osborn had done--an
old man remembering his youth and an old love.
  I pressed him for more. "What happened when the
scene was done and Camilla went back
to the dressing room?"
  He added a few scrolls to the saber that had
taken shape on his paper. "All right--but mind,
this isn't something I saw for myself. It's what
Betsey told me, though later she denied the
whole thing. Camilla got out of that white dress
and threw it at Victoria. Then she put on
her own clothes and started to leave the room. That's
when Victoria went crazy. There was always a
vicious streak in her. She picked up a letter
opener from her dressing table--a miniature army
saber--and she stabbed Camilla in the face with it.
It all happened so fast that Camilla didn't
have time to defend herself."
  Ramsay paused wearily.
  "Victoria had managed to slash Camilla
across one cheek. We all heard her cry out, but
we just assumed those two were going after each other in
a fit of jealousy. The wound bled all over the
place, Betsey said. When Roger came
running in and saw his wife's face and the bloody
letter opener in Victoria's hands, he struck her
so hard across the face that he knocked her down.
Then he took the towel out of Betsey's hands and
tried to stanch the flow himself. When it stopped a
bit, he drove his wife to Asheville to a
hospital. In those days, they didn't have great
plastic surgery--that skill had to be developed
through a few more wars. So Camilla carries the
scar to this day. She covers it up with makeup, so
only a bit of puckering shows, and she's still so
beautiful it doesn't matter. Of course, what
Victoria did turned Roger right back to his
wife."
  "You've seen Camilla recently?" I
asked.
  "She comes to visit me now and then. We've
remained friends over the years. She liked what I
wrote in my book--she thought I was very fair."
  "I'm sure you were, I said. "To her. But
were you fair to Victoria?"
  Being fair to Victoria wasn't important
to him. "Whatever happened to that one, she had it
coming, Mrs. Castle. You need to recognize
what Victoria Frazer was really like--totally
self-enamored. Of course, after what she did
to Camilla, Roger never felt the same way
toward her again. But she was already carrying his child.
Frankly, I think he still cared for her, but the
passion was gone. I'd have liked him
better if he'd blamed himself a little more. It was
all because of him that it happened. The classic
situation--two beautiful women and one man."
  Ramsay was warming to his subject now, as
though he was enjoying writing this second book.
"I emphasized all this in my last chapter--and
Roger must have hated it. I placed the blame where
it belonged--with him."
  Which, of course, was why Roger hadn't wanted
me to see the book. Vanity still prevailed.
  It was time for me to ask the pertinent question. "Mr.
Ramsay, who do you think murdered Victoria
Frazer?"
  His smile had a cold, hard twist to it.
"You'd run out of fingers trying to count the people who
hated Victoria."
  "Betsey and Gerald Osborn and Gretchen
didn't hate her."
  "Perhaps not, but how many others did?"
  I couldn't answer that--I had only my own
instincts to go on.
  Once more the old man had tired, so we
thanked him and left before his granddaughter
returned.
  Back in the car, Gordon sat with his hands on
the wheel. I still felt shaken by the story Dennis
Ramsay had told.
  "How do you feel about Victoria now,
Lauren?" Gordon asked gently.
  "Sorry for her. It was her nature, I
suppose, to behave in uncurbed ways, but I
don't believe she was ever a vicious person.
She was pregnant with Roger's child and she loved
him. She was under a lot of stress. I'm sorry
for Camilla, too. She never asked for the
situation she found herself in. It was a very human
triumph for her that she could ride, when
Victoria couldn't."
  "So where do you go from here?"
  "Will you come with me to see Betsey Harlan
again?"
  "Of course. If that's what you want, but
Ramsay says that Betsey later denied her own
story."
  "That's why I want to see her."
  "Then let's go." He put an arm around me
and held me close for a moment, so that I knew
I wasn't alone. We wound down to the valley
floor and the apple farm. Betsey's young
great-grandson came to meet us before we
got out.
  "Great-grammaw's sick," he informed us.
"I don't think my mother wants anybody
to visit her today."
  My first impulse was to leave and not trouble her.
She was so old and frail. Yet I sensed in
Betsey a certain tough core, and I wondered
whether she was really too ill to see us for a few
minutes.
  "Where is your mother?" I asked.
  He nodded toward the rear of the house. "She's
working in her vegetable patch."
  The boy followed us as we walked around the
house to where a woman in jeans was weeding. She
looked up, knowing at once who I was.
  "You can't see her," she told me flatly.
  "There's only one question I need to ask," I
pleaded. "If we could see her for just a moment--
we'd go away quickly after that."
  Her "No!" was vehement. However, before we could
turn away, a querulous voice was raised
loudly enough to be heard through the open window above our
heads.
  "You let her in right now!" Betsey ordered.
  Her granddaughter threw up her hands. "It'll
be worse if I try to keep you away now she
knows you're here. Go on in, but don't stay
long."
  "You'd better see her alone," Gordon said
as we walked away from the granddaughter. "I'll
pick up some apples for my mother."
  I thanked him for understanding. He kissed me
lightly before turning away and my spirits lifted.
He was on my side now. He was with me, giving
me courage, whether or not he approved of what
I intended.
  This time, I went in through the back door, knowing
my way to Betsey's room. She lay beneath
quilts, as though she was cold, but her eyes
looked hot and feverish. I tapped on her open
door and went in.
  "It's good to see you, Lauren. I guess you
know by now what I told Dennis, don't you?"
  "I know what he told me, but I think there's
more."
  One small claw of a hand gestured to a rocker
beside her bed. "Sit down. I'm not as sick as
they think. I just don't want to listen to them
scold."
  I felt a little better about my
insistence. She, at least, had loved
Victoria, and there must have been more behind the stabbing
than I knew.
  "What do you think happened?" She folded
down the edge of a quilt, the better to peer at
me.
  I repeated what Dennis had told us--that
Victoria had snatched up a letter opener and
slashed Camilla across the cheek.
  Betsey became suddenly agitated. "That's
what I told him, but it wasn't true. She
didn't do that. She never would have--she was a gentle
lady."
  "But then, how--"
  "You should have seen me in those days. I had
spunk--plenty of spunk. I couldn't stand it that
Camilla took that last scene away from my
lovely lady and then came back to the dressing
room to gloat over what she'd done. I'm the
one who went crazy and slashed her face. And
I've always been glad I did. Maybe I'd
have killed her if I'd been strong enough."
  I rocked in the chair, agitated myself, not
sure I believed her. "But Roger came in and
saw Victoria with that little saber in her hands."
  "Sure! She'd taken it away from me before I
could hurt Camilla even more. And she took the
blame, as well. When she saw what Roger
believed, she didn't even try to defend herself.
She did that to save me. The Brandts would have had
me arrested and sent to jail. But they wouldn't touch
Victoria."
  "Why not?"
  "She was going to have his baby, she was his lover, and
this would be an even bigger scandal if it came out.
Think what a field day the press and fan
magazines would have had if it was known that
Victoria had slashed Roger's wife across the
face. So they had to keep it quiet. And, of
course, Camilla never told him the truth."
  "But if Camilla knew what really
happened, why does she treat you like a friend? You
disfigured her for life."
  Dark eyes twinkled maliciously. "I did
a good job, didn't I? But don't you see--
she's had to keep an eye on me over the years,
to make sure I wouldn't spill the beans somewhere
along the line. She wanted Roger to go on
believing in what he thought Victoria had done.
So she tried to keep me quiet with
kindness and forgiveness and gifts. Forgiveness!"
  There was no question as to where Betsey Harlan's
loyalties lay. She went on with gleeful
spite.
  "I gave Dennis Ramsay the wrong story.
But he didn't publish it, anyway. He was
crazy about Camilla, and she didn't come out so
squeaky clean, either. Getting up on that horse
gave her a way to tell off Victoria. Which
might have been all right--but she really rubbed it
in."
  "I can hardly blame her for that."
  Betsey went right on. "In a way, she
got Roger back because of what he believed. Or
a piece of him, anyway. You can't tell me that
any man who ever loved Victoria Frazer could
really get over her."
  I remembered how moved Roger Brandt had
seemed when we had watched Blue Ridge
Cowboy together. The love scenes had shaken him.
Though, in the end, Camilla had been the one
to hold him. Perhaps he even felt he owed her because
Victoria had scarred her face.
  "Why didn't you tell him the truth after
Victoria was gone?"
  "Camilla would have denied it and he'd have
believed her. What good would it have done?"
  "What if I was to tell him the truth now?"
  "Let it alone, Lauren. The truth would
probably destroy Roger. I don't have much
use for him, but telling won't help Victoria
now. And finding that he'd given up--maybe the
great love of his life--because he wrongly
suspected her would be enough to send anybody over the
edge."
  "Thank you for telling me all this. And for being so
wise. You've given my grandmother back to me.
Whatever else she did, this was generous and brave,
and I admire her for it."
  "Nobody really understood that she was a good, rather
simple person who followed her emotions. She
never realized what it would be like when all that fame
hit her. She came from these mountains, so how could
she know? She ran from it, even while she enjoyed
it. We're all pretty mixed up, aren't
we?"
  This was true enough, and I smiled. Betsey's
hands came out from under the quilt and reached for mine.
  "You've brought Victoria back to me, too.
Brought her into this room where she had her
baby. Gretchen was too critical and
straitlaced, and though she'd have taken her in,
Victoria didn't want to stay with her. And, of
course, the studio wanted her hidden away
until the "problem" could be put up for
adoption. They had a lot of money tied up in
those two careers. Anyway, Victoria was
better off with me, who really loved her. Your mother
was born in this room, so it was right for you to come here.
Everything we've talked about and done has been
right, except for one thing."
  For a moment, I was lost in my own feelings.
My mother had uttered her first cries in this very room
--and because of her I was here now and alive.
  "Except for what?" I asked.
  "I should never have let you take Victoria's
dress and the turban I made for her. I don't
think you should wear her clothes to that ball and remind
everybody about the past. There's somebody out there,
Lauren--the person who killed Victoria."
  "Do you know who it is, Betsey?"
  "If I did, do you think I'd have kept still
all this time? I didn't talk to your husband much
when he came to see me, but from things he said, I
think he was getting too close and that was
dangerous. I don't want that for you."
  "I don't see what harm can come to me if I
startle a few people. That's all that can happen.
I'll be with over a hundred people. Perhaps I'll
even get Roger Brandt to dance with me!"
  "He wasn't the only one who danced with
Victoria in the movie, you know."
  "I know. I met Gerald Osborn this
morning. He's another one who was once in love
with my grandmother."
  Betsey was staring at me in a strange way,
and I broke off. "What is it? What's the
matter?"
  "Sometimes I can see ahead a little, and that
happened just now. I could see a storm--lightning
flashing around you. And I could see fire. But I
don't know what it means, and nothing else comes
to me. Lauren, I'm afraid for you."
  I bent to kiss her cheek, murmuring
reassurances even though her words chilled me.
"I'll be fine. When I bring Victoria's
things back, I'll tell you all about what
happened at the ball."
  She seemed to sink into herself again, not falling
asleep but closing herself away.
  I returned to Gordon and told him everything
that I'd learned from Betsey Harlan. And I
held on to his hand while he listened gravely.

               FIFTEEN

  The long mirror on my bathroom door
gave back a reflection I hardly
recognized. The dress was perfection--only
yellowed a little from age, a creamy white. The
smoothly wound turban hid my dark hair, its
folds crossing gracefully in a peak on my
forehead. I knew I would never do justice to my
grandmother, or to Camilla Brandt, who had also
worn this dress. I felt awkward and much too
uncertain about what I meant to do.
  Had I expected that magic would take place
and transform me when I dressed like Victoria
Frazer? How could I ever carry this off?
  Nonetheless, words seemed to whisper through my mind.
Relax. Be yourself. You'll do fine. The inner
advice was sound, and I raised my shoulders with a
certain defiance. The reflection in the mirror
changed very little, but my confidence returned. This was
only a game, really--a masquerade--and I
needn't feel concerned.
  I'd made no attempt to imitate the
makeup of Victoria's day. Though she hadn't
painted on a Cupid's bow mouth, she had worn
the face that was fashionable in the thirties. No
matter how I dressed tonight, my face belonged
to my own generation, and I used touches of blush and
lipstick accordingly.
  When I stepped back from the glass, the tips
of my low-heeled white shoes caught my eye,
making me smile. Entirely inappropriate,
but they were all I had to wear. Most of the time, the
long skirt would hide them, so it didn't
matter.
  As a last touch, I clasped the silver
bracelet around my wrist and enjoyed the sound of
tiny bells as I moved.
  It wasn't time yet for Gordon and Finella
to come for me, so I went outside to stand at the
railing and look over the lake. The sky had
darkened early, turning the water to black marble,
veined here and there with lines of yellow light from
houses along the bank.
  Down the walk at Gretchen's, windows were
alight. I was just as glad that she
wasn't expected to go to the ball. I was sure
she would have resented seeing me in her sister's
dress. Ty, of course, shunned most human
company, and he would never appear at such a
gathering.
  Off beyond Rumbling Bald, lightning brightened the
sky and I heard faint thunder. It was far away,
but I thought of Betsey's vision and felt a little
uneasy. It would be too bad if a storm
spoiled the festivities, but at least we'd be
inside and dry before it broke.
  Once more I had the curious sense that the
mountain waited, watching me. Now I knew the
exact place on the far shore of the lake where
Victoria had been found. And I knew that her
body had been carried laboriously up to a
cave on the mountain. I suspected that somehow
Jim had found that cave and discovered more than it was
safe for him to know.
  I shivered in a cool breeze that rose
suddenly and I went inside. I was in time to hear
the phone. Gordon was waiting for me downstairs.
  Aware of the theatricality of this moment, even
smiling a little to myself, I started the grand descent
down to the lobby. A man waited for me at the
foot of the steps, and the theatricality was not wholly
mine. For just an instant, I thought that Roger
Brandt had come for me in his full cowboy
regalia. Certainly the outfit was his: pointed
boots, leather chaps, a blue shirt with a scarf
knotted jauntily at the throat, and, of
course, a wide-brimmed Stetson hat that hid
the face of the man who wore it--until he
looked up at me.
  Gordon's grin was wide; he looked pleased
over surprising me. "How do I look,
ma'am?"
  I continued down the stairs. "You look like the
right escort for Victoria Frazer."
  He watched me all the way down and held out
his hands when I reached the bottom step. "You're
beautiful," he said. "But you're not Victoria.
And I want you to know I like Lauren a lot
better than what I've been learning about
Victoria."
  The clasp of his hands was warm, and although he
didn't touch me in any other way, I felt as
though he had drawn me into his arms. I was
happier than I could remember being in a long
while. My emotions were too close to the
surface and I must be careful. Not with Gordon
--not anymore. But because of whoever might be watching
me.
  Over one arm, Gordon held a long white
rain cape, borrowed from Finella, and he put this
around my shoulders. We went out to where Finella
waited for us in the car. When I looked into the
backseat, I saw with delight that her costume
consisted of kudzu leaves--cut from cloth that was
almost the exact green of the plant. She even
wore a wreath of skillfully sewn leaves
tucked into her red hair.
  Gordon smiled at his mother. "She's a true
mountain spirit, isn't she? I just hope nobody
gets hungry and tries to pick her leaves."
  We laughed and chatted as we drove down from the
lodge. The storm was still far away. Perhaps it would
bypass Lake Lure altogether.
  When we reached the inn, the space in front was
already filled. Costumed guests were going up wide
steps and through the building to the far door opposite
the barn. Gordon drove behind the long white
stucco building and found a place in the unpaved
alleyway between the inn and the barn.
  Lights had been placed all around the area, and
I could see that the sides of the barn were covered with
walls of lush kudzu vines, so that the barn
seemed to wear its own costume. A red carpet
ran toward steps that led to a side entrance; we
climbed them and went inside.
  A band was playing tunes that belonged to the years
of the lodge's famous past. In the twenties,
songs from World War I would still have been played in this
room. Years later, during the second war,
I'd been told, the lodge had been turned
into a convalescent home for soldiers.
  Tonight, the interior of the old building had been
transformed from whatever its past life had been.
High cross beams had been covered with
bright-colored strips of plastic that hung in
streamers, catching the light from shaded bulbs. The
long room, with its polished dance floor,
stretched to the band platform at the far end. No one
was dancing yet, but the great space was already filled
with costumed guests, and the sound of voices echoed in
high, dark spaces above the lights.
  On the platform, a young woman in a nurse's
uniform from World War I was singing "It's a Long
Way to Tipperary." When she finished, there was a
smattering of applause, but I had the
feeling that the room waited for something else
to happen. The stars of the evening had not yet
appeared.
  I'd checked my cape near the door, and
Gordon and I stood for a few moments
unnoticed while Finella went off to find her
friends. When we finally started down the room, our
costumes were recognized and there was a burst of
applause.
  The legend was well remembered. Perhaps there were
even those who recognized my dress and turban
as being authentic, though few would know who I really
was.
  There were too many people for me to note whether anyone
was especially startled. Not that it mattered.
Gordon and I knew exactly whom we needed
to watch.
  I recognized quickly that this was an older,
well-to-do crowd with long memories.
Probably a number of these people came from
Asheville and recalled the great days of Lake
Lure. Their costumes were elaborate but not always
original. There was Little Bo-Peep and Red
Riding Hood and a few gentleman pirates.
One Marie Antoinette appeared to be having
trouble with her wig and the red devil escorting her
had tangled himself in his tail.
  Near the edge of the floor, a monk stood
huddled in robe and hood. Who was it who had
mentioned a monk to me?
  Young people had come dressed in a variety of
imaginative costumes, but in many ways they
seemed only sightseers at this antique
spectacle. Gordon and I, like a number of
others, were somewhere in the middle, willing to take part
but not really belonging. We found chairs near the
edge of the floor, where we could watch, and I began
to sense the feeling of something electric in the air.
That sense of waiting had grown. I knew why the
dancing had not begun.
  Justyn and Natalie came in first--Justyn
in his captain's cap and the seafaring garb of a
sailor; Natalie dressed simply enough in an
artist's smock and beret. Justyn held the
door for the two who followed, and I could hear the
indrawn breath of the waiting crowd.
  Camilla came through on Roger's arm and they
stood together, waiting for the applause that began very
quickly. The band struck up the "Habanera" from
Carmen and the elder Brandts moved
regally down the room, the crowd parting to make
way.
  Camilla wore a full-skirted black
gown with a cascading overlay of creamy lace.
Her dark hair (the gray long banished) was
piled beneath a black lace mantilla, held in
place with a high amber comb and pinned with a yellow
rose. A circle of diamonds at her throat
caught the light and diamond earrings dripped from
her ears, almost to her shoulders. Soft lighting
flattered her and careful makeup almost hid her
scar.
  Roger whirled her proudly down the long
room, and the silver buckles on her high-heeled
black satin slippers shone beneath the hem of her
gown, twinkling in and out as she moved. I became
even more conscious of my inappropriate white
shoes only partially hidden beneath Victoria's
long gown.
  In no way would I ever look as beautiful, as
stunning, as Camilla Brandt. Perhaps that was how
Victoria Frazer had felt when comparing herself
with a younger Camilla--a woman who was already
Roger's wife. I knew why I was having these
thoughts. Go away! I told the whisper in my
mind. I wanted none of Victoria's thoughts
prompting me tonight.
  In his own way, Roger matched the elegance of the
woman in his arms. Wearing well-cut black
trousers and a short Spanish jacket, he
suggested a caballero. His frilled white shirt
and the scarlet cummerbund that bound his still-trim
waist made him seem far younger than his years.
He was a match for Camilla, and never a
cowboy!
  "They're so beautiful together," I marveled
to Gordon.
  He was less impressed. "In their own way,
I suppose. But they make me nervous--they
look like puppets dancing. Come on, let's
start things going. Look who we are--Roger and
Victoria!"
  I didn't want those two to see me yet, and
I felt a last-minute panic. I wanted
to hold back--even to run away before I was
discovered. In spite of the purpose behind my own
masquerade, I knew that everything would be spoiled
for those two the moment we came into their view. So
I waited, not moving, until others began
to dance. Only then did we slip in
among the many couples, to be lost in the throng. The
band changed its tune; the ball had begun.
  For only a moment I had put aside my
reason for wearing Victoria's dress. Now I
began to turn my head as we moved among the
dancers, so that I would never lose sight of Roger
and Camilla. They still hadn't seen me. The
moment of confrontation was coming, and now I didn't
hesitate.
  We needed only to let the crush of other
dancers move us forward. Everyone wanted
to approach Roger and Camilla Brandt, and even
if he had wanted to, Gordon couldn't keep
us apart. They moved in a charmed circle with a
space left around them, so they were not crowded. I
pressed my hand on Gordon's shoulder; he
understood my signal and swept me closer. We
entered the cleared space and became suddenly
conspicuous.
  Roger saw me first, and his expression froze
into shock--perhaps even alarm. Then the actor took
over and he smiled at me over Camilla's
shoulder--a glittering smile that didn't conceal
how badly he'd been shaken. I guessed his
intent as he turned Camilla away in a wide
circle, so that creamy lace swirled about her.
  I couldn't allow that space between us to grow, and it
wasn't the back of her head I wanted to see.
My pressure on Gordon's shoulder
increased, and though he was not altogether willing, we
quickened our matching steps, moving faster than the
music. When we had swung about them and
Camilla could not fail to see me, I raised
my hand and allowed the chime of little bells to sound
clearly beneath the music of the band.
  Camilla heard and turned her head. I saw
the horror of recognition in her face. For that
instant, I was Victoria for her, and she
faltered in her husband's arms. He tried
to turn her away, but there was steel in
Camilla's spine, in her soul, and her
recovery was swift.
  Because she'd stopped dancing, Roger was forced
to stop and let her go. In that moment of arrested time,
I was once more sharply aware of every detail around
us: the high, dusty rafters of the barn, with the bright
ribbons streaming out of darkness overhead; the whisper
of dancing feet; the beat of the music; and the rising
heat--for me--of the great room, so that I grew
breathless. And always I heard the silvery
chiming of bells that came out of the past to possess
both Camilla and me. No one else had
stopped, yet somehow the dancers moved away from us
and we were left in our own exclusive moments of
time.
  Camilla stepped away from Roger and spoke
directly to me without raising her voice. "You
are a fool, Lauren. And perhaps as stupid as your
grandmother, since you have no idea of the power you are
setting loose. Invoking ghosts from the past is a
dangerous game--not one I'd recommend to children."
  The look she gave me was disdainful and chilling
with its promise of disaster. Then she spoke
calmly and coolly to Roger, slipping her hand
through the crook of his arm. "I would like to go home,
please."
  For a moment, I think he didn't fully
realize what had happened. He covered his
wife's hand with his own and looked at me--a sad,
resigned, almost fearful look. He had never
really thought I was Victoria, except for a
moment, but he was beginning to see what I had done.
  They walked the length of the dance floor together and
couples stepped out of their way. The bandleader,
realizing that the guests of honor were leaving
unexpectedly, signaled for a small fanfare.
The incongruous sounds accompanied Roger and
Camilla as they went out the door. I saw wind
catch at the skirt of her gown, whipping it out in
billows as they disappeared from view.
  Gordon's arm held me suddenly close.
"Are you all right, Lauren?"
  I'd felt feverishly hot, but now I was
cold, shivering. I was far from all right. My
challenge had been given and taken. I had seen
Camilla's horrified look at the first sight
of me, but she had recovered quickly--so where did that
leave me? She had simply dismissed me as though
I'd been a child playing games.
  Gordon's arm guided me toward a chair on
the far side of the room. I felt sick and more
than a little confused, so it was a relief to sit
down. When I spoke, it was with new conviction,
though my voice cracked a little.
  "It wasn't Camilla," I said. "And it
wasn't Roger. So who?"
  Gordon shook his head gravely and I knew
he didn't care about the past--but only about me.
"I don't want you to be hurt. That's all that
matters now."
  I was grateful for his concern, but I knew this
wasn't the time to give up--no matter how weak
and shaken I felt. We hadn't watched for the
reaction of anyone but Roger and Camilla at the
sight of us. All my sensitivities had been
tuned in toward them--yet no sense of guilt had
come to me. I knew only one thing about them: They
were both frightened people--Camilla no less than
Roger. Beneath masks they'd put on so quickly
to conceal whatever they felt had been a fright that was very
real--fright but not guilt.
  Gordon was watching me, increasingly concerned.
"I'll get you some coffee. Stay here,
Laurie hon, and I'll be right back."
  Laurie hon--he'd used to call me that,
and the same tenderness was there in his voice. Tears
came into my eyes, and I was wiping them away when
two people stopped in front of me. I looked up
at Justyn and Natalie. Both wore angry
faces as they looked down at me.
  "I hope you're pleased with yourself!" Natalie
cried. "Hurting two old people like that!"
  This was hardly fair, and I stiffened to answer
her. "You are the one who suggested that I come as
Victoria!"
  "That was a joke. I never dreamed that you'd wear
that dress. I never thought you'd manage to look like
her. That was a cruel thing to do."
  I didn't think either Roger or Camilla
had been innocent of cruelty to my grandmother.
  Justyn had no patience with this talk about
dresses. "Your husband got what was coming to him,
Mrs. Castle. And now you've stuck out your own
neck. I hope you'll get out of here before anything
else happens."
  Justyn's hatred of Jim was clear. His
daughter had fallen for the charms of a married man,
and he could never forgive that. Yet I couldn't see
Justyn as a murderer.
  Natalie put a hand on his arm. "None of this
matters anymore. She doesn't matter."
She looked at me scornfully and then away.
"Dad, we need to get home to Gran. She'll
need us now."
  I watched them go off and tried to get myself in
hand. Gordon was probably standing in line somewhere
trying to get me a cup of coffee, but I couldn't
wait here for him. I felt unable to breathe.
Fresh air was all I wanted--just to fill my
lungs. But before I could move, a man
stopped before me.
  "Victoria?" he said, and I looked up in
alarm, to see that he was smiling at me. I
recognized Gerald Osborn in the uniform of
an old war.
  "Will you dance with me?" he said. "We seem the
perfect couple tonight."
  I knew he would be dancing again with Victoria
--an old man reliving moments from the past. At
least I could give him this, and perhaps help my own
discomfort. I rose gladly.
  The band was playing an old fox-trot, and he
was still a beautiful dancer. I followed him
easily, but once more I began to feel disoriented
and queasy. When we neared the door, I stopped.
  "I'm sorry, Gerald, but I don't feel
very well. I'd like to step outside for a breath of
air. I'll be all right--really. Gordon's
bringing me coffee. Will you tell him where I am,
please?"
  He reluctantly let me go and I went out
into the whipping wind and held on to the railing of the
landing. The storm was closer now--down near the far
end of Lake Lure--and I raised my face
to cold, reviving wind. The bands of
Victoria's turban seemed to have tightened about
my head, so that I could hardly bear the
pressure. I wanted to unwind those folds and
cast away from me everything that had ever belonged
to Victoria Frazer. When Gordon came,
I would ask him if we could leave immediately.
  Lightning stabbed above Rumbling Bald and thunder
boomed soon afterward. At least the rain held off.
I should never have worn these clothes; I should never have
opened so direct a door to the past. I had
hurt people who didn't deserve to be hurt by me.
I wished that Gordon would come quickly. I
didn't want to be alone, but neither did I
want to go back into that hot swirl of color and
sound inside.
  Someone started up the steps from the ground, and I
was glad to have my uneasy mood interrupted. It
was the man in the monk's costume whom I'd seen
inside. His brown robe whipped in the wind and he
clutched the hood tightly over his head. I
waited for him to pass me and go into the ballroom.
Instead, a strong hand reached from one brown sleeve
and grasped me rudely by the arm.
  Even as I pulled back in surprise,
something was pressed over my face--something
with an odor that brought back the terrors of a
hospital stay from my childhood.
  That time, too, I had dreamed wildly and
vividly, with visions that took me into a fantasy
world. Memory was gone. Time had no meaning.
Yet out of the void around me, a voice spoke
my name insistently, calling me back.

               SIXTEEN

  I felt sick and dizzy, and only
half-aware of what was happening around me.
  "You must walk," a voice said. "I can't
carry you."
  It was more like stumbling than walking, but I
managed to move my feet. In a moment, I was
pushed roughly into the backseat of a car and forced
to lie down. The cloth came over my face again
and stayed there, but after a while, with the bumping of the
car, it slipped off. There was fresh air blowing in
from a window in front and I lapsed into a
half-conscious state. It was then that I discovered
that my wrists and ankles had been tied.
  The monk appeared to be driving, but time fell
away and it was hard to keep my eyes open. The
storm had worsened, and when we stopped, I could
hear the thrashing of wind high in the trees.
  "You'll have to walk again!" the voice said.
"I'll untie your feet."
  When the monk bent over me, I could smell a
strong, familiar odor, but I was too muddled
to place it. I was hauled from the car, and immediately
I fell to my knees. Headlights illuminated
the clearing ahead and outlined the ghostly shapes of
longhouses where light touched them. Suddenly, my
eyes fell on the pale shape of the stake that
Natalie had celebrated in her painting and I
bent forward on my knees and became deathly
sick.
  Strangely, the hand that had pushed me around now
held my head and a voice murmured
encouragingly.
  "That's right--get it all out of your system.
Then you'll be fine again. I want you to have a clear
head, Victoria, so you'll understand exactly
what is happening. That's only fair, you know,
considering all you did to hurt Ty and me."
  Gretchen! I caught again the scent of those
poultices and ointments she dealt with.
  Recognition brought shock and a powerful
new wave of fear. Gretchen thought she was talking
to Victoria! Those I had meant to startle
hadn't believed for a moment--but Gretchen, whom
I had never suspected, thought I was her sister!
When the dizziness lessened, she pulled me to my
feet, supporting me as she urged me into the
clearing. The headlights cut a path, so that
darkness was pushed back on either side into the high,
thrashing trees. As I stumbled along, trying
to clear my mind, a strong gust of wind almost
blew me down. Lightning slashed the sky above
Hickory Nut Gorge and thunder crashed around
us. Without Gretchen's arm thrusting me along, I
might have fallen, far too weak and sick to move
alone.
  As we reached the dusty path that branched among
the longhouses, I heard a sound so clear and
strong that it struck its own signal beneath the
clamor of the storm.
  For a moment, hope leapt in me. It was Ty's
drum! I tried to shout, to call out to him, but my
voice was weak.
  "Don't do that," Gretchen warned. "It's no
use. He can't hear you. Anyway, he knows
you're here. I asked him to come to witness what's
going to happen. This is our revenge,
Victoria--Ty's and mine. We thought you were
dead, but you fooled us. You always did like to fool
us, make us feel like oafs and simpletons. You
should have been a better girl, Victoria!"
  My grandmother's name, spoken with such venom,
wiped away my grogginess and I realized my
danger. I had no idea what Gretchen
intended, but I had to convince her that I was not
Victoria. Even though she was obviously
demented, I must try to pull her back to my
reality.
  "Listen to me!" I cried, only to have my
words blown away as the night exploded around us.
Somewhere a tree went down. Nevertheless, she had
heard me and I could hear her laughing close by.
The wind died suddenly and she spoke into my ear.
  "No, Victoria--now it's your time
to listen! This is your trial, you know--just as
witches were tried long ago. It's your turn now
--because you always were a witch." Gretchen's voice
had a singsong quality to it that I found terrifying.
  She was leading me toward a circle of stones
where upright wooden poles had been placed. Not a
real stake, of course, but one that had
been used for a make-believe burning.
  "I'll show you how it was done in the picture,"
she told me cheerfully. The very change in her was
alarming. It meant that she was altogether confident, sure
of Victoria's punishment. My own weakness
held me captive.
  "I was here, you know, when they filmed that scene."
She suddenly grew angry when I stumbled.
"Pick up your feet, Victoria! Step over
the stones."
  Somehow I managed to stop my forward motion and
stand against her. "NO! I'm not going any farther!
I'm not Victoria. Look at me!
Please, I'm Lauren!"
  "I wish you could see your face. That's almost
reward enough--the way you look. You're frightened,
aren't you? Do you think I'm really going to burn you
at the stake? It might be fun, I admit, but
you needn't worry. I just want you to stand over there
and listen to me and be afraid. In case I should
change my mind ...."
  The sound of Ty's drum grew louder because of a
lull in the storm. Gretchen forced me on,
prodding me from behind, and I stepped over the circling
stones. My own movements took on a dream
quality--totally unreal. In a moment, I would
wake up from this nightmare. She pushed me against the
upright poles of the stake and untied my wrists.
I tried to use my hands to fight her off, but the
ropes had cut my circulation and they were numb.
She pulled one arm high over my head to secure
it to a crossbar. And as she did so, I heard the
bells on the bracelet I was wearing. Gretchen
heard them, too. She reached up to pull it from my
wrist and then flung it away into the rain.
  "I never want to hear that again!" she cried, and
I understood why she'd been upset that time when
she'd left me with Ty.
  If only I could throw off the nausea and
weakness that came in waves, but my knees sagged
and I could feel the pull of my own weight on that
one arm. I tried to calm down by telling myself that
when she'd played her wild scenario through, some
semblance of sanity would return and she'd once
again become the Gretchen whom I knew.
  If only Ty would stop beating the drum so that
he could hear me. I even thought helplessly of
Gordon, who would have no idea what had happened
to me, even if Gerald Osborn had managed
to deliver my message.
  Something had apparently distracted Gretchen, for
she hadn't secured my other arm to the overhead
pole. One hand was free and the feeling had
returned to my fingers. I reached up and
frantically tore the bands of the turban from my
head.
  "Gretchen--look! I'm Lauren Castle.
I'm not Victoria Frazer! I'm
Lauren!"
  She saw my dark hair whipped by the wind, but
only laughed again. "Don't try to fool me.
Of course you're inside Lauren's body. I
know that. I've seen you look out of her eyes,
Victoria. I've known you were there all along.
So now are you ready to listen?"
  Under the fury of the newly rising wind, she
came very close to my ear, and I could hear her
clearly as she told me all that Victoria had
done to her and to Ty. Or what she thought
Victoria had done--the older, beautiful,
successful sister who had ignored the small,
plain Gretchen when she was young. Victoria had
been intent only on the fulfillment of her own
ambition. She had destroyed lives, turned
brother against sister; everything that had caused
Gretchen pain throughout her life was Victoria's
fault.
  "You destroyed our lives!" Gretchen cried.
"You cared only about yourself. Camilla Brandt
hated you, too--because of the way you bewitched Roger.
If Camilla'd had the guts, she'd have killed
you long ago."
  I listened and I shivered in cold and fear.
  "I only wanted you to love me. Our parents
were gone, and there was no one else. Only you and me
and Ty. And you were so beautiful. ..."
  I heard the pain of a long-ago child in her
voice. Perhaps she would talk herself out soon and this
nightmare would end.
  However, deep down I knew Gretchen had
brought me to this place for a purpose I dared not
think about. If she'd only wanted me to listen,
then anywhere at all would have served.
  Again the wind died down and took on a waiting
quality. The rain still hadn't come. I heard her
clearly, though her voice was low.
  "Afterward--after you were gone--I had to atone for what
I'd done. To take a life is a wicked
act. No matter how evil you were, I had no
right. That was when the power came into my hands
and I found I could heal those who were suffering. I
could save lives. That is why I've been
allowed to live. In payment for one life, I have
helped hundreds. God forgave me and granted
me a gift that I have used faithfully and
gratefully. That gift must be preserved. It's
all I have. Then you came back, and you were about
to show Lauren everything--just as you showed Jim
Castle. They would have destroyed me and ruined my
gift. I couldn't let that happen. They had to be
stopped and you had to be stopped all over again. And for
good, this time."
  She stared up into the darkness of rolling black
clouds laced with lightning and did not flinch when a
tremendous clap of thunder sounded close by.
  "Jim should have known that what I can do is more
important than anything you'll ever do. I
didn't want to kill him, but by stopping him
I've saved the lives of those who will need me.
Now I must stop you. I see that more clearly than
ever."
  She stepped back from the circle of stones
surrounding the stake. I watched as she ran to a
smaller circle where wood had been piled for
burning. She picked up a branch with dead
leaves on the end and set it afire with the lighter
she'd brought. Then she touched the burning end to the
pile of dry wood and kindling, so that it burst
into flames, whipped to life by the wind. But that
circle of stones was not where I stood.
  My left hand was still free and I began
to struggle frantically with the rope that tied the other
hand high over my head. The oily-feeling rope
was stiff and tightly knotted.
  I hadn't made much progress when she came
running back to me, her face alive with a terrible
excitement. Ty's drum sounded louder now and more
ominous. He was helping his sister, after all.
  "This is how they did it in the picture," she
cried. "They built a fire like that in the smaller
circle and then shot the scene through those flames
to where the actor was tied to the stake. If I had a
camera and shot this scene from over there, it would look
as though you were burning. But I'm not making a
movie."
  Gretchen ran to pull a second torch from the
blaze she'd started, then came back to me.
  "We can make this much more realistic. I have
only to touch this to the sticks at your feet. Then it
will feel real."
  I must not faint. Somehow I must hold on
to my own reason--when hers had gone completely.
I tore at the rope that held me and at last it
began to give.
  "Wait, Gretchen! This isn't the way--
you're not finished. Show me the cave! Show me where
you left Victoria." If I could distract
her, I might have time. ...
  But she only laughed and lowered the torch to the
wood piled at my feet. The flames caught,
smoldered, and smoke curled upward, making me
cough as I lurched away, straining against the
loosened rope and holding my long white skirt
as far from the smoldering branches as I could.
  Ty's voice came suddenly out of the darkness
beyond headlights and fire. "You don't want to do
that, Gretchen."
  She paid no attention, her interest fixed on the
small spreading flames. I could already feel a
pulsing of heat near my legs.
  "Help me, Ty!" I shouted.
  I could see him clearly now--a strange
figure in the dancing light that surrounded him.
He held out his hands, palms upward, raising his
eyes toward the black sky.
  "I've been playing my drum, Lauren!"
he called to me. "I've been asking for help.
It's coming right now!"
  Big drops splashed on my face, hissing
in the fire at my feet. Suddenly, sheets of
rain poured from the sky, long overdue.
  Gretchen shook her head angrily and began
to scream at him over the sound of the rain. "Look
what you've done, Ty! Now this isn't going
to work. You might as well cut her loose!"
  Ty cut the rope with a pocketknife and
caught me as I sagged. He carried me out of the
stone circle and over to where Gretchen stood.
"Take her to the car and put her in the front seat
--now!" she yelled.
  When I tried to struggle, he tightened his
grip on me, probably too afraid of
Gretchen's anger to disobey. I tried to speak
to him calmly, but Gretchen heard me. "Be
quiet. You'll come with me to the cave, and you'll be
still--or I'll put you under again."
  I couldn't allow that; I had to buy some time.
"I'll come. I want to see where Victoria
is buried."
  "Go away, Ty," she told him.
"You've messed things up enough."
  We'd reached the car. He opened the door and
then faded into the darkness, again obeying her, as he'd
so often obeyed his strong, younger sister. She pushed
me onto the floor of the front seat and ordered
me to crouch there as she got behind the wheel. "I've
got to be able to keep my eye on you. Don't
give me a reason to put you under!" When she'd
turned the car around in the clearing, we went bumping
down the hill at a greater speed than was safe.
  All my focus was on escaping. I would
wait for the right moment and hope I was successful.
Perhaps when the car slowed, I could get the door
open and hurl myself out. Gretchen was clever; it was
hard for me to move, cramped as I was under the
dashboard, and my hope began to fade.
  I heard the windshield wipers working at top
speed as sheets of rain slammed into the car. I was
already soaked before I got in, and Victoria's
long dress clung, hampering my movements.
  Perhaps Ty would go for help. But how far could he
get on foot? How could he reach anyone in time?
Time for what? Would the cave be my tomb, as
well?
  Once we reached the highway, the car picked
up speed as we headed toward Lake Lure.
  "Be careful. I know what you're thinking,"
Gretchen warned. "You'll kill yourself if you
jump out. That's not the answer. Not yet. I
want you to meet your grandmother. It's time--just as it
was time to show you where she died."
  At least she seemed to know who I was for the
moment.
  "It's just as well"--she sounded pleased with herself
--"that there wasn't another accident up there in the
Indian village. The first death was an accident,
you know--Victoria's death. I never meant for that
to happen. I followed her along the lake as she
was walking toward Roger's house."
  Abruptly, Gretchen switched pronouns
again, chilling me.
  "Do you remember how we quarreled? How
scornful you were! You asked for punishment. I
had my walking stick with me, and I was so angry
that I used it. But I never meant to kill you.
Afterward, I let Roger find your body, and I
said what I could to point toward his wife's
guilt. She had every motive, and he believed
what I said--so of course he had to protect
her. We hid your body in the cave
to save Camilla! That was the wonderful joke--that
he stayed here at Lake Lure because that house
guards the way to the cave. All these years he
has never let her know that he believes she's a
murderer. What a laugh! Now you can bring it all
full circle."
  So when she'd showed me where my grandmother had
died, the story she told me had been only
partially true. Roger wasn't trying to protect
his reputation or Victoria's; he thought he was
protecting Camilla! Once more I tried
to reach Gretchen: "You can't undo old history,
Gretchen. There's no way to change what
happened so long ago. I'm Victoria's
granddaughter, and I had no part in any of this."
  She braked so suddenly that I dared to peek
over the dash as we skidded on wet pavement and
came to a sliding stop only a few feet from a
dancing, gesticulating figure in the middle of the
road. Ty! Of course, he'd known the
shortcuts down the mountain that allowed him to get
here ahead of us on the road.
  Gretchen reached for my arm with a steel grip and
rolled down the window on her side. "So you
won't go away, will you?" she called to Ty.
"If you feel you must come with us, get in the car."
  He moved agilely to open the rear door and
got in. Gretchen spoke over her shoulder.
"Take her with you in back, Ty. She makes
me nervous up here. Climb over the seat,
Lauren."
  At least I would be able to see where we were going
if I was in back with Ty, and perhaps he would help
me get away if there was an opportunity. We
were already moving fast again, and I fell clumsily
into the seat beside him. Rain clattered on windows and
road, and under its cover, Ty whispered to me.
  "I knew of a ranger's phone near here and
called Gordon. I told him where she'd
probably take us."
  I slumped back in the seat and closed my
eyes, too grateful and relieved to be able to do
more than squeeze Ty's hand.
  The dark rain made Lake Lure nearly
invisible when we reached it, though light showed
brightly around the inn, where the party was still in full
swing. Gretchen followed the winding road that led
around the lake and across the dam. We saw no other
cars, and Ty was quiet and watchful.
  Once he whispered to me, "I
don't know how she'll manage this."
  Below Roger's house, she drove through a blind
cut into the woods and on to where an empty house
stood. When she'd pulled into the driveway, she
spoke over her shoulder.
  "Get her out, Ty. And keep ahold of her.
She mustn't get away now. Just relax,
Lauren. Don't worry--I know you're not
Victoria, though it's been fun to scare you a
bit."
  I didn't believe her. I suspected that
she went in and out of a state of delusion. She would
still mix me up with Victoria--and that was
dangerous. How would Gordon ever know where to find
us? He probably didn't know where the cave
was.
  "Now we climb on foot," Gretchen said.
"You go first, Ty. You know the way. We'll put
her in the middle so she can't get past either of us.
That'll keep her from playing any tricks. If
she's smart, she'll behave."
  I saw that she'd brought her walking stick from the
car, and I shivered.
  We seemed to be climbing a thread of path through
thick underbrush. Ty found his way like some woods
creature that could see in the dark. Rain pelted
us, but the thunder sounded farther away now. Gretchen
had brought a flashlight, and that helped a little.
  My long dress clung to my legs and
hampered me. I was still very weak. At times, I
took hold of bushes to pull myself up. Even
if it had been possible, I would no longer try
to get away. I wanted to know what lay in the
cave toward which we were climbing. That was my
destiny. I had come here to find Victoria.
  Some distance up the mountain, Ty stopped, so that
I bumped into him. Gretchen played the thin beam
of her flashlight over the rocky face of a
cliff.
  "Good for you, Ty," she said. "I'd never have
found it in the dark. Go in first. I know you stored
some lanterns here years ago."
  Ty seemed to disappear into a sheer face of
rock, and Gretchen prodded me with her stick.
"Go on! Follow him. There's a slit up there
you can get through real easy."
  By reaching out with both hands, I felt the ragged
fissure of the opening and found my way in. I was
soaked through and cold, and it was a relief to be out
of the rain and wind.
  Ahead of us, Ty had lighted two lanterns
that threw very little radiance into a high-roofed cave,
spacious and hollow. I was fearful of what I
might see, but only a featureless brown void
opened around me. From deep inside the mountain
came the muted roar of rushing water.
  Gretchen listened, pleased. "That's the
waterfall. This rain's been enough to stream through all
the crevices and flood the inner river. Too
bad it's so late, Lauren. I'd like to show it
to you, but we haven't time."
  Ty said, "This is where Roger and Justyn
came for shelter the night they saw the
spacecraft hit the mountain. That storm was real
bad--worse than now. They ducked in here to get
away from hail the size of golf balls. I was
out in it--I know."
  Gretchen laughed--an unsettling sound that
echoed in the cavern. "Roger knew to seek
shelter in this place because he'd come here before. This
is where we carried Victoria. I never wanted
to come back, but you come here often, don't you,
Ty?"
  "Somebody had to look after her," Ty said.
"This is where I brought Jim. I showed him
what's up there."
  "That was a mistake, wasn't it?" Gretchen
said. "Because he would never have kept still about what he
found. Now we'll show Victoria's
granddaughter--and she isn't going to tell
anyone, is she? Lead the way, Ty."
  I still felt weak and shaken, and when Gretchen
shoved me again, I stumbled after Ty. Most of
all, I feared her walking stick. I could
easily become its next victim.
  Compelled by his sister's voice, Ty began
to climb what at first appeared to be a sheer rock
wall. "We won't need lanterns up here,"
he said mysteriously. "Come along, Lauren.
It's easier than it looks."
  In lantern light, my own shadow grew
to monstrous size as I followed him along
grooves in the rock. Partway up, he
disappeared into another, higher chamber and again I
followed him. This was a larger cave than the one
below, and as I emerged into it, the sound of rushing
water grew very loud, its voice filling the
mountain.
  As Ty had said, we needed no lanterns or
flashlights here. The entire space
seemed alight with an eerie greenish glow--not as
bright as daylight but luminous in its own way.
  "My God!" Gretchen's voice rising above
the sound of rushing water sounded awed, and I knew
that this was something as strange to her as it was to me. When
I went farther onto the floor of this second
cave and saw what waited for us there, a trembling
started inside me. On a natural rock
platform ahead of us, a bier had been placed.
  For a moment, Gretchen had dropped behind, and
Ty held out his hand to me. "This is why you came
here, isn't it--to find your grandmother?"
  Suddenly, I was as fearful of this place as I
had been of the stake in the Indian village. But
no escape was possible, and I let him draw
me up to the level of the rock plane that held the
bier. Beyond lay empty black space where the
green light didn't reach. Now the sound of water
falling precipitously into unseen depths became
a rumbling boom that echoed through the cave.
  Gretchen came to stand beside me, and I could still
feel her shock. "It wasn't like this when Roger
and I brought her here!" she cried.
  I expected to see Victoria's bones
stretched out upon the flat ledge of rock, but nothing
of what remained was visible. A blanket of lush
green vines covered her--beautiful and healthy,
growing in a place where there was no sunlight,
earth, or water. Great kudzu leaves shone with
their own green light, eerie and unnatural.
  As my eyes became used to the luminous green,
I found its source. On each side of the bier was
a small heap of greenish material, from which the
vine seemed to have taken sustenance. Now I knew
where the snippet of strange cloth Jim had
left for me had come from.
  "Tell me what happened, Ty!" Gretchen
demanded.
  He managed to raise his voice so we could
hear. "All those years, I kept bringing vines
to cover her, even though they just withered and died. But
after that--whatever it was--crashed on the mountain,
everything changed. Maybe something from that wreckage
came down here before army intelligence arrived.
Maybe they found the upper cave to hide in
until their kin could come and get them. I sort of
think they found her, and they left something of themselves
here for her when they went away. So for all these
years, she's had a proper shroud."
  Like Gretchen, I felt awed by a
mystery that was beyond earthly understanding. Gretchen and
Ty had been shouting, but now that they were silent, the
crash of falling water filled my very being. I
remembered the vision I'd had of a waterfall--a
warning vision!
  Ty shouted again: "I climbed out through there once
to stand on the edge. There's no bottom. The
waterfall feeds the river and cuts its way
underground from the top of the mountain straight down.
Sometimes when you stand outside on Rumbling
Bald, you can hear the sound of rushing water."
  "This is Victoria's tomb." Gretchen's
voice struck a high, clear note, and I
heard her clearly. "Yours will be out there,
Lauren. You'll just step into space and be gone.
It will be quick and easy. No one will ever find your
body, just as Victoria's was never found."
  I felt a sharp pain as her stick poked
into my back, and once more I swung around to face
her. "No, Gretchen! You've done enough! This
has to stop now."
  I think she would have struck me with the heavy knob
on the end of her stick, but something strange seemed
to happen around the bier. It was as though a green
mist rose from beneath the vines--or perhaps it was only
a thickening in the air.
  Whatever it was, Gretchen saw it, too.
Perhaps her own feelings of guilt, which could doubtless
shake her at times, made her see it more clearly
than I did.
  She thrust out her hands to push nothingness away,
but the thickening that quivered in the air did not
subside. Whatever she saw caused her to shrink
away, to step backward, and then backward again,
her movements violent and jerky.
  Ty's mountain-trained ears must have heard something
from the lower cave, for he shouted suddenly:
"Gordon? Are you there, Gordon?"
  My heart jumped in wild hope as Gordon
--and Roger with him--climbed up into green light.
I learned later that he had gone to my grandfather
to try to find me, and Ty had reached him there.
Now, however, it was still Gretchen who held us
transfixed.
  Perhaps she never knew how close she was to the
edge. Or perhaps she knew very well and, in the
face of greater terror, made her choice.
  The next step took her backward into space,
and I could hear her cry, lost in roaring
emptiness, as she went down. There could be
no echo of her plunge into whatever river flowed
beneath the mountain. The waterfall that came rushing out
of some high place swallowed up all other sound.
  Gordon sprang up to the platform where I
stood with Ty. He simply held me as I
fell into his arms. I pressed my face against
his neck and tried to stop trembling.
  Roger climbed up to stand beside us. He wore a
spectacular cape that belonged to past glories,
but he no longer looked like the dashing actor he
had once been. All make-believe was gone;
he was an old man possessed by shock and
sorrow.
  I didn't try to speak aloud above the roar of
water, but I spoke to her in my mind.
You're free now, Grandmother. wherever you are,
you're free of what held you here.
  No green mist stirred among the leaves, but a
deep feeling of some loving presence filled me.
  Together, Gordon, Roger, and I went down
to the quieter area of the lower cave. There my
grandfather held out his hands to me and I put my own
into his.
  "I can let her go now," he said, and I
understood. "But I don't want to let you go, now
that I've found you."
  "I don't think Lauren is going anywhere,"
Gordon said, his arm still around me. "I hope she
will stay here with me."
  I had no doubt at all that this was what I would
do.
  Ty had followed us down, more subdued than
I'd ever seen him. When he spoke, it was as if
only to himself.
  "I reckon it had to be. She couldn't go on
playing at being somebody she knew she wasn't.
She was blessed in some ways--and she was cursed.
She couldn't live with that forever."
  He seemed to collect himself and see us now,
though he showed no emotion. There was a question I had
to ask. "How did you know about Victoria,
Ty?"
  He no longer hesitated about answering. "I
was in the woods when Gretchen and Roger carried
her into the cave. When they'd gone, I found her.
I saw the wound on the back of her head and I
knew it was made by Gretchen's stick. She
fooled Roger, but she didn't fool me."
  "Why didn't you tell someone?" Roger's
voice was faint.
  "She was my sister. They were both my sisters,
and I didn't hate either of them. Victoria was
wearing that bracelet with the bells, and I took it
off her wrist so as to have something of her to keep. I
sent it to you as a signal, Lauren--to pick up
or not. When you brought it across the lake to me,
Gretchen knew where it had come from and it threw her
pretty badly."
  There was one more question I must ask. "What about
Jim?"
  "I showed him the bracelet and I brought him
here to the cave. She was only bones under the
kudzu, but when he looked at her skull, he
knew it had been murder. He cut off a
piece of the green stuff to see if he could find out
what it was. Gretchen knew he was getting too
close and she found a way to stop him in the
village that day."
  Emotion came through in Ty at last, and after a
choking pause, he continued.
  "Gretchen was right, you know--even at the same
time she was wrong. She helped so many people with her
healing. But when she brought you to the village tonight,
Lauren, I knew it had to end. Justyn was
catching on--getting suspicious--and I didn't
want him after her. Roger, you were always on the
wrong track. Now you know it was never Camilla.
You were protecting each other--and you were both
wrong."
  "I know that now, Ty," Roger said sadly.
"Finally, I know. Tonight after we left the ball,
Camilla and I talked for a long while. I should
have talked to her about Victoria's death years
ago. But because of what I thought she had done, I
was afraid of what I might learn. And all the
while, she believed that I was guilty, and she
couldn't speak of that to me."
  Ty spread his arms wide, palms up, as he
had done in the Indian village when he was asking
for rain. Perhaps the gesture was a benediction now.
"Go back to your lives--all of you. I'll stay
up there for a while with my family."
  We left him there, and Gordon helped me out
through a slit in the rock. The rain had stopped and the
wind had died down. Moonlight edged the clouds,
pointing our way, as we took the difficult path
down the mountain. Roger came with us partway and then
disappeared in the direction of the Brandt house.
Perhaps he was the guardian now of a new legend that
would spring up around Lake Lure.
  "We'll go back to Finella's,"
Gordon said to me. "You'll stay with us for now.
I can get your things tomorrow and report that Gretchen
is missing. Maybe Ty will take her pig."
  On the way down through the last stubborn mountain
growth, I puzzled aloud over what I had seen
in the upper cave.
  "Those vines, Gordon--they were growing without
light or water!"
  "There are cracks in the rock," he said.
"Light and water can come through. But I'd rather
believe in miracles."
  I accepted that, and we went out on the shore of the
lake and stood together near the water.
  "Where shall we build our own house?" he asked
me calmly.
  I knew my smile was one of joy, of
wonder. I, too, believed in miracles.
  "On Lake Lure, of course," I said.
  Perhaps there was peace now for Victoria
Frazer. And peace, at last, for Roger and
Camilla Brandt. For Gordon and me, a new
life was beginning, but this night would haunt me for a
long time.
  We didn't look back as we left the
moonlit lake. I had learned in my life that
it was better not to look back.

  Moonlight touched the moving water and struck
sequins from its surface. No misty traces
gathered now, though the dark reflections of
Rumbling Bald held even more secrets than
they had in the past.

               THE END