Summer of the Dragon, page 4
“Like Bridie Murphy,” I said. “Who was Hank?”
“Who was…?”
“In his past lives. Pirate, gambler, prince of lost Atlantis?”
“All of them.” A faint but genuine smile curved the well-cut corners of De Karsky’s mouth, and my liberated glands released a flood of appreciative symptoms.
“Not simultaneously, of course; one after the other.
The life they were concentrating on was the one in which Hank was a chief of the Anasazi, the Indians who lived in northeastern Arizona in prehistoric times.”
“I also know who the Anasazi were. There’s a certain consistency in Hank’s mania, isn’t there? American prehistory seems to be a recurrent motif in his fantasies.”
De Karsky gave me another of those hard looks and did not reply.
“I told you you don’t need to worry about your precious job,” I snapped. “The chances are I won’t last a week.”
“You’re going to tell him his theories are full of—”
“Probably. You said reincarnation was the last kick.
What’s he on now?”
De Karsky’s scowl faded. When he answered, Summer of the Dragon / 41
his voice was without rancor. He sounded genuinely puzzled.
“I don’t know. Nobody knows. He’s been very mysterious about this latest deal, which is unlike him.
All I know is, he went off on one of his safaris into the mountains a few months ago, and came back all lit up.”
“You don’t know where he went or what he found?”
“I tried to follow him,” De Karsky admitted. “But it’s wild country, and Hank is an experienced desert rat. He goes off on his own every so often.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“It can be, if you don’t know what you’re doing.
You can die of dehydration out there pretty fast. We lose a few poor damn-fool tourists every year that way.
Some of them were only half a mile from a highway, wandering around in circles, when they died. But Hank knows his way around.”
“Well,” I said optimistically, “maybe this theory won’t be as crazy as the last one.”
“And if it is?”
“Then I’ll tell him so.”
“Then you won’t even last a week.”
“That’s okay with me. I told you I wouldn’t have your job. I think it’s contemptible.”
“The job is contemptible?”
“You are, too.”
“Well.” De Karsky moved his hands on the 42 / Elizabeth Peters
wheel as if he were squeezing something soft, like a throat. “Well. We’ve got that straight, haven’t we?”
“Right.”
“Right. I suppose if I were to tell you at this point that I had hoped to talk you into going home as soon as possible you’d suspect my motives.”
“Right again.”
“Then I won’t try. You’ll have to take your lumps.”
“What lumps?”
“Never mind. You wouldn’t believe me.” He was silent for a moment, staring straight ahead with the same puzzled frown he had worn when he spoke of Hank’s latest enthusiasm. “Maybe I’m wrong,” he said, as if to himself. “I hope to God I am.”
CHAPTER 3
De Karsky’s final comment—not one of the most encouraging remarks I have ever heard—was his last conversational effort for the remainder of the trip. He didn’t even snarl when I started playing with the buttons again, so I gave that up.
There was plenty to occupy my eyes and my brain.
The country wasn’t real desert, with great rolling sand dunes. It had enough water to support some plant life: cacti of all shapes and sizes, including the striking monumental saguaro, plus low brownish scrubby plants that suggested sagebrush to my movie-fed mind.
The road climbed slowly but steadily, and hills began to close in around us. Finally they opened up, with spectacular effect, presenting a view of a beautiful green valley with a glittering river winding through it. We descended into the valley in a series of swooping loops.
I bit my lip and did not comment on De Karsky’s driving.
While my eyes took in the scenery, my mind
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44 / Elizabeth Peters
worried at the problems De Karsky had suggested. I saw no reason to alter my appraisal of him. He was a cynical, self-seeking hypocrite, and a traitor to his training—and to common sense—if he encouraged Hank Hunnicutt’s delusions.
Naturally I dismissed De Karsky’s vague hints as part of a plan to scare me into leaving. Whether I meant to or not, I did threaten his comfortable job.
Hank might take a fancy to me. He sounded like a man of quick, irrational fancies. If he did, De Karsky would find himself out in the cold. The gun—if it was a gun, and not some other similarly finished tool—could be part of the same plan. De Karsky had probably envisioned me as a timid eastern female. Wave a gun in front of the girl, mutter ominously, and she’ll run.
All it did was make me more determined to stay.
Another unexpected corollary—unexpected even to me—was that I began to feel sorry for Hank Hunnicutt.
De Karsky was no different from Madame Karenina and the other “weirdos” he had mentioned; they were all intellectual vampires, making a good living out of Hank’s innocence.
We turned off the highway and the country got really wild. Centuries of wind and water had carved the surrounding rocks into fantastic towers and spires. The road deteriorated as it began to climb again until finally we were bumping along an unpaved track enclosed by low walls of stone. The sun was a dull red ball, its brilliance
Summer of the Dragon / 45
dulled by blowing sand, balanced on the top of cliffs that loomed up to the north.
There were strands of barbed wire on either side of the road now, though what they fenced in I could not imagine; I couldn’t see any cows, or any pasture, only more of the rocky high desert with its brownish bushes.
De Karsky stopped the car and got out, leaving the door open. I winced back, expecting a blast of furnace-hot air. It was warm, certainly, but there was a hint of coolness approaching, a rarefied clarity that struck welcomingly on my skin after hours of stuffy air conditioning.
De Karsky had gone to open a gate. Set between high columns of randomly piled rocks, it was no fancy wrought-iron creation but a prosaic iron gate like the ones on farms in Ohio. We drove through; De Karsky closed the gate, and we went on. The surface of the road was so dusty it could hardly be distinguished from the surrounding dirt, but it was surprisingly smooth under the wheels. Ahead, on the horizon, was a dark blotch. As we swept toward it, it took on shape: trees, their rich green soothing to eyes weary of dust and sun.
I had expected trees. You can’t have a ranch without water. But I was not prepared for the luxuriant vegetation that adorned the grounds. We passed through another gate and into a long avenue lined with green.
Through the tree trunks I caught an occasional glimpse of a velvety lawn
46 / Elizabeth Peters
set with shrubs and flower beds, but most of the parklike area had been left as nature designed it. It teemed with wildlife. De Karsky had slowed to a crawl; I wondered why, until we turned a corner and saw a deer standing in the middle of the road. It glanced casually at us before it ambled off into the trees. I located the button that opened the window and inhaled a long, deep breath of fresh air. Birds swooped and sang among the trees, and a rabbit hopped along beside the car for a while, as if trying to race.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said.
“Underground streams and springs,” De Karsky said.
“A real-estate developer would give him a couple of million for this land.”
I ignored this tasteless comment.
“It must be nice to have lots and lots of money,” I said. “I could get used to living like this.”
“Why don’t you marry Hank, then? He’s a widower; has been for thirty years. He ought to be ripe for a fresh young thing like you.”
I hadn’t thought about Hank’s marital status. I had assumed that, like the millionaires whose antics filled the gossip columns, he had had the usual succession of wives. I was about to pursue the subject—Hank’s marital history in general, not my prospects of marry-ing him—when we came out of the trees and saw the house.
It appeared fairly unpretentious until you realized how big it was—a low, sprawling hacienda-Summer of the Dragon / 47
type building, with arched windows and tiled roofs and a lot of intricate wrought iron on balconies and window grilles. We drove through an open gate into a courtyard whose other walls were formed by wings of the house. Roofed loggias supporting balconies ran along the house walls; red-brown pottery jars between the thick white columns overflowed with vines and flowers.
I got out, only mildly disconcerted to find that there was a chocolate stain on my slacks.
“One of the housemen will get your luggage,” De Karsky said.
“One of the housemen…. Of course. I should have known you wouldn’t take up with a millionaire unless he had a couple of dozen housemen.”
“Don’t just stand there, go on in. Hank will be waiting.”
“Isn’t one of the housemen going to drive the car to the garage?” I inquired.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Then do join me. I don’t believe in these outmoded class distinctions. You don’t even have to walk a pace or two behind me.”
De Karsky glared at me and stalked toward the house. I followed him toward a door in the opposite wall. Before we reached it, it opened, and a man came out.
If De Karsky hadn’t greeted him by name I wouldn’t have known who he was. He didn’t 48 / Elizabeth Peters
look anything like what I had expected; tall and lean and weatherbeaten, he looked like John Wayne and Gary Cooper and Tom Mix—all the old cowboy heroes rolled into one. His clothes suited the image—well-worn boots, jeans, and a shirt of faded blue-and-white-checked cotton. I was amazed that he didn’t have a star pinned on his chest and twin holsters dangling low on his hips. The only incongruous note in the costume was his belt, a row of silver medallions the size of saucers, set with huge chunks of unpolished turquoise. His eyes were the same shade as the turquoise. They squinted at me from under thick sandy eyebrows. I would not have been surprised to hear him address me as “little gal,” and crush my hand in his.
His handshake was firm and not at all crushing.
“How do you do, Ms. Abbott,” he said. “I’m grateful to you for coming.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here.” I hesitated. Then I said in a rush, “I ate all the chocolates. And the cheese. It was divine, thank you. I mean, all of it was divine, but I especially liked the cheese.”
His tentative smile opened up into a wide grin.
“Spike told me you were a good eater. I was glad to hear it. Can’t stand these women who are always on a diet. Most of them are too thin anyway.”
I promised myself I would get back at Spike Bancroft for that crack about my eating habits. But I couldn’t hate him too much, since Hank ob Summer of the Dragon / 49
viously meant what he said. His eyes were going over my curves (I have plenty of curves, most in the wrong places) with candid but inoffensive appreciation.
“Come on in,” he continued, turning toward the house. “You must be tired and hot.”
“I feel great.”
“Those crumbs of cheese didn’t spoil your appetite, I hope. Dinner will be served in about an hour.”
“I can always eat,” I admitted.
He beamed at me approvingly, and then turned to De Karsky, who was leaning against one of the columns watching.
“No problems, Tom?”
“No problems.”
“Good.”
The main door might have been stolen from an ancient Spanish mission. It was black with age, and carved with strangely effective patterns of primitive saints and sinners.
I could go on describing that house, but you would get tired of adjectives after a while. Everything was spacious, beautiful, old, rare, expensive. Just put one or more of those words in front of every object in the place and you’ve got it. Yet the overall effect was restful and deceptively simple. The Spanish-Indian style suited the climate and the terrain; it even looked cool, with its contrasting white walls and dark beams, its shining tile floors and large, uncluttered spaces.
50 / Elizabeth Peters
A slim, dark-skinned little maid led me up a broad curving staircase onto a second-floor gallery, and showed me to my room. I am sure I need not say it was the most elegant room I had ever occupied. At home I always had to share with Judy or Shirley, or, when company came, with both. This room was bigger than our living room. Dark beams crossed the ceiling; the walls were white, hung with brilliantly patterned Indian rugs and a few paintings. There were two balconies, one overlooking the courtyard and the other opening onto a dazzling view of carved red cliffs and deepening sky. There were a private bath and a dressing room whose amenities included a refrigerator tucked in under a counter. It was stocked with a mouth-watering assortment of goodies, including several tall bottles.
The maid displayed all these things in silence, smiling; I smiled back and made appropriate noises. I was trying to be cool, but not blase. The process took some time, there was so much to see. Before it was over, there was a knock at the door, and an elderly man came in, carrying my stuff. Like the maid, he appeared to be pure-blooded Indian. His face was a mass of wrinkles and his hair was white. Before I thought, I jumped to help him. The look he gave me stopped me in my tracks. He was as strong as he was wrinkled, and I realized I had deeply offended him. He went out shaking his head and
Summer of the Dragon / 51
mumbling to himself, after depositing my bags on a luggage rack.
“I guess I hurt his feelings,” I said.
“They’re all very macho,” the maid said calmly.
“You’ve got to expect it of their generation. Want me to unpack for you?”
“Thanks, I can manage. I’ve only got three pair of jeans and two shirts.”
“Okay. That strip of fabric over there is a bell pull, believe it or not. If you want me, use it.”
“I probably won’t,” I said.
“I don’t suppose you will, but feel free. My name’s Debbie.”
“Is it really?”
“Well, I’ve got an Indian name too. Ken-tee. My grandfather calls me that. So do some of Hank’s guests.
They think it’s quaint. But I prefer Debbie.”
“I know what you mean. I refuse to tell anybody what names my folks saddled me with. You can call me D.J.”
“Parents are a trial,” she agreed, and we both laughed. “Well, if there’s nothing else…. Go on down to the living room when you’re ready; cocktails in half an hour.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, as she started for the door.
“Do they dress for dinner or anything like that? I haven’t got—”
“You could come down stark naked and nobody would notice,” she said cryptically.
52 / Elizabeth Peters
After wallowing in the sunken tub and refreshing the inner woman from the contents of the refrigerator, I investigated my wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. In spite of Mother’s efforts I didn’t have much choice; I had kicked under the bed most of the “evening dresses” and “cocktail frocks” she had tried to urge on me. From what I had seen and heard I didn’t think evening dress was de rigueur, but I decided to wear a long skirt anyhow. Mother put it into the suitcase with her own hands and I never had a chance to take it out.
She had made it herself. If I hadn’t been automatically turned off by her domestic efforts I’d have liked the skirt; she’s a superb needlewoman, of course, and she had embroidered flowers and leaves all around the hem and on the patch pockets, turning a cheap green-and-white cotton print into something quite lovely.
Now that I was away from her I realized that I kind of missed her. I snuffled a little, enjoying the faint spasm of homesickness, as I put on the skirt and a simple white sleeveless top.
I cured the homesickness with a couple of pieces of cheese (I really do adore cheese) and went looking for the living room. It was easy to find. As soon as I stepped onto the gallery I could hear the noise. The closer I got, the more outrageous it became, and I started to feel right at home. The shrieks and shouts and voices raised in loud argument reminded me of the last professional society meeting I had attended.
Summer of the Dragon / 53
The room was big, forty or fifty feet long. The far wall was entirely of glass. It faced west.
That was the only decoration the room needed. Fine particles of dust and sand give desert sunsets a spectacular glory other climates never see, and this was a particularly good one. The sky looked like the palette of a demented, color-mad painter. Outlined against the flaming gold and crimson clouds were grotesquely shaped mountain peaks, erratic in outline, as if someone had spilled ink and let it run.
The room seemed crowded, for all its size. There weren’t all that many people present, but each of them was making enough noise for three or four. I never did get to know all of them. The population was transient; people came and went as in a hotel, and I got the impression that Hank never knew or cared how many mouths he would be feeding on any given night. But there was a hard core, so to speak: legitimate members of the household and illegitimate crooks who had found a good deal and were holding on to it. If I don’t mention the legitimate members, such as Hank’s gray-haired housekeeper, it’s because they ran the place with self-effacing efficiency. The crooks were much more conspicuous.
The group nearest me consisted of a fat little woman in a long, flowing robe and a preposterous turban of molting feathers. Rings flashed on her plump hands as she waved them in animated debate with another turbaned personage, a tall, 54 / Elizabeth Peters
brown-faced man wearing evening dress with a red ribbon across his chest. His turban was red too. The third person in the group was a short man whose little round belly hung out over his loud plaid pants. His black eyes darted from the lady in the turban to the man in the turban as they exchanged comments like duelists swapping blows.
