Fatal Flowers. V. J. Banis
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BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY VICTOR J. BANIS
The Astral: Till the Day I Die
Avalon
Charms, Spells, and Curses for the Millions
Color Him Gay: That Man from C.A.M.P.
The Curse of Bloodstone: A Gothic Novel of Terror
Darkwater: A Gothic Novel of Horror
The Devil’s Dance
Drag Thing; or, The Strange Tale of Jackle and Hyde
The Earth and All It Holds
Fatal Flowers: A Novel of Horror
The Gay Dogs: That Man from C.A.M.P.
The Gay Haunt
The Glass House
The Glass Painting: A Gothic Tale of Horror
Goodbye, My Lover
The Greek Boy
The Green Rolling Hills: Writings from West Virginia (editor)
Kenny’s Back
Life and Other Passing Moments: A Collection of Short Writings
The Lion’s Gate
Moon Garden
The Pot Thickens: Recipes from Writers and Editors (editor)
San Antone
The Second House: A Novel of Terror
The Second Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
Spine Intact, Some Creases: Remembrances of a Paperback Writer
Stranger at the Door: A Novel of Suspense
Sweet Tormented Love: A Novel of Romance
The Sword and the Rose: An Historical Novel
This Splendid Earth
The Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
The WATERCRESS File: That Man from C.A.M.P.
A Westward Love: An Historical Romance
The Wine of the Heart: A Novel of Romance
The Wolves of Craywood: A Novel of Terror
The Why Not
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1973, 2012 by V. J. Banis
Originally published under the title The Fatal Flower under the pseudonym, Lynn Benedict
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
I am deeply indebted to my friend, Heather, for all the help she has given me in getting these early works of mine reissued.
And I am grateful as well to Rob Reginald, for all his assistance and support.
CHAPTER ONE
I first saw Sarah from the window of a train—a train taking me to a house where I was not welcome.
I had been in a nearly fatal airplane crash and now I was coming to visit the mother who had abandoned me years ago. I no longer thought of her as my mother. She was just a woman I didn’t know and hadn’t seen in almost twenty years.
But there was something about the brightness of the early morning sun that did wonders for my low spirits. Even the food tasted better and the plaster cast on my leg felt less weighty.
The waiter put my check discreetly at the edge of the table and refilled my cup.
“We’ll be arriving at Gulf Point in about five minutes, Miss Whelan,” he said.
I smiled. “Thank you. I’m all ready.”
He bowed slightly and left me to my thoughts.
The dining car was practically deserted. Not very many people came to this part of Florida at this time of year. I’d been warned that it would be hot and muggy and swarming with insects. That didn’t bother me half as much as the thought of having to live under the same roof with her—the great Diana Hamilton of stage, screen, radio, and television.
Who would, of course, prefer to forget the radio part of that. It was her obsession with staying young that had meant keeping my existence a secret. Diana Hamilton couldn’t afford to have a grown daughter. Her public might lose interest, especially her young public.
“There is a very obvious generation gap, and rightfully so,” she had said in a teenage fan magazine interview. “And the young among us want to be free of the old ways and old ideas....”
I shook my head. She had to be forty at least, but she deceived herself so much that I think she actually believed herself to be young.
Daddy used to tell me about her—how beautiful she was, how talented, how impossible to live with. He likened her to a little girl who refused to grow up. She couldn’t accept the fact that she was aging.
When I was three, she abandoned us. At nine I found myself an orphan and it was then that I’d had my last contact with her, of an indirect sort—a letter from a law firm informing me that I would be amply provided for financially. I was to be placed under the supervision of guardians, and it was made plain enough that Diana Hamilton wanted no further association with me.
The woman across the aisle rattled her newspaper and began to eye me. I could tell by her look exactly which page of her paper she was reading. My picture was on that inside page, and the picture of Diana Hamilton was next to mine. And I knew the caption well. I’d seen it often enough of late. It read: “Long lost daughter of actress lone survivor of plane crash.”
When I chanced a glance toward my dining companion, she looked at me over the edge of the paper and gave a faint smile. I looked away immediately in order to discourage any conversation. Everyone who recognized me said the same things. “Wasn’t it lucky for you that they found out your true identity? You must be so happy.”
I wasn’t happy—I’d always known my identity—and I wasn’t a long lost daughter. I wanted to tell them all just how the great Diana Hamilton really had abandoned me, refused to recognize me as her own flesh and blood, because a grown daughter might tarnish her youthful image. She didn’t want me now any more than she ever had. She’d been forced to accept me when fingerprints taken while I was unconscious had identified me. My birth certificate came to light. Sharp reporters were quick to put names together.
It was only then that the talented Diana played her most dramatic scene. Her poor, dear, lost daughter, she had told the reporters. Her first husband had disappeared, taking their little child with him. She didn’t want a scandal. She searched as thoroughly as she dared, but then her studio sent her to Europe on location and her search had to be interrupted. Eventually that search was tearfully abandoned when Phil Whelan’s trail grew too faint and too cold to follow.
I suddenly smiled to myself. I could see her ranting and raving behind closed doors. She was forced to send for me. Her public demanded that...and I knew that it infuriated her.
Why hadn’t I spoken up and given my account of the true story to the newspapers? I had sat and kept quiet. What would it have accomplished, after all, to ruin Diana Hamilton’s image? So, yes, I had gone along with her charade, with this reunion put on for the benefit of the press and her public.
The woman across the aisle rattled her paper again, trying to catch my attention. I quickly finished my coffee, left money on the table, and hurried out of the dining car on my crutch, being careful not to look in the woman’s direction.
I heard her mumble an “Excuse me, Miss Whelan,” when I passed her table, but I pretended not to hear. I made my way back to my compartment, determined to hold my low spirits at bay. I could get through this well enough, and in no time at all I’d be back in Hilsborough, teaching school. Diana would tire of playing the part of the happy, munificent