The Dead Can Tell: A Detective McKee Mystery. Helen Reilly
do much talking. There were so many things that had to be left unsaid.
The shadow of Sara persisted. Cristie began to wonder with a dull ache at her heart what was going to happen and whether Steven would ever speak to her again as he had spoken that day in the little café around the corner from Margot’s.
Late one afternoon in the middle of the month, Margot St. Vrain called Steven at his office and asked him to the penthouse for dinner and the evening. Steven thanked her, but said he had an engagement to dine with Mary Dodd and Kit Blaketon. Margot suggested that he bring the two women over after dinner. She said Harry Woods, the song writer, was going to be there, that he was going to try out a new number for them.
Steven spoke of Margot St. Vrain’s invitation to Mary Dodd during dinner and Kit was enthusiastic about the idea. She hummed, “When the red red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin’ along” with a touch of her old gayety and said, “Let’s, Mary, I’d adore meeting Harry Woods. He’s marvelous, absolutely grade A.”
Mary was agreeable. While Kit was getting her hat, Mary told Steven she had been a little worried about the girl but didn’t tell him why.
When they arrived at the penthouse, Margot received them cordially. Her fiancé, Euen Firth, her cousin Johnny St. Vrain and Harry Woods were there. Woods was a lean gaunt fellow with an attractive smile.
Steven introduced Mary and Kit. Woods resumed his place at the piano. Cristie came in during the middle of the new song. She slipped quietly into a chair near the door, a slim snow-white and rose-red figure in dark crimson wool that brought out the cherry-blossom texture of her skin, the dark cloudiness of her hair. She didn’t single Steven out particularly. She gave him a smiling nod, accepted Kit Blaketon’s sizing-up stare, returned Mary Dodd’s pleasant half-smile and waved a hand to Johnny, leaning over the piano.
The song over, they all congratulated Woods. Euen Firth reappeared, followed by a colored maid wheeling a small bar. Drinks were served. Conversation became general.
As usual Euen helped himself to the liquid refreshment, his weak, good-natured face outfitted with a placating and permanent smile.
Cristie was waiting for a chance to talk to Steven, but to her annoyance Euen devoted himself to her. Her attention wandered. Toward what she hoped was the end of a long story about a Mexican and a goat, she glanced up. To her surprise, Euen wasn’t looking at her; he was looking at Steven who was talking to Margot and Miss Dodd on the other side of the room. There was no vacuity in Euen. His eyes were owlish, intent. As she watched, his aimlessness returned. He put a hand on her shoulder and finished his tale, echoing Cristie’s polite mirth with a cheerful guffaw.
Cristie was puzzled. It was no more than that, then. Another man and woman came in, and, later, Pat Somers arrived. He was accompanied by his brother Cliff. Cristie hadn’t seen either of them since the night of the party. That was what she called it herself, the only thing she permitted herself to call it. She averted her mind swiftly, pulled down a shutter. The act was automatic. She was getting used to it. Pat greeted Margot and Johnny, turned to Mary Dodd. He seemed glad to see her.
“I called the house and they told me you’d be here,” he said.
A look of understanding passed between them.
Kit Blaketon joined Johnny on the other side of Woods. The girl had been laughing and talking a moment before, red hair tossing vivid fire around the pretty, pointed face. It changed as Cliff Somers neared the piano. There was a beseeching air about him as he said, “Hello, Kit.”
Kit Blaketon stared back at him stonily. “ ’Lo, Cliff.”
It was the merest scrap of a greeting, indifferent, curt, uninterested. She turned back to the song writer, threw an arm around his shoulders.
“Go on, Harry,” she urged, “don’t stop playing.”
Woods looked up at her with a grin. “All right, baby, what’ll you have?”
Kit Blaketon’s voice, clear, metallic, rode the room as she answered, “Play ‘Get out of Town,’ darling. That’s the only tune I can think of at the moment.”
Cristie watched the good-looking young politician flush and pale. How cruel girls could be when they wanted to! Then she stopped thinking about the curious incident.
Steven was crossing the room. Beside her he said in a low voice, “I want to talk to you, Cristie.” He looked different. There was an air of purpose about him somehow.
She said, “My room, down the hall.”
She was standing at one of the tall windows beyond her drawing board when Steven joined her. He paused just inside the door, his tall broad-shouldered figure, his dark head, outlined against the white paneling. He was thinner and older but the light was back in his face, the light Sara had almost succeeded in crushing out.
“Cristie!” His voice had a ring to it.
“Yes, Steven.” Her own was none too steady, her own small dark head was lifted. She was shaking inwardly. “You—wanted me for something?”
Steven was holding a cigarette in his lean brown fingers. He ground it out in an ash tray. He said, “That’s just it. Yes, Cristie. I do want you. It’s time now. All the other is gone. It’s finished, done with, over.”
Cristie’s hands were clasped in front of her. Her fingers tightened. The dark pool at the bottom of her mind stirred a little. Was anything ever over completely? Did the past ever really bury its dead? Or were they just tucked away conveniently out of sight? She turned to the window, looked out into the clear, star-spangled autumn night, said on an uneven breath, “Oh, Steven, Steven—I don’t know. Can we ever . . .?”
Steven was close to her. He put strong gentle hands on her shoulders, swung her round until she faced him. His eyes dove deeply into hers. She couldn’t get away—realized, a thin glow of rapture beginning to pervade her, that she didn’t want to.
Steven continued, his eyes holding hers, “Yes, Cristie. We can. We can and we will.”
The core of darkness within her refused to dissipate, continued to send out creeping tentacles. “Are you sure, Steven?” she whispered.
Steven held her away. She looked at the dancing specks in his steel-bright eyes. The irises were ringed with black.
He said steadily, “Yes, Cristie, I’m sure. I let you go once. I’m not going to let you go again. Cristie, Cristie.” His grip tightened. “Don’t you understand? I love you. We have a right to each other. And by guess or by God, anyone who tries to stop us now—well, it’s going to be just too bad. Cristie, tell me what I want to hear, tell me, darling, tell me!”
Cristie didn’t answer at once. She was deeply moved. But that inner weight was difficult to throw off. Steven’s hands fell from her shoulders. His eyes searched the small white face she lifted to his. Her lips parted. Her lashes opened wide and glory blossomed in the violet eyes set at a tilt under the delicate brows.
“Steven,” she cried in a low radiant voice. “Oh, Steven, Steven.”
Her arms were around his neck. He strained her to him. Their lips met and the room, the penthouse, the whole sorry world were left behind.
They clung passionately to that moment, a moment in which they were in another atmosphere beyond time and beyond space with only themselves and a thin strain of music that was Harry Woods in the distant living room playing, magically, Begin the Beguine.
To live it again is past all endeavor Except when the tune clutches my heart; Yet there we are, swearing to love forever, And promising never, never to part.
Cristie withdrew her lips from Steven’s, burrowed her forehead in the hollow of his shoulder. “Never, Steven,” she murmured. “Never?”
Drawing her closer, Steven said, “Never, darling, never. Sara’s gone. Don’t worry about her any more. You mustn’t. It isn’t necessary. I know things about Sara that . . . Listen,