Flaming Tree Page 6

  “Show Kelsey your portrait of Tyler,” Denis said. “Now that’s reality.”

  Marisa gestured, and Kelsey stopped before a photograph of Tyler Hammond that held a central place on one wall, with no competition from other pictures. Its impact was shocking. The lighting of the head against a neutral background was as dramatic as that in the scenic pictures, showing the stark, brooding intensity of the man. His eyes seemed shadowed with pain, the brows heavily thick and dark—angry brows. His mouth, set grimly, hinted at even darker thoughts, and black hair swept away from a forehead that was surely formed of the same implacable granite as those coastal rocks. It seemed a tormented face, and Kelsey asked a question.

  “When was this taken, Mrs. Marsh?”

  “About three years ago—I think,” Marisa said.

  So the torment was not because of recent tragedy alone. It must have grown from something he’d lived with for a long time. In any case, if this was the essence of the man who was Jody’s father, she would stand little chance of persuading him to anything he resisted. Hurling herself against him would be like hurling herself upon the rocks of Point Lobos—as his wife and son had been hurled upon them two months ago. Kelsey looked up at the flying geese, so beautiful in themselves and seeming to reveal an imagination that could soar.

  “He can be like that too,” Marisa said gently.

  “He’s more like the photograph,” Denis insisted. “You had to be warned—armed. This tells the truth about Tyler.”

  Marisa spoke quickly. “No—it’s only one truth. This is what he gave me in a single instant of time. There are other moments. Look at this one over here.”

  In the background of the next picture rose a rough stone tower—the same tower Kelsey had seen in a painting in Tyler’s study—and at its base stood a man and a boy. The man, Tyler Hammond, was obviously talking to his son about the tower, one hand gesturing, and he seemed a different man from the portrait. The boy’s face was bright with interest as he listened. This was Jody as he had been—such a little while ago. This was the image she needed to hold in her mind as the goal she must reach toward. One certainty that no one had taught her in any classroom, but which she had learned painfully through trial and error, was that unless one could believe in a return to the normal, the impossible could never be accomplished. Sometimes grim determination not to give in counted for more than anything else.

  She looked again at the high stone structure rising above the two figures in the photograph.

  “What is that strange-looking tower?” she asked.

  “That’s the Hawk Tower at Tor House,” Marisa said. “Robinson Jeffers carried all those stones up from the beach and built it himself. Tyler was doing a documentary film about Robinson Jeffers.”

  In college Kelsey had been drawn to the poet’s unusual rhythms, foreboding beliefs, and stunning word pictures of this California coast.

  “I should think Jeffers would make an exciting film,” she said.

  Marisa sighed. “Tyler hasn’t touched it since the accident to Ruth and Jody. I don’t know if he’ll ever go back to it.”

  It was the boy, however, who interested Kelsey more than the father. “Have you any other studies of Jody?”

  “There’s one over here I rather like.” Marisa’s movements were always quick, and somehow a surprise, like the movements of a bird who might take off in unexpected flight at any moment.

  Kelsey stopped before a picture in which Jody was completely lost in his own world of creation. He seemed to be modeling a clay head of a woman—a head that was half life size, and three quarters turned to the camera.

  Again the boy’s face was brightly intent, his fingers busy with the clay—a likeness clearly emerging as he worked.

  “That’s a really remarkable head of Ruth that Jody made,” Denis said. “I expect Marisa had some hand in helping him to find her likeness.”

  Marisa dismissed that. “Not really. I taught him a little technique, but Jody showed a real talent for portraiture.”

  The boy’s spirit shone in his face, in the very set of his mouth in eager concentration. This was what Kelsey wanted to carry with her when she returned to that boy with the blank eyes whom she’d seen this morning. These pictures would give her a goal, a standard toward which she could build.

  Denis, however, was shaking his head. He turned away from the photograph as though it was more than he could bear to look at.

  “The next one is Ruth,” Marisa said. “You haven’t met her yet?”

  “Not yet.” Kelsey stood before the delicate, clear-eyed, and somehow innocent face that looked out from the next frame. A happy face, the eyes thick-lashed, the lips soft, almost tremulous, the chin as rounded as a child’s and all too vulnerable. This was no face to stand up to granite.

  Denis spoke softly. “She’s not like that anymore. That Ruth is gone. But I’m glad you caught her the way she used to be, Marisa. You have a really great instinct for portraits. I like these better than those wild scenes.”

  “Thank you, Denis. I value your opinion, since you really do know.”

  Denis seemed to shy away from whatever she implied. “You never cared much yourself for this picture of Ruth, did you, Marisa?”

  “No—I wasn’t able to catch her as I wanted to. Your sister’s far more complex, more interesting, than this shows. Have you seen her since last night, Denis?”

  He answered gloomily. “I haven’t been allowed to see her. I barely managed to talk to my own mother since Tyler has Dora firmly under his thumb too. Sometimes he can be brutal.”

  “I know,” Marisa said. “I know only too well.”

  Denis seemed to study her for a moment, and then asked an odd question. “Marisa, have you had any more—promptings?”

  “No! And I don’t want any!”

  “But if you hadn’t—”

  “Skip it,” she said curtly, and for the first time she seemed uncomfortable, dismissing the subject—whatever it was.

  Denis touched Kelsey’s arm. “We’ve taken enough of Marisa’s time. We’d better run along.”

  Kelsey, however, had stopped before the next, head-and-shoulders photograph. The woman wore a pale blouse with a boat neck, and in contrast, a long string of black beads. Her large, rather myopic eyes gazed beyond the camera, and her mouth was fixed in a deliberate smile. Her nicely shaped nose was tilted slightly, the nostrils flared, as though the woman had caught an unpleasant odor. It was so perfect a nose that Kelsey wondered if it had had a little help. California interest in plastic surgery made you question perfection. Her hair—probably a wig—was smartly coiffed and fluffed around her face, as though to soften outlines that seemed hard. Her chin was too sharply pointed for beauty, yet the whole was an arresting and rather exotic face.

  “Who is that?” Kelsey asked.

  Marisa considered the photograph for a moment. “Never mind who—what does that portrait tell you?”

  “I don’t think I’d like her,” Kelsey said.

  Denis snorted. “You wouldn’t have. Practically no one around here liked Francesca Fallon.”

  There had been talk about this woman at her aunt’s—about her murder. But before she could ask anything more, Marisa spoke quickly.

  “Look, you two—you needn’t rush off. Do stay for lunch. My chili and beans are ready, and I can pop rolls into the oven. If you want to set the table on the terrace, Denis, I’ll toss a quick salad.”

  “We’ll accept gracefully,” Denis said. “We were going to stop in Pebble Beach for lunch, but this will be much nicer. Thanks, Marisa.”

  Before she left the studio, Kelsey’s eye was caught by one more dramatic photograph set apart at the far end. Unlike the others, this picture was in dramatic color. She walked over to it, her attention completely arrested. Again there was disaster. Against a night sky a tree stood burning—a twisted oak, its branches alive with fire. Orange and crimson flames leapt into the sky, and every leaf blazed in this instant of time. One could almost hear t
he crackle of conflagration, the windy roar. The whole thing must have raged for only a few moments before the spectacle was over.

  Marisa had come to stand beside her, and she spoke softly, an almost relishing note in her voice. “I was lucky with that one. Friends were building a house out in Carmel Valley. They were planning to do some ranching—horses. I’d spent the day with them and we were camping near the site. A thunderstorm came up, and lightning struck that tree. That was years ago, before I turned entirely to black and white film. I took several shots, and this was the best one. Of course when they finished the house, my friends called their place Flaming Tree Ranch. Unfortunately, they failed … the house is empty now.”

  Denis spoke with a slight edge to his voice, as though the photograph of the flaming tree made him uneasy. “Let’s help you with lunch, Marisa,” he said, breaking the spell.

  Marisa moved swiftly and capably, and Kelsey helped Denis carry dishes of creamy glaze and brown linen place mats out to the terrace. A table, its top inset with tiles from Greece in a fish pattern, was quickly arranged with salads of fresh greens, a big bowl of chili, and hot rolls and butter. When Marisa had brought glasses of iced tea, they sat down to eat. Their hostess looked like a young girl, curled up in a big wicker chair, with her turquoise skirt swirled about her. But she wasn’t a young girl, and sometimes a knowledge that was almost ancient looked out of her eyes.

  “Were you ever a dancer?” Kelsey asked.

  Her laughter chimed again, and Denis said, “She still is.”

  “One of my many lives. You should have seen me in my Isadora Duncan phase! About a thousand years ago.”

  The terrace, with its widespread view of pines sloping toward the ocean, the rocky coastline, and strips of sand, seemed utterly peaceful, the air clear and cool and sunny. A pine tree cast its shadow over the table, and small, bright fish seemed to dart in the tiles around their place mats.

  “It’s heavenly,” Kelsey murmured, once more feeling tension wash away—grateful for any respite from Tyler Hammond’s problems, and her own.

  “It’s calm today,” Marisa said. “We can be buffeted up here. Do you see that spot way out there near the rocks where white water is churning? They call that the Restless Sea because so many currents come in at that particular point. More than almost anyplace in the world.”

  For a little while longer it seemed good to postpone all the urgencies that lay ahead. Good for a little while not to fight for anything. The chili tasted hot and delicious, the creamy butter melted on Kelsey’s roll, yet something still nagged insistently for her attention. That last portrait she’d seen in Marisa’s studio had disturbed her for some reason.

  “Tell me about Francesca Fallon,” she said.

  There was a moment’s silence while Denis buttered a bit of roll and Marisa looked off toward the ocean. Clearly, neither wanted to talk about her, but Kelsey was thinking again of Elaine’s words.

  “She’s the woman who was killed a few months ago?”

  Marisa nodded. “Francesca was murdered in her home in Carmel Valley. No one knows by whom.”

  “Was she shot?”

  “She died from a blow to the head,” Marisa said grimly. “Though they never found the weapon. Whoever it was must have been scared off because nothing was taken. The houseworker who came every few days found her. The police think it was a random incident—someone who broke in looking for money or jewelry. Though knowing Francesca, I wonder.”

  “Unfortunately, she invited trouble,” Denis said. “I imagine she had a few enemies, and maybe she got what she deserved.”

  “That’s possible,” Marisa agreed. “She did a radio program out of Monterey for a while, you know—a gossipy sort of hour, sometimes with interviews. She could dredge up trouble, cause a lot of nastiness to surface.”

  Again, Kelsey remembered. “Someone mentioned that she interviewed Tyler Hammond.”

  “She certainly did,” Marisa said. “If you could call it an interview. Since he was hard to get, Francesca went to his house to do the broadcast. I was there, and I made a recording at the time because Tyler was on. It’s still around somewhere.”

  “That broadcast didn’t do either of them much good,” Denis said.

  Marisa went on. “Tyler, of course, has a splendid voice. It came across well on the air, and I still hope he’ll do the commentary for the film he was working on about Robinson Jeffers.”

  “You ought to erase that tape you made,” Denis said.

  “Oh, I don’t know—I think Tyler gave as good as he got. It was pretty lively to listen to, since nobody messes with Tyler. If the program hadn’t been live and done right on the air, I don’t think the station would have run it.”

  “We all knew Francesca Fallon when she was young,” Denis said, “and I never liked her.”

  Marisa mused aloud, almost to herself. “I wonder if there’s a wickedness scale for human beings. None of us makes a ‘10’ when it comes to goodness—whatever that is—and some fall into the minus category. Perhaps I’d rate Francesca as around ‘2.’”

  Here was the subject of good and evil again, Kelsey thought—the same topic Denis had brought up last night on the beach. Perhaps Marisa, whom he’d termed a “wise woman,” was the source of his thinking about the subject.

  Now, however, the luncheon was nearly over and they must follow the coastline, circling on back to Carmel, returning to all the troubles that waited to engulf them.

  Kelsey asked an abrupt question before they left the table. “Where would you rate Tyler on your scale, Mrs. Marsh?”

  She twisted her thick gray braid, toying with the thunderbird clip in fingers that were brown from the sun and wiry thin. The movement seemed nervous, and for a moment Kelsey thought she wouldn’t attempt an answer. Her involvement with Tyler, her partisanship as his adopted mother was clear.

  “Tyler came to a crossroad in his life a while back. He could have gone in several directions. I’m not sure he’s ever really chosen.”

  “I think he has,” Denis said gloomily. “If what you call evil means damaging others, then he’s chosen.”

  “That’s a bit strong,” Marisa said, and rose from the table, uncurling herself.

  Kelsey’s mood had changed to a restlessness as great as those churning currents out beyond the rocky shore.

  Marisa seemed to sense her need to be on her way. “Leave everything,” she said. “I always think best when I’m being domestic. I’m struggling with an article right now. Something I’ve thought about for a long time, and that I’ve wanted to set down on paper—if only for my own satisfaction.”

  “What’s the subject?” Kelsey asked as they left the terrace.

  “Good and evil—what else? Just a modest little topic. I don’t even know where I stand on the scale. I suppose we never know ourselves.”

  “I’d like to read it when it’s done,” Denis said. “You’d better think hard about Tyler.”

  “I always think hard about Tyler,” Marisa countered.

  She came to the door with them and held out her hand to Kelsey, not so much as a handshake as to take Kelsey’s fingers in her own, as she’d done before, seeming to test their tensile strength, sensing at once a certain resistance Kelsey put into her hand.

  “Stubborn,” Marisa said, sounding pleased. “I don’t think you give up on anything. But still unfinished—unsure. There’s a hard fight ahead of you. No, don’t worry. I’m not a fortune-teller. Anyone could read this, considering the situation at Tyler’s. But Jody is my grandson—or I think of him that way—and I really hope you can help him, Kelsey. When I talk to Tyler again, I’ll tell him he should listen to you.”

  “Thank you,” Kelsey said. She took her hand back self-consciously, not used to being analyzed so openly. “I’ve loved coming here.”

  “You’re to come again—and I mean that,” Marisa said.

  When they were in the car, heading toward the main road, Kelsey thought of something. “There wasn’t a pictu
re of you in Marisa’s gallery, Denis. Why not?”

  He grinned. “Oh, she’s tried. But she never liked the result. She thinks I’m unfinished too—like you.”

  “Are you?”

  He sobered. “I’ve always had trouble finding my direction.”

  “Doesn’t Marisa Marsh have the same problem? All those things she does!”

  “It’s not the same. She has so many gifts, and she uses them well. She doesn’t discard anything. All her skills add up, even though she doesn’t have a drive toward one spectacular success. With me, every time I think I’ve found my way, something changes.”

  “Maybe that only means you have more depths than most people and you’re still searching.”

  His smile was wry. “How long does that go on? Anyway, that’s enough for confession time.”

  “I don’t suppose anyone ever stops being unfinished,” Kelsey said. “Isn’t that what it’s all about—growing? Anyway, I like Marisa a lot.”

  “So do I,” Denis agreed.

  They followed the road along the ocean, stopping now and then so Kelsey could enjoy the sight of sea lions and listen to their barking. Cormorants perched on rocks out in the water, and the sea rolled in endlessly. In one place, when they parked for the view, small, greedy squirrels, tourist-fed, tried to jump into the car.

  They drove on again, mostly silent now. Kelsey liked Denis Langford increasingly. His lack of pretense made a pleasant contrast to what she’d seen of Tyler Hammond’s arrogant performance. Tyler’s more secretive nature might be frightening to probe. Even though he held back a bit, Denis was more open.

  “Let’s stop here,” he said, turning off to another parking space. “This is one of our postcard vistas—the Lone Cypress. We’ll get out and stretch our legs.”

  On the bank below, a mass of twisted cypresses seemed to entangle their way downhill toward the water. Some were dead—gray-white skeletons that had long ago been deformed by ocean winds. On the left, a tongue of land reached into the water, ending in a spectacular rock with a high, jagged point that cut into the sky. In the background across the bay the long stretch of the Santa Lucia Mountains loomed on the horizon. Lacy white fingers of surf broke at the rock’s face, and swirled in land through gashes in the granite. Near the top of the rugged point, crowning it dramatically, stood the small lone cypress tree—not twisted like the others, but a straight, fragile silhouette against ocean and mountains, defying winds and water boldly.