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  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 m
e, 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 doc
umentary 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?”