Hers the Kingdom (62 page)

     "Wen will have been married by now," Willa said wistfully to Thad, as he waltzed her around the dance floor.

     "I promise that you shall be the first to be invited to my wedding, Mother," Thad replied, "we'll have it right here in the garden, you can wear that Alice-blue gown, and all the men will be looking at you, just the way they are today." The dress was of the softest voile. A high neck edged with delicate Valenciennes lace framed her face, and inserts of lace trimmed the bodice and tumbled down the skirt. It made her look soft and fresh, and ten years younger than her forty-seven years.

     Willa smiled at her son's effort, and she thought, "At least I have you, Thad. At least we are friends now."

     "We'll have a wonderful wedding for you, dear. I trust you will give me good notice."

     "That I will do," he laughed, whirling her around in a wide circle, causing the other couples to look at them, and smile.

What Thad had said was true. Willa did look stunning, and she was seldom off the dance floor. When she could, she begged forgiveness to do an errand. Wanting a few moments alone, she made her
way to the library to search for a book she had promised one of her guests.

     The house was quiet and dark. All of the servants were occupied out-of-doors. She moved easily through the hallways, into the library. If she remembered correctly, the volume she wanted was on one of the top shelves. She pushed the ladder along the wall, then climbed two steps and was reaching when a voice spoke out.

     "Please don't be startled, Mrs. Reade."

     She was startled; for a long moment she stood, with her arm raised in mid-air, swaying.

     "That was what I was trying to prevent," he said, reaching to steady her, "I'm Philip Bourke, and I'm afraid I've frightened you. Forgive me, I'm clumsy on the dance floor as well and I sought out this place as a retreat."

     Willa opened the draperies and let the afternoon light into the room. He was tall and wearing a rumpled linen suit. "Mr. Bourke," she said, "I don't think that we've met before."

     "As a matter of fact we have," he told her, "eleven years ago I managed to get myself invited to the party you gave to welcome in the new century. You were wearing a gray silk dress and you danced with me, once. I'm not surprised that you don't remember, however, because you danced with the whole lot of us smitten young fellows that night."

     "And you've been here, in California, ever since?" she asked, choosing to ignore the flattery. In fact, she had heard about Philip Bourke. He was one of the "progressives" who were working with Joseph to break the Southern Pacific's stranglehold on California. Joseph thought well of him, she knew, though she was not at all sure how she felt about the radicals.

     "No, I haven't been in California all of that time," he answered. "As a matter of fact, I was only visiting then."

     "Do you spend a good deal of time, then, at tea dances and New Years' celebrations?" she asked, pointedly.

     "Not much at all," he countered, sipping on a glass of champagne he had with him, "the Reades are not that approachable, you see. I only go to tea dances as a subterfuge."

     "Perhaps we should return to the dance," Willa murmured, suddenly wary. Her business training taught her to deflect requests for help—what she called "give me" sessions.

     "Please, Mrs. Reade," he stopped her, "I promise not to keep you long. I only want answers to a few middling questions."

     "Middling?" she asked, with a small smile.

     "That night, eleven years ago—I was twenty-four years old and working on what was my first big job . . . I was a special investigator for the government, looking into charges of graft, corruption, internal problems. Just the sort of thing to get a young man excited." He grinned, "As a matter of fact, your husband's old friend, Mr. Roosevelt, managed to get my name on your guest list."

     "You know Mr. Roosevelt?" Willa asked, her eyebrows raised.

     "Not really," he answered, "I was just one of the young boys he was turning loose in his crusades to clean up the country. I arrived at your ranch successfully, I had more than a successful dance, from my point of view, with my hostess. But I was never able to speak to her husband. He was surrounded, even past daybreak."

     Remembering, she felt a sudden surge of anger. They had been watched, that night on the beach.

     "I am sorry," he said, contrite, "it was inexcusable to observe you. I can't tell you how I envied your husband . . . he seemed to me to have everything."

     "Go on," she demanded in clipped tones.

     "There was a man here that night who wasn't on the guest list. His name was Amos Proctor, and at one time he had been a Treasury agent. Two days later he was found dead in a rooming house in Long Beach."

     Willa stared at him.

     "Mrs. Reade," he pressed on, "I had been investigating Amos Proctor. His death ended that investigation, but I've always been
curious about his appearance here that night. It's like an old puzzle with a piece missing. I'd like to complete it, to set my mind at ease."

     "Is that why you came today?"

     "In part."

     "I see," she said. "And you don't wish to dance?"

     "I do, I do very much. But first I wanted to explain to you, and I wanted to ask what Amos Proctor had to do with your family—how did you know him? And what did he say to your husband that last night of the century?"

     "He spoke to my husband?" Willa asked.

     "You didn't know?" he countered.

     "How could I possibly know everyone my husband spoke to that night? You were there, you saw the crowd. As you said yourself, Mr. Proctor was not invited, and until this moment I didn't know for certain that he was on the ranch that night."

     "You said 'for certain,'" he noted.

     A voice called out for her. "Willa." It was Sara. "Where are you?"

     Willa stared at Philip Bourke. "Here, Sara," she answered, "in the library." She was grateful for the interruption, a fact which did not escape Sara.

     "Mr. Bourke," Sara said, "I wondered where you had disappeared to." Then ignoring him, she said to Willa, "Senator Bard and his wife have arrived and Joseph said you would want to know."

     Willa left quickly. Philip Bourke would have followed had not Sara blocked his way. "When we spoke in San Francisco last month, I thought we had agreed that Mrs. Reade was not to be troubled by these questions. It was my understanding that if I helped you, none of my friends on the Malibu would be approached."

     "Miss Hunt," he said to her, "I made no such agreement, I would not have. I am sorry if you misunderstood. I am trying to solve an old mystery, that is all. I'm wondering why you are so nervous about it. Unless, of course, you are trying to protect your former husband, and I've been told that isn't likely."

     Sara recognized the bait, but refused it. "You want to solve an
old mystery, you say," she went on quietly. "Mr. Bourke, I can only tell you that the memories you are stirring are painful. No good can come of your questioning Willa . . ."

     "If I were certain of that, I would cheerfully stop, Miss Hunt. I admire Mrs. Reade, I have for quite a long time." He smiled. "But there are troubling circumstances. Amos Proctor was murdered a night after speaking to Owen Reade. Three years before, something brought Proctor out to Malibu—something other than the opium smuggling ring he broke here. The name Connor McCord rises to the top of the broth—the same Mr. McCord who is a rising light in San Francisco business circles. And at about the same time, Mr. Reade broke with your former husband, who happens still to own a voting majority of the California state legislature. There is a puzzle there, Miss Hunt, and I would like to solve it."

     Sara sighed. "Let's be frank, then, Mr. Bourke," she said. "It is not some puzzle you want to solve, not just that. What you want is to wrest the state of California from the control of the Southern Pacific."

     "From Charles Emory."

     "Yes," she agreed, grim. She tucked her hand into his arm and guided him to the hallway, where she could scan the house for any unseen guests. Then she drew him back into the library and closed the door.

     "Joseph says he trusts you," she said, "and so now must I."

Before the day was over, Philip Bourke would claim his dance from Willa. "You were not truthful with me," she said, as they moved about the floor, "you aren't the clumsy dancer you claimed to be."

     He smiled, looking at her directly, saying nothing. She wondered if he would return to the subject of Amos Proctor. If he did, she had decided, she would refuse to say more. If Owen had spoken to the man that night, there was no way anyone could know what was said. Owen had not told her, and both men were dead now.

     But Philip Bourke said no more about it. He was among the last to leave that evening. He stood with Joseph at the edge of the greensward, talking easily, not anxious to be off. It was difficult not to notice Philip Bourke. He was tall, good-looking, even his rumpled suit seemed to fit with a casual elegance. He was the sort of man who was attractive precisely because he didn't try.

     When the stableboy brought his horse Bourke turned to Willa, kissed her hand. "I suppose if I come to another of your parties nine years from now, you'll look that much younger, and lovelier still." He said it as a matter of fact.

     "I hope you'll come back sooner than that," Willa heard herself saying.

     "May I?" he asked.

     "Of course," she answered, "though I hope there will not be any more puzzles to solve."

     "I promise," he smiled down at her from the horse.

     "Then come whenever you like," she told him.

     Behind her, Joseph looked at Arcadia with the slightest arch of his eyebrows, and she shot back a knowing look, registering both surprise and pleasure.

     Philip Bourke would be back. He would also keep the promises he made that day—one to Willa, another to Sara.

Everyone agreed that the tea dance had been perfect . . . the weather, the music, the laughter. It had been a
charming day
, an absolute
delight.
Couples walking about, ladies rocking in the swing in the pergola, the smell of orange blossoms in the air.

     "A dream," Arcadia had said as Joseph gently guided her around the dance floor, "a perfect dream."

     The sun had set by the time Thad walked Sally back to the beach cottage. Halfway there, she insisted on removing her slippers and
stockings, and Thad gallantly turned his back as she stripped them off, giggling.

     "I think you've had too much champagne," he told her.

     She hiccoughed as if in answer, which sent them both into a spasm of laughter.

     "How can I be serious with a girl who hiccoughs?"

     "Why should you be?" she wanted to know.

     "Because my mother wasn't invited to her son's wedding today," he answered, cryptically.

     It had the effect he had wanted.

     "Whatever can you mean?" Sally pleaded. "Tell me, you must tell me."