them.
Halfway to the steps, she stopped and said, “This is worse than the last time.”
“You'll feel better when you've rested,” he assured her. “You're tired, and you aren't thinking straight.”
She said, “No, it really is worse than the last time. Will you call Dr. Recard and tell him what's happening to me?”
“I'll call him today,” he said.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She let him lead her the rest of the way across the beach, up the steps to the top of the cliff, across the well tended lawn and into the big manor house where the ghost-hallucinations had begun and where, she ardently hoped, she'd get rid of them forever.
TWELVE
A man and a woman, both young, lying in the lush grass at the edge of the clifftop and sharing a pair of high-powered European binoculars, had watched the scene on the beach between William Barnaby and Gwyn, watched with particular fascination. The man, Ben Groves, Barnaby's chauffeur and handyman, was not as frivolously behaved as he took pains to be in Gwyn's company, but serious and intent on what developed below, as if his whole future might hinge on the outcome. The woman with him, no less concerned than he was, was a yellow-haired beauty in a many-layered white dress. Her eyes were incredibly blue, her complexion pale, her whole attitude one of unearthly fragility…
“Well?” she asked.
He waited, still watching, and did not reply.
“Ben? What's happening?”
He put the binoculars down and rubbed at his eyes, which felt furry after staring at that magnified, sun- brightened sand. He said, “Don't give yourself an ulcer, love. It looks as if it worked, all according to plan.”
She sighed, as if a great burden had been lifted from her slender shoulders. She said, “I just haven't been sure of myself during any of this. It's quite different than acting before a camera or on a stage.”
“You were superb today,” he said.
She flashed him a quick look of unfeigned surprise and said, “How would you know about that?”
“I watched you.”
“When I was trying to get her to drown herself?” the girl asked, astonished.
“That's right.”
“From where?”
“Right here.”
“With the binoculars?”
“Yeah.”
She giggled. “I didn't know I was going to have an audience. Why didn't you tell me you'd watch it?”
“I didn't want to cramp your style,” he said.
“Nonsense. I always play better with an audience. You know that, darling.” she reached out and touched him.
“Anyway,” he said, leaning to her and kissing her lips, “you were quite fine. You even scared me.”
“I scared
For a few moments, then, they were silent, letting the cool breeze wash over them, enjoying the soft grass on which they lay.
“Light me a cigarette?” she asked.
He rolled onto his back, extracted a pack from his shirt pocket, lit one for her, passed it over.
When she'd taken a few drags, she said, “I still don't feel a hundred percent right about this.”
He snorted derisively and lighted a cigarette for himself, puffed out a long stream of white smoke. “With what we stand to make from this little charade, you don't have to feel a hundred percent right about it, love. You don't even have to feel a full ten percent right about it, as far as that goes. All that lovely cash money will do a lot to soothe the conscience.”
“Maybe,” she said.
“I know it will.”
“But, basically, she's such a sweet girl,” the blonde said. “And she's had it pretty rough to date, what with her sister and her parents dying—”
“For God's sake, enough!” he bellowed, flicking his cigarette over the edge of the cliff and rolling onto his side to face her and be closer to her. He was the strength that kept them going, he knew, and he had to raise her spirits now. “You can't afford to be empathetic, Penny.”
“I know.”
“It'll get us nowhere.”
She nodded.
“We've had a good stroke of luck, to fall into this deal, and we've got to be ruthless about exploiting it.”
She smiled. “I'll stay up tonight and practice being ruthless before my mirror.”
He hugged her and said, “That's more like it.”
“I just hope it doesn't have to go on much longer,” Penny said. “It's fraying my nerves.”
He said, “Just remember what it was like when you hadn't any money, when you had to — take to the streets. And remember how bad it's been for us to get going, to get any roles worth dirt. What we make here will give us a chance to set up our own productions and to hell with all the casting directors we've had to bow to.”
“I guess I can hold up,” she said, finishing her cigarette.
He said, “Besides, it won't be more than a day or two now. Gwyn's ready to go over the edge. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But soon.”
BOOK THREE
THIRTEEN
Louis Plunkett, the county sheriff, was a huge man, three inches past six feet tall, weighing two hundred twenty-five pounds, all of it muscle; his friends called him “Tiny.” An ex-marine in his mid-thirties, he kept himself in tip-top shape and was more than just a little bit impressive. When he served a summons or a warrant or made an arrest, he was seldom resisted by those to whom he was bringing the force of modern law; and those who were foolish enough to argue with him and make his duty a difficult one, always wished, later, that they had been less caustic and less belligerent.
Yet, despite his size, Louis Plunkett's face gave evidence of a gentle soul lying close beneath all that hard- packed muscle. His hair had receded back from his forehead, giving him a high-domed, extremely vulnerable look that accentuated his soft, brown eyes that were far too large for his face. His nose was small, almost pug, his mouth not hard but soft and sensitive. His face was splashed with freckles, giving him the look of a young farmboy; indeed, almost all that he required to complete that image was a pair of bib overalls and a length of dry straw dangling from the corner of his mouth.
To a stranger, he might look too big, too clumsy, and somewhat unsophisticated. If the stranger with such an opinion of Plunkett were a law violator and acted on that judgment, he would be sorry indeed, for Plunkett was exceptionally intelligent, in his own way.
