Fatal Flowers. V. J. Banis

the look of him—he had been wearing a cap when I first saw him, but there was no mistaking it, this was the same man who dashed after the young girl. This was the man I saw knock that girl unconscious.

      Leland noticed my staring at him.

      “Martin?” he said. “Miss Whelan believes she saw the limousine near Gulf Point a while ago. Had you taken the car out to test it, or did you perhaps lend it to someone?”

      Martin gave him a look that said absolutely nothing. “No, sir,” he answered. “The car has been at the boathouse since yesterday. No one borrowed it, Mr. Braddock.” He searched in the pocket of his jacket. “I have the keys,” he added, producing the ignition key and holding it up for all of us to see.

      “Yes, yes,” Leland said, clearing his throat. “Miss Whelan must have been mistaken,” he added with an uncomfortable shrug of his shoulders.

      “I was not mistaken,” I said with determination. “I saw what I saw. That limousine was used to spirit away a young girl.”

      Martin turned his icy eyes on me. “I’m afraid you must be mistaken, Miss. The car hasn’t been away from the landing.”

      “And I am also certain I saw you with that young girl,” I accused.

      “Alice, really,” Diana exploded. “I must insist that you put a stop to this ridiculous nonsense. I remind you that you are a guest in this house and I will not have you making such insane accusations of our servants.”

      I couldn’t be certain, but I thought I saw Martin flinch at the word “servants.”

      Diana turned to the chauffeur. “My daughter has been in a horrible airplane crash,” she explained. “She isn’t quite herself as yet.”

      I opened my mouth to defend myself but Diana narrowed her eyes. She warned me with one simple word. “Alice!”

      There was something very wrong in this place, I told myself. I watched Martin turn and go toward a second power boat that was docked at the jetty. He glanced back over his shoulder at me, but other than that gave no outward sign of feeling disturbed by my accusation.

      I was angry, more at myself than anyone else. I should not have been so bold as to come right out and display my suspicions about Martin and the car. I would have been cleverer if I were Diana Hamilton. She wouldn’t have voiced her thoughts. She would have investigated in private until she was sure of everything and then pointed an accusing finger.

      Well, if I had to play that game I would. I knew I’d seen Martin hit a young girl and carry her away in the limousine. To where? I didn’t know, but that girl might well be here in this house, on this island. I knew now that I’d get no assistance from Diana or Leland. Despite all their efforts of making me believe I imagined the whole affair, I felt intent upon proving them wrong.

      As I stood there beside her I felt I had to show my mother that I was as strong and as determined as she. I was positive I was right. They were hiding something. But if that were so, why did they bring me here?

      Or had they no other choice? It was obvious that Diana didn’t want me and possibly it wasn’t for the reasons I’d originally thought. Perhaps Diana Hamilton had something hidden in her life that might be exposed by my presence. But what?

      The young girl I’d seen racing across the field? Who was she? Where did she fit into this puzzle?

      I shook my head. Or was I being overly dramatic. It was possible the girl was just a romantic entanglement of Martin’s. She could well have been older than she looked to me. I’d been a distance away when I saw him hit her. Still, he had hit her. He’d knocked her unconscious. Even if she were a girl friend of Martin’s, he had no right to abuse her in that manner.

      Martin had lied. I could tell by his eyes that he lied when he said the car was at the landing since yesterday.

      And he knew I knew he was lying.

      CHAPTER THREE

      My thoughts were so taken up with Martin and the limousine that I almost didn’t notice the surroundings through which we were walking. Like the house, the grounds were in a terrible state of neglect. The grass was uncut, the hedges untended. A thick forest of trees and brush bordered the house like a horseshoe, the open space being occupied by the sandy beach which, now that I saw it up close, was littered with driftwood and gnat-attracting clumps of slick kelp.

      We went up a brick stairway that needed fixing. Weeds had pushed up between the cracks to catch the sun. We skirted a huge swimming pool that had obviously gone unused for many years. It was drained of water, its tiles were cracked and crumbling, dirt and leaves covered its bottom.

      Another brick walk in the same state of disrepair took us up onto a wide terrace that ran across the full front of the house. This, at least, looked as if it were used from time to time. Bright multi-striped umbrellas shaded metal tables and chairs. The marble flooring was swept clean—but not scrubbed. The sun chaises were new looking. I wondered briefly if they’d been recently purchased for my benefit. No, I decided, glancing at my famous mother; she wasn’t the type woman who did anything to impress another woman, not even her own daughter.

      The mansion towered over us, larger than I had at first thought. Jasmine and purple bougainvillea hung from the tiled roof, and every cornice was unattractively splattered with birds’ droppings. The riotous natural growth that seemed to invade every part of the exterior made it evident that nature was merely waiting to claim its rightful heritage.

      I paused on the terrace, looking about, pretending to catch my breath. I thought I saw movement at one of the upstairs windows, and glanced up. A shadow passed across the curved window of the tower at the south corner. The second floor section of the south tower had no outside wall; it was one massive window running completely around the outer curve of the tower. It surprised me somewhat to see so massive a window in such perfect state of repair. Even the tower itself seemed to be better maintained than the whole rest of the house.

      “What’s that?” I asked Leland, pointing up to the glass-fronted tower.

      Again Leland and Diana exchanged a strange fleeting glance.

      “Just an old solarium,” Leland told me. “My grandmother was quite a plant nut, like me.” He chuckled but it was a mirthless chuckle.

      “You?”

      “Yes, plants are a hobby of mine,” he said. He looked up at the glass front. “The solarium is never used any more. I’m afraid I’m letting the place go to pot.”

      I was going to comment on the good condition of the south tower, but instead I said, “Why? It’s such a beautiful place...or at least it could be.”

      “The house is too old. It isn’t worth fixing. The repairs would cost more than the property is worth.” He sighed, looking wistful. “Someday the whole place will fall down around our heads and Diana and I will be forced to find a new home, but until that time we like to think of this as home. We like it here, believe it or not.”

      Diana turned and went inside. Leland motioned toward the front door. “I believe you’ll find the interior a little less depressing,” he said.

      Leland was wrong. The interior was just as depressing as the outside, although I had to admit that it looked better cared for. The main hall was paneled in dark, dull wood. The staircase that led to the upper floors was a strange, square affair, going off at all sorts of crazy angles, like a patchwork quilt.

      We were in the center of the house, obviously, I thought as I looked around and saw doorways—all in dark oak panels and all closed—that went off into rooms on both sides. The entrance hall was completely empty except for a marble topped console table that supported a huge burst of pampas grass, dry and dead looking.

      “Have you had breakfast, my dear?” Diana asked as she slipped off her hat and gloves and tossed them on the console next to her handbag.

      “Yes, on the train,” I told her.

      “Then