Too shaken by her recent brush with injury or death to protest, Mari allowed herself to be led upstairs by Tony to his room. There were too many people around for such a maneuver to be improper anyway. Darn it.
Mari shook herself, knowing that if she allowed her present state of agitation to dictate her actions, she’d be in Tony’s bed in no time at all. That would be a worse calamity than having a wall fall on her, albeit not as unpleasant.
“Really,” she said, “I’m all right. I don’t need to lie down.”
Tony, with help from Judy Nelson, had led her into the hotel, where she’d had brandy forced upon her and been made to sit still while Judy and Mrs. Nelson palpated every exposed surface on her body as Tony watched, eagle-eyed. It had been very embarrassing.
“Don’t be silly” Mrs. Nelson had snapped when she’d said as much. “You might have been killed out there, Mari Pottersby, and I don’t take it kindly when people are injured on my property.”
“I’m not injured,” Mari had muttered to no avail.
It didn’t seem fair to her that she, the one upon whom the wall had almost fallen, should be ignored while everyone else ordered her about. If her wits hadn’t been so rattled, she’d not have permitted it. Her wits were rattled, though, and she couldn’t drum up a coherent protest to save her life.
At least Tiny wasn’t bullying her. He’d trotted along with her wherever people led her, sat next to her wherever she sat, and laid his huge head on her lap whenever possible. She’d petted him at every opportunity and would have told him how much she appreciated his unequivocal and undemanding, love except that she didn’t want to hurt anybody else’s feelings.
“I wish this place had an elevator,” Tony grumbled as they walked, with excruciating deliberation, up the staircase.
“Your room’s only on the second floor, for Pete’s sake.” Mari hadn’t meant to sound peeved, but she was getting sick of people treating her like an invalid. The blasted wall had fallen at least an hour ago, and thanks to George’s metal table, she was totally unscathed. Almost totally. She admitted to a few bumps, bruises, and scrapes, but they were nothing. She was fine now. “If you’d only let go of me, I could get there in a couple of seconds.”
Not that she wanted him to let go, but the circumstances aggravated her. She’d be happy to have him hold her if he were, say, wildly in love with her or something, not because she’d had an accident.
As if. Mari told herself to stop dreaming immediately, because, she reminded herself as she’d been doing forever, daydreams only led to disappointment, as she already knew too well.
“Quit complaining,” Tony grumped. “You’ve endured a bad accident, and it’s time you left off moaning and groaning just because we want to make sure you’re not seriously injured.”
“If I were seriously injured,” Mari ground out between her teeth, “I’d hurt somewhere.”
“Not necessarily.” Tony sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. “You might have . . . internal injuries. Or something.”
“Right.” The truth of the matter was that Mari was exhausted. There was something about stark terror, even if it only lasted five minutes or so, that wore a body out. What she really wanted was to take a bath and get all the makeup and dust off her, wrap herself in something clean, loose, and comfortable, and sit on Tony’s lap while he petted her. After a few hours—or years—of that, she might feel good enough to finish the picture. Maybe not.
She didn’t tell Tony any of that.
“Here we are,” Tony said, fumbling for his key. “As soon as the doctor arrives, we’ll know better what’s going on.”
“Fiddle.” This was insane.
Insane or not, Mari couldn’t help but have an unsettled feeling about the wall incident, and it wasn’t only because it had nearly flattened her. All these episodes weren’t natural. Oh, sure, accidents happened. But not so many, so often, and every one having to do with one subject. It seemed to her that a malign force was at work here. Somebody had it in for the Peerless Studio, or at least for this production of Lucky Strike.
But she was too tired and wobbly to think about evil beings at the moment. Meekly, she allowed Tony to help her into his room, and she didn’t even balk when he told her to sit on the bed.
“I’ll take off your shoes and stockings,” he told her, clearly making his voice tough to forestall any argument from her.
She was too bushed to argue. When he knelt in front of her and reached for her foot, she lifted it obligingly. He set it on his bent knee and unlaced her shoe, and Mari’s eyes filled with tears. She brushed them away, angry with herself for succumbing yet again to a fit of emotion.
What in the world was wrong with her? She’d lived a tough life; she ought to be tough, too. But she wasn’t, and when she saw Tony there in front of her, in a pose now considered a classical one for proposals of a romantic nature, she gave up pretending.
It was all too much for her. The tears continued to fall, and she kept wiping them away, all the time hoping Tony wouldn’t look up and notice. Blast it, this wasn’t fair.
“Other foot.” He didn’t glance at her face, thank heaven, and Mari lifted her other foot.
He unlaced the shoe on that one, too. Mari saw him lick his lips.
“All right. Now for the stockings.”
It was too much. Tears be damned. Mari snapped, “I’ll do them.” She wasn’t going to allow any man, and particularly not this one, to whom she felt an almost violent physical attraction, roll her stockings down. She might be poor, and she might have no knowledge of how society snobs acted, but she knew proper behavior from improper. “Turn around.”
“For God’s sake.” He was peeved now.
Too bad. “Darn it, Tony, turn around.”
He did. Mari lifted her skirt, untied her garter, and rolled down first one stocking and then the other. Her legs, she noticed, sported a variety of colorful bruises. Swell. Just what she needed. It wasn’t bad enough that she had to slave away in a worthless mine eleven months out of the year. Now, during the one month when she might expect at least some respite from her toils, she got battered by the scenery.
“All right,” she growled when she was through. “Now what?” She plumped herself back on the bed and scowled. She expected she now bore muddy tracks down her face from tears slogging through dust and makeup, and she didn’t even care. Much.
Tony turned around—at least when he’d complied with her command, he’d not cheated and peeked—and scowled down at her. She saw his frown vanish and an expression of concern replace it. “Why are you crying? Where do you hurt?”
She lifted her chin and glowered up at him. “I don’t hurt anywhere.” Except her feelings. They hurt like fire. “I’m just tired of everything.”
Comprehensive. But comparatively true. At the moment, Mari longed for peace. Tranquility. Respite. All of those delicious things she, being who she was, couldn’t expect from life. Ever.
Tony surprised her by sitting next to her on the bed and encircling her shoulders with a strong arm. “Here, Mari, I know you’ve been through it today. If you need to cry, go ahead. It’s all right. Hell, women cry all the time.”
Oh, they did, did they? Mari Pottersby didn’t. Mari was tough. She was rugged. She was strong and independent and steadfast. She was . . .
Who was she trying to kid? She was a puddle of slush inside. Balling her hands into fists, she concentrated on not crying. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. Never again.
“Oh!” she blurted out, suddenly forgetting all about tears. “Where’s Tiny?”
“Tiny?”
“Tiny. He was with us downstairs. Did he stay there? Why didn’t he come up with us?” He’d been dogging, so to speak, her footsteps ever since she’d crawled out from underneath that blasted wall.
A scratch came at the door, accompanied by a rumbling whine. Mari, her relief so sudden and intense she became lightheaded, whispered, “Thank God.”
Tony didn’t. Rather, he rose from the bed in what looked like a huff and stomped to the door. When he opened it, Tiny bounded in and made a flying leap at Mari and the bed, sending her over backward.
“Damn it! Why don’t you train that beast?”
Although she couldn’t see him, since she was being joyously greeted by her monumental dog, Mari knew Tony was furious.
“Don’t blame him,” she said. “He’s only glad to be with us again. I think you probably shut the door on him.”
“I’m not blaming him. I’m blaming you. Anybody with a dog that big owes it to the rest of humanity to train it.”
It was a struggle, but Mari managed to get herself upright again. Tiny lay on Tony’s bed, grinning up at Tony, and whipping his tail back and forth so hard he dislodged the pillows.
Feeling much better now that her dog had returned to her side, or her back, Mari said, “Nuts. You’re just jealous because you don’t have a nice dog like Tiny.” She didn’t resent it when Tony grimaced with disgust, because she’d expected him to do something of the sort.
Before hostilities could build into something explosive, Martin arrived with the doctor, a kindly old soul named Crabtree who’d been treating the ills of Mojave Wells’s citizens for as long as most of them could remember.
Mari lifted a scraped hand in salute. “H’lo, Doc.”
Dr. Crabtree shook his head. “You look like hell, Mari Pottersby. You already knew that, I suppose.”
She grinned, feeling better already. “Yup. I had a peek in the mirror.”
“To conduct a proper examination, I think it would behoove us if you’d get that makeup off your face and wash up a bit.” As he set his black bag down on the night table, he eyed her closely. “Unless you think you have injuries that ought to be attended to immediately.”
Mari shook her head and rose from the bed. “No. I think I’m fine, actually. But I know the studio wants to make sure their goods haven’t been damaged, so I’ll retire to the bathroom for a few minutes.” She thought of something. “Um, what shall I wear, Doc? This dress?” She glanced down at the frock she wore. Because of the poverty of the character she played in the picture, the dress had been shabby to begin with, but it hadn’t started out this dirty.
“No. You ought to have a robe of some kind.”
“You can use one of mine, Mari.”
Mari was glad she hadn’t washed up yet, because when Tony spoke, she blushed, but she figured the makeup and dirt would disguise her ruby cheeks. In an attempt to pretend she wasn’t embarrassed, she merely smiled and said, “Thank you,” when he handed her a silk dressing gown that probably cost more than Mari had spent on provender during her entire nineteen years.
The bathroom was something. Mari had never bathed in anything but a wooden tub. This porcelain thing was a work of art. She filled it, wishing all the while she didn’t have to hurry. The water, warm from the tap, felt like heaven when she dipped her toe in it. When she submerged her body, she wished she could stay there forever.
Such could not be, however. Grabbing the sweet-smelling soap lying in the dish and lathering her arms, Mari thought it was a good thing she’d committed to doing this one picture only, or she might become addicted to luxuries. And that, given her role in life, would never do.
Her role in life. She scowled as she scrubbed makeup and dirt from her face. What was her role in life, anyhow? Was she doomed to struggle fruitlessly in that stupid mine for the rest of it? It sounded a dismal future to her. Yet she’d promised her father as he lay dying that she’d keep his dream alive.
“Pa’s dead,” she reminded herself as she splashed clean water on her face to remove the suds. “And he’ll never know.”
But she’d know. If she turned her back on the Marigold Mine, Mari feared the guilt would haunt her forever, and she’d end up hating herself. She had enough to contend with, what with poverty, lack of family support, and unrequited love—damn Tony Ewing, anyhow—without adding self-loathing to the mix.
It was all too much for her. She told herself to stop thinking and wash and almost succeeded in obeying herself. Probably her state of exhaustion helped. As she lathered her hair, which was dulled with dust, she allowed herself to suspend worry and merely feel for a few minutes.
Tub baths were really quite delightful. She could hardly imagine the fabulous wealth that allowed people like, say, Tony Ewing, to take tub baths whenever they felt so inclined. Mari thought if she were ever to have access to a bathtub and hot and cold running water, she’d spend the rest of her life soaking in it.
This wasn’t the day for that, however. As quickly as possible, she finished washing the makeup and filth away, then rose, dripping, from the water and looked around for a towel. Ah, there was one. She reached for it, noticed the initials A W embroidered in fancy script on it. “Anthony Ewing,” she whispered, and buried her face in the pillowy softness of Tony’s towel.
She was drying her body with Tony Ewing’s own personal towel. She felt both decadent and fortunate in so doing, and she allowed a couple of fantasies to keep her company as she toweled herself dry. Then she brushed her hair with Tony Ewing’s very own hairbrush, and her fantasies multiplied.
What, she wondered, would it be like to have enough money? To carry the question further, what would it be like to have lots of money?
Mari’s imagination, always pretty good, stumbled as she tried to conceive of such a scenario. Her life had been so restricted that, for her, luxury would be indoor plumbing. Running water of any kind would be nice. Hot water was so outrageously off the scale of what the Mari Pottersbys of the world could expect that she couldn’t manage to expand her fantasy that far.
Enough money to go to the doctor when she was sick would be nice. Doc Crabtree didn’t mind being paid with chickens, but Mari really needed the chickens for herself, to eat and to sell to the Mojave Inn. She knew, because she read extensively, that most middleclass families in America had at least one person to help with the housework. She wouldn’t need that, since she lived in a one-room cabin, but she sure wouldn’t mind being able to buy a meal at the Mojave Inn every once in a while.
She chided herself for being stingy with her fantasies. Heck, if she was going to imagine, she might as well do it big. So she imagined a real house with more than one room. It would be nice to have a separate kitchen. And a bathroom. And electricity! The weather in this desert might almost be tolerable if one could stir the air a bit with an electrical fan.
By the time she knotted her still-damp hair into a bun and pinned it in place, Mari had succeeded in expanding her daydream to include a house with a green lawn and a motorcar, so she could take trips to pretty places like, say, Pasadena. It was lovely there, near the mountains. And so green. Mari wondered if everyone who lived in deserts craved green as she did.
She felt almost decadent as she slipped into Tony’s robe. She’d never worn silk before. It felt like heaven against her skin. With a sigh, she opened the door and stood there, slightly taken aback when a room full of men turned to stare at her. She frowned and turned to Dr. Crabtree. “Where do you want to do this examination, Doc?”
Her prosaic question seemed to jolt the men out of their trance. Dr. Crabtree cleared his throat and said, “I suppose we can carry it out here, if these gentlemen will kindly leave us be. I don’t think you want an audience.”
He smiled at her in his kindly way.
“Good Lord, no.” Mari shuddered. This was going to be bad enough without Martin and Tony and Ben and everybody else in the world watching.
A knock came at the door before the men could get themselves organized and depart. Martin was closest, and he opened the door. Frowning and clearly upset, George entered the room with a graceless lurch. He held his hat in his hand, and his face was so pale, Mari wondered if he, and not she, might benefit from a medical examination.
Martin took George by the shoulder, his face expressing concern over his colleague’s state of mind. “What is it, George?”
George, whose brown eyes held an intense expression at the most relaxed of times, now appeared almost maniacally fervent. “Sabotage,” he declared, his voice rasping and sharp-edged. “Deliberate, cold-blooded sabotage.”
All talking ceased. The only discernible noise in the room was Tiny’s tail as it swished back and forth across the floor. Nothing, not even deliberate sabotage, could get Tiny down.
Finally, Tony broke the silence with a short, brutal curse. The men swarmed around George. Dr. Crabtree shooed them out of the room to discuss the matter elsewhere, and directed Mari to sit on the bed so he could test her reflexes and eyesight, and judge for sure if she’d been concussed by the falling wall.
Mari wanted to rush off with the men and hear what George had found out. Darn it, she hated being left out.
It was a glum group that gathered in a corner of the Mojave Inn’s dining room. Understanding the needs of men, Mr. Nelson dismissed his wife’s objections and carried over a tray of mugs, frothy with beer foam. Tony tipped him handsomely, grateful for the proprietor’s consideration.
“My old man’s going to have to know what’s going on here,” he said to Martin unhappily. “I haven’t called him yet and was hoping I wouldn’t have to; but if somebody’s seriously trying to undermine the picture, he’ll have to be told. I’ll try to get a long-distance trunk call put through before the end of the day.”
“I suppose you’d better.” Martin took a swig of his beer, looking more grim than Tony could remember seeing him. “It’s his money, after all.”
Feeling apologetic about it, Tony agreed. “Right. I’m sorry, Martin.”
Martin waved away the apology. “It’s all right, Tony. This is serious, and our backers need to know about it. I’ve already placed a call to Phin. I’m hoping the long-distance operator will ring back soon with the connection.”
“Yeah, he ought to know what’s going on, too.”
Martin uttered something between a growl and a snort. “I’m going to ask him to send out two or three private detectives. And maybe a couple of other men to work as guards at night.”
Tony lifted his eyebrow. “Good idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”
Martin grinned at him. “It’s not your baby. You’re only minding your daddy’s money. My career and the future of Peerless might rest on this venture.”
George, who had remained silent and seemed shrouded in gloom, shuddered. “Career?” he muttered. “I don’t even have a career yet, and it’s being ruined as we speak.”
That put everything in a disagreeable light. Tony frowned into his beer mug. “You’re right. Blast it, I sure hope your detectives can find out who’s behind all of this vandalism, Martin. This whole series of malicious acts is an outrage.”
With a sigh, Martin said, “It’s gone beyond vandalism, I think. It looks to me as though whoever’s doing this is seeking outright ruin for Peerless.”
“Hmm.” Tony eyed Martin. “You don’t think Edison has anything to do with this series of . . . mishaps, do you?” They weren’t mishaps, but Tony couldn’t think of another word to describe them.
For a moment; Martin gazed off into the gloom of the dining room; luncheon was still a couple of hours away, and the lights hadn’t been turned on. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know Edison’s more likely to use the courts and claims of patent infringement to undercut his competitors. I’ve never heard of him doing overt malicious mischief to a rival’s production.”
Tony downed the rest of his beer. “Yeah. I never have, either.”
“And if whoever was behind today’s villainy had succeeded in killing Mari, you can be sure that would be the end of Peerless.”
Tony’s heart contracted so suddenly and painfully that he couldn’t have responded even if he could have thought of words to say, which he couldn’t.
George didn’t speak either. He only moaned softly.
When Tony looked up at last, he beheld Mari standing and blinking at the door to the dining room. She’d come from the light-infused lobby area, and probably couldn’t see the men in their corner. She was dressed in the clothes she’d worn to town that morning. He rose abruptly, and his chair scraped the floor with a noise that made Martin and George jump and Mari turn toward the sound.
He hurried over and took both of her hands in his. She appeared a little shocked by this intimacy, but Tony didn’t care. She might have had the life crushed out of her this morning, and it had scared the bejesus out of him. Although he still wasn’t able to put words to his innermost feelings, he did know he wasn’t going to let her get away from him without putting up a damned good fight first.
“What did the doctor say?” he asked before she’d had a chance to find her wits. “Are you all right? Is anything broken? Was there a chance of concussion? What about bruises? Are you sore? Do you need medication? Carbolic? Headache powders? Bandages? Anything?”
She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. Which he might well have done. He’d never experienced this desperate need to protect another human being before he’d met Mari. Not only that, but the need extended only to Mari, although it encompassed her and everything she was, did, owned, and thought. Even her stupid dog.
“Um, I’m fine, thanks.” Glancing at the table, she squinted for a moment then said, “Oh, is that Martin? And George? Is he there? What happened?”
“What happened? The damned wall fell on top of you!” Modesty was all right in Tony’s book, but this was pushing things. She knew damned well what had happened to her, and this pose of coy timidity didn’t wash with him
She gave him an “oh-for-goodness’-sake” look. “I know the wall fell, Tony. What I was asking was, did George discover why it fell.”
“Oh.” That made sense. He guessed he was being slightly aggressive about his protector’s mode. He took her by the elbow and guided her to the table he’d lately left. “Yes, he did find out. I’ll let George tell you about it.”
He pulled out a chair for Mari to sit upon and asked her, “Would you like something to drink? We’re having beer, but—”
“Beer?” Mari’s eyes opened up as wide as platters, and she grinned. “Good heavens, however did you persuade Mrs. Nelson to serve you beer before four o’clock?”
Martin chuckled. Tony, who was too worried about Mari’s health to find much of anything amusing, answered her question seriously. “Mr. Nelson thought we could use it to calm our nerves.”
“That was nice of him.” Mari thought for a second. “I could use some lemonade, if there’s any made. I’m awfully thirsty. If there’s none made, I’ll just take water.”
If there’s any made? Tony would see to it that Mari got lemonade, if Mrs. Nelson and her whole tribe had to grow the lemon trees, harvest the lemons, grind the sugar beets to powder, and dig a well to get water for it. “Be right back,” he said. Before he’d taken more than a couple of steps, he turned and asked, his brow furrowed, “Do you need anything else? A bite to eat? Crackers? A sandwich? Something to settle your stomach? Anything?”
Again, her expression told him she doubted his sanity. “Um, no, thanks I’m fine. Lemonade would be nice.”
Tony wheeled around and beat a retreat to the kitchen, where he barged in, thus surprising Mrs. Nelson and Judy, who were making preparations for lunch. He demanded and received a whole pitcher of lemonade and then went to the icehouse behind the hotel and chipped out a bucket of ice in case Mari wanted it.
When he returned to the table, he stopped in his tracks when he observed Martin patting Mari’s band. He was about to roar over to the table and demand satisfaction from Martin—what kind of satisfaction, he didn’t know, since men no longer fought duels over women—when he caught Martin’s words.
Laughing softly, Martin said, “No, he’s not crazy, Mari. I think he might be developing some tender feelings for you, though.”
Now Mari looked at Martin as if he’d gone mad. Dammit. Tony tromped up to the table, annoyed that Martin should be talking about him behind his back. Although, he had to admit, he was glad Martin seemed to have no designs on Mari. He’d hate it if he lost Martin’s friendship or had to shoot him or anything
“Here’s your lemonade,” he growled, and plunked the pitcher on the table.
Mari jumped back a bit startled. “Oh! Thank you, Tony. I’m not sure I can drink all of that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he grumped. “Here’s some ice.” He put the bowl of ice down with a loud clunk.
“My goodness, thank you. This is a real treat, getting to drink ice-cold lemonade. Maybe I should have a wall fall on me every day if I get rewarded with such luxuries.”
All three men stared at her, and Mari blushed. “I didn’t mean that.” She fixed herself a glass of lemonade, liberally cooled with chipped ice, and smiled at Tony, who’d resumed his chair. “Thank you very much. I really appreciate this.”
Tony nodded and tried not to look like a lovesick schoolboy. Martin’s words had horrified him. Was his attraction to Mari so obvious? He turned abruptly to George. “Did you tell her about the wall?”
George nodded gloomily. “Yes. I told her about the crosspieces that had been sawed nearly through.”
Martin took up the theme. “It’s as though whoever did it didn’t want anyone to see what he’d done. It was very subtle. The wall might hold up during several rehearsals or even several scenes, but sooner or later, when Harrowgate slammed the door, the crosspieces would break, and the set would collapse.”
Mari set her lemonade glass on the table and rubbed her hands up and down her arms, which had apparently sprouted gooseflesh. Tony clenched his jaws. He wanted to do that. The rubbing of her arms part.
“That’s . . . that’s really awful,” she said in a small voice. “I guess whoever’s doing these things doesn’t care if people get hurt.”
“Obviously,” snarled Tony, feeling excessively crabby. Dammit, he wanted to be alone with Mari. He needed to ask her every detail of her doctor’s examination, to learn exactly what Crabtree had told her, to find out if she was supposed to be resting, or sleeping, or what. Dammit, she ought to have a specialist look at her. He wondered if he could get someone from New York.
When Mari and Martin glanced at him briefly, Tony realized where his thoughts had flown and concentrated on the conversation. A flicker of a smile crossed Martin’s face before he said to Mari, “We’re not going to resume work on the picture until detectives arrive from Los Angeles. That will probably be tomorrow, depending on how quickly Phin can get them here.”
“Detectives?” Her eyes opened wide, and for a split second, Tony wished he were a detective and could have such an effect on her. Then he mentally slapped himself and told himself to get a grip.
“I’m going to post guards, too,” Martin told her. “I’m sick of this. It’s getting dangerous. We’ve got to protect our investment, but even more important, we have to protect our people. We all nearly had heart attacks this morning when we saw that wall fall.”
Mari shivered. “You’re not alone. I couldn’t believe what was happening.”
Suddenly, Tony stood. “I’m taking you home in the motorcar, Mari. Do you have to get anything together first?”
The three people still seated at the table gaped up at him. Blast. He frowned at them. “We’re not doing any more filming today, and Mari needs to rest.”
Hesitantly, Martin nodded his agreement. “Right. Sure.” He turned to Mari. “Do you need anything, Mari? Food? Medicine?”
Dammit, Tony was supposed to ask her those things, not. Martin. He snarled, “I’ll take care of Mari.”
Again, a fleeting grin touched Martin’s lips. “Okay, Tony.” He kept his tone of voice mild, as he might do if he were dealing with a lunatic.
Tony resented it. He glowered at Mari. “Come on, Mari.”
“I haven’t finished my lemonade,” she pointed out without rancor. “Can you wait just a minute?”
“I guess so.” He thought of something that would prove to be an impediment if not taken care of immediately. “I’ll ask Mrs. Nelson to pack something for your dinner and find Tiny.”
She smiled up at him, which almost made life worth living. “Thank you. That would be swell.”