Shadow of Reality (Book One in the Elizabeth and Richard Mystery Series) Read online

  The Shadow of Reality

  By

  Donna Fletcher Crow

  Electronic Edition Copyright ©2010 by Donna Fletcher Crow

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. this ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Original Copyright © 1992 by Donna Fletcher Crow. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Scripture quotations are taken from The New English Bible, copyright © 1970, Oxford University Press, Cambridge University Press; or from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  StoneHouse Ink

  Nampa, Idaho 83686

  www.TheStonePublishingHouse.com

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Originally released as Castle of Dreams.

  First Paperback Edition: 1992

  First Hardback Edition: 1992

  Second Paperback Edition: 2010

  First E-book Edition: 2010

  ISBN 978-0-9827705-2-8

  Cover design by Andrew Garcia

  StoneHouse Ink

  Published in the United States of America.

  Dedication

  For fellow mystery fans, Gaymon and Evelyn Bennett “Old friends are best.”

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Erwin Sonnenberg, Ada County Coroner; Bob Mack, Detective, Boise Police Department; Rick Groff, Manager, State Criminalistics Lab; and Bob Martin, Forensic Toxicologist.

  The Knowing

  Between the dream and the reality,

  from the coming of the light

  to the falling of the dark,

  from the openness of the truth

  to the hiddenness of the lie,

  there lurks the question.

  Between the dream and the reality,

  from the dawning of the day

  to the closing of the night,

  from the glory of the cross

  to the depth of the pit,

  there falls the shadow.

  Between the dream and the reality,

  from the clarity of waking

  to the oblivion of sleeping,

  from the doubt of the question

  to the certainty of the knowing,

  there cuts the truth.

  And the truth shall make you free.

  The Cast

  At the Eyrie

  Elizabeth Allerton

  Richard Spenser

  Sir Gavin Kendall

  Irene North

  Benton North

  Helen Johnson

  Bill Johnson

  Cathy Johnson

  Evan Johnson

  Anita Crocker

  Weldon Stark

  Dr. Pearsall

  Mr. Hamlin

  Charles Parkerson

  In “Death By Candlelight”

  Sir Linden Leigh, mystery writer

  Gloria Glitz, glamorous actress

  Nigel Cass, theatrical agent

  Brian Rielly, international playboy

  Suzanna Sweetly, supporting actress

  Millie Maeda, maid to Miss Glitz

  Scott of the Yard, detective

  Prologue

  February, 1990

  “No, Richard, I won’t marry you.” Elizabeth Allerton laughed and shook her head. “You are my best friend in the world. I am thankful for our friendship every day of my life, and I want it to stay that way—friends.”

  “I didn’t suppose you would, but it seemed worth a try.” Richard Spenser dropped an exam paper back onto the stack on his desk.

  “I know, you hadn’t asked me yet this week…”

  “That’s right, and here you were, asking a favor of me—I might never have you at so vulnerable a point again.”

  “Richard, I’m not asking a favor.” Elizabeth brandished an exclusive mail-order catalog. “I’m urging this for your sake. Think of it as professional development. Being the recognized authority on Sayers’ Dante, drama, and theology still only makes you half a man. You need rounding out.”

  “And attending this mystery-week caper will do the rounding?” He pulled off his reading glasses and dropped them on top of the stack of papers he was grading.

  “It’s a start. It’ll give you a feel for the whole whodunit thing.”

  He shook his head. “I knew you should never have added that course on mystery writing to the curriculum—even if I do have to admit you were a sellout.”

  She smiled, brushing back her short dark hair. “Nice to hear you admit it. But now, look. Concentrate on what I’m saying.” She shoved the magazine under his nose. “Sir Gavin Kendall is going to be there. How can you possibly turn down an opportunity like this? Why, he’s practically your opposite number—”

  “Opposite number?” Richard looked at her dubiously.

  “You really are hopeless.” She threw up her hands. “Opposite number—like in a spy movie—the foreign agent whose work corresponds to yours.”

  Richard picked up a red pencil. “Your references are obtuse, Dr. Allerton. I don’t read Sayers' mysteries and I don’t read Le Carré‚ spy thrillers.”

  “That’s precisely my point. Sir Gavin is the expert on Sayers’ mysteries and that whole period. All of his books are written in Sayers’ style, and he’s writing a biography of Lord Peter Wimsey. Think of the opportunity—why, even if you went to England to interview Sir Gavin you’d only get a few hours of his time. Here he’s going to be just eighty miles from us in the Rockies, and you could have an entire week to talk to him. Besides—,” she gave her argument all she had, knowing Richard’s patience for listening would soon wear thin—“the whole week is role-played as if it were 1933 on an English country estate. So you see, you wouldn’t have to read the books. You could experience them…and it comes right at spring break time…and—”

  Richard took the catalog from her hand and turned it over. “November? This thing’s four months old—the reservations will have been gone long ago. Why are you pestering me with a Christmas item?”

  “Well, I got a little behind in my catalog reading with the holidays and all, but the timing is probably perfect. They’ve undoubtedly had cancellations by now, so we’ll be able to get in.”

  Richard gave a chuckle, deep in his throat, and shook his head. “I always knew your passion for catalogs would come to no good.” He replaced his glasses and picked up an unmarked exam paper. “In light of the fact that we’re four months late, I think I’m safe enough to agree to try.”

  Knowing she’d won, Elizabeth slipped from the office, victory shining in her dark eyes. Of course, as head of the English department at Rocky Mountain College, the small interfaith liberal arts college where the two of them comprised the entire full-time English department, she could simply have ordered Dr. Spenser to attend. She wouldn’t do that, though. She far preferred to keep their relationship on the friendly basis that it had been ever since he joined the faculty three years ago. She
enjoyed their friendship and their good-natured bantering. And she truly did have the deepest respect for his scholarship.

  Dr. Richard Spenser's articles on many of the greats of English literature were widely published in scholarly journals, while her own work tended to the more popular, such as a well-received recent article in Mystery Magazine. Although she was an extremely efficient administrator and had been at Rocky Mountain College ever since completing her Ph.D. five years ago, she realized that Dr. Spenser was more than her match intellectually. Thankfully, that fact never interfered with their working relationship.

  Nor had it affected their friendship. Elizabeth knew Richard understood their friendship and that his proposals were more out of habit than anything else. That was why she always laughed at them.

  Actually, though, if she were to be completely honest, Elizabeth would have to admit that she felt secretly flattered when he proposed—he was a most eligible bachelor: intelligent, well established, stable, a man of strong faith. . . Probably too strong, if she were to be entirely candid. After all, Rocky Mountain was endowed by an open-minded, forward-thinking corporation that stressed the importance of faith as an underpinning of a well-rounded education, but left the specifics to the individual whether student or faculty member.

  The fact of the matter was, it was precisely those fine qualities of Richard's that worried her because she didn’t want to hurt him. And sometimes she thought he might really mean his proposals—he said he did. But no matter how much she enjoyed working with him, no matter how much she respected his scholarship and high moral character or valued the pleasure they took in many of the same things, she could never marry a man who was so basically boring. Pity, too, because he was awfully good-looking—in a quiet, tweedy sort of way. What with his strong cheek bones, thick brown hair, and gentle humorous eyes, he had plenty of female students vying for front row seats in his classes…

  She picked up the phone and punched out the toll-free number for catalog orders.

  Chapter 1

  Monday, March 12, 1990/1934

  Little rivulets of melted snow were rushing everywhere down the hillside, and here and there among the patches of tender spring grass, early snowdrops, wild crocus, and Grecian windflowers were blooming on the lower slopes of the mountain. As she and Richard drove through the tiny village of Hidden Glenn and headed north into the Rockies, Elizabeth suddenly felt the thrill of the adventure ahead of them—a whole week away from books and papers and students. A whole week at a beautiful mountain resort playing a sophisticated game in the style of her favorite reading. She clasped her hands and took a deep, happy breath.

  Richard looked at her with a small smile. “I’ll have to confess to some sense of anticipation about all this, too. Tempered by my former doubts, you understand.”

  Elizabeth couldn't always tell for sure when Richard was teasing her in his understated way, but she thought this was one of them. Before she could figure out how to reply, he went on. “You did take care of the costume bit, didn’t you?”

  “What do you think that enormous clothes bag was that you put in the trunk? The body for the mystery? I even paid the rental deposit out of my own pocket—but don’t worry, I’ll get you back later.”

  “I suppose it’ll be all right. Of course, the brochure said daytime costumes were optional.” He hesitated as if giving her a chance to assent to the idea of dispensing with the dressing up.

  “Don't even think it! I even plan to change for afternoon tea.” Her voice held a determined ring that evoked a smile of capitulation from her companion.

  He shook his head and guided the car around a sharp bend in the narrow, stone-edged road. “I never did know you to do anything by halves, Dr. Allerton. What did you get for me, a deerstalker and an Inverness cape?”

  “Shows how much you know, Dr. Spenser. Sherlock Holmes was Victorian. I got ascots to go with your tweed jacket and blazer for daytime and very, very formal wear for evening—real Fred Astaire.”

  “Yes, well—” Whatever comment he had been planning to make about her wardrobe schemes was interrupted by their arrival at the gateway to Eyrie House. They were still at the base of the mountain, two and a half miles from the mansion-cum-hotel that was their destination, but they had to stop and be checked in here. “Registered Guests Only Beyond This Point,” the sign said. The guard found their names on the list and waved them on. “Have a nice week.”

  Although they were nearly above the timberline, a few pines grew on the sheltered side of the mountain and clumps of Colorado aspen were nearing bud. “In another month everything will be green.” Elizabeth looked around her with satisfaction. “But right now I like the bare branches, a bit of starkness adds to the sense of mystery.” Shadows from the bare trees fell across the narrow road like zebra stripes on a UPC code.

  Another bend in the road and they were driving between massive granite outcroppings. “It’s like driving through a rock quarry,” Richard mused.

  Five minutes on, past the rocks, Richard pointed almost straight up. “There it is.”

  The turrets, towers, and jutting angles of the stone castle sat on the top of the mountain like something straight out of a fantasy. “No wonder they named it Eyrie House,” Elizabeth said. “Only an eagle could nest there.” She shivered. “What a place for a mystery. Brrrrr, shades of ‘Night on Bald Mountain.’”

  As if on cue, a clap of thunder shook the ground.

  “Mmm, that was close,” Richard said. “Looks like we may be in for one of our famous, quick-gathering cloudbursts.”

  Elizabeth looked at the dark clouds gathering in the evening sky, then back to the mountain top fortress. “How did a castle get there?”

  Richard smiled his slow smile. “I thought you were the expert on this venture.”

  “As I tell my students all the time—best way to learn things is to ask questions. Besides, you’re the native Coloradan.”

  “True. Well, the original part was built before the turn of the century by a New York banker and railroad magnate who wanted to move west and needed an enticement to get his society wife to go with him.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Oh, she moved with him all right, but she didn’t stay long. Too, too boring. And the servant problem, my dear.”

  “What a shame, after he did all that for her. She must not have really loved him.”

  “Love would overcome any hardship—even boredom?” Richard cast her a sideways glance.

  “Of course it would!” She spoke fervently, then blushed at the personal application of her comment. “Besides,” she added hurriedly, “there couldn’t have been many hardships living in a castle.”

  Once inside the castle, Elizabeth was even more convinced that life there could have been neither hard nor boring. Wide oak staircases zigzagged in every direction, leading hotel guests and staff to its multitude of corridors, all adorned with the original artwork and furniture of the castle. Victorian loveseats, velvet chairs, and little marble tables filled every nook and alcove. An abundance of fireplaces attested to the original method of heating the building, and out every window a breathtaking panorama reminded the visitors of their hilltop perch.

  “Richard Spenser and Elizabeth Allerton.” Richard gave their names to the desk clerk, who shuffled through a file of papers.

  “Ah, yes, Dr. Spenser. A tower sitting room and adjoining bedroom with bath for Miss Allerton, a neighboring bedroom with bath for you. I must apologize, you will be in the north wing, which we had closed off for refurbishing. But we did wind up rather overbooked for this week, so the management decided to open a few rooms there rather than disappoint our late registrants. I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

  Richard was just signing the register when a soft gong sounded from upstairs. “Half an hour until dinner,” the desk clerk said.

  Richard started to suggest they go straight up to the dining room, but Elizabeth had no intention of appearing at dinner the first night in a skirt and blous
e she had been traveling in all afternoon. “You have no idea how quickly I can change,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried off after the porter. They followed him up three flights of the zigzagging stairs, then down a long corridor with an uneven floor before their guide opened a door leading off into another hallway.

  “You’re the only ones in this wing so far,” the bellboy commented as he opened the door to the parlor between their rooms. “I hope you like it nice and quiet.”

  “This will be fine,” Richard said. Elizabeth glanced around the parlor, complete with a cozy sofa facing a fireplace where a fire had already been laid, then turned to inspect her own room. It was in need of refurbishing, no argument there, but the view, even through the rain pelting the windows, was magnificent. The antique furniture looked genuine and the four poster bed was piled high with two comforters and a bank of pillows.

  She turned back to the sitting room. “No television—hurrah! And I love the wind whistling at the windows—makes it all seem more mysterious.” Elizabeth clapped her hands together.

  Richard tipped the porter, then picked up Elizabeth’s large case and carried it into her room. He glanced at his watch, then at her. “Fifteen minutes,” he said, heading for his room.

  “I can do it in ten.” She shut her door behind him with a saucy toss of her head.

  One reason she was so sure of herself was the superb forethought and organization she had put into her packing. She had approached this with the same thoroughness she would have applied to planning a semester syllabus: she’d made a list of each activity scheduled for the week and for each event detailed the outfit she planned to wear, complete with accessories, including the hair ornaments that were so important to the fashionable woman of the thirties. Tonight’s schedule called for the iced aqua crepe evening pajamas she had made from a long skirt that had been hanging in the back of her closet untouched for at least two years. She smiled as she pulled the deeply cowled top over her head. There were advantages to being a laggard about cleaning out one’s closet. Instead of wearing the matching sash at her waist, she twisted it around her short dark hair in a demi-turban and fastened it with a large starburst of pearls and brilliants—a family heirloom. A long rope of faux pearls was the perfect finishing touch. She glanced at her watch—three minutes left. She’d show Dr. Richard Spenser and his stopwatch brain.