Free The Impersonator by Mary Miley Page B

ocean on one of the highest points of land on the west coast of America. They lived long enough to visit it once.
    My heart beat faster in anticipation. My mind’s eye conjured up a tender family scene—Aunt Victoria, Henry, Ross, and the twins, Caroline and Valerie, gathered on the platform to greet me as we arrived at the Dexter station. I’d rehearsed my little speech, a longer version of the one I’d given the trustees in Sacramento, along with a heartfelt apology for the worries I’d caused and a promise to make it up to them. I would acknowledge their doubts and encourage their questions so I could prove myself quickly. I expected a trick or two, something along the order of the fake grandmother, and braced mentally for the challenge. With luck, I’d be a genuine member of the family by the end of the evening.
    We disembarked that afternoon onto a wooden platform at Dexter’s train station. Our porter deposited the bags in the shade of the eaves, and we joined them there just as a thin bald man ambled over and introduced himself. His name was Clyde. I had no idea if I should know Clyde or not. Oliver had not mentioned him in the lecture on servants, so I waited with bated breath for a cue from Clyde himself.
    “Welcome home, Miss Carr,” he said unhelpfully, lifting his hat to Grandmother and me.
    “Clyde, is it?” Sir Oliver rode to my rescue. “Have we met? I have visited a number of times but am sorry I don’t remember you, my good man. I’m Oliver Beckett, Miss Carr’s uncle.”
    “No, sir, Mr. Beckett. We’ve not met. I’ve been driving for Mrs. Carr for a few years now, but I didn’t live in Dexter when Young Miss was here. The flivver’s over there,” he said with a jerk of his head toward a spanking clean Ford sedan. “It’ll hold you folks fine but I’ll have to come back for the luggage.”
    I had little chance to take stock of Dexter other than to notice that the main street was planked and the others were dirt. Soon we had left the city limits, and were heading south on a narrow macadam road that led through a woodland of tall firs and spruce trees. The air was cool and clean. I filled my lungs with the citrus-and-spice fragrance of the forest that grew almost to the edge of the pavement, like dark green walls lining a long passageway. For a moment the trees cleared on my side and I was startled to see how high we had climbed. I glimpsed Dexter far below, looking like a child’s toy village smothered with spun glass. Then the evergreen curtain closed and it was gone.
    We turned a bend in the road and nearly ran down two children.
    I yelled “Stop!” at the same moment that Clyde smashed his foot on the brake, yanked the brake lever, and skidded to the right, missing the boys by inches. With a mild oath, he threw open his door as they descended upon us, eyes wide with fear, gesturing frantically and yelling.
    Both youngsters shouted at the same time, their words tangling together so that nothing could be understood. They pointed toward the woods with their fishing poles … something about a woman. A dead woman.
    “There! Over there! In there!” The boy, no older than ten, with a runny nose and grimy face, gestured but would not leave the road to show us.
    We couldn’t see anything from the road. Clyde and I climbed out of the car. He hesitated a moment at the edge of the pavement before stepping into the tall grass. “Stay here,” he ordered.
    I followed.
    It took all of five steps to find her.
    “Maybe she’s not…” I offered hopefully.
    But she was.
    If she had been wearing red or yellow, someone would have seen her from the road before now, but her faded clothing was brown and the grass was knee high. Her body was crumpled like one of Marchetti’s Marionettes, carelessly cast into the wings after the show was over. Dark braids did not obscure her face, which was so black with dried blood that her own mother would not have recognized her. Stage blood, I noted, was a