“I’m interested in your boyhood in the Deep South, Officer Tibbs. I imagine it had a lot to do with forming the opinions you now hold.”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.”
“I withdraw the question. Officer Tibbs, have you revisited the area commonly known as the Deep South recently?”
“Yes, sir. I conducted a successful murder investigation down there a few weeks ago.”
On it went, endless probing to find a weak spot-to make the jury wonder if racial considerations could be entirely ruled out of the evidence it had heard. Most police officers would not have to undergo this. Tibbs knew that it would be a long time before he would be free of this kind of harassment.
William Holt-Rymers was in a much more comfortable position. He sat in the big glassed-in kitchen at Sun Valley Lodge, far from the enforced formalities of the courtroom, talking with the Nunns, drinking coffee, and studying the light that streamed in through the windows. He was completely at ease. The nudity of the people around him did not disconcert him in the least. He was much more interested in the fact that they shared a common opinion of Virgil Tibbs as a police officer and as a man.
“I’ve always wanted to visit a nudist park,” he said, opening a new topic. “A tight atmosphere kills good pictures; here you have all the ingredients necessary for freer, much better work. Gauguin proved that, although under somewhat different circumstances.”
“Such as in his Tahitian Mountain,” Forrest suggested.
Bill Rymers cocked an eyebrow and nodded approvingly. “And a dozen others. Some of his models were gifts from heaven and he made the most of them.”
He finished his coffee and accepted a refill. “Frankly, I consider myself nearly as fortunate right here. I’ve spent ten minutes and already I’ve found a model worthy of any artist’s attention.”
Linda flushed with pleasure at the compliment. She had been photographed many times by excellent professional photographers, but had never seen herself through the medium of an artist’s colors and interpretation.
“Would it upset your arrangements if I borrowed her for an hour or so?” Rymers asked his host.
Forrest glanced at Linda, who nodded a quick assent.
“Certainly not, Bill. That’s what you’re here for. And we know your reputation.”
“Virgil briefed us,” George admitted candidly.
“I may make a pest of myself,” Rymers warned. “I may want to do several.”
“We’d be honored,” Emily said for the family. “How about a roll?”
“No, thank you. Later, if I may. I want to get started.”
“May I watch?” Carole asked.
“If you promise to keep absolutely still and sit somewhere out of the way.”
“I promise.”
“Good. Then as soon as you’re ready, Mrs. Nunn, we’ll find the right place and begin.”
“Me?” Emily asked with doubt in her voice.
“You,” Rymers said firmly.
There was no respite for Tibbs the following day; the trial went on. Meanwhile George Nunn, after waiting somewhat impatiently for what he hoped was a decent interval, called Ellen Boardman and asked her for a date. Hesitatingly she had accepted-hesitating perhaps because of her recent grief, or their short acquaintance, or-quite possibly-because he helped to manage a nudist resort.
Determined to make a good impression, he chose a dark-brown sports coat, a pair of lighter slacks, and a lemon-colored tie suitable to the season. Upon his arrival he was presented to Ellen’s parents, who were pleasant people, and for an hour he sat with them. At their request he once more detailed the discovery of the body and his futile attempt to breathe life back into it, remembering as he spoke that he was describing the death of the mother’s brother. When it was over for what he hoped would be the last time, he had found a certain quiet understanding with these people who were trying to recover the normal pattern of their lives. He liked them and hoped earnestly that they liked him as well.
Finally he excused himself and, with Ellen beside him, drove with extra care down the mountain road toward San Bernardino. He and his date played miniature golf, had dinner, and saw a movie. When the evening was over, he regretfully turned his car back toward the Big Bear Lake area and the long climb up the mountain. Tonight he did not mind the distance or the time it would take; he felt a sense of mild excitement when Ellen leaned back and let the air play with her hair. She had her eyes shut and George slowed the car down slightly in order to suit her mood.
“What are you going to do?” she asked suddenly.
“Do? With my life, is that what you mean?”
“Yes.”
George guided the car around a curve and bit into the first grade. “I’m planning to be a marine architect; I studied it in college. I love the sea and I love boats. Because they go places, I guess, instead of just standing still. Even if it’s only out to Catalina and back every weekend, it’s still movement-something dynamic that isn’t cut and dried.”
Ellen opened her eyes and looked at him. “When I was a little girl, I used to daydream about taking a fine oceangoing yacht and sailing out over the Pacific to see the world.”
“That’s a wonderful dream,” George said. “Don’t lose it. A lot of people feel the same way. The only thing that stops them is the cost-it takes time and money. But then so does everything else.”
“I’ve never had any money and I don’t particularly want any,” Ellen answered. “Some of the moneyed people who come to our place aren’t very nice. We have our problems now and then.”
“So do we. The usual ones and a few more, because ours is a nudist resort. A few people still think it’s some kind of an open-air-” He stopped in embarrassment.
“I understand,” Ellen said. She fell silent briefly and George wondered if he had offended her. Then she asked, “George, how did you and your family become involved in-the kind of business you operate?”
“Personal conviction-I think that’s the best answer. I know you probably don’t see it the way we do, but there are things to consider. You might remember the bathing suits of a couple of generations ago. Now gradually we’re coming to the point of admitting ourselves to be human, and without somehow being ashamed of it.”
“Still, to go without any clothes at all …”
George let the matter hang there; he was too content with her company just as she was. He guided the car over a rise and the waxing three-quarter moon flooded them with its cool, impersonal light.
Ellen nodded toward a turnoff ahead. “Stop there, will you?” she requested.
George swung the car off the road and onto the gravel of one of the many viewpoint parking lots. He stopped and set the brake.
“I’ve always loved this particular place,” Ellen said simply.
George came around and helped her out of the car. As they walked toward the stone balustrade that guarded the edge, he was close enough to touch her; he didn’t, because he sensed it would not be welcome-at least not yet.
From the ledge on the mountain the view spread out below them was spectacular. Though the moonlight was swallowed up in the atmosphere and showed nothing of the land below, the lights of the city and of Norton Air Force Base spread a jeweled carpet at the feet of the night.
Ellen sat on the low stone wall and turned her head to look down at the spectacle. As she did so, George studied her faint profile and the way she held herself even in repose; new ideas began to stir in his mind about her even though this was only the second time they had met. He lifted his wrist and tilted it so that he could see the hands on the dial.
Ellen noticed him and asked quickly, “What time is it?”
“Five minutes after twelve.”
She rose to her feet. “Another day.”
“Yes, a new day.” He decided to share a small personal thing. “My birthday,” he added.
“Many happy returns,” she said as they walked back to the car.