THE LOVE TALKER

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:14

For the second time that night she went sprawling on the gravel, and for the second time hard hands yanked her to her feet. Jeff’s face was ghastly in the gray moonlight.

“Are you hurt? Did it hit you?”

“Just brushed me.” Laurie was amazed at the calmness of her voice. “Hurry, Jeff. See who’s driving.”

She craned her neck to look past him as he continued to hold her. The car had rolled gently to a stop at the end of the curved drive, its bumper nudging the white-painted gate. The door on the near side — the driver’s side — was closed. But Laurie thought she saw movement on the other side.

“Hurry,” she said urgently. “Before he gets away.”

Jeff stared wildly at her, his eyeballs gleaming. Then he ran.

Laurie sat down on the driveway. She felt quite composed, but she preferred to sit. The moon went in, behind a cloud. Her teeth began to chatter.

After an interval she heard a car door slam. Jeff came trotting back.

“Nobody,” he said briefly.

Laurie squinted, trying to see his face. The moonlight flickered on and off like a faulty light bulb.

“Damn,” she said. “He got away.”

“Stand up, you’ll catch cold.” Jeff extended his hand. Laurie let him pull her to her feet. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Just a few more inches of skin gone.” Laurie said morosely. “Hey — what about footprints? If he sneaked out on the other side of the car, there should be t-t-t—”

“You’re cold,” Jeff said cleverly. “Get in the house.”

“But the t-t-t-t — The footprints!”

“I’ll check as soon as you’re inside.” He looked at her inquiringly, and despite his obvious concern the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. “T-t-t — ?” he asked.

“Tracks!” Laurie got the word out.

He would have carried her, but she refused the offer. After all, a woman had to have some pride, and she had lost a good deal of dignity already. Her frustration about life in general focused on nearer objects; when they entered the kitchen and found Doug still placidly sleeping, she heaved him upright and shook him till his hair fell over his eyes.

Jeff watched for a while and then went out to look for footprints, remarking, “I hate sadism.”

One of Doug’s eyes opened. It glared wildly through his tangled hair like the eye of a cornered rat peering through dry grass.

A brief but animated dialogue ensued. Doug swept the hair from his brow with a gesture worthy of a Brontë hero.

“I can’t believe it,” he mumbled. “Never slept so hard… Wait a minute. Did you say you got hit by a car?”

“A near miss.” Delayed reaction struck Laurie. She dropped into a chair, her legs extended, and contemplated the ruin of Aunt Lizzie’s golden robe. Her bloody, dirty knees protruded through the rents in the skirt.

Doug stood up. He turned on the cold-water tap, stuck his head under it, and shook himself like a big dog.

“Speaking of dogs,” he said, although Laurie had not done so, “where’s that damned Duchess?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. Don’t you see, Doug — we’re making progress. The musician was in the garage, that’s why the music sounded so close. Little pixies can’t drive cars. Somebody was behind that wheel, and it wasn’t Jeff.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. The car was still moving when he picked me up.”

The door opened and Jeff came in. He met Laurie’s questioning eyes and shook his head.

“Nothing.”

“But how could anyone get out of that car without leaving footprints?” Laurie demanded.

Jeff answered slowly, “There isn’t much snow by the gate, under those big cedars. What there is is crusted hard. Maybe someone could go on all fours, crawling…. But I’m not sure that’s what happened, Laurie. It may be my fault. I might have forgotten to set the parking brake.”

“And the car just happened to start rolling when Laurie was in front of it?” Doug demanded.

“There is a slight incline. Not much, but it might be enough to—”

“And the garage doors? Don’t you usually close them?”

“Yes, of course. But… damn it, I don’t remember! I had intended to go out this evening. Miss Lizzie said she needed milk for breakfast and there’s store in Frederick that’s open late. I got involved in my work and decided it could wait till morning. So — well, I might have left the doors open.”

“I don’t think the car could have moved unless the engine was running,” Laurie reassured him. “I don’t remember hearing it, but it idles very quietly, you know, and I was concentrating on the music. No, Jeff, I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. It was a deliberate attempt to run me down.”

A strangled, unpleasant gurgle drew her attention to Doug. He was staring at her, his eyes bulging, his forefinger rigid and quivering as he pointed. She would not have been surprised to hear him shout: There’s the culprit!

“Look at her,” he gasped. “Look at—”

“I know I look awful,” Laurie said irritably. “Hadn’t you noticed? I’ve wrecked Aunt Lizzie’s dress and—”

“Lizzie’s dress. Lizzie’s coat. A scarf over your head, hiding your hair… Oh, boy. If that car was a murder weapon, it wasn’t aimed at you, Laurie. The intended victim was Aunt Lizzie.”

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:15

Chapter 10

In a jostling, jumbled rush they all headed for the stairs. Aunt Lizzie’s placid breathing mocked their fears. She didn’t wake even when Angel Baby raked Doug’s ankles with teeth and claws, and he let out a muted scream.

Uncle Ned and Aunt Ida slept too. Duchess was in the library, under the table. She lifted one eyelid and thumped her tail agreeably at them before returning to her nap.

“It’s like Sleeping Beauty,” Laurie muttered. “Everybody in the whole damn place is unconscious. How did Duchess get in here?”

“She sneaks in when she gets a chance,” Jeff answered. “Then she hides so Miss Ida won’t throw her out. She must have fallen asleep and been shut in.”

So that accounted for Duchess — though, Laurie thought, not entirely. Uncle Ned always put the dog out for a brief run before he went to bed and then left her to “guard” the house. Everyone seemed to have been unaccountably neglectful of their duties that night.

Doug insisted on inspecting the scene of the crime and was furious when Jeff said he had returned the car to the garage.

“I’m going to be in enough trouble when your uncle sees that dented fender,” Jeff protested plaintively.

“What difference does it make?” Laurie demanded of her brother. “You think you’re Sherlock Holmes? If our villain left a clue in the car it’s still there, but I doubt he’d be dumb enough to forget his wallet or his glasses—”

“What makes you think he wears glasses?” Doug asked.

“I don’t!”

“Well, if you don’t think he wears glasses, why did you—”

“Forget it,” Laurie said disgustedly.

Doug went out anyway. Laurie returned to her room and changed into a bathrobe. She came back to the kitchen to find Jeff making coffee. She got a pan of hot water and sat down to bathe her damaged legs.

“I’d offer to do that,” Jeff said, “but I don’t want Doug to come at me with a club.”

“Curse Doug anyway,” Laurie said. “I don’t know what ails the man.”

“Don’t you?”

“He’s crazy. Ow… that stings. We’re all crazy,” Laurie went on. “The whole family. I should have told Herrrrman that. It would have been the truth.”

Doug returned in time to hear the last part of this speech. He nodded in sour agreement.

“There must be a strain of insanity somewhere in this family.”

“Any luck?” Laurie asked.

“No wallet, no glasses, no nothing.” Doug watched her for a moment. “You missed a section,” he told her. “Want me to do that?”

“No.”

“I’ll get the iodine.”

“I don’t want iodine. It hurts.”

Doug got the iodine. Ignoring Laurie’s protests, he swabbed the scratches. Laurie held her robe modestly at knee level and let out yelping cries as Doug worked.

“A Spartan you are not,” he remarked.

“I don’t believe in — ow! — repressing my feelings.”

“No, but seriously,” Doug said, “aren’t you beginning to wonder just a little bit about this family? Did you ever do any genealogical research?”

“Ow! Ouch!”

“Stop yelling, you coward. I’m not touching any of your scratches.”

Laurie opened her eyes. Doug had painted faces on her knees — circles with dots for eyes and sweeping semicircles for smiling mouths.

“You’re weird,” she said.

“I think it’s rather a neat effect.” Doug replaced the stopper. “No, but seriously—”

“No, I never did any genealogical research. Why the hell should I?”

“We might find out that Great-great-grandfather Angus was a werewolf,” Doug said.

“I’m going to bed,” Jeff said.

“Not just yet.” Still on his knees, Doug turned a critical eye toward the other man. “How come you were up and dressed when this happened?”

“I heard the music, of course,” Jeff said. “Went out to have a look around.”

“Find anything?”

Jeff shook his head. “It could have been a bird,” he said stubbornly.

“A buzzard,” Doug suggested. “It was driving the car.”

“I’m going to bed,” Jeff repeated. “Good night.”

The painted faces on Laurie’s knees grinned at her with imbecilic optimism.

“Why don’t you get some sleep too?” she asked Doug. “I’ll sit up for the rest of the night.”

“There isn’t much left of the night,” Doug said. “Uncle Ned will be up in another hour.”

“So sleep in.”

“Maybe I will.” Doug reached for his book. Laurie, who was closer, got there first.

The cover depicted a scantily clad female crouching at the feet of a man attired in tropical garb. Muscles bulged all over him in an unlikely fashion, and above his head he brandished a sword as tall as he was. His opponent had six arms. Two of them groped lasciviously at the prostrate girl, and the other four waved weapons at the hero with the sword.

“Adult bookstore?” Laurie raised an eyebrow. “The cover may be X-rated, but it looks like comic-book stuff to me.”

“Science fiction,” Doug said.

“Oh, yeah? There’s nothing scientific about that woman’s anatomy.”

“All right, it’s not science fiction, it’s fantasy. A lot of intelligent people read this sort of thing. It’s a sign of an active imagination and—”

Laurie opened the book.

“‘…his mighty thews bulged as he raised the sword. Whop! A head flew in one direction, and a trunk in the other. A great fountain of blood spurted up. The girl shrieked as a slimy tentacle encircled her writhing, naked body. She — ’”

“Give me that!”

“Wait a minute. This is getting good. He just cut off two more of the monster’s arms and she—”

Doug snatched the book from Laurie.

“It’s a fairy tale,” she jeered. “A grown-up fairy tale, with monsters and brave heroes and endangered maidens. Really, Doug.”

Doug retreated with great dignity, his nose in the air and his despised book under his arm.

Laurie toyed with the idea of resuming her interrupted slumber. Surely there would be no more danger that night; Uncle Ned would soon be up and about. But she knew she would not be able to sleep. They were making progress, toward a certainty of danger, but they seemed farther and farther away from a solution. Tomorrow they would simply have to interrogate the old people more closely. Reclusive and harmless as the Mortons seemed to be, they must have an unknown enemy. Uncle Ned’s outspoken views and, upon occasion, corporal remonstration against poachers and hunters might have aroused ire. Ida’s manner was not always friendly; if, for instance, she had caught a clerk trying to cheat her and had insisted that he be fired from his job… From such petty causes a sick mind could assume offense.

And what about the family history? Maybe great-great someone had cheated at cards, or seduced a neighbor’s daughter, or embezzled the firm’s money. Maybe Uncle Ned, in his youth…

Laurie grinned and shook her head. No, she couldn’t picture that. Ned had always preferred animals to people.

Even as that fond, half-contemptuous appraisal passed through her mind, she revised it. She was making the same mistake young people often made about the elderly — not only that they were long past the stronger passions and emotions, but that they had never been subject to them. She ought to know better.

Fifty years ago. The nineteen twenties. Flappers, shingled hair, flattened breasts, and rouged knees. Try as she might, she could not picture Ida doing the Charleston in one of those skimpy, waistless dresses. It was easier to imagine Uncle Ned in plus fours and spats and a straw hat… or was that the wrong period? He was still a fine-looking man; in his long-gone youth he must have been quite a lady killer. As for Aunt Lizzie — strip off fifty or sixty pounds, turn her hair back to its original brown, remove lines and wrinkles — and voilà! She’d have made a wonderful flapper, Laurie thought, smiling affectionately.

Surely somewhere there was a family album. She would ask Ida if she might see it. The old lady would be pleased at her interest, and perhaps with the help of actual photographs she could envision not only how they had looked, but how they had felt about life and love and the opposite sex when they were young.

But before that she would have to explain to Aunt Lizzie how her precious robe had gotten ripped to shreds.

She was still sitting at the kitchen table wrapped in gloomy thought when Uncle Ned came downstairs. He looked surprised to see her, but only mildly so. Nothing ever surprised Uncle Ned very much.

“’Morning,” he said. “How about a walk?”

Laurie started to shake her head and then changed her mind.

“I’d like that. But none of your forty-mile hikes, Uncle Ned. I’m not as young as you are.”

Her uncle acknowledged this witticism with a vague smile.

“Where’s that fool dog?”

“She’s in the library.” Laurie started up. “I’ll let her out on my way upstairs. I’d better put on some jeans.”

She braced herself before she opened the library door. Duchess emerged in a brown whirlwind, tongue lolling, eyes gleaming, tail a furry blur. No prisoner, released after a lifetime in the Bastille, could have rejoiced more in his liberation. After sprinkling Laurie liberally with hair, Duchess bounded down the hall toward the kitchen. Laurie went to her room and changed. When she came back down, Ned was ready to go.

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:17

The sun was not yet above the horizon, but the eastern sky looked like one of Aunt Lizzie’s fancier dresses, pale-azure gauze woven with gold and banded in turquoise and coral. The dog ran and rolled and then suddenly squatted, its brown eyes rapt in profound contemplation. This duty completed, it rushed at Ned for approval, danced heavily on Laurie’s feet, and galloped off across the lawn.

The woods were magical in the early-morning light, with no suggestion of eeriness, only a beauty too perfect to be quite real. The shadows were exquisite shades of blue-gray and mauve. Ned didn’t speak until they had reached his bird-feeding station. He filled the feeders with seed and distributed nuts and carrots. Then he sat down on the bench beside Laurie.

“Best place in the world,” he said. “Can’t imagine why anybody would want to leave here.”

“It is beautiful. But didn’t you ever want to travel, Uncle Ned?”

“Did. France. Not very pretty when I saw it.”

“World War One? Weren’t you awfully young?”

Puttees and flat tin hats, tight short jackets, trousers cut like riding breeches. She could see a younger Uncle Ned in that romantic costume. What she couldn’t see was Ned carrying a gun.

“Lied about my age,” Ned said briefly. “Damn fool,” he added.

“Was that where you learned to… to…”

“Hate killing.” Ned nodded. Laurie did not reply, but he sensed her sympathy; turning his head, he gave her a shy smile.

“Came back to an office job,” he went on. “Didn’t do too badly. Made a lot of money. Hated it. So… one day I quit. Never went back. Didn’t have to work; why do something you hate?”

“You should sympathize with the kids today,” Laurie said. “They don’t believe in working at a job they hate either.”

“Have to work unless you’ve got money,” Ned said drily. “I was lucky. Well. I’m going on. You coming?”

“No, I’ll sit awhile and go back to the house.”

Ned tramped off, his stride long and free. The pom-pom on his red stocking cap bounced up and down.

Laurie made her way back to the house through the newminted sunshine. As always she was aware of the beauty that surrounded her, but a new word and a new idea colored her vision that day. Money. All these acres so well tended, the old house meticulously maintained, the expensive car, Lizzie’s splurges in the boutiques…. Where did the money come from? She had never thought of the Mortons as wealthy. They rented land to the Wilsons and perhaps to other families, but in these days of rising costs and higher taxes that income would not suffice. They surely weren’t living on social security.

Money was a motive for crime. The root of all evil.

When she burst into the kitchen Aunt Ida was at the stove. She moved without her usual briskness, but when she saw Laurie she produced a bleak smile.

“I fear you must tolerate my poor cooking this morning. Lizzie is playing slugabed.”

“You sit down. I’ll cook.” Laurie shed her coat, took her aunt by the shoulders, and propelled her toward a chair. The bones under her hands felt pathetically frail and brittle.

“I’m glad to have a chance to talk to you,” she went on, prodding the sausages that were gently sizzling in the frying pan. “Does Aunt Lizzie have any money?”

She expected a dignified remonstrance at the vulgarity of the question. There was no answer at all. She turned to look with surprise at Ida.

“I feared you would ask that eventually,” her aunt said with a sigh. “My dear Laura, Elizabeth has all the money.”

“All?”

“Ned has his own income, of course. However, he contributes generously to the expenses of maintaining Idlewood, and he is ridiculously extravagant about his hobbies. Thousands each year to the various societies for the protection of animals, and—”

“You’re rambling, Aunt Ida,” Laurie interrupted. “That isn’t like you. I’m surprised. I never thought…. You know I’m not asking out of idle curiosity, don’t you?”

“Yes, my dear. I know precisely why you are asking.”

“Then tell me, please.”

“You are aware, of course,” her aunt began, “that there were four of us to begin with. Your Uncle Ned, Elizabeth, myself, and Mary, your grandmother. Poor Mary died young, God rest her — before our father passed on. You never knew your great-grandfather. You would not have understood him. He was an autocrat of the old school, with strong views about family and property. Yet in his way he was fair-minded; he made no distinction between his male and female offspring. We four were to share equally in his estate — which was, I might add, extensive. Then…” Her thin lips quivered. Laurie hated to see her so distressed, but she hardened her heart; this story might or might not be useful, she could not tell until she had heard it.

Ida regained control of herself and went on in a firm voice.

“As father grew older, he grew — as we all do! — more opinionated and more rigid. Your grandmother Mary’s share of the property would ordinarily have passed to your mother, but Anna’s way of living offended Father. When Anna divorced your father, Papa cut her out of the will.”

“My father? Don’t you mean Doug’s father? Or did he allow her one mistake?”

Like another, more famous autocratic old lady, Aunt Ida was not amused.

“Certainly not. He was violently opposed to divorce. I meant her first husband, of course.”

“So her share went back into the estate,” Laurie prodded.

“That is correct. Ned lost his share when he retired from the office. Papa had no patience with a man who would not work.”

“But how did Uncle Ned get the money to pay his share of the expenses here?”

“Ned did very well in business,” her aunt explained. “I don’t understand such matters myself.” They are, her tone implied, too vulgar.

“So now we’re down to you and Aunt Lizzie,” Laurie mused. “Your father must have been a—”

“He had every right to do what he wished with his own,” Ida said firmly. “He chose…” Her hesitation was only momentary. “He chose to leave everything to Lizzie.”

“Why did he do that?”

“I have explained to you why he omitted Ned and Mary. His reasons for excluding me are irrelevant.” She lifted a hand to silence Laurie as the latter started to object. “Believe me, Laura, they are.”

“Couldn’t you challenge the will?” Laurie asked indignantly.

“Certainly not!” Her aunt was equally indignant. “Father was in complete possession of his senses. The embarrassment and publicity of a lawsuit were out of the question.” Her tone softened. “It has never made any difference, Laura. Your Aunt Elizabeth is very generous.” She added, with no change of tone, “You are burning the sausages.”

“Oh.” Laurie flipped the sausages, with a reckless spatter of grease. She was now as reluctant as Ida to pursue the subject, but she forced herself to ask the question to which she already knew the answer. “Then who inherits when Aunt Lizzie dies?”

“I do, of course,” Ida said. “And Ned. Elizabeth has always refused to make a will. Do you see now why I have been perturbed? If Elizabeth is losing her mind she will require skilled care; and an institution is out of the question, Laura, I could not bring myself to take her from her home. If there is a plot aimed at her sanity or her life…”

“Oh, my,” Laurie said helplessly. “I see what you mean.”

“A singularly useless comment,” said a voice from the door. Laurie turned. Hands in the pockets of his jeans, hair immaculate, Doug lounged against the doorframe.

“How long have you been there?” she asked.

“I heard most of it.” Doug uncrossed his legs and went to Ida. Dropping to one knee, he put both arms around her stiff shoulders. “Get one thing straight,” he told her. “I wouldn’t believe you wanted to harm Aunt Lizzie if I caught you pointing a gun at her. I wouldn’t believe it if Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot and the combined police forces of greater New York, Baltimore, and Washington, D.C., told me so.”

Even in that extremity Ida did not succumb to the weakness of tears or emotion. She only said, “Thank you, Douglas,” but her expression as she looked at him made Laurie’s throat tighten.

“Make that two of us,” she said.

Doug squeezed his aunt’s shoulders and rose to his feet. Laurie was feeling particularly fond of him at that moment; she noted with approval that he moved neatly, without Jeff’s feline suppleness, but with a grace all his own. Yes, as brothers went, he was a good example.

“You are burning the sausages,” he said.

“Oh, curse it.”

“They’re a lost cause, I’m afraid.” Doug inspected the wrinkled, leathery dark-brown objects in the pan with a fastidiously lifted nose. “Get out of the way and let me cook. I can see I’ll never get any breakfast if I depend on you emotional females. Where is everybody this morning?”

“We all slept late,” Ida said.

Doug busied himself at the stove. Laurie got herself some coffee and refilled her aunt’s cup. Having started a new batch of sausages and filled the toaster with bread, Doug said, “We had another bad night last night, Aunt Ida. Luckily Aunt Lizzie didn’t hear it, but the fairy piper was at it again. Laurie sallied bravely forth to investigate and the musician tried to run her down with the Lincoln.”

Ida’s shocked exclamation was echoed from the hall. Lizzie stood there, her horrified face contrasting ludicrously with her frivolous lace-trimmed peasant blouse and ropes of bright beads.

“You are tact personified,” Laurie told Doug. “It’s all right, Aunts; I wasn’t hurt, I just skinned my knees.”

Deciding that Lizzie was the more perturbed of the two, she started toward her, bent on reassurance, but Lizzie waved her off and stumbled back. So might Macbeth have responded to the ghost of Banquo, his victim, and although Laurie knew her aunt’s distress was genuine, she could not help noticing the streak of theatricalism that seemed to run in the family.

“Oh, dear,” Lizzie gasped. “Oh, I never thought…. It isn’t fun anymore. I can’t let this… Wait here. Wait, I’ll be right back.”

She retreated at full speed, her dangling necklaces clashing.

The others exchanged glances.

“Oh, oh,” Laurie said. “You don’t suppose she planned it herself?”

“The thought did pass through my mind,” Doug admitted. “But, damn it — excuse me, Aunt Ida — no, she couldn’t have. Not alone.”

Lizzie was back before they could pursue this theory in greater detail. Her beruffled bosom heaved agitatedly. She thrust an envelope at Doug.

“Here. Here, take them.”

“You told us they were gone,” Laurie exclaimed, as Doug removed a small sheaf of snapshots from the envelope. “Aunt Lizzie, you lied to us.”

“Oh, my darling, how can you say such a thing! I would never tell you a falsehood. The photographs I had concealed in my secret place were taken. But…” She cocked her head and gave Laurie a sly glance. “You don’t suppose I had only one set, do you? No, no, I had them copied. I pretended I had to go to the drugstore to buy aspirin. And, of course,” she added virtuously, “I did purchase the aspirin, so that was not a lie.”

“But, Aunt Lizzie—”

“Now don’t scold me.” The old lady’s lip quivered. “It was just a game. Life gets so boring around here. But it can’t go on, not if you are going to be hurt, Laura. Douglas must look at the photographs and tell us what to do.”

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:19

“I wasn’t hurt,” Laurie assured her. “But I’m afraid your pretty robe is ruined, Aunt Lizzie. I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have worn it, but I was in a hurry and I couldn’t find my jeans, and… What are you looking at me that way for?”

“My robe?” Lizzie repeated. “The gold one?”

“I’m so sorry. And I’m afraid your coat is ripped, but that was just a seam, it can be—”

“My coat?”

“I’m really terribly sorry, Auntie.”

Lizzie’s worried look smoothed out into an expression of such profound stupidity that a casual observer would have supposed she had lost what remained of her senses. Laurie knew better. Lizzie was considering a new, startling idea, and planning what she should do about it. There was no use questioning her about it, she would be deaf and blind to external stimuli until she had worked out her plans.

Laurie turned to the photographs, which Doug had spread out on the kitchen table. They were the same ones she had seen before — or rather, if Lizzie was to be believed, copies of them. His elbows on the table, his chin propped on his hands, Doug studied the bizarre objects intently. Ida moved her chair so she could see them too. She could no longer afford to dismiss Lizzie’s fancies with a sniff of contempt.

“They are most peculiar, are they not?” she murmured. “I have never seen such things.”

“I have,” Doug said.

“What?” Laurie exclaimed. “Where? How? Who?”

“They’re very good,” Doug said, with the judicious air of a connoisseur. “Brilliant, in fact. Most fantastic art is out-and-out horror — buggy-eyed monsters or slimy what-nots from outer space. It takes genius to give a faint, shivery suggestion of something alien and malevolent in familiar form. Not many artists can produce work of this caliber. Doré, Beardsley, some of Ed Cartier’s stuff…. Frazetta and the Hildebrand brothers are slick and commercial and popular, but I’m not overly impressed by them. They never gave me the shivers.”

Except for the first name, Laurie had never heard of the people he mentioned. That was enough to give her a clue, however.

“These are not paintings,” she protested.

“No, they’re definitely three-dimensional. I don’t recognize the medium. Some semitransparent plastic, I would guess.”

Laurie dropped into the nearest chair.

“Sculptures — figurines? Is that what—”

“What else could they be, nitwit? I don’t blame you for being impressed, though,” Doug added generously. “You’re not familiar with this field of art. It’s become popular, with the general boom in science fiction and fantasy, Star Wars and Tolkien and their imitators. Most of the art-work is two-dimensional. Posters, calendars, book illustrations. There aren’t many sculptors who specialize in horror and fantasy. And this guy is extraordinarily talented. Oh, yes, it’s a guy, not a woman. I’ve seen his work somewhere. Wish I could remember his name.”

“Where did you see it?”

“I forget. One of the sci-fi conventions, maybe. I’ve been to so many of ’em. He’s not one of the well-known artists in the field. Probably an amateur who does this as a hobby and rarely exhibits.”

Laurie was speechless. As she looked again, the true nature of the “fairies” seemed so obvious she could have blushed for her own gullibility. She was as bad as Lizzie; some subconscious part of her mind had wanted to believe in the wonders of the invisible world she had cherished as a child, when she had populated Idlewood’s pastoral peace with fairy-tale characters. Yet the faked photos were cleverly done. The surrounding leaves and blades of grass had been arranged to suggest just-halted movement, so that the artificial intrusions blended with the natural background.

“Can we trace these things?” she demanded.

“Maybe. There are shops that specialize in fantasy. I don’t know about Frederick; certainly D.C. and Baltimore might have such things. Getting the artist’s name won’t solve our problem, though. Presumably his work is for sale to anyone who walks in off the street.”

“He can’t have a large clientele,” Laurie argued. “A dealer might remember who bought these, especially if they are one of a kind.”

“Oh, I’ll try,” Doug assured her. “Don’t expect quick results, though. I’m sure I saw these figures here in the East — I’ve never been to any of the Western or Midwest conventions — but that doesn’t mean the artist is from this area. These little gems could have been bought in San Francisco or Nome, Alaska, for all we know. The fans keep in touch with one another. I’m sure I can track the guy down eventually through local dealers. But it will take time.”

Laurie made an exasperated noise. Doug grinned sympathetically.

“I know how you feel. I’m impatient too. So why don’t we go to the source? Aunt Lizzie. Hey, Auntie, wake up and pay attention. The die is cast, the worms have turned. We want the truth now.”

Lizzie started affectedly. Three pairs of hostile eyes focused on her. She began to retreat, step by step.

“Come on,” Doug insisted. “You told us you got these from the Wilson girls. We know that isn’t true—”

“Douglas, I do not tell lies! If you choose not to believe me, I won’t talk to you anymore.”

“Auntie, a child could not have taken these.” Doug’s tone became wheedling. “Come on, Auntie, be nice. You said you didn’t want to see Laurie get hurt—”

“Laurie won’t be hurt. That was… It won’t happen again. Dear me,” Lizzie murmured, as if to herself, “I seem to have acted rather precipitately. It has always been my weakness.” Her eyes shifted, with seeming casualness; when they came to rest on the snapshots Doug slapped his hand down on them. Lizzie sighed. “There is nothing to worry about,” she assured them. “Nothing at all. Laura, darling, will you see to breakfast? I just don’t seem to feel like cooking this morning. I think I will take a little nap.”

“Stop her,” Laurie exclaimed, starting up. It was too late. Lizzie had fluttered out, with the deceptive speed she could muster when she wanted to.

“What’s the point?” Doug demanded. “I can hardly shake the truth out of her, can I? What made her change her mind?”

“She put two and two together, that’s what,” Laurie said. “Darn that woman! She’s the smartest lunatic I ever saw. Don’t you get it? When she thought I was in danger she was ready to tell us everything she knew. Then — dumb me! — I told her I was wearing her clothes and she realized she was the intended victim. She’s enjoying this melodrama!”

“Or she knows who the villain is and thinks he wouldn’t hurt her,” Doug said.

“She could be wrong.”

“She sure could. Damn… Excuse me, Aunt. I just burned the second batch of sausages.”

With Ida’s help Laurie finally managed to get breakfast. Lizzie had barricaded herself in her room and refused to come out. When Doug knocked and demanded entry, a slim furry paw slid under the door and dug sharp claws into his ankle. He left, cursing cats, Lizzie, and old houses that didn’t have properly fitted doors, and shut himself in with the telephone.

Ned came in and applied himself to his breakfast.

“Going into town,” he announced. “Taking the car in. Fender’s dented. Can’t have it like that.”

“Did Jeff tell you how it got dented?” Laurie asked.

“Must have forgotten to set the brake,” Ned said calmly. “Even Atlas nods.” He inspected Laurie. “You all right? You must be, you were walking okay this morning.” He returned to his eggs.

Laurie looked at her uncle with exasperated affection. He was so disinterested in the ordinary cares of life that he seemed inhuman at times. At least after their talk that morning she had a clue as to why he was that way. Plunged into the insanity of war, some men became hardened to slaughter and cruelty. Ned had become oversensitized to pain and protected himself by trying not to care too much.

Doug joined them.

“Guess what?” he demanded, grinning.

“Don’t tell me you found the artist!” Laurie registered appropriate surprise, pleasure and admiration.

“I got his name. Frank Fulkes. Sound familiar?”

“Never heard of him.”

“I doubt that he’s our villain.” Doug perched on the edge of the table and began nibbling absentmindedly on the last sausage. “He lives in upstate New York. Hasn’t produced anything for several years. But the second place I called — the Cimmerian Bookshop, in Baltimore — used to handle his work. If I take in the snapshots they may remember who bought those pieces.”

Neither of them expected Ned to demonstrate any curiosity about this speech; nor did he.

“Going to town,” he told Doug. “Have to take the car in. Big dent in the fender.”

“You’re not driving, are you?” Doug asked apprehensively.

“No. Jeff. I have to go along, make sure they do the job right.”

Doug looked inquiringly at Laurie. His uncle’s Olympian calm seemed to bewilder him.

“Jeff forgot to set the parking brake,” she said.

“Anybody can make a mistake,” Ned remarked. “Offered to pay for it. Can’t allow that, of course. I’m going now.”

He left. Duchess, abandoned, let out a sharp, indignant bark. She was soothed by the remains of the sausage, proferred by Doug, and settled down at his feet.

“You going to Baltimore?” Laurie asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Want me to come along?”

“You’d better stay here and keep an eye on Lizzie. God knows what she’ll do next.”

“That was odd, wasn’t it? That she’s the family heiress. I never would have suspected it. I wonder how much money is involved.”

“Almost any amount of money can constitute a motive for someone,” Doug answered. “But do you believe that’s the reason for all this?”

“I don’t see how it could be. The only one who profits is Aunt Ida, and nobody in his right mind would suspect her. She must know that. Why do you suppose she’s so upset?”

“She isn’t worried about being suspected. She’s worried about the next heirs.”

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:20

“The next… Oh! You don’t mean—”

“I do mean. Us, my darling sister,” Doug said. “You and me.”

Left to herself, Laurie attacked the dishes, in an effort to get her mind off that last revelation. She and Doug probably were the Mortons’ heirs. Well, she thought, that eliminates the profit motive. Neither of us would… Anyway, it wasn’t possible that…

She paused in the act of scouring a particularly loathsome frying pan — the one in which the sausages had burned — and stared blindly out the window, her brow furrowed. Much as she hated to admit the idea, it was possible. What did she know about Doug, after all? He was practically a stranger. A glib, charming stranger, to whom she had become rather attached — but that didn’t mean he was incapable of skulduggery. All he would need was a confederate, on the spot, to supply him with information and manipulate a few props. He had, by his own admission, friends in town. Suppose one of them had told him, jokingly, about Lizzie and Baby Betsy and their games? Doug’s interest in fantasy suggested an inventive, far-out imagination. He of all people might see the possibilities in that innocent game. Obviously he had access to the type of art-work that had been used to fake the photographs, and the fact that he had admitted as much, with seeming candor, was no proof of innocence. He had not made the admission until after Lizzie had produced the snapshots, and he must have known that sooner or later Laurie would figure out that the elves were sculptured shapes. She was an idiot not to have realized that earlier; but without the photographs it would have been very difficult for her to trace the artist, unfamiliar as she was with the field of fantasy.

And now Doug had the photos and was on his way to some apocryphal bookstore…. No; the bookstore was probably real. He would run no risk in tracing the local buyers of Frank Fulkes’ work if he had himself acquired the pieces elsewhere.

Horrified at the direction her thoughts were taking, Laurie tried to stop herself, but her mind continued remorselessly piling up evidence. Doug was broke, failing at his profession. He had expensive tastes. He was certainly attractive to women, capable of persuading a naive local girl into waving colored lights around the woods, making a telephone call. He could even have driven the car the night before. She had walked for several minutes before going to the garage — plenty of time for Doug to nip out and get behind the wheel. And he could have been back in the kitchen before she and Jeff got there. If Doug had been the driver it would explain one point that had worried her — how had the unknown gained possession of the car keys? She was convinced that the engine had been running. The car was heavy, it would take more than a push to get it moving.

With genuine dismay she contemplated the picture she had constructed. It fit together with the neatness of a jigsaw puzzle — motive, means, opportunity. The only missing piece was the identity of the poor fool who was Doug’s assistant; but that was a minor point. The girl might be innocent of everything except gullibility.

Still, there was no proof. Laurie was enough of a historian to know that several different, equally convincing theories can be built from the same scraps of evidence. Anyway, why should it horrify her so? A lot of people had relatives who were in jail — or who ought to be in jail.

A muted whine from the dog made her start. Duchess was dreaming of bones or beefsteak or something equally delectable; her jaws had relaxed into a broad grin. So much, Laurie thought, for the theory that dreams might be messages from another world, premonitions of blessings and disasters yet to come. Did the spirits of departed ancestors come to dogs, warning them to steer clear of traps and highways? Duchess looked like a canine caricature of a medium Laurie had once visited; the woman had twitched and moved in the same way.

The house was so quiet. For the first time in her life Laurie did not feel at ease within its walls. Perhaps it knew she was harboring vile suspicions about the young heir.

She snatched up a coat and went outside. No comfort there either; even the sun had gone back on her. Heavy clouds barricaded the sky. Laurie put her hands in her pockets. Why couldn’t she ever find a pair of gloves? She walked along the path. Insensibly her steps turned toward Jeff’s cottage. Should she confide her suspicions to him? It would be the basest of betrayals, pure treason against the family name; but if Doug really was the miscreant responsible for the attacks on Lizzie, he had to be stopped.

Avoiding the boxwood alley she circled the toolshed and paused for a long suspicious look at the garage before proceeding. The doors were closed. She had forgotten; the car was at the body shop, and so was Jeff.

A flicker of movement where there should be none made her draw back in the shelter of the shed wall. No, her eyes had not deceived her; the curtain moved again, as if someone had lifted a corner in order to peer out. Someone was in Jeff’s cottage.

Doug was on his way to Baltimore. Uncle Ned had gone to Frederick with Jeff…. Her mind ran down the list of possible allies before facing the unpleasant conclusion that she would have to deal with this herself. By the time she returned to the house, called the police, and waited for them to arrive, the intruder would probably be gone.

At least she could provide herself with a weapon. She eased open the door of the toolshed and surveyed its contents. Quite an arsenal — shovels, axes, picks, rakes. Dismissing the sharper, more lethal instruments, she selected an ax handle which had lost its head and was, presumably, awaiting repair. It was light enough to be easily wielded and heavy enough to stun an adversary without seriously maiming him.

Her heart pounding, she scuttled across the open space between the shed and the cottage and stood on tiptoe to peer in the window. But the curtains were drawn; she could see nothing. As she stood debating her next move, the doorknob started to turn. Laurie flattened herself against the stone wall, her club ready.

The door opened about four inches. A head appeared. Laurie bit back an exclamation. The face was monstrous — solid, dead black, with white banding the staring eyes and the circle of the mouth. A ski mask made quite an effective disguise.

The burglar would have seen her if he had bothered to look in her direction, but apparently he was not anticipating an ambush. He stepped briskly out and turned to close the door. Laurie brought her club down.

At the last possible minute she realized that there was something hauntingly familiar about the pattern of the plaid shirt and the posture of the long legs. She let out a cry of surprise, and tried, not altogether successfully, to alter the direction of her swing. The intruder whirled and threw up his arm. The club hit it with a resounding thwack. The burglar staggered and sat down.

“Damn it,” Laurie exclaimed. “I thought you’d gone to Baltimore.”

Doug pulled off the ski cap. His hair stood on end and his eyes bulged with fury.

“I told you to stay in the house! My God, I think my arm is broken.”

“Let me see.” Laurie squatted. Doug shook his head violently and tried to retreat without standing up.

“Oh, don’t be silly. I didn’t know it was you.” She pushed his sleeve back, took his elbow in one hand and his wrist in the other and tried to bend the part in between. Doug objected loudly.

“It’s not broken,” Laurie said. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me what you were going to do? And what were you doing?”

Doug did not answer the first question. “Searching the place, of course,” he snarled.

“Why the ski mask?” Laurie answered her own question. “You couldn’t resist the fun of disguising yourself and playing master spy. I don’t suppose you found anything, did you?”

“No.”

“He’s too smart to leave evidence lying around,” Laurie said contemptuously. “You mustn’t judge others by yourself, dear brother. Why don’t you get up?”

“I’m thinking of fainting,” Doug said.

“You aren’t hurt.” She looked at him more closely. He was a little pale. “Are you?”

“I think it’s a greenstick fracture. But never mind.” Doug got to his feet. “Get back in the house, will you?”

“Where are you going?”

“Where I said I was going. Baltimore. See you later.”He lifted the garage door, ostentatiously favoring his right arm, and vanished inside. The car started with an ill-tempered roar, as if echoing its owner’s sentiments, and departed with gravel spurting out in all directions.

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:20

Laurie waited until Doug was out of sight before she tried the door of the cottage. It was unlocked. Fine burglar he is, she thought; he didn’t even have to pick the lock. The fact that Jeff didn’t bother to lock his door argued that his conscience was clear — or that he had been careful to dispose of any incriminating clues. All the same, Laurie decided she might as well have a look.

Since she didn’t know what to look for, she found nothing of interest. Jeff was fanatically neat; his shoes were lined up in a straight row, his clothing arranged in symmetrical piles. He even squeezed his toothpaste from the bottom of the tube and rolled it up as he used it.

Laurie sauntered toward the typewriter. She had always been curious about Jeff’s novel. Here was her chance. After all, she told herself, she had to find out whether he was really a writer. Maybe the pages were blank. Maybe he was typing out Gone With the Wind, to give an illusion of industry.

The page she picked up was numbered 375. It was a rough draft, crisscrossed with X’s and blurred by typos. The heroine was named Lady Isabeau. She had the face of an angel from heaven and the heart of a devil from hell. At least that was what Raimond thought of her. Raimond’s identity was not clear, but his intentions were. His jerkin open to the waist, displaying his broad hairy chest, he stood over her, his hands on his lean hips, as she cowered against the wall of the castle keep. Her hands fluttered, vainly trying to cover her bare…

“Hmm,” Laurie said. She turned to the next page.

Some time later she reached the end of the completed part of the manuscript. Jeff had run out of steam on page 396, and Lady Isabeau was still vainly trying to cover herself with her clouds of silken blond hair, Raimond having removed the alternatives piece by piece. He had also mentioned a few incidents in the lady’s career which justified his appraisal of her character, and Laurie couldn’t conjure up much sympathy for her, despite the fate that lay in store for her — probably on about page 415, at the rate Jeff was going.

Laurie was tempted to go back to the beginning, but her conscience was bothering her; it was a dirty trick reading someone’s manuscript without permission. He might have a best seller on his hands at that. His style wasn’t particularly polished, but the readers of this brand of fiction did not demand polish.

Having restored the papers to their original condition, she left the cottage. Maybe she ought to drop Jeff a gentle hint about keeping his door locked, if she could do so without giving herself away. The aunts would swoon if they ever got a look at a page of that manuscript.

Or would they? She was falling into the same old error of thinking of them as petrified people, without emotions or human instincts. She had promised herself she would avoid that kind of youthful ignorance. Perhaps this would be a good time to ask Ida if she might look at the family album. There was nothing more she could do at the moment, except watch over Lizzie and hope Doug would find a clue in Baltimore. Assuming, of course, that Doug wasn’t the guilty party himself.

She found the aunts in the parlor, busy with their fancywork. Ida’s pink knitting was a good ten inches long, but her needles did not click with their usual brisk rhythm. Lizzie was also heavy-eyed and lethargic. Laurie admired her needlepoint, a complex, if saccharine, depiction of furry kittens. Lizzie looked at her suspiciously.

“Thank you, darling, it is kind of you to say so, but if you are hoping, by means of flattery, to make me forget the trick you played on me this morning—”

“What trick. Oh — you mean persuading you to show Doug the pictures? I didn’t plan that, Auntie. You misunderstood.”

“Never mind,” Lizzie said, more graciously. “We’ll just forget the whole thing, darling.”

“I wish we could, Aunt Lizzie. I still think—”

Lizzie raised her hand. “Now not another word. I don’t intend to refer to the subject ever again.”

Laurie recognized the technique. It was the same one Lizzie always employed when one of her enthusiasms had run its course. Like a repentant drunk the morning after, she wiped out all memory of her excesses and refused to refer to them. The system had always worked before, but this time, Laurie feared, Lizzie had started something she could no longer control.

“Auntie,” she began.

“Sit down, my dear, you look tired,” Lizzie said. “You may stroke Angel Baby if you like.”

Laurie sat, but declined the offer of Angel Baby. The cat was looking particularly seductive and that, Laurie knew, was often the prelude to a vicious attack. Ida’s old Siamese was curled up on the couch. Laurie patted her, thinking as she did so that it was too bad human beings didn’t age as gracefully. Sabrina’s blue eyes had lost their sapphire brilliance and there were white hairs around her muzzle, but she had held up a lot better than her mistress, though her age in cat years was almost as great. She opened one eye when Laurie stroked her, gave a brief, rusty purr, and went back to sleep.

Ida was delighted to produce the photo albums — not one, but several of them.

“I am glad you are taking an interest in the family history,” she said. “As the last of the Mortons—”

“Doug wouldn’t like to hear you say that.” Laurie smiled.

Ida blinked. “The last of the Morton women, I meant to say. Men do not care for such things, more’s the pity.”

Laurie remembered having seen the albums before, but that had been years ago, when she was small enough to find the old-fashioned costumes hilariously funny and the youthful versions of her aunts and uncle quite unbelievable. Now she studied the faded photos with sympathetic interest, although there were many faces she did not know. Ida insisted on naming each of these and giving a brief biography, so the viewing went slowly. Lizzie didn’t even pretend to be interested. She went to get lunch, and Ida proceeded methodically through album after album.

Ida’s father had obviously been an enthusiastic amateur photographer. There were dozens of shots of the aunts and Uncle Ned as babies and children. Propped against pillows, swathed in yards of lace-trimmed muslin, they stared at the camera with round, unsmiling eyes. The family resemblance was clear even at that tender age. All the fat, lace-enveloped babies might have been the same, though even then Lizzie was decidedly plumper.

The babies grew into children, holding dolls or rolling hoops. The girls were all pretty, though Lizzie was the beauty of the family. Mary, Laurie’s grandmother, had a sweet, gentle face. Her wedding picture was charming, despite the short white dress and kid slippers; her eyes shone with happiness, and her tall young groom reminded Laurie of Anna, especially around the eyes.

But the real surprise was Uncle Ned. Having outgrown the chubby cheeks and gap-toothed smile of childhood, he became a strikingly handsome boy. The Morton heritage was pure Scot, virtually undiluted by other nationalities; yet Ned’s high cheekbones, finely cut lips, and thin nose suggested a Latin strain — a grandee of old Granada turned buccaneer, ravaging the coasts of Britain and the female inhabitants thereof.

“He’s gorgeous,” Laurie exclaimed.

“We have always been considered a handsome family,” Ida said. “The Morton features are quite distinctive.”

Lizzie called them to lunch then, and afterwards the aunts went to take their naps. Laurie returned to the parlor. She felt restless and ill at ease. The weather might be partially responsible for her mood; the skies were somber, suggesting snow.

The albums were still lying on the table. She opened one at random. There was nothing for her here, just sad reminders that youth must fade and beauty wither.

Laurie stared with melancholy fascination at a snapshot of Uncle Ned. He held what was obviously a brand-new bicycle; his wide smile radiated the pride of ownership. He must have been about sixteen when the picture was taken, Laurie thought.

As she continued to look at the picture she became conscious of a strange sensation at the pit of her stomach. Uncle Ned’s face. Particularly his smile…. What was it about his smile?

The answer struck her with an almost audible click, as if she had been probing clumsily at a lock with a hairpin and had finally struck the crucial spot. No — no, she thought, it can’t be! But supposing it were…. Her mind raced wildly, picking up the pieces — the same bits of evidence she had considered earlier that day. But this time they clicked neatly into place, with no empty spaces to distort a damning picture of guilt.

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:21

Chapter 11

The album slid unregarded to the floor as Laurie got to her feet. Moving like a robot, her dazed mind still molding her fantastic theory into shape, she went to get her coat. Duchess, dozing under the kitchen table, leaped up and began bounding up and down. Coats meant that people were going out, and sometimes they took her along.

Hastily Laurie scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen table, weighted down with a salt shaker. She considered the hopeful dog for a moment and then shook her head. There was no danger in the errand she planned now, no need for a guard dog, even if Duchess had qualified for that title. And there were practical difficulties as well.

“I’m sorry,” she told Duchess. “I’d take you if I were driving, but I guess I’ll have to walk. You’d run off and get lost.”

With both cars out she had no alternative but to walk. She was in no mood to wait. Not only was she curious to discover whether her theory was really correct, but she was concerned about Lizzie. The amiable, dotty old lady seemed to feel that she had the situation well in hand, but her niece feared that this time Lizzie had raised demons that would not be easy to exorcise. If this new idea was right she might be able to nip the plot in the bud that very afternoon, before Lizzie got into more trouble.

But as she closed the door on Duchess’s long, reproachful face, a thought occurred to her. It was worth looking, at any rate.

She was in luck. The big garage held another car, a rusty, aged Ford. She had thought Jeff might have some means of transportation; he wouldn’t use the Lincoln for personal errands, and there were no buses in this rural area.

She found an extra set of keys, carefully labeled, in one of his dresser drawers. Laurie thanked heaven for his neatness. Now if the car would start…

It was worn on the outside but, like all Jeff’s possessions, it did the job it was supposed to do. The engine started right away. Laurie drove out.

The snow had not yet begun to fall, but if she was any judge of weather it would before long. The clouds were the color of dark slate. In the sullen, threatening light the Wilson house looked like something out of a horror film, a dismal bastion of smug complacency and prejudice. Even if it’s true, Laurie thought, I can’t entirely blame her. She must feel like a trapped animal. Anything — anything! — to get away. They’re all egotists at that age, they don’t feel for other people — especially old people.

Wilson’s truck was not there. With bad weather approaching, he would surely work until the last possible moment. His presence would not have deterred Laurie, however. He was a fat, stupid bully, and in her present mood she had no doubt of her ability to stand up to him.

She had brooded over the photo albums longer than she had realized. The girls were already home from school. When Mrs. Wilson opened the back door, Laurie saw Betsy at the table, smearing jam messily on a piece of bread. Mary Ella sat next to her.

Laurie pushed past Mrs. Wilson with scant ceremony.

“Where is Rachel?” she asked.

“Why, at her baby-sitting,” Mrs. Wilson answered. “Miz Wade wanted to do some shopping before work, so she picked Rachel up at school. What’s the girl done now?”

She wiped floury hands on her apron. Pinkly clean and scrubbed, they were big hands with thick fingers like uncooked sausages. Laurie pictured them clamped on Rachel’s shoulders, shaking her till her slender neck arched in pain, and the image was so distasteful that she came to an abrupt decision. Perhaps she could handle this without involving Rachel after all.

“Why should you suppose Rachel has done anything?” she asked coolly. “Actually, it was Mary Ella I wanted to talk to, about — about some work she might do for me. Can we go to your room, Mary Ella?”

Mrs. Wilson looked as if she wanted to object; and indeed, Laurie’s manner was less than courteous. But Laurie had counted, correctly, on the woman’s desire to keep on good terms with the Morton family. She gave her daughter a grudging nod, and Mary Ella rose obediently and led the way to the back stairs.

Narrow and dark, they rose at a steep angle and opened onto the second-floor hall. Laurie looked around, trying to get the plan of the house clear in her mind. It was not complex: two bedrooms on each side of the hall, with a small bathroom at the front. The parents would have one of the front rooms, Laurie supposed. Baby Betsy, the pet, probably had a room of her own, but the Wilsons surely wouldn’t waste space on the other girls. The fourth bedroom would be the “spare room.” Her hunch was confirmed when Mary Ella, still mute, opened a nearby door, displaying a bleak, cheerless room with small windows. The walls were painted a dark, drab olive. A braided rug, in shades of blue and white, was the only attractive object, and Laurie knew it was a sign of economy, not aesthetic appreciation. The blue came from his undershirts. The Wilsons wasted nothing. The fact that the result was pretty was purely accidental.

There were no curtains at the windows, only cheap paper shades. The spreads on the narrow beds were a bleached white cotton. The straight chair in front of the desk had obviously been designed to give the sitter a backache. A row of books stood on the top of the desk. They were all textbooks, except for a copy of the Bible. The single nonutilitarian object in the entire room was a sort of sampler on the wall, worked in violent red and somber black yarn. “The wages of sin are death,” it assured the reader.

Laurie stood in the doorway looking around.

“If I had to live here, I’d cut my throat,” she said.

The comment jarred Mary Ella out of her stolidity. She gave Laurie a startled glance.

Laurie closed the door. “Sit down, Mary Ella. Sit on the bed. I’ll take the chair — for my sins.”

Mary Ella obeyed, though not without a fearful glance at the door. Sitting on the bed was probably a sin. Sitting was probably a sin, in that house.

On the way upstairs Laurie had planned what she would say to Mary Ella in order to persuade the girl to tell her the truth. The sight of that horrid, sterile room affected her so strongly that she threw her speech out the window and said impulsively,

“I’d like to help you get away. Nobody should live like this. And it’s worse for you. You’re a reader, aren’t you? You know there are other worlds out there.”

Mary Ella’s eyes remained fixed on her clasped hands, which rested genteelly on her lap.

“You borrowed books from Aunt Lizzie,” Laurie went on. “You couldn’t bring them home. Your father doesn’t approve of reading for pleasure. But you could read there, in the woods, last summer. Rachel covered up for you; she picked nuts and berries enough for two. Mary Ella, what did you do in return — for Rachel?”

Mary Ella didn’t stir. A squat, unresponsive lump, she continued to sit with folded hands and downcast eyes. Perhaps it was the very hopelessness of her pose that moved Laurie. It made her all the more determined to reach Mary Ella. Both girls were physically imprisoned, but this girl’s mind and imagination had been walled in too. And that was the worst kind of tyranny, worse than stone walls and iron bars.

Laurie leaned forward and took the girl’s limp hands in hers. “I will help you, Mary Ella. I can do it. Your parents won’t dare interfere; they won’t risk losing their lease. Nor, if I know them, will they turn down a chance to make money. I’ll tell them I want to hire you to help with the housework. You can come every afternoon, and read. There’s a good library at Idlewood. And when you’re ready for college I’ll lend you the money — coach you — help you get aid or a scholarship, whatever it takes.”

It was like watching a statue come to life. The blaze of dawning hope in the girl’s eyes almost made Laurie regret her reckless promise. Who do you think you are? she asked herself. God? Pygmalion?

“What do I have to d-d-d ——” Mary Ella began.

“You don’t have to do anything. I’ll help you in any case. I promise. But Rachel is in bad trouble, Mary Ella. I want to help her too. So far nothing serious has happened, but if this goes on, someone is going to get hurt. You covered for her, didn’t you? She could get out at night — down those back stairs — but she couldn’t do it without your knowledge. Don’t you see, he’s using her, making her do wrong things. She’s still a minor; no one wil hold her responsible. But he must be stopped.”

“He’s going to m-m-m-marry her.”

“Maybe that’s what he told her. But even if he would — even if he could, she’s underage — would you really want her to marry a man like that? A man who would seduce a young girl and try to injure a harmless old lady who has always been good to him?”

As she spoke she realized that the ideas she was presenting were not new to Mary Ella. The girl was not stupid; in fact, she was probably a lot smarter than her older sister. But Rachel would have resisted voice of reason and caution, and Mary Ella would have no choice but to support her. The alternative would have been for Mary Ella to betray Rachel to their parents.

“B-b-but what can I do?”

“Nothing. You’ve confirmed what I suspected. That was all I wanted you to do.” Laurie stood up. “Maybe I can keep you girls out of this. I’ll try. If there is trouble, you come to me, understand? Straight to me. Now tell me how to get to Mrs. Wade’s house.”

Mary Ella gave her directions. Emotion seethed in her pitifully homely face now and Laurie sensed, with some dismay, that part of the emotion was admiration for her. She felt like the unfortunate Chinese gentleman who, having saved a drowning man from the river, had found himself stuck with the rescuee for the rest of his life. She meant to keep the promises she had made, but how she was going to do it she did not know; like Scarlett O’Hara, she decided to think about that tomorrow. She started toward the door. Mary Ella tried to speak.

“B-b-b-be c-c-c ——”

“Careful? I will, don’t worry. I won’t say anything to your mother.”

“N-n-no! I m-m-mean…. I want to t-t-t ——”

Laurie patted her on the shoulder.

“I’m in a terrible hurry, honey. I want to get this settled. We’ll talk later, okay?”

When she reached the kitchen Mrs. Wilson was cutting, out biscuits with the stolid efficiency of a machine. Laurie gave her a bright smile.

“Mary Ella says it’s fine with her,” she announced. “I’ll come back and talk to you and your husband about it another time — tomorrow, maybe. I want to get home before it starts to snow.”

Fine sleety flakes stung her face as she ran across the yard toward the car, but she scarcely noticed the threatening weather. It would have taken more than a little snow to stop her now. The chance of talking to Rachel privately was too good to miss. The situation was bad — in fact, it was a horrible mess — and a lot of people were going to be hurt before it was over. Yet Laurie’s dominant feeling was one of relief. It could have been so much worse.

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:21

She had no trouble finding the Wade house. It was one of a group of cheap modern homes in one of the small subdivisions that had sprouted like mushrooms among the fields. She rang the bell. Through the flimsy walls she heard voices, male and female, raised in heated argument, and felt a stab of alarm until she realized it was the television set. So poor Rachel gorged herself on soap operas whenever she got the chance. Such shocking frivolities were undoubtedly forbidden at home. Laurie wondered how Mr. Wilson had been persuaded to expose Rachel to a household whose standards were so relaxed.

She was about to ring again when the door opened a crack. A wide blue eye appeared in the opening.

“I can’t let anybody in,” Rachel said.

“That’s a very sensible rule, but it doesn’t apply to me. No one could possibly object to your letting me in.”

“I promised Miz Wade I wouldn’t.”

The door started to close. The opening was too narrow to admit Laurie’s foot, and she assumed the door was on the chain. She spoke quickly.

“Rachel, I know all about it. Didn’t you realize you were committing a crime?”

Rachel was no longer visible — even her eye had disappeared — but Laurie heard her quick intake of breath. For a moment nothing happened. Then the chain rattled and the door opened wide.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Rachel said.

For an instant even Laurie half believed her. The upturned, flower-fair face, the shining azure eyes, the cloudy aureole of hair… It’s a good thing I’m not a man, Laurie thought cynically.

“Oh, yes, you know,” she said firmly. “Let me in. We can’t talk here.” The girl continued to bar the door, and Laurie went on, “I don’t blame you, Rachel. You’re young, and he can be very persuasive. Maybe we can figure out some way of putting a stop to this without going to the police.”

Alarm flared in the girl’s face at the mention of the word. She stepped back. Laurie followed her into the house and closed the door.

She was in a tiny foyer with doors on two sides. Silently Rachel led the way into the room at the right — a living room, with an imitation fireplace on one wall. The cheaply built house, surely only a few years old, was already showing signs of wear, and if Rachel’s duties included housecleaning she had not yet begun the day’s chores. The wall-to-wall carpeting, an impractical cream color, was sadly spotted and stained. The furniture needed dusting. The floor was littered with toys and the coffee table was covered with magazines, most of them devoted to the intricacies of daytime TV. The house smelled faintly of spoiled food and of another odor Laurie could not immediately identify. Clearly, Mrs. Wade was what Aunt Ida would have called a slattern. But she was a cheerful slattern; for all its disorder the house had a warm, comfortable atmosphere quite unlike the cold neatness of the Wilson home.

“Where is the baby?” Laurie asked. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the TV drama.

“Asleep.”

“He must be a darned good sleeper. Turn that off, Rachel, will you please?”

Rachel complied. When she turned to face Laurie she was more composed than the latter had expected, although her pretty mouth was not as pretty as usual.

“Did you mean that, about the police?”

“Now, Rachel, you can’t be that naive,” Laurie said, in mingled pity and exasperation. “I don’t suppose he told you what he intended to do—”

“It was a joke!” Rachel wrung her slim hands. “I guess it wasn’t a very nice joke, but—”

“It wasn’t a joke. He wants the money.

“Only what’s coming to him.”

“So you do know that much.”

Rachel’s eyes fell. Her long, thick lashes were tremulous against her cheek.

She’ll be all right, Laurie thought. There isn’t a policeman or a judge in the state who’d believe anything evil about her. I don’t believe it myself. But was I ever as stupidly trusting as she is? Oh, Lord, I suppose I was.

“I’ll be honest with you, Rachel,” she said. “I haven’t decided what to do yet. I just figured this out a little while ago, and I’m still dazed. I would rather not go to the police. I never thought I entertained any of those corny old ideas about the family honor and the family name, but I guess I do. It will be a horrible shock to the aunts, to learn that one of their own flesh and blood… He hasn’t done anything so far that would demand a criminal charge — except for trying to run over me, and he’d probably claim he only meant to frighten me.”

She was talking to herself rather than to Rachel, trying to clarify her confused thoughts. Rachel watched her from under her lashes, her hands tightly clasped.

“The important thing,” Laurie continued, “is to make sure he’s stopped — that he can’t ever profit from this situation. I can arrange that…. Or can I? I’ll have to tell Aunt Lizzie the whole story. Damn, this is more complicated than I thought.”

“I’ll help you,” Rachel said suddenly.

“What?” Laurie had almost forgotten the girl as she wrestled with her dilemma. “How can you help?”

“If I do, you’ll have to promise not to tell Poppa,” Rachel said.

“I don’t want to tell him, but I don’t know—”

“Please!” Rachel lifted her clasped hands as if in prayer. Her wide cornflower-blue eyes entreated. “I’ve got something you can use to keep him from hurting Miss Lizzie. It’s a — a plan, like, that he wrote out, in his own handwriting. So if anything did happen to Miss Lizzie, they could prove he did it and then he wouldn’t get the money. Once he knows you have the paper…”

“Hmmm.” Laurie eyed the girl thoughtfully. “You aren’t as naive as I thought. You’re right, a person cannot profit from a crime. You really have such a thing — practically a signed confession?”

“Yes.” Rachel nodded vigorously. “He wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget what to do. Come with me and we’ll get it right now.”

“Where is it?”

A delicate rose-pink blush stained the girl’s cheeks.

“In a place we had. A place where we used to meet and… I’ll show you. It’s not far.”

“But—” Laurie caught the girl’s arm as she started toward the door. “Rachel, we can’t just walk out. What about the baby?”

“I’ll run next door and ask Miz Filcher to come over for a few minutes. We can be back in half an hour, honest. And then,” Rachel said, “you’ll have the proof. He won’t be able to hurt anybody.”

She ran out.

Laurie tried to collect her wits. Obviously Rachel feared one thing above all else — that her parents would learn about her pathetic love affair. “A place where we used to meet, and…” No need for the girl to finish that sentence. Laurie didn’t blame Rachel for being frightened, or for betraying her lover with such unattractive promptness. In Rachel’s eyes, and in that of her parents, attempted murder was far less reprehensible than fornication. That’s what Wilson would call it, along with a number of other forthright biblical nouns. Laurie shivered as she pictured Wilson’s rage. He’d beat the girl half to death. No, she did not blame Rachel.

The girl was back almost at once, flushed and panting.

“Hurry,” she begged, tugging at Laurie. “She’s coming over as soon as she finishes peeling the potatoes. Let’s go, right now.”

“Are you sure—”

“She said she’d come. Please hurry. Please!”

They stepped out of the door into a cloud of white. The snow was coming fast and there was already a slick coating on the driveway. The bad weather gave an additional reason for haste.

“How far is it?” Laurie asked, as they got into the car.

“Only a few miles down the road. Turn right when I tell you.”

The turn was into a woodland track, rutted and slippery. Laurie fought the wheel as the car skidded. When they had gone a short distance, Rachel directed her to turn off the track and stop in a small clearing. The girl jumped out.

“This way,” she said. “It’s not far.”

Laurie got out of the car, feeling stiff and slow and elderly by comparison to Rachel’s quicksilver movements. She was beginning to have doubts about getting out of the glade; the car had settled into its resting place with a cowlike stolidity and a squelch of mud. She comforted herself with the knowledge that she couldn’t be too far from home. If worse came to worst, they could walk and someone could drive Rachel back to the Wades.

The snow clung to her eyelashes and blurred her vision. Rachel was so far ahead that she was barely visible; the curtain of white flakes gave her slim figure an eerie look of semitransparency, and her cloud of pale-gold hair was the only bright spot in the gathering gloom.

There was a path of sorts. Tall pines leaned in overhead and cut off some of the snow, but there was enough of it on the ground to make walking treacherous. Laurie was about to shout at the agile little figure ahead and announce her intention of giving up for that day when Rachel stopped. Her face was pink with cold and her eyes danced. Of course, Laurie thought; she’s relieved to have this almost over. She knew she was doing wrong. She just didn’t know how to get herself out of it.

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:22

“We’d better come another time,” Laurie said. “I don’t think—”

“But we’re there,” Rachel said.

Laurie had been so intent on keeping her footing that she had given scant attention to her surroundings. Now she saw that the path had gradually descended until high banks closed in on either side. This must be an old streambed. The banks were rocky in some places and in others were thickly covered with tough wild vines, seemingly impenetrable, even in winter. Twists of honeysuckle, tough as wire, writhed over the corpses of the fallen trees they had strangled. The stark black-and-white landscape, the lowering gray sky suggested the setting for one of the more morbid Grimm fairy tales.

Rachel reached out a mittened hand. Laurie blinked. For a moment, to eyes blurred by moisture, it had seemed like magic. A black hole had appeared amid the tangled honeysuckle.

“A cave,” she exclaimed.

“It’s really big inside,” Rachel said. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

Before Laurie could protest Rachel had dropped to her hands and knees and crawled into the hole. Her voice echoed hollowly: “Come oooooon….”

Laurie had no intention of following.

“Get your paper and come back,” she yelled. “We haven’t got time to fool around. Hurry, before—”

She never finished the sentence. It was interrupted by a muffled crash and a shriek.

Sometime later, when she had been called upon to defend her decision, Laurie insisted that she had had no choice but to enter the cave. If Rachel had been injured, she might require immediate attention. At the time she didn’t think so clearly. In fact, she didn’t think at all; she simply responded to the wordless demand of that cry of pain.

After the first few feet the surface under her hands was rock, not dirt, and even in the darkness she sensed that the tunnel had opened up into wider spaces. She called the girl’s name, and winced back as a thousand mocking echoes answered. Surely Rachel couldn’t have gone much farther….

The sudden flare of light was as startling as a blow. Laurie’s eyes closed involuntarily. She did not see the rock fall, but she felt it, in a sharp burst of pain on the back of her head, before the blackness of unconsciousness engulfed her.

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:23

Chapter 12

“Stupid,” Laurie told herself. “Dumb. Idiot. Fool.”

She was calling herself names, but she wasn’t doing it aloud because her mouth was filled with nasty wet cloth. Her wrists were tied behind her, and her feet were also bound. She was so cold her teeth would have chattered if they had had room to do so. Someone had removed most of her clothes. The chill, harsh stone of the cave floor scraped her bare back as she wriggled, trying to free herself. It wasn’t as cold inside as it had been out in the open air, but it was cold enough.

The bonds that held her were not rope or wire; they felt like soft cloth, but they did what they were designed to do, and the fact that they were fairly comfortable, even when she strained against them, was not reassuring. Quite the reverse. They confirmed a theory she had formulated as soon as she woke up to find herself half naked and half frozen. Once the freezing process was complete the bonds would be removed, leaving no telltale marks, and she would be dumped somewhere in the woods — fully clothed, of course — a victim of exposure and her own folly.

How had he known they were coming to the cave? Rachel might have telephoned him when she ran next door to ask the neighbor to watch the baby, but Laurie didn’t think the girl had had time for that.

At that point in her reflections she remembered the note she had left on the kitchen table. “Stupid” was too feeble a word. Not only had she mentioned that she was going to the Wilsons, but she had added: “I think I’ve got it!” She couldn’t wait to rub it in…. Why hadn’t she had the elementary common sense to realize that a note could be read by someone other than the person it was addressed to?

Because she was stupid. Because she had never really believed he meant to harm any of them, even Aunt Lizzie. There were other ways of getting what he wanted — safer ways that did not necessitate murder. Theoretically anyone was capable of killing, given the proper provocation — in self-defense, or to protect a loved one. But to kill for money — surely that presupposed a degree of emotional sickness that should have been visible to a smart observer — such as herself. He didn’t seem like that kind of person.

The only sound she could produce was a groan, so she groaned, and the mocking darkness moaned back at her in a hundred voices. To think that she had called Rachel naive!

Her last, faint hope of survival was based on that very naiveté of Rachel’s. She couldn’t believe that Rachel had deliberately led her into the clutches of a killer. Nor was it likely that he would hurt Rachel. He must believe the girl to be thoroughly under his spell, and he wouldn’t want to risk too many “accidents.” There was a chance that he had simply sent Rachel back to her baby-sitting, trusting that a combination of fear and love would keep the girl quiet. But she might not keep quiet. She had been visibly shaken by Laurie’s mention of the police. If the note was found… if they went to the Wilsons and then to Mrs. Wade’s, following her trail… if they could force Rachel to talk….

If she didn’t freeze to death first, and if he didn’t come back to finish the job he had begun…. Too many ifs for comfort.

Lizzie had been right all along. There were inhuman things in the dark woods — the misshapen, malevolent goblins of greed and madness. Too bad Lizzie had not responded to temptation like her namesake in the poem. “No, their offers should not charm us; Their evil gifts would harm us.” The moral was clear: people who messed around with the fairies got in trouble. Trouble was definitely what she was in, thanks to Lizzie’s meddling. Laura and Lizzie, two little girls victimized by goblins. “Fruits like honey to the throat, But poison in the blood….” Odd, how readily the words came back to her after all those years.

A sound penetrated her fading consciousness, and she came back to her senses with a start of terror. Her thoughts had been wandering as her body sank into the deadly, ultimate sleep of cold. There was no point in conjuring up imaginary nightmares, the real situation was nightmarish enough; and no point in waiting supinely for death. Maybe she could find a jagged rock or a piece of glass and cut through her bonds. Heroines in thrillers managed to do things like that.

Before she could put this brilliant scheme into execution the sound came again, and this time she was alert enough to understand what it meant. She forgot she had decided to be a heroine and tried to shrink into the smallest possible space.

In that instant, as the unseen person inched closer, her mind played one of the tricks minds play under stress. She remembered the odorous, messy Wade house where Rachel had been baby-sitting, and she identified the vagrant smell that had been part of the general aroma of sloppy housekeeping.

Until that moment she had believed she had fitted all the pieces of the puzzle into their proper places. This revelation revealed new gaps whose existence she had not suspected and supplied the missing pieces. She would have screamed then, if she had been able to do so.

Her sense of hearing, magnified by the absence of sight, told her that the person was now in the cave, so close she could hear his heavy breathing. When the flashlight flared she closed her eyes; but in the dazzle she had caught a glimpse of a face — the face she had once feared, and now hoped to see. Was it too late? Had the girl come with him?

“Oh, my God, I was afraid…. Laurie, darling….” Jeff’s voice, harsh with fear, Jeff’s hands, pulling the cloth from her mouth.

He gathered her up into his arms, holding her so tightly she couldn’t breathe or talk. The warmth of his body against her chilled flesh felt heavenly, but Laurie fought to free her face from the muffling folds of his wool jacket. Why didn’t the idiot untie her?

“Don’t,” she croaked. “Don’t do that—”

“It’s all right,” Jeff muttered. “You’re all right now. I’ll get you out of here, love. Thank God I was in time.”

Laurie considered trying to bite him, but abandoned the idea. His jacket was too thick. She had enough fragments of cloth clogging her tongue as it was. “Untie me,” she mumbled. “Quick, quick.”

“Right.” He lowered her gently to the floor and began working on the knots that bound her wrists. Laurie held herself still with an effort. She wanted to squirm and yell. Her mouth felt as dry as flannel. A thread was caught between two teeth, and the minor irritation almost drove her frantic.

The flashlight, resting on the ground, gave her her first sight of the cave. The rough, uneven walls arched up into darkness. From her prostrate position Laurie could see very little, but what she saw brought a wry smile to her lips. A small Coleman stove, kitchen utensils, and canned goods stored in a wooden crate; a heap of gaudy pillows, a box fitted up as a dressing table, with mirror and piles of cosmetics. It was a child’s playhouse, furnished with pilfered or scavenged scraps — a place for make-believe, for pretending, for the fairy-tale fantasies of an immature mind playing at romance.

She was unable to enjoy the sad, sardonic humor of the setting because of the fear that made her numbed nerves tingle. The flashlight beam failed to illumine the mouth of the cave and Jeff’s agitated panting drowned out lesser sounds, but she could have sworn someone was coming. The sense of an inimical, imminent presence was overwhelming.

“Hurry,” she gasped.

As she spoke her hands fell free and Jeff shifted position to work on the cloth that fastened her ankles. “Hurry,” she said again. “We’ve got to get out of here before—”

“Sweetheart, don’t worry,” Jeff said. “I’m here. I’ll take care of you. I love you—”

“Oh, shut up,” Laurie exclaimed. “Shut up, Jeff.”

It was too late. Her instincts had not been wrong. Someone was coming…. No. Someone was already there, and had heard. In the dim, remote boundary of the light she saw a face and knew it — the same face she had seen outside Jeff’s window in the dark of midnight.

No wonder she hadn’t recognized it. Jealous rage distorted the features and gave the skin a livid flush. It scarcely resembled a human face, much less that of a lovely young girl. But I should have identified the hair, Laurie thought. What was she wearing that night, to give the impression of gauzy lavender wings? Some exotic negligee ordered for her by an infatuated lover? Or a costume, for the further beguilement of poor Aunt Lizzie?

The scream she tried to utter stuck in her throat, but her convulsive movement made Jeff look up. He tried to turn. His position was too awkward and Rachel was too quick. The blade of the knife burned in the light before it was buried in his upflung arm. The two bodies went down together, in a tangled, writhing mass.

Laurie scratched frantically at the knots holding her feet immobile, but her hands were so numb with cold they refused to obey her will. One of the most horrifying aspects of the struggle was its silence. Jeff’s injury and Rachel’s insane fury made them equals in strength, so that they lay almost motionless and neither had spoken or cried out. Then Jeff’s voice rose in a hoarse, urgent shout. “Run! Quick, before she—”

The speech ended in a grunt and a horrible soggy thud as his head hit the floor.

Kneeling over him, her tumbled hair masking her face, Rachel remained unmoving for a few moments. Then she flung her head back. Her hair lifted like a pale, soaring flame before it settled around her shoulders. Its silky fairness framed a face as coldly beautiful as that of Andersen’s Ice Queen. Very slowly, still on her knees, she turned until she was facing Laurie.

Laurie had not prayed aloud since childhood. All she could remember at this moment was “Now I lay me down to sleep,” and that didn’t seem particularly appropriate. At least she hoped it would not prove to be appropriate. But she felt like praying. She had never seen anything, on or off the screen, that frightened her as much as Rachel’s face.

She continued to pick at the knots but she knew she wasn’t making any progress. Jeff lay still, his eyes closed, a trickle of dark blood puddling out from his arm. Laurie swallowed, cleared her throat, and screamed.

She did it to relieve her feelings, not because she expected a response. When a voice answered, she almost toppled over in sheer surprise.

“Laurie! Laurie, where are you?”

“Here! Hurry! Help!”

Rachel, caught in the hypnotic web of her deadly intent, appeared not to have heard the exchange, but when a heavy body forced itself into the cave she was jarred out of her reverie. She got to her feet in one smooth movement. She held the knife in her right hand, and even in her absorption in her own prospects of survival Laurie was sickened at the sight of the dark, wet blade.

“He-e-elp!” she shrieked.

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:23

“I hear you, I hear you,” her rescuer said irritably. “Stop yelling. The echoes in this place are fierce.” He rose cautiously to his feet.

“Hi there, Rachel,” he said pleasantly. “Give Uncle Doug the knife, okay?”

Rachel backed away. Her foot struck the pathetic makeshift toilet table. The mirror crashed to the floor.

“Now see what you’ve done,” Doug said. “Seven years’ bad luck. Give me the nasty knife before you hurt yourself.”

He put out his hand. Rachel slashed at it. The movement was almost careless — the petulant slap of an angry child, rejecting authority — but a dark line sprang up across Doug’s palm and blood began to drip from his fingers. He didn’t look at it, or lower his hand.

“Now, now, mustn’t do that.” Out of the corner of his mouth he added, in a lower voice, “Am-scray, sis. What are you hanging around here for?”

“I can’t walk!”

“Hop, then. Or crawl or wriggle or squirm. Just move. Don’t worry about your clothes, Uncle Ned’s waiting. Good thing it’s him and not Ida. Wouldn’t she be shocked….” In the same quiet voice he went on, “Okay, Rachel, time to go. Want to ride in my nice pretty car? Maybe you’d like to drive. You’re a good little driver, aren’t you?”

He had been slowly inching forward, so imperceptibly that Laurie had not noticed until she realized he stood between her and the girl. No dream lover of her wildest fantasies had ever looked as good to her as Doug did then, his hair wet with melting snow, his tall body tense despite its appearance of relaxed confidence. She knew she was safe now. The way to the exit was open. She started moving toward it, but she didn’t crawl into the tunnel until she had seen Rachel drop the knife and collapse, sobbing, into Doug’s waiting arms.

“It does seem unfair,” Doug remarked, “that you haven’t even caught a cold.”

“Cold! I feel as if I’d died and gone to….” Laurie caught the eye of her eldest aunt and omitted the last word.

She was swathed in blankets clear up to the chin. They weighed her weary body down so she couldn’t even wriggle. She was in her own white bed and the lights shone serenely on the familiar furniture — the ruffled shades, the Beatrix Potter prints, the rows of brightly bound fairy tales in the bookcases.

Uncle Ned had forgotten to take off his red knit cap. The pom-pom nodded absurdly as he leaned over to pat the place where Laurie’s hand might have rested if she could have gotten it out from under the blankets.

“Everything’s all right now,” he said. “You’re fine.”

“I’m fine,” Laurie agreed.

“Good. I’m going to feed Duchess.” He stood up. “Get some sleep,” he said. “Dear.”

He was almost out of the room before Laurie realized what he had said.

“Uncle Ned… give Duchess a big fat bone for me, will you?”

“Well, she deserves it,” her uncle said calmly. “Might not have found that hole in time without her.”

The door closed quietly behind him.

“You know,” Doug said, “he is the most uncanny character in this whole scenario. Out of this world.”

“Shut up,” Laurie said. Uncle Ned had called her “dear.” In any other man, the emotion that had produced that word would have expressed itself in extravagant endearments and embraces.

“Ned suffered in the war,” Ida said. “He has never been the same since.”

“I like him the way he is,” Laurie said. She added, “I like all of you the way you are.”

They sat alongside the bed, all in a row, like spectators at a play. Ida had selected a straight chair. She sat bolt upright, her hands folded. Her face was a mask of wrinkles and her eyes were sunken, but they had a peaceful look Laurie had not seen for some time.

Aunt Lizzie was still wearing the peasant blouse and embroidered skirt. Fake jewels festooned her ample bosom. Her hair was agitated and her eyes avoided Laurie’s.

“Oh,” she murmured, “don’t you think we might have a little snack? The stress of the day… And dinner will be late, I have not had the opportunity to—”

“Not now, Aunt Lizzie,” Doug said. “We have a few things to discuss first.”

He sat on a footstool, his long legs bent, his knees absurdly elevated. Laurie smiled at him. “My heroic rescuer,” she said.

Doug grinned. “Don’t bother soothing my male ego. You can brag all you like, you’re entitled. This is the last scene and you get to play the detective. Tell us, O great sleuth, how you figured it out — and almost got yourself killed.”

“Just good old feminine intuition,” Laurie said. “I couldn’t have proved anything. Luckily Rachel didn’t know that. What did you find out from the bookstore in Baltimore?”

“I found out that Jefferson Banes had bought those figurines. The proprietor didn’t know his name but she remembered him very well.”

“That was careless of him,” Laurie exclaimed. “He should have known we might trace them to him.”

“Sure he knew. Why do you suppose he was so anxious to get rid of the snapshots? But I doubt that he had any scheme in mind when he bought the figures, or even when he took the pictures. It did begin as a joke, just as the kids said.”

“Not the kids, just Rachel,” Laurie said. “With some help from Baby Betsy, who is going to turn out to be a real menace someday. Why is it we can’t think of a golden-haired infant as a monster? And I’ll never believe Rachel meant it as a joke.”

“You’re rambling,” Doug said. “Start from the beginning.”

“At the beginning I suspected you,” Laurie said, and had the mean satisfaction of seeing Doug’s jaw drop and his eyes widen. “You’d be surprised what a solid case I built up. I even wondered if you were really who you said you were. I hadn’t seen you for a long time, and I didn’t recognize you at the airport, and—”

“How absurd,” Ida said crisply. “Did you suppose we would not know our own nephew?”

“I realized that, eventually,” Laurie said. “But—”

“Don’t go on,” Doug groaned. “I don’t want to hear any more about that part of your brilliant deductions.”

Laurie decided she had better not go on. To justify her suspicions by explaining that she had never felt for Doug as a sister ought to feel would sound… It might be misunderstood.

“Didn’t you suspect me?” she asked.

“Not for an instant.”

“I think that’s an insult.”

“Forget it,” Doug said. “When did you realize that my pure nature and innocent face made your foul suspicions impossible?”

“Not until I was looking at the photo album and realized that Jeff looked astonishingly like Uncle Ned. The same high cheekbones and long nose, the same smile. I’d have seen it much sooner, only…”

“Age changes people,” Ida said drily. “You were not to blame for failing to see the resemblance, Laura. You did not know us when we were young. Your mother resembles her father, not the Mortons. But that I should not have seen it… Perhaps I did. That dreadful subconscious mind you young people are always talking about — I liked him without knowing why. Without wanting to know why.”

“He was very likable,” Laurie said gently. “I’m sure he was telling the truth when he said it wasn’t his idea to hurt Aunt Lizzie. It was Rachel’s. She was responsible for all of it — the music, the lights in the woods, even the car, that night it almost hit me. She was driving it. She had stolen the keys from Jeff.”

“Why did he come here, then?” Ida demanded. “Why should he seek us out unless—”

“He wanted money,” Laurie said. “He admitted that. And it wasn’t hard for him to find out who he really was. Modern psychologists feel that adopted children have the right to learn about their natural parents. I guess it’s a good idea, generally. Not many cases turn out like this one.

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:24

“In the beginning Jeff was motivated by normal, understandable curiosity: Who was my natural mother? Why did she give me up? But that last question can lead to considerable resentment — even to hate. Jeff’s adoptive parents died years ago, leaving him almost nothing. When he traced you and learned that there was a lot of money in the family… Well, he decided you owed him.”

“We did,” Ida said.

“Maybe so, I can’t argue that. But the method he chose…. He meant, I think — though he never would have admitted it — to indulge in a little blackmail. You’d have paid it, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t like that word,” Lizzie complained, wrinkling her brows. “Naturally we would have given the dear boy — that is to say, he was a dear boy, if it had not been for this unfortunate—”

“I understand,” Laurie said. “But I’m afraid he didn’t. He didn’t realize that you would have acknowledged him joyfully and shared ungrudgingly, especially after he had earned your affection and trust. It’s such a tragedy, when you think how it could have been — comfort and security and love for all of you. All lost, because of his weakness.”

“That’s water over the dam now,” Doug said. “Go on.”

“I know. I just can’t help regretting…. Well, anyway, after I spotted the resemblance I realized that Jeff might be — er — related to the family. And if he was, then he had a motive. I had always known he had the means and the opportunity to play the tricks on Aunt Lizzie, but I had never considered him a serious suspect because I couldn’t figure out why he would do such things. The only thing he couldn’t have done was make that telephone call, and I had already realized that the villain, whoever he was, must have enlisted some girl to do that for him—”

“He!” Doug exclaimed, in pretended outrage. “So naturally you thought of me — the notorious Don Juan, the Casanova of the architectural profession.”

“Rachel thought you were pretty cute,” Laurie snapped. “I saw the way she looked at you. And how about Sherri? Not to mention Vi, and heaven knows how many other—”

“Vi is my real dream girl,” Doug said. “I’m planning to let her support me with the profits from her disreputable trade while I pretend to set up an office.”

Laurie didn’t have the heart to continue the badinage. She had been skirting around the core of the solution, knowing how it was going to hurt; but sooner or later the words would have to be said. The aunts knew what was coming. Both sat staring down at their tightly clasped hands. For once in their lives they shared a common emotion.

Laurie took a deep breath and plunged in.

“Jeff could have proved the — er — relationship,” she said. “I’m not sure how… Don’t they take fingerprints, or footprints, or both, at hospitals?”

Ida cleared her throat. She did not look at her sister, who was pleating the fabric of her skirt with shaking fingers.

“Papers were signed,” she said steadily. “The proof did exist, yes.”

“Then Jeff had a legal claim, assuming there was no will that specifically cut him out. I haven’t checked with a lawyer, but I suspect Jeff would be considered the nearest heir, superseding Doug and me. Illegitimacy is no bar to inheritance these days.”

Lizzie was crimson from throat to forehead. The evil word had been uttered. Relieved that it was over, Laurie hurried on.

“It was at this point that I went completely astray. I assumed Jeff had seduced poor innocent Rachel and forced her to help him. Actually it was the other way around.

“I don’t know how you explain a person like Rachel. Psychiatry will point triumphantly to her dreadful, sterile home life, the suppression of all her natural instincts. When she saw a way out she grabbed at it. I can’t blame her for that. Jeff did promise to marry her. He would have promised anything, given her anything.” Laurie turned a critical eye on her brother, who was looking very pensive. “You can understand that, can’t you?” she demanded.

“Oh, yes,” Doug murmured. “Well — almost anything. The girl has a certain natural…” He glanced at his aunts, and refrained from finishing the sentence.

“Hmph,” Laurie said. “Jeff certainly felt it; but he had nothing to offer her. He had no source of income, no job except this one, and they couldn’t have stayed here. Her father would have raised Cain, taken her back, by force or by law. In order to be together they would have had to run away to another state, and live in poverty. Rachel might have been willing to do that to escape her parents; but then Jeff told her the truth about himself, and she saw a way to gain a fortune. It must have been a dazzling temptation — herself the mistress of Idlewood, with a handsome, indulgent husband, pretty clothes, jewels, all the things a young girl dreams of. And the cost was so small — the life of one old lady who was bound to die soon anyway.

“When Aunt Lizzie met the girls in the woods last fall, Rachel and Jeff were already involved. It was Mary Ella’s turn to pick millions of berries, so that the lovers could meet in their cozy cave. That was when Rachel got her brilliant inspiration — and I have to admit it was clever. She didn’t want to attack Aunt Lizzie directly. She knew that if there was the slightest hint of foul play Jeff couldn’t claim his rights to the estate without becoming a suspect. Nor could she arrange a convincing accident at that time of year. The weather was mild; hikers, nature lovers, hunters were roaming the woods. But if she could set up a situation whereby Aunt Lizzie could be lured out of the house during the winter months….

“Betsy’s chatter about fairies may have suggested the idea, but I suspect it was that book of Conan Doyle’s that allowed Rachel to develop her scheme fully. Mary Ella was borrowing books from Lizzie, remember? If she mentioned the story to Rachel — the parallels are really too close to be coincidental. The girls in The Coming of the Fairies played their tricks for the fun of it, but Rachel saw how the same idea could be used to trap Aunt Lizzie. She persuaded Jeff to take those photographs. According to him, she told him she wanted them for her little sister. Maybe he believed her; people can be pretty dumb when they’re in love. When he realized what she was doing he tried to stop her. There is some evidence to substantiate that claim; he did try to keep an eye on Aunt Lizzie after it dawned on him she could come to harm chasing fairies. But he couldn’t bring himself to betray Rachel, not to the police, nor to her parents.”

“I don’t know that I can blame him for that,” Doug said thoughtfully.

“Oh, nobody can blame anybody for anything these days,” Laurie said rudely. “I’m tired of finding excuses for crooks and criminals. Rachel is deformed. I know she had a wretched life, but so do lots of other people who don’t see the murder of a harmless old woman as the key to the prison door.”

“I never thought she would do those things,” Lizzie murmured.

“Who would? We’re all suckers for a pretty face. Even after she knocked me on the head and left me in the cave to die of exposure I didn’t suspect her. When I heard Jeff in the tunnel I was sure he had come to finish me off. Then all of a sudden I remembered something — a particular smell I had noticed in that house where Rachel was baby-sitting.”

“I am surprised you could isolate a single odor,” said Ida, her long nose lifted fastidiously. “I am told that Mrs. Wade is a very poor housekeeper.”

“Even a poor housekeeper wouldn’t leave her stove turned on without making sure it was lit. That was what I smelled — gas. There were stories in the newspapers a few years ago about a baby-sitter who used to hold the child over the gas jet for a few minutes, just long enough to stupefy it so it wouldn’t bother her while she was watching TV.”

“Good Lord!” Doug’s face hardened. Laurie was pleased to observe that this revelation had removed some of the glamour that still clung to his opinion of Rachel. “You mean she—”

“I wondered,” Laurie said, “why the baby was so quiet. Rachel not only had all night for her activities, she had all afternoon and evening too. If the baby had started yelling while she was out, the neighbors might have heard it and come to investigate. Those houses are built of cardboard. Rachel did a lot of stupid things and took a lot of chances; she’s too young to be a very well organized criminal. But that was one risk she didn’t take. She gassed the baby.”

“Good Lord,” Doug repeated. “What’s going to happen to that girl?”

The two old ladies exchanged glances. Then Ida said, “She will receive the best possible care, Douglas. I assure you of that. I have already spoken with Mr. and Mrs. Wilson. They were only too happy to have us take responsibility.”

“I’ll bet,” Doug said. “Wilson is probably obliterating Rachel’s name from the family Bible right now.”

“‘If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off,’” Laurie agreed. “In a way this might be the best thing for Rachel. I’m not enthusiastic about psychiatric hospitals, but it’s the girl’s only chance. A couple of years from now she’ll be eighteen, old enough to be on her own. She may be one of those people who resorts to crime only when they can’t get what they want any other way. With a face and figure like hers, Rachel shouldn’t have any problems. No. She’s getting off easy. It’s Jeff I feel sorry for.”

“Oh, do you?” Doug gave her a hostile stare.

“Well, he’s less culpable than Rachel. I’m sure he did try to stop her. Remember that night when you were all so strangely sleepy? Jeff drugged the after-dinner coffee. He was getting desperate; he couldn’t watch Aunt Lizzie all the time, and that way he made sure she would sleep through the night and not go wandering in the woods. I was out with Hermann, so I didn’t get any of the coffee.”

“l wondered about that,” Doug admitted. “And of course Jeff was the only one who could have doctored the coffee. In fact, he was my prime suspect all along. I’m still not convinced he isn’t passing the buck to Rachel.”

“You’re prejudiced,” Laurie said indignantly.

Doug’s brown eyes met hers, and she was surprised to feel herself blushing. At least it felt like a blush, though she was so warm she couldn’t be sure.

“Jeff saved my life,” she went on. “He led you to me—”

“Well, I persuaded him a little,” Doug murmured.

“It was most exciting,” Lizzie said brightly. “Just like those criminal dramas on television. Douglas took poor Jefferson by his collar and literally lifted him off the floor. However, Douglas, I must say that your language was not quiet the thing. Mr. Kojak never used words like those, even when he was interrogating a psychopathic mass murderer.”

“Auntie, I was upset,” Doug said apologetically. “When I found out Jeff had bought those figurines I came tearing back here. The roads were getting slippery, so I couldn’t make good time; but it gave me a chance to think, and I realized that Rachel must be involved. Auntie had insisted all along that she got the photos from the Wilson girls. That meant Rachel. Jeff wouldn’t have used Betsy; a child that age couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut. And Mary Ella wasn’t his type. So when I read that stupid, boastful note of yours, Laurie, I started to get a little worried. You had left it on the table, where anybody could have read it, and if Jeff thought you were closing in on him…. But I didn’t get really scared till I had gone to the Wilson and talked to Mary Ella. What did you do to that kid, hypnotize her? She spilled the whole story to me, right in front of her parents, she was so worried about you.”

“I told her I’d help her get away,” Laurie said. “I meant it, too.”

“You should. You owe her. I told Wilson I’d beat the daylights out of him if he laid a hand on her, but there are other methods of torture, and after he has recovered from his initial rage against Rachel he won’t spare Mary Ella. She’s known for some time that Rachel wasn’t quite right. She said she tried to warn you.”

“So that’s what she was trying to say,” Laurie exclaimed. “I was in a hurry, and that awful stutter—”

“We’ll take care of her,” Doug promised. “Anyhow, I went tearing over to the Wades,’, looking for you. Kicked the door in—”

“Doug, you didn’t!”

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:24

“Wasn’t hard. Cheap lock. All I found was one groggy baby badly in need changing. I did not oblige, I’m sorry to say, but I got one of the neighbors to come over. Told her it was an emergency. It was.”

“Rachel told me she had asked the woman next door to come in,” Laurie said. “I should have known she was a liar.”

“It’s just as well for that smelly infant that we removed his sister,” Doug said. “She wasn’t exactly improving his chances of living to a ripe old age. Anyhow, by that time I was frantic. Nobody knew where you were; your trail ended at the Wades’. So I came back here. I will say,” Doug admitted grudgingly, “that when I explained the situation, Jeff didn’t hesitate. He thought Rachel might have taken you to the cave. It was the only place where she could be sure or privacy. He led us there — Uncle Ned and me — but he was in such a hurry we lost him in the snow and dark and we couldn’t find the cave entrance until you screamed and good old Duchess went burrowing into the bank.”

“It was too close for comfort,” Laurie said, with a reminiscent shiver. “Where was Rachel all this time?”

“She’d been a busy little bee. First she got the car keys from your pocket and drove the car deeper into the woods. He had taught her to drive — among other things — last fall. Then she went looking for him. Do you realize how close all these places are to Idlewood, especially if you know the shortcuts through the woods? Rachel knew them well. She was not very coherent about the next part, but I gather she was outside while Jeff and I were having our little discussion about your possible whereabouts. She went tearing back through the woods and got there about the same time he did. I don’t know what she had in mind. I doubt that she knew herself. But when she caught you and Jeff making out—”

“Douglas,” Ida exclaimed. “Please don’t be vulgar.”

“I tried to shut him up,” Laurie said. “I was afraid she might overhear. She was crazy with jealousy. That’s why she tried to run me down the other night. She knew it was me, all right. The funny thing is, I don’t think Jeff was in love with me, not really.”

“You aren’t that closely related,” Doug said coldly. “Anyway, what difference does a spot of incest make?”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Laurie said, anticipating Ida’s comment. “I admit I found him very attractive. Any woman would. But I didn’t fall for him. I’m sorry for him, though. What’s going to happen to him now?”

“You could wait for him while he’s in stir,” Doug suggested.

“Now, Douglas,” Ida said. “There is no question of prison, thank goodness. The police had to be brought in, of course, but they know only that that unfortunate girl had become infatuated with Jefferson, and had quarreled with him. Thanks to Ned’s promptness in removing Laurie from the scene, the rest of the story need never come out. Rachel is incoherent and Jefferson has every reason to remain silent. He will not be charged. He will leave this part of the country and never return.” Her lips twisted, as if in a brief spasm of pain, but she went on in a steady voice. “Tomorrow, Elizabeth will see our lawyer and make the will she ought to have made years ago.”

“I don’t want to make a will,” Lizzie said rebelliously. “Douglas and Laura will have the money eventually, so what difference—”

“You will do as you’re told,” Doug said. “And I’ll be on hand to make sure you behave yourself from now on. I’m opening an office in Frederick.”

“How nice,” Lizzie said, beaming.

“A wise decision,” Ida remarked.

“Are you crazy?” Laurie demanded.

“Not yet,” Doug said. “But in a few years, if Aunt Lizzie keeps on the way she’s been going….”

Lizzie hoisted herself out of her chair. Her lower lip tried to express hurt indignation, but she was so pleased she couldn’t help smiling.

“Douglas, you are such a tease. I must see about dinner now, or we’ll never eat tonight. In the meantime, what about a little nibble of something, and a hot cup of tea for our sick girlie?”

She trotted out, still talking to herself.

Laurie looked at her brother, who was studying his bandaged hand with unnecessary concentration. She knew why he had made his decision. With Jeff gone, the old people would be alone. Someone had to be there. She realized, with considerable astonishment, that the idea was not without its attractions. Mary Ella needed and deserved attention; it would be exciting to help that thwarted character and mind develop. No reason why she couldn’t write her thesis here, as Aunt Ida had suggested. With Herrrrrman under control and Doug livening the place up….

Doug cleared his throat.

“Now that Lizzie’s gone we can finish this,” he said. “I can’t talk to her without screaming; her habit of wriggling out from under questions drives me up the wall. How much of this do you suppose she had figured out?”

“You can’t describe Aunt Lizzie’s thought processes,” Laurie said. “They’re too weird. She’s like a medieval theologian; she can believe two contradictory things at the same time. And she’s so darned innocent she’d never believe anyone meant to harm her. Especially her own son—”

“Her son?” Ida turned to stare at her. “My dear Laura — Douglas — have you been under the impression that Jefferson is Elizabeth’s son?”

“Yes,” Laurie said in surprise. “Certainly I did. That was the whole point of the plot — that Jeff would have inherited instead of us because we’re only Aunt Lizzie’s great-niece and nephew, while Jeff—”

“No, no.” Ida shook her head. “I cannot allow you to remain under that misapprehension. It would be unjust. Jefferson is not Elizabeth’s son. He is her nephew.”

Both auditors were struck dumb. Laurie knew, from Doug’s bemused expression, that he was thinking the same thing she was. Uncle Ned?

Her aunt’s face gave her the clue. Ida’s cheeks might be a little redder than usual, but there was no contrition, no shame in her face. She sat very straight, her hands in her lap, and met Laurie’s astonished gaze without avoidance.

Thirty years ago, Laurie thought. Thirty years, more or less — she had never known Jeff’s precise age…. Ida would have been in her mid-forties. A susceptible age, she had heard. And that would explain why stern old Great-grandfather Morton had cut his erring daughter out of his will.

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-10, 00:25

“It was just after the war,” Ida said. “He was an officer, stationed nearby. He was married, with a family. I knew that from the start.”

Her lips closed. So far as she was concerned, that was the whole story. There would be no explanations and no excuses, no regret, no expression of suffering or loss. That was not the Morton style. Nor was it necessary for her to go into such details. Laurie could imagine what it must have been like for her. A sudden overmastering passion, at an age when she had probably thought herself safe from such weakness — and the unexpected, catastrophic result. She would not have told her lover, not Ida. But she had to confide in her family because she had no means of her own. There was no alternative in those days but to bear the child; and no alternative, for a Morton, but to give it up for adoption. What else could she have done, even if she had wanted to defy the traditions that had molded her — penniless, middle-aged, unemployable?

Laurie struggled furiously and managed to get one hand out from under the blankets. She laid it on her aunt’s folded hands and squeezed hard.

“Oh, my dear,” she said.

“You need not feel sorry for me,” Ida said. “There were compensations…. The basic point of your argument is not altered by this, you understand. If Elizabeth had predeceased me, the estate would have been divided between your Uncle Ned and myself, since Elizabeth has always refused to make a will. My portion, and probably Ned’s as well, would have passed to Jefferson in due time. Or,” she added, “before my due time, if that perverse young woman had decided not to wait.”

“You’re a wonder, Aunt Ida,” Doug said. “Have I mentioned lately that I love you passionately?” He leaned over to give her a resounding kiss on the cheek. “Now I’m going down to help Aunt Lizzie. Laurie, could I talk you into a little — er — sherry?”

“I’d love it,” Laurie said.

“How tactful he is,” Ida said, after Doug had gone. “He wishes to spare me embarrassment.”

“You’re not embarrassed, though, are you?”

“No,” Ida said. “It was all so long ago. And frankly, now that it is out in the open, I am actually relieved. You understand, I would not care to have the entire neighborhood know; but I could endure even that with equanimity so long as you and Douglas do not think less of me.”

“You know how we feel.”

“Yes. And I thank you. I ought to have trusted you both, but in all sincerity, Laura, it never for a moment occurred to me that there could be the remotest connection between my youthful folly and the present situation.”

“No reason why it should have occurred to you,” Laurie assured her. “It is a wild, far-out plot, Aunt. I’m only sorry he turned out not to be…”

“A dutiful son?” Her aunt’s lips curved in an ironic smile. “My dear girl, let’s not pretend to be sentimental. I’m really too old to become a mother. And — you must know this — you and Douglas are very dear to me. No other relationship could alter that.”

“Doug is nice, isn’t he? You know, Aunt Ida, when I realized that Jeff was the guilty party, I was actually relieved. I had been so afraid it might be Doug. I didn’t realize how fond I was of him until I suspected him. I’ve been thinking — maybe I’ll do my dissertation here. Doug and I could get an apartment in Frederick, and—”

“An apartment!” If she had suggested entering a bordello her aunt’s horror could hardly have been greater. “Out of the question, Laura. You can stay at Idlewood, with us.”

“Auntie, I love you all, but I’m not sure I can live with you. I’d get fat on Aunt Lizzie’s cooking and you’d worry if I stayed up late studying and Uncle Ned would roust me out at dawn to go bird-watching, and—”

“And I would interfere with your social life.” Her aunt smiled ruefully. “I understand, Laura. I have not completely forgotten what it is like to be young. Very well. I can see why you might prefer to be independent, but for you and Douglas to live together would be… You cannot do it!”

“I don’t see why not. It’s silly for us to have two places, when we could share expenses.”

“Oh, dear.” Ida sighed. “I suppose I must tell you. Anna should have done so years ago, but she was always lax about her duty, and I never felt I had the right to interfere. However, I have no choice now. My dear Laura, you cannot live with Douglas because it would be improper. He is not your brother.”

“What?” Of all the shocks she had had that day, this hit Laurie the hardest. She fought free of the covers and sat upright. “What did you say?”

“He was adopted,” Ida explained. “Your mother is not a maternal woman, but she was slow to realize that. Her desire for a baby was similar to the yearning of a little girl for a doll. When she believed herself incapable of producing offspring in the conventional manner, she rushed out, in her impetuous way, and procured an infant as one might purchase a toy. I can’t even be sure that she and her current husband went through the proper channels and formally adopted the lad, though they always regarded him as their own. He is the son of a theatrical friend of Anna’s, who perished miserably of an excess of alcohol and other indulgences. Shortly after she obtained the baby she became enceinte. I am told that often happens. So you see, Laura, you and Douglas are not related to one another at all. So far as we are concerned it makes no difference. He is our dear nephew and always will be. But you can hardly…. I am so sorry to be the one to tell you this. I fear it comes as a shock.”

Laurie collapsed against the pillows. She wondered if Doug knew the truth. Somehow she rather thought he did. Even at the airport in Baltimore — that greeting had been a little warmer than brotherly affection would explain. As she thought back over the past days, casual, seemingly insignificant looks and comments came back to her with a new meaning.

Yes, Doug knew, and she could hardly blame him for not telling her. “Speaking of elves in the woods, you and I are not brother and sister.” Not an easy topic to introduce, no — especially if it had become complicated by other, unexpected emotional developments….

She smiled. Her aunt, watching her anxiously, gave a little sigh of relief.

“I am so glad you are not too distressed. Yet I am afraid you must be disappointed.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that,” Laurie murmured. “No, I can’t honestly say that I’m disappointed. I don’t have too many old-fashioned prejudices, but I do draw the line at incest.”

“Laura,” her aunt said, “please don’t be vulgar.”

موضوع: رد: THE LOVE TALKER 2008-04-11, 03:38

؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟

و شكراً