The Love Talker Part 21

"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 artwork 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 ident.i.ty of the poor fool who was Doug's a.s.sistant; 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 sc.r.a.ps 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. d.u.c.h.ess 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? d.u.c.h.ess 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 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 a.r.s.enal-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 s.p.a.ce 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 doork.n.o.b 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 antic.i.p.ating 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 s.h.i.+rt 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.

"d.a.m.n 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 G.o.d, 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 h.e.l.l 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.

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 h.e.l.l. At least that was what Raimond thought of her. Raimond's ident.i.ty 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 ma.n.u.script. 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 ma.n.u.script 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 ma.n.u.script.

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 213 might look at the family alb.u.m. There was nothing more she could do at the moment, except watch over Lizzie and hope Doug would find a clue in Baltimore. a.s.suming, 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 Angle 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 alb.u.ms- 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 alb.u.ms before, but that had been years ago, when she was small enough to find the old-fas.h.i.+oned 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 alb.u.m after alb.u.m.

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 alb.u.ms 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 owners.h.i.+p. 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 s.p.a.ces to distort a d.a.m.ning picture of guilt.

CHAPTER 11.

The alb.u.m 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. d.u.c.h.ess, 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 d.u.c.h.ess had qualified for that t.i.tle. And there were practical difficulties as well.

"I'm sorry," she told d.u.c.h.ess. "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 d.u.c.h.ess'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, the 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 alb.u.ms 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 ap.r.o.n. 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 s.p.a.ce on the other girls. The fourth bedroom would be the "spare room." Her hunch was confinned 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 Mr. Wilsons' faded overalls, the white from his unders.h.i.+rts. 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 a.s.sured 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. n.o.body 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."