The Love Talker, page 17
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“Who?”
“One name leaps to mind,” Doug said.
“You mean Jeff, I suppose,” Laurie said calmly. “Since I am not a complete fool, naturally I thought of him.
He could have taken the snapshots—and he could have stolen them, he’s in and out of the house all the time.
But it can’t be Jeff.”
“Why not?”
“The caller was female,” Laurie said.
“A confederate. Jeff’s the kind of guy—”
“Who could talk a girl into doing anything he asked her to,” Laurie agreed, so enthusiastically that Doug gave her a dirty look. “But why should he? He has no motive. He seems to like his job, and I’m sure he’s fond of the old people.”
“Like, schmike,” Doug muttered. “So maybe he’s a psycho. Gets his kicks out of tormenting old ladies.”
“Nonsense. I just wish I could think of another suspect. No one seems to fit.”
Doug was silent, and the quality of his silence made Laurie uneasy.
“Well?” she demanded.
Doug’s shoulders lifted and subsided, so sharply that the car swerved. “We have to consider every possibility.”
“What are you driving at? I can assure you I have an alibi. I can bring a dozen witnesses to prove I was—”
“Cut it out, will you? This is serious. I’m talking The Love Talker / 227
about Ned and Ida. Now wait,” he said, as Laurie drew a sharp breath, preparatory to objecting, “think about it. They’re getting old. Hell, they aren’t getting there, they are old. One little screw in the brain gets loose and bingo, all the years of pent-up hostility start oozing out. You know how petty annoyances can grate until finally they pile up and become unendurable. I can see how Lizzie would be hard to live with. Ida has no patience with her fantasies, and Ned thinks she’s ga-ga.
Hell’s bells, Laurie, I hate the idea as much as you do; but you must admit it’s possible.”
Laurie was conscious of a sick, sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach. She was remembering the expression on Ida’s face the night before, when Lizzie had asked why anyone would want to hurt her.
Vi greeted them with the warmth reserved for old friends, and Sam, semirecumbent in his favorite booth, raised his head high enough to remark, “Thanks, don’
mind iffah dew.”
Vi lingered after she had served them, exchanging heavy witticisms with Doug. Laurie suspected she had something on her mind and before long Vi, not the subtlest of women, came to the point.
“How are the folks?”
“Fine,” Doug said.
“I heard Miss Lizzie was failing.”
“Who told you that?” Doug demanded.
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One of Vi’s massive shrugs rippled down her body.
“I’ve known ‘em for years,” she said, with apparent irrelevance. “They’re quality, the Mortons are.
Shouldn’t be alone out there, old as they are.”
“They aren’t alone,” Laurie said.
“Oh, well. I mean family. What is it you do for a living, Doug?”
Irritation and amusement struggled in Doug’s face as he assimilated this broad hint. Amusement won.
“I’m an architect,” he said.
Vi’s face fell. “Oh.”
“Hard to make a living that way,” Doug said, with a deep sigh.
“I guess. There’s one in Frederick.”
“One what?” Laurie asked, highly entertained by this exchange.
“Architect.”
“How is he doing?”
“Starving,” Vi said. She and Doug both sighed.
After Vi had gone, Laurie allowed herself to laugh.
“Vi doesn’t have a good opinion of your profession.
Why couldn’t you have taken up something sensible, like carpentry or animal husbandry? What is animal husbandry, by the way?”
“I’ll explain it to you when you’re a little The Love Talker / 229
older. All the same,” Doug said seriously, “I bet an architect could do all right here. The area is growing, and the old houses are being renovated. There’s good money in restoration.”
“You aren’t thinking seriously of it, are you?”
“Not really. But it might not hurt to let the word get around that I was.”
Laurie folded her arms on the table and gazed thoughtfully at her brother. “You’re taking this pretty seriously, aren’t you? I’m not trying to beat a dead horse or anything, but not long ago you were ready to dismiss the whole thing as a wild-goose chase. What made you change your mind?”
“Your metaphors,” Doug said, “are becoming zoolo-gical. Must be Uncle Ned’s influence. What made me change my mind? The telephone call, of course. You’ll forgive me for mentioning this—”
“Oh, don’t spare my feelings.”
“I never have, have I? Up to the time the unknown lady called to tell us of Anna’s apocryphal accident, we had no concrete evidence whatever. You had seen the photos and the lights and heard the pretty music, but you were the only one who had. I had no reason to consider you a reliable witness. Then the photos conveniently disappeared. That made me wonder. But Lizzie could have hidden them, or you…. Well, I won’t belabor that point. Then came the phone call. I have racked my brains, but I can only come up with one explanation
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that makes sense. That call was meant to get us away from here.”
“It couldn’t have kept us away long,” Laurie said.
“Sooner or later we’d have found out Anna was all right.”
“That’s what worries me. Sure, we’d have found out, and sooner rather than later. If Anna were a normal, sedentary-type mother, with a fixed address, we would have rushed off, found her healthy and blooming—and then what?”
“We would have realized the call was a hoax,” Laurie said. “We’d have come back—”
“In a state of considerable agitation,” Doug added.
“The situation being what it is. But even if we took the next plane back here we would have been gone for twenty-four hours, give or take a few hours. A lot can happen in twenty-four hours.”
His normally affable face was grim. Laurie stared at him.
“No,” she said, denying, not the statement itself, but its implications. “No, Doug.”
“I don’t like it either.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions. Suppose this character is in a panic? If this thing started as a joke, it’s gotten out of hand. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe he’s trying to—to cancel the joke.”
“Maybe. But can we afford to take that chance?”
Laurie jumped to her feet. “Let’s go home. Right now.”
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They emerged from the artificial twilight of the tavern into the glow of a spectacular sunset. Long strips of slate-gray cloud crossed the western sky; as the sun dropped down behind them it rimmed their edges with molten bronze and cast a pale rosy wash over the landscape. More snow had come overnight, and it lay like strawberry frosting on the chocolate-brown furrows of the fields. From the crest of the ridge, mile on mile of rolling farmland spread out, enclosed by the dim purple-red curve of the far-off mountains. Houses and barns and silos, miniaturized by distance, looked like children’s toys.
“Look,” Laurie said, as Doug slowed for a turn, “that’s one of my favorite views. The sweep of that one stretch of dark pines, up and over the hill, and one bright red barn, to the left of center—it’s so perfectly designed it looks like a painting.”
“Ugh,” said her brother.
The sun hid behind the flanks of the hills and all light died. The fields were somber gray, the trees were black, the sky was the color of shadows. Laurie’s spirits dropped again, after their momentary resurgence. Is there really someone out there in that pretty, peaceful countryside who wants to injure Aunt Lizzie? she wondered. And why do I find that idea so hard to believe when the sun is shining, and so horribly plausible after dark? I’m as bad as any savage, worshiping a primitive sun god. I’m afraid of the dark.
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Doug was no help. Gloom and depression fairly radiated from him. He didn’t speak the rest of the way home.
If Laurie had known what was awaiting her she would have been even more depressed. Having no premonitions, she did not sneak in the back, but walked boldly through the front door just in time to hear Lizzie announce in ringing tones, “Wait, I hear someone coming. I’ll just see if it’s Laura.”
Laurie turned to flee, but she was too late. Lizzie peeped around the corner of the stair, saw her, and returned to the telephone. “Yes, it is Laura. You called at just the right moment. Now you wait, and I’ll get her.”
“Tell him I just dropped dead,” Laurie said.
“Oh, darling, not so loud! He’ll hear you.”
Oh, well, Laurie thought, I may as well get it over with. I can’t go on dashing out of the house every time the telephone rings. She took the phone from her aunt’s hand. What an obscene shape it was, all black and curved and waiting….
“Hello,” she said.
The caller was, as she had suspected, Hermann.
Shortly thereafter she returned the telephone to its cradle and turned to her aunt, who was dusting a table in the hall and humming loudly to herself.
“Aunt Lizzie.”
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“…tiptoe through the tulips….” The humming formed words and then broke off. Lizzie turned an innocent gaze upon her niece.
“Oh, are you through talking, darling? I didn’t hear a word you said, honestly.”
“You did, too. I was caught off guard or I never would have…Aunt Lizzie, I can’t stand that man. I don’t want to have dinner with him.”
“Then why did you tell him you would?” Lizzie inquired.
Laurie yearned to tell her why. Everybody was conspiring against her, that was why. The implicit pressure and the explicit approval of the old ladies, and all those long years of trying to do what would please them…Pleasing the aunts had become a habit as hard to break as alcoholism. She had been trapped by love.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled.
“You can wear my dress, the gold one,” Lizzie said happily. “You look so pretty in it. Oh, darling, you’ll have a nice time.”
“I’ll have a headache,” Laurie said. “I’m getting one now.”
Chapter 9
Laurie didn’t have to feign a headache as an excuse to get home early. Her temples began to throb when Hermann started on his lobster, and by the time he had dissected that repulsive arthropod the headache was well developed. There was something horrible about the way Hermann ate lobster. Oh, he was neat—too neat—dabbing genteelly at his mouth after almost every bite. His plump pink fingers gripped the silverware with the precision of a surgeon, and the crunch, as he crushed the claw…. Every sliver was meticulously coated with butter and then inspected carefully before it was conveyed to Hermann’s mouth, wherein it vanished with a slight snapping sound.
Laurie refused dessert. Hermann had cherry cheese-cake.
Laurie refused a liqueur. Hermann ordered
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brandy, and added that it was really a man’s drink, not suitable for ladies.
Laurie ordered brandy.
At least she didn’t have to talk. Hermann did all the talking. He told her about his job and detailed the in-efficiencies of the people who outranked him. He told her what was wrong with the President’s anti-inflation policy and outlined the legislation that should have been passed. One day, he explained, he might consider running for office himself. It was high time the state had some good solid conservative representation.
Laurie had had a cocktail before dinner and several glasses of wine with dinner, though Hermann had drunk most of the bottle. She should not have ordered the brandy. She didn’t even like brandy. It had an astonishing effect, however. After her first few sips she found herself staring at Hermann in mild astonishment.
Why on earth had she worried about what she should say to this simpleminded egotist?
She put both elbows on the table and interrupted Hermann with a distinctly provocative statement about the ERA.
It took Hermann’s slow wits some seconds to adjust to the change of subject. He gaped at her, and then chuckled.
“What a little tease you are. You aren’t one of those feminists. You’re too sweet and—er—feminine.”
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Often before, when she had been so challenged, Laurie had pulled in her horns. She didn’t want to be identified with the extremist elements of the women’s movement. As she had said, such advocates did the movement more harm than good by making it repellent, not only to men but to many women who might otherwise have supported its aims. But that wasn’t the real reason why she had backed down. She had backed down because she didn’t want to be considered unattractive and unfeminine—even by creeps like Hermann.
Now, without warning, a great gusty wave of reckless abandon swept over her.
“You’re damned right I’m a feminist,” she informed Hermann. Rising, she waved an imperious arm at the waiter. “More brandy here,” she called.
The remainder of the evening was a triumph, if a shortlived one. Laurie would have been willing to sit on indefinitely, her elbows planted, debating women’s rights. She found that by raising her voice slightly she could silence Hermann. He was afraid someone would overhear the vulgarities she was uttering. And of course her intelligence could run rings around his any day of the week, drunk or sober.
He got her out of the restaurant, finally, and dragged her to the door. Laurie knew she wasn’t drunk. If she had been, the cold night air would The Love Talker / 237
have sobered her. Instead it inspired her to further enormities.
“Keep both your hands on the wheel,” she said loudly, as Hermann, encouraged by the darkness and intimacy of the front seat, reached for her knee. “Men are such rotten drivers. Watch out for that patch of ice on the hill. Fifteen miles an hour is plenty fast enough.
Look out, that’s a dog. Oh; it isn’t. Well, there might be a dog. The speed limit is thirty-five here; you’re going forty.”
Hermann made it fifty. He got her home in record time.
Laurie thanked him for a lovely evening and got nimbly out, while he was fumbling with his seat belt.
Hermann was slow, but that final move drove the point home. He did not get out of the car. He departed, leaving Laurie standing on the steps.
Laurie giggled. She was in no mood to go in. The aunts would want to know why she was home so early and they would inquire minutely into the details of her date. Besides…She was not drunk. Not at all. It might be a good idea, however, to let the cold air steady her steps just a trifle before she confronted the aunts.
It was a beautiful night, cold and crystal clear. The stars blazed like scattered diamonds on black velvet.
Her headache was gone. She felt wonderful. Even the high heels, which gave her
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such an admirable psychological advantage over Hermann, did not impede her walking.
Whistling between her teeth—and regretting she had not thought to display this vulgar accomplishment to Hermann—she strolled along the path that circled the house. She had no particular goal in mind, just a little walk in the lovely winter night. She would, of course, keep an eye out for elves. Laurie giggled. She seldom giggled, but tonight she felt like doing it.
At the entrance to the boxwood alley she hesitated, and a cold breath of sobriety dulled her euphoria. It was dark in there. Really, really dark. Maybe she had better go into the house.
No. Had she not announced, in ringing tones, that very evening, her devotion to the credo of the New Woman? I am strong—I am invincible! I can walk down icy graveled paths in tottery high heels anytime I feel like it.
She had not gone far before she began to regret her valor and suspect she was not as invincible as she had thought. The shoes were poorly adapted to walking on gravel. The thin heels caught and failed to find firm footing. The boxwood reached as high as her head.
Not the faintest beam of light penetrated the inter-woven branches. Laurie let out a gasp as the undergrowth ahead rustled. Light shaped itself into two small spots like staring eyes. She had to remind herself that the grounds were inhabited by small nocturnal The Love Talker / 239
animals—rabbits, possums, raccoons, rats…. Rats. She pursed her lips and produced a whistle. “I am strong, I am invincible….”
The staring eyes vanished as she approached. Perhaps they had only been a trick of her imagination.
Now she could see lighted windows ahead. My goodness, she told herself with false surprise, they must be Jeff’s windows. Maybe I’ll stop in for a cup of coffee.
He said he wanted to talk about the Middle Ages.
Then something came out of the boxwood and ran straight at her.
It was, of course, one of the nocturnal animals she had postulated, a little more stupid or less wary than its kind; but Laurie’s nerves failed to register this sensible theory until it was too late. The creature actually brushed against her leg. She let out a strangled whoop and began to run. After two steps she lost her balance and the run turned into a flapping, scrambling attempt to stay on her feet. She might have succeeded in that aim if an object had not loomed up in her path—a shape waist-high and squat, like a thick tree trunk, but shining faintly in the light from the window.
Unable to stop herself, Laurie plunged into it. It fell over backward with a metallic crash that echoed through the still night. Laurie followed it down onto the ground.
The echoes died. Laurie rolled over. Now that 240 / Elizabeth Peters
she was out of the dire shadow of the boxwood the light from Jeff’s cottage enabled her to see more clearly, and her dark fancies vanished. She looked from the ruins of her nylons to the fallen object. What was a garbage can doing out in the middle of the path? Or could she possibly be off the path? She had lost one of her shoes. When she picked it up and shook out the gravel, the heel fell off.
