The Love Talker Part 3

Pretending deafness, d.u.c.h.ess considered her options. Laurie was an attraction; but then a movement on the windowsill caught her eye and she leaped toward it. Angel Baby arched her back and spat. d.u.c.h.ess's flailing tail knocked a chair over. Uncle Ned's shouts of "Down, I say!" mingled with Lizzie's agitated shrieks.

The animals' encounter ended with a howl from d.u.c.h.ess and the abrupt departure of Angel Baby, who sailed across the kitchen, cursing, and disappeared into the dining room. d.u.c.h.ess lay down, put one paw over her nose, and moaned.

"d.a.m.n cat," said Uncle Ned equably.

"If you would train that ill-bred dog to leave my cat alone she would not get scratched," Lizzie said.

"Just wants to be friends," Ned said. "Your cat's a sn.o.b."

"Home sweet home," said Doug, grinning.

"And it's so good to have you home!" Her annoyance forgotten, Lizzie enveloped him in fluttering embroidery. "Now, Douglas, sit down, and I'll have your breakfast in two shakes. You, too, Ned-though you don't deserve it."

She went to the stove. Ned got a bottle and a bit of cotton from a shelf and ministered to the bleeding nose of d.u.c.h.ess, who submitted to the attention with fatuous pleasure. Either the dog was so good-natured she didn't mind the scratch, or else she was so used to such injuries that they had become part of the daily routine.

Taking a chair next to Doug's, Laurie said out of the corner of her mouth, "See any little elves out there?"

"Just Uncle Ned." Doug indicated the old man, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor talking to the dog. Her head c.o.c.ked, her ears alert, d.u.c.h.ess listened with an appearance of profound interest. Doug grinned and shook his head. "I'm the one who's getting old," he confided, in the same low voice. "Have they always been like this, or am I just more conventional?"

"Both, probably. "We've got to talk."

"Right."

"How about a walk after-whatever the next meal is?"

"Are you kidding?" Doug's voice rose in a howl of outrage. Lizzie and Ned went calmly on with what they were doing, and Doug continued, "I'm going to take a nap. I froze several essential parts of my anatomy and pulled half the muscles in my body this morning. We must have walked twenty miles."

"About four," Ned said, without looking up. "You're out of condition, boy. Stay awhile. I'll get you in shape."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Wash your hands and sit down, Ned," Lizzie said, stepping over the dog. "Here you are, Douglas; now eat it up, every bite, and don't dawdle, or it will be time for lunch."

Incredible as it might seem, lunch did follow on the heels of that late breakfast; and when it was over Laurie was in no condition to insist on a walk, much as it might have benefited her. The elderly Mortons always rested in the afternoon. Ned, who had long since established squatters' rights to the library, called his siesta "working on my notes," though everyone knew he dozed in the big leather armchair by the fire, with his dog asleep at his feet.

Laurie had planned to follow Lizzie to her room for a cozy chat-and a look at the famous photographs- but, as if she suspected some such plot, Lizzie scuttled out of the kitchen as soon as the meal was over. Laurie would have settled for a confidential chat with her eldest aunt, but Ida also made her escape. Conscious of an uncomfortable cramped feeling in her midsection, Laurie cleared the table and filled the dishwasher. Then she went upstairs, and into Doug's room.

He was lying across the bed, fully dressed. As she entered he lifted his head slightly.

"You could knock," he suggested.

"You wouldn't have answered."

Like her own, Doug's room had not changed since childhood. Uncle Ned's hand was apparent in the decor here; even Lizzie had tacitly conceded that he had a prior right with a boy child. Audubon prints and animal paintings adorned the walls. The wide, low bed had a spread with figures of jungle beasts, lions and tigers and zebras, in colorful profusion. The book shelves contained every book ever written about animals, plus the hearty, innocent boys' books of Uncle Ned's youth. The Boy Explorers in the Jungles of Africa, The Young Aviators in France. .. .

Laurie sat down on the bed beside her brother. A m.u.f.fled voice issued from the head half concealed between Doug's outstretched arms.

"We can't go on like this."

"Like what?"

"Eating." Doug rolled over, moaning faintly. "I'm sick. Lizzie cries if I turn down second helpings."

"I know, I know." Laurie stretched out beside him. "Did you ask Uncle Ned about the Good People?"

"The who?"

"The elves, the pixies, the Men of Peace, the-"

"Oh. Yeah, sure I did."

"Well?"

Doug propped himself on one elbow. "G.o.d's winged creatures are a far greater wonder than any imaginary elves. Why the h.e.l.l Lizzie can't concentrate on the miracles of nature instead of fairy tales I do not know, but if that is her interest, why don't you all leave her alone?"

"Is that a quote?"

"Straight from Uncle Ned. He may have a point."

"I'm afraid not." The ache in Laurie's stomach was subsiding. She felt warm and comfortable and drowsy, but conscience would not be quelled. "Aunt Lizzie has pictures, Doug. Photographs."

"Have you seen them?"

"No. You were right, she's acting funny-not funny-weird, as usual. Unusual. She started to tell me about it, and then all of a sudden she clammed up. I spoke a little sharply. Maybe she realized I wasn't going to play this particular game with her. But she did say she has snapshots."

"So?" Doug's voice was slow with encroaching sleep.

"So . .." Laurie shook off the contagion and forced herself to stay awake. "Lizzie said she didn't take the pictures, and I believe that; you know how she is about what she calls machines. She operates that electric stove, with its dozens of b.u.t.tons, like a hotshot pilot, but she won't touch anything mechanical outside of the kitchen. Don't you see? Photographs mean a camera. A camera means a human being, taking the pictures. Somebody is playing tricks on Aunt Lizzie."

"Uh-huh . . ." As he lay outstretched, his arms over his head, his s.h.i.+rttail out, his ribs were temptingly exposed. Laurie jabbed her forefinger into his side.

"Wake up. You said it yourself, Doug-this fantasy isn't like Lizzie's usual games. Someone is taking advantage of her. We have to find out who took those pictures."

"I know who it was."

Laurie jabbed him again, harder. This time he let out a groan of protest and slapped her hand away.

"What a s.a.d.i.s.t you are," he mumbled. "I know about the photos. Ned told me. And I know who took them. It was a kid."

"A what?"

"A child, a youth, a young person. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure which of the children took the pictures. There are three of them. Three sweet, adorable little girls. Name of Wilson."

"Wilson. Don't they live near here? I seem to remember a mailbox a few miles down the road."

"Ned said they were neighbors. Around here that means a mile or two away. Do you remember the family?"

"The name is familiar, but I don't remember children. I would, if we had played with them."

"Not likely. They are much younger than we, my aged sib. The youngest just started kindergarten this year. She has," Doug added, "big blue eyes, golden curls, and a lisp."

"A lisp," Laurie repeated blankly.

"Yep. I have heard of lisping villains-didn't Peter Lorre lisp? But not a golden-haired, five-year-old lisping villain."

"But, Doug, that's impossible. A five-year-old couldn't take pictures."

"She could with one of those new cameras designed for the simple-minded. Aim, peer, and push the b.u.t.ton." Doug yawned. "I don't know why you're so uptight about this. The snapshots are probably pictures of humming birds or blurry configurations of leaves or-"

A soft tap on the door interrupted him. He called, "Come in."

The door opened, a single tentative inch, and Ida's voice said, "Douglas? Are you asleep?"

Doug winked at Laurie.

"No, Aunt, I'm not asleep. Come in."

"I don't want to disturb you."

"I was just resting," Doug said resignedly. "Struck down by an excess of calories." He drew himself to a sitting position, and Laurie added, "Come in, Aunt. We were just-"

The door, which had been edging coyly open, banged back against the wall. Framed in the doorway like one of Rembrandt's more formidable matrons, her respectable gray hairs bristling, Ida glared.

"Laura! What are you doing there?"

"Nothing." Laurie sat up. "I mean, I was resting and talking to Doug-"

"Get up off that bed immediately."

"Yes, ma'am!" Laurie found herself on her feet without knowing quite how she had gotten there. She met her aunt's eyes. She had nothing to hide, but somehow she felt obscurely guilty.

After a moment Ida's erect frame sagged and her cold eyes softened.

"I beg your pardon, Laura. I did not mean to speak so sharply. I came to ask Douglas if... I will speak with you later, Douglas."

The door closed softly.

"Well!" Laurie dropped into a chair. "What was that all about?"

"Can you ask?" Doug fell back into a rec.u.mbent position. "Male and female, reclining . . ."

"But you're my brother!"

"That makes it worse."

Laurie leaned forward and peered distrustfully at Doug's averted face. His cheeks were crimson, but she was fairly sure the emotion that warmed them was not embarra.s.sment. More likely suppressed amus.e.m.e.nt.

"You're disgusting," she said.

"I was hoping you wouldn't find that out right away. Well, I'm awake, d.a.m.n it. What do you propose to do?"

"That's obvious, isn't it? Interview the Wilson girls and inspect the photographs, not necessarily in that order."

"Want me to do something?"

"You? Do something? Heaven forfend," Laurie said, with awful sarcasm, "that I should intrude upon your congenital laziness. Try to talk to Ida, will you? You always were her favorite."

"Aunt Ida always liked me better than you," jeered Doug, from under the arm he had flung over his face.

"Well, she did. That's okay, I can handle it; she loves me too, but you're the boy. Male chauvinism is not restricted to men."

"Um," Doug said sleepily.

"I'm going for a walk," Laurie said.

Out of deference to the elderly sleepers she did not slam the door, but her fingers ached with the desire to do so. She knew Doug had fallen asleep the moment she left the room.

One good thing about Chicago winters was that they provided a person with the necessary equipment to survive cold weather. Laurie had brought her boots-heavy, high, hideously expensive. In the silence of the drowsing house she a.s.sumed outdoor wear, tied her scarf over her head, and went out. She would not have objected to the company of a large friendly dog, but d.u.c.h.ess was nowhere to be seen. No doubt she was sharing Uncle Ned's blameless slumbers in the library.

Laurie went down the steps and across the lawn, her boots crunching through the thin crust of snow. The sky overhead was translucent blue, the sunlight was brilliant; but it lacked warmth. Following the path, she pa.s.sed through the gate into the pasture, closing it carefully behind her.

The marks of booted feet preceded her-Uncle Ned and Doug, no doubt. The woodland paths were kept clear of undergrowth, so she had no difficulty walking, but the tangled boughs overhead cast shadows across the way. Glancing up she saw a hawk hovering lazily. It was looking for carrion. At least in Uncle Ned's domain its prey would not have been trapped or wounded by the hand of man.

Despite the cold air she was warm from exercise when she reached the birch glade and sat down for a rest. This was Uncle Ned's favorite place. He had shaped the fallen trunk of a majestic walnut into a rustic seat. Laurie sat motionless, and slowly the life of the forest, sent into hiding by her approach, timidly rea.s.serted itself. Birds swooped and darted: the brilliant scarlet of a male cardinal, followed by his more subdued mate; a black-and-white red-crested woodp.e.c.k.e.r; flights of busy brown sparrows and juncos. Ned's bird-feeding station, in the center of the clearing, was soon a.s.saulted by hungry throngs. A brown squirrel, ignoring the tidbits Ned had set aside for his kind, tried to swarm up the post toward the feeder, and was driven away by an indignant blue jay. The jays were rude, aggressive birds, but their beautiful azure plumage pleased Laurie's eye, and she had a certain sympathy with their strutting a.s.sertiveness. In a hard world, you had to push to get ahead.

The air was too cold to allow her to become sleepy, but as she sat watching the birds, the peace of the woods surrounded her and she began to relax. Maybe Uncle Ned was right. This brilliant, busy display was as enchanting as any fairy tale, and the wonder of winged flight was a miracle. What was wrong with letting Lizzie seek her own wonders?

Time pa.s.sed. The early winter twilight was reddening the sky before Laurie felt a change in the atmosphere. A sound somewhere off in the woods scattered the swarming birds. The squirrel vanished with an indignant flip of his tail; two rabbits nibbling at carrots on the edge of the clearing twitched white scuts and disappeared amid a rustle of dry leaves.

Laurie knew the sound had been a natural one- the fall of a clump of snow, perhaps, from a weighted branch. All the same, her heart began to beat a little faster. The silence and the sudden disappearance of life forms was eerie. Twilight gathered along the aisles of the pines. The shadows of the trees stretched out grotesquely across the snow, and the minuscule patterns of small feet seemed suddenly purposeful, a maze outlined by some alien intelligence. A flicker of movement to her left made her start. Her eyes dilated. Surely that shape was . . .

It was only a small snowmound, shaded by dusk and surmounted by a tuft of dried gra.s.s, but for an instant it had resembled a dwarfed, semihuman shape, peering with malignant bright eyes over a hump of shoulder.

With a m.u.f.fled curse at her own unsavory imagination she rose stiffly to her feet. No wonder Lizzie thought she saw fairies in the woods. It didn't take much imagination to shape natural forms into something alien; and if one's eyesight was not quite twenty-twenty and one's perception blurred by age and a lifelong addiction to fantasy . . . The woods were strange places, especially as night drew in. High time she was getting home. She had not intended to stay so long.

She started off across the clearing, slamming her booted feet through the crusted snow with the deliberate intention of making noise. As she lifted one foot to step over a log she heard an echo of her progress somewhere in the distance and paused, boot poised, a p.r.i.c.kle running down her back. Something was coming-something heavy and quick. . . . "Has some survival of an earlier age survived in the deep woods?" she inquired aloud, mocking her own fancies. "Some halfhuman monster men call. . . ."

A dark shape bounded out into the clearing and launched itself at her. Suspended on one foot, Laurie was caught off balance. She toppled over onto her back and the monster nuzzled her throat, emitting hot, panting breaths.

"Oh, get off, will you?" Laurie gasped, pus.h.i.+ng at the dog. "You are the worst-trained beast I've ever met, even worse than Ned's usual dogs. Get off!"

"There you are." Laurie saw her uncle standing over her. "Thought you might be lost."

"I'm not lost, I'm prostrate," Laurie said. "Where's the brandy keg?"

Her uncle chuckled appreciatively. Dragging the ecstatic dog from her prey with one hand, he reached into the capacious pocket of his jacket and brought out a flask.

"I carry the brandy. Makes better sense. But don't you tell Ida."