“There was a burglar,” Becky informed her.
“A burglar! Here? My God!”
“I wanted to shoot him, but Janie wouldn’t let me. She scared him off. I wasn’t scared, not for a minute. I hoped we’d catch him. I coulda used my handcuffs on him.”
Liz grew pale. She clasped a hand to her heart, reeling back against the wall, thoroughly savoring the drama of the situation. Keith scowled at her, looking very fierce in his tan pajamas and dark maroon robe. Becky continued to prattle about her bravery, exaggerating more and more, while I wondered if Ian kept any Scotch on hand. If ever I needed a drink, it was now. Dramatic repertoire exhausted, Liz bombarded me with questions, plainly thrilled, eyes snapping with excitement.
“Do be still,” I requested.
“Why didn’t you wake us up? Why should Becky have all the fun. I think it’s ever so exciting! He might have been a rapist. Just imagine! I would have fainted, I know I would have. I may yet. Do you think he’s still out there?”
“Not a chance.”
“He could be! He could be out there right now, waiting to—”
“Was there a burglar, Janie?” Keith asked calmly.
“I—I’m not sure, pet. I did hear noises. Becky left the window unlocked, the screen unlatched. It—it may just have been the wind causing the screen to flap against the sill. I don’t know.”
“He was trying to get in,” Becky protested. “I know he was. There he was, big as life, and Janie wouldn’t—”
“Shall we phone the police?” Keith inquired.
“Let’s!” Liz cried. “I think we should.”
“I don’t think it will be necessary,” I said. “If there was someone, he’s long gone by this time.”
Keith pulled back the drapes, examining the window. It was partially open, just as Becky had left it, the screen unlatched and gently knocking against the sill in the breeze. Brows raised, head tilted to one side, he stood there for a moment, then said he was going outside to have a look around. Liz and Becky promptly volunteered to go with him. I told them to stay where they were, my voice quite firm, and both looked crushed with disappointment. Keith left the room, and a moment later we heard the back door opening, closing. The girls chattered excitedly, Liz describing her reactions when she heard the crash, Becky detailing her exploits with outrageous exaggeration, neither paying the slightest attention to what the other was saying. I frowned, a bit apprehensive about Keith. He returned a few minutes later, coming into the room so quietly the girls didn’t even notice.
“Not a sign of anyone,” he told me.
“—and when I heard the lamp crash I just knew a gang of hoodlums was invading the place. I thought of rape immediately, of course. Girls always do. You can’t begin to imagine how terrified—”
“—cool as a cucumber, every minute. If Janie had let me take charge he’d be handcuffed right now. I know all about catching crooks. You have to be cool, have to be cagey—”
“You girls, do shut up,” I said.
“It must have been the wind,” Keith said quietly.
“It must have been,” I replied.
“What did you find?” Liz cried, seeing her brother.
“Nothing.”
“He could have been lurking in the shadows. You might not have seen him. I still think we should phone the police. It’s our duty. They’ll ask ever so many questions, just like in the movies, and—”
“Cops don’t know anything,” Becky interrupted. “Oh, they can club students, all right, and give speeding tickets, but when it comes to dealing with the criminal mind—”
It was too late to go back to bed now. Everyone agreed on that point. Liz said she couldn’t sleep a wink, she just knew she couldn’t, and Becky was eager to dust the windowsill for fingerprints and photograph any evidence with her Polaroid camera. Keith said it was almost time for him to get up anyway, as Ron was stopping by for him at five forty-five and they were due on the playing field at six. He suggested an early breakfast. I agreed. He volunteered to make it himself; he’d learned to prepare breakfast when he was a Scout camping out in the woods, and Liz always burned the bacon and never cooked the eggs long enough. Reluctantly putting aside the idea of a straight Scotch, I asked if he knew how to make coffee. He said he did and promised to start it perking as soon as he had dressed.
I returned to my room, performed the necessary ablutions, brushed my hair until it fell in rich, lustrous waves and changed into a soft turtleneck sweater, canary yellow, and a short, pleated, brown, gray and yellow checked skirt, choosing the clothes at random, certainly not because I knew Ron would be here shortly and would definitely approve of the sweater. In the mirror, my face showed few signs of strain, although there were rather flattering shadows about my lids. My cheeks were flushed a delicate pink, and I added just a touch of coral lipstick, merely because I wanted to look nice for the children.
After the drama and tension of the past half hour, a party mood seemed to prevail in the house as I went downstairs. The girls were still dressing and chattering merrily in their room, delighted to be up and about at such an unconventional hour, and Keith was in the kitchen in tennis shoes, jeans, and a dark gray sweat shirt. His eyes were grave as he turned the bacon in the skillet, and, as I entered, his mouth curled up at the corners in an acknowledging smile. A rich aroma of coffee pervaded the room with a delicious fragrance. Toast browned in the toaster. The bacon popped and sizzled with a sound like firecrackers. I rested my cheek against Keith’s for just a second, poured coffee into a thick brown mug and then perched on the high stool by the drainboard, sipping my coffee and feeling remarkably at peace with the world.
“Quite a lot of excitement this morning,” Keith remarked.
“Quite,” I agreed.
“The girls tend to get carried away, particularly Liz. I don’t think there was anyone out there, Janie. I looked carefully. It was probably just another of Becky’s fantasies.”
“Probably. I did hear something, but—well, the screen was unlatched, and there was a wind. Normal noises frequently sound magnified and ominous in the middle of the night. For a moment there I was a bit shaken, though. I might as well admit it.”
He smiled again, lifting the bacon out of the skillet and putting it on a piece of paper towel to drain. “Incidentally, I put the gun away. Dad really should keep it locked up. Becky has no business having access to it, even if she is an expert.”
“This detective game of hers worries me a bit. Has she been at it for long?”
He shook his head. “Just since they found Bob’s body in the field. Although she never showed it, that upset her a great deal. She knew him, you see.”
“She—she didn’t tell me that.”
“She’s always hanging around the university, making friends with the students. They consider her a kind of mascot, I guess. Bob was an assistant in the biology lab. He used to let Becky come in and watch him work, used to show her things, explain charts, let her feed the frogs. She was quite fond of him, I think.”
“You knew him, too?”
“I met him a couple of times.”
“Was—was his death an accident, Keith?”
“No question about it. Oh, the papers made a big to-do about murder at first, anything for sensation, you know, but it was clearly established that he’d tripped over a root and broken his neck. He was one of the best-liked chaps at the university, not an enemy in the world.”
“I can’t understand why Becky didn’t tell me she knew him.”
“She doesn’t talk about her friendship with him, just babbles on about his murder, says she has private information, claims she knows the motive. Nonsense, of course. Shall I fry the eggs, or would you prefer them scrambled?”
“Scrambled, I think.”
“He was engaged to be married, incidently. Bob, that is. Engaged to Augusta’s niece.”
“Oh?”
“A girl named Cynthia Ward. She lives at the dormitory, works in the library. August
a doesn’t have much use for her, disapproves of her short skirts and cigarettes.”
“Augusta disapproves of almost everything,” I remarked, “or at least she did when I lived here. I don’t imagine she’s softened up much.”
“Not a bit. She and Becky are great pals, though.”
“Ready yet?” Liz asked, sallying into the room in a black leotard under a short black skirt, accented with a vivid red sash. Her hair was pulled back sleekly and fastened in a bun, as it had been the day before, her lids blue gray, lashes coated with mascara. “I’m exhausted, utterly. I’m terribly high-strung, you see, everyone says so. I just live on nervous energy, but then all creative artists are that way. It’s a cross we have to bear.”
“Use some of your nervous energy to set the table,” Keith said firmly. “Where’s Becky?”
“Dragging out her fingerprint kit and jotting down notes in that silly notebook of hers. She’ll be down shortly. You look absolutely ravishing, Janie,” she continued, taking plates down from the cupboard. “That sweater. I wonder if I’ll ever have a bosom?”
“One of these days,” I promised.
“They’re not in at the moment, actually. Flat-chested women are much more chic.”
“Really?”
“It’s quite true. All the fashion magazines say—”
“Shut up and set the table,” her brother ordered.
“Some people are so rude! I think I’ll use these lovely yellow linen napkins. So festive. We’ll eat in the breakfast room. I wish we had some flowers for a centerpiece—”
Not one to miss out when food was in the offing, Becky joined us just as the last dish was placed on the table. Breakfast was indeed festive in the small room adjoining the kitchen with its pleasant white-and-yellow paper, polished golden-oak floor and starched white curtains. The children were in a jolly mood, the girls chattering, Keith pleased with his cooking and not nearly as solemn as usual, all three of them consuming vast quantities of toast and strawberry jam. Outside a golden-pink light suffused the air, gradually brightening, and the lime trees spread soft gray shadows. Birds warbled sleepily. As though by some silent agreement, no one mentioned last night’s incident. It had been talked out already, and now that the sun was coming up it seemed to have happened a long time ago, could be put in its proper perspective. I was relieved, none too eager to have the three of them discuss the foolish part I had played with gun in hand.
The girls were clearing the table and Keith had gone upstairs to fetch his medicine ball when the doorbell rang. Completely composed, rather nonchalant, I opened the front door and gave Ron Hunter a polite, noncommittal smile, wished him good morning and asked him to come in. He was wearing black tennis shoes and a sweat suit, pants and shirt both fitting loosely, and his dark blond hair was slightly damp. Once again I was acutely aware of the aura of animal vigor he seemed to exude as he stood there in the hall, sunlight streaming in through the opened door. He was a splendid male specimen, no question about it, but I was quite sensible this morning. There was no soft haze of moonlight now, no fragrance-scented night air and romantic atmosphere. He was probably extremely dull once you really knew him, probably couldn’t talk about anything but soccer games and cricket matches and football scores. Not my type at all.
“You’re certainly up bright and early,” he remarked. “I didn’t know you were such an early riser.”
“I’m not, ordinarily.”
“Just eager to see me again. That it?”
“Hardly. Keith will be down in a minute.”
“You mad about something?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I detect a certain coolness.”
“You’re imagining things, Mr. Hunter.”
“Mr. Hunter? It was Ron last night. I see—I see. You’re going to fight it, aren’t you?”
“There’s nothing to fight, I assure you.”
His beautifully shaped mouth curled into a slow smile. His dark-brown eyes studied me with genial amusement. I was extremely uncomfortable under that gaze. I hadn’t meant to be quite so snippy, but I couldn’t allow myself to succumb to his warmth, his charm. I tried not to think about that lingering kiss last night. It wasn’t easy, not with him standing so near. Distant politeness was definitely the best policy.
“Care to come watch us work out?” he inquired.
“Not this morning, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, here’s Keith—looking fit this morning, lad. I see you’ve got your medicine ball. Sure you don’t want to come watch, Jane? No? Well, we’ll be seeing you.”
Clasping his hand around the back of Keith’s neck, he grinned affably and the two of them left. I closed the door, frowning, wondering if I had been too stiff, too severe. He wasn’t an arrogant man, but he knew perfectly well that I found him attractive, he couldn’t help but know it after last night, and he just naturally assumed that I would be ready to follow through like all the other women he fancied probably did. Perhaps my unwillingness to do so was a sign of some deficiency on my part, but I knew I had to keep my defenses up with Ron Hunter. It would be all too easy to throw caution to the winds.
I went back into the kitchen and helped a grumbling Liz do the dishes. She assured me that creative artists were above such tasks, that Lola Montez had never washed a dish in her life and that her own time could be much better employed doing something more fulfilling. This stated, she chattered vivaciously about a dance recital to be held at the end of summer, described the costume she was going to wear and vowed I’d simply flip when I saw all the ruffles. I was in a rather pensive mood, only half listening, and was grateful when the last dish was put away and Liz scampered off back to her room, making an inordinate amount of racket in the process.
I stepped outside, wondering where the child got all that energy, wondering how I was going to endure two weeks of this. The sun was brilliant now, pouring down in radiant white rays, and the flower beds were a riot of color. I stood on the back steps, breathing in the gloriously crisp morning air.
“There you are,” Becky said.
“Oh, I didn’t see you. What in the world are you doing?”
Hands and jersey were streaked with chalky white powder. A splotch of it was on her cheek. A camera was slung around her neck, and she clutched three still-gummy photographs. She was standing directly beneath the back parlor window. Screen and sill were liberally dusted with the same chalky substance.
“I’m gathering evidence,” she said.
“Really?” I said, indulging her. “Find anything interesting?”
“Here, take a look at these.”
She thrust the photographs into my hands. I examined them with a show of interest, not at all in the mood to discuss fingerprints and criminal investigation and murder while the sun was beaming down so brightly and the grass still glistened with dew.
“They look like very nice prints, luv.”
“They don’t belong to anyone around here.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“I’m positive. I’ve taken everyone’s prints—Daddy’s, Liz’s, Keith’s, even Ron’s and Mrs. Ward’s. I know them all by heart. I don’t even have to check my file to know these don’t match.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“Someone was out here, Janie. Here’s proof.”
“Maybe so, pet, maybe so, but it’s over now. Why don’t we just forget about it and do something fun together. Want to take a walk?”
“You’re just like all the rest,” Becky said, scowling. “You think I’m just a silly kid.”
“Becky, that’s not fair—”
“Well, just you wait,” she said. “Something’s afoot. I know it. I intend to get to the bottom of it. You think I don’t know what I’m talking about, but just you wait, you’ll see.”
I handed the photographs back to her. Becky took them with an exasperated sigh, more disgusted than disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm. She marched back into the house, slamming the screen d
oor with unnecessary violence, and I shook my head, knowing I had failed her but not really caring. The prints could belong to anyone, a workman, a neighbor, some friend of the children. One shouldn’t encourage her. Tree limbs traced long, flickering shadows over the sunwashed grass. A red-breasted chaffinch sang cheerfully in the branches of a shrub. The air was pure, the sky a clear white expanse barely touched with blue. Crime, murder, violence: there was no place for them in a setting like this. It was a glorious day, and I intended to forget all about last night.
6
The child would drive me berserk. Two weeks of this and I’d be ready for a long rest cure with grim-faced matrons and padded walls and biweekly shock therapy. Really, it was too much. She’d been underfoot all morning long, making further notations in her notebook, and, naturally, she’d been on hand for lunch, a slapdash affair of sandwiches, chips and soft drinks served by a martyred Liz. Afterwards, Keith had gone to the university library to consult some reference books, Liz had gamboled off to gossip with one of her girl friends, and I had come upstairs to write a letter to Cass, leaving Becky curled up on the sofa with a volume of Sherlock Holmes tales. Now she was gone. The house was as still and silent as a ship deserted and adrift on a becalmed sea.
Where was the little minx? Ian might allow her to roam about at will, getting into lord knows what kind of mischief, but I felt a deep responsibility. I wanted to know where she was and what she was doing. I had no intention of letting her racket around with no supervision at all. The child was far too frisky. She wasn’t in the house. I went through every room, calling her name. She wasn’t out in the back, wasn’t in the potting shed, wasn’t in the front garden. There were no signs of her anywhere. I stood on the front steps, cool blue shadows spread over the porch behind me, staring at the hollyhocks growing haphazardly against the wall, at the untidy beds, the old tire swing hanging suspended from a branch of the tree. The gate was closed, but that didn’t mean anything. I realized I’d have to go search for the infuriating creature, and, once found, once fetched back to the house, she was going to receive a severe talking-to.
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