Midnight Whispers

by V. C. Andrews

  "It's all right, Jefferson. She won't hurt you," I promised. "I won't let her."

  "If she does," he said. "I'll run away forever." "She won't. I promise."

  Reluctantly, he put down the brush and wiped his hands on a rag.

  "Buster's going to be mad," he muttered.

  "Uncle Philip will explain what happened. Don't worry." I took his hand and we walked home.

  Aunt Bet conducted her mock trial in the living room. We were all commanded to take seats, even Uncle Philip and Mrs. Stoddard. The twins sat on the sofa and glared with simultaneous expressions of indignation and accusation at Jefferson, who sat beside me on the matching settee. If the air wasn't so filled with tension, I might have burst out laughing, for Aunt Bet paced about cross-examining everyone like Perry Mason in a courtroom. Even Uncle Philip sat back and stared up at her in fascination.

  "This terribly cruel deed was performed some time between last night and this afternoon," she began and stopped to rest her palm on the piano. "Mrs. Stoddard and I have checked the kitchen cabinet and found a nearly empty jar of honey." She nodded at Mrs. Stoddard, who then unfolded her hands to reveal the jar in her palms. "Mrs. Stoddard and I recall the jar was nearly three-quarters full. Isn't that correct, Mrs. Stoddard?"

  "Oh yes, ma'am."

  Aunt Bet smiled as if that was enough to solve the case.

  "Since Mrs. Stoddard was in the kitchen at six-fifteen this morning, whoever did this, did it before then."

  "Unless the jar was taken earlier and replaced afterward," I said. Aunt Bet's self-satisfied smile faded.

  "She's right about that, Betty Ann," Uncle Philip said, smiling at me.

  "This deed was done last night after we had all retired to our rooms," Aunt Bet insisted. "Now then," she continued, crossing the room first to pick up the dish towel lying on the floor beside the sofa and then to stand in front of Jefferson and me, "how did that dish towel get into your closet, Jefferson?"

  "I don't know," Jefferson said, shrugging.

  "Didn't you get up last night and come down here to do this to the piano?" she asked outright. Jefferson shook his head.

  "Didn't you go into the kitchen, get the jar of honey, spill it into the piano keys, put the jar back, grab this dish towel to wipe your hands, run back upstairs and throw the dish towel into your closet, hoping that no one would find it?" she followed, stabbing down at him with her questions and her accusing eyes. Jefferson shook his head and began to cry.

  "You're crying because you did it, aren't you?" she demanded. Jefferson started to cry harder. "Aren't you!" She seized his little shoulder and started to shake him. "You did this!" she screamed.

  "Leave him alone," I cried and ripped her hand off his shoulder. Jefferson threw his arms around me immediately and I hugged him and glared back at Aunt Bet. "He didn't do it. He couldn't have done it. He wouldn't do such a thing."

  She straightened up and smirked, folding her arms under her small bosom. I turned to Uncle Philip.

  "He's never gone wandering through the house alone at night, Uncle Philip. He's afraid to do that. He's just a little boy."

  "Not too little to try to destroy a valuable piano," Aunt Bet snapped.

  "He didn't. Mrs. Stoddard," I said. "Let me see that honey jar, please." She looked up at Aunt Bet who indicated it would be all right. Mrs. Stoddard handed it to me and I looked at it and then flicked a quick glance at Richard, who sat expressionless. Not even his eyes betrayed any emotion.

  "Was the jar this clean or did you wipe it off, Mrs. Stoddard?" I asked.

  "It's the way we found it," she replied.

  "Even if Jefferson did such a thing, which he didn't," I said firmly, "he would never be this neat about it. There's not a drop outside the jar."

  "That's a good point, Betty Ann," Uncle Philip said.

  "He wiped it off," she replied quickly. "With that towel he threw in his closet."

  "You can't wipe honey off a jar with a dry towel and not have it still be sticky," I insisted. "Whoever put that towel in Jefferson's closet," I said, glaring at Richard, "simply poured some honey into it and rubbed it around."

  "That's . . . that's . . . ridiculous," Aunt Bet said, but Uncle Philip didn't think so. His gaze moved swiftly toward Richard.

  "Did you do this, Richard?" he demanded.

  "Of course not, Father. Would I vandalize something?"

  "I hope not. Melanie, did Richard get up during the night and come downstairs?" Uncle Philip asked. She shifted her eyes to Richard and then back to Uncle Philip and shook her head. "Are you sure?" She nodded, but not firmly.

  Uncle Philip stared at his twins for a moment and then looked up at Aunt Bet.

  "I think we'll have to leave this where it is," he said.

  "But Philip, that piano . . ."

  "It's going to be repaired. From now on," he said, "I don't want to see anyone but Christie near it. Understand? No one is even to touch it." He glared at the twins and then turned back to Jefferson and me. Jefferson had stopped sobbing and had lifted his head from my shoulder.

  "I hafta go back and help Buster," Jefferson said.

  "Go on," Uncle Philip replied.

  "He should be punished," Aunt Bet insisted. "He should . . ."

  "He didn't do it, Aunt Bet," I cried and threw my hateful glare at Richard.

  "But he . . ."

  "Betty Ann!" Uncle Philip shouted. "Let it be," he said slowly and firmly. She bit down on her lower lip.

  "Very well," she said after a moment. "I believe we have established our unhappiness and given fair warning that if anything like this should ever happen again . . ."

  Her words were left hanging in the air. Jefferson walked out of the living room slowly, rubbing his eyes. I handed the jar of honey back to Mrs. Stoddard and the twins scurried out of the room and up the stairs like two mice who had miraculously escaped the claws of a cat.

  Aunt Bet was terribly frustrated by her failure to prove conclusively that Jefferson had vandalized the piano, and she demonstrated that frustration in many ways, the chief one being her tone of voice whenever she spoke to my little brother. Whereas she would speak softly, kindly, respectfully to the twins, she wouldn't speak to Jefferson without snapping at him and making her eyes like two cold, polished stones. She criticized him every chance she had, still finding fault with the way he ate, with what he wore and how well he washed his face and hands. She even criticized his posture and walk. If there was a smudge on a wall or a spot on the floor, it was always Jefferson's fault. Jefferson tracked in dirt; Jefferson touched things with stained hands. The peace of the day and night was continually shattered by Aunt Bet's shrill voice crying, "Jefferson Longchamp!" Her scream was always followed with some accusation.

  When I complained to her about the way she was picking on him, she gave me her small, icy smile and replied, "It's only natural for you to defend your brother, Christie, but don't be blind to his faults or he will never improve."

  "He won't make any improvements if you continue to shout at him and pick on him," I told her.

  "I don't pick on him. I point out his faults so he can concentrate on eliminating them. Just as I do with my own children."

  "Hardly," I said. "According to you, your children are perfect."

  "Christie!" she said, pulling back her shoulders as if I had slapped her. "That's impudent."

  "I don't care," I said. "I don't like being disrespectful, but I won't stand by quietly and watch you tear my little brother into pieces."

  "Oh my. . ."

  "Just stop it," I said. Even though tears flooded my eyes, my backbone straightened like a flag pole, my pride waving. All Aunt Bet could do was stutter and rush off.

  "Well . . . well . . . well," she said.

  It wasn't hard to predict that the trouble between us would not end soon. Her ego was bruised and the more Uncle Philip defended me or Jefferson, the angrier and meaner she became. Her smiles were cold and short. Often I would catch her glaring at me when she didn't t
hink I would see. Her thin lips were pursed together to become a fine line or her small nostrils flared. I knew she wasn't thinking nice thoughts about roe because blood would flood her face as if she had been caught red-handed doing something cruel.

  I put all of this in my letters to Gavin and waited for him to write back or call. When nearly a week passed and no letters arrived and he didn't phone, I phoned him to see if something was wrong.

  "No, nothing's wrong," he said. "I've written back twice."

  "I don't know why I didn't get the letters," I said.

  "The mail can be slow. Anyway, the good news is I will be coming to see you in three weeks," he said.

  "Three weeks! Oh Gavin, that sounds like three years to me," I replied. He laughed.

  "It's not. It will pass fast."

  "Maybe for you," I said, "but life here is so unpleasant now, every day seems like a week."

  "I'm sorry. I'll see what I can do to speed it up," he promised.

  Two days later, I inadvertently discovered why I hadn't received a letter from Gavin for over a week. Mrs. Stoddard had made the mistake of putting out our garbage the night before instead of early in the morning of the pick-up, and some stray dog or perhaps a squirrel had torn open a bag and strewn the contents all around the can. I got a rake from behind the house and began gathering up the debris when I happened to notice an envelope addressed to me. I stopped and picked it up.

  It was a letter from Gavin and it was dated only last week. Someone had taken it from the mailbox before I had gotten to the mail and had ripped it open to read it and then dropped it in the garbage.

  Outraged, I stormed into the house.

  The twins were sitting on the floor in the parlor playing Scrabble. Aunt Bet was reading one of her society papers and Mrs. Stoddard was in the kitchen. Uncle Philip and Jefferson were already at the hotel.

  "Who did this?" I asked and held up the letter. "Someone took my mail and threw it away."

  Aunt Bet shifted her gaze casually from the paper and looked up at me. The twins paused, both nonplussed.

  "Whatever are you talking about, Christie?" Aunt Bet asked.

  "My mail, my mail," I raged, frustrated. "Some-one took it before I could get to it and read it and threw it away."

  "I don't think anyone here would be interested in your mail, dear. It must have been thrown out by accident. Perhaps you did so yourself."

  "I did not!"

  "Christie, I must insist you stop this tantrum immediately. In our house we are not accustomed to such outbursts," she said.

  "This isn't your house! It's my house. Which of you did this?" I asked, turning on the twins. Both cowered as I stepped toward them.

  "Christie, leave them alone. They're playing so nicely," Aunt Bet warned.

  "You did this, didn't you?" I accused Richard. "I did not. I couldn't care less about your stupid mail."

  I shifted my eyes to Melanie and she looked down quickly.

  "You did it then," I said. She shook her head.

  "If they said they didn't do it, they didn't. Now are you going to stop this, or do I have to send for your uncle?" she threatened.

  "Send for the President of the United States, for all I care," I told her. "If you ever touch a piece of my mail or any of my things," I threatened Melanie, "I'll tear out your hair strand by strand."

  "Christie!"

  With that I rushed from the parlor and hurried upstairs to read the letter I had never received. That night our usually depressed dinner conversation was even more so. Every once in a while I caught Uncle Philip staring at me. Whenever I did, his lips would quiver into a small smile. Afterward, when I retired to my room for the night, he came to my door.

  "May I speak with you a moment?" he asked after he knocked softly.

  "Yes."

  "Betty Ann told me what happened today. I'm sorry someone took your mail, but you shouldn't accuse anyone unless you're sure. It's as bad as what happened to Jefferson," he added quickly.

  "Melanie looked very guilty," I said in my defense.

  "Maybe, but Jefferson looked very guilty too and had a record of committing pranks and being a nuisance. Oh, nothing as serious as vandalizing the piano, I suppose, but still . . ."

  "Someone took my letter," I moaned. "It didn't walk its way into our garbage can."

  "No, it didn't. But it might have happened by accident."

  "It was opened; it couldn't have been an accident. And there are other letters missing, too," I said. He nodded, his face tightening, his eyes growing smaller.

  "All right. I'll see what I can learn about it, but please, let's try to live in peace for a while. Okay?" he asked, smiling. "Everything's going fine with the rebuilding of the hotel. The insurance covered a lot more than I first expected. We're going to do all right and be an important family in Cutler's Cove once again."

  I wanted to tell him none of that was important to me. I didn't care if I ever walked back into that hotel. The hotel had betrayed my parents, killed them. It was never a great love of mine, but now it was something evil. But I didn't say any of this. I knew he wouldn't understand or he would stay and try to convince me otherwise.

  Instead, I did what he asked. I avoided controversies, practiced the piano and took long walks on the beach. In the evening I read, wrote my letters, spoke to some of my friends and watched some television. I had a calendar on my wall and marked off the days until Gavin's arrival. That and my music were the only reasons I got up in the morning.

  Things did quiet down and I became friendlier with Mrs. Stoddard. After all, I thought, it wasn't her fault Aunt Bet had driven Mrs. Boston away and she was asked to replace her. Jefferson got to like her more, too, and I could see she began to favor him. The twins saw it as well and before long, they were complaining about Mrs. Stoddard, and Aunt Bet was finding fault with the way she cleaned and cooked.

  No one could work for these people, I thought. They were despicable.

  I still made nocturnal gravesite visits and cried and complained to Mommy and Daddy. It usually left me feeling better. I never caught Uncle Philip there again at night, but one evening, after I had returned from the cemetery and quietly entered the house as usual, tiptoeing up the stairway, the interlude of family peace came to an abrupt and explosive end.

  Aunt Bet burst out of my room just as I reached the second floor landing.

  "Where were you?" she demanded. She had her hands behind her back as if she were holding something she didn't want me to see.

  "I went for a walk," I said. "What were you doing in my room?"

  "What walk? Where? Who did you meet? You met someone, didn't you?" she fired.

  "What?"

  "I told you," she said to Uncle Philip, who had come to their bedroom doorway. He stared out at me, not with a look of anger on his face as much as a look of genuine surprise. "You have a secret boyfriend, don't you? You meet him somewhere." She shook her head in disgust. "You're just like Fern."

  "Aunt Bet, I don't know what you're talking about, but I'd like to know why you were in my room. What do you have behind your back?" I demanded.

  She smiled gleefully and slowly brought her arms around.

  "Disgusting," she said and held out my copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover, the marker I had left in chapter ten still there.

  9

  ONE BETRAYAL TOO MANY

  "HOW DARE YOU GO SNOOPING AROUND THROUGH MY closets and drawers!" I cried. "What right do you have going into my room and looking at my things? You're not my mother! You could never be my mother!" I raged.

  Aunt Bet straightened up and lifted her head in a haughty manner. The twins came to the doorway of their bedrooms simultaneously and peered out with sleepy but curious eyes. Only Jefferson remained asleep, something for which I was thankful. He had seen and been victim of enough of Aunt Bet's actions.

  "I don't intend to be your mother, Christie, but your uncle Philip and I are your guardians now and that brings heavy responsibility with it. We're here to be su
re specifically that this sort of thing doesn't happen," she added, waving the book.

  "What sort of thing?"

  I turned to Uncle Philip, but he continued to stare at me with this amazed look on his face.

  "The same sort of improper behavior your aunt Fern is famous for by now," she replied coldly. "I know how you so-called modern teenage girls carry on," she said nodding. "You're far more promiscuous than girls were when I was your age."

  "That's not true . . . at least it isn't true for me," I replied.

  "Really?" She smiled coldly. "Then why did you mark off these particular passages in this obscene book?" she asked, opening it. I felt my face turn crimson. "Would you like me to read the passages out loud?"

  "No! Fern marked those passages. She gave me the book for my birthday as a mean joke. I've never even looked at it again since then."

  "Isn't this your primer, your textbook on sexual behavior? Did you get ideas from it and then sneak out at night to practice them with some town boy?" she asked in a tone of accusation.

  "I didn't meet anyone!" I said, but she wasn't listening to me any longer. She was off and running on her own train of thought, regardless of what I or anyone else would say.

  "I often told Philip that Dawn and Jimmy were losing their grip on Fern. It got so they couldn't control her any longer and she continued and continues to get into serious trouble at school. It's a wonder she isn't pregnant yet," Aunt 1et concluded. "Now you're following in her dirty footsteps."

  "I am not!"

  "Only I won't stand for it," she said, ignoring my denial. "I won't be as weak and forgiving as Dawn was. After all, your uncle's reputation and mine are now forever tied to yours. What you do with yourself is no longer only your concern. Your actions reflect on us, too."

  "I haven't done anything wrong!" I cried, the tears now streaming freely down my cheeks.

  "And you won't. I forbid you to read this sort of prurient material in my house," she said.

  "Your house?" I muttered. In her mind she had taken over Jefferson's and my lives completely, taken over our home, our possessions, our very thoughts.