The job accomplished, I carried the empty suitcases down the hall and stored them in the enormous, incredibly cluttered closet beneath the attic stairs. Liz had already left for her dancing lesson and Keith seemed to have disappeared, but I could hear Ian banging about in his bedroom across the hall. I stepped over to his doorway.
“Need any help?”
Ian was piling clothes helter-skelter into the large brown leather suitcase spread open on the bed. He looked up, disgruntled, shook his head and muttered something about missing socks. My brother was pitifully inept when it came to anything as mundane as packing, a fact clearly evidenced by the jumble of clothes in the bag. I took over, emptying out the clothes and repacking them neatly while he looked on with a helpless expression, a dozen brightly colored ties draped over his arm. I took the ties, put them on top of the other things and closed the suitcase.
“I don’t know how I get along without you,” he remarked thoughtfully. “You can see how much we need you.”
“You all ready now?” I inquired, ignoring that last remark.
“I’ve got to shower and change, still have to get my papers in order. I’ll be ready in plenty of time. Becky shown up yet?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“If she’s snooping again I’ll tan her bottom, I swear it.”
“Snooping?”
“That’s her new thing. She wants to work for Scotland Yard, fancies herself a detective. In a moment of weakness I bought her a fingerprinting kit. Now she spends all her time dusting for prints, prowling around the neighborhood, peeking into windows, snooping. She wears my old deerstalker cap and carries a magnifying glass.”
“It sounds innocent enough,” I remarked.
“Not the way Becky goes about it! She spies on people, jots down notes on what she sees. God knows what she’s got in that notebook of hers. It’s a wonder I’m not completely gray.”
“At least it’s better than shooting that dreadful pistol,” I replied. “I was horrified when I learned about that caper.”
Becky’s enthusiasms were as ardent as her sister’s, if somewhat different in nature. Last year it had been target practice. Discovering Ian’s military pistol in the attic, she had splurged all her allowance money on ammunition and spent hours in the fields behind the house, shooting at old tin cans and, in the process, becoming a crack shot. Now it was detective work. I wondered why Ian’s children couldn’t be interested in normal things like dolls and roller skates and trains and the telly? Such a precocious trio. No wonder he couldn’t find anyone else to stay with them.
“Has she gotten into trouble?” I asked.
“Not yet, but some of the neighbors have called to complain. If the minx shows up, hold onto her, will you?”
“I will, pet. Don’t forget the bathroom sink. It’s making the most unnerving noise—”
I went downstairs, wandered through the rooms on a rather pensive inspection tour and, passing through the kitchen, stepped outside. The sun was high now, pouring radiant beams over the pear trees and the untidy gardens and the decrepit old potting shed. The back lawn was enclosed by stone walls on either side, sweeping down to a line of trees at the foot of the property. Through their thick brown trunks I could see the open fields beyond, a bright haze of goldenrod and sunflowers. We were on the very outskirts of town. I had taken many a walk over those fields, had spent many hours exploring the woods further on.
As I stood admiring the brazen orange marigolds and the purple, white and blue hyacinths, listening to the lazy drone of bees and the raucous cry of a scolding bluejay, I was suddenly aware of someone watching me. Turning, I saw the gnarled old pear tree with branches reaching over the wall on the right side of the lawn and, behind it, a round face with enormous blue eyes, turned-up nose and stern pink mouth, framed by short, tattered, tawny gold locks and, apparently, dismembered like the face of the Cheshire cat, chin resting on top of the wall. The eyes, sly and secretive, continued to stare at me, and then the mouth split into a wide grin and two chubby hands appeared, one on either side of the face, soon followed by a short, rotund little body disgracefully attired in scuffed tennis shoes, faded jeans and an ancient, short-sleeved jersey with horizontal brown-and-yellow stripes. The deerstalker and magnifying glass were not in evidence this morning, although I noticed a small leatherbound notebook crammed into her hip pocket.
Cool, disinterested, I appeared not to notice as my niece swung over the wall and dropped to the ground with the grace of a plump tabby cat. She jammed her hands into the pockets of her jeans, cocked her head to one side and sauntered over. I pretended to be startled, and the audacious creature snickered. Four feet five, much too round, she looked like a well-fed urchin, her cheeks rosy and glowing with robust health despite the deplorable smudges of dirt.
“Who are you,” I asked sharply, “and what are you doing in this yard?”
“Don’t-ya know me?”
“Certainly not! I don’t number among my acquaintances anyone with such a dirty face. You’d better run along, little girl. I don’t associate with riffraff.”
“Aw, go on,” she said. “You know who I am. You’re just joshing me, Janie.”
“You know my name?”
“’Course I do.”
“Well, I don’t know yours,” I retorted, all offended dignity. “I don’t know where you came from, but I suggest you return promptly and without further argument. I have a nasty temper.”
“No you don’t. You never lose your cool, no matter how naughty we are. Sometimes I wonder how you could possibly be related to Daddy. He doesn’t know what the word cool means, poor fellow. Always on a rampage. Perhaps you’re not his sister at all. They could have made a mistake at the hospital, maybe.”
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“You know very well who I am.”
“I beg to differ with you. I do have a niece about your age, but she would never wear such hideous clothes or allow her face to be so grimy. I suppose you’re one of the neighborhood children,” I added. “Run along now, child. I’m trying to meditate.”
She gazed up at me, half convinced I really didn’t recognize her, and then she snickered again and tugged at my hand.
“You’re silly, Janie.”
“Rebecca?”
“Of course I’m Rebecca. You knew it all along.”
“But this is shocking,” I protested. “How could he allow you to run loose in such a wretched state. Has he no pride? You must bathe at once and change into some decent clothes.”
“Why?” she asked defiantly.
“Because I’m driving your father to the airport in a little while,” I replied, “and I’ll allow no one to go with me who doesn’t at least have a clean face.”
“I was clean earlier,” she said thoughtfully, “but I went over to have breakfast with Mrs. Ward and she asked me to help carry some things up to her attic. It’s a fascinating attic, crammed with super things to look at. She let me prowl around.”
“How is Mrs. Ward?” I inquired.
“You knew her when you were a little girl, too, didn’t you? She’s just fine, although her bowels aren’t what they used to be. She drinks a special tea, spicy and delicious. Now and then she lets me have a cup, even if I don’t have those problems. Old people are nice, aren’t they?”
“Most of them.”
“Mrs. Ward’s nice, deep down. She’s cranky and snaps a lot, but that’s because of her bowels, you see, and her rheumatism. Everyone thinks she’s an old dragon, but she isn’t, not when you get to know her. She’s lonely, and lonely people act funny sometimes. Anyway, I think she’s ripping. We have smashing card games. She cheats, of course, but she always keeps a tray of little iced cakes on hand, so I don’t mind too much.”
Becky sighed and heaved her shoulders in a philosophical shrug. I had a great impulse to gather her up in my arms and give her a tight squeeze, but caution prevailed. Tough and independent, young Rebecca grew testy at the least sign of demonstra
tiveness, hackles rising immediately. There were rare occasions when she would inexplicably snuggle up in one’s lap and display an almost heartbreaking puppydog sweetness, but these occasions were of her own choosing, at her own whim. She had a most affectionate nature, basically, but it was usually kept well hidden behind a rugged, thorny facade. Brushing a tattered gold lock from pink, begrimed cheek, she looked up at me now with practical blue eyes.
“How long are you staying?” she asked.
“Two weeks. Until your father returns.”
“That’ll be super. We’re having a crime wave in Abbotstown.”
“Indeed?” I was quite accustomed to these abrupt changes of subject.
“The police are confounded,” she informed me. “In the past six weeks there’ve been a whole rash of robberies and housebreakings. Several woman have had their purses snatched in broad daylight, too. Then there was the murder.”
“Murder?”
“One of the chaps from the university was found in a vacant field with his neck broken. One of the most popular boys at the school. There was no apparent motive for the vicious and brutal slaying. That’s what the papers called it, a vicious and brutal slaying.”
“Dear me. Abbotstown is usually so peaceful.”
“The police say there’s a gang of hoods at work. Daddy says it’s the radical element at the university. But why should they want to steal? Most of them are quite well-to-do. I wonder if girls can be employed by Scotland Yard?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“I don’t mean to type and take shorthand. I mean to catch crooks. I’d like to do that, wouldn’t you?”
“Gracious no. I’d be terrified.”
“I suppose you would,” Becky agreed. “You’re a softie. Most girls are. Someone tried to snatch Mrs. Ward’s purse the other day. She whacked him over the head with her cane and he ran away empty-handed. She lodged a complaint at the station and wrote a letter to the paper saying the streets have become unsafe for decent folks and civic-minded people should do something about this epidemic of crime as the police are such ninnies. I loved that bit about the police. It’s true, you know. They haven’t arrested a single culprit.”
“No?”
“They’re confounded. I’ve been doing a bit of investigation of my own, actually, but so far I haven’t any real leads. He was found in those fields back there, you know, the boy who was murdered. Right near the woods. Maybe there’ll be another murder while you’re here.”
“I think, pet, that you’d better forget about murder and run inside and clean up. If you intend to ride to the airport with me, that is.”
Scowling, jamming her hands back into jean pockets, she sauntered into the house with shoulders rolling, looking for all the world like a miniature Rugby player. I lingered outside, staring at the fields just visible through the tree trunks, golden and lovely, splattered with sunlight. A body discovered out there? Murder? A crime wave in Abbotstown? It didn’t seem possible, not here, not in this quiet, peaceful university town. But then, I reasoned, Becky was probably exaggerating. No doubt nine-tenths of it was her vivid imagination at work. There was certainly no reason why I should feel this vague sense of alarm. Other towns might be subject to crime waves, but not Abbotstown. It was too absurd to contemplate.
I went back inside and, in due course, Liz returned from her dancing lesson, Keith suddenly materialized with ink-stained fingers and a roll of blueprints under his arm, and Becky reappeared with clean cheeks and wearing a slightly less-tattered outfit. Ian came racing downstairs with his suitcase, hair atumble, eyes frantic, raving about some important documents that were, it seemed, hopelessly lost. The five of us spent a frenzied ten minutes searching, Ian yelling, Liz hysterical, Becky prowling about like Sherlock Holmes. Keith, calm as ever, finally located them on the piano rack amongst the sheet music.
“Who the hell put them there!” Ian roared.
“You must be responsible, luv,” Liz told him. “None of us are interested in your bloody papers.”
“I’d be glad to dust them for fingerprints,” Becky volunteered.
“You and your bloody fingerprints,” Liz said. “She took all our prints with that messy ink, Janie, and now you can hardly pick up a glass without her snatching it out of your hand and dusting it with that soddy powder.”
“Your language, young lady!” her father warned.
“Furthermore,” Liz continued, “I want to know what you did with my castanets. If you’ve lost them—”
“I haven’t touched your soddy castanets,” Becky retorted.
“You too!” Ian shouted.
“Really, Daddy,” Liz said, “you should learn to control yourself.”
We finally piled into the car, and Ian insisted that I get behind the wheel. Throughout the twenty-mile drive to the airport he gave me a lecture on the uses of the various buttons and devices that confronted me in a glittering array, told me how to change gears, how to pass, how to avoid running off the road. In the back seat, Liz chattered about Lola Montez and Ludwig of Bavaria, Becky expounded on her latest theory about the murder, and Keith unperturbedly studied the blueprints he had brought along. I’ll never know how we avoided a smashup, but we eventually reached our destination, saw Ian off and, as his plane disappeared into the blue, started the journey back to Abbotstown. Liz warned me to watch out for lorries. Becky suggested we stop at a sweet shop. Keith told his sisters to shut up.
“Yes, pets, do,” I said. “Your auntie’s a bit nervous.”
“Think you can take two weeks of it?” Keith asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m beginning to wonder.”
4
I wasn’t at all surprised to find the cupboard practically bare. My brother naturally wouldn’t have thought of anything so domestic as putting in a supply of groceries. Liz, grumbling, protesting that a woman my age should be able to at least boil water, prepared a rather dismal lunch of hard-boiled eggs and sliced-tongue sandwiches, and afterwards I decided I’d best go to the grocery store and do a bit of shopping. Becky had gone out again, deerstalker on her head, enormous magnifying glass in her hand, and Keith was in the potting shed, designing a supersonic plane. Liz declined to go with me, preferring to experiment with some new pots of makeup she’d purchased at Boots the day before, so, around two, I left the house and drove to the grocer’s a short distance away, near the university.
I parked the car under a huge spreading oak, locked it and crossed the street. During the next thirty minutes I bought a plentiful supply of frozen things and tinned meats—items probably most un-nutritious but quite simple to prepare. If Liz rebelled and I was stuck with the cooking, I intended to make things as easy on myself as possible. Clutching two enormous brown bags full of groceries, I left the store and returned to the car. It sagged miserably in the back, the right rear tire a mass of flat, spongy rubber.
“Damn!” I exclaimed.
Just what I needed, a flat tire. I hadn’t the foggiest notion how to go about changing it. What did one do? I stood there frowning, staring at the tire with a helpless expression. The frozen things were beginning to thaw. I unlocked the door and put the bags in the back seat, closed the door again and sighed. I supposed I could call a service station or, even better, I could walk back to the house and fetch Keith. He would know what to do, surely. This wasn’t my day. Not at all.
“Trouble?”
I hadn’t heard the man approaching. I turned to find him standing beside me, arms folded across his chest. Wearing tennis shoes, tight, faded jeans and a gray sweat shirt with the sleeves shoved up over his forearms, he was in his late twenties, I judged, and incredibly handsome with that dark complexion and blond hair. His deep brown eyes were amused, and the generous mouth curved in a warm, affable smile.
“Looks flat,” he remarked.
“As the proverbial pancake,” I said bitterly.
“Need some help?”
“I—no, thank you. I can handle i
t.”
“Intend to change it yourself?”
“I’ll fetch my nephew.”
“Keith? No need for that. I can change it in no time. You’re Janie, aren’t you?”
“How did you know my name?”
“I didn’t, actually. It was just an intelligent guess. I recognized the car. The kids told me you were coming to stay with them, so I assumed you must be who you are.”
I knew who he was then. He couldn’t be anyone else. The sweat shirt, the tennis shoes, the glow of robust health. Ron Hunter smiled again, and I wondered how such a magnificent male could still be a bachelor. He was well over six feet tall, gloriously built, with the easy athletic grace of a Spartan warrior. Excessively male, his features were nevertheless almost pretty. The high flat cheekbones, the cleft chin might have been the work of a romantic sculptor.
“You’re Ron,” I said.
“Ron Hunter, at your service. The kids have talked about me?”
“Incessantly. You’ve made quite a hit with them.”
“Not with Becky,” he amended.
“Becky doesn’t make friends easily. She’s a thorny little thing, most antisocial.”
“So I’ve noticed,” he said, chuckling quietly. “No fear. I’ll win her over yet.”
One would have expected him to have a deep, hearty voice. It wasn’t. It was smooth and mellifluous, almost caressing, a soft masculine music. I could have listened to it for hours.
“I understand you’re going to be staying for two weeks.”
I nodded, entranced by that voice.
“That’s super. We’re bound to see a lot of each other.”
“Oh?”
“I’m a very neighborly fellow.”
It was just mild flirtation, of course, merely a form of friendliness, but those warm brown eyes gazed at me with a disconcerting intensity, and the smile still lingered on his lips. Ron Hunter was undeniably sensual, a man who enjoyed his maleness, who appreciated women. He was appreciating me at the moment. I was flattered, feeling extremely feminine and glad I was still wearing the summery dress. He was one of the most appealing men I had ever encountered.
Meet a Dark Stranger Page 4