Naked Once More (18 page)

There was no doubt in her mind but that someone had intended her to fall. It would have been safe to assume that she would climb those stairs eventually, compelled, if not by a quest for the bathroom, by the insatiable curiosity that was one of her best-known characteristics. But a fall couldn’t have seriously injured her. The ceilings were low, the floor was wood, not stone or cement. At worst, a broken limb or a mild concussion.… At best, a healthy scare. Best from her point of view, at any rate. The motive of the unknown and incompetent carpenter eluded her. There were too many possibilities—too many people who might have reasons for wishing her away from Kathleen’s cottage and Kathleen’s book. Whoever it was, he didn’t know J. Kirby very well if he thought she could be frightened so easily.

As she ate her sandwich, she considered her morning’s labors. Some of the material she had hoped to find was in the boxes: notes and several rough drafts of
Naked in the Ice.
By her own admission, Kathleen had not found plotting easy. She had told one interviewer that when she sat down at her typewriter she never knew what was going to happen next. The rough drafts Jacqueline had found bore this out. There were no less than six versions of some sections, the original typewritten text so obscured by cross-outs and additions that it was almost unreadable.

Jacqueline had never worked that way. The entire outline was clear in her mind before she began writing; she did very little revision. She knew other writers, though, who followed Kathleen’s technique, insisting they couldn’t do it any other way. “The characters take over,” one friend had claimed. “They do things you didn’t expect them to do, and then you have to go back and explain why they did them.” Jacqueline had sniffed at this. Her characters did precisely what she told them to. She would never have permitted anything less.

The one thing that was missing from the collection of papers was the thing Jacqueline had hoped most to find. There were no references to the sequel, unless the barely decipherable notes in one folder labeled “Ideas” contained them.

Jacqueline put this folder and a few of the others into one of the empty cartons she had brought. She had now done her duty as a writer. It was still early; there was plenty of time for the other investigation she had intended to make.

She started with the desk. It contained only the desiccated remains of office supplies: dried-up pens, flaking typewriter ribbons, rotted carbon and paper. Jacqueline lingered over them longer than she should have, with the specious excuse that they cast an intriguing light on Kathleen’s personality. She had been a real pack rat. A box of rubber bands had not been purchased, but saved, from various sources. Two drawers were stuffed with padded mailing envelopes, all addressed to Kathleen and thriftily stored away for reuse. And tucked into a bottom drawer were Kathleen’s toys: books of Double-Crostics, colored pencils and sketching paper, and a box of crayons. The big box, sixty-four colors in all.

Jacqueline opened it. The tips were worn down, but they were all there, even those aristocrats among crayons, the silver and gold and bronze. A long-forgotten memory seized her, sharp as pain: the first day of school, the brand-new ankle socks and Mary Janes, the bright uncreased ribbon to tie her hair. The bag of school supplies. Yellow pencils with points sharp as needles, notebooks with clean white paper, and the new box of Crayolas, brilliant as a rainbow. Forty-eight colors if you had been a good girl, sixty-four if you had an indulgent daddy or mom. The thrill of coloring the queen’s crown in your drawing “real” gold; it didn’t look like gold, really, but you knew it was, and your most hated classmate, Betsy with the naturally curly blond hair, didn’t have gold in her box.

Jacqueline tossed the crayons back in the drawer and closed it. Her face wore an unusually thoughtful expression as she crossed to the filing cabinet and opened the top drawer.

The sun was low in the sky, pouring golden floods of light through the dusty western window, when she came out of a fog of concentration and wondered what had disturbed it. Sounds of protest from her ever-demanding stomach? No. The sound had come from outside the cottage.

She looked at the window. Something looked back at her.

All she could make out was a pair of eyes, bright and wary as those of an animal. A tracery of thorny branches obscured the other features as effectively as a mask might have done.

Jacqueline’s eyes shifted. She had excellent peripheral vision. Moving slowly, she rose to her feet, stretched, and glanced at her hands. Tsk, tsk, how dirty they were. She must wash her dusty, grubby hands.

Without looking again at the window, she went through the connecting door and into the bathroom. Its single small window was of frosted glass. Behind it, a shadow shifted. Jacqueline smiled unpleasantly and turned on the tap in the basin. Then she flushed the toilet. As soon as the water began to gurgle, she ran for the back door.

The key in her pants pocket unlocked it, but the stiffness of the rusted mechanism alerted the Peeping Tom. When Jacqueline emerged she saw a figure in full retreat. Her legs were longer; before it could reach the concealment of the trees she caught a flapping shirttail. “Don’t run,” she gasped. “I just want—”

The shirttail was of good solid denim, otherwise it would have torn away, so furious were the child’s attempts to free herself. She didn’t kick or bite; but one flailing fist caught Jacqueline on the nose and infuriated her as only a blow on that sensitive spot can do. She enveloped the child in a tight, unaffectionate embrace, and it must be admitted that her comments were unsuitable for youthful ears. The child began to scream. Her voice was high and terrified, like that of a trapped rabbit. “Oh, shit,” said Jacqueline, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Between the tears of pain that blinded her and her concentration on her squirming captive, she didn’t hear him approach. His long fingers twisted around her arm and pulled her away from the little girl. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded roughly.

Jacqueline groped for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “He towered over her, fists clenched, straight brows meeting in the trough of frown lines between his eyes.” Kathleen’s brooding, Byronic villain had eyebrows like those.…

The child clung to him. Jacqueline had recognized her; Marybee, the eldest of the Smith children. Marybee wasn’t frowning, Marybee wasn’t frightened. She was trying not to laugh. Brat, Jacqueline thought.

“Still asking questions, Mr. Spencer?” she said. “The answer should be obvious. I was trying to catch the child so I could carry her back to my lair and torture her. I thought first I’d tie her to the chair and let the mice nibble on her.”

The child stuck her tongue out. Jacqueline returned the compliment; at an earlier stage in her life she had been able to touch the tip of her nose with her tongue, and the effect was still impressive. Defeated, Marybee retired hers.

“She was snooping,” Jacqueline said. “Peeking at me through the window. All I could see was a pair of squinty eyes. It was unnerving.” She turned her flinty stare on Marybee. “That was not a nice thing to do. If I had been a sweet nervous little old lady—”

“You’re not any sweet little old lady,” said Marybee.

“Damn right. I just wanted to talk to you, Marybee. Why did you run away?”

Paul tousled the child’s dark curls. “She’s a little shy. And she was curious about you, as any kid would be. She’d been told not to bother you. As for running—wouldn’t you run if some infuriated adult came barreling after you, yelling and swearing?”

“I wasn’t swearing. Then.” Jacqueline inspected him from head to foot. He looked just as good as he had the first time—spare, muscled, poised. It made a touching picture: the sweet-faced child clinging to him, his hand gentle on her head.

“What are you doing here?” Jacqueline asked.

“Working.”

“Still?”

“Yard work isn’t a one-season job, Ms. City Slicker. St. John wants the place spruced up. A lot of the work—clearing, planting bulbs, mulching—gets done in the fall.”

And, Jacqueline thought, what a perfect cover that work could be for a snoop. He has a valid excuse for being anywhere he likes. All he needs is a pair of pruning shears or a shovel in his hand.

However, she doubted that Paul Spencer had been the one who gimmicked the stairs. He would have done a much neater job; the man fairly exuded competence. Marybee? Most adults would have scorned to suspect an innocent child, but Jacqueline had had too much experience with the young to doubt their capacity for dirty tricks or their ability to carry out their plans. Marybee was a country kid, raised on a farm, familiar with tools. And children—to give them the benefit of the doubt—were often unable to comprehend fully the dire effects that might follow a practical joke. Look at the ghastly things the little devils did to each other.…

Paul may have known what she was thinking. He sounded almost apologetic when he went on, “I was mulching the perennial borders when I heard Marybee scream. Naturally I came running. I didn’t recognize you in that outfit, with your hair covered; all I saw was a tall figure in pants trying, as it appeared, to throttle the kid.”

“She hit me on the nose.”

“You scared her worse than she—”

“I doubt that. But I’m willing to call it square if she is.” She stooped so that her eyes were on a level with those of the child. “It’s true I don’t like to be disturbed when I’m working, Marybee. But I don’t blame you for being curious. I’m—er—a little that way myself. Suppose we make a deal. Next time, come to the front door and knock. If I’m not in the mood for company I won’t answer it, and you can quietly steal away.”

“Okay.” The tone was grudging, but the response came more promptly than Jacqueline had expected. She stood up. “I’ll probably be here again tomorrow. Join me for lunch, if you like. I’ll bring an extra sandwich. Peanut butter?”

The child made a face. “Yuck. Ham and cheese.”

“Do you prefer mayo or Grey Poupon?” Jacqueline inquired.

Paul Spencer laughed. “Run along, Marybee. We’ll have a little talk on the subject of manners later.”

He and Jacqueline stood side by side watching the child scamper off. The sunlight woke russet shadows in her flying curls.

“Does she spend a lot of time here?” Jacqueline asked.

“She lives right across the road. It’s all part of the farm; Kathleen gave the house to Laurie and Earl for a wedding present.”

“I’m surprised Earl would accept it.”

“The place was in bad shape, it hadn’t been lived in for years. Earl fixed it up; put in new plumbing and wiring. Kathleen… Kathleen was good at handling people. She could always make them feel they were doing her a favor, instead of the other way around.”

Jacqueline was conscious of a new surge of profound sympathy for the author of
Naked in the Ice.
It was hard enough to write a book—even a lousy book, much less one of such quality—without being constantly distracted by personal and family problems. Kathleen’s family was no worse than most, she supposed. Children and husbands, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers found it impossible to accept that the needs of a writer—especially a woman writer—could take precedence over their petty demands. But by all accounts Kathleen had not been good at standing up for her rights. They must have worn her to a nub with their hurt feelings and their sensitivities and their constant calls on her time. Tact was so tiring. That was why Jacqueline had given it up.

“I expect you want to get back to work,” Paul said. “Sorry you were disturbed. I’ll try to see it doesn’t happen again.”

He left her before she could reply, walking with a long, swinging stride. Jacqueline watched him; the play of muscle under the fabric of shirt and pants was lovely to behold, but that was not the only thing that brought a curious half-smile to her lips.

Marybee Smith and Paul Spencer. There was an odd couple for you. Paul must be closer to the family—or some branches of it—than he had implied. The little girl looked a lot like her aunt. Did that explain Paul’s fondness for her?

The sun was setting when Jacqueline locked the door of the cottage and pocketed the key. Then she considered the carton she had brought with her. It was half-full of papers and weighed a ton, but she decided she might as well wrestle it to the car instead of trying to bring the car to it. She hoisted it, grunting, and started walking. There was no sign of Paul; evidently he had quit work for the day. She regretted that, for she could have used some help. The box got heavier with every step. She had to stop several times to rest. She was about to lift it for the third time when Craig Two appeared around the corner of the house.

“Why, Mrs. Kirby.” His searching glance didn’t miss a flaw—the smudges on her face, the witch-locks that had escaped from her scarf, the dusty knees and seat of her pants. “What on earth are you doing? St. John sent me to look for you, he’s expecting you for tea.”

Jacqueline straightened and brushed the hair from her forehead. She had not considered it worthwhile to make herself beautiful for St. John; but her appearance, not to mention the action in which she had been caught, put her at a decided disadvantage with Craig. Jacqueline did not like being put at a disadvantage.

“I am, as should be obvious, trying to carry this carton to my car. Would you care to give me a hand?”

“Why, certainly. I’d be more than happy to.” Craig hoisted the carton to his shoulder. “Did you carry this all the way from the cottage? I don’t know which to admire more, your dedication or your strength.”

“Just put it in the trunk, please,” Jacqueline said between her teeth.

She opened the trunk. Craig dumped the carton in, and gave her a brilliant smile. “I’ll want a receipt for these, of course.”

Jacqueline’s smile was just as brilliant. “Of course.” She dug into her purse and handed him a closely written list.

Feeling much more pleased with herself, she marched toward the house. Craig followed, catching up with her in time to open the door. St. John was waiting; he pounced, with little cries of delight and sympathy. “What you need, my dear Jacqueline, is a nice hot cup of tea. Come in, come in. Take that chair. Let me get you a footstool. What do you take in your tea? Poor lady, you look exhausted.”