Wherever Lynn Goes (4 page)

Twilight was descending when I stepped outside. Tired and content, I caught my bus home, settling down beside an open window and staring out as we passed across the city.

For no apparent reason, I began to think about Aunt Daphne, perhaps because I had mentioned her to Lloyd earlier in the day. I wondered how the old girl was. Months had passed since I had last seen her, and that had been an extremely trying occasion. She had come up to London on some vague business, and by the time I met her for lunch she was already well soused with gin. Her hair was newly hennaed, and she wore high-buttoned shoes and a purple crepe dress. Around her neck was wrapped a tattered fox furpiece, one fox biting the tail of the other, both incredibly dusty, and she carried an ebony cane. As cantankerous and shrill as ever, determined to be a character, she had downed three more gins, ranted about her malicious neighbors in Devon, and informed me, bluntly, that I looked like a harlot in my too-short skirt. Realizing that she was a lonely old woman with little to do, I could be tolerant of her now, even fond of her after a fashion, but life had been sheer hell when I had lived with her as a child.

The bus rumbled ponderously down a cobblestone street with much shifting of gears, stopping in front of a pub to take on more passengers and let others off. As we moved on, I thought about those distant days when I had run wild through the woods, hunting birds' nests, climbing trees, studying nature and responding to it like some wild creature. Aunt Daphne had been delighted to have me out of the way. If she wasn't writing vicious letters to the local newspaper or filing a lawsuit against someone who'd irritated her, she was riding to hounds in scarlet jacket and ancient jodhpurs, her face bright pink, her voice ringing lustily over the countryside. She was a local character, something of a legend in the nearby village, a raucous, indomitable, flamboyant old girl who was a colorful figure in an age of conformity.

I had had few friends, for, while not an aristocrat, and certainly not wealthy, I was, according to Daphne, much too good to associate with the village riffraff. My days were spent in the woods or curled up in front of a crackling fire with a book. Although she never read anything but the racing sheets, Aunt Daphne housed a splendid library, inherited from a distant relative who had been a professor of history. It was in that dusty, leathery-smelling room that I had first developed my love of the past. If I couldn't play with the local children, I could at least associate with kings and countesses and knaves, however vicariously.

There
had
been one boy, I recalled, an insufferable young savage who roamed the woods as freely as I did, looking like a gypsy child with his deep tan, unruly black locks, and lithe, slender body. I couldn't remember his name, but he had been four years my senior and, I seemed to recall, the son of a neighboring Lord. He teased me without mercy, delighted in creeping up behind me and letting out a pirate yell, waving his wooden sword in the air with bloodthirsty relish. I had avoided him whenever possible, and when he finally went away to school I had the woods to myself again and was able to roam freely without fear of being seized in muscular arms or chased across the river. What was his name? Oh well, it wasn't important. I hadn't thought about him in years. He would be thirty now, probably a solid member of the House of Lords.

When I got off the bus, three blocks away from the flat, it was already night. Hugging my books against my breast, large purse swinging from my arm, I walked down the murky street. Lights burned in only a few windows, and cats prowled around shadowy front steps. Up ahead a street lamp burned, shedding a warm yellow pool over the corner, intensifying the darkness. The neighborhood wasn't terribly respectable, but neither was it dangerous. No one had ever bothered me when I came home late from work.

Deftly eluding Mrs. Wellington, who lurked behind her open door, I went upstairs. As it was after dark, dim electric light seeped over the stairs, with just enough illumination to reveal the worn blue carpet and faded gray wallpaper with violet nosegays. The living-room lights were blazing as I opened the door, and Mandy was pacing up and down, looking terribly upset.

“I've been
distraught!
” she cried.

“Whatever for?” I asked calmly. Mandy was frequently dramatic.

“It's so
late
, Lynn, and when you didn't come—”

I shook my head, relieving myself of books and purse.

“I lost track of time at the library,” I told her, “and the bus was unusually slow. There was no need to
worry
, Mandy.”

“I expected you back hours ago. You mustn't
do
these things. You know how nervous I've been since those calls began—”

I raised my eyes heavenward. Mandy pushed back a lock of tawny gold hair. She was wearing a girlish pink dress with puffed sleeves, low neckline, and tight bodice, the skirt full and swirling. On her it looked chic and sophisticated.

“I thought you were going out,” I remarked.

“I'd planned to, but last night was too much. I phoned Reggie and told him to tell Dave and Michael to count me out tonight. Riverboat parties are rather old hat Besides, I get seasick every time the deck tilts the least little bit. I thought we'd eat in this evening.”

“You don't plan to
cook?
” I asked, alarmed.

“Of course not, pet. I popped down to that funny little restaurant on the corner and had them box up some things. There's sliced pork and chicken and the most peculiar-looking little sausages, two kinds of salad, potatoes, bread, and cheesecake, too. I was feeling madly extravagant. The postman brought another check—residuals.”

Maisie the Milkmaid might never bring her thunderous applause or critical acclaim, but the commercials did bring in a steady if unspectacular income that permitted her to remain unemployed for long periods of time without fretting. They also brought in a steady supply of Delicious Dairy Milk, which both of us had learned to hate.

We had a festive meal, strewing the table with cardboard boxes and wax paper. Mandy chattered on about a visit to her agent's office. He was highly respected, with a string of very successful clients, but Mandy's cavalier attitude drove the poor man wild with frustration. When her bank balance was sufficient, she constantly turned down lucrative jobs that would have given her career a boost, only to take on a small part in a certain flop when funds were running low. Since Maisie, she had worked even less, while less-talented actresses made great strides in roles she'd rejected.

I spent the next two hours typing up the notes I had taken that afternoon, putting them away in a mottled gray cardboard filing box. I sat at my desk a while longer, toying with pencils and a blue glass jar, thinking about the immediate future. In a short while all my research would be complete and I could get down to the actual writing. I contemplated renting a small cottage on the Cornish coast where I could work in peace. Thanks to Ashton-Croft's generous advance, I could afford it, and it would be lovely to take long strolls over the moors early in the morning and devote my days to a routine of hard work and blissful solitude. Sighing, I pulled the cover over my decrepit old typewriter, tidied up the desk, and prepared for bed.

Freshly showered, I stepped into the living room in pajamas and robe. Mandy was lounging on the sofa, long legs propped up and her head resting on a cushion. An empty teacup and a box of sweet biscuits were on the floor beside her, and, still wearing the pink dress, she was reading contentedly. The front of the book jacket depicted an amazingly proportioned blonde being strangled by a dark, handsome chap in black overcoat, while the photograph on the back showed an author sinister enough to have posed for the villain, with disheveled raven hair, brooding eyes, and wide, cynical mouth.

“
Kill Me with Kindness,
” I read. “Is it good?”

“Smashing. Brad Carter's ever so clever. I adore his books.”

“He's certainly attractive.”

“Isn't he though,” she replied, glancing at the photograph. She sat up and put the book aside.

“Did Lloyd call while I was in the shower?”

“Afraid not, pet.”

“It's just ten thirty. Perhaps he'll still call.”

“Well, pet,” Mandy said, getting to her feet and stretching lazily, “it's a long hot bath and then bed for me. I have to look especially fresh and wholesome in the morning. They're opening a new Dairy Bar at eleven and want Maisie to put in a personal appearance and cut the ribbon. It'll be absolute chaos, of course, packed with gabbing matrons in flowered hats and nasty, noisy children with balloons and lollipops, climbing all over the platform and trying to ride the papier-mâché cow. It never fails. Anyway, I musn't disappoint my public.”

The telephone rang before I could reply. Certain that it was Lloyd, I hurried to answer it. Screeching, buzzing static met my ear, as though I were listening in on a distant electrical storm. “Hello,” I said, but there was no reply, just that scratchy, crackling noise. I frowned, puzzled by the uproar, and when she saw my expression Mandy grew tense, hurrying over to stand nervously at my side.

“Who
is
it?” she whispered.

“I don't know. No one—”

“Hang
up
, Lynn!”

“Long distance,” a metallic voice said over the storm. “Am I speaking to Miss Lynn Morgan?”

“This is she.”

“One moment please.”

The static grew worse. It sounded like a roomful of yowling cats now, rising and swelling until I had to hold the receiver away from my ear. Then I heard a voice that managed to be slurred and shrill at the same time. “Are you
there!
” it cried. “Answer me!”

“Aunt Daphne?” I said, barely recognizing her voice.

“These operators are totally shiftless! Took me forever to get through, and this is an emergency! Lynn, I've got to—” The line crackled worse than ever, completely drowning out her voice. I couldn't understand a word she said, but she kept right on talking, muffled and distant, a mere background to the static.

“Aunt Daphne,” I interrupted. “I can't hear you. What is it? Are you in some kind of—”

The static stopped abruptly. The line was absolutely clear. Her voice rose with hysteria. “—here now. I have to talk to you. I have to tell you about—”

There was a loud bang, then nothing but the dial tone.

“We were cut off,” I said, frowning. “I'll call her back. Maybe the line will be clearer.”

I placed the call, patiently waiting to get through. The phone rang at the other end, and rang, and rang. There was no answer. I placed the receiver back in its cradle and turned to look at Mandy. Her velvety brown eyes were wide.

“Why didn't she answer?” she said nervously.

“I have no idea. She's probably drunk.”

“Lynn—what did she say? Do you—do you think there could be some connection with the other calls?”

“Of course not,” I retorted.

I desperately wished I could be sure of that.

CHAPTER THREE

Mrs. Wellington finally caught me two days later. I had finished early at the library, and it was shortly after three when I stepped into the foyer of our building. As it was daytime, the candle-shaped bulbs in the brass wall sconces were unlit, and the only light came through the uncurtained glass panels on either side of the front door. Hoping to find a letter from the American bookseller whom I'd asked to locate some elusive volumes, I paused to examine the mail spread out over the battered Regency table. That was a bad mistake. Mrs. Wellington came bustling out in old felt slippers and soiled print dress, plump and robust, her steel-gray hair tightly rolled on old-fashioned tin curlers.

“There's
men
in your flat!” she exclaimed.

“Really?”

I wasn't at all surprised. Mandy's handsome male chums had a habit of dropping in at odd hours, making themselves right at home if we happened to be out. One unemployed actor had camped a whole month in our living room, sleeping on the sofa. As he was cheerful, amusing, and a marvelous cook, I hadn't complained. Mandy and I had eaten splendid meals that month, and the flat was always spotlessly clean when we got home.

“Oh, not the
usual
kind,” Mrs. Wellington added hastily. “These two are wearin' suits and 'ave
haircuts
. You could have knocked me over with a feather when they marched in and asked for you. I told 'em you weren't in, but they insisted on waitin'.”

“Indeed?”

“Miss Amanda wasn't in, either, but I showed 'em up to your flat and let 'em in with my passkey. I run a perfectly respectable 'ouse, always 'ave, and I didn't want 'em 'anging around my foy-yeah, alarmin' the other tenants. Sober-lookin' chaps, both of 'em.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“One of 'em's a lawyer—not that good-lookin' Mr. Raymond what calls for you now 'n' then. This one's much older. The other one's a
copper!
Ever so grim—lookin', a big, blond brute. I wasn't goin' to let 'em into your flat, you see, and then he flashed his
badge!
Stunned, I was. You could 'ave knocked me over with a feather!” Feathers presented a constant threat to Mrs. Wellington. “My 'ealth isn't all that strong, you know, dear, and when 'e flipped out 'is wallet and showed me that badge, I felt palpitations in my chest. I thought 'e was going to
raid
the place—”

“I wonder what they want,” I said, frowning. That was a mistake, too, giving my redoubtable landlady an opportunity to launch into another of her monologues.

“I wouldn't know, dear, but they look like they mean
business
. I do hope you're not in any sort of trouble, but coppers don't come callin' just to pass the time of day. It probably 'as somethin' to do with those friends of Miss Amanda's. Rowdy lot, they are, and anything but respectable. One of 'em stole my doormat just last week—I'm addin' the cost of it to your rent, incident'ly. Always stompin' up and down the stairs like a bunch of 'ooligans, that lot, drinkin' and carryin' on. That one who wears leather jackets and rides th' motorscooter, a criminal type if I ever seen one. I've told 'er over and over again, I run a respectable 'ouse, and—”