Devil May Care (9 page)

"The story by Shirley Jackson? But it's a modern classic. The whole point of the story was that people shouldn't stone other people to death. Any people, for any reason."

"You can't expect Roger to understand subtleties," the doctor said, his eyes twinkling. "He lost the fight. As he said, Kate can muster a lot of support when she tries. In the process she said a number of--er--critical things about Roger--"

"I can imagine," Eilie murmured.

"Now Kate s friends have nominated a new slate of candidates," the doctor went on. "They stand a good chance of getting in this fall, and if they do, good-bye to Roger's platform. He's getting worried, poor devil."

"Yes, isn't it fun to hear his voice get shriller and shriller," Donald said happily. "But you underestimate his influence, Dad. The old families still do carry weight in this backward part of the world.

More's the pity. 1 except myself, of course ... "

"You're one of the six?" Ellie asked, glancing at the doctor. "I mean, are you descended from--"

68 Elizabeth Peters

"I know what you mean. Donald doesn't get his blue blood from me. My wife was a Morrison. We moved here after her father died and she inherited the house."

The way his voice changed as he spoke of his wife reminded Ellie of Donald's reaction to her mention of his mother. It must have been instinct--or that strange rapport she had already felt--that told her not to shy away from the subject.

"I don't remember Mrs. Gold," she said.

"She died last year," the doctor said. "Cancer."

"I'm so sorry."

"Thank you." The doctor smiled at her. "Did anyone ever tell you you have a lovely voice, Ellie? I think it's because it reflects your feeling so accurately.

We were a very close family, you see. I'm afraid I can't talk about her, even yet, without sounding ... sentimental." "No," Ellie said quickiy. "It's so nice to find families that really like each other. Rare, these days. If you don't mind--"

"Talking about her? No, it's a pleasure to me."

"I hate to drag in my casserole again," Donald said. "But this time--"

He was at his most flippant during the simple meal, bragging outrageously about his cooking but finally admitting, under pressure, that he could make only three dishes--spaghetti, beef stroganoff, and a chicken-and-rice casserole. The casserole was excellent.

Ellie said so. However, she agreed with the doctor that Donald's repertoire should be broadened, and she offered cooking lessons.

While she carried on her share of the lighthearted banter Ellie studied both Golds with increasing interest. The doctor was a darling. He had come to terms with the loss of his wife, although it still hurt.

Donald had not become reconciled, and that was unusual in Ellie's world. It was not in style to love one's mother. In fact, some people would consider it DEVIL-MAY-CARE 89

downright peculiar. Of course Henry loved his mother. At least he said he did ... How long had it been since he had gone to visit her, in Minneapolis, or asked her to visit him? Five years, if she remembered correctly. Henry always regretted being so busy he couldn't visit his mother ... Ellie wrenched her thoughts away from chat new and disconcerting idea. Donald was talking about the Great Six, as he called them.

"You're forgetting the Beaseleys," his father said.

"Old Josh Beaseley was one of the earliest settlers." "But he wasn't gentry," Donald said solemnly. "We don't count peasants, Dad. Besides, the Beaseleys didn't emigrate; they've always been here, like the rocks and the moon shining down on the mountains.

... They're weird people, you know that? Really weird."

"The genetic heritage is fascinating," his father agreed. "They are hopelessly inbred, of course; and the good Lord alone knows what the original stock may have been."

"Martian," Donald suggested. "One of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel? A refugee family from sunken Atlantis, passing on the cryptic learning of that eonold civilization ... "

"Cut it out," Ellie exclaimed. "You know the Beaseleys are in and out of the house at all hours; are you trying to scare me?"

"Pay no attention to Donald," his rather said, glancing at his wayward offspring critically. "The Beaseleys are ... Do you know, Ellie, now that I stop to think about it, not a single member of the family has ever been involved in an act of violence. Rather remarkable." "And more than can be said of any of the first families," Donald said.

"Any family has its share of black sheep," the doctor said. "Even your mother's, Donald."

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"At least none of my ancestors was mixed up with John Wilkes Booth."

"What?" Ellie exclaimed, startled. "You mean the man who assassinated Lincoln?"

"Ted didn't tell you?" Donald grinned. "It's one of our juicier local legends. Quite unsubstantiated; just a rumor that one of the local gentry was involved in the plot. Booth wasn't the only conspirator, you know. They hanged several people, after Booth was killed."

"Including that unfortunate woman," the doctor said soberly. "Who may or may not have been guilty ... Donald, you're in a grisly mood tonight; change the subject."

"Not quite yet." Donald looked meaningfully at Ellie.

"Now's the time, girl. Tell Dad about what happened last night." When Donald first suggested that she talk to his father Ellie had not been receptive to the idea. Now she did not hesitate.

He listened as she had somehow known he would, gravely, with growing concern, and no trace of skepticism or amusement. When she had finished, he said, "Come and stay with us, tonight. Donald will drive you home to pick up your things."

Ellie was a little taken aback. She had expected sympathy, but not such alarm.

"But, sir, I'm not afraid. Do you really think--"

Her tongue faltered on the question, but the doctor understood.

"No, no, I most certainly don't believe your apparitions are supernatural. That is precisely why I am alarmed."

"But why would anyone want to frighten me?"

"I don't know. If I did, I wouldn't worry so much."

"Now, Dad," Donald said easily, "you're getting too uptight. Nobody can get in the house, not with all Kate's dogs around. Anybody who tried to break in would be in serious danger of tripping over some DEVIL-MAY-CARE 71

animal or other and breaking his neck. Anyway, aren't you being a little dogmatic? You were the one who used to quote Horatio at me."

They had reached the after-dinner-coffee stage and were sitting at ease, elbows on the table. The doctor ran agitated fingers through his gray hair so that it stood up like a mop.

"Stop playing devil's advocate with me, you ungrateful child. I never said--"

"That's ' child,' " Donald interrupted. His hazel eyes looked almost green, "Get your quotes right, Dad. Just for the sake of argument, suppose it is supernatural?"

"Of all the idiotic--"

"No, but just suppose it is. There wouldn't be any danger to Ellie; none of our local ghosts have any reason to threaten her. She has no family connections in this part of the world. So if the ghosts are ghosts, Ellie is in no danger; if the ghosts are fakes, she's still in no danger, because the house is secure."

"Wait a minute," Eilie said, as the doctor shook his head. "I agree with your conclusions, Donald, but you're getting off the subject. I'm not afraid, but I am curious. I want to know what's behind this. The first--er--ghost. The one that looked like you, Donald-"

She stopped, unable to complete the sentence, which was beginning to sound like an accusation, although she had not intended it that way. From the first moment she saw Donald she had realized that he was the most conspicuous candidate for the role of practical joker; but she didn't want to accuse him in front of his father.

The doctor got the idea, though. He jerked upright in his chair, his eyes widening.

"Donald! You wouldn't--"

"No, Dad." Donald met his father's eyes squarely.

"I'm sorry." The older man relaxed. "I believe you."

72 Elizabeth Peters

"I didn't mean that," Ellie said. "I just meant, does Donald have an ancestor who looks like him? Because the resemblance was really amazing. Even the scar on his chin."

"It's not a scar, it's a birthmark," his father muttered.

"We never had anything done about it, since it is not disfiguring; but I suppose ... "

"No family portraits?" Ellie persisted. "No young Squire Morrison, who just happens to be the identical twin of his descendant?" "Those things do happen," Donald said seriously.

"The birthmark is a family trait. Dad, you remember Great-uncle Rudolph--"

"There are few family portraits," the doctor said.

"The Morrisons were strict Calvinists; they didn't approve of vanity, or of graven images. But there is one portrait head that I'd like you to see, Ellie."

Donald made a quick movement, as if of protest; but when his father looked at him, he nodded, smiling.

"Sure, go ahead. We'll have brandy in the parlor."

It was a reasonable excuse for not accompanying them, but it gave Ellie a clue as to the identity of the portrait. She was not surprised when the doctor led her into a pleasant sitting room across the hall from the more formal parlor. Set on a pedestal and framed by a simple arrangement of russet draperies, the sculptured head was done in a medium Ellie didn't recognize. Softer than bronze, the pale-gold surface gave the smiling woman's face tenderness and warmth and captured the true color of the hair that was knotted casually on the nape of the long, slender neck. It was not a beautiful face, but the sculptor had caught a quality of eagerness and candor, a trusting joy that enabled Ellie to say sincerely, "She was lovely. Really lovely." "Ted did it for me," the doctor said. "Six months ago. I came in one evening and found it here--just as you see it. He had worked from memory and a D£VILM/ty-CARE 73

few old snapshots, and experimented with various media before he found the right one. Bronze was too hard, he said, and marble too cold, for her ... Ted is irritating, I know, but I won't hear a word against him." His voice became brisker, more matter-of-fact.

"As you see, Donald takes after his mother's family.

Not that I'm admitting that his nonsensical theory makes any sense, mind--"

"Neither am I. But, honestly, I don't think there's anything to worry about. I'm more intrigued than anything."

When they returned to the parlor, Donald had brandy glasses set out. Ellie refused a liqueur but accepted more coffee, and they talked idly for another hour. In spite of her brave talk Ellie was reluctant to leave, but the doctor's unsuccessfully repressed yawn reminded her of what a busy medical man's schedule must be like, and she finally rose.

"Are you sure?" the doctor began, looking at her anxiously.

"Absolutely. I have a telephone, you know; I'll call if I'm the least bit worried."

"Please do. Donald will see you home--no," he cut off her protest. "I insist on it. And you must let him go through the house. Good heavens, child, that's the least we can do."

The night air was warmly clammy; the summer stars were dimmed by heat haze as they drove back.

Slumped down in the seat, Donald seemed to be half asleep. He didn't speak until Ellie pulled up in front of the house.

"Every light in the place on," he said, jeering. "And you said you weren't nervous!"

"I'll tell your father you aren't taking my danger seriously," Ellie remarked; and Donald cowered, clasping his hands.

"Ah, no, ma'am, ye wouldn't be so cruel! Ye couldn't betray me to the old gentleman, not the sweet, bonny lass that ye look--"

74 Elizabeth Peters

"What a ham you are."

"Star of the South Burton Amateur Dramatic Society," Donald said.

"How are you going to get home after you get through playing hero here?"

"Villains were my specialty," Donald said. "I admit it took me a while to convince them that I could play Richard the Third; I'm too handsome, that's my trouble ... How do I plan to get home? Through the woods, of course; it's only half a mile." "Rather you than me," Ellie said maliciously.

She would never have admitted it, but without Donald she would have had a hard time summoning up the courage to enter the house. Not that it was empty, or silent; as soon as the door opened, a mob of furry forms swept down on them, barking, mewing, and generally complaining. With a deftness that suggested long practice, Donald stretched out a long leg and hooked his foot around Ambrose, the orange Maine Coon, just in time to keep him from bolting out the door.

"Can't you get it through your thick skull that you can't do it anymore?" he demanded of Ambrose. The cat glowered at him and then deliberately sat down with his back turned; he looked like an improbably colored fur muff from behind.

The mob trailed along as they started their tour of inspection, but one by one they dropped out of the procession as it became apparent that nothing interesting was going to happen. Most of them stayed in the kitchen, squatting suggestively in front of the refrigerator; but William, the Saint Bernard, stuck to their heels. He didn't appear to be worried.

"Clear and sunny tomorrow," Donald remarked, glancing at the dog. "He's as good as a barometer."

William drooled delightedly onto his shoes as he stopped to check the dining-room window.

When they started upstairs, William left them; Ellie glanced over her shoulder at the big furry bulk, DEVIL-MAY-CARE 75

which was scuttling along at a pace quite inappropriate for a dog of William's size, and trying, unsuccessfully, to appear inconspicuous.

"It's all right, William," she called. "You don't have to hide, I'm not going to throw you out."

"A big help he would be," Donald said. "Unless he took a fancy to the burglar and sat on him."

It was with some trepidation that Ellie showed Donald into her room, but beyond a caustic

"What were you reading that year--Elsie Dinsmore?" he made no comment, and looked under the bed with a completely sober countenance. On their way downstairs Donald paused to examine the stairs.