Amy seemed to be regaining her old drive, too, and, shortly after dinner, she came and sat on the arm of my chair as I read the paper. Leaning close, she took my hand and placed it on her breast, letting me feel the thing quivering like a puppy dog.
“See? It's missing you already. Do you have any plans for tonight?”
Her breast felt exciting, full and warm and hard at the tip. I cursed myself for what I had to say, but there was no choice. “I'm sorry, honey, but there's Aunt Charlotte.”
She made a face. “See her tomorrow.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I just called her. The kids are out at the movies…”
“Ha! I'll bet.”
“Anyhow, she's expecting me in half an hour.” When she made a long face, I stroked her cheek. “It's better to get this unpleasantness out of the way and then, when I get home, we can get reacquainted, all right?”
She sniffed and I felt my groin beginning to tighten. I'd had so much sex lately that even a twenty-four-hour layoff was too long. I was hot, she was hot and I had made a date to be somewhere else.
She went with me to the door, her arm around me, her body close. “Hurry back?”
I kissed her lightly. “Like Superman, like a speeding bullet.”
I was thoughtful in the car, trying to sort out the pieces of our jumbled lives, determined that we'd rescue order from chaos. In addition, I wasn't certain what I was going to say to Charlotte Pipp. It was obvious she couldn't be told the entire story, but I could give her enough to shock her into turning the screws on her niece's and nephew's nocturnal activities.
I arrived at the house in a minute or two, seeing the porch light burning. It was a large, old place with a full second story. Quite Victorian, really, and I wondered if Aunt Charlotte would match its decor.
As it turned out, she did, after a fashion. She answered my ring at once, standing in the light and smiling out at me. “Mr. Brady? Do come in, please.”
I remembered the low, whisky voice from our telephone conversation. That seemed like months ago, but it had been only a few days.
Inside I turned to look at her and, while she was attractive, she was hardly the swinger that her voice and her series of husbands had led me to believe. She wore a rather old-fashioned dress, one that almost covered her knees, and it was up to the throat, buttoned chastely. She wore little make-up, had on horn-rimmed glasses, and her blonde hair was wrapped in a tight bun. A real Marian the librarian, I thought.
The inside of the house was filled with antiques, from the full-length grandfather's clock in the entry hall to the lace on the scattered tables. The lamps were shaded by stained glass and some of the furniture was quilted in red.
She smiled at my glances, her hands pressed together. “You're wondering about these old things. I'm afraid I'm not a true patron of antiques, Mr. Brady,” she remarked, her voice perfectly modulated, although still somewhat low. “You see, my last husband owned this house. It had been in his family for a hundred years, so he said. It came to me in the settlement and I'm staying here until something more suitable comes along.”
“I see,” I replied.
“Do you really?” she asked, her lips curved in a chaste smile. “I wonder. We'll soon find out, I expect. Won't you sit down and have a sherry before we get down to business?”
“I don't have much time,” I stammered. “Have to get right back home. My wife…”
“Ah, yes, Trudy and Buddy have told me how charming Mrs. Brady is. I'd adore meeting her.”
She sat, keeping her knees together and to one side, and poured two glasses of amber sherry from a cut glass decanter that must have been in the New World Ion before the Mayflower arrived. She passed me a glass, we lifted our hands to each other, and sipped. It was damned good. Could be even the wine predated the Plymouth colony.
“Now then,” she said, waiting, her head cocked, much as Trudy cocked her head like a bird. In fact, Miss Pipp must have looked a good deal like her niece twenty years before, for her hair was still a bright blonde and her features were almost pert, although much more mature than Trudy's, of course. Her figure — or what I could see of it under her chaste dress-did not seem to have been aged by time. Her waist was thin, her breasts swelled interestingly and her hips looked as though she'd had a great deal of experience.
I cleared my throat. “As you know, my wife and I have had certain social contact with your niece and nephew. I thought it only fair to inform you that they appear to be rather… well, over-friendly is a way to put it.”
Aunt Charlotte pursed her lips and I wondered if she were hiding a smile. “Indeed?”
“Indeed. Not only have I observed them making certain advances to each other, but each has attempted to… um, compromise Mrs. Brady and me. I hope you realize I'm telling you this only because we're very fond of them and have no desire to see them get into trouble.”
Aunt Charlotte got up and paced the room, clutching her sherry glass, and I detected a wiggle in her bottom that hadn't been there ten minutes before.
She turned to me, her face serious. “Just how fond of them are you, Mr. Brady?”
“Huh? Well, you know. They're nice kids. Just so they don't go too far.”
She nodded, standing over me. “Our family has always been one of excesses, I'm afraid. For myself, I've taken three husbands, changing them like changes of bed linen, if you'll pardon my simile. My brother, Trudy's and Buddy's father, and his wife aren't about nearly as much as is necessary to control their children. I'm afraid they follow the horses and other whims, spending their days at Belmont or before the wheels in Reno, rather than close to their children.”
I nodded. “Trudy told me a bit about that. So it falls to you to be the disciplinarian.”
She nodded, sitting down once again and sipping at her sherry. She looked at the glass. “Wouldn't you like something a little stronger, Mr. Brady?”
I felt the glow in my stomach, wondering if it was the ounce of sherry or the wiggle of Aunt Charlotte's bottom. “That would be fine,” I answered.
She went into the far corner and worked at a tiny bar for a moment, showing me her bottom all the while, and then she returned with two tall glasses filled with an amber stuff. We drank and it hit my stomach hard, with a punch like that of straight bourbon.
“All right?” Her smile was still angelic, even as Trudy's could sometimes be.
“Fine,” I gasped, taking another drink that went down more easily. That glow was getting hotter in my stomach.
“Now,” she said, her voice more throaty, “let's return to the problem at hand. Ah, yes, the Pipp family. Well, as you can imagine, with their parents setting such a terrible example, Trudy and Buddy haven't had much of a compass to guide them. It's not surprising that they could lose some of their moral values.”
I smiled. “Surely your values must count for something, Miss Pipp. Their close contact with you and this elegant old house should serve them well.”
Aunt Charlotte put her glass aside and rose again, again pacing before standing before me. “That is where you make your mistake, Mr. Brady. My values might not be what you seem.”
I chuckled. “That's difficult to believe.”
“Is it?”
With that she did something at the back of her head and that bun of hair tumbled down about her shoulders, picking up the light as it did so and changing her entire face and even her figure. Her manner had changed, as well, as Mr. Hyde had emerged from Dr. Jekyll.
I was shocked at her change, not that it was in any way unattractive. However, in five seconds, she had been transformed from the thirty-five-year-old Aunt Charlotte to a slightly older sister of Trudy Pipp. She wore the same smile, the same face, and same figure, although taller and more mature. She carried her head in the same fashion as her niece and, in every way, she was a creature transformed.