his head to one side, listening. Had he only imagined it, or had he heard a whispered “psst?”
There it was again, and decidedly not imagined. Puzzled, he turned, his eyes widening as he did so. He had not heard the elderly woman enter the room from the other door, although he was sure she had not been there when he came in. Nor was he any more prepared for her than he had been for Gladiola. In appearance, this one was more conventional. In a photograph, she would have appeared as the model for someone’s grandmother—gray haired and blatantly aging, a short, plumpish little creature who was to be imagined knitting and rocking, with a contented smile on her face.
She was not, however, knitting and rocking now. She was leaning against the door frame in what, so far as he could judge, was intended as a seductive pose, although it fell far short of that goal. Her over-long skirt had been hiked up to reveal one bony, misshapen knee. One rheumatic hip was thrust out, a hand upon it. The top three buttons of her high-collared dress had been undone, and the dress pulled over one shoulder, a la a movie siren. All in all, the sight was both ludicrous and appalling.
As he stared at her in amazement, she winked lecherously and clicked her tongue. “Hello, handsome,” she greeted him with a cracked voice. “How’s about you and me having a little romp before the others get here.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mathews could scarcely believe he had heard her correctly. This sweet-looking old lady could not really be propositioning him.
“You know,” she told him with a leer, wriggling the knee. “Tear off a little joy.”
Mathews swallowed and shook his head numbly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What’s a matter?” she asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You got no guts?”
“Aunt Nasturtia,” A voice behind him said sharply. “Don’t scare him off.”
Mathews jumped and whirled about again, slightly relieved to see someone who looked at least normal. In fact, the buxom blonde before him was not bad, although a little vulgar and earthy for his taste. Her ample breasts were all but spilling out of her barely fastened blouse, and her skirt was sufficiently skin tight to conceal little of her figure.
“Don’t mind Aunt Nasturtia,” the blonde was saying in an unpleasant, nasal voice. “To tell the truth, she’s a nympho.”
Aunt Nasturtia gave a disgruntled snort and hobbled past Mathews and out of the room, fixing a cold stare briefly on the blonde’s head before she disappeared out of sight.
“I’m Mari,” the blonde informed Craig with a wink of her own. “That’s short for Marigold.”
Craig frowned thoughtfully, ignoring the blunt hint in her smile—Aunt Nasturtia was not the only nympho in the house, if he was any judge. “Lily, Nasturtia, Marigold—is everybody in the house named like a flower?”
“Um-hum, ain’t it a gas?” Her smile faded as the strains of “The Minute Waltz” sounded from nearby. For the first few measures, the notes were perfect. The beauty of the music was marred, however, by a clinker of a note. The pianist stopped, and then started over at the beginning. Craig smiled as the same note was again struck wrong, and the music paused once more. This time the pianist began the first movement of the “Moonlight Sonata” instead.
At that moment, Jackie returned, with yet another elderly figure. This one seemed at least more sane than the other, a tall, willowy creature with quick, intelligent eyes and animated gestures.
“Mr. Mathews, this is my Aunt Lily,” Jackie said. Mathews took the offered hand, surprised by the hearty squeeze he received.
“Jackie says I’m to tell you all about our experience,” Aunt Lily said with a nervous smile.
“I think that might be a good idea,” Mathews agreed. He was beginning to feel that the sooner he got out of this place, the better he would be. They were obviously looney; for all he knew, they might be dangerous. That one old girl had looked positively capable of devouring him—for that matter, Holmes appeared capable of that, in a manner of speaking.
* * * *
“Now then,” Craig said when they had seated themselves. “Suppose you explain about Butterfly. As I understand it, you’ve stumbled upon some sort of message, is that right?”
“Well, I think so,” Aunt Lily agreed. “But it’s in a code apparently, so I don’t really know what kind of message, or if it even is a message. I’d better start at the beginning.”
Craig nodded his approval.
“Well,” she began. “It started this morning. You see, we have a poodle—Fritzie. Do you know Jackie’s poodle, Sophie?”
Mathews had to admit that he had not, ignoring Jackie’s quick smile of amusement. “They’re twins,” Aunt Lily went on. “Except for the sex, of course. But the thing is, they’re both white, and rather spoiled, I’m afraid.”
Mathews was having a difficult time seeing how all this tied in with Butterfly, nor was he particularly interested in their choice of pets.
“And it was raining, this morning,” Aunt Lily said emphatically, as though that explained everything, which of course it did not.
“I see,” Craig said helplessly.
“Oh, dear, I don’t think I’m explaining this very well,” Aunt Lily said, putting a hand to her face.
Mathews was about to agree with her, but Jackie spoke before he had the opportunity. “Take your time,” he said, “And don’t worry, Mr. Mathews is very patient.”
“Of course,” Mathews agreed without enthusiasm.
“Well, it was the rain. Nasturtia didn’t know it was raining, you see—have you met Nasturtia, Mr. Mathews? I can call her....”
“I’ve had the pleasure,” Mathews informed her hurriedly. He had no immediate desire to further confuse the conversation by including the other aunt in it.
“Anyway, it was raining, and Nasturtia didn’t notice, and she let Fritzie out into the yard to play. Well, you can imagine what Fritzie looked like when he came back in, just covered with mud and all. So I told Nasturtia she’d have to take him to the beauty parlor, only our regular shop was booked up, and couldn’t take him, so Nasturtia went to another one just down the street, one we had never been to before.”
Mathews nodded, although he still was not able to discern the point of the story, and wondered if she might have forgotten why he was here.
“They did a lovely job on him, I must admit,” Lily went on. “Except that when Nasturtia went back to pick him up, they had put clips on his ears—little sequined butterflies.”
Mathews attempted to conceal his disappointment—was this all she had been talking about?—a pair of costume pins for a dog?
Jackie too had a twinge of disappointment, but he knew Aunt Lily well enough to recognize at once that she had more to say. At that moment, however, Nasturtia, who must have been listening in the hall, appeared in the doorway.
“It isn’t my fault,” she snapped defensively, although she had not in fact been accused of
