An Old Friend Of The Family (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 3) Fred Saberhagen (books to read in your 20s txt) 📖

behind that in turn was Andrew, busy talking on the phone to his office, where people were sure to be working even on Saturday, working on something vital that demanded some of Andrew’s attention, even on the day of a missing daughter.

   “Now, Mrs. Southerland, do you remember there being any unusual background noises on the phone? Sometimes there’s a typewriter, or…”

   “Not at parties, there isn’t very often.” Suddenly Clarissa began to lose confidence in Franzen, nice manners or not. It made her feel fidgety, and she wished she had taken a rocking chair, instead of this plush one, which was too soft.

   “Oh, you did hear partying noises then?”

   “Yes, I believe I mentioned that before.” Hadn’t she? She couldn’t confirm from Lenore’s or Franzen’s expressions now whether she had or not. “People laughing, way in the background. Ice, tinkling in a glass? No, I couldn’t swear to that.”

   “And all she said about her location was that she was downtown?”

   “Yes.”

   “Anyone call anyone by name?”

   Clarissa took thought. Sometimes one gained impressions of things not exactly by hearing them, and later it was hard to sort out what one had actually heard and what one had not. “Not that I recall.”

   Franzen, poker-faced, seated on a straight chair opposite, studied his notebook. “Well. You all tell me that this staying out all night without letting someone know is not something that Kate’s ever done—”

   “It certainly isn’t,” put in Lenore.

   “—and here it is well after noon. So, I think we’d better take it seriously enough to check it out. The Chicago police, and so on.” Franzen stood up, just as the door to the study opened. Andrew, balding too, but athletic and aggressive in his mid-forties, came out to join the conversation.

   “What progress have we made?” Andrew demanded with brisk intensity. Here was a man switching his attention from one crisis to another, and someone had better have ready a satisfactory, concise briefing for him if they wanted his advice and help on the problem of locating his daughter, because some new emergency regarding business was surely going to come up soon and keep him from spending a lot of time on this one.

   This, at least, was the impression his mother got of him at the moment. Clarissa, feeling a twinge of guilt because there were times when she just didn’t like her own son very much, grunted and hand fought her way up out of the too-soft chair; the knees and hips were not too good today. Muttering a few words of farewell to Detective Franzen, she left the search for her granddaughter in the hands of those who were now in charge of running the world, and took herself off to the library, meaning to have a look at the lake through her favorite window.

   In the room lined with shelves of dark wood, with the door closed behind her, it was quiet, the murmur of concerned voices almost left behind. Beyond the double Thermopane a field of virgin snow, fallen mostly in the dark hours of the morning, sloped away to disappear over the top of a thirty-foot bluff some forty yards behind the house. Looking past that brink, Clarissa could see a mile or more south along the gently curving shoreline of Lake Michigan. There were trees, there were the houses of the wealthy. The beach was completely hidden beneath a frigid wilderness of ice-cakes, foot-thick slabs that had been broken by waves, washed in and upended in a crazy jumble, stretching for lifeless kilometers under the lifeless sun of afternoon. Beyond the ice fields, dark open water reached victorious, almost calm now, to the horizon.

   A voice asked: “Granny?”

   In jeans and old shirt Judy leaned against the jamb of the re-opened library door. Three years younger than the missing Kate, somewhat darker of hair and eye, more strongly built, not quite as conventionally pretty—but quite possibly, their grandmother thought, fated to be the more beautiful of the two when both were full-grown women.

   Smiling involuntarily, Clarissa turned from the window. “What is it, dear?”

   The girl was solemn. “Is there any news yet?”

   “No. Except it seems that the police are going to start looking for her.”

   “Has anyone called Joe?”

   “I doubt that anyone has. And I think you’re right; it’s probably time that someone did.”

   Judy’s eyes, as they often did, seemed to be probing for the true thoughts of the person she was speaking to. “Do you want to, Gran? Or I will if you like.”

   Clarissa hesitated, then answered with a nod. Calling Joe was best not left to Andrew or Lenore. “You have the touch, Judy. He’ll take bad news—or alarming news anyway—better coming from you than anyone else. If you don’t mind.” Helping was what this girl had to do when she was worried, as some people had to mope and others to cry. Blessed is the family, Clarissa thought, that has a Judy in it; and I don’t know of any other ones than ours.

   Judy was gone, considerately closing the door behind her. But Clarissa had hardly turned toward the icefields again when it opened again. “Hey, Gran?” a deeper voice inquired.

   This was Johnny, the baby of the house. At sixteen he was a strong-jawed, slightly shorter version of his father, one notable difference being Johnny’s teen-length, light brown curls. “They’re all still busy in there, Gran. If anyone’s looking for me, I’m going over to Clark’s. He’s got that new computer kit.”

   “Don’t be late Johnny. I’m sure your mother will want you back before dark today.”

   “Aw, Gran, c’mon. Kate’s all right.” No doubts at all were going to be tolerated on that point. “She’s a big girl. I mean, I know my sister can take care of herself out there.”

   “And you’re grown up too, or very nearly. Yes. But don’t be late?”

   She made it a question rather than a hopeless attempt at an