Cutler 04 - Midnight Whispers

crossing the room first to pick up the dish towel lying on the floor beside the sofa and then to stand in front of Jefferson and me, "how did that dish towel get into your closet, Jefferson?"
    "I don't know," Jefferson said, shrugging.
    "Didn't you get up last night and come down here to do this to the piano?" she asked outright. Jefferson shook his head.
    "Didn't you go into the kitchen, get the jar of honey, spill it into the piano keys, put the jar back, grab this dish towel to wipe your hands, run back upstairs and throw the dish towel into your closet, hoping that no one would find it?" she followed, stabbing down at him with her questions and her accusing eyes. Jefferson shook his head and began to cry.
    "You're crying because you did it, aren't you?" she demanded. Jefferson started to cry harder. "Aren't you!" She seized his little shoulder and started to shake him. "You did this!" she screamed.
    "Leave him alone," I cried and ripped her hand off his shoulder. Jefferson threw his arms around me immediately and I hugged him and glared back at Aunt Bet. "He didn't do it. He couldn't have done it. He wouldn't do such a thing."
    She straightened up and smirked, folding her arms under her small bosom. I turned to Uncle Philip.
    "He's never gone wandering through the house alone at night, Uncle Philip. He's afraid to do that. He's just a little boy."
    "Not too little to try to destroy a valuable piano," Aunt Bet snapped.
    "He didn't. Mrs. Stoddard," I said. "Let me see that honey jar, please." She looked up at Aunt Bet who indicated it would be all right. Mrs. Stoddard handed it to me and I looked at it and then flicked a quick glance at Richard, who sat expressionless. Not even his eyes betrayed any emotion.
    "Was the jar this clean or did you wipe it off, Mrs. Stoddard?" I asked.
    "It's the way we found it," she replied.
    "Even if Jefferson did such a thing, which he didn't," I said firmly, "he would never be this neat about it. There's not a drop outside the jar."
    "That's a good point, Betty Ann," Uncle Philip said.
    "He wiped it off," she replied quickly. "With that towel he threw in his closet."
    "You can't wipe honey off a jar with a dry towel and not have it still be sticky," I insisted. "Whoever put that towel in Jefferson's closet," I said, glaring at Richard, "simply poured some honey into it and rubbed it around."
    "That's . . . that's . . . ridiculous," Aunt Bet said, but Uncle Philip didn't think so. His gaze moved swiftly toward Richard.
    "Did you do this, Richard?" he demanded.
    "Of course not, Father. Would I vandalize something?"
    "I hope not. Melanie, did Richard get up during the night and come downstairs?" Uncle Philip asked. She shifted her eyes to Richard and then back to Uncle Philip and shook her head. "Are you sure?" She nodded, but not firmly.
    Uncle Philip stared at his twins for a moment and then looked up at Aunt Bet.
    "I think we'll have to leave this where it is," he said.
    "But Philip, that piano . . ."
    "It's going to be repaired. From now on," he said, "I don't want to see anyone but Christie near it. Understand? No one is even to touch it." He glared at the twins and then turned back to Jefferson and me. Jefferson had stopped sobbing and had lifted his head from my shoulder.
    "I hafta go back and help Buster," Jefferson said.
    "Go on," Uncle Philip replied.
    "He should be punished," Aunt Bet insisted. "He should . . ."
    "He didn't do it, Aunt Bet," I cried and threw my hateful glare at Richard.
    "But he . . ."
    "Betty Ann!" Uncle Philip shouted. "Let it be," he said slowly and firmly. She bit down on her lower lip.
    "Very well," she said after a moment. "I believe we have established our unhappiness and given fair warning that if anything like this should ever happen again . . ."
    Her words were left hanging in the air. Jefferson walked out of the living room slowly, rubbing his eyes. I handed the jar of honey back to Mrs. Stoddard and the twins scurried out of the room and up the stairs like two mice who had miraculously escaped the claws of a cat.
     
    Aunt Bet was terribly frustrated by her failure to prove conclusively that Jefferson had vandalized the piano, and she demonstrated that frustration in many ways, the chief one being her tone of voice whenever she spoke to my little brother. Whereas she would speak softly, kindly, respectfully to the twins, she wouldn't speak to Jefferson without snapping at him and making her eyes like two cold, polished stones. She criticized