by Kathy
"Now, now, let's not be rude," Meyer said with a grin. "I was about to suggest a compromise. We can waste a lot of time and energy getting in one another's way; and I must warn you that Dorothea is also on the trail. She's even less interested in nice than I am, and she's furious at being outbid."
A brief silence followed, while they considered this information. It was Simon who spoke first. "That sounds to me like a threat, Dr. Meyer."
"A warning, not a threat," Meyer said smoothly. "I can't imagine why Karen is so determined to think the worst of me. You don't suppose I would be stupid enough—or unscrupulous enough—to do something illegal, do you? Dorothea might. She has a grudge against Karen, who is everything she'd like to be"—his eyes lingered on Karen's flushed face, moving deliberately from her eyes to her lips—"and whose career is on the rise as Dorothea's is fading. Dorothea hasn't published anything significant for over a decade. I wouldn't like to commit myself as to what she might do to get that manuscript—or a copy of it. Think it over, Karen. I can be useful to you in a number of ways if you agree to my offer of assistance. If you don't agree ..." He glanced at his watch. "Excuse me; I have another appointment. You'll want to discuss the matter with your friends, I'm sure."
"If he thinks he's going to stick us with the check," Peggy began, as Meyer made his way between the tables.
"He wouldn't be so crude," Simon muttered. "Good heavens, Karen, what have you gotten yourself into? This is beginning to sound like gang warfare."
Peggy patted his hand. "Poor Simon. You don't know much about the inner workings of the academic world, do you?"
Ismene woke to find herself wrapped in warmth and in light. Her thoughts were as diffuse and hazed as her vision; how strange, she mused, that Paradise should present itself in such familiar and homely images; not the dazzling brilliance of That Divine Visage, or the splendor of golden palaces, but a soft red glow like firelight. The softness that enclosed her might be that of blanket and comforter, rather than cloud or feathery wings.
The wings of the faceless angel? She shuddered at the recollection. So might Lucifer, the shining child of the morning, have appeared to the all-seeing Eye that observed in the shadowing of that angelic face the dread forecast of his inevitable fall from grace.
The face that presented itself to the field of her vision was no angel's visage, unless the Redeemer's promise to the oppressed was indeed fulfilled in a sense more literal than hope dared envisage. Wrinkled and kindly, dusky dark and crowned with a close-wrapped cloth of purest white, it smiled upon her and spoke in the soft accents of a living woman.
With a cry Ismene rose to a sitting position and glared wildly around the room. Flames flickering on a low hearth left the upper portions of the chamber in shadow. Its ceiling was high, its proportions ample. The bed on which she rested had a canopy of rich damask, gathered in folds. Curtains of the same fabric had been drawn back. The woman bent over her, pressing her back, murmuring words of reassurance.
"My sister.'" Ismene cried. "Where is Clara? Oh, heaven, tell me she lives!"
Her eyes fixed on the servant, she did not observe the opening of the door nor note the person who approached till he stood next to the bed.
“Lie still,'' he said gently. “You were overcome by cold and wet when we carried you here, but all is well; and your companion, though in worse case than you, has taken no lasting harm. She lies in the adjoining chamber, tended with loving care. Let me bid you welcome, dear Ismene—for you can be no other than she whom we have long awaited.
Locks of palest silver-gilt framed the countenance now visible to her wondering eyes. It was as beautiful as that of the angel her fainting mind had imagined, the perfection of the sculptured features unmarked by weariness or age.
"But surely," she began, "I am dreaming still, or wandering in delirium. Are you—you cannot be—Mr.]oshua Merrivale?"
"Alas. " He took her limp hand in his and clasped it in a warm, comforting grasp. "It grieves me to greet you with such painful tidings, but I feel sure your fortitude is equal to the dread news. Poor girl, you have lost an uncle as well as a parent—and so have I. I am your cousin Edmund, and I give you my solemn promise that my affectionate care for you and Clara will be at least the equal of that my dear lost father would have rejoiced to provide."
Ismene sank back against the heaped pillows. Clasping her hand yet more closely, her cousin—her cousin!—exclaimed, "You are overcome. I blame myself; I should not have burdened you in your weakened state with this additional cause of grief.
Though still bewildered and confused, Ismene made an effort to respond. "Indeed 1 am sorry, but chiefly on your account, Cousin . . . Edmund . . . Forgive me if my speech falters; it echoes the confusion of my mind, for indeed I knew not that such an individual existed.
Gently, in soft accents, he replied, "The sad estrangement between our parents was deeply regretted by my father. You do not know its cause? Nor do 1; he would never speak of it except with such sighs and signs of grief, 1 could not in kindness pursue my inquiries. Let us forget the sorrows of the past and begin afresh. Think only that you have found a home and a brother; look to the future and prepare for happiness. "
Chapter Five
This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war. This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing room.
Virginia Woolf,
A Room of One's Own, 1929
Though the manuscript called out to her with a voice as seductive as the aroma of fresh-baked brownies, Karen tore herself from it after she discovered the identity of Ismene's faceless angel. That image had haunted her for weeks. Now that she had satisfied her curiosity, she could concentrate on the tasks that had to be completed before she could leave. Once settled in Virginia, her conscience at ease and all distractions left behind, she could turn her full attention to the manuscript and the equally engrossing question of its author's identity.
The correctness of her decision to skip town was confirmed by a rash of telephone calls on Sunday morning. The only one she responded to was from Peggy.
"It's in the Times," Peggy announced without so much as a preliminary hello.
"I know. Cropsey was the first to call, as you might expect. I didn't pick up, even though he kept yelling, 'I know you're there, Karen; I know you're there!' "
"How'd he figure out it was you? The story didn't mention names."
"Damned if I know." Karen ran distracted fingers through her hair. "Bill might have told him, out of spite. He knows how much I despise the creep. What exactly did the Times say? I haven't had a chance to get a copy."
"It was pretty vague; just reported a rumor that an important manuscript had been found and sold to a professor at an eastern college. But if Cropsey knows or suspects it's you—"
"All the more reason for me to leave tomorrow. I'll call and give you a number once I'm settled. Look, I've got to hang up, I have a million things to do."
The most important of those things had occupied most of Sunday. She had copied the manuscript, page by slow page, on her own machine. The result wasn't as readable as a professional copy would have been, but Meyer's warning (or threat?) had worried her more than she liked to admit. She was afraid to let the original manuscript out of her hands— afraid even to venture out of the apartment with it. Three of the callers had hung up without leaving a message. Three—or the same one? Someone trying to find out whether the apartment was empty before attempting a breakin? Someone who would have responded to her "Hello" with an invitation that would induce her to leave the building? Not that she really believed Dorothea was mad enough to lie in wait for her, knock her down, snatch the manuscript . . . But why take the chance? The parking area in front of the apartment was relatively deserted on a gloomy, rainy Sunday afternoon.
The anonymous caller rang twice more during the evening. Scolding herself for timidity, and cursing Bill Meyer for causing it, Karen double-checked the locks on doors and windo
ws before going to bed.
Next morning she left the apartment early, at the same time her fellow tenants were heading for work. No one was lying in wait. Relieved and embarrassed at her foolishness she drove straight to the bank and deposited the manuscript. She would have to refer to it before she published the book, trying to decipher blurred or illegible passages, but for a first read-through the copy would be good enough.
It would also be good enough for a would-be thief, Karen reminded herself. So long as the original was in her safe-deposit box a thief wouldn't gain the most important thing—exclusive possession of the text—but he or she could work from the copy and try to publish first. She'd have to guard the copy as closely as she had the original. Maybe she shouldn't have left it in the apartment. But it was safer there than it would have been in the car. She caught herself glancing frequently in the rearview mirror and gave herself a mental slap on the wrist. Taking reasonable precautions was one thing; becoming suspicious of every vehicle that followed her for more than a block was raging paranoia.
The campus was reassuringly well populated. Suspecting that Joe Cropsey would be lying in wait for her, she asked a passing student to take the final grades to the English Department office instead of delivering them herself. One more dirty job awaited her, and although it wasn't as unpleasant as an encounter with Cropsey would have been, she was not looking forward to it.
The trip to Nag's Head had been Joan's idea. She would probably scream like a banshee when Karen announced she couldn't go, and Sharon would probably support Joan. She had already expressed concern about Karen's growing "obsession" with her work, and her professional training made her only too ready to find hidden motives for every action.
They were waiting for her when she arrived at the restaurant. Joan was drinking wine, Sharon mineral water with a twist of grapefruit peel. At least it looked like grapefruit. The latest health fad, Karen supposed. Sharon followed every one.
She had decided to blurt it out and get it over with. "I have to cancel Nag's Head," she announced, sliding into a chair.
The other two contemplated her in stony silence. Joan's hair was so curly and of such a bright, improbable red that it looked like a wig. She was ten years older than Karen and several inches taller—a big woman, heavy-boned and imposing in appearance. Sharon was almost as tall, but she weighed fifty pounds less than Joan and her arms bulged with muscle. She worked out every day, attended aerobics classes several times a week, and ate like a Victorian lady. Currently she was on a low-fat, low-protein, vegetarian diet. Watching her eat always made Karen want to order the richest dessert on the menu. In her admittedly biased opinion Joan was much more attractive than Sharon. Joan looked like a woman, not an artificial model of one.
Joan looked at Sharon, who nodded at her. It was one of Sharon's significant nods. Karen knew what was coming.
"Aren't you being a teeny bit unfair to Joan, Karen? She can't afford to go by herself even if she wanted to, and it's too late now to find someone else."
"Weren't you the one who told me I had to stop being such a wimp and focus on my self-needs?"
"Not in those precise words, I hope," Sharon answered in assumed horror.
"That was a free translation," Karen admitted with a smile. "I know it isn't fair to Joan, but when you hear my reasons I'm confident you'll understand. I couldn't talk about it before the deal was concluded, not even to you."
She was a good lecturer, and she gave this one all she had, finishing with an animated description of the lunch with Meyer. "So you see I daren't waste time. Bill the Bastard is already nose-down on the trail, and I'll be damned if I let him get ahead of me."
"Meyer," Joan repeated. "Didn't I meet him? Tall, good-looking guy with a supercilious sneer?"
"I don't think he's good-looking. But 'supercilious' is certainly accurate."
"It sounds like a wonderful find, Karen," Sharon said coolly. "Congratulations. But I don't see why you're finding such—may I say 'theatrical'?—implications in Dr. Meyer's behavior. He's a professional, a scholar. You seem to be suggesting he will engage in conduct that is unbecoming—"
"She's right," Joan declared. "Honest to God, Sharon, sometimes I wonder what ivory tower you've taken up residence in. I don't know much about literature, but if Karen's appraisal of the manuscript is correct it's a major discovery, enough to justify burglary, assassination, and blackmail. Scholars aren't any nobler than the next man."
"You're as bad as Karen," Sharon said fastidiously.
"Oh, I don't suppose he'd commit burglary or murder," Joan admitted. "But he'll cheat her of the glory if he can. You really don't have any idea of who this woman was, Karen?"
"Not yet. But I think I've located the house, and I'm pretty sure she was a member of the family that has owned it for over two hundred years."
"That's a good start," Joan agreed.
"You do understand, then," Karen said, relieved. "You're not mad?"
"I'd do the same thing if I were in your shoes," Joan admitted. "Tell me more."
Karen needed no further encouragement. It was a relief and a pleasure to talk about her big discovery to sympathetic listeners. Joan's field was sociology, Sharon was a psychologist; but both were intelligent and well-read. Karen had expected Joan would be the more responsive of the two, since her imagination was better developed, and she was right. Joan was enthralled; she kept interrupting with questions and comments. Sharon listened in silence, nibbling daintily at her vegetarian salad. However, she was unable to refrain from one professional caveat.
"I just hope you aren't going overboard on this, dear. Just remember, if you ever need to talk about it . . ."
"She means well," Joan said with a grin that bared most of her teeth. "Ignore little Ms. Freud, Karen, I'm on your side. This sounds like fun. When did you say you were leaving?"
Karen had been frowning over the check, trying to figure out how much each of them owed. Absorbed in abstruse calculations, she was slow to comprehend the implications of Joan's question. Her heart sank. Why hadn't it occurred to her that Joan, at loose ends after her defection, would want to join what she obviously thought of as a jolly kind of treasure hunt? She appreciated her friend's interest, but at this moment all she wanted was peace and privacy and a chance to work without enthusiastic interruptions.
"As soon as I finish packing," she said firmly. "I'll call you as soon as I've found a place to stay."
They had come in separate cars; Sharon took leave of the other two outside the door of the restaurant, but Joan insisted on walking Karen to her car, spouting questions as they walked. "How long are you going to be there? When do I get to read the book? Are you sure there's nothing you want me to do? How about that creepy Joe Cropsey? You want me to tell him you've gone to Antarctica?"
"Sounds like a great idea," Karen said abstractedly. "Joan, my dear old buddy, I really am in a hurry. I promise I'll call in a day or two."
"I can take a hint." Joan enveloped her in a mighty hug. "Take care of yourself, babe."
The driver of the car next to Karen's had parked so close she wondered whether she would be able to open her door wide enough to squeeze in. Cursing the thoughtlessness of others, she managed to unlock the door and open it. When the voice boomed out behind her, she started and dropped her keys.
She had recognized the voice; she had half-expected to hear it sooner or later; but she hadn't anticipated the sense of absolute, dry-mouthed panic that seized her when she turned and saw Dorothea looming over her. Dorothea was almost six feet tall and correspondingly broad. One might have described her as fat—a number of enemies had—but the word would have been inaccurate. She was big-boned and massive; solid flesh and muscle evenly distributed from her broad shoulders to her thick legs and large feet. Bright-red lipstick and black eyeshadow gave a grotesque look of parody to her heavy features.
Karen told herself it was ridiculous to be afraid. What could Dorothea do to her, in broad daylight, with people all around? The answ
er was unfortunately too obvious. Dorothea's body completely filled the space between the two vehicles, and the open door behind Karen pinned her between two barriers, the one of flesh as impenetrable as the one of metal.
"You'll have to excuse me, Dorothea," she said breathlessly. "I'm in rather a hurry—"
"I want to talk to you." The other woman's eyes moved slowly over the interior of the car and then fixed on the briefcase-sized purse Karen held.
"I said I'm in a hurry." In order to slide into the driver's seat, she would have to turn her back on Dorothea. The very idea made her skin prickle.
"You have to listen to me." Dorothea's tongue crawled over her lower lip. "I don't want to do anything drastic unless you force me to."
Reason suggested she agree to anything Dorothea proposed, and wait for a chance to get away. Reason lost to rising outrage and the inability of rational people to believe other people can behave irrationally. "Damn it, Dorothea, are you threatening me? We have nothing to discuss. Get out of my way."
"Is this a private fight or can anybody join in?"
The cheerful familiar voice and the glimpse of a mop of red hair made Karen go limp with relief. Dorothea turned, slowly and clumsily in the confined space.
"Who the hell are you?" she bellowed.
"A friend," Joan cried in a resonant shout. "Britomart, the warrior maiden, riding to the rescue! I think that was her name," she added, calmly. "I'm a sociologist, not an English major. And who the hell are you? And what the hell do you think you're doing, making a scene and threatening innocent people? There's a squad car pulling into the lot; I'll just give it a hail—"