by Kathy
Unabashed, she smiled back at him. "I'm a damned good painter."
"I'm sure you are damned good at everything you do," Cameron said pointedly. "Thanks just the same. What can I do for you?"
"I'm going to need some help excavating that pile of stones. Not from you," she added quickly. "You have enough on your hands with the house. Can you recommend some kids with strong backs who'd work for minimum wage?"
"Are you serious?"
"Quite serious. There's no hurry, I probably won't get around to it for another week or so. We can come to an arrangement about a short-term lease—"
"That won't be necessary," Cameron said. "If you find anything, it might be an inducement to prospective buyers. I can tell them the place is of great historical interest."
"It is," Peggy said.
She was unusually silent during the drive back. "I'll be back about six, if that's agreeable to you," she announced, when they reached Karen's apartment. "I want to shower and change. Who knows, I might even spend some time thinking."
Karen didn't argue. She wanted some time to think too.
When she unlocked the door she saw the square envelope on the floor.
The pale-violet color told her who her correspondent must be. In darker violet ink Mrs. Fowler presented her compliments and an invitation to tea on Monday, for Karen and her distinguished friend, of whose arrival she had heard. She didn't say from whom she had heard it.
Karen was tempted to call and refuse—or stick a little note under Mrs. F. 's door, to the same effect. She had a pretty good idea of how Peggy probably felt about tea parties. However, with Peggy one could never be certain. She might be able to get more information from the old lady than Karen had managed to do.
Preoccupied with the annoying habits of Mrs. Fowler, she was halfway across the room before something struck her. Something . . . but what? After a moment she realized that the books she had left lying on the table didn't look quite right. She was in the habit (a neurotic habit, according to Sharon) of stacking them with the spines aligned. Had she neglected to do it that morning? They were definitely not aligned now.
She could not be certain about the books, but a look around the apartment convinced her that someone had searched the place during her absence—even the kitchen cupboards. Another (neurotic) habit of hers was to separate the canned goods: all the soups in one group, all the vegetables in another. Now the mushroom soup rubbed shoulders with the canned peas and the chili was next to the tomato juice. In the bedroom she found the final proof: the worn chenille spread had not been tucked under the pillows but pulled clumsily up over them.
Mrs. Fowler was the most obvious suspect. She was the only one who had a key, and bored old ladies were notorious snoops. Such a harmless-sounding word, snoop. Snooping was prompted by idle curiosity, a harmless if socially indefensible habit, with no particular end in mind.
She could have been looking for "dirty" books or more titillating objects indicative of sexual activity. A little old lady would be certain to look under the mattress, since that was where she would hide the evidence of her own secret vices. But a little old lady would know the proper method of making a bed.
Bill Meyer? He was the most likely suspect from another point of view—that of motive. Karen opened the front door and examined the lock. There were no signs of forced entry. No, he wouldn't risk that, and it was unlikely that an academic—even a louse like Bill Meyer— knew how to pick a lock without leaving traces. But he might have charmed or tricked Mrs. Fowler into lending him a key, or stolen hers for long enough to have a copy made.
Lisa Cartright was no little old lady; Karen doubted she was in the habit of making beds, hers or anyone else's. She was on good terms with Mrs. Fowler and could have borrowed a key, with or without the old lady's knowledge. Not all snoops were elderly women; but there was another reason, stronger than idle curiosity, that might have inspired Lisa to search the place. She knew, thanks in part to Karen herself, that certain people would be willing to pay a lot of money for a copy of the manuscript.
The same motive could apply to Cameron. He had had no idea what the manuscript was worth when he sold it; some people in his position would feel they had been cheated, and were, therefore, entitled to whatever extra they could pick up. Only a sick, warped individual would feel that way, but there were a lot of sick, warped individuals running around loose. And it was a safe bet that Cameron had never made a bed in his life.
Considering various methods of laying a trap for an intruder, she showered and changed into clean clothes. Several methods occurred to her, but none of the ones she had read about would provide a clue to the intruder's identity. Offhand she couldn't think of an excuse for asking to take the suspects' fingerprints.
With an irritated shrug she dismissed the matter. There had been no harm done, and as long as she kept the manuscript with her at all times she didn't risk losing anything she valued. Most likely the snoop had been Mrs. Fowler.
The distraction had come as a welcome relief; it prevented her from thinking about the clearing in the woods, so open and empty and so filled with voices.
Could there be a simple physical cause for the feeling of cold—something as harmless as low blood pressure, or a vitamin deficiency? Her last physical had given her a clean bill of health, but people dropped dead every day from conditions that hadn't shown up in physical examinations.
A happy thought. She would have embraced that theory, though, had the feeling of cold been the only unusual phenomenon. Peggy had heard the scream too. It had scared hell out of her, and she wasn't a nervous woman.
So, find another rational explanation for that occurrence. An acoustical peculiarity of the hollow? A police or ambulance siren on the highway, thrown like the voice of a ventriloquist away from its source? There were places like that, she had read of them—the Whispering Gallery at St. Paul's, for one.
Peggy had apparently forgotten about Karen's nightmares. She had almost forgotten them herself; they had not occurred after she got hold of the manuscript. They were the easiest of all to explain away. Dreams of darkness, enclosure, burial alive. Frustration. A classic feminist nightmare.
Three different rationalizations for three different phenomena. Well, why not, Karen thought; They weren't connected in any other way.
When Peggy arrived she was carrying a brown paper bag. "Hope you like Chinese," she announced. "There aren't a lot of food options in this burg. The alternatives were hamburgers or hoagies."
"I take it we are not going out," Karen said.
Peggy looked surprised. "I thought you might be too tired."
"I'm not tired. It doesn't matter," she went on, before Peggy could reply. "We have a lot to discuss."
"Right. I made an agenda." She had put her clipboard in the bag with the cartons of food. Muttering, she reached for a paper towel and scrubbed at a greasy spot.
"Before you get started on it, I have some new business," Karen said. "Someone searched the apartment while I was gone."
Peggy trailed after her while she pointed out the evidence, which she had not disturbed. The badly made bed provoked Peggy's first comment. "I haven't made a bed in twenty years. You sure you don't suspect me?"
"I might, if you hadn't been with me all afternoon." Karen faced her. "You don't believe me, do you?"
"It's not what a cop would call conclusive."
"You're not a cop. You're supposed to be a friend."
Peggy exhaled deeply. "What do you want from me, tactful acquiescence or honest criticism? In my book friends can disagree and still be friends. In fact, honesty is the only possible basis for lasting friendship. Oh, I know I'm a bossy, opinionated, irritating old bitch; I should have asked you whether you wanted to go out to dinner, and what kind of takeout you preferred. So tell me when I step out of line, okay? Talk, don't sulk. And tell me when you think I'm wrong. I am wrong occasionally. Not often, but occasionally."
"You're wrong," Karen said. "Someone was here."
> After a moment Peggy's scowl turned to a sheepish smile. "Right. I stepped out of line. Sorry."
"I was out of line too," Karen said. "I guess I'm a little scared. It's a nasty feeling, having your space invaded—the classic nightmare of beleaguered heroines, come to think about it. Having forced upon you the knowledge that you aren't safe even in your own home."
"It's any woman's nightmare," Peggy muttered. "Any person's, male or female, these days. I was a little scared too; why do you suppose I yelled at you? Okay, where's my clipboard? New business: burglar. Would-be burglar, rather; nothing is missing?"
"There's nothing a burglar would bother with, not even a TV. I don't have valuable jewelry and I don't leave cash lying around."
"I just mentioned that in order to cover all the bases," Peggy said. "It's unlikely that your ordinary sneak thief would bother with a place like this, in broad daylight and practically under your landlady's nose. I agree with you that she's the most likely suspect. I must meet the old dear."
"You can meet her tomorrow if you like." Karen gave her Mrs. Fowler's note. "Another piece of new business I forgot to mention."
"We'll accept, of course," Peggy said. "You wouldn't happen to have any pink notepaper, would you? Preferably something with little flowers on it. Don't bother answering," she added with a smile. "The question was rhetorical. I'd also like to meet Lisa Fairweather. You might offer to take her to lunch. There's nothing like food and drink, especially the latter, to inspire confidences."
"All right. What sort of confidences are you hoping to inspire?"
"Cameron mentioned 'boxes' of family papers, didn't he? Lisa only gave you one box."
"Damn, that's right. Do you think she's holding out on me?"
"Could be the plural was just a slip of the tongue. It's worth asking about, though."
"Certainly." She watched Peggy check off an item on her list. "I'm not criticizing you or being overly sensitive, but it seems to me you're going over the same ground I've already covered—and expecting me to trail along. There are so many other things we could be doing—"
"And will do. This is going to be a long, complicated process. What's the hurry?"
"Bill Meyer has already beaten us to the punch once. God knows what other clues he found; he bragged about knowing how to skim a text. And he's seen the genealogy."
"You think of it as a competition, do you?"
"It is."
"Maybe so. Relax, he can only do so much with what he's got, and if I may be permitted to brag a trifle, I know better than he does how to go about it. Your discoveries strongly support the presumption that Ismene lived in that house, but was she a Cartright? The property may have changed hands, not once but several times. In this case we can't rely on people's memories, we need documentary proof. I'll hit the county courthouse tomorrow morning and begin tracing the deeds. You ought to—this is just an opinion, of course—"
"Don't be so damned tactful."
"Me, tactful? Please, don't be insulting." They smiled at one another, and Peggy went on, "As I was saying: Now that I've seen the manuscript, I realize how difficult it is to decipher. I'm amazed you've got through as much as you have. For heaven's sake, don't let Bill get to you with his boasts about skimming a text. You can't risk doing that. The text has given us our best leads so far, and a single blurred word or phrase could be crucial."
Karen spent the next day on the manuscript, not skimming. Peggy had said she would show up in time for the tea party and she was as good as her word. It lacked several minutes till four when Karen heard the pounding on her door. The emphatic, peremptory noise would have identified her caller even if she had not been expecting Peggy, but when she opened the door she had to look twice before she was certain. Her jaw dropped.
"Hurry up and change," Peggy ordered. "It's not polite to be more than ten minutes late."
Karen recovered herself. "I'm going as I am. I'm neat and clean and my pants are modestly loose. For God's sake, Peggy, don't you think you went a little overboard? She'll know you're making fun of her."
Peggy picked up her flowing skirts and curtsied. The wide-brimmed straw hat fell over her eyes. "Damn thing," she muttered, shoving it back into place. "You wouldn't have a hat pin around, would you?"
"I'm as short of hat pins as I am of pink notepaper. Honestly, Peggy—"
"She won't see the joke, believe me. It's important to make a good first impression."
She looked so pleased with herself, and so charmingly, consciously absurd, that Karen burst out laughing. "Peggy, you light up my life—to quote a distinctly minor poet. I suppose the least I can do is comb my hair. Come in, it will only take me a minute."
Mincing on high heels, one hand clutching her hat, Peggy watched her return the manuscript to the briefcase. "Any luck?"
"Not in the sense I had hoped. The love interest has turned up. At least I think he's going to be the hero; he's dark and gruff and taciturn. He's also a doctor, which I gather makes him a social inferior."
"Not necessarily. But unless he's also landed gentry he probably wouldn't be considered a suitable suitor. You ought to change your blouse at least; that one looks rather grubby."
"Oh, all right. Is this one acceptable?"
Peggy stuck her head in the closet. "This one. Little flowers and a Peter Pan collar."
"How about you?" Karen asked, slipping into the blouse.
"So far it's all Cartright. But I'm only back to 1830. It's slow work, especially when you're reading script instead of print. Hurry up, can't you?"
She did not comment when Karen carried the briefcase downstairs and locked it in the trunk of her car. They followed the driveway to the front of the house and knocked at the door.
Karen had anticipated Mrs. Fowler's reaction with a certain amount of pleasure. She and Peggy would have made an absurd couple even without the hat, which was so wide-brimmed it made Peggy look like an animated mushroom. However, she underestimated Mrs. Fowler's breeding. Only the faintest flicker of criticism crossed her face when she saw them, and it was directed at Karen. Hearing voices from the living room, the latter realized she had committed a social error. They weren't the only guests. This was a party, not a casual visit.
There were four other guests, all male. Two of them had been with Mrs. Fowler at the restaurant: a heavy, pudgy-faced elderly man with an expression of insufferable self-satisfaction, and a wizened little scarecrow of approximately the same age. The third man was also someone she had seen before—trying to "start something" with Cameron, as he had expressed it. The fourth . . .
Only Peggy's shrill cry of greeting stopped Karen from making a profane remark. "Why, Dr. Meyer, what a pleasure to see you again. I had no idea you'd be here today."
"It's my pleasure. But please, won't you call me Bill? Hello, Karen."
"Such an honor to have three such distinguished visitors," exclaimed Mrs. Fowler. "Dr. Finneyfrock, Dr. Holloway, allow me to present Colonel Bishop and Mr. Blair, two of our leading citizens. Both of them are prominent in civic and intellectual affairs. And this young man is one of those to whom our failing hands will pass the torch of learning and culture—my nephew, Robert Mansfield."
"Just call me Bobby," said Robert Mansfield, flashing his teeth, flexing his muscles, and seizing Karen's limp hand. "Old Cam took care I didn't get introduced last time we met, but I told you I'd see you again."
After shaking hands all around Karen sank into the nearest chair. She was the only one who wasn't dressed to the nines. Even Bobby had put on a coat and tie; his hair, stiffy and shiny with gel, had been shaped into upstanding curls. Meyer's charcoal-gray suit would have been appropriate for a wedding or a funeral, and the other men matched him in formality if not in shape. The Colonel's stomach strained the buttons of his waistcoat. Somehow Karen wasn't surprised when he modestly admitted to being an authority on Civil War battles—referring to that conflict, of course, as "The War of Southern Independence." Settling into a chair next to Peggy, whom he was kin
d enough to acknowledge as a fellow-historian, he started talking and, so far as Karen could tell, didn't stop until they were ready to leave.
His voice boomed a background accompaniment to the genteel conversation of the others. Mrs. Fowler did most of the talking. Bobby arranged his face in a smile and fixed pale-blue, white-lashed eyes on Karen. With his hair standing up in gluey tufts, he reminded her of an albino rabbit. Mr. Blair said very little, but he nodded a lot. He asked Karen one question: "What do you think of the work of Mr. James Fenimore Cooper?" Karen's surprised reply—"I try not to think about it"—upset him to such an extent that he didn't try again. It also wrung an explosive noise from Bill Meyer, which he managed to suppress before it developed into a laugh.
Sandwiches (crustless, paper-thin and spread with various indeterminate substances) had been added to the inevitable macaroons. The Colonel and Bobby ate most of them. Since there was no hope of escape from the Colonel, Peggy was relieving her boredom by making fun of him. "How fascinating," Karen heard her say. "Really? Why, I never knew that. Do tell me more."
Karen tried not to look at her watch. How long, oh Lord, must she endure this agony? Bobby's fixed stare was driving her up the wall. He obviously expected she would be flattered by it. She couldn't pump Mrs. Fowler for information with Bill Meyer sitting there, ears pricked. Damn him, she thought, smiling sweetly at him as he proffered the plate of macaroons; he knows I'm about to explode with frustration and he's loving it.
After an hour and twenty minutes, Peggy jumped to her feet with a girlish giggle, her skirts billowing wildly. "My goodness gracious, just look at the time! I've been enjoying myself so much I couldn't tear myself away. Thank you so much, Mrs. Fowler; it's been a pleasure meeting you gentlemen—and seeing you, Bill dear—"