by Kathy
Bill dear left with them. The other men remained; Karen felt sure they were looking forward to a good gossip about the visitors, with special attention to her tactlessness and improper attire. The Colonel's parting remark was addressed to her. "We're all looking forward to your little talk on Wednesday, young lady."
As soon as they were out of earshot Peggy asked curiously, "What little talk is that?"
"I am addressing the literary society," Karen snapped. "Thanks to Bill here. He set me up."
Meyer caught Peggy's arm as she staggered. The hat fell off; he fielded it with a deft left-handed catch. "I said I was sorry," he said with an unrepentant grin. "You all right, Peggy?"
"It's these damned shoes."
Meyer shook his head sympathetically. "Martyrdom of that magnitude deserves a reward. Can I buy you a drink? Or a thick steak? Or both?"
"Sure," Peggy said, before Karen could reply. "Let me change my shoes first. My sneakers are in my car."
They turned into the driveway, Peggy still holding Meyer's arm. Karen followed, kicking at pebbles to relieve her feelings. Whatever Meyer's motive for inviting them to dinner, it would have been childish to refuse—but that didn't mean she had to like what she was doing.
"Who's that?" Meyer exclaimed, coming to a stop.
"Where?" Thrown off-balance, Peggy clutched at him. He thrust her at Karen and started to run.
Karen managed to stay on her feet and keep Peggy from falling. By that time Meyer was out of sight. Cursing female fashions, specifically footwear, Peggy tottered toward her car. She was changing into her sneakers when Meyer reappeared, pushing through the bushes at the back of the garage. He was disheveled and short of breath when he joined them.
"She got away. Must have parked in the alley; I heard a car start up and take off."
"She," Peggy repeated. "Who?"
Meyer hesitated. He had unbuttoned his coat and vest and loosened his tie. "I should have asked if you were expecting a visitor. She took off in such a hurry—"
"I didn't see anyone," Karen said.
"I only caught a glimpse of her, coming down the stairs. Did you?"
He spoke to Peggy. She shook her head. "I was too busy concentrating on walking. What did she look like?"
Meyer ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging a shower of twigs and leaves. "Almost my height, built like a tank. Sound like anyone we know?"
"Dorothea!" Karen exclaimed. "It can't be."
"I'm afraid it could," Meyer said.
Chapter Nine
"Nothing here but kitchen things," he said, with a little laugh for the insignificance of kitchen things.
Susan Glaspell,
"A Jury of Her Peers," 1918
“The lamplight falling full upon him brought into strong outline a physiognomy more notable for strength than comeliness. Strands of silver glittered in the sable locks which were swept back to bare a brow forbiddingly high and prominent. The jutting nose and thin lips set in a habitual downward curve, the harsh modeling of the bone structure over which the skin stretched tightly: all his features combined recalled to Ismene a desolate landscape shadowed by low-hanging clouds. Yet when he smiled it was as if the same scene were illumined by a flood of sunlight breaking through the clouds; what had been shadowed was now bright and fresh, what had seemed a solitary wilderness was now animated by life.' "
Peggy looked up from the manuscript. "Remind you of anyone you know?" she asked.
"No," Karen said curtly.
"How about this? 'The gentleness of his countenance was the product of expression rather than structure. Those soft blue eyes could harden with anger or flash with noble indignation, and on such occasions the golden locks framing his brow seemed to glitter with a supernal fire.' "
Karen swung around in her chair to look at Peggy, who was curled up on the sofa.
"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "You're supposed to be looking for clues. I'd be the first to admit that Ismene's literary style lags at times, but those descriptions are typical of the genre—the Byronic hero-villain, dark and gloomy, and the fair-haired hero—"
"No doubt. But that's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant, and no, I can't picture Bill Meyer as a Byronic hero."
"Hero-villain, you said. That's one of the problems, isn't it? Is he for us or against us?"
"Come on, Peggy. Surely you weren't naive enough to believe those protestations of his. He put on a good show tonight, I admit. I told you he can be charming when he wants to be."
"He does have a nice smile. 'A flood of sunlight breaking through the clouds
Karen made a wordless sound of disgust. Peggy chuckled, and then sobered. "I'm not saying you're wrong about Bill, Karen, but you're too intelligent to let prejudice influence your judgment. So far he hasn't done anything wrong—except tease you a little—and he's done several helpful things. Look how he rushed chivalrously in pursuit of your shy visitor. Got his nice neat hair all messed up."
"I didn't see anyone. Did you?"
"I thought I caught a glimpse of someone ducking into the shrubbery. But I'm very suggestible," Peggy admitted calmly. "Are you accusing him of inventing the whole thing?"
"Possibly. On the other hand, it wouldn't surprise me to learn Dorothea was still on the trail. I only hope to God Joe Cropsey doesn't track me down. What did you think of Bill's offer to help excavate the stone house?"
"That's another of those wonderfully enigmatic Gothic touches," Peggy said gleefully. "Is he genuinely anxious to assist you, or does he have an ulterior motive? We may not know the truth until the denouement, when he saves you from a hideous fate or threatens you with same. In the latter case it will be Cameron who rushes to your side in the nick of time, risking his life to—"
"An even less likely scenario. Did you find anything I missed?"
With a shrug and a smile Peggy accepted the change of subject. "Can't say that I did. There's no question about the ambience—the terrain she describes, the flora and fauna, the presence of slave-servants . . . It's American, and Southern American at that. From her description of the house we can make a very strong case for Amberley being the specific locale—in fact, the carved stone you described makes the identification virtually certain."
"Virtually?"
"That's the standard academic qualifier," Peggy said ironically. "There's no doubt in my mind. The time period is post-Revolution, but I haven't found anything that would pin it down more precisely, not even references to specific articles of costume. Cloaks and mantles and hoods and trailing skirts could apply to any time in the century. You'd think a woman would describe clothes in more detail."
"I hope you're not implying Ismene was a man. That's the old male-chauvinist syllogism: Women's books have no literary merit; this book has literary merit; hence this book could not have been written by a woman. Some idiot even claimed that Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights were written by Branwell Bronte."
"The town drunk of Haworth?" Peggy grinned. "Did he ever publish anything? Surely not even an idiot would make that claim unless he had something indisputably written by Branwell with which to compare the novels."
"That would be a logical procedure, wouldn't it? Branwell's own work, such as it was, proves beyond a doubt that he couldn't have written a salable Silhouette romance, much less Wuthering Heights. But the syllogism is hard to fight. What the hell do you think feminist critics are complaining about?"
"Don't yell at me, I'm on your side." Peggy pretended to cower. "I never doubted Ismene was female. Neither does Bill Meyer."
"Who gives a damn what Bill Meyer thinks? I don't want to talk about Bill Meyer. Or Cameron."
"Fine with me. But didn't it strike you, as it struck me, that Ismene's characters are more ambiguous than conventional Gothic heroes and villains? I haven't read that many of the damned things, but usually the dark brooding villain and the fair-haired rather vapid hero are more distinct. Heathcliffe and what's-'is-name—Edgar—in Wuthering Height
s, the dark browed-Baron and the insipid youth in Castle of Otranto—"
"Heathcliffe isn't a typical hero or villain, any more than Emily's novel is a typical Gothic. It's unique, unclassifiable. In Jane Eyre, Rochester is dark and brooding, but he's the hero. Jane rejects St. John, the saintly blond, because his icy detachment and denial of normal human emotion threaten her very sanity. He's not a traditional villain, though. Like Rochester, and even poor old Edgar in Wuthering Heights, he is far more complex. Like real people."
"There is certainly a degree of ambiguity about Ismene's male characters. I don't trust that angelic cousin of hers," Peggy muttered. "He's up to something."
"So you're enjoying the story?"
"I'm hooked, if that's what you mean, despite the archaic language and the interminable moralizing. How much longer is it going to take you to—"
The ringing of the telephone saved Karen from a reply, which would have been too vague to satisfy Peggy. The voice at the other end surprised her so, she forgot her manners. "Simon! What's wrong?"
His deep laugh reassured her. "That reaction is more characteristic of my generation than yours, Karen. I thought you had substituted telephone calls for letters as a means of social communication. I hope all is well?"
"Yes; things are going very well. We've found the right house, Simon! There's no doubt about it. I'm a third of the way through the manuscript; it's wonderful ..."
He waited until she had run down and then said politely, "I'm looking forward to reading it. And to hearing the story of your adventures. You said Peggy was working on the genealogical aspect. Is she there, by any chance?"
"Yes, she is." Karen began to have a deflating suspicion that she was not the object of Simon's interest. "Do you want to talk to her?"
He did. Karen handed the telephone to Peggy, who was looking particularly bland and innocent. She retreated to the kitchen and started to make tea, but it was impossible not to overhear Peggy's end of the conversation. It was not especially informative, however.
"Yes, fine, thank you . . . Really . . . Oh? . . . Yes, certainly. That's a good idea . . . Yes, I think so. And you? . . . Good . . . Yes, of course . . . Good night."
The kettle shrieked. Karen snatched it off the stove and poured water into the cups. Looking up, she saw Peggy standing in the doorway, watching her with an amused smile. "What tact. Did you think I was going to murmur sweet nothings?"
"No, I expected to hear ribald remarks that would offend my ladylike sensibilities. That was a very businesslike conversation."
Peggy sat down at the table and spooned sugar into her tea. "I've talked with Simon a number of times," she said. "I hope the relationship will continue to develop."
"Do you mean you and Simon are ..." Surprise loosened Karen's tongue. She stopped herself. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business."
"No, it's not," Peggy said coolly. "I only mentioned it because I don't want you to suspect me of plotting with him behind your back. Tonight's conversation, in contrast to others we've had, was strictly business; he got a call today from the dealer from whom he bought the manuscript. While preparing for the auction—which is on Saturday, in case you've forgotten—the guy found more papers at the bottom of a box of linens. He wanted to know if Simon was interested."
"What did he say? What kind of papers? How much did he—"
"Calm yourself, please. I will give you the information in an orderly manner. Simon, moral giant that he is, refused the implicit offer; interest having been aroused, the seller stands to gain more in an open auction than in a private deal. He doubts the papers are important. All the dealer could tell him was that they look old—which as Simon knows, and you ought to know, doesn't mean a damned thing."
"Does that mean we have to bid for them on Saturday, in competition with everybody else attending the auction?" Karen demanded.
"Not without having a look at them first." Peggy tugged thoughtfully at her ear. "I'd planned to attend the auction, of course. There may be other things we'll want."
"What?"
"I won't know till I see them," Peggy said, maddeningly vague. "Usually there is a preview the day before, to give potential buyers a chance to examine the merchandise. We could attend that, but I'd prefer a private viewing, without a lot of auction freaks breathing down my neck. Do you think Cameron could arrange it?"
"I could ask."
"Do that little thing." Peggy gulped down the last of her tea and rose.
"I'm off. I want to get to the courthouse as soon as the offices open tomorrow. I'll turn up here in time for Happy Hour, okay?"
Karen followed her to the door. "Be careful on the stairs," she warned. "It's awfully dark."
"It is, isn't it? Be sure and lock up."
Karen stood in the open door until Peggy had started the engine and turned on the headlights. The glare of their beams shattered the darkness and shadows turned familiar objects into grotesque caricatures. A shiver shook Karen's body as she remembered the last sentence she had read before Peggy interrupted her that afternoon. "Sometimes," Ismene had written, "it is better not to know what lies hidden in the dark."
She was hard at work the following morning when a pounding at the door interrupted her. Automatically Karen covered the manuscript with a blank sheet of paper, and got stiffly to her feet, wondering who it could be. Not Mrs. Fowler, unless she had run out of violet notepaper and was employing clenched fists instead of ladylike knuckles to the door. Karen hesitated, struck by a sudden thought. Could the person demanding entrance so peremptorily be Dorothea Angelo? She had feared that Dorothea would track her down sooner or later, and she wasn't keen on facing that large angry individual alone.
I'll be damned if I'll let the woman intimidate me, she told herself. Squaring her shoulders, she reached for the doorknob.
Despite her bravado it was with considerable relief that she recognized her visitor. Joan's red hair was windblown, and she was wearing a bright-green T-shirt covered with feminist mottoes and insignia. The least provocative of the mottoes read, "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle."
"Hi," Joan said brightly.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm a refugee from a rowing machine. Can I come in?"
Brushing past Karen, she rattled on, "I had to get away from that place. If I don't get my teeth into a hamburger or a taco within the next few hours I may turn cannibal. Everything on the menu over there is low-fat, low-cal, low-protein, and low-taste. I've consumed so goddamn many bean sprouts I keep feeling my head to make sure things aren't growing in my hair."
"Where's Sharon?" Karen asked, looking out the door.
"Lunching on vegetable consomme and fat-free yogurt, after a morning on a treadmill. Didn't they used to sentence vicious criminals to the treadmill? Aren't you glad to see me?"
Karen indicated a chair. "Yes, to both questions. But don't think you can make a habit of this. It drives me crazy to have people think they can interrupt my work just because I'm sitting in my living room instead of in somebody else's office."
"I know. I get that all the time too. I'll call next time, I swear. This was one of those sudden, irresistible impulses Sharon keeps talking about." Her repentant frown turned to an unrepentant grin. "She doesn't even know I'm gone. I sneaked out. Come on, let me take you to lunch."
"Lunch?" Karen looked at her watch. "I didn't realize it was so late. I can't take the time, though. I could make us a sandwich—"
"It probably wouldn't be greasy enough. I came prepared to bribe you if necessary." Joan reached into her bulging purse and whipped out a paperback book. "Look what I found yesterday, during a brief moment of recreation Sharon allowed me at a bookstore."
"Haunted Houses of the Tidewater?" Karen read the title aloud. "No, thanks. I've got enough reading material on hand."
"Ah, but there's one chapter in this that may interest you. You remember what I suggested the other night?"
"Oh. Is there something about Amberley?"
; She reached for the book. Joan returned it to her purse. "I'll read aloud as we eat. There's a place down the road that serves half-pound burgers with chili and bacon and cheese and onions and—"
"Oh, all right." Karen grinned reluctantly. "An hour and a half, not a minute more."
"Make it two hours and I'll give you the book. I have to start back by three anyhow; it's a two-hour drive, and we're having a special treat at Happy Hour. Six whole ounces of tomato juice."
The hamburgers weren't quite greasy enough for Joan, but she compensated by devouring a pile of french fries. A little moan of pleasure escaped her lips as she leaned back, replete.
"You missed one," Karen said, indicating a lone french fry.
"Oh, yeah. You've done your good deed for the day, dearie. You have just saved a life."
"Sharon's, I suppose."
"She may yet survive the week. I promise I won't bug you again, but I trust you have no objection to my attending the auction this weekend."
"How do you know about that?"
"There was an ad in Auction Weekly."
"Oh, so you're an auction freak. Why didn't I know that?"
"It's a secret vice. I only share it with fellow addicts. This looks like a good one—Saturday and Sunday both."
The information was new to Karen. She wondered why Peggy hadn't told her. Probably because she hadn't asked.
Joan went on, "The prison gates open at noon on Friday, so I plan to drive down and attend the viewing that afternoon. We might have dinner if you can spare the time."
"I'll see. Is Sharon coming with you?"
"She'll have to, unless she wants to rent a car," Joan said calmly.
"It could be quite a jolly little reunion," Karen said. "Peggy is here too. Did you know that?"
"I thought she might be. You'll get nasty wrinkles if you frown like that. What's the matter with you? Sure I'm curious about what you're doing. That's what friends are for—to share your interests and help out when they can."