by Kathy
"Honey, I'm not suggesting you go to bed with him. Just be polite."
There was another call as they were preparing to leave.
"Lisa?" Karen repeated, surprised. "No, you're not interrupting anything. We were just about to go out to dinner, but there's no hurry . . . Really? Yes, of course. When? . . . Fine, we'll see you then."
"She's just happened to run across something else we might want to see?" Peggy said, as Karen replaced the phone.
"Good guess."
"It wasn't a guess, it was almost a certainty. She's going to produce her wares a little at a time, you just watch."
"She's going out to dinner; suggested we come by around nine-thirty. I assume that's all right."
"Sure. Though it will probably be a waste of time. She's not ready to produce the good stuff yet."
Peggy was, as she pointed out, absolutely right. Lisa's offering consisted of a few books, which she doled out one at a time.
"They're old," Lisa pointed out. "You said you wanted old things."
The comment was unnecessary; it was obvious that the books were old, and most were in wretched condition. The bindings had once been handsome, fine morocco and calf heavily tooled in gold, but the leather was crumbling and the transparent tape patching the pages had only worsened their condition.
After leafing through one of the volumes, Peggy handed it to Karen. "This is your specialty, not mine."
Karen opened the book to the title page. " 'Oeuvres diverses de M. Pannard,' " she read. " 'Tome deux, Operas-comiques.' Obviously Pannard was a playwright, but I've never heard of him. French lit. is not my field."
"It's dated 1783," Lisa said eagerly. "It's the oldest, but some of the others are almost as old."
They were also almost as obscure—collections of essays and sermons. "Salutary reminders of the ephemeral nature of fame," Peggy remarked. "Two hundred years from now, will collectors come across a book by Stephen King and wonder who the hell he was?"
"Modern books won't last that long," Karen said abstractedly, leafing through the yellowed but intact pages of a volume of Sheridan's plays. "The paper is made of wood pulp and treated with acidic compounds. Old paper was handmade from cotton and linen rags. At least Sheridan's name and fame have survived. I honestly don't know whether this is worth anything or not. It's one volume of a set, and in poor shape, and it's certainly not a first edition ..."
By accident or intent, Lisa had saved the best till last. Peggy insisted afterward that she did it deliberately, after observing that her initial offerings failed to attract them. She also bawled Karen out for reacting with a gasp and an exclamation.
"You've got to develop a poker face! Antique dealers pray for customers like you."
"I couldn't help it," Karen protested. "Ismene must have read Children of the Abbey, it was a best-selling early Gothic. This could have been her own copy."
The books—all the books—were in the back seat of the car. Stars shone dimly through the misty night. Darkness had not brought much relief from the heat, however, and Karen had turned on the air-conditioning without being asked. Meekly, she added, "Thanks for buying the rest of them. They may not have been hers, but they're old enough to have been in the library of Amberly during her lifetime. One of the points I'll want to discuss is what she might have read—"
"Yeah, right." Peggy lit a cigarette. There had been no object resembling an ashtray in Lisa's apartment, and even Peggy hadn't had the gall to ask if she might smoke. "They probably won't set us back that much," she admitted, in a less aggressive voice. "I'll check with Simon as I promised I would, but I doubt these are rare books. It is an error to assume that a book is valuable just because it's old."
"So you're becoming an authority on rare books now. Is that what you and Simon talk about?"
Teasing Peggy was wasted effort. She chuckled richly. "That and other things. Shall I tell you what other things, or are you still young enough to think it's disgusting for people over fifty to be interested in sex? He knows more erotic poems than any man I've ever met. Which reminds me, maybe you could make some suggestions."
"I'll think about it," Karen said.
Peggy had left her car at the restaurant; after Karen had dropped her off she drove down the street toward the apartment. It was not late by her standards, but small Southern towns rolled up the sidewalks early on weeknights; only the restaurant and a convenience store had lighted windows. Mrs. Fowler's house, like most of the others nearby, was dark.
The mist had thickened, dimming the starlight. Karen left the car lights on while she opened the trunk and took out the briefcase, but after she had switched them off she was blinded by darkness. Groping, she found the banister and the first step, and felt her way up, cursing Mrs. Fowler's penuriousness. She might at least have provided an outside light. I ought to fake a fall and sue the old witch, Karen thought. After this I'll leave a light on inside. Or take a flashlight. I wonder what happened to that flashlight that used to be in the glove compartment? No use going back to look for it; even if it's still there, under the maps and other junk, the batteries must have died long ago.
It took forever to get the key in the lock. Once inside, she fumbled for the switch to the right of the door, and pressed it up and down several times before she was willing to admit the truth. Every light in the damned place was out. It wasn't a single burned-out bulb; the switch controlled all the lamps in the room.
Karen swore and kicked the door shut. It was not much darker inside than it was outside, and for once she preferred enclosure to open air. The significance of accessories she had failed to understand now came home to her. Those cute little candle holders, glass kittens and ceramic flowerpots and whatnot, weren't ornamental. There must be some problem with the electricity—an antiquated fuse box, perhaps—that caused frequent failures.
Muttering profanely, she felt her way across the room toward the bookshelves. She barked her shin painfully on a chair before she reached them and knocked half a dozen books off the shelf groping for the candle. It wasn't until she had located it that she realized she had neither matches nor lighter.
Taking a firm hold on her temper she stood perfectly still and tried to think sensibly. She certainly didn't intend to wander around in the dark looking for a fuse box; it might even be downstairs, in the garage. Why hadn't she thought of buying a flashlight? The stove was gas. She might be able to light a candle from the burner flame . . .
A puff of hot air from the open window stirred the curtains and made her start. The heat and humidity seemed to have increased since the sun went down; perspiration slid down her face and into her eyes, making them smart and water. Her discomfort wasn't entirely physical. The darkness pressed against her. Every inch of exposed skin tingled. It wasn't panic, in the strict sense of the word, for she had no desire to fling herself out the door in mad flight, as those unfortunates pursued by the god had done. She wanted to crouch under something, curl herself into the smallest possible space, remain motionless and unbreathing, like a mouse hunted by a cat.
The hell with the stove. She might as well go to bed; she couldn't work by candlelight anyway, the faded script of the manuscript was hard on the eyes even with adequate light. Crouch in bed, under the covers, hidden by darkness . . .
She had located the open bedroom door when a violent sneeze erupted from her and she suddenly understood why the analogy of the cat and the mouse had come into her mind. She stopped short, thrown off-balance by the explosion, supporting herself against the doorframe.
The symptoms were unmistakable. The cat was here, inside the apartment, probably in the bedroom. But how had it gotten in? The answer was just as unmistakable. Cats couldn't pick locks or pry open windows. And if the cat was still inside, the person who let it in, deliberately or inadvertently, might also be inside.
Another sneeze rocked her body. She turned very slowly and began to pick her way back across the room, pressing a finger under her lips and praying she could control the explosion t
hat threatened until she was outside the apartment. A faint rustling sound from the bedroom made her stomach contract. There weren't many places in the small apartment where an intruder could hide, even in that convenient darkness. He must be in the bedroom, waiting till she was in bed or asleep, before he emerged.
It never occurred to her that she might be in danger. She knew what he wanted. He had searched the place once before and failed to find it. It was a logical assumption that she must carry it with her. Breaking in after she was already in the apartment, even asleep, would have involved some noise and some risk. This plan was simpler and safer; if it hadn't been for the cat, and her convenient allergy, she would never have suspected anyone was there. Looking under the bed before retiring wasn't a habit of hers.
The pressure inside her head was so intense she felt her skull would explode. She was almost at the door; stooping, she picked up the briefcase. Just a few seconds longer ... No use. The sneeze echoed like a bomb blast. As the echoes died, she heard footsteps. He must have realized that she was retreating, that she knew someone was there; there was no use trying to conceal his presence now.
A thin beam of light struck across the room with the impact of a missile, darting from the table to the door and stopping on her right hand. The hand that held the briefcase.
Left-handed, Karen fumbled for the doorknob. She didn't turn around; she wouldn't have been able to see him, he was behind the light that would blind her. She was still fumbling when a hard shove sent her sprawling. By sheer luck she missed hitting a piece of furniture, but the impact was hard enough to knock the breath out of her. Something dark and shapeless bent over her; an odd, musky scent tickled her agonized nostrils and she burst into a fit of sneezing. Even the violence of the paroxysm didn't distract her from the grip that seized the briefcase and tried to pull it away. She wrapped both arms around it and rolled over.
She discovered to her surprise that she had enough breath left to scream, and then realized with even greater surprise that the outraged sound had not come from her mouth. It was a horrible noise, piercing, inhuman, unending. There was a flurry of movement behind her and a low-voiced, muffled exclamation. The door opened and closed again.
Karen lay still for a moment, listening. Had that been a trick? No; footsteps ran down the steps and faded into silence. Still clutching the briefcase, she located the candle and made her way to the kitchen. The glow from the lighted burner made her blink. Carrying the candle she ventured back into the living room.
The cat was sitting by the door. It stared pointedly at her over its shoulder and meowed. Karen stared back at it. Her eyes were streaming. She sneezed.
Chapter Eleven
No sigh relieved her speechless woe, She had no voice to speak her dread.
Mary E. Coleridge,
The Other Side of the Mirror, 1908
Why didn't you call me?" Peggy demanded. Her voice had the tight, controlled tone of someone who wants to yell but is determined not to.
"I did call you." Elbows on the table, head propped on her hands, Karen stared blindly into her cup of coffee. She was still in her nightgown and robe. Even though she had stuffed herself with antihistamines, it had taken her a long time to get to sleep, and she was still drowsy and stupefied. "Your line was busy."
"I was talking to Simon. Damn it, you could have told the hotel operator it was an emergency—"
"But it wasn't, not by that time. The police had arrived—"
"Oh, you called the police, did you?" Peggy caught hold of her head with both hands and shook it violently. "Damn, there I go again. If I didn't care about you so much I wouldn't yell at you."
"I know," Karen said, smiling.
"It's no excuse, though. I'll work on it. What did you tell them?"
"I didn't mention the manuscript."
"Hmmm. You think that was wise?"
"I couldn't see that it would do any good," Karen argued. "There are already too many people who know that it's worth stealing; why advertise the fact to the rest of the town? I couldn't give them the names of the people I suspect, since there's no evidence. I think the person was wearing gloves."
"Any crook who can read or watch TV knows enough to wear gloves,"
Peggy agreed. "He didn't leave a cast-off garment or a packet of matches, or any other useful clue, I suppose."
"No." Karen yawned. "The officer called this morning, to say they'd keep the case open, but since they had no leads ..." Another ear-splitting yawn interrupted her; she went on indistinctly, "Mrs. Fowler told them she didn't see or hear anything. She also mentioned that nothing of the sort had ever occurred until I got here."
"Nice," Peggy muttered. "Well, I guess it could have been worse. You saved the manuscript."
"It was the cat that saved it." Karen laughed feebly. "She must have stepped on its tail. I never heard such a sound. It was as loud and as effective as a burglar alarm."
"She," Peggy repeated.
"She was wearing perfume. I didn't recognize the scent, I hardly ever use the stuff because of my allergies."
"Men use cologne these days. And aftershave."
"None of the men I know use anything that pervasive. It was musky and heavy, the kind that has names like Passion Flower and Jungle Lust."
"Mrs. Fowler douses herself with some sickly flower scent," Peggy said. "Supposed to be violets, I guess."
"Lisa too. Now don't suggest it was a casual burglar with exotic tastes. She was lying in wait for me and the first thing she grabbed was the briefcase."
"I'm not going to suggest any such thing. Your reasoning is logical. The lights?"
"The master switch had been thrown. The fuse box is in the garage; it's one of those old-fashioned types with fuses instead of breakers. The whole damned electrical system probably violates some housing code."
"I expect this place violates a lot of codes," Peggy agreed. "She got in through the front window?"
"Yes. The screen had been replaced, but not secured. She must have left it open long enough for the cat to jump in. It was under the bed, curled up in a box of sweaters." Karen rubbed her nose. The itch was strictly psychosomatic; the sweaters were in the car. She'd have to have them cleaned before she could wear them again.
Peggy opened the front door and went out onto the landing. When she returned Karen said snuffily, "I know, I looked too. It was stupid of me to suppose that just because I couldn't reach that window from the steps, nobody could. All the same she couldn't have managed it without hammering in a spike to stand on while she slit the screen and unlocked it."
"You think that's it? There's no spike now, just a hole."
"Had to be." Karen yawned. "The whole thing was neatly done. She came back out after she'd unlocked the door, and removed the evidence. The cat could have slid past her then, while the door was open. She might not have seen it."
"Maybe it wasn't only the racket the cat made that scared her into leaving. Visible scratches, on hands or face, would be a dead giveaway if. . ."
"If it's someone I know," Karen finished. "It could have been Dorothea Angelo. She's big and husky and unscrupulous, and she douses herself with perfume. But it could also have been someone big and husky and unscrupulous who had doused himself with perfume to pin the blame on Dorothea."
Peggy sucked in her breath. "Bill?"
"It would be so easy," Karen said. "In the dark, my sense of smell was the only sense available for purposes of identification, so long as the intruder didn't speak. Which he didn't. Would Dorothea be stupid enough to overlook that distinctive aroma?"
"She might," Peggy muttered.
"Oh, sure, she might; you can get so accustomed to a particular odor that you don't notice it yourself. But there are other suggestive points. Hammering in that spike to stand on, for instance—isn't that the sort of thing a man would think of, rather than a woman?"
"Now you're being sexist," Peggy said critically.
"True. And you are prejudiced. You don't want to suspect Bill."
"True." Peggy's smile was half hearted. "But we'll inspect him for cat scratches. Hell, we'll inspect everybody."
Soon afterward they went their separate ways, Peggy to the courthouse and Karen to the table in the living room to work on the manuscript.
Peggy paused in the doorway to remark gruffly, "I don't have to tell you to keep that window closed and locked, even if the temperature in here gets to be a hundred."
"You don't have to tell me." Karen wiped perspiration off her forehead. "It's almost as hot outside anyhow."
"Looks like rain." Peggy studied the low-hanging clouds. "A good thunderstorm would clear the air."
"Be careful driving."
"Ha! You be careful."
After a second cup of coffee and a cold shower Karen got to work, but the oppressive weather made her sleepy and she was rather too full of coffee when Peggy returned late that afternoon carrying two brown paper bags.
"Deli," she announced, unpacking cold cuts and cheese, rolls and salad. "It's too hot to cook and I don't feel like going out."
"You mean you don't want me going out and coming back to what might not be an empty house." Karen leaned against the door, arms folded. "Did you bring your jammies?"
"No use suggesting I stay the night, huh?"
Peggy stood with feet braced and arms folded. She looked like a belligerent elderly child. Touched and amused, Karen managed not to smile. "I appreciate the offer, Peggy, and I'm sure you'd be a match for Bill and Dorothea combined. But it's not necessary. She won't try this again."
"She's not registered at the motel." Peggy stowed the food in the fridge and took out a tray of ice cubes.
"How do you know? They surely wouldn't let you look at the register."
"Of course not. I told the clerk I was expecting a friend, a famous and eccentric author who gets a kick out of surprising her buddies. She's so famous she always registers under a pseudonym."