by Kathy
"That is the most preposterous story I've ever—"
"The clerk bought it." Peggy chuckled. "She thinks it's Alexandra Ripley."
Karen began to laugh helplessly. "Peggy, how awful of you! I've seen pictures of Ripley; if she ever finds out about this—this masquerade she'll sue you for slander."
"I'll worry about that tomorrow," Peggy said, chuckling. "I do wish we could locate Angelo, though. It would be a load off my mind if she turned out to have an alibi."
"Why? I thought you didn't want to suspect Bill."
The amusement left Peggy's face. "Because, whatever Bill's other failings, he isn't likely to commit physical assault. For one thing, he's too smart. For another, he—now don't get mad—"
"I probably will if you say what I think you're going to say."
"Dammit, Karen, I know the signs! He may be a consummate actor, counterfeiting increasing—let's say 'affection'—so you'll admit him to your confidence; but unless I miss my guess he's becoming genuinely— let's say 'fond'—of you. Either way, he's not going to hurt you. She might."
"Whoever it was didn't hurt me," Karen pointed out. "Or try to. He or she could have hit me or choked me; he or she—English needs another pronoun!—was taller and heavier. Instead, I was pushed aside. Does that tell us anything about the burglar?"
"Not a damned thing," Peggy said gloomily. "Bill and Dorothea aren't the only candidates, you know. The entire academic community must know about the manuscript by now. Creepy Joe Cropsey certainly does. Lisa or Cameron, or some third party, might try to steal it in order to sell it to any of the above. Oh, hell, this isn't getting us anywhere. Let's drop the subject."
They went back to the living room with their drinks. "I hope you had a productive day," Peggy said. "Mine was a bummer. I couldn't find birth or death certificates for anyone in the third generation. Whoever concocted that genealogy must have had private sources."
"If it was submitted to the D.A.R. or some other such organization—"
"I don't know what kind of documentation they require. It's worth checking, I agree, but I want to cover all the local possibilities before I leave town. There's one we haven't mentioned. Gravestones. You don't happen to know where the family plot is located, I suppose?"
"The subject didn't come up," Karen said dryly.
"Raise it, then. We might even luck out and find that the parish church has records."
Karen made a face. "I'll leave that job to you. Crawling over gravestones in some weed-infested old churchyard doesn't appeal to me."
"You know not whereof you speak. It's a very soothing activity on a summer afternoon. Old cemeteries are shady and quiet. Very quiet," she added in sepulchral tones.
A rumble of thunder sounded, like a musical score from a horror film underlining the suggestion of menace. Karen laughed uneasily, and Peggy said, "Maybe we'll finally get that storm. If it's raining hard, can I spend—"
"No. Thanks." . "So how's Ismene getting along?"
"Not too well. She and Clara have had a fight. Not that Ismene used such a vulgar word, but Clara accused her of ruining her—Clara's— chances of an advantageous marriage because she—Ismene—has aroused the antagonism of their well-bred neighbors by orating about the rights of women, slaves, and other inferiors. Ismene, thus provoked, retorts that Clara won't have any problem catching a husband because she's got every quality a man wants in a wife—money, good looks, and a complete absence of brains. After she blows up she bitterly repents her unkind words and tries to apologize, but Clara walks off in a huff and gets her revenge by flirting furiously with both Edmund and the doctor, who has become a frequent caller. Edmund is brooding about some mysterious problem, which he won't explain, and which necessitates frequent absences from the house. Ismene spends more and more time in the stone house, writing gloomy poems, and . . . oh, yes, she has another encounter with the mysterious figure in black, but when she attempts to follow it she finds her path barred by a locked and bolted door, from behind which she hears sounds of agonized weeping."
"I hope you never try to write a novel," Peggy said critically. "That's about as boring and flat a narrative as I've ever heard. Don't tell me any more of the plot, I'd rather read her version. She knows how to pile on the Gothic atmosphere."
"I'm getting impatient with her," Karen admitted. "There's plenty of atmosphere and no useful information whatever. It's as if she were deliberately trying to hide from me. Why won't she let me in?"
The silence that followed was broken by another, louder roll of thunder. "That's a strange way of putting it," Peggy said. "Into what?"
The room darkened as the storm drew nearer. The wind was rising. The curtains at the side windows lifted and fell.
"Into her mind, of course," Karen said. "It's closed to me. How much of what she wrote is the 'I,' the identity, the real thoughts of a real woman? She's shut people out just as her society tried to shut her in. A house of stone can be either a refuge or a prison."
"Or a grave," Peggy said. "As it was for Antigone."
The storm broke just as they were sitting down to supper. It was a humdinger, as Peggy put it—torrential rain, lightning and thunder. After a few preliminary flickers the lights dimmed and went out, and Peggy, with loud self-congratulations, produced a pair of flashlights from the other bag she had brought. They were large, heavy torches, and Karen suspected her friend was hoping for another invasion so she could hit the burglar over the head. Nothing of the sort occurred, of course, and when the storm had passed over and the electricity had gone on again, Peggy had no excuse to linger. She wanted to make an early start; Cameron had left a message telling her she could view the merchandise any time after nine.
Stars had begun to show between banks of thinning clouds and the air felt sweet and cool. The flashlights were definitely useful, though. Karen kept hers focused on Peggy until the latter had reached her car.
For all her bravado she didn't sleep well that night. The drip of water from the sodden leaves sounded like footsteps, and just as she was drifting off, a series of spitting, piercing howls jerked her back to wakefulness. They faded as she listened; one of the combatants had thrown in the towel and fled. She hoped the winner was her unwitting defender. Peggy had wanted to reward it with a lavish spread of delicacies, but Karen had talked her out of it. She didn't want to encourage the cat to hang around. Maybe, before she left town, she could deliver a basket of cat goodies to its owners.
The break in the weather was brief. It was raining again next morning, a slow, dismal drizzle that enlarged the puddles on the sodden ground. Karen was ready and waiting when Peggy arrived. She blinked in surprise at the apparition standing on her threshold. Crimson umbrella, scarlet raincoat, snappy matching cap . . .
"Very cheerful," she said.
"I'm sprucing myself up," Peggy explained shamelessly. "Simon likes bright colors. No, I won't come in, if you're ready to go; no sense dripping all over your carpet. I'll drive, I'm parked behind you. We can lock the manuscript in my trunk."
She had it all figured out. Karen shrugged into her old raincoat, feeling very drab next to the dapper little figure in scarlet.
"Do you know where the place is?" she asked, getting into the passenger seat.
"Cameron gave me directions. Now listen good, I am going to give you a run-down on procedure. The first thing you do is practice an expression of impenetrable disdain. Like this." She curled her lip and wrinkled her nose. "Plaster it on your face and leave it there. Don't look excited or squeal in delight even if you run across a diary labeled 'Jane Jones, aka Ismene.' Since we don't know exactly what we're looking for, we'll have to go through every box. A pile of what appears to be old magazines might have other papers within. If you do find anything you want, take careful note of its location. Got that?"
"I guess so," Karen said uncertainly. "It sounds much more complicated than I'd realized."
"My dear, bidding is an art form that requires not only natural talent but years of practice."
Peggy squinted through the streaming windshield. "I think we turn here. Can you read that street sign?"
Karen obliged. With a grunt of satisfaction Peggy swung right. "Two and a half miles to Old Forge Road. Watch out for the auction sign. Yes, dearie, I'm an old hand at country auctions. I used to hit one every weekend, before my house got so crammed full. I've cut back lately, but Joan and I—"
"Joan!" Karen exclaimed. "I forgot about her. She said she was coming. Suggested we all have dinner tonight."
"We'll see." Peggy was concentrating on business. "Ah, there's the sign."
The road was a narrow two-lane stretch of macadam. Water flowed through the ditches on either side. Peggy slowed and pulled to the right as a pickup approached, taking up more of the road than was its due. "Damned farmers always think they own the road," she grumbled. "Why have you got your hands over your eyes? Relax, I know what I'm doing."
The auction house was a rambling, flat-roofed structure set among fields green with growing crops. A big tentlike structure flanked one side of it, and a graveled parking area the other. More parking was available across the road, in a field that had been mowed but not paved. It was a sea of mud and flattened weeds that morning; since they were early, there was space available in the graveled lot.
Peggy cast a professional look over the other vehicles. "Look at the license plates. New York, Pennsylvania, Florida . . . Dealers. I was afraid of this. He must have advertised in antique papers clear across the country. Get your sneer in place."
Karen followed her into the building. When she saw the interior she stopped and stared in consternation. Peggy had not overstated the size of the job. The large room was crammed with objects in haphazard array, tables piled on top of bureaus and sideboards, cardboard cartons heaped atop one another, long tables covered with stacked quilts and linens and china. There were more cartons under the tables. To the right of the entrance was a small platform with a desk and high stool—the auctioneer's podium, Karen assumed. Glass cases on either side held smaller, choicer objects; the overhead lights glinted off silver and crystal. At the back of the room, opposite the podium, a stout, aproned woman was dispensing coffee and doughnuts to several men who leaned on the counter talking and laughing.
"Old, favored customers," Peggy muttered, indicating the men. "They've been here before. Let's get some coffee and do a preliminary survey together."
She had stripped for action, leaving her coat and umbrella in the car, and was professionally attired in dungarees, denim shirt and heavy laced boots. Karen was glad she had been warned to wear old, comfortable clothes; the bare cement floor of the building was already marked by wet, muddy footprints.
Carrying a Styrofoam cup, she trotted obediently after Peggy as the latter walked along the rows of merchandise. Before they had gone ten feet, everything began to blur in Karen's mind. She understood why Peggy had insisted she bring a clipboard. Several of the dreaded dealers carried them too.
They finished their circuit of the room and their coffee simultaneously. Tossing her empty cup into a stained oil drum outside the door, Peggy flexed her arms and spoke.
"They save the big stuff like furniture and silver till later in the day. They'll start with the miscellaneous objects they don't expect will bring much—like those cartons. I'll let you excavate the ones on the floor, if you don't mind. My knees are giving me hell in this wet weather. Drag things out and dig to your heart's content, but be sure to put everything back in the same box you got it from."
Abject panic gripped Karen. "Suppose I miss something. I don't know what I'm looking for!"
"Neither do I." Peggy grinned broadly. "Have fun."
Karen didn't have to feign an expression of distaste as she dropped to her knees. Not only was the floor far from clean, but the contents of the boxes were thick with grime.
There were—she counted—thirty-seven cartons under the tables. She had finished inspecting them and moved on to another pile of boxes when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
"Ready to take a break?" Peggy asked. "It's eleven-thirty."
"So late?" Karen carefully replaced a collection of soft-drink bottles and rose to her feet. "This was a wasted morning. You wouldn't believe the junk! Why on earth would anyone buy a stained, chipped, ceramic bedpan?"
"I hear people use them for planters," Peggy said, and grinned at Karen's horrified expression. "Chacun a son gout. Come on. There's a powder room of sorts; we'll wash up and then have a spot of lunch. The food's usually good—homemade soup and pie and sandwiches."
They had to wait for service; several others had decided on an early lunch in order to avoid the crowd that would appear at one o'clock, when the viewing opened to the public. Seating herself in one of a row of chairs that lined the wall, Peggy unwrapped a country ham sandwich and took an enormous bite.
Karen sipped her soup and looked around the room. "There are more people here now. I don't see any familiar faces, though."
"Bill will turn up, never fear. And you are going to be very sweet and polite."
"Oh, right. Do you suppose Dorothea will have the gall to make an appearance?"
"If she does, you'll be polite to her too," Peggy said firmly.
"I'll distract her with witty conversation while you inspect her for cat scratches." Karen laughed. "I don't know why, but I'm beginning to enjoy this."
"I thought it would get to you."
"It has a weird fascination," Karen admitted. "The treasure-hunting instinct, I suppose."
"Mmm-hmmm. One never knows what gem may lie buried under the dreck. There are stories—most of them apocryphal, I admit, but some true—of people who've found a diamond bracelet in a box of costume jewelry, or a rare bit of porcelain jumbled in with cheap cups and saucers."
"There wasn't any rare porcelain among that lot," Karen said decidedly. "How about you? Any luck?"
"Some of the furniture is rather nice. A cherry lowboy, with original brasses, a carved fruitwood buffet with a marble top—"
"You haven't got room in your house for any more furniture."
"No." Peggy's eyes took on a faraway look and she murmured the phrase that, as Karen was to learn, is the motto and the heartfelt prayer of the dedicated auction buff. "But if it goes cheap ..."
"Is furniture all you looked at? There's a hell of a lot of stuff here, Peggy, and we don't have time—"
"I looked in every drawer and opened every door, kiddo. People sometimes overlook small objects. But no, that wasn't all I looked at. Finished? Come on, then, I want to show you something. And keep your face under control!"
She led Karen behind the podium. The wall was hung with paintings, many of them in ornate gilded frames. "I may bid on a few of these," she said, without troubling to lower her voice. "Isn't the lady in the bonnet divine?"
She glowered at them from the canvas, her lined, unsmiling face framed by white frills. The fingers of the hands folded on her knee looked odd; there appeared to be more of them than there ought to be.
" 'Divine' is hardly the word," Karen said dubiously. "How could you stand to have that face glaring at you? The artist's knowledge of anatomy wasn't exactly ..." She stopped with a catch of breath, and Peggy jabbed her hard in the ribs.
"The dog's anatomy is even more peculiar," Peggy said. "But I love him. Look at his imbecile expression. These are primitives, you ignoramus, and they'll probably fetch high prices. Too high for me, though I'll take a crack at them. Did you see the frames?"
She drew Karen behind the podium, where a stack of frames stood leaning against the wall. "If you can't do better than that I'll leave you home tomorrow," she whispered, stooping. "Didn't you even think about family portraits?"
"I never dared hope for anything like that," Karen whispered back. "God, wouldn't it be wonderful? A frontispiece for the book—a jacket cover . . . But the portraits don't seem to be labeled, and we don't even know her real name!"
"So we acquire everything from the right period," Peggy said cheerfully.
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br /> "That nasty-looking old woman can't be she."
"Oh, God give me patience! We'll discuss your romantic prejudices tonight, in private." Lowering her voice even more, she continued to sort through the frames. "Get ready for this. If you so much as gasp, I'll slug you."
The frame she extracted from deep in the pile was a cheap, mass-produced affair, of a type that can be still purchased in any drug or department store—narrow strips of light wood in a standard eight-and-a-half-by-ten size. It was not new; the grain of the wood was stained with grime and the nails at one corner had come loose. The picture it enclosed was defaced by straight lines, one perpendicular and one vertical, and it was so dark Karen couldn't make out the subject.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Does it remind you of anything? Keep looking."
As she stared, shapes emerged from the background. Human figures, or the upper parts of them. Two people? Husband and wife, perhaps? A pity about those defacing lines . . . Then the connection Peggy had tried to evoke struck her, and she understood the meaning of the lines across the painting. It was an oil painting, not a print or a watercolor. The old paint had cracked off when the picture was folded.
"Branwell Bronte's portrait of his sisters," she whispered. "It was folded too. I can't make out who—"
"I've already had it out in the light, and I don't want to draw any more attention to it. You'll have to take my word for it—there are two women, not the usual portrait of a husband and wife. That's about all I could tell, but if it were cleaned and restored . . . Shall we go for it?"
"My God, yes! This is incredible!"
Peggy returned the portrait to its original place. "Don't get your hopes up, this is probably two other people. I figure it's worth a try, though, and if you can keep your big mouth shut and your big brown eyes from shining, we might get it cheap."
"I will. I swear. I—"
"Shut up," Peggy said amiably. "Back to work now. We haven't even looked at the books."
They spent the next half hour examining the contents of the glass cases—just in case, as Peggy said. The cases had to be unlocked by the woman in charge, and she kept a watchful eye on the objects, some of which were small enough to be slipped into a pocket or handbag. Her imagination fired, Karen examined every piece of jewelry and every ornament. It was a deflating experience, however; some of the old jet and garnet jewelry was attractive and, according to Peggy, fairly valuable, but the oldest dated, according to the same expert, to the mid-nineteenth century.