Houses of Stone

by Kathy

  "I'll bet this was jumbled together in a box in the attic," Peggy muttered. She had whipped out a jeweler's loupe and gave an appearance at least of professional competence as she squinted through it. "A lot of the stones are missing, and some are chipped."

  "You got it," said the custodian, visibly impressed by the loupe. "The good jewelry, if there was any, must've been sold a long time ago. Guess the old guy forgot about this collection. If you'd seen the place, you'd see how he could. Took us two months just to sort through the stuff."

  "You'll get good prices for some of these, though," Peggy said consolingly. "Antique jewelry is skyrocketing. I might have a try for this garnet necklace; it's in pretty good shape."

  Karen had lost interest. "Are you almost through here? The place is filling up, it must be after one."

  "A few more minutes," Peggy said, indicating a pile of jet pieces to the attendant. "You don't have to hang around."

  Karen headed like a homing pigeon for the boxes of books. They had called to her all morning; only a stern sense of duty had enabled her to resist. She hadn't rummaged among old books for a long time. It was like breaking your diet.

  Some of the Cartrights had been readers. As she moved on from box to box, she began to see a pattern. Few books were as early in date as the ones Lisa had acquired—"pilfered," most likely, Karen thought. One large group dated from the late eighteen hundreds—an eclectic collection of novels and essays, poetry and drama, biographies and travel books. Another sizable lot had dates in the teens and twenties of this century. She recognized some of the best-selling authors of that period. Could they have belonged to the old man who had recently died? If so, he had stopped buying books in the early thirties. The Great Depression? Possibly. A pile of condensed books, much later in date, gave her pause until she realized they must come from Uncle Josiah's scavenging period. The books were worthless, people couldn't give them away—except to pack rats, collectors of junk, like the old man. A shiver of pity ran through her. What a horrible thing to happen to someone. His had not been a house of stone in the literal sense, but he had shut himself up in a prison as impenetrable—that of his lonely, suspicious mind.

  She was rummaging through a box of ledgers and recipe books when Joan appeared, sinking cross-legged to the floor beside her. Giving her friend an abstracted "hi," Karen continued to rummage.

  "Finding goodies?" Joan plucked a tattered paper-covered book from her hand. It bristled with clippings and scraps that had been stuck between the pages. "Best-Loved Poems of the World. This doesn't look very enticing. She's cut poems out of the paper too. 'A Mother's Lament for her Dead Infant.' 'Thy tiny brow now marble-cold in death ..." Yucko."

  She tossed the book back into the box. "Have you been here all day? Then you need a break. Come on, I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

  Karen returned the other books to the carton. "Oh, all right," she said abstractedly.

  Joan hauled her to her feet. "The warmth of your welcome touches my heart. Where's Peggy?"

  "Somewhere around." Karen scanned the room. "Where's Sharon?"

  "She hates auctions. After she dropped me she went to the motel. I figured I'd hitch a ride back with you and Peggy."

  "Son of a bitch," Karen exclaimed.

  "If it's that much trouble, never mind." Following the direction of Karen's intent stare, she let out a gurgle of laughter. "Oh, I see. It is the son of a bitch. You've upgraded him from bastard, have you?"

  Meyer was watching them. He smiled and raised a hand in greeting. Karen smiled and waved back and went on walking.

  "I'm making nice, following orders from Peggy," she said. "That doesn't mean I've changed my opinion."

  "If you don't want him, how about introducing me?"

  "It may come to that," Karen muttered. "Excuse me. I'm going to wash my hands."

  When she returned, Joan was waiting, guarding two cups of coffee and two pieces of pie. Karen realized she was starved.

  "One of the reasons I come to auctions is the food," Joan announced, scraping her plate. "I think I'll have a piece of red devil's food cake next. I need nourishment. Do you know what I had for lunch?"

  "I don't want to hear about it."

  "No, you don't. What can I do to help? Tell me what you're looking for and I will work my fingers to the bone."

  "Early papers and books," Karen said vaguely. "But you needn't sacrifice yourself. We've covered most of the stuff."

  "Including the barn?"

  "What barn?"

  "The barn out in back. The stuff for Sunday's auction is there. They won't move it in till tonight or tomorrow morning."

  Karen gaped at her in horror. An entire barn, packed from roof to rafters . . .

  "That's probably where Peggy is," Joan said. "I'll go look for her. You've still got a couple of hours," she added consolingly.

  "See you later." Karen fled back to the books.

  By the time she had finished with them it was after three-thirty. A suspicious survey of the now crowded room told her Meyer was not there. He was probably in the barn too, damn him.

  It had stopped raining, but pools of water spread over every dip in the ground. As she picked her way through puddles and patches of mud toward the barn, her spirits slumped. It was a barn, all right. A big barn. A very big barn. Patches of the original red paint were still visible upon the faded boards, and the wide doors stood open, showing a scene like the one she had just left—crowds of people moving slowly through close-packed furniture and high-piled tables. She stopped in the doorway, tense with a feeling that was new to her, but only too familiar to the old hands in the business—the feeling that somewhere in that barn was the one object she most desired and that someone else would see it first.

  Joan's mop of red curls appeared over the heads of lesser mortals as she straightened from examining something Karen could not see. Squirming through the other bodies, Karen finally reached her, and saw that Peggy was there too.

  "What?" she demanded, catching Peggy's arm.

  "What what?" Peggy was maddeningly calm.

  Joan let out one of her raucous whoops of laughter. "It's got to her. See what you've been missing all these years, babe?"

  "Will they make us leave at five?" Karen demanded feverishly. "We can't cover all this in an hour."

  "Fear not. I've been making notes." Peggy displayed the catalog, now disfigured with cryptic symbols. She rubbed her forehead, adding another smear of dust to her grimy face. "It does get confusing," she admitted. "I haven't seen an auction this big and this disorganized for years. We'll go over the notes tonight."

  "You're tired." Karen knew she ought to make Peggy stop for the day, but that degree of nobility was beyond her strength at the moment. "Go have some coffee and rest, why don't you?"

  "Maybe I will. Here, you take the list—and for God's sake don't lose it! There are several items I haven't been able to locate. I've marked them with a star."

  Karen watched her walk away, shoulders sagging, steps slow. "Is she all right? I shouldn't have let her do this."

  "You couldn't have kept her away with a club," Joan said cheerfully. "Don't worry about Peggy, she's a tough old broad. I've seen her in worse shape. Hell, I've been in worse shape myself; and if you think you're tired now, just wait till tomorrow night."

  Karen inspected the list. "Why do you suppose she's interested in an overstuffed chair and a collection of pillows?"

  "Ours not to reason why. Let me see that. Uh-huh . . . I'll look for the furniture, you do your thing, whatever that may be. See how useful I can be? Aren't you glad I came?"

  She trotted off. After a hopeless survey of the clutter Karen shrugged and knelt by a carton of books. It wasn't self-indulgence, she told herself; this was her field, after all.

  She was still at it when Joan came for her. "It's after five," the latter announced. "Peggy's ready to go, and so am I."

  "I haven't finished—"

  "If you don't leave of your own free will, the auctioneer and
his staff will kick you out. They've had a long day, with worse to come." She put out a steadying hand as Karen staggered to her feet. "Tired?"

  "Exhausted," Karen admitted.

  When they left the barn they saw Peggy standing near the door of the main building, talking with several men. Her animated gestures and broad smile reassured Karen; the rest had obviously revived her.

  One of the men was Bill Meyer. He had kept strictly away from her all day; give him credit for manly modesty, Karen told herself. On the other hand, he might have had other things to do.

  The other men politely faded away as they approached. Karen acknowledged Meyer's greeting with a smile and a concentrated stare. His face was unmarked. His hands were in his pockets.

  Joan coughed and jabbed an elbow into Karen's ribs, and the latter performed introductions. Joan put out a grubby hand; Meyer took it in his. No scratches on the right hand ... Or the left.

  Feeling her eyes on him, Meyer turned to Karen. "You look tired," he said solicitously.

  "Always tactful, Bill." Karen brushed a lock of hair away from her cheek.

  "Always on the defensive, Karen." He smiled at her. "What's wrong with admitting you're tired? I am. I had no idea this was such hard work."

  "You aren't an auction fan, then?"

  "I've done book auctions occasionally—can't resist the damned things, even though I've run out of bookcases and walls on which to put them— but this is a whole new experience."

  "It grows on you," Peggy said. "But I admit I'm ready to put my feet up. Do you need a lift, Bill?"

  "No, thanks, I've got my own car." They started toward the road. Somehow—Karen wasn't sure whether it was deliberate or accidental— Joan and Peggy drew ahead, and she found herself several feet behind them, with Meyer beside her. "Wanna make a deal?" he asked, smiling.

  "What kind of deal?" Karen asked suspiciously. They had reached the road. There was a considerable amount of traffic, as the late-leavers pulled out of the lot and headed home. Meyer stopped.

  "Nothing underhanded. There are some lots I'm interested in, but I don't want to bid against you. Tell me what you want and I'll back off."

  Karen bit her lip and managed not to say what she was thinking. "That's very nice of you. Right now I'm so confused I couldn't tell you exactly."

  He laughed soundlessly, baring his teeth and throwing his head back. "I don't blame you for suspecting my motives. They are pure as the driven snow, however."

  Peggy and Joan had crossed the road. "I'll think about it," Karen said. "Excuse me, Bill—"

  "Discuss it with Peggy," Meyer urged. "I suppose you'll be here early tomorrow? So will I. We can talk then."

  "Fine. I really must go, I don't want to detain Peggy any longer."

  She waited till a van had passed and then started to cross the road.

  Sound, movement and impact slammed together in a single blur of sensation. A human cry, a mechanical scream, a heavy object striking and lifting her. Mud and weeds cushioned her fall; it was shock rather than pain that kept her motionless, curled in upon herself like a small animal fearing further attack. Then hands, unsteady and gentle, moved over her head and arms and she saw Peggy kneeling beside her.

  "Anything broken?" Peggy's voice wasn't too steady either.

  "No." Slowly Karen rolled over and sat up. "I'm all right, really. Just surprised. It happened so fast ..."

  Peggy let out her breath and sat back on her heels. "I guess the car didn't hit you. It was a near thing, though. If he hadn't pushed you out of the way ..."

  Several people had gathered around something that lay on the ground nearby. He lay face down, unmoving, but she recognized the white shirt, now stained and wrinkled, and the dark head half hidden by the weeds.

  Chapter Twelve

  Female writers should only aspire to excellence by courageously acknowledging the limitations of their sex.

  Sir Egerton Brydges, 1928

  "It was not some smartass kid," Joan insisted. "The driver was a woman."

  "How do you know?" Peggy demanded. "You didn't see any more than I did. I didn't turn until I heard Bill shout, and by that time there was nothing to be seen except bodies flying through the air. For a few interminable seconds I thought . . . Excuse me. I need another drink."

  At the time she had been the calmest person on the scene. After ascertaining that Karen was unhurt except for bumps and bruises, she had dragged her to the car and driven her straight home, leaving Joan to tend the other victim. She and Sharon had arrived shortly afterward. Sharon was trying to be the cool voice of reason, but she hadn't made much progress; everyone else was shouting and interrupting and contradicting one another, and a cool voice of reason is not supposed to yell.

  Joan followed Peggy, presumably on the same errand, and Sharon finally got her chance.

  "The important thing is that no one was seriously injured," she said in her measured professional voice. "Though I do think you ought to have taken Dr. Meyer to the emergency room, Joan."

  "He wouldn't go. So far as I could see there was nothing wrong with him except a few square inches of missing skin and a possible sprained wrist." Joan returned to her chair and collapsed with a martyred sigh. Karen detected a certain gleam in her eye, however. "Every cloud has a silver lining, as they say. This gave me an excuse to insist on driving him home. Isn't it lucky he is staying at the same motel?"

  "There is only one," Sharon pointed out. "You were quite right, Joan, he shouldn't have tried to drive immediately after a shock of that sort, but for heaven's sake don't say things like—like that remark about silver linings. People who don't know you might misunderstand."

  "What's to misunderstand? I like men, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm afraid I'm out of luck with Bill, though. All he'd talk about was Karen. He asked if I meant to stay a few days and my little heart started to go pitter-pat, and then the adorable son of a bitch said he knew he could count on me to look after her."

  "I don't need looking after," Karen said automatically.

  Peggy's lips parted. Catching Karen's eye she coughed and said nothing.

  "It was a horrible shock for everyone, of course," Sharon said. "But I'm sure we all agree that further discussion would be counterproductive. No one managed to get the license number of the truck—"

  "Our attention was elsewhere," Peggy said sarcastically.

  "—so the police could not possibly identify the driver," Sharon went on, ignoring the interruption with professional coolness. "I hope none of you believe this was anything more sinister than a case of reckless driving. Many of these young men drive too fast and drink when they drive. There is a sharp curve in the road and the surface was slippery with mud—"

  "I still think it was a woman," Joan said.

  "Some women drive too fast and drink when they drive," Sharon began.

  "And there was a sharp curve, et cetera," Peggy said. "You've made your point, Sharon. Further speculation would be a waste of time—and God knows I'd prefer to accept your interpretation."

  "Good." Impeccably groomed, every hair in place and every article of attire crisply pressed, Sharon studied the others with a critical frown. "Are you going to change before we go out to dinner? Karen is clean, at least, but if you'll excuse me for saying so, Peggy—"

  "Joan looks worse than I do," Peggy said sullenly.

  "I wanted her to change before we left the motel, but she was in a wild rush to get over here. Why don't you and she—"

  "The hell with changing." Joan lifted her feet onto a hassock and reached for her glass of beer. "Let's go someplace quick and casual. I might wash my hands and comb my hair if you ask me nicely."

  "I agree," Peggy said. "Nobody feels like dressing up. I suggest we eat here. We've got a lot of work to do on that auction list and we ought to get to bed early."

  Peggy prevailed, as she usually did when she had her mind made up. Joan volunteered to go forth in search of portable food; Sharon volunteered to go with her, in search of s
ocially acceptable healthy food.

  After they had gone, the other two sat in silence for a few moments. Then Peggy said, "It must have been Bill who told Joan the driver was a woman. She's convinced herself she really saw her, but she couldn't possibly have gotten a good look."

  "Could he?"

  "He's the only one who might have. Joan and I were walking away, he was watching you. He said the car just appeared around that sharp curve, coming much too fast."

  "I didn't even see it. Or hear it."

  "You wouldn't have heard anything. There were too many other cars revving up and driving out. If he hadn't pushed you out of the way ..."

  Karen rubbed her sore shoulder—her only souvenir of that potentially fatal incident. "So I have to be grateful to him for saving my life?"

  "Tsk, tsk," said Peggy, lips pursed in a wicked imitation of Sharon. "Don't let other people hear you say things like that, they might misunderstand. 'Saving your life at the risk of his own,' is how Joan would probably put it. She's such a damned romantic." Her face grew sober. "But she could be right. What he did took not only guts but very quick reflexes. That's not to say that it wasn't an accident. The road was wet; if the driver hit the brakes too hard, he—or she—could lose control."

  Karen's nerves were not at their best. "Of course it was an accident! I know what you're thinking, and it's ridiculous. Dorothea Angelo may not be Miss Congeniality but she wouldn't try to run me down for the sheer fun of it. What would she gain by killing or maiming me?"

  "Hmmm." Peggy rubbed her chin. "If this were a Gothic novel she'd turn out to be your birth mother and nearest heir."