by Kathy
"Yes?"
Candy strolled to the counter and brushed at a damp fingerprint, smearing it still further.
"I hear you haven't found anybody to take my place."
"Not yet."
"I'd be willing to come back if you made it worth my while."
Meg studied the other woman curiously. Something had given her a new confidence, verging on arrogance.
"Was your ex the one who dumped the dead rat on the doorstep?" she asked.
Candy's grin resembled that of the Cheshire cat. "Did somebody do that?"
"Somebody did, and if he keeps on doing it he's going to end up in jail."
Candy's expression indicated she didn't give a damn where Applegate ended up. She didn't want Rod, but she would be perfectly willing to use him to get what she did want.
"I wasn't the one who fired you," Meg said. "I couldn't hire you back even if I wanted to, not without consulting my partner."
"Yes, you could. You could make him take me back."
"Maybe I could. But I won't."
Meg braced herself for an argument, if not a battery of insults. To her surprise Candy shrugged and sauntered toward the door. "Think about it. Think about it real good. I could be a lot of help to you, Miss High and Mighty."
Meg let her have the last word. She had heard it and the three that preceded it, before—from Rod Applegate. What a strange coincidence!
She got out the cleaning materials and started to work on the smudged glass. As she scrubbed, her mind kept returning to Candy's odd behavior. There was a lady who thought she was sitting in the catbird seat; her final speech sounded like a quote from a sinister blackmailer in a TV soap opera. Surely she wasn't stupid enough to think that she could use the threat of harassment by her ex-husband to get her job back. Applegate was even stupider if he let Candy use him for that purpose—especially if he still loved her. Why was it so difficult to believe that two physically unattractive, mean-minded people could genuinely care for one another? In this case at least, Meg felt sure Applegate's pride rather than his heart had suffered when Candy turned to another man. He couldn't even hold on to a woman no other man wanted.
She picked at a stubborn stain with her fingernail, wondering idly why Candy had not waited until the customers left the store before she entered. The chimes had rung only once, so they must have all come in together. Had Candy been loitering, working up nerve for the confrontation and waiting for someone else to. ...
To open the door. To account for the warning chimes. But there was no reason for her to do that unless she didn't want Meg to know she was there.
Suppose she had slipped in, not with the girls, but with the earlier customers, and gone straight to the washroom or the office. She would have had time to conceal herself—and to glance into the shop.
She must have remained in hiding until the next lot of customers entered the store. Why do that, risking discovery? The chimes would have rung if she had left the store, but she could have been out of sight before Meg reached the front door.
Meg put the cloth and bottle of ammonia away and went to the washroom. She had tidied it that morning. Now the squashed remains of a flower petal highlighted a dusty footprint. The Bradford pears were shedding petals, but none of the customers had used the washroom. . . . Tight-lipped, Meg headed for the office. The evidence of Candy's presence was unmistakable—a drawer not quite closed, a pile of papers untidily aligned. Candy had been a busy little bee. She must have gone to the washroom first, and waited until Meg closed the shop door before going to the office.
Why? What had she hoped to accomplish? It was difficult to second-guess a mind like Candy's; sneaking, prying and eavesdropping might be habitual to her. She might even have been looking for signs of what she would probably term "carrying on." She'd be only too quick to assume that was Meg's motive in coming to work at the store. Meg looked helplessly around the office. Hard to tell if anything was missing, the place was such a clutter. She opened a desk drawer, more or less at random. It was a mess, as Dan's drawers always were. Amid the jumble of papers, envelopes, pens and dust was a familiar object—a small velvet bag, tied with a gold cord.
The bag of topazes and citrines. It wasn't in the safe, then. Meg reached for it, loosened the drawstring, inserted her hand. The smooth, cool surfaces of the stones comforted her searching fingers; Dan used to say they were as soothing as worry beads. Sometimes, when he was in a bad mood, he'd keep the little bag with him so he could play with the stones.
There didn't seem to be any stones missing, but how would she know? She had forgotten how many there were; the size and bulk of the bag seemed to be as she remembered it. Meg replaced it in the drawer. She was about to give up when another memory returned. Dan's secret drawer! Many old desks had them; it wouldn't have taken an expert five minutes to find this one, and although Dan delighted in it, he had never used it for anything valuable. She pulled out the top drawer, put it on the floor and pressed the false screw-head at the back of the partition.
The compartment disclosed by the removal of the side panel was quite shallow; but it was deep enough to hold a gun. Meg recoiled. When had Dan taken to keeping a weapon in his desk? It certainly hadn't been there during the years when she was allowed to play with the secret drawer. But times had changed; it was not a kinder, gentler world, it was a lot uglier than it had been when she was young.
There was nothing else in the compartment except dust. Meg closed the panel and replaced the drawer. It had not been locked. What about keys? Had Riley thought to ask for Candy's keys when he fired her? Even if he had retrieved them, she could have made copies. And if she had keys to the store, so might other people.
Meg reached for the telephone directory. The locksmith tried to put her off, but she cajoled him into promising he would do the job first thing in the morning. She'd have to come in early, explain to Riley—and hope he didn't notice the disturbance of his files. There was no way she could put the blame for that on Candy.
She waited on two more customers, neither of whom bought anything, rearranged some of the stock, polished two more countertops and then decided she might as well close up. The tourists from whom most of their trade derived would be starting for home now, and she was too restless to accomplish anything useful.
Before she left, she made a copy of the engraving. There was a good chance that the book from which it had come was in Dan's library. She had only checked a few of the many volumes on jewelry; at least the size and probable age of this page would give her a clue as to what to look for.
After she had locked up and set the alarm she paused for a moment to look in the display window. The complacent smile on the face of the little clay image brought an answering smile to her face. He looked as if he knew all the answers. If so, he had found them in the shadowy Sumerian hereafter, for no mortal creature lives a life free of trouble or doubt. Bel-shumu, or whatever his name may have been, had never had to worry about nuclear warfare or the depletion of the ozone layer, but it was the ordinary human tragedies that wore people down—death and loss, pain and disease. Not to mention an emerald lost from a ring. . . . That window ought to be rearranged, Meg thought. And the chimes—damn, I forgot to look at them, and they're still off-key.
She had not gone far when she saw Mike Potter cutting across the street toward her, and stopped to wait for him. "It's not closing time yet," she said with a smile. "What are you doing out of the store?"
"Come to ask you the same question," Mike said. "Everything all right?"
"Sure. I'm just not as conscientious as you. What's the point of being the boss if you can't close up when you feel like it?"
"If I didn't know you was teasing me I'd have to give you a talking-to," Mike said seriously. "You going home now?"
"Uh-huh. Unless I can buy you a cup of coffee. You could give me that lecture about hard work and stern duty and noblesse oblige."
Mike's face cracked into one of his rare smiles. "Honey, that lecture takes a good two
hours. I'll walk along with you a piece. It's a pretty day, and I need to stretch my legs."
"Seems to me they're already long enough," Meg retorted, as he fell into step with her.
Mike responded with a hearty haw-haw, and Meg thought how nice it was to be with a man who would laugh at her feeble jokes.
"Candy came by today, did she?"
"Yes, she did. Do you know," Meg said pensively, "I have a feeling that if I happened to scratch myself tonight, in my room, with the shades drawn and the lights out, tomorrow somebody would offer me a remedy for poison ivy."
"Where'd you get into poison ivy?"
"I didn't, I was kidding. Do you want to know why Candy came to see me?"
"Figured she wants her job back."
"You figure right. How did you know?"
"She's been complaining and grousing to everybody she thinks has some influence with you," Mike said. "Me and your uncle and Cliff. . . . What'd you say?"
"Nothing." She was glad Mike hadn't heard the word; he wouldn't approve of nice young women calling other young women bad names. If Candy had been present she would have called her a bitch—with several qualifying adjectives—to her face. Bad enough that she was spreading filthy stories all over town, but that she should go whining to Cliff—who now had the disaffected witness he wanted—and to Uncle George. . . . That was what he had been to all her schoolfriends—everybody's favorite adopted uncle, who presided at birthday parties and escorted the children on outings to museums and amusement parks. Playing the role her father would have played ... or would he?
She forced herself to listen to what Mike was saying. "I told her there was no use complaining to me. Hope I didn't hurt her feelings, but doggone it, she just. . . . Well, I hate to say it, but she isn't a nice woman. Been telling lies—wild stories—"
"What kind of stories?"
"You don't want to hear such trash."
"Yes, I do. If you're trying to spare my feelings, don't bother; I'll bet I've been called worse names than any Candy could come up with."
Mike pursed his lips as if he had swallowed something sour. "She hasn't said so much about you. Except to suggest you and Riley are. . . ."
"Carrying on? Misbehaving? Doing it?" Meg laughed. "Where, I wonder? There isn't a couch in the shop."
Mike was not amused. "Nobody believes her."
"Oh, yeah? I'll bet some people do. Candy was behaving oddly, Mike. She didn't so much ask, she insisted that I could make Riley take her back."
"You wouldn't do that, would you?"
"I don't want her back. As for making Riley do anything, I can't even stir up an argument! He just grunts and shrugs and walks away."
"That must be aggravating."
"Now you're teasing me. Heavens, we're almost there. How time flies with good company. . . . Won't you come in, Mike? Gran would love to see you."
"No, thanks, honey, I got to get back. And those little bitty teacups your gramma uses make me nervous, I'm always afraid I'll squeeze one too hard and squash it."
"Please, Mike, don't run off. I haven't had a chance to chat with you, and I really want—I really need to."
He gave her a long, considering look. "Sure, honey. Anytime. I'd have suggested it before, but I figured you were too busy. Why don't you come on over to the store on Monday after you close up, and we'll have some supper and a good long talk?"
"I'd love to. See you Monday, then."
He didn't have time for a cup of coffee, but he had taken the time to walk her home; and he was still standing at the end of the driveway when Meg passed around the curve and he was lost to sight.
By the time two more people had commented on the fact that she was early, and asked why, Meg was beginning to feel like a caged laboratory animal. This, she reminded herself, was what it would be like if she lived at home. Every move she made would be observed, questioned and commented upon. Frances's curiosity was habitual, but it fueled Meg's irritation, and her uncle got the brunt of it.
"Yes, of course everything is all right. I just decided to come home early. Riley didn't do anything, or say anything, or chase me around the store with a butcher knife! I do wish you'd stop fussing, Uncle George. I thought you were going away for a few days."
"I wasn't planning to leave until tomorrow," her uncle said mildly. "If I asked about your weekend plans, would you consider the question fussing or an invasion of privacy? Or could you admit the possibility that I am simply attempting to make polite conversation?"
"Sorry, Uncle George." She reached for a biscuit, and pulled her hand back, hearing her grandmother approaching.
"As a matter of fact, I have a date tomorrow night. And another one Monday. My social life is really picking up. The fact that one engagement is with my lawyer and the other is with a man who's old enough to be my grandfather is irrelevant and immaterial. Both are men. That's what counts. Right, Gran?"
"I'm sure you are, dear." Mary took her place on the sofa and glanced casually at the plates of sandwiches and biscuits. "What are you talking about?"
Not until after her grandmother had trailed her flounces upstairs to bed, shepherded by Henrietta, did Meg feel free to go about her business. The evening hadn't been a total loss; she had learned a number of useful facts about show-biz personalities, state capitals and the habits of the ring-tailed lemur, the latter topic being the subject of a "National Geographic" special. In fact, if she hadn't had so many other things on her mind she would have enjoyed herself; even the ring-tailed lemur had its points, and Gran could be very entertaining company, in her own quiet way. Her comments had been sharp and sometimes deliciously sarcastic—the sort of remark she would have made to another adult. It's as difficult for her as it is for me, Meg thought in surprise; we both have to adjust, change our viewpoints, so that we can treat one another like people instead of sticking to the old roles of child and grandparent. I've always loved her; I think I like her too! I wonder if she likes me. . . .
Getting the copy of the engraving from her purse, she went to the library. Like Riley's copy, hers consisted of two separate sheets of 9 1/2-by-l 1-inch paper taped together. The book from which it had been taken was outsized, several inches taller than the average modern volume. Most of the folios were on the bottom shelves, which had been designed to accommodate their greater height, but some had been shelved sideways or laid on top of a row of books. It was going to be a long, tedious search.
Meg sat cross-legged on the floor. Her mind wasn't on her job; she was still thinking about her grandmother, and the new relationship she could envisage. It could never be as simple as friendship, the older emotional ties would always be there, and new ones would be forged as Mary became increasingly feeble, physically and mentally. Meg was ready—glad, in fact—to assume those responsibilities, but she was realistic enough to know that living in the same house with her grandmother would be too much of a strain. A strain on Gran too, perhaps. The ideal solution would be not a room of her own but a set of rooms, close but detached, separate if not equal. I suppose I could kick Riley out of the apartment, she thought. Maybe that's why he's so hostile, he's afraid he'll have to give up his luxurious quarters. He's safe from me. Dan had said something about remodeling the place not long ago, but I wouldn't live there unless the only alternative were the county jail.
Uncle George didn't seem to mind the togetherness. Of course he had his own suite of rooms on the third floor, as far away from the rest of the family as he could get. More important, he was a man. No one questioned his comings and goings, no one waited up for him.
Certainly no one wondered why he had given up the cottage on the north side of the estate, which he and his wife had occupied until that never-to-be-forgotten winter night. George had lived in the apartment over the store before he and Joyce became engaged. It was obviously impossible for Dan's petted younger daughter to live in such squalor, so Dan had built the cottage for them and Cliff, who had been four years old when Joyce became his stepmother. Dan had offered to do t
he same for Meg's parents, but for one reason or another the plan had never been carried out; they had occupied a separate wing of the house, an area now converted into guest rooms.
They could remain guest rooms as far as Meg was concerned. She didn't want to live anywhere in the house—especially there.
But what about the cottage? As far as she knew it was still there, abandoned and probably ramshackle, but if it could be repaired it would present an ideal solution—separate from the main house, with its own driveway opening onto Old Hammond Road, but close enough to be convenient if Gran happened to need her. Would Uncle George mind? He might not want to live there himself, but after all these years he must have come to terms with his loss and hurt. The place held no painful memories for her, except by association no more direct than many others she had had to face recently.
As she considered the idea her eyes and hands went on with the mechanical chore of checking books. Most of the folios were relatively new, big handsome coffee-table-sized books with a maximum of photographs and a minimum of text. Three Centuries of Historic Jewels, Masterpieces of Jewelry from the Great Museums of Europe, and others of that type, along with catalogs of special exhibitions, auctions and famous collections. Meg selected one at random and opened it, to be confronted with a pen-and-ink sketch of a design for a pendant. It looked like—yes, it was— Holbein. Like other famous painters he had designed jewelry for his royal patrons. Was it possible that her copy came from a modern book on the history of jewelry? If so she would have to go through dozens of books, page by page. However, a closer examination of the copied engraving reassured her. The edge of the original page had been rough and uneven, which suggested that the book was so old that the paper had started to crumble.
Concentrating on her search instead of letting her mind wander, she found the book fairly quickly. It was one of the few really old volumes on the shelf; if Dan had cared as much for books as for jewels, it would have been in a glass case or at least sealed in inert plastic instead of being jammed into a shelf so full she had to remove several other books in order to extract it. Bound in crumbling brown leather stamped with gold, it had the title Catalogue of the Jewels and Precious Works of Art in the Collection of H.R.H. the Maharajah of Mogara. The maharajah's title was twice the size of the other words; underneath, letters of extremely modest size read, "as depicted and described by Mr. William Cuthbert Bennett, FRAI."