Authors: KATHY
"So did I," said Peggy, before Karen could reply. "So did everybody else who read the poems. But if that pile of rubble was a literal, physical stone house, it opens up all kinds of interesting speculations. Sit down,
Cameron. Our menu today includes ham-and-cheese sandwiches, with a choice of soda or cola, and for dessert a tempting array of supermarket cookies."
He insisted on helping her. Karen didn't offer; arms folded, she watched them move from the refrigerator to the table, exchanging witticisms about the elegance of the waxed-paper and foil serving dishes and the gourmet menu. She suspected Cameron was fully aware of the reason for Peggy's corny jokes and motherly concern about his sore, scraped hands. She was flirting with him, literally batting her lashes and letting him lift everything that weighed more than half a pound. Not only did he know exactly what she was doing, he enjoyed it. Meekly he allowed her to bully him into eating two of the four sandwiches and half a box of cookies, but when she offered to help with the painting, he laughed and said, "Don't overdo it, Peggy."
Unabashed, she smiled back at him. "I'm a damned good painter."
"I'm sure you are damned good at everything you do," Cameron said pointedly. "Thanks just the same. What can I do for you?"
"I'm going to need some help excavating that pile of stones. Not from you," she added quickly. "You have enough on your hands with the house. Can you recommend some kids with strong backs who'd work for minimum wage?"
"Are you serious?"
"Quite serious. There's no hurry, I probably won't get around to it for another week or so. We can come to an arrangement about a short-term lease—"
"That won't be necessary," Cameron said. "If you find anything, it might be an inducement to prospective buyers. I can tell them the place is of great historical interest."
"It is," Peggy said.
She was unusually silent during the drive back. "I'll be back about six, if that's agreeable to you," she announced, when they reached Karen's apartment. "I want to shower and change. Who knows, I might even spend some time thinking."
Karen didn't argue. She wanted some time to think too.
When she unlocked the door she saw the square envelope on the floor.
The pale-violet color told her who her correspondent must be. In darker violet ink Mrs. Fowler presented her compliments and an invitation to tea on Monday, for Karen and her distinguished friend, of whose arrival she had heard. She didn't say from whom she had heard it.
Karen was tempted to call and refuse—or stick a little note under Mrs. F. 's door, to the same effect. She had a pretty good idea of how Peggy probably felt about tea parties. However, with Peggy one could never be certain. She might be able to get more information from the old lady than Karen had managed to do.
Preoccupied with the annoying habits of Mrs. Fowler, she was halfway across the room before something struck her. Something . . . but what? After a moment she realized that the books she had left lying on the table didn't look quite right. She was in the habit (a neurotic habit, according to Sharon) of stacking them with the spines aligned. Had she neglected to do it that morning? They were definitely not aligned now.
She could not be certain about the books, but a look around the apartment convinced her that someone had searched the place during her absence—even the kitchen cupboards. Another (neurotic) habit of hers was to separate the canned goods: all the soups in one group, all the vegetables in another. Now the mushroom soup rubbed shoulders with the canned peas and the chili was next to the tomato juice. In the bedroom she found the final proof: the worn chenille spread had not been tucked under the pillows but pulled clumsily up over them.
Mrs. Fowler was the most obvious suspect. She was the only one who had a key, and bored old ladies were notorious snoops. Such a harmless-sounding word, snoop. Snooping was prompted by idle curiosity, a harmless if socially indefensible habit, with no particular end in mind.
She could have been looking for "dirty" books or more titillating objects indicative of sexual activity. A little old lady would be certain to look under the mattress, since that was where she would hide the evidence of her own secret vices. But a little old lady would know the proper method of making a bed.
Bill Meyer? He was the most likely suspect from another point of view—that of motive. Karen opened the front door and examined the lock. There were no signs of forced entry. No, he wouldn't risk that, and it was unlikely that an academic—even a louse like Bill Meyer— knew how to pick a lock without leaving traces. But he might have
charmed or tricked Mrs. Fowler into lending him a key, or stolen hers for long enough to have a copy made.
Lisa Cartright was no little old lady; Karen doubted she was in the habit of making beds, hers or anyone else's. She was on good terms with Mrs. Fowler and could have borrowed a key, with or without the old lady's knowledge. Not all snoops were elderly women; but there was another reason, stronger than idle curiosity, that might have inspired Lisa to search the place. She knew, thanks in part to Karen herself, that certain people would be willing to pay a lot of money for a copy of the manuscript.
The same motive could apply to Cameron. He had had no idea what the manuscript was worth when he sold it; some people in his position would feel they had been cheated, and were, therefore, entitled to whatever extra they could pick up. Only a sick, warped individual would feel that way, but there were a lot of sick, warped individuals running around loose. And it was a safe bet that Cameron had never made a bed in his life.
Considering various methods of laying a trap for an intruder, she showered and changed into clean clothes. Several methods occurred to her, but none of the ones she had read about would provide a clue to the intruder's identity. Offhand she couldn't think of an excuse for asking to take the suspects' fingerprints.
With an irritated shrug she dismissed the matter. There had been no harm done, and as long as she kept the manuscript with her at all times she didn't risk losing anything she valued. Most likely the snoop had been Mrs. Fowler.
The distraction had come as a welcome relief; it prevented her from thinking about the clearing in the woods, so open and empty and so filled with voices.
Could there be a simple physical cause for the feeling of cold—something as harmless as low blood pressure, or a vitamin deficiency? Her last physical had given her a clean bill of health, but people dropped dead every day from conditions that hadn't shown up in physical examinations.
A happy thought. She would have embraced that theory, though, had the feeling of cold been the only unusual phenomenon. Peggy had heard the scream too. It had scared hell out of her, and she wasn't a nervous woman.
So, find another rational explanation for that occurrence. An acoustical peculiarity of the hollow? A police or ambulance siren on the highway, thrown like the voice of a ventriloquist away from its source? There were places like that, she had read of them—the Whispering Gallery at St. Paul's, for one.
Peggy had apparently forgotten about Karen's nightmares. She had almost forgotten them herself; they had not occurred after she got hold of the manuscript. They were the easiest of all to explain away. Dreams of darkness, enclosure, burial alive. Frustration. A classic feminist nightmare.
Three different rationalizations for three different phenomena. Well, why not, Karen thought; They weren't connected in any other way.
When Peggy arrived she was carrying a brown paper bag. "Hope you like Chinese," she announced. "There aren't a lot of food options in this burg. The alternatives were hamburgers or hoagies."
"I take it we are not going out," Karen said.
Peggy looked surprised. "I thought you might be too tired."
"I'm not tired. It doesn't matter," she went on, before Peggy could reply. "We have a lot to discuss."
"Right. I made an agenda." She had put her clipboard in the bag with the cartons of food. Muttering, she reached for a paper towel and scrubbed at a greasy spot.
"Before you get started on it, I have some new business," Karen said. "Someone searched the apartment while I was gone."
Peggy trailed after her while she pointed out the evidence, which she had not disturbed. The badly made bed provoked Peggy's first comment. "I haven't made a bed in twenty years. You sure you don't suspect me?"
"I might, if you hadn't been with me all afternoon." Karen faced her. "You don't believe me, do you?"
"It's not what a cop would call conclusive."
"You're not a cop. You're supposed to be a friend."
Peggy exhaled deeply. "What do you want from me, tactful acquiescence or honest criticism? In my book friends can disagree and still be friends. In fact, honesty is the only possible basis for lasting friendship. Oh, I know I'm a bossy, opinionated, irritating old bitch; I should have asked you whether you wanted to go out to dinner, and what kind of
takeout you preferred. So tell me when I step out of line, okay? Talk, don't sulk. And tell me when you think I'm wrong. I am wrong occasionally. Not often, but occasionally."
"You're wrong," Karen said. "Someone was here."
After a moment Peggy's scowl turned to a sheepish smile. "Right. I stepped out of line. Sorry."
"I was out of line too," Karen said. "I guess I'm a little scared. It's a nasty feeling, having your space invaded—the classic nightmare of beleaguered heroines, come to think about it. Having forced upon you the knowledge that you aren't safe even in your own home."
"It's any woman's nightmare," Peggy muttered. "Any person's, male or female, these days. I was a little scared too; why do you suppose I yelled at you? Okay, where's my clipboard? New business: burglar. Would-be burglar, rather; nothing is missing?"
"There's nothing a burglar would bother with, not even a TV. I don't have valuable jewelry and I don't leave cash lying around."
"I just mentioned that in order to cover all the bases," Peggy said. "It's unlikely that your ordinary sneak thief would bother with a place like this, in broad daylight and practically under your landlady's nose. I agree with you that she's the most likely suspect. I must meet the old dear."
"You can meet her tomorrow if you like." Karen gave her Mrs. Fowler's note. "Another piece of new business I forgot to mention."
"We'll accept, of course," Peggy said. "You wouldn't happen to have any pink notepaper, would you? Preferably something with little flowers on it. Don't bother answering," she added with a smile. "The question was rhetorical. I'd also like to meet Lisa Fairweather. You might offer to take her to lunch. There's nothing like food and drink, especially the latter, to inspire confidences."
"All right. What sort of confidences are you hoping to inspire?"
"Cameron mentioned 'boxes' of family papers, didn't he? Lisa only gave you one box."
"Damn, that's right. Do you think she's holding out on me?"
"Could be the plural was just a slip of the tongue. It's worth asking about, though."
"Certainly." She watched Peggy check off an item on her list. "I'm
not criticizing you or being overly sensitive, but it seems to me you're going over the same ground I've already covered—and expecting me to trail along. There are so many other things we could be doing—"
"And will do. This is going to be a long, complicated process. What's the hurry?"
"Bill Meyer has already beaten us to the punch once. God knows what other clues he found; he bragged about knowing how to skim a text. And he's seen the genealogy."
"You think of it as a competition, do you?"
"It is."
"Maybe so. Relax, he can only do so much with what he's got, and if I may be permitted to brag a trifle, I know better than he does how to go about it. Your discoveries strongly support the presumption that Ismene lived in that house, but was she a Cartright? The property may have changed hands, not once but several times. In this case we can't rely on people's memories, we need documentary proof. I'll hit the county courthouse tomorrow morning and begin tracing the deeds. You ought to—this is just an opinion, of course—"
"Don't be so damned tactful."
"Me, tactful? Please, don't be insulting." They smiled at one another, and Peggy went on, "As I was saying: Now that I've seen the manuscript, I realize how difficult it is to decipher. I'm amazed you've got through as much as you have. For heaven's sake, don't let Bill get to you with his boasts about skimming a text. You can't risk doing that. The text has given us our best leads so far, and a single blurred word or phrase could be crucial."
Karen spent the next day on the manuscript, not skimming. Peggy had said she would show up in time for the tea party and she was as good as her word. It lacked several minutes till four when Karen heard the pounding on her door. The emphatic, peremptory noise would have identified her caller even if she had not been expecting Peggy, but when she opened the door she had to look twice before she was certain. Her jaw dropped.
"Hurry up and change," Peggy ordered. "It's not polite to be more than ten minutes late."
Karen recovered herself. "I'm going as I am. I'm neat and clean and
my pants are modestly loose. For God's sake, Peggy, don't you think you went a little overboard? She'll know you're making fun of her."