"Okay, okay." Cardoza smiled at Cheryl affectionately, as he might have smiled at a pretty child. "I should have warned her, I guess. You too, Cheryl, I thought you were going to start bawling too."
"If you knew how much time and effort it took to get those clothes so nice and pretty, you'd be more sympathetic. No, put that down; it's sweet of you to try and help, but you're just making more of a mess."
Karen was in her bed, which had been restored to its proper state. Murmuring distressfully, Cheryl was smoothing and folding the crumpled garments. Mark was sprawled in the one comfortable overstuffed chair, his legs stretched out, his expression dour. Cardoza occupied the desk chair; arms folded, one ankle resting on the other knee, he looked quite at home. In fact, there was something insanely cozy about the whole business, and they were all drinking tea-which Cheryl seemed to consider a universal panacea-except Cardoza, who held a can of beer.
"I'm not driving," he had explained gravely. "But Mark can't have any."
Karen felt rather like a medieval monarch holding court, as those gentry were wont to do in their bedrooms, but even more like a sick child being visited by the grownups. Cheryl had bundled her into the least crumpled of the white nightgowns; it had long sleeves with ruffles on the cuffs, and it buttoned clear up to its ruffled neckline.
"So he got in through a window," Mark said.
"Must have. The back door was standing open, but we can assume he unlocked it after he entered the house- in preparation for the conventional quick getaway. The lock hadn't been tampered with, and one of the downstairs windows was unlocked."
"Stupid," said Mark, looking at Karen.
Cardoza came to her defense. "Those old window locks are easy to force. Too bad people around here are so set on their antiques; the wooden frames are so warped you can get a crowbar in the crack between the sashes."
"Fingerprints," said Mark. "Footprints."
"Mark, we've been over this a dozen times," Cardoza said patiently. "The back yard is all grass and graveled paths and nice neat mulch. Not a patch of handy mud anywhere. The guy got on the roof of the garden shed and went over the wall. As for fingerprints-sure, they'll check, but most crooks know enough these days to wear gloves."
"In the middle of the summer? Your favorite junkie, who is supposedly too strung-out to know which end his head is on?"
"What are you trying to suggest-that Mrs. Nevitt has a secret enemy who's out to strangle her?" Cardoza demanded.
Karen's eyes opened wide. "Hey, wait-"
"No, of course not," Mark muttered.
"He was alone," Cardoza said. "Cheryl only saw one person-nothing more than a shadow, actually. If there had been two of them or more, they might have… well, they might not have run away. So it wasn't a gang. Gangs go after TV sets, hi-fi's, things like that. This guy tore up the bedrooms, not the downstairs. He was looking for money or for jewelry-something small and portable he could hock. That's the obvious, rational conclusion, and I'm damned if I can see why you're trying to make something more out of it."
"I'm not. I just don't understand why-"
The telephone rang, and Mark reached across Karen and picked it up. "Hello? Yes, she's here, but she isn't able to talk right now. May I take… What? My name is Brinckley. Mark Brinckley. Who is this?"
In the silence that followed they heard the far-off voice quacking unintelligibly. A wave of dull crimson moved slowly up Mark's face from the base of his throat to his hairline.
Karen sat up. She had seen the phenomenon before. It was not a sign of shame or embarrassment; Mark was never embarrassed. It was pure red rage.
"Give me the phone," she said, and took it from his hand. "Hello, Jack."
"I've been trying to reach you all day. Where have you been?"
"Out."
"Obviously. Why haven't you answered the letters from my lawyer?"
The cool incisive voice, with its peremptory tone, affected her as it always had. Instead of replying in kind, she heard herself mutter feebly, "I haven't been… I was a little upset…"
"Not too upset to console yourself, I see. It was rather careless of Brinckley to answer the telephone at this hour of the night. Adultery is still grounds for divorce in this state, and some judges are influenced by it when it comes to alimony."
"But I didn't-"
"Not that I have any objections. Being a fair-minded man, I felt obliged to point out the legal complications you may incur. Personally I'm relieved that you have found a protector. You are quite incapable of managing your life by yourself. It's decent of Brinckley to take you back. Some men might be more particular about secondhand goods. But he never was very fastidious."
His voice had risen in pitch and in intensity. "Hang up," Mark said suddenly.
"What?" Karen felt dazed. Jack was still talking; he sounded shrill and hysterical.
"Hang up the phone."
"Oh." Karen obeyed. She wiped her hand on the bedspread.
Said Cardoza, staring into space, "You can get a restraining order, you know."
The telephone rang again. Mark picked it up. He was about to slam it back into the cradle, unanswered, when Cardoza said casually, "Do you mind if I…"
Mark's angry color subsided. Smiling grimly, he handed over the telephone. Karen said nothing. She felt bruised and sick with shame. She had a good idea of what Jack had said to Mark.
"This is Detective Cardoza of the D.C. police," Cardoza announced. "Who's this?"
The reply was inaudible. Cardoza grinned and winked at Karen. "Mrs. Nevitt's home was broken into tonight and she was assaulted. Where did you say you were calling from? I see. You have witnesses who can verify that, I suppose?"
The quacking began again. Cardoza's smile broadened, displaying even white teeth. "Yes, I'm sure you are concerned. I'll tell her that. Good night, Mr. Nevitt." He hung up. "That should take care of him."
"Mr. Cardoza," Karen said earnestly, "I think I love you."
"In that case, you'd better start calling me Tony."
"If you two have quite finished the compliments," said Mark, through tight lips, "I'd like to return to the case at hand."
"There isn't any case," Tony said, his patience wearing thin. "At least there's nothing we can follow up. If we had a description…"
"I didn't even see him," Karen said. "He grabbed me from behind and it was pitch-dark in the hall."
"You're sure it was a man?"
"Well, of course… No. No, I'm not sure of anything except that he, she, or it had two hands."
"No distinctive smell? After-shave, unwashed body…" He glanced at Mark. "Marijuana, alcohol?"
"I can't remember."
"Did you feel anything other than the hands? Cloth, hair, mustache, fur? Big hands or small? Calloused?"
Karen kept shaking her head. "I didn't see him or smell him or feel him or… Oh!"
Tony sat up alertly. "What?"
"I heard him," Karen said slowly. "He whispered. Right in my ear, the same words over and over, like a recording. 'Where is it, where is it, where is it?'"
THE memory of that obscene whisper was Karen's last coherent recollection. She was vaguely aware of voices and movement as Cheryl shooed the men out of the room, and she half-heard Cheryl's statement that she intended to spend the night. She was too drowsy to protest the offer even if she wanted to, which she emphatically did not. Once recalled, the whisper went on echoing in the corridors of her mind; she was almost afraid to go to sleep for fear it would follow her into her dreams.
However, she slept heavily and dreamlessly until she was awakened by a thud that shook the bed, and by a hot and not particularly sweet-smelling breath on her face. It was, of course, Alexander. The sight of his prize-winning ugliness only inches from her eyes was so horrible she promptly closed them again. Alexander bit her on the nose. Karen sat up with a shriek. Alexander retreated to the foot of the bed, where he sat down and began to bark.
The gist of his comments would have been plain to the slowest intelligence. When Karen looked at the clock she was forced to agree he was right. It was after nine o'clock. This was a workday, and she was supposed to be at the shop at eleven.
She got out of bed. Except for a sore throat, she felt remarkably well, and the sight of the confusion that still reigned in her room filled her with a burst of anger that sent the adrenaline pumping healthily through her veins. Cheryl had not had time to do more than fold and hang the crumpled garments over the chairs and bureau. The empty dangling sleeves and limp skirts looked pathetic. Most would need washing and ironing; at the thought of all her hours of wasted work, Karen stamped her foot and swore.
The door opened a crack before she had finished swearing and Cheryl's voice remarked, "I don't blame you, but maybe you should save your strength. Ready for breakfast?"
"You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble," Karen said.
"No trouble." Cheryl put the tray on the desk, which was practically the only uncluttered surface in the room. Sadly surveying the confusion, she shook her head. "It sure is a mess. But you know, you're lucky in a way; they're just dirty and wrinkled. I've heard of cases where the burglars got mad because they couldn't find drugs or money and they slashed everything with knives and-well-got them dirty…"
"I know." Karen sniffed appreciatively. "That coffee smells great. You are going to join me, I hope."
"I brought two cups." Cheryl pulled up a chair. Alexander, smelling bacon, came out from under the bed and squatted at her feet.
Karen scowled at him. "My, my, how charming you are when you smell food."
"He doesn't bite people out of meanness," Cheryl assured her. "It's just a habit. He sure is devoted to you, he wouldn't leave your room last night."
"That's a new twist. He's been barely civil."
Alexander put his front paws on Cheryl's knee and barked. Cheryl meekly handed over the strip of bacon she had been about to eat, and Alexander retreated under a chair, growling over his prize.
"He does look more cheerful today," Karen said. "I guess he needed an interest in life. There's nothing like a burglar to perk a dog up. But I can't give him any prizes as a watchdog."
"It wasn't his fault. He was shut up in the dining room. You look pretty cheerful yourself for someone who was half strangled last night. How do you feel?"
"My throat is a little sore, but otherwise I feel fine." Karen forced down a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Her stomach was still queasy, but she was grateful for Cheryl's efforts, and even more for Cheryl's willingness to pretend that nothing more distressing than an attempted burglary had occurred the previous night.
"I might be in much worse shape if you hadn't rushed to the rescue," she said. "It was very brave of you, Cheryl, but it was also very foolhardy. How did you get in? I seem to remember hearing the door slam…"
"Well, that was how I knew something was wrong. I figured you wouldn't slam the door in my face and leave me out there in the dark! Luckily you had left your keys in the lock. All I saw when I opened the door was something dark and shapeless, fading away into the shadows. By the time I turned on the light and made sure you weren't badly hurt and let Alexander out of the dining room, he'd gone out the back door. I should have chased him right away."
"Good Lord, no, you shouldn't have," Karen said sharply. "You did exactly right."
"You aren't mad because I called Mark?"
"No, I'm not mad at you." Karen took a deep breath and plunged into the subject she had avoided. It felt like jumping into a pool, not of water, but of some viscous slimy liquid. "I'm only sorry you had to overhear that telephone conversation."
"I didn't really hear anything."
"You heard enough to realize what was going on. You know Mark as well as… you know him better than I do; you've seen him look like that, you can imagine what was being said. Jack has a tongue like an adder; it leaves welts that sting for days. At least," Karen said, with a dreary little laugh, "Mark can derive some satisfaction from having his accusations confirmed. I called him paranoid and egotistical when he told me Jack's principal reason for marrying me was to get back at him. Now I know he was right. I ought to tell him so. It's the least I can do after subjecting him to that-that garbage."
"Stop it," Cheryl said sharply.
"Stop what?" Karen had expected sympathy; she had not expected to see a scowl darken Cheryl's face and hear the anger in her voice.
"Stop blaming yourself for everything. So you made a mistake. Everybody makes them. It's not your fault that your husband is a mean bastard. And Mark is a big boy. He's heard a helluva lot worse than your husband can dish out. He hears worse every day." Then she clasped her hand over her mouth. "I shouldn't have said that," she mumbled, behind it. "I'm so tactless…"
"You are tactful to a fault," Karen said, recovering from her surprise. "You've known about Jack and his- his little foibles all along, haven't you? And Mr. Cardoza- Tony-too. He wouldn't have been so quick to react if he hadn't heard plenty. I guess I can hardly blame Mark for sounding off to his best friends. He has good reason to detest me."
"There you go again. Have you always been little Mrs. Martyr? What did that man do to you?"
"It wasn't all Jack's fault," Karen said slowly. "I let him do it. I never was a very aggressive person. My sister was the tough one; she was smarter, prettier, older, taller… Cheryl, don't you dare laugh."
"I'm not laughing."
"Well, maybe you should. It sounds pretty silly, doesn't it? Sara was-is-just great. She couldn't help being taller, older… What was she supposed to do, cut her feet off at the ankles and fail exams to make me feel more secure? Funny; I couldn't see that at the time-that it was my problem, not hers. Then she married Bruce, and they were so happy…Jack sure as hell didn't help. Not that he ever laid a hand on me. He just… cut me to ribbons inside, where it didn't show. Like that old jacket. Shattered silk… Slow corrosion, attacking the fabric at its weakest points."
"Oh, come on, don't be so dramatic." Cheryl's smile took the sting out of the words. "There's no remedy for shattered silk-right? You're cured-"
"Not yet. But I think I'm on the road to recovery. It may take a while."
"I'm glad you told me," Cheryl said.
"So am I. Now we can forget about it. But I wish," Karen said wistfully, "that I could have seen Jack's face when Tony practically accused him of attacking me."
Cheryl giggled. "I
guess Tony probably shouldn't have done that. It was like intimidation or exceeding his authority or something. But he got a kick out of it, I could tell. He likes you. Oh, he said to tell you he'd let you know if they got any leads, but don't count on it."
"He still thinks it was an amateur-someone looking for money to buy drugs?"
"Well, he claims a professional thief would have gone for the antiques and the silver. I guess your aunt's things are pretty valuable?" Karen nodded, and Cheryl went on, "He says the man must have been high on something or he wouldn't have behaved so inconsistently- throwing everything around but not damaging or taking anything, trying to choke you and then running like a scared rabbit when I came in."
"But you don't agree?"
Cheryl looked doubtful. "It sounds too convenient. You know what I mean? Like saying, I don't know why he acted that way, so I guess he was out of his mind. Seems to me Mark has a point-"
"If Mark thinks there's a maniac out there with my name at the top of his list, I don't want to hear about it."
"Oh, no, it's just the opposite. He doesn't think the man intended to hurt you; he just panicked when you walked in on him unexpectedly. Karen, are you sure you heard him say, 'Where is it?'"
"I'm sure."
"He was looking for something, then," Cheryl said.
"He might have meant money. He sounded…" Karen searched for a word. Even the memory of the hoarse whisper made her shiver. "… not normal," she finished weakly. "That fits Tony's theory of someone on drugs."
"I guess so. But Mark says it's too much of a coincidence that this should happen so soon after Mrs. Mac's car was stolen. He wondered if the guy was after something of hers."
Karen jumped up. "Good heavens. I completely forgot…" She ran into the master bedroom.
The burglar had turned that room into a shambles too. The furniture was heaped high with the crumpled clothing Cheryl had picked up from the floor. But he had not found the secret drawer. The panel slid aside under Karen's pressure and there was the shabby red morocco case, just as she had left it. She opened it, to make certain the contents had not been disturbed, and carried it in to show it to Cheryl.
"It's pretty," Cheryl said politely. "But it doesn't look like the kind of jewelry a burglar would care about."
"It's the only thing of real value I've acquired lately, though. Anyhow, if that's what he was looking for, he didn't find it. Cheryl, you have a very peculiar look on your face. What are you thinking?"
"I was remembering that weird old lady."
"Mrs. Grossmuller?" Karen's voice rose incredulously.
"I guess you think I'm silly."
"Why, no. I just-"
"He did." Cheryl's cheeks flamed. "He practically laughed in my face."
It wasn't difficult for Karen to deduce the identity of the person referred to. "You told Tony about Mrs. Grossmuller?"
"Yes, I did. I'm sorry if you didn't want me to."
"I don't mind. But it is pretty far out, Cheryl. Even admitting she's that disturbed, which I doubt, how could she track me down so quickly?"
"Your address was on your check," Cheryl said. "She could have gotten it from the auctioneer. And we stopped for supper, that took a couple of hours. Mrs. Grossmuller is a big, stout woman, in spite of her age. And insane people are supposed to have unusual strength."
THE
manic strength of the insane… Karen didn't know whether it was true or not, but the idea accompanied her through the day like an unwelcome guest who will not go home. She could not decide whether she preferred to be the victim of a hopped-up young thug or a crazy old woman-or, if Mark was right, the unwitting possessor of a valuable object that might or might not be still in the house. On the whole, Tony's theory was less threatening; random violence was not likely to recur.
Rob saw the scratches on her throat and demanded to know what had happened. When she replied briefly that she had been mugged, he shrugged-"Welcome to the club, sweetie-" and went on to tell her in laborious detail about his own encounters with crime.
Monday was usually a slow day, and Karen's boredom was increased by her desire to get back to the house and deal with the chores that awaited her-not only the endless laundry but a number of other tasks she had allowed to accumulate. One, which she might not have thought of doing, had already been done for her. Mark had called a locksmith and asked him-or ordered him- to make an emergency call. The man had telephoned just before she left the house to say he'd be there between one and three.
Cheryl had offered to wait until he came. "I hope you're not mad," she began guiltily.
Karen smiled. "You're a fine one to lecture me about apologizing for the things other people do. I'm grateful- to you and to Mark. Please thank him for me."
But neither of them had mentioned one unpleasant corollary implied by the need for additional locks-that the intruder had not had to force a window because he had a key to the house. It was only an unproved theory, after all.
Karen had not had time to take the necklace to the bank, or to call Mr. Bates. The latter task at least she could do now. She wasn't keen on having Rob eavesdrop, which he would undoubtedly do, but if she waited till she got home, Mr. Bates might have left for the day. She couldn't keep putting things off. Jack's vicious verbal attack had shattered her apathy and inspired her with an urgent need to be done with him.
Knowing Mr. Bates' busy schedule, she expected she would have to leave a message and wait for him to call her back, but when she gave her name, the secretary put her straight through.
"I had expected to hear from you before this" was Mr. Bates' only greeting. "In fact, I tried several times to reach you, without success."
His critical tone filled Karen with resentment, probably because it followed a similar complaint from Jack. Really, people had a lot of nerve yelling at her because she wasn't available when it happened to suit their convenience.
"I've been busy," she said. "There are several questions-"
"Do you still have the Madison jewelry?"
Karen was still annoyed, and his peremptory tone did not soothe her feelings. "I haven't hocked it yet, if that's what you mean."
"I am glad," said Mr. Bates, in a tone that flatly contradicted his words, "that you can joke about it. One would think that after having been physically assaulted-"
"How did you hear about that?"
"I received a telephone call from Congressman Brinckley."
"Oh."
"The jewelry-"
"I have it." Karen heard an audible sigh of relief. She went on, "That was one of the things-"