"I strongly suggest that you bring it to me immediately."
"Now?"
"Immediately."
"I can't. I'm in charge here, and we don't close until five. After that-"
"After that I am attending a cocktail party." Mr. Bates brooded briefly. Karen fancied he must be looking through his appointment book. "I will return to the office afterward," he announced. "Can you be here by seven-thirty?"
"I-yes, I suppose so. Why not tomorrow?"
"The answer to that should be self-evident. Not that I subscribe to Congressman Brinckley's fantastic theory that your assailant was a member of the gang that stole the Rolls-"
An uncomfortable prickling sensation touched the nape of Karen's neck. "Wait a minute," she said. "Wait just a minute…It didn't dawn on me at first…How did Mark-Mr. Brinckley-know I had something of Mrs. MacDougal's? Did he mention the jewelry?"
"Why, yes. I assumed you had-"
"No. I didn't tell him."
"Then Mrs. MacDougal must have done so. Really," the lawyer said impatiently, "this is all beside the point, Mrs. Nevitt. Although I am convinced there is absolutely no connection between the two events, I do most strongly urge-"
"Yes, all right," Karen said abstractedly. "I'll come at seven-thirty. I also need the name of a good divorce lawyer."
"I will have the information for you this evening."
"Have you heard anything from-" Karen began. But the lawyer had hung up.
He was definitely annoyed with someone, and Karen suspected it wasn't she. Mark must have read him the riot act. It would be like Mark to concoct a wild theory just for the fun of getting the lawyer's back up. Mrs. MacDougal must have told Mark what she planned to do with Dolley's jewelry. Or possibly Cheryl had mentioned it to him.
She hung up and went back to the office. His feet on the desk, Rob was busily reading a paperback novel- one of the popular best-sellers focusing on the lives of the rich, dissolute, and famous. His look of profound concentration would not have deceived a child.
"I hope I talked loudly enough for you to hear without straining yourself," Karen said.
Rob put the book down and smiled sweetly. "It was fascinating, darling. I'm so pleased you've decided to press on with your divorce; it's a fatal mistake to delay these things. But what's all this about Mrs. MacDougal's car, and necklaces and urgent appointments?"
Karen couldn't remember having mentioned the car. Rob must have been listening in on the extension in the office. Rather than allow him to speculate and invent preposterous stories, she explained briefly.
Rob admitted he had heard about the Rolls. "So thrilling, like one of those super crime films." The necklace, which Karen described only as a relatively inexpensive personal memento, didn't appear to interest him. However, Karen made a point of mentioning that she intended to hand it over to the lawyer that evening.
In fact, Rob was the last person she would have suspected of trying to throttle her. He would have been more likely to scream and run when she caught him in the house. As for the Dolley Madison jewelry… Oh, surely it was absurd to think it was involved. The fact that the intruder had not found it was no proof that he had not looked for it, but no ordinary thief would be aware of its presence. No ordinary thief… Her assailant had been no ordinary thief. That thick, hoarse whisper… There were only two people, aside from Mr. Bates and Cheryl, who knew she had Dolley's jewelry.
No, Karen thought. It couldn't have been Horton. Horton would not have run from Cheryl. Horton's big-muscled hands could have snapped her neck like a twig.
At five o'clock she left Rob to lock up and hurried home. Alexander was waiting; he led her directly to his empty food dish. Not until the dog's demands had been satisfied did Karen see the note Cheryl had left. The locksmith had come and gone; the keys were on the hall table.
Karen went to look. The keys made a formidable heap; there were three for each new door lock, front and back, and several more for the elaborate latches that had been added to the downstairs windows.
It must have taken the locksmith most of the afternoon. Congressman Brinckley's influence, Karen thought; usually it took days to get a service person to come, even in an emergency. But who was she to complain?
She went back to the kitchen and finished reading Cheryl's note. "I hope you don't mind, I did a little mending and washing. Love working with those things. Have to go to some boring party tonight, will call if we aren't too late getting home."
The telephone rang while Karen was getting supper. It was Western Union with a cable for her and a complaint, rather than an apology, that they had tried to reach her earlier, without success. The cable read, "I'll get you for this someday, you traitor. Ruth sends love. I don't. Pat."
Karen decided she could safely conclude that Mrs. MacDougal had arrived on her son's doorstep, by gnu or some other means. Grinning, she put a diet TV dinner into the microwave and went upstairs to see what Cheryl had done. "A little" mending and washing turned out to be ludicrously understated. Many of the petticoats and chemises had been meticulously laundered and returned to their hangers. Across the bed lay several pieces of lace; all had been washed and ironed and one tattered strip had been neatly mended.
She was eating supper when the doorbell rang. Before she could get up she had to dislodge Alexander, who was sprawled across her feet. He had insisted on sampling the fish in her frozen dinner and had promptly spat it out. Now he followed her to the door, hoping for something that tasted better.
Instead of opening the door, Karen looked out through the small spy-hole. Though grotesquely distorted, the figure outside was definitely that of a woman.
There was nothing to be afraid of. It was still broad daylight outside, and whoever the caller might be, she was certainly not Mrs. Grossmuller. No distortion, however extreme, could make Mrs. Grossmuller's stocky figure look so slim.
But Karen left the chain in place when she opened the door. Alexander promptly lunged for the opening. The frown on the visitor's face deepened as she looked down at the furry muzzle trying to push through the crack.
"Shut that damned dog up," she said sharply.
Karen stared. What was Shreve Danforth-no, Shreve Givens now-doing on her doorstep? She was dressed for a formal dinner or party, in a glittering white dress that set off her deep tan. Diamonds winked at her throat and twinkled in the auburn hair that half-covered her ears. Shreve, who had been so rude the day she visited the shop; Mark's latest lady.
Shreve's silver shoe began to tap impatiently. "Well, are you going to let me in? I'm in rather a hurry."
"Oh. Oh, yes. Of course. Just a minute."
Karen scooped up the dog and shut him in the kitchen. When she returned to the door, Shreve's foot was tapping faster and she was glancing ostentatiously at her watch.
Acutely conscious of her faded housecoat and bare feet, Karen admitted her visitor. She wished she could have thought of an excuse for refusing to do so; something like "Sorry, I think I'm catching the plague." The old habit of courtesy had prevailed, and it was too late now.
"I'm sorry it took me so long," she said. "I'm rather wary of letting people in until I'm sure who they are. Someone broke in here last night-"
"Oh, really?" Shreve's lips stretched into an expression that was not quite a smile. "I do hope nothing was taken."
"No. I had new locks put on, though. Mark was kind enough to send a locksmith around this afternoon."
Now why had she said that? Karen knew the answer, but she could have kicked herself for challenging an opponent like Shreve. The other woman's smile widened as she looked Karen over, from her unkempt hair to her dusty feet. Gently she said, "Mark has such a kind heart. He spends a lot of time with old Mrs. MacDougal too."
Well, I deserved that, Karen thought. I should have known better; I can't fight her on her terms.
With freezing politeness she said, "Can I offer you something to drink?"
"No." Shreve reached into her bag and took out a checkbook. "I just stopped by to get those things of Granny's. She had no right to sell them to you. The old witch is completely goofy. I believe you paid her seventy-five dollars?"
The amount she mentioned gave her bewildered listener the essential clue. "Mrs. Ferris is your grandmother?"
"Yes, didn't you know?" Shreve uncapped a gold pen and began to write, resting the checkbook on the hall table. "Seventy-five…"
"It was seventy-eight fifty, to be precise." Karen braced herself. "But I won't take your check."
"How much do you want, then?" Shreve asked coolly.
"Nothing. Not from you. I haven't had a chance to inspect all the merchandise yet, but that's what it is to me-merchandise. It was an honest business transaction-"
"Business," Shreve murmured. "I suppose it is good business to take advantage of a senile old woman."
Karen was so angry she felt lightheaded. The sensation was rather agreeable. "It's called free enterprise, Shreve. I'm surprised you haven't heard of it. Your husband is such an enthusiastic supporter of the system…"
Shreve blinked rapidly, as if someone had aimed a blow at her face. It
was
a low blow, Karen thought, as her anger gave way to self-contempt. Congress had finally confirmed Mr. Givens' appointment, but not until after a long and acrimonious debate over certain "questionable business practices."
"Is there anything of yours in the boxes?" Karen asked.
"Good Lord, no." This suggestion seemed to outrage Shreve even more than Karen's refusal to sell. "What gave you that idea?"
"I only meant that if your grandmother had sold something that wasn't hers, I would of course return it."
"I see." Shreve bit her lip. "I think I will have a drink after all. Do you have Stolichnaya vodka?"
"I don't know."
"Vodka and tonic, with just a squeeze of lime. If you don't have Stolichnaya I'd prefer plain Perrier and lime."
"I'll see," Karen said. "Excuse me."
By the time she had ascertained that Pat preferred another, cheaper brand of vodka, and had unearthed a lone bottle of Perrier from the back of the liquor cabinet, she was-she fondly hoped-in control of her temper. There wasn't a lime in the house, nor did she bother looking for one.
She had not asked Shreve to sit down, but she found her in the parlor, poised on the edge of the sofa and looking about her with cool interest. "Ruth really ought to replace those draperies," she remarked. "They are quite faded. Maybe it's just as well she didn't; by the time the dog gets through with them she'll need new ones."
Karen handed her the glass and a coaster. She was determined to behave like a lady if it killed her, but she wanted to get Shreve out of the house as soon as she could.
The very sight of her, poised and slim and elegant, was like a shoe rubbing a blister.
"Was it your grandmother's wedding veil you wanted?" she asked.
"Wedding veil?" Shreve looked blank. "I don't give a damn about Gran's junk. I just don't like the idea of its being displayed in some cheap shop window, where people can see it and say that Gran was so poor she had to sell her clothes-that her family wasn't taking proper care of her."
The secret was out. All Shreve cared about was what people would say. Karen found it more believable than sentiment, a quality Shreve obviously lacked. It did not make her feel any more kindly toward Shreve.
"No one would recognize your grandmother's things. And anyway, if Mrs. MacDougal isn't embarrassed at having her clothes in a shop window, it shouldn't bother you. Hers are very distinctive and very valuable, and she told me I could-"
"I'll give you a hundred and fifty."
"No."
"Why not?"
"I hope to make a good deal more than that."
Shreve's eyes narrowed unpleasantly. "How much more?"
"I'm afraid you are missing the point," Karen said. "I am in business to make as much money as I can. The value of the merchandise I sell depends on a number of different factors, primarily on what people are willing to pay." Shreve continued to stare at her, lips pressed tightly together, and some imp of perversity made Karen add, "When they are ready for sale, cleaned and pressed and mended, I'll let you know. If you care to pay the price, they're all yours."
"I see," Shreve said slowly. "I'm to be allowed to bid-is that it?"
"No bidding, no haggling. I set the price; you pay it or someone else will. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment and I've barely time to change."
SHE
really was late, but instead of dashing upstairs to dress she did a clog dance down the length of the hall, to the consternation of Alexander, whom she freed from bondage as she passed the kitchen door.
"I'm sorry," Karen said breathlessly. "That was a dance of triumph, Alexander. You wouldn't understand, and anyway I haven't time to explain it to you."
Talking to the dog was only one step better than talking to herself, but she had to crow to someone. A month ago she would not have been able to handle Shreve as ably as she had. She would have meekly accepted the check and handed over the merchandise, as Shreve had expected she would. Shreve wasn't accustomed to having people bite her back, especially someone she remembered as quiet and yielding. It would have been a fatal mistake to give in, for it would have set a precedent, for herself if not for her customers. She might end up doing something as asinine as letting Mrs. Grossmuller buy her wedding dress back for two bits.
What was more, she had not lost her temper, though the provocation had been extreme. As she came downstairs, neatly if hastily attired, she remembered Shreve's insolence, and the anger she had suppressed boiled up stronger than before. How Mark could fall for such a vulgar, arrogant woman… But it wasn't Shreve's personality that interested Mark. He was kind and charitable to old friends and former enemies, but he liked his women slim and sexy and influential.
Stop it, Karen told herself. She concentrated intently on locking the door. The new keys were a trifle stiff, but they would probably loosen up in time.