"I'm sure," Karen said. "Well-ninety-nine percent sure."
"You'd better be a hundred percent sure," Tony said soberly. "Because if you did lock up, it means your visitor has a key to the house."
"Or that there is a way in we don't know about," Mark said.
"Come off it," Tony grunted. "Next thing you'll be talking about secret passages. Look, ladies, I'm not trying to cast aspersions on your sobriety, but it doesn't seem possible that someone could have a key. You just had new locks installed, didn't you? So. The next question is, did anyone know Cheryl was staying overnight?"
"No," Cheryl said without hesitation. "It was a last-minute decision. I didn't know myself until after midnight."
"You didn't call Mark?"
"Well, of course. You know I did."
"Just a damned minute," Mark said. "Are you suggesting-"
"I am trying to conduct a proper interrogation," Tony said. "And I'm having a hell of a hard time doing it. Did you tell anyone Cheryl was going to be at Karen's?"
Mark's cheeks darkened. "What do you think, that I called everybody I know to tell them the cat's away and now little brother can play?"
"I don't know what you're so uptight about," Tony said in an aggrieved voice. "Relax. I am simply trying to establish that Cheryl's presence in that room and in that bed was known only to Cheryl and Karen."
"Oh." Mark sat back.
"Nobody knew," Cheryl said. "For goodness' sakes, you men make such a fuss about the simplest things."
"So," Tony continued doggedly, "the guy went into what he assumed was an empty room. He opened the wardrobe. He probably got the shock of his life when Cheryl started stirring and mumbling. He ran-with an armful of clothes. Now if he was startled, scared, he might have held on to them for a second or two. But why didn't he drop them on the stairs or in the hall? Why carry them out to the garden and spread them around? Why bother with a lot of rags in the first place?"
"They aren't rags," Cheryl said indignantly. "They are valuable-"
"Yeah, sure, so you keep telling me. But come on, ladies-how much are they worth? A couple of hundred bucks? A couple of thousand?"
"Closer to a hundred thousand," Karen said.
"What?" Tony was obviously taken aback.
"I've never really thought of it in those terms," Karen said slowly. "But I have-oh, thirty or forty of Mrs. Mac's dresses. They aren't all designer originals, and their value varies a lot; but when you consider that a Poiret evening dress sold at Christie's in 1981 for fifty-five hundred dollars-"
"Five thousand bucks for a dress?" Tony exclaimed incredulously.
"Some are worth more," Karen assured him. "Some less, of course…I almost wish you hadn't brought it up,
Tony. I guess I don't have the mercantile mentality."
"That's what I'm supposed to be contributing to this partnership," Cheryl sputtered. She smacked herself on the forehead with the flat of her hand. "Insurance. My God, insurance! Why didn't I think of that? First thing tomorrow-"
"Hold it," Tony said. "I'm glad I reminded you of your forgotten duties, kid, but we're wandering off the subject. I didn't realize-"
"Throws your theory into a cocked hat, doesn't it, buddy?" said Mark with a mocking smile.
"What about yours, buddy?"
"Doesn't affect mine." Mark leaned back and folded his arms.
He obviously wanted someone to ask him what his theory was. No one obliged. Tony swallowed, pondered for a moment, and then said firmly, "No, it doesn't have anything to do with what I was thinking. Because the clothes weren't stolen. They were arranged-deliberately arranged-around the garden. That reminded me of something. I'm surprised it didn't strike you, Mark."
"You mean the Stratford case," Mark said.
"Uh-right." Tony looked crestfallen. In the hope of a more appreciative audience, he turned to Cheryl. "It happened in 1850, in Connecticut. Started with the standard poltergeist phenomena: objects flying through the air, fires breaking out with no apparent cause. But there was one unusual feature. One day when the family came home from church they found a lot of their clothes in the parlor, stuffed with pillows and arranged in strange positions, like dummies in a tableau. One was kneeling in front of an open Bible."
When he had finished, there was a profound silence that lasted until the waiter had removed the plates and requested their choice of dessert.
"I'm having those little cream puffs with chocolate sauce," Cheryl said. "Tony, are you out of your mind?"
"You don't get it," Tony said. "No, thanks, no dessert for me."
"Nor me," Karen said. "I'm afraid I don't get it either."
But it had been a curiously disturbing image and it increased the eeriness of what she had seen the night before-the white shapes fallen in helpless abandon, like victims of a massacre.
"This is serious, Tony," Cheryl said reproachfully. "And you start rambling on about haunted houses and poltergeists!"
Tony glanced at Mark, who was not trying to conceal his amusement. "I'm not rambling on about poltergeists," he said, in the strangled voice of a man who is controlling his temper under extreme provocation. "I don't believe in poltergeists. Everything has a rational explanation, including the Stratford case. The dummies were set up by someone-"
"Everyone in the household was in church," Mark said gently. "Including the servants. They alibied each other."
"Then they lied, or they were misled," Tony said. "There was malice in that case, and that's the motive here too. The parallels-"
"Are purely coincidental," Mark said. He was no longer smiling. "The motive in this case is so obvious it hits you in the face. I can't imagine why the rest of you don't see it. Somebody wants something Karen has. It's that simple."
"Ruth's silver," Karen began. "Her antiques-"
"Not Ruth, you. This nonsense didn't begin until you started collecting old clothes."
Karen laughed. "Are you suggesting a competitor is trying to steal my stock? The most valuable things haven't even been touched, much less taken. Or maybe it's someone who has a mania for dressing up in antique women's clothing."
Mark looked thoughtful. "I hadn't thought of that one."
"But I'll bet you've thought of things that are just as far-out," Tony jeered.
"A
will in the pocket of an old coat? A diamond bracelet some woman just happened to forget she had left in her purse?"
Cheryl began waving her hands. "He's right, but he's all wrong," she said excitedly. "I mean, it must be something Karen bought. But don't forget the trouble began the day we went to the auction. And what happened at the auction."
Mark had obviously heard all about Mrs. Grossmuller. He let out a whoop of laughter. "I suppose the old lady stitched a confession of murder into her wedding dress-thirty years before she bumped the judge off."
That ended any hope of a sensible discussion. Even Tony got carried away; it was he who postulated a treasure map embroidered onto a tablecloth. Paste gems that weren't paste but genuine, diamonds disguised as buttons-they covered the gamut of absurd theories. They were laughing over Karen's suggestion-a lost Edgar Allan Poe manuscript cut up and used to line a lady's bodice-when a voice behind Karen said brightly, "I had to stop and say hello."
Tony was on his feet. Mark started to follow suit; Shreve put her hand on his shoulder and held him in his chair. "Don't get up; I wouldn't disturb such a pleasant group for the world. So nice to see that you're having an evening out, Karen."
"Like the maid, you mean?" Karen turned. "Have you met everyone?"
She performed the introductions. Shreve nodded slightly at Cheryl-"I've met Mrs. Reichardt"-but her eyes returned immediately to Cardoza. "Detective?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Tony, trying to look stolid.
"Charming," Shreve murmured. "What a pretty dress, Karen. Is it for sale?"
"I'm afraid it wouldn't suit you," Karen said. "But if you are interested in a dress, come by any time. All customers welcome. I'll even take your personal check."
"How adorable of you." Shreve's hand moved from Mark's shoulder to his cheek. She patted it gently. "Well, I'll say good night. Don't let this poor boy work too hard."
"I'd say the honors went to Karen," said Tony critically, as Shreve joined the rest of her party.
"Is that her husband?" Cheryl asked, staring unabashedly.
"No," Mark said. "Does anyone want coffee?"
"At three bucks a cup?" Tony shook his handsome head. "Now if someone were to offer me a cup later, after I had escorted her home…"
"Good idea," Cheryl said. "And then you guys can help us look for the missing treasure."
"I was just kidding about that," Tony protested.
"I wasn't." Mark reached for the check. "I tell you, he's looking for something. Don't forget what he said to Karen."
"'Where is it?'" Cheryl repeated. "I had forgotten that. I think you're on to something, Mark."
Tony was not so easily convinced. Pressed by Mark, Karen was forced to admit that the idea was not as farfetched as their joking discussion had made it sound. She had heard of dealers finding old letters and diaries, even jewelry, in a bag or a pocket. They argued back and forth most of the way home, and in the end Tony grudgingly conceded that there was a possibility Mark was right. Only a possibility, though.
"It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack," he grumbled. "If the purported missing object were something obvious, you'd have found it by now. You've looked in the pockets and in the toes of the shoes?"
"I never thought about the shoes," Karen said.
"Oh, hell," said Tony.
They had reached the house; Karen took out her key and inserted it in the lock. "Damn," she said, twisting. "It sticks."
"Let me." Mark unlocked the door.
"Aren't you going to open it?" Cheryl demanded.
Mark stepped back. "You go first."
"Our hero! What are you afraid of?"
"The dog," Mark said simply. "This is my best suit."
Tony seemed equally disinclined to volunteer. With a scornful sniff Cheryl opened the door and demonstrated her technique. After he had been tipped over, Alexander got to his feet and walked away with the abstracted air of a philosopher pondering one of the great universal questions.
"I've got to get out of this dress," Cheryl announced, leading the way into the house. "It's so tight I can hardly breathe."
"You ate too much," her brother said rudely.
"You ate my oysters."
"Oysters aren't fattening. What did it was that mountain of profiteroles."
"I shall ignore that," Cheryl said. "Shouldn't you change too, Karen? Remember our rule: Don't wrinkle the merchandise unnecessarily."
"I'll make the coffee," Mark said. "I take it the merchandise is upstairs? Yell when you're decent and we'll come up. This way, Tony."
Loosening his tie, he strolled toward the kitchen with the confidence of someone who knows his way around a house and feels at home there. Which of course he did, Karen thought. At one time he had been a frequent visitor, welcomed with the total hospitality Pat extended to people he liked. Memories warm as summer and clear as actual sight filled her mind-Mark and Pat sitting in the kitchen, elbows on the table, sleeves rolled up, scattering crumbs and leaving beer and coffee stains on the cloth; Ruth scolding both of them with affectionate impartiality as she mopped up the mess…
"Hey, Karen," Cheryl called from the top of the stairs. "I need help with this zipper."
"Oh, yes." Karen came back from ten years in the past. "Coming."
The search began with a certain amount of enthusiasm. Even Tony looked hopeful as he examined the shoes, most of which had belonged to Mrs. MacDougal. They had been neatly stuffed with tissue paper-but only with tissue paper. Mark seemed fascinated by the dresses. He kept repeating, "Five thousand dollars? Five thousand?"
Finally Karen lost patience. "They are like any other kind of antique or collectible, Mark; the price depends solely on what people are willing to pay. Here, give me that. You're going to loosen the crystals pulling at them."
"I can't believe they aren't diamonds," Mark said, giving up the dress-one of Mrs. MacDougal's more heavily beaded creations. "There's no place to hide anything in these dresses-no pockets, no collars, no sleeves."
Tony's interest had declined, but he stuck to the job, methodically examining handbags and purses, feeling the linings to make certain they were intact, turning them upside down and shaking them.
"What's this?" Mark reached into the wardrobe and took out a small cream-colored box.
Karen launched herself at him with a shriek and snatched the box from his hands.
Mark recoiled. "What the hell-"
"That's my Fortuny!"
"I don't know what a Fortuny is, but I can assure you I wasn't about to wipe the floor with it."
Karen peered cautiously into the box. "It's one of his Delphos dresses. Nobody knows to this day how he got those tiny pleats, covering the entire garment. They had to be returned to him to be re-pleated, and they were sold in boxes-like this one-rolled and twined around like a skein of yarn. I was afraid you were going to take it out. I haven't dared touch it, because I know I'd never get it back the way it was."
"How much?" Tony asked, as Mark contemplated the small box with a mixture of disbelief and respect.
"A couple of thousand-but that's just a guess. As I told you, the price depends on the market at any given time."
"Holy Geez." Tony shook his head.
"All right," Mark said. "We won't unwind your Fortunato"
"Fortuny."
"Whatever. I trust this isn't another sacrosanct item?" He took out a black velvet evening cloak and ran his hands over the fabric. "Hey-there's a lump under here-"
"That's a shoulder pad, you oaf." Cheryl snatched the cloak from him. "You'd better leave this to us, Mark.
You're getting everything all wrinkled, and you don't know anything about clothes. We're more likely to notice something unusual than you."
"I'm running out of steam," Mark admitted. "And out of ideas." He ran his hands through his rumpled hair. "What about that jewelry of Mrs. Mac's, Karen?"