Karen knew that was all the thanks she was going to get. It was, in fact, more than she had expected. "I wasn't easy to get along with either," she said. "If you still need help after you get back…" Cheryl would kill her if she heard that, but Karen did not retract the offer.
"That's okay. I have somebody lined up to start the middle of August. I'll-uh-keep in touch."
"Please do." Karen reached in her pocket. "Here are the keys."
"Right." The pause prolonged itself, became uncomfortable. Then Julie muttered, "I suppose you want your paycheck."
"If you hadn't mentioned it I would have asked," Karen said calmly.
"I think you would have at that. Oh, well." Julie went to the desk and scribbled rapidly. "Don't deposit it till Wednesday, okay? My cash flow…"
"Sounds familiar."
"It will sound even more familiar once you're in business," Julie said. "I wish you luck. Here's a number where I can be reached in an emergency; I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know about future murders, break-ins, muggings, and little things like that."
"Let's hope there won't be any." Karen was standing by the table; idly she glanced down. "I see you sold out on the Georgetown book."
"I threw it in the trash." Julie came to the door. "Here."
Karen took the check and the paper on which Julie had written the telephone number. "You threw the books away?"
The surprise in her voice brought a sour smile to Julie's lips. "Yeah, imagine me throwing away money. I couldn't stand the sight of the damned things. You knew. You must have figured it out."
Until that moment Karen had not known, and yet she felt as if Julie were only confirming some long-accepted fact. "Rob wrote it?"
"Yes. To me it stood out like a sore thumb, his writing style was so much like the way he talked. I suppose it's stupid of me, but when I first heard about his death I couldn't help wondering…"
"That is silly, Julie," Karen said. "Tony… Someone I know told me that nothing in the book was new. All the information came from newspapers and other printed sources. I did hear that people were annoyed at having old scandals revived; but what good would it do them to kill the author? That wouldn't stop the gossip, it would only exacerbate it."
"I know. I said it was a stupid idea. Did you read that story about your aunt's house?"
"There wasn't anything about Ruth's house."
"No? Rob said there was. He was giggling over it…" Her face twisted, and for a moment Karen thought she was going to break down. Fond memories of an old lover, recalling the laughter they had shared over someone's discomfort and distress… Perhaps the incongruity also struck Julie, because she recovered herself without shedding any tears.
"So," she said. "I'll get the car. You can start dragging the boxes out to the curb; I'll have to double-park."
When the boxes had been loaded Julie drove off with a final wave that had almost her old panache. There was no need to worry about Julie. As Tony had said, she was a survivor. How oddly she had behaved, though, almost as if she were not only grief-stricken but…
Afraid.
Afraid of me? Karen thought incredulously. The way she flinched when I touched her…Oh, but that was too absurd. Guilt as well as fear could produce such a reaction; if Tony was right, Julie had good reason to feel guilty about what she had done, and to regret her involvement in that grubby little scheme.
But suppose she was involved in some of Rob's other schemes? He probably had plenty of irons in the fire; he certainly had other women. The problem with tracking down Rob's killer was not a lack of motive, but an overabundance of them. Jealous husbands-and wives?-jealous lovers and ex-lovers. And blackmail? Tony hadn't mentioned that among Rob's "misdemeanors," but it fit Rob's personality. Victims of blackmail seldom go to the police. If pressed, they may take direct action to keep the secret hidden.
What if Rob's death had been the result, not of a story in his book but of a story that was not in it? Omitted, at the urgent request of one of the participants, after a sizable payment? Suppose Rob had been talking in his bright, chatty way about writing a sequel. And suppose, as well, that Rob had dropped hints to Julie, but had not mentioned names. He had been a hopeless gossip, but he would have known better than to involve her directly in something both criminal and dangerous. If Julie suspected the truth but didn't know the details, it would explain her odd behavior, including her repeated questions about Ruth's house. There was nothing in the book about Ruth's house, unless one of the stories that named no names and gave no precise address referred to some old, half-forgotten and undocumented tragedy. It didn't really matter. Rob's hints had been designed to alarm and frighten her, they need not have any basis in fact.
A story that wasn't in the book… That theory would explain why Julie had decided to get out of town for a while. She had not told Karen where she was going or given her an address; only a phone number.
Karen felt certain of one thing: Julie might not know who had killed Rob, but she knew more than she was saying.
KAREN
hastened home to tell Cheryl about her new theory. Cheryl listened politely, but she was not inclined to take the matter seriously; she had a happy facility of dismissing problems that weren't imminent and concentrating on things she could do something about.
"Even if you're right, where does it get you?" she demanded. "It's hard enough to pick one answer out of a list of possibles, but you're trying to find one that isn't even on the list."
"True," Karen said gloomily. "There must be enough scandals in Washington to fill an encyclopedia."
"I wonder if that's what Mark was mumbling about," Cheryl said casually. "Seems to me he did say something about that book. It would be funny if both of you came up with the same idea. You know what they say about great minds-"
"Mark called?"
"He was here, not long after you left."
"I thought he was going away."
"He is. He stopped on his way to the airport. He had some new idea," Cheryl said, with a tolerant, sisterly smile.
"Did he say what it was?"
"To be honest, I didn't ask. Mark is always coming up with wild theories. I tell him he ought to write thrillers. Margaret Truman does it, and Senator Hart, so why not Congressman Brinckley? He insisted on going through all the clothes again."
"Still looking for the diamonds?"
"Who knows? He asked me if we had anything from the late sixties or early seventies."
"There are a few things of Ruth's," Karen said curiously.
"I know, I showed them to him, but he just swore and said he was going to miss his plane-as if I was the one who was holding him up. He's speaking at some sort of fund-raiser and he didn't dare be late."
"Tonight?"
"I suppose so, otherwise he wouldn't have been worried about catching the plane."
"I only wondered because he said he would be out of town for a few days."
"I don't know what he's doing the rest of the time. Some kind of political business, I guess."
Her tone of utter indifference to the politics of the nation as exemplified in the person of her brother made Karen smile. She didn't pursue the subject. It was none of her business what Mark did in his spare time. But she couldn't help wondering whether he was off on a quest, following up the new theory that had brought him to the house that day. It would be nice to think he cared enough to spend so much time and effort.
"So what are we doing tomorrow?" she asked, going to the refrigerator for more ice.
Cheryl pushed her papers aside and frowned thoughtfully. There was a pencil behind her ear and a pen in her hand and a smear of ink on her cheek, but she didn't look like a businesswoman. She looked like Shirley Temple, dimples and all. Karen decided not to mention the resemblance. She had a feeling Cheryl wouldn't appreciate the compliment.
"No luck with the yard sales," Cheryl said. "But I found a store in Springfield that has possibilities. I told the realtor I'd bring you to look at it."
"Okay. What's on the schedule tonight?"
Cheryl's eyes sparkled. "I was hoping we could look at the dresses we got from the cleaner. We didn't have a chance before."
Karen shook her head with a rueful smile. "You poor woman. Is that your idea of an exciting evening? We ought to treat ourselves to something special, after that less-than-thrilling Saturday night."
Cheryl's eyes went back to the papers and clippings that heaped the table. "I guess I've forgotten what Saturday night means to most people. After little Joe was born we didn't go out much. It cost so much-baby-sitters and tickets and gas-even a night at the movies ran fifteen, twenty bucks if we went for a hamburger afterward. Usually I'd pop popcorn and Joe would get a six-pack and we'd sit and watch TV, and talk…"
"It sounds nice," Karen said sympathetically. She was touched, but the look on Cheryl's face-the remote, smiling glow of remembered love-also roused a degree of irritated impatience. You're just jealous, she thought; jealous because you've never had the chance, or the right, to feel that way about someone.
"Anyhow." Cheryl's voice was once more brisk and matter-of-fact. "I don't want to keep you from doing something. Do you want to go out? I'll go anywhere you want."
"I was not about to suggest a singles bar," Karen said; there had been a faint but unmistakable note of martyrdom in Cheryl's voice. "It's not my kind of scene either."
"We could go out to dinner."
When faced with a decision, Karen found she couldn't think of anything she wanted to do. "No, that's silly. It's too expensive. We'll be good little businesspersons and work tonight. Let's do something really wild and exciting and have supper on the terrace. It's a lovely evening."
They carried their tuna salad and iced tea outside- and their papers and ledgers as well. The soft, clear air affected even Cheryl's dedication to duty; leaning back, she put her feet on the chair opposite and said lazily, "This was a good idea. The garden is so pretty."
A breeze ruffled the leaves, and the dappled patterns of sunlight on the lawn below the trees shifted like flowing water. A robin hopping across the grass stopped and cocked a bright eye in their direction. Alexander, lying across Karen's feet, didn't even lift his head, and the robin proceeded to attend to his supper. Plunging his beak into the ground, he came up with a fat grub and flew off.
"We may as well enjoy the weather while it lasts," Cheryl went on. "The Gulf Stream is doing something funny-"
"Don't you mean the jet stream?"
"Whatever. Anyhow, days like this are rare, and we've got six more weeks of misery before fall."
"It's funny," Karen said musingly. "I hate this damned sticky heat, but when I look back on the years I lived in Georgetown I don't even remember it. Only the lavishness of spring-all the flowers bursting out at once and smelling like heaven-and crisp days in fall, and winter days inside around the fire."
"I mark only the sunny hours," Cheryl said. "I saw that written on a sundial. It's a well-trained memory that operates on the same principle."
"Mine must be better-trained than I thought, then. When I was talking to Miriam-"
"Who?"
"Miriam Montgomery. I told you about her, she's that friend of Shreve's."
"Oh, right. The one we toasted. How could I forget her?"
"Anyhow, she said she'd hate to live her youth over again. I agreed with her-and I still wouldn't want to go back-but neither would I want to forget these days entirely. There were some wonderful memories."
Cheryl glanced at her and then looked away. From the quirk of her lips, Karen knew she was wondering how many of those memories concerned Mark. But Cheryl was learning discretion; she didn't ask and Karen didn't elaborate.
Alexander rose with a grumbling growl and stretched. He sauntered off to investigate the garden and see if there were any new smells. Apparently he found some, for he burrowed under the azaleas and disappeared from sight.
"He must smell that cat of Mr. DeVoto's," Karen said.
"Uh-huh." Even the seductive summer air and the lovely long shadows could not distract Cheryl for long. "I hope we can have a yard someday. I don't mean right away; it looks as if we'll have to settle for an apartment and a stall in one of those antique malls at first. But maybe in a few years…"
"A yard is a lot of work. We won't be able to hire help, even in the shop, for a long time."
"I love yard work. We could buy a secondhand mower; they have them at yard sales sometimes. Your aunt sure keeps her garden nice. I suppose she has a gardener?"
"I suppose. No, I know she does, I send him a check every month. But he reminds me of the shoemaker's little elves. I never see him."
"We wouldn't want a garden as fancy as this. Roses take a lot of care. Well." Cheryl reached for a ledger. "I'd better get to work."
"Me too. There are several hours of daylight left, and a good breeze; those old linens would probably dry before dark if I hung them out right away." But Karen didn't move. It was too pleasant to sit in lazy contentment enjoying the peace of the secluded garden. Not that the future promised all clear sailing. There were patches of rough water, financial and emotional, ahead; Jack represented a big squall all by himself. But the worst seemed to be over, and she had no excuse for self-pity. Thanks to the loving help of friends old and new, she had been relieved of problems that might have sunk a vessel as heavily loaded as hers had been. But she had done some of it herself; at least she had the gumption to take advantage of the opportunities presented. Julie was off her back, and so was Rob. Poor Rob. She could pity him, but she still could not understand why he had done such cruel things. One could only feel sorry for a mind so burdened with malice-and be guiltily relieved that it was no longer a factor in one's life.
"You're looking pleased with yourself," said Cheryl. "What are you thinking about?"
"I'd be ashamed to tell you. I just had a bad attack of smugness. I guess I'd better drown it in hot water and bleach."