Karen ran too, but by the time she reached the garden it was all over. She caught only a glimpse of something moving among the tangled limbs of the maple overhanging the wall. Inside the house Alexander was barking madly. Lights flashed on in the kitchen.
All other impressions faded into insignificance under the impact of the white form thrashing and writhing on the ground not far from the garden shed. The muffled, breathless voice that came from it was Tony's.
THERE
was a nightmarish feeling of deja vu as they ministered to another injured man. Tony's language was hot enough to blister their ears, but most of his concern was for his suit. The jacket was certainly a total loss, not only bloodstained but slashed in parallel cuts.
"You've got to go to the emergency room," Cheryl said. "I think I've got the bleeding stopped, but-"
"I should hope to God you've stopped it, you've used enough bandages to wrap a mummy," Tony snarled, contemplating his arm with disgust. "Goddamn that son of a bitch! This suit cost me-"
"Oh, who cares about your suit?" There was blood on Cheryl's nightgown too. Most of it had come from a single deep cut in the arm Tony had thrown up to protect his face; the others were superficial.
Cheryl had rushed downstairs when she heard the racket in the back yard, without stopping to put on a robe. The thin fabric of her gown clung to her body in a way that would have distracted a man much closer to death than Tony. When Cheryl repeated, "You've got to go to the hospital," he let out a roar.
"I've got to call in, that's what I've got to do, and I can tell you I'm not looking forward to hearing what the lieutenant is going to say. Falling for a stunt like that! 'Sorry, Lieutenant, I got tangled in a bed sheet!' Oh, Christ!"
"He threw it over you," Karen said. "You couldn't help it."
"He did throw it over me and I could have helped it. Mark was right, damn his eyes; not only was the sheet a perfect disguise but it was so damned weird it got me off base for a second or two, just long enough… Cheryl, I told you to cut that out. Where's the goddamned phone?"
"If it makes you feel better to swear every other word," Cheryl began.
"It does make me feel better. Not much better, but some." Tony pushed her hand away and stood up. Then he sat down, more suddenly than he had intended, almost missing the chair. Cheryl swooped on him and steadied him. "There, you see, you shouldn't go jumping around like that. Just sit still and let me-"
Tony took a deep breath. His lips moved; Karen imagined he was counting under his breath. At "ten," some of the color came back to his face. "I am going to use the telephone," he said quietly. "I am going to use the extension in the hall, not this one, because I do not want you to hear what I am going to say. Stay here. Both of you."
This time he stayed on his feet. Swaying slightly, he walked to the door. Then he turned.
"See?" he said to Karen. "I told you it wouldn't work."
"What is he talking about?" Cheryl demanded, as the door closed behind him.
Karen looked at her. Her hair was aureoled by the light, and the rounded curves of her body pushed distractingly at her thin garment. She was pale with concern-the same concern she had demonstrated a few days earlier when it was her brother who required her care. All at once Karen wanted to stamp her foot and yell at the top of her lungs-anything to penetrate the shell of sacrificial celibacy in which Cheryl had swathed herself. It wasn't Cheryl's fault. A woman is not obliged to love a man just because he wants her to. But Tony was so worthy of love. A half-step more and Karen would have been over the brink herself.
And the reason that she couldn't take that half-step was as hopelessly sentimental and absurd as Cheryl's reasons. Pots and kettles, she thought wryly. Not to mention people who live in glass houses.
Her eyes kept returning to the objects on the table-ordinary household items, harmless in their origin and function, now ominously suggestive-a crumpled, bloodstained sheet and a knife, its blade dulled and sticky. The sheet was double-sized, a polyester-and-cotton blend; at a rough guess, several hundred thousand of its duplicates presently existed in linen closets and on store shelves throughout the area. It had been roughly tailored-the trailing corners hacked off, a narrow slit ripped away so the wearer could see where he was going. The knife was almost as undistinguished-a Solingen steel-bladed carving knife, eight inches long. There was one almost like it in the rack next to the sink.
Cheryl dismissed her own question with a grumble. "Men act so silly. Here's Tony worrying about what his boss will say to him, like some kid whose mother forgot to write him an excuse, when he ought to go to the-"
Karen's resolution about staying out of other people's business vanished in a puff of smoke. "Damn it, Cheryl, are you really that insensitive? Can't you see how he feels? He went rushing out there to rescue us poor defenseless females from a maniac, and ended with us untangling him from a sheet. He feels like a fool."
Cheryl's jaw dropped. "He did not! Look like a fool, I mean."
"You may not think so and I certainly don't think so, but I have a nasty feeling the lieutenant will think so. His friends will never let Tony hear the end of this one. His theories have been knocked into a cocked hat; he'll be hearing oblique references to bed sheets for months to come; and worst of all, he has to sit here and be interviewed by the police, like any other helpless victim of crime. For a cop, a professional, that's the crowning humiliation. Compared to all that, a knife wound doesn't even hurt!"
"I never thought-"
"Maybe it's time you did, then. He's just as vulnerable as anyone else under that tough exterior, and you're ripping him to shreds emotionally. Give the guy a break."
Someone else had said that recently, Karen remembered. Tony-to her. About Mark. "Oh, Lord," she said wearily, "what's the use? I'm a fine one to talk."
But the sight of Cheryl's stricken face and quivering lips didn't make her regret what she had said.
Tony came back into the kitchen. "Someone will be here in a minute," he said curtly. He looked at Cheryl. "Go and get some clothes on. Now."
Cheryl fled without another word.
THE only one who had a good night was Alexander. He managed to bite not one but both policemen. Cheryl and Karen didn't get to bed until after four. Karen expected she would lie awake, but she was so exhausted she was asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.
Cheryl claimed she had slept too, but there were purple shadows under her eyes and lines around her mouth next morning. It was almost eleven before they sat down to breakfast, a meal in name only, for neither of them ate.
"Looks like rain," Cheryl said, breaking a long silence.
Karen said, "Uh-huh."
"Am I still in the doghouse?"
"What?"
"I've been thinking about what you said last night."
"I said a lot of things last night." Karen sipped her coffee, hoping a healthy dose of caffeine would clear her head. "I suppose I should apologize, but I'm not going to. I guess I owe you one," she added, with a futile attempt at a smile. "Five minutes of criticism, at your convenience."
Cheryl did not return her smile. "I'm tempted to take you up on it. You're so smart about most things and so incredibly dumb about others."
"Let's not fight now," Karen said. "I'm too tired."
"Okay."
"Cheryl."
"What?"
"I want you to move out. Go back to Mark's."
"I figured you were going to say that. Did you figure out what I'd say back?"
"I figured, yes. And I also figured what I'd say after you said what you said."
"Don't bother. Look at it this way, Karen-would you walk out on me if the situation were the other way around?"
"I certainly would."
"You're a damned liar."
Karen's lips quivered. She wasn't sure whether she was going to laugh or cry until laughter finally won out. "You're hopeless. Maybe I can hire someone to kidnap you."
"That's the only way you'll get me out of here." Cheryl's smile was almost back to normal. "They'll catch the guy, Karen. They're bound to. Tony said someone would be watching the house every night from now on. And if I know Tony, he'll be sticking pretty close too. Not to mention my only brother. I wonder what he's going to say about the latest developments. Looks as if his far-out theory was right after all."
"What theory? He never said what it was, just sat there poking holes in Tony's theories." Karen's jaw set. "If he gloats-if he says one word that can be interpreted as rubbing it in-I'll kill him. Tony feels rotten enough without that."
"Yeah." Cheryl didn't enlarge on the subject. After another silence she said, "So what are we going to do today?"
"Go bravely forward, like good soldiers, I guess. What else is there to do? We can't huddle in the house all the time. I'll take those dresses to Shreve."
"And I'll go see Mrs. MacDougal's friend. I don't know, though, Karen. Maybe you shouldn't go."
"Are you suggesting Shreve is the sheeted specter? Shreve, of all people? Climbing fences and waving butcher knives? In her Moygashel linen and her white gloves?"
Cheryl did not share her sour amusement. "She hates you."
"She has subtler methods of cutting me down. She doesn't need knives." Karen pushed her chair back and stood up. "Besides-in case you've forgotten-Shreve has the perfect alibi for last night. Vouched for by no less a personage than Congressman Brinckley, a.k.a. your only brother."
SHREVE'S
directions had been clear and explicit. That didn't prevent Karen from getting lost. Stopping at a crossroads store, she discovered she was heading in precisely the wrong direction-a classic example of a Freudian slip in motion, she surmised. She was only fifteen minutes behind time, but she found Shreve pacing up and down the drive waiting for her.
"You're late," she snapped.
"I got lost. It's a long drive."
"How true. Come in, then."
"Can someone give me a hand with these?" Karen asked, opening the back door of the car. "They have to be carried carefully."
Shreve's eyebrows soared. "I'm afraid there's not a soul around, darling. I assumed you wouldn't want a witness."
"I beg your pardon?" Karen straightened, holding one of the boxes.
"And well you should. Oh, well, I'll take the other one, if you insist. This way."
Karen followed her into a room that might have been called a library if there had been any books on the shelves. It was furnished expensively and with a striking lack of originality. Shreve tossed the box carelessly onto a long leather sofa. "Is it in this one?"
Karen hesitated, not knowing what to say. She was completely bewildered by Shreve's remarks, and a faint but growing sense of uneasiness added to her confusion.
Before she could reply, there was the sound of an automobile horn-not a simple hoot, but a strident rendering of the first bar of "Dixie." Shreve scowled. "Damn. I might have known he'd turn up, just when… Stay here. I'll get rid of him. Don't leave this room."
Karen sat down to wait. The time stretched on; apparently Shreve was finding it difficult to dismiss her visitor. Karen shifted impatiently.
On a low table near her chair a number of glossy magazines were arranged in order, neat as an illustration out of a copy of
House Beautiful.
Karen went through them, taking a petty and malicious enjoyment out of the disorder she created. They were of the type she had expected to find on Shreve's table-
Vogue
and
Vanity Fair, Washingtonian,
the
New Yorker.
One thin magazine differed from the rest. On the cover was a black-and-white photograph of a young girl dressed in white lace and pearls standing under a blossoming tree. Above the photo was a name Karen recognized-that of a prestigious private girls' school. Idly she picked it up and flipped through the pages. It appeared to be the commencement issue of the alumnae bulletin. Photos of beaming girls hugging one another and waving their diplomas; photos of commencement speakers and prominent parents. Karen was mildly entertained to learn that people actually did give children names like Muffin, Taffy, and Lolly.
Half the book was devoted to pictures of, and news about, alumnae-understandably, since the unspoken thrust of the publication was to extract money from same. There were photos of children and grandchildren and old graduation pictures. Among the latter was one of Shreve. Smirking as usual, Karen thought, studying the picture. It showed three girls, their arms around each other, with Shreve in the middle. They were wearing identical fluffy dresses with demure puffed sleeves and ruffled necklines. Karen had heard that some of the posh schools insisted all the girls wear the same dress for graduation, thus ostentatiously avoiding ostentation.
The truth didn't hit her all at once. It started as a tiny trickle of suspicion; then it widened, breaking down the walls of disbelief like a flood of evil-smelling, rancid water. The room darkened for a moment, and she had to hold tight to the arms of the chair; it seemed to be swaying under her like a swing.
She was on her feet when Shreve returned. After one quick glance at her face, the other woman turned back to the door. There was an ominous little click, which registered vaguely in Karen's mind as something she ought to worry about, but which made only a minor impression compared to the staggering knowledge she was trying to assimilate.
"It's a little late to get cold feet now," Shreve said. "You've been enjoying your little game of cat and mouse, haven't you? I must admire the way you handled it. Not a word, even in private, that could incriminate you. Everything innocent and straightforward. But I knew you'd slip up eventually. You were so damned pleased with your cleverness you got careless. Coming here alone was a big mistake. I don't suppose you were foolish enough to bring it with you, though…"
As she spoke she opened one of the boxes and tossed the dress aside with no more than a cursory glance. Karen winced as crystal tinkled and crisp pleats flattened, but she knew the condition of the merchandise was the least of her worries.
As Shreve opened the second box and rummaged among the tissues, Karen began edging toward the door. Her purse, with the essential car keys, was over her shoulder.
She can't stop me, Karen thought. She's in good shape, but I'm taller and heavier, and I don't think I'd have any scruples about hitting below the belt…
Shreve threw the empty box aside and turned, her face livid. Karen made a dash for the door. It was locked. As she fumbled for the key she watched Shreve over her shoulder, prepared to turn and resist if the other woman came after her. Instead Shreve ran to the desk and opened a drawer.
"I told you I was tired of your little games," she said coolly. "Come back here and sit down."
She held the heavy revolver the way people did in the movies-arms straight, one hand bracing the other.
Karen put her back against the door. "You wouldn't dare. Not with your own gun, in your own house."
Shreve's laugh was all the more shocking because it was genuinely amused. "Not my gun. Though I can use it-make no mistake about that. We're all frightfully, frightfully sporting here in Middleburg. No; this gun belongs to Pat MacDougal. Half of Washington knows he kept it in the drawer of the wardrobe in his bedroom. Believe me, my dear, I've thought this out very carefully. However, I've no particular desire to shoot you or anyone else. If you behave yourself and do as you're told, you'll be all right. Sit down!"
Too stunned by this latest piece of news to resist, Karen selected a chair as far from Shreve as possible. She didn't doubt that Shreve was speaking the truth. She must have taken the gun the night she woke Cheryl searching the wardrobe. She had planned this days-weeks-ago. But how had she gotten into the house?
Then Karen remembered the extra keys, conveniently left on the hall table, and Shreve's sudden request for something to drink after she learned Karen was unwilling to give up "Gran's old things."
"That's better." Shreve came out from behind the desk and sat down on its corner, her foot swinging. She rested the gun on her knee. "All I want is the dress. Hand it over and I'll leave you alone-but strictly alone, darling. Whatever gave you the consummate gall to suppose you could blackmail me, of all people?"
"I didn't. I wasn't trying… Honestly, I didn't know until a few seconds ago-" Her voice failed as she saw Shreve's skeptical smile.
Not that it mattered. She knew the truth now, she had admitted as much. "You can't let me go," she said stupidly.
"I can, actually-once the dress is destroyed. Your unsupported word can't hurt me. Especially after your carryings-on this past week; aren't the police getting a teeny tiny bit tired of your complaints?"
"You planned that? But you couldn't have. You were out of town last night."
Shreve's smile grew fixed. "I planned it, all right," she said sharply. "The idea was to discredit you-and it worked, didn't it? Once the dress is gone there won't be a shred of evidence."
"I can't understand why you didn't destroy it long ago." Karen felt quite calm except that her mouth was so dry that her lips felt stiff and leathery. She had to keep talking, though; the longer she could drag this out, the greater the hope that Shreve would relax her vigilance.
"I didn't because I couldn't think of a safer place for it than up in the attic among Gran's filthy rags. They should have been thrown out years ago. How could I anticipate that anyone would be imbecile enough to pay money for them-and that, of all the ironic coincidences, it would be you who bought them! One of the few people in the entire world who knew what she had and was low enough to capitalize on it."
It was a pity, Karen thought, that Shreve couldn't appreciate the crowning irony-that without her own efforts to retrieve the damning evidence, Karen would never have known it existed. She had been slow enough at that. Perhaps fatally slow.
There were still many things she didn't understand, but isolated events and statements to which she had paid no attention now made a horrible sense. The scattered clothing that had reminded Mark and Tony of a famous haunting had been, quite simply, an intruder's search for one particular garment. Every statement she had made to Shreve had been misinterpreted; and as she remembered what had been said, she realized that a listener expecting veiled threats and demands could have found them. And Rob… Had he known the truth before Shreve enlisted his aid in order to enter the shop, in a final desperate search for the dress she had failed to find at the house? Rob had researched the case and included it in his book. Perhaps he had suspected but had not been sure until Shreve gave herself away, somehow, on the night of the break-in. No wonder he had packed his bags and planned never to return to his poorly paid job and his cheap apartment; he had counted on extracting money from Shreve in return for his silence. His miscalculation had been fatal-literally. Shreve wasn't the type to submit to blackmail.
"We'd better get moving," Shreve said briskly. She stood up and went to a nearby cabinet, from which she took a decanter and a single glass. A little of the liquid slopped over as she poured, left-handed; with an exasperated, housewifely click of the tongue she carefully mopped up the spill with a handful of tissues. Then she offered Karen the glass. "Here. Drink it."
"No. No, I won't."
"You stupid little twit, this is for your own good. Would you rather be hit over the head and stuffed in the trunk of the car?"
Karen shook her head.
"God, you're slow," Shreve said contemptuously. "Do I have to spell it out for you? We are going back to your place and you are going to give me the dress. I'm not driving all that way with you sitting beside me, looking for a chance to jump out."
"I can't give you the dress," Karen said. "I threw it away."
"Sure you did. Drink this. Oh-you think I'm trying to poison you, is that it? Here…" She took a sip, then held the glass out again. "Drink."
There did not seem to be much choice. I can't do anything if I'm lying unconscious in the trunk, Karen thought. But as she choked the liquor down she felt the effects almost instantly. She had eaten practically nothing all day, and the frantic pounding of her heart sent the alcohol racing through her bloodstream. When she rose to her feet, prodded by the gun, she staggered and almost fell.