"My pal," Karen said.
"I offered you a job-"
"Because you wanted to get away for a few weeks and you didn't dare leave Rob in charge. Oh, Rob, I'm sorry-"
"No sweat, sweetie," Rob chirped. "I'm a frightful cheat and no one knows it better than Julie. Not vicious, you know, just weak. Now Julie is just the opposite-not weak, just vicious."
"Shut up, Rob," Julie said. "Okay, Karen, what about your aunt's furniture and ornaments?"
"I don't think she plans to get rid of anything," Karen said. "If she does, I'll make sure you get your chance."
"Mrs. MacDougal's too?"
"Oh, for… All right."
"Fair enough. Rob, I want those bills out by closing time. What are you standing around for?"
Her voice was placid, almost cheerful, though she had been screaming like a harpy only a few minutes earlier. Rob retreated, with a grin and a wink at Karen. She was grateful for his silent encouragement; her palms were wet with perspiration and she felt slightly sick. Confrontations always affected her that way. Yet Julie's casual contemptuous words still rankled. "You never had much gumption." Was that really true? Karen had always thought of herself as quiet and well-bred rather than weak, and aggressive self-confidence is not a characteristic possessed by many eighteen-year-olds-especially eighteen-year-old women. Jack had caught her at that most vulnerable of times, and certainly he had done nothing to reinforce her self-esteem… With an effort Karen shook off painful memories.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
"Straighten the place up. You can start with that table by the door, the one with the books and pamphlets. People make such damn messes-"
The pamphlets, devoted to Georgetown shops and sights, had been disarranged, but not to the extent Julie's comment implied. As she sorted and stacked them, Karen's eye was caught by an item that had not been on the table the day before. Like most of the other local guidebooks, it was paper-bound and appeared to have been published by a small vanity press. The cover bore the title
Legends of Georgetown
in blazing scarlet letters above a hand holding a dagger dripping with the same lurid shade.
Karen picked up a copy. Julie, who had been watching her, said casually, "Eye-catching, isn't it? I just got it this morning."
"There's no author's name."
Julie chuckled. "Take a look at the table of contents and you'll understand why."
The innocuous title of the book certainly did not suit the contents. "The Sinister Specter of the Murdered Madam" was one chapter title; others included such provocative gems as "The Georgetown Strangler," "Lizzie Borden or Jack the Ripper?" and "Murder in High Places."
"All the standard Georgetown ghost stories are included," Julie said. "But there are some nice gruesome modern scandals too. That's why the author prefers to remain anonymous. A lot of people are going to be howling for his blood when they read about their family skeletons."
"His? Do you know who it is?"
Julie hesitated. Karen could see she was dying to boast of inside information, but discretion won out. "I used the masculine pronoun for the sake of convenience, darling. Yes, I know who
it
is, that's one of the reasons why I said I'd stock the book. I always like to give a helping hand to old friends who are down on their luck. Have a copy on me-go ahead, take it. You need something to amuse you during those long, dull evenings alone. Who knows, you may recognize some of the subjects. Wasn't there some funny story about that house of your aunt's?"
"Not that I know of."
"Well, of course she wouldn't want to tell you- being all alone and defenseless in the house as you are. You know this area has the highest rate of violent crime-"
The door opened and Julie went to greet the entering customer. A smile of satisfaction curved her wide mouth.
Karen retreated into the office with the book. She had won the battle, but Julie intended to make sure she didn't enjoy her victory. Julie knew a lot of ways to needle people.
Karen was sufficiently disturbed by her hints to examine the grisly little volume in more detail while she ate a late lunch at the cafe next door. There was nothing about Ruth's house. One chapter-the one entitled "Lizzie Borden or Jack the Ripper?"-mentioned a "certain red brick Federal house not far from Wisconsin Avenue," but the case turned out to be a horrible double knife murder that had occurred several years before Karen came to Georgetown.
She was obscurely relieved. Not that it should have disturbed her unduly to learn that the house had been the scene of a past crime; few houses that age had histories unstained by tragedy of one sort or another. All the same…
She was leafing idly through the book when a name jumped out of the page at her with the impact of a poisoned dart. Mrs. Jackson MacDougal-"the former Bess Beall, spoiled debutante darling of that luxurious era when even adultery had a glittering glamour." The sentence was only too typical of the author's style-bad syntax combined with innuendo that never quite toppled over into actual libel. Karen's eyes widened as she read on, about the ambassador "from a noble family of impeccable lineage," who had cut his throat in the MacDougal billiard room, leaving a note accusing the mistress of the mansion of toying with his affections and then casting him aside. The billiard table had to be cast aside too.
A thin sheaf of grainy black-and-white photographs in the center of the book showed some of the author's victims. Karen would not have recognized Mrs. MacDougal; but she recognized the dress. She had seen it only that morning-a flowing gown of white crepe and satin, dripping with swaths of white fox. The wearer's figure was as fashionably slim as that of a young boy, and even the poor quality of the photographic reproduction could not impair her gamin prettiness. Soft dark hair cupped the beautifully shaped little head, and the wide eyes were framed by extravagant lashes. But the grin was unmistakably that of Mrs. MacDougal.
"Age cannot wither…" Karen's eyes were wet as she gently closed the book. Perhaps that gallant laughter was the only thing time could not destroy.
Business was slow, and by four o'clock Julie's mood was as gray as the weather. "I don't know why I don't just close up for two weeks while I'm in New England," she grumbled.
"Why don't you?" Karen asked.
"I have to pay rent and utilities and insurance anyhow. You never know-some sucker might wander in and fall in love with one of the white elephants I've been trying to sell for months." Julie sighed noisily. "You're out of your mind to think of opening your own place, Karen. If you knew half the headaches…"
Karen ignored this not-too-subtle hint and retired to the office. Rob was out making a delivery. He would probably not return that day; the customer lived in Virginia, and traffic on the bridges during rush hour was horrendous, especially in bad weather, for all of Washington seems to go mad when the roads are wet. Karen sat down at the desk and opened the file containing Julie's purchase orders for the past six months. She was curious about Julie's sources and profit margins. It behooved her to learn as much as she could, before Julie decided there was no sense in running free classes in merchandising for a potential competitor.
It was all she could do to force her tired eyes to read Julie's writing. The interview with Mrs. MacDougal had been exhausting; she felt as if the old lady had turned her inside out, hosed her down to clear out the cobwebs, and hung her up to dry. Then the strident argument with Julie… Julie was right. She couldn't start her own business. She didn't have the guts, or the know-how, or the strength.
She was drooping over the papers-having noted, with a faint surge of malicious interest, that the so-called Pennsylvania highboy had been part of a shipment from Glasgow, Scotland-when she heard the door chimes. Reluctantly she pushed the papers aside and got to her feet. Shoplifting was an everpresent problem, and it was hard for one person to keep an unobtrusive eye on several customers at once without spoiling the air of gracious ease antique dealers liked to create.
As she started to open the door, she heard Julie's shrill voice. "Karen! Karen, come on out; here's an old friend who's dying to see you."
Karen was tempted to close the door and pretend she had not heard. Several "old friends" had visited the shop since she started working, and when she was feeling particularly low she suspected Julie of calling all her former acquaintances and inviting them to come and gloat over her. Morbid and absurd, of course-but she still winced when she thought of Miriam Montgomery, nee Spaulding, and Shreve Danforth. Shreve was now Mrs. Assistant Secretary of State Givens; she was as slim and sleekly muscled as she had been ten years ago, when she and Karen had competed for top seed on the university women's tennis team. They had competed in another arena as well…
Shreve had not forgotten; she had ordered Karen about like a servant, her eyes bright with malice. Just like Shreve; but Karen had rather liked Miriam Montgomery. The latter's cool indifference had really hurt.
Julie hallooed again, more emphatically. Karen knew she was in for it. She eased the door open a little more and looked out.
Even on a sunny day the interior of the shop was not brightly lighted. According to Julie, the dusky illumination created an atmosphere of relaxation and peace. (It also made it difficult for customers to spot stains, scratches, and other minor imperfections in the merchandise.) However, the newcomers were standing directly under a Delft chandelier, and such light as its sixty watts produced shone directly on the face of the taller of the pair.
For a moment Karen felt as if a pair of giant hands had seized her body and squeezed. Hearing, vision, sensation, even breathing were suspended. Then her battered senses rallied, though her hands, fallen nervelessly to her sides, were sticky with sudden perspiration. She had not seen Mark for ten years. Yet recognition had been instantaneous and overwhelming.
He hadn't changed-and yet he had, in a number of small ways. Numbly her mind listed them. The chestnut-brown hair was sleekly, expertly styled, whereas once it had been tousled and unruly. He had tugged at his hair whenever he was excited or intensely interested in something, and he almost always was excited about a theory, an idea, a vision. His expression was intent and slightly frowning, but the parallel lines between his dark brows were deeper now. That was how she remembered him, grave and intent, not smiling. He didn't smile often. He was too serious, too committed to the causes he cared about-more than he cared about individuals…Of medium height and rather slightly built, he seemed taller now. It must be the way he carried himself, straight and erect instead of casually slouching, with a new air of authority.
The greatest change was in his clothes. She couldn't remember ever having seen him in anything but jeans and a faded shirt. She had teased him about that shirt, accusing him of owning only one, which he washed every night and never pressed. Sometimes, when the weather was freezing, he condescended to wear an old navy wind-breaker, worn through at both elbows.
He was now wearing a tan trenchcoat that looked as if it had just come off the rack in one of the more expensive men's stores. It was open in front, exposing a shiny-white shirt and a dignified dark-blue tie-the conventional Washington bureaucrat's uniform, predating the Yuppie era by several decades.
The woman with him was blond and petite and very pretty.
The ringing in Karen's ears subsided and she heard Julie say, "Yes, she's back. Poor dear, I was glad to help her out. You know how it is, she's pretty low. I'm afraid she's changed a great deal. I'll go get her, I know she'd love to see you."
Julie started toward the office. Mark raised his hand as if to detain her, but then shrugged and let her go.
Karen fled, hoping the obstacle course in the shop would slow Julie long enough to let her make her escape. She snatched her coat as she headed for the back door, not because she gave a damn about getting wet, but because if the coat was on the hook Julie would know she had not gone far. She closed one door just as Julie burst through the other, and darted into an adjoining doorway, where she huddled ankle-deep in soggy trash.
Hearing the back door open, she pressed herself back into the alcove. Julie's voice echoed hollowly. "Karen? Where the hell are you?"
Karen put her hands in her pockets and hunched her shoulders. Her heel had crushed a plastic trash bag. The stench of rotting fruit was so strong it made her stomach twist.
She went to the end of the alley and around the block, and stood under an awning across the street until she saw Mark leave. He didn't look in her direction. His eyes were fixed on the face of the woman, who was smiling up at him from under a very becoming rain hat. After they had turned the corner, Karen crossed the street and entered the shop.
"Where did you go?" Julie demanded.
Karen had had time to invent an excuse-not a very convincing excuse, but it was better than none. "I thought I heard a cat crying outside."
"So you chased it all the way down the alley and around the block?" Julie's eyes narrowed. "By a strange coincidence you just missed an old friend of yours."
"Oh, really? Who?"
"Mark Brinckley."
"Mark… Oh, of course. What shame I wasn't here."
"He'll be back," Julie said, not one whit deceived by Karen's pretense that she had forgotten Mark's name. "His girlfriend is interested in that armoire. She pretended to be interested in the lowboy, but it was really the armoire.
If she comes in while I'm gone, you can give her the usual ten percent, but only if she asks; make it look like a special favor to the dear friend of an old friend. You know the procedure."
"I ought to. It was the first thing you taught me." Karen started to unbutton her coat.
"Don't bother to take off your coat, I'm closing," Julie said. "Mark said to tell you he was looking forward to seeing you again."
Karen doubted that he had said it, or, if he had, that it was anything more than conventional politeness. She did not reply, so Julie abandoned indirection and went straight for the jugular.