Houses of Stone (13 page)

Ismene sank back against the heaped pillows. Clasping her hand
yet more
closely, her cousin
—
her cousin!
—
exclaimed, "You are overcome. I blame myself; I should not have burdened you in your weakened state with this additional cause of grief.

Though still bewildered and confused, Ismene made an effort to respond. "Indeed 1 am sorry, but chiefly on your account, Cousin . . . Edmund . . . Forgive me if my speech falters; it echoes the confusion of my mind, for indeed I knew not that such an individual existed.

Gently, in soft accents, he replied, "The sad estrangement between our parents was deeply regretted by my father. You do not know its cause? Nor do 1; he would never speak of it except with such sighs and signs of grief, 1 could not in kindness pursue my inquiries. Let us forget the sorrows of the past and begin afresh. Think only that you have found a home and a brother; look to the future and prepare for happiness.
"

T
hough the manuscript
called out to her with a voice as seductive as the aroma of fresh-baked brownies, Karen tore herself from it after she discovered the identity of Ismene's faceless angel. That image had haunted her for weeks. Now that she had satisfied her curiosity, she could concentrate on the tasks that had to be completed before she could leave. Once settled in Virginia, her conscience at ease and all distractions left behind, she could turn her full attention to the manuscript and the equally engrossing question of its author's identity.

The correctness of her decision to skip town was confirmed by a rash of telephone calls on Sunday morning. The only one she responded to was from Peggy.

"It's in the Times," Peggy announced without
so
much as a preliminary hello.

"I know. Cropsey was the first to call, as you might expect. I didn't pick up, even though he kept yelling, 'I know you're there, Karen; I know you're there!' "

"How'd he figure out it was you? The story didn't mention names."

"Damned if I know." Karen ran distracted fingers through her hair. "Bill might have told him, out of spite. He knows how much I despise the creep. What exactly did the Times say? I haven't had a chance to get a copy."

"It was pretty vague; just reported a rumor that an important manuscript had been found and sold to a professor at an eastern college. But if Cropsey knows or suspects it's you—"

"All the more reason for me to leave tomorrow. I'll call and give you a number once I'm settled. Look, I've got to hang up, I have a million things to do."

The most important of those things had occupied most of Sunday. She had copied the manuscript, page by slow page, on her own machine. The result wasn't as readable as a professional copy would have been, but Meyer's warning (or threat?) had worried her more than she liked to admit. She was afraid to let the original manuscript out of her hands— afraid even to venture out of the apartment with it. Three of the callers had hung up without leaving a message. Three—or the same one? Someone trying to find out whether the apartment was empty before attempting a breakin? Someone who would have responded to her "Hello" with an invitation that would induce her to leave the building? Not that she really believed Dorothea was mad enough to lie in wait for her, knock her down, snatch the manuscript . . . But why take the chance? The parking area in front of the apartment was relatively deserted on a gloomy, rainy Sunday afternoon.

The anonymous caller rang twice more during the evening. Scolding herself for timidity, and cursing Bill Meyer for causing it, Karen double-checked the locks on doors and windows before going to bed.

Next morning she left the apartment early, at the same time her fellow tenants were heading for work. No one was lying in wait. Relieved and embarrassed at her foolishness she drove straight to the bank and deposited the manuscript. She would have to refer to it before she published the book, trying to decipher blurred or illegible passages, but for a first read-through the copy would be good enough.

It would also be good enough for a would-be thief, Karen reminded herself. So long as the original was in her safe-deposit box a thief wouldn't gain the most important thing—exclusive possession of the text—but he or she could work from the copy and try to publish first. She'd have to guard the copy as closely as she had the original. Maybe she shouldn't have left it in the apartment. But it was safer there than it would have been in the car. She caught herself glancing frequently in the rearview mirror and gave herself a mental slap on the wrist. Taking reasonable
precautions was one thing; becoming suspicious of every vehicle that followed her for more than a block was raging paranoia.

The campus was reassuringly well populated. Suspecting that Joe Cropsey would be lying in wait for her, she asked a passing student to take the final grades to the English Department office instead of delivering them herself. One more dirty job awaited her, and although it wasn't as unpleasant as an encounter with Cropsey would have been, she was not looking forward to it.

The trip to Nag's Head had been Joan's idea. She would probably scream like a banshee when Karen announced she couldn't go, and Sharon would probably support Joan. She had already expressed concern about Karen's growing "obsession" with her work, and her professional training made her only too ready to find hidden motives for every action.

They were waiting for her when she arrived at the restaurant. Joan was drinking wine, Sharon mineral water with a twist of grapefruit peel. At least it looked like grapefruit. The latest health fad, Karen supposed. Sharon followed every one.

She had decided to blurt it out and get it over with. "I have to cancel Nag's Head," she announced, sliding into a chair.

The other two contemplated her in stony silence. Joan's hair was so curly and of such a bright, improbable red that it looked like a wig. She was ten years older than Karen and several inches taller—a big woman, heavy-boned and imposing in appearance. Sharon was almost as tall, but she weighed fifty pounds less than Joan and her arms bulged with muscle. She worked out every day, attended aerobics classes several times a week, and ate like a Victorian lady. Currently she was on a low-fat, low-protein, vegetarian diet. Watching her eat always made Karen want to order the richest dessert on the menu. In her admittedly biased opinion Joan was much more attractive than Sharon. Joan looked like a woman, not an artificial model of one.

Joan looked at Sharon, who nodded at her. It was one of Sharon's significant nods. Karen knew what was coming.

"Aren't you being a teeny bit unfair to Joan, Karen? She can't afford to go by herself even if she wanted to, and it's too late now to find someone else."

"Weren't you the one who told me I had to stop being such a wimp and focus on my self-needs?"

"Not in those precise words, I hope," Sharon answered in assumed horror.

"That was a free translation," Karen admitted with a smile. "I know it isn't fair to Joan, but when you hear my reasons I'm confident you'll understand. I couldn't talk about it before the deal was concluded, not even to you."

She was a good lecturer, and she gave this one all she had, finishing with an animated description of the lunch with Meyer. "So you see I daren't waste time. Bill the Bastard is already nose-down on the trail, and I'll be damned if I let him get ahead of me."

"Meyer," Joan repeated. "Didn't I meet him? Tall, good-looking guy with a supercilious sneer?"

"I don't think he's good-looking. But 'supercilious' is certainly accurate."

"It sounds like a wonderful find, Karen," Sharon said coolly. "Congratulations. But I don't see why you're finding such—may I say 'theatrical'?—implications in Dr. Meyer's behavior. He's a professional, a scholar. You seem to be suggesting he will engage in conduct that is unbecoming—"

"She's right," Joan declared. "Honest to God, Sharon, sometimes I wonder what ivory tower you've taken up residence in. I don't know much about literature, but if Karen's appraisal of the manuscript is correct it's a major discovery, enough to justify burglary, assassination, and blackmail. Scholars aren't any nobler than the next man."

"You're as bad as Karen," Sharon said fastidiously.

"Oh, I don't suppose he'd commit burglary or murder," Joan admitted. "But he'll cheat her of the glory if he can. You really don't have any idea of who this woman was, Karen?"

"Not yet. But I think I've located the house, and I'm pretty sure she was a member of the family that has owned it for over two hundred years."

"That's a good start," Joan agreed.

"You do understand, then," Karen said, relieved. "You're not mad?"

"I'd do the same thing if I were in your shoes," Joan admitted. "Tell me more."

Karen needed no further encouragement. It was a relief and a pleasure to talk about her big discovery to sympathetic listeners. Joan's field was sociology, Sharon was a psychologist; but both were intelligent and well-read. Karen had expected Joan would be the more responsive of the two, since her imagination was better developed, and she was right. Joan was enthralled; she kept interrupting with questions and comments. Sharon listened in silence, nibbling daintily at her vegetarian salad. However, she was unable to refrain from one professional caveat.

"I just hope you aren't going overboard on this, dear. Just remember, if you ever need to talk about it . . ."

"She means well," Joan said with a grin that bared most of her teeth. "Ignore little Ms. Freud, Karen, I'm on your side. This sounds like fun. When did you say you were leaving?"

Karen had been frowning over the check, trying to figure out how much each of them owed. Absorbed in abstruse calculations, she was slow to comprehend the implications of Joan's question. Her heart sank. Why hadn't it occurred to her that Joan, at loose ends after her defection, would want to join what she obviously thought of as a jolly kind of treasure hunt? She appreciated her friend's interest, but at this moment all she wanted was peace and privacy and a chance to work without enthusiastic interruptions.

"As soon as I finish packing," she said firmly. "I'll call you as soon as I've found a place to stay."

They had come in separate cars; Sharon took leave of the other two outside the door of the restaurant, but Joan insisted on walking Karen to her car, spouting questions as they walked. "How long are you going to be there? When do I get to read the book? Are you sure there's nothing you want me to do? How about that creepy Joe Cropsey? You want me to tell him you've gone to Antarctica?"

"Sounds like a great idea," Karen said abstractedly. "Joan, my dear old buddy, I really am in a hurry. I promise I'll call in a day or two."

"I can take a hint." Joan enveloped her in a mighty hug. "Take care of yourself, babe."

The driver of the car next to Karen's had parked so close she wondered whether she would be able to open her door wide enough to squeeze in. Cursing the thoughtlessness of others, she managed to unlock the door and open it. When the voice boomed out behind her, she started and dropped her keys.

She had recognized the voice; she had half-expected to hear it sooner or later; but she hadn't anticipated the sense of absolute, dry-mouthed
panic that seized her when she turned and saw Dorothea looming over her. Dorothea was almost six feet tall and correspondingly broad. One might have described her as fat—a number of enemies had—but the word would have been inaccurate. She was big-boned and massive; solid flesh and muscle evenly distributed from her broad shoulders to her thick legs and large feet. Bright-red lipstick and black eyeshadow gave a grotesque look of parody to her heavy features.

Karen told herself it was ridiculous to be afraid. What could Dorothea do to her, in broad daylight, with people all around? The answer was unfortunately too obvious. Dorothea's body completely filled the space between the two vehicles, and the open door behind Karen pinned her between two barriers, the one of flesh as impenetrable as the one of metal.

"You'll have to excuse me, Dorothea," she said breathlessly. "I'm in rather a hurry—"

"I want to talk to you." The other woman's eyes moved slowly over the interior of the car and then fixed on the briefcase-sized purse Karen held.

"I said I'm in a hurry." In order to slide into the driver's seat, she would have to turn her back on Dorothea. The very idea made her skin prickle.

"You have to listen to me." Dorothea's tongue crawled over her lower lip. "I don't want to do anything drastic unless you force me to."

Reason suggested she agree to anything Dorothea proposed, and wait for a chance to get away. Reason lost to rising outrage and the inability of rational people to believe other people can behave irrationally. "Damn it, Dorothea, are you threatening me? We have nothing to discuss. Get out of my way."

"Is this a private fight or can anybody join in?"

The cheerful familiar voice and the glimpse of a mop of red hair made Karen go limp with relief. Dorothea turned, slowly and clumsily in the confined space.

"Who the hell are you?" she bellowed.