Houses of Stone (30 page)

Peggy opened the front door and went out onto the landing. When
she returned Karen said snuffily, "I know, I looked too. It was stupid of me to suppose that just because I couldn't reach that window from the steps, nobody could. All the same she couldn't have managed it without hammering in a spike to stand on while she slit the screen and unlocked it."

"You think that's it? There's no spike now, just a hole."

"Had to be." Karen yawned. "The whole thing was neatly done. She came back out after she'd unlocked the door, and removed the evidence. The cat could have slid past her then, while the door was open. She might not have seen it."

"Maybe it wasn't only the racket the cat made that scared her into leaving. Visible scratches, on hands or face, would be a dead giveaway if. . ."

"If it's someone I know," Karen finished. "It could have been Dorothea Angelo. She's big and husky and unscrupulous, and she douses herself with perfume. But it could also have been someone big and husky and unscrupulous who had doused himself with perfume to pin the blame on Dorothea."

Peggy sucked in her breath. "Bill?"

"It would be so easy," Karen said. "In the dark, my sense of smell was the only sense available for purposes of identification, so long as the intruder didn't speak. Which he didn't. Would Dorothea be stupid enough to overlook that distinctive aroma?"

"She might," Peggy muttered.

"Oh, sure, she might; you can get so accustomed to a particular odor that you don't notice it yourself. But there are other suggestive points. Hammering in that spike to stand on, for instance—isn't that the sort of thing a man would think of, rather than a woman?"

"Now you're being sexist," Peggy said critically.

"True. And you are prejudiced. You don't want to suspect Bill."

"True." Peggy's smile was half hearted. "But we'll inspect him for cat scratches. Hell, we'll inspect everybody."

Soon afterward they went their separate ways, Peggy to the courthouse and Karen to the table in the living room to work on the manuscript.

Peggy paused in the doorway to remark gruffly, "I don't have to tell you to keep that window closed and locked, even if the temperature in here gets to be a hundred."

"You don't have to tell me." Karen wiped perspiration off her forehead. "It's almost as hot outside anyhow."

"Looks like rain." Peggy studied the low-hanging clouds. "A good thunderstorm would clear the air."

"Be careful driving."

"Ha! You be careful."

After a second cup of coffee and a cold shower Karen got to work, but the oppressive weather made her sleepy and she was rather too full of coffee when Peggy returned late that afternoon carrying two brown paper bags.

"Deli," she announced, unpacking cold cuts and cheese, rolls and salad. "It's too hot to cook and I don't feel like going out."

"You mean you don't want me going out and coming back to what might not be an empty house." Karen leaned against the door, arms folded. "Did you bring your jammies?"

"No use suggesting I stay the night, huh?"

Peggy stood with feet braced and arms folded. She looked like a belligerent elderly child. Touched and amused, Karen managed not to smile. "I appreciate the offer, Peggy, and I'm sure you'd be a match for Bill and Dorothea combined. But it's not necessary. She won't try this again."

"She's not registered at the motel." Peggy stowed the food in the fridge and took out a tray of ice cubes.

"How do you know? They surely wouldn't let you look at the register."

"Of course not. I told the clerk I was expecting a friend, a famous and eccentric author who gets a kick out of surprising her buddies. She's so famous she always registers under a pseudonym."

"That is the most preposterous story I've ever—"

"The clerk bought it." Peggy chuckled. "She thinks it's Alexandra Ripley."

Karen began to laugh helplessly. "Peggy, how awful of you! I've seen pictures of Ripley; if she ever finds out about this—this masquerade she'll sue you for slander."

"I'll worry about that tomorrow," Peggy said, chuckling. "I do wish
we could locate Angelo, though. It would be a load off my mind if she turned out to have an alibi."

"Why? I thought you didn't want to suspect Bill."

The amusement left Peggy's face. "Because, whatever Bill's other failings, he isn't likely to commit physical assault. For one thing, he's too smart. For another, he—now don't get mad—"

"I probably will if you say what I think you're going to say."

"Dammit, Karen, I know the signs! He may be a consummate actor, counterfeiting increasing—let's say 'affection'—so you'll admit him to your confidence; but unless I miss my guess he's becoming genuinely— let's say 'fond'—of you. Either way, he's not going to hurt you. She might."

"Whoever it was didn't hurt me," Karen pointed out. "Or try to. He or she could have hit me or choked me; he or she—English needs another pronoun!—was taller and heavier. Instead, I was pushed aside. Does that tell us anything about the burglar?"

"Not a damned thing," Peggy said gloomily. "Bill and Dorothea aren't the only candidates, you know. The entire academic community must know about the manuscript by now. Creepy Joe Cropsey certainly does. Lisa or Cameron, or some third party, might try to steal it in order to sell it to any of the above. Oh, hell, this isn't getting us anywhere. Let's drop the subject."

They went back to the living room with their drinks. "I hope you had a productive day," Peggy said. "Mine was a bummer. I couldn't find birth or death certificates for anyone in the third generation. Whoever concocted that genealogy must have had private sources."

"If it was submitted to the D.A.R. or some other such organization—"

"I don't know what kind of documentation they require. It's worth checking, I agree, but I want to cover all the local possibilities before I leave town. There's one we haven't mentioned. Gravestones. You don't happen to know where the family plot is located, I suppose?"

"The subject didn't come up," Karen said dryly.

"Raise it, then. We might even luck out and find that the parish church has records."

Karen made a face. "I'll leave that job to you. Crawling over gravestones in some weed-infested old churchyard doesn't appeal to me."

"You know not whereof you speak. It's a very soothing activity on a summer afternoon. Old cemeteries are shady and quiet. Very quiet," she added in sepulchral tones.

A rumble of thunder sounded, like a musical score from a horror film underlining the suggestion of menace. Karen laughed uneasily, and Peggy said, "Maybe we'll finally get that storm. If it's raining hard, can I spend—"

"No. Thanks." . "So how's Ismene getting along?"

"Not too well. She and Clara have had a fight. Not that Ismene used such a vulgar word, but Clara accused her of ruining her—Clara's— chances of an advantageous marriage because she—Ismene—has aroused the antagonism of their well-bred neighbors by orating about the rights of women, slaves, and other inferiors. Ismene, thus provoked, retorts that Clara won't have any problem catching a husband because she's got every quality a man wants in a wife—money, good looks, and a complete absence of brains. After she blows up she bitterly repents her unkind words and tries to apologize, but Clara walks off in a huff and gets her revenge by flirting furiously with both Edmund and the doctor, who has become a frequent caller. Edmund is brooding about some mysterious problem, which he won't explain, and which necessitates frequent absences from the house. Ismene spends more and more time in the stone house, writing gloomy poems, and . . . oh, yes, she has another encounter with the mysterious figure in black, but when she attempts to follow it she finds her path barred by a locked and bolted door, from behind which she hears sounds of agonized weeping."

"I hope you never try to write a novel," Peggy said critically. "That's about as boring and flat a narrative as I've ever heard. Don't tell me any more of the plot, I'd rather read her version. She knows how to pile on the Gothic atmosphere."

"I'm getting impatient with her," Karen admitted. "There's plenty of atmosphere and no useful information whatever. It's as if she were deliberately trying to hide from me. Why won't she let me in?"

The silence that followed was broken by another, louder roll of thunder. "That's a strange way of putting it," Peggy said. "Into what?"

The room darkened as the storm drew nearer. The wind was rising. The curtains at the side windows lifted and fell.

"Into her mind, of course," Karen said. "It's closed to me. How much of what she wrote is the 'I,' the identity, the real thoughts of a real woman? She's shut people out just as her society tried to shut her in. A house of stone can be either a refuge or a prison."

"Or a grave," Peggy said. "As it was for Antigone."

The storm broke just as they were sitting down to supper. It was a humdinger, as Peggy put it—torrential rain, lightning and thunder. After a few preliminary flickers the lights dimmed and went out, and Peggy, with loud self-congratulations, produced a pair of flashlights from the other bag she had brought. They were large, heavy torches, and Karen suspected her friend was hoping for another invasion so she could hit the burglar over the head. Nothing of the sort occurred, of course, and when the storm had passed over and the electricity had gone on again, Peggy had no excuse to linger. She wanted to make an early start; Cameron had left a message telling her she could view the merchandise any time after nine.

Stars had begun to show between banks of thinning clouds and the air felt sweet and cool. The flashlights were definitely useful, though. Karen kept hers focused on Peggy until the latter had reached her car.

For all her bravado she didn't sleep well that night. The drip of water from the sodden leaves sounded like footsteps, and just as she was drifting off, a series of spitting, piercing howls jerked her back to wakefulness. They faded as she listened; one of the combatants had thrown in the towel and fled. She hoped the winner was her unwitting defender. Peggy had wanted to reward it with a lavish spread of delicacies, but Karen had talked her out of it. She didn't want to encourage the cat to hang around. Maybe, before she left town, she could deliver a basket of cat goodies to its owners.

The break in the weather was brief. It was raining again next morning, a slow, dismal drizzle that enlarged the puddles on the sodden ground. Karen was ready and waiting when Peggy arrived. She blinked in surprise at the apparition standing on her threshold. Crimson umbrella, scarlet raincoat, snappy matching cap . . .

"Very cheerful," she said.

"I'm sprucing myself up," Peggy explained shamelessly. "Simon likes bright colors. No, I won't come in, if you're ready to go; no sense dripping all over your carpet. I'll drive, I'm parked behind you. We can lock the manuscript in my trunk."

She had it all figured out. Karen shrugged into her old raincoat, feeling very drab next to the dapper little figure in scarlet.

"Do you know where the place is?" she asked, getting into the passenger seat.

"Cameron gave me directions. Now listen good, I am going to give you a run-down on procedure. The first thing you do is practice an expression of impenetrable disdain. Like this." She curled her lip and wrinkled her nose. "Plaster it on your face and leave it there. Don't look excited or squeal in delight even if you run across a diary labeled 'Jane Jones, aka Ismene.' Since we don't know exactly what we're looking for, we'll have to go through every box. A pile of what appears to be old magazines might have other papers within. If you do find anything you want, take careful note of its location. Got that?"

"I guess so," Karen said uncertainly. "It sounds much more complicated than I'd realized."

"My dear, bidding is an art form that requires not only natural talent but years of practice." Peggy squinted through the streaming windshield. "I think we turn here. Can you read that street sign?"

Karen obliged. With a grunt of satisfaction Peggy swung right. "Two and a half miles to Old Forge Road. Watch out for the auction sign. Yes, dearie, I'm an old hand at country auctions. I used to hit one every weekend, before my house got so crammed full. I've cut back lately, but Joan and I—"

"Joan!" Karen exclaimed. "I forgot about her. She said she was coming. Suggested we all have dinner tonight."

"We'll see." Peggy was concentrating on business. "Ah, there's the sign."