Shattered Silk (17 page)

No, that wasn't fair. Cheryl had not blathered on about auras and vibes, she had better sense. It was Karen's own imagination that invested the innocent fabric with an almost palpable coating of some dark, slimy substance.

The lace was certainly dark, and as Karen inspected it she knew her first assessment had been correct. The lace was beyond repair; the staining substance had had a corrosive effect, leaving great rents in the delicate web. Into Karen's mind popped a vivid, most unwelcome picture of Mrs. Grossmuller kneeling by her husband's body, the flounce of her wedding dress trailing in a pool of his blood.

She really must get her imagination under control. It would be an effective scenario for a horror film-the abused wife putting on the dress she had worn as an unwilling bride before wreaking her vengeance on her torturer. But Mrs. Grossmuller hadn't stabbed Henry, she had poisoned him.

Karen let out a gasp of laughter. One day she might be able to tell the Mrs. Grossmuller story and find it genuinely funny. But at best it would always be black humor, for there was something sad and twisted behind the old woman's insistence-guilt or fear or frustrated anger. Like the anger she herself had felt, and was only now beginning to acknowledge?

Resolutely Karen turned her mind back to business. The lace she had removed from the petticoat was just right. It was the same width, and there was so much of it that she could remove the damaged sections and still have enough left to edge the dress.

She took the lace into the bathroom and dunked it in warm water, to soak overnight. Now all she needed to restore the dress were pearls (hers wouldn't be genuine, but the originals hadn't been either) and a silk flower to replace the limp brown specimen on the hipline. She cut off a pearl bead to serve as a sample and began a list of needed materials on a page at the back of the book. As she had already discovered from her earlier attempts at mending the old garments, ordinary cotton and polyester sewing thread was often too coarse. Shops specializing in fine fabrics carried silk thread. She ought to lay in a supply, in a variety of colors, and get needles to match. Buttons- old ones, if possible. They wouldn't be easy to find, but there must be sources for such things.

She kept glancing at the clock. At twelve-thirty she decided Cheryl wouldn't call so late. At any rate, she was now tired enough to sleep soundly. As she had hoped, the need to concentrate on a specific task had quieted her nerves.

There was nothing wrong with Alexander's nerves, but unfortunately his bladder was not as good. He wanted to go out and he would not take no for an answer. When he started to lift his leg against the bed flounce, Karen gave in. There were too many things Alexander could ruin if he chose, and unless he got his own way, he probably would choose.

She had to disassemble the tottering structure of pans in order to open the door. Alexander shot out like an arrow from a bow. The night air was still and hot, with trails of ground mist curdling among the shrubbery. A furious rattle of foliage and a feline squawl explained the dog's haste; the cat paused on top of the storage shed to address a rude remark to its pursuer. Karen saw its eyes glow eerily red. A Siamese cat. Mr. DeVoto always had Siamese.

Alexander returned the cat's compliments in his own tongue. Not until the Siamese left, melting into the darkness with only a rustle of leaves to prove it material, did Alexander go about his business. He took his own sweet time about it, probably to punish Karen for being so reluctant to let him out, and she swore at him under her breath as she shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. There was no sense in yelling at him and disturbing the neighbors; and he wouldn't pay attention anyway. She did not want to go out after him. The mist was thickening, and although there was not a breath of air stirring, the pale trails of fog seemed to sway and shift, with a motion of their own.

Alexander finally gave up-she assumed he had been backtracking the cat-and came in. Karen double-checked the locks again, and rebuilt the tower of pots. Alexander followed her from room to room whuffling irritably. He knew he was entitled to a dog biscuit but Karen held off giving it to him until after he had gone upstairs with her.

In the dream that quickly seized her she was picking her way across a landscape covered with tumbled ruins, cyclopean columns, and fallen blocks of stone. The stones were carved with reliefs; but though she examined them with an absurd and nightmarish intensity, she could not make out their meaning. At last, dim in the purple distance, she caught a glimpse of some intact structure towering high above the plain. She ran toward it. A tottering column crumpled and collapsed; the fragments struck the earth, not with a solid thud, but ringing like metal.

The dog's barking shot her out of sleep, every muscle knotted. Alexander was at the window. The scraping of his claws on the glass made her skin crawl.

Karen fumbled for the lamp. It seemed to take forever to find the switch. The dog was getting frantic. He ran to the door, clawed at it, trotted back to the window.

The cat, Karen thought. He must have heard the cat. Siamese have loud voices. Audible through closed windows, the hum of air-conditioning?

Clinging to the idea of the cat as to a lifeline, she got out of bed and went to the window.

The mist had condensed into a layer of solid fog. The roofs and chimneys of the houses on the street behind the garden were invisible; nearer shapes shone ghostly, soft gray tree trunks pearly with wet, garden chairs gleaming like silver thrones in the glow of the lights by the back door.

Something was sitting in one of the chairs.

It was on the terrace, close enough to the lights so that she should have been able to identify the shape that occupied it-filled it, rather, like a giant featherbed that had been punched and pummeled into a rough imitation of a human form. It might have been the fog that softened its outlines so that they appeared to melt into nothingness.

Alexander was still trying to bark, but he was so short of breath the sound came out in weird little squeaks. It was probably this touch of low comedy that kept Karen on her feet. The sound that came from her taut throat was a rather pathetic echo of Alexander's squeak, but she meant it for laughter, and the hands she raised hardly shook at all. She unfastened the window and threw up the sash.

The thing in the chair rose up and drifted across the yard. It was quite opaque. However, its means of locomotion were as uncanny as its general appearance, for it seemed to float, without haste, threading a path around the rose bushes and the trees until it was swallowed up by the fog.

Alexander ran to the door.

I can't open it, Karen thought.

But neither could she remain in her room without knowing what might be outside the locked door. Alexander sounded like one of his own squeaky toys, but his small size and shortness of breath did not deter him; he wasn't cowering or hiding. How could she, a member of a supposedly superior species, do less?

Karen unlocked the door, but she let Alexander go first. Not until she heard a horrible crash from the kitchen did she realize she had made a mistake. Alexander had flung himself head-long into the pile of assorted hardware, and now she would never know whether some or all of them had already fallen, producing the far-off ringing sound that had entered her dreams and had, perhaps, wakened Alexander from his.

The lights in the hall burned steadily. She took a poker from the set of fireplace tools and went out of the room.

By the time she reached the kitchen Alexander was pushing the pots around with his nose looking for something edible. He had clearly lost interest in going out. The door was locked.

She gave Alexander the treat he deserved and they went upstairs together. The dog was sound asleep within minutes, but Karen sat by the window looking out until the sounds of morning traffic began and sunrise brightened the blanket of fog muffling the garden.

KAREN
sat at the dining room table. On it lay an antique petticoat she was shortening and altering for a customer who had been visibly disconcerted when the waistband didn't begin to go around her purportedly twenty-five-inch waist. Since the petticoat was too long anyway, the solution was simple-take off the waistband and shorten the garment from the top-but the execution was not so easy, for the measurements had to be accurate and the fabric of the new waistband had to match the time-softened muslin of the original.

The scrap of material Karen held in her hand was not designed to be a new waistband. It was the wrong shape and size-roughly triangular, about three inches at the base. Nor, unless her recently acquired knowledge of fabrics misled her, was it old. A polyester-and-cotton blend, brand new and unstained except for a smear of rust from the nail on which it had been caught. It might have been torn from a bed sheet.

Karen had found it that morning, hanging from a nail on the back fence. It was the only visible evidence that someone had been in the yard the night before. As Tony had pointed out, the garden was too neatly tended to take footprints.

Pat and Ruth had a part-time gardener who came several times a week. Apparently his working hours coincided with Karen's, for she had never set eyes on him. Perhaps the gardener would know if there was any sign of disturbance, but it was hardly worthwhile trying to locate him. She had no intention of telling anyone of the incident, including the police. They had already heard from her twice in the last two days, assuming Mr. Bates had passed on the information about Horton. It wasn't exactly a case of the boy who cried "wolf," for there had definitely been a wolf of sorts in her hallway; but she had a feeling the police would get a trifle blase about her complaints if she called them every day. Anyway, the scrap of cloth wasn't evidence-the police would probably think it had been torn from one of her laundered garments-and the story sounded worse than silly, it sounded demented. A ghost in the garden, lady? Well, you know these old Georgetown legends.

Her lips tightly set, Karen put the scrap in an envelope and laid it aside. There was no doubt in her mind that the affair had been designed for one purpose only- to frighten her. After trying the door and discovering he could not get in, the unknown had roused Alexander- perhaps he had thrown gravel at the window-and lingered until the light in her bedroom went on, so that she would be sure to see him. The fog had been a helpful but not essential adjunct to his performance; and the weather forecast would have informed him that some such meteorological phenomenon could be expected that night.

Instead of reducing her to a state of quivering terror, the incident had had precisely the opposite effect. She was getting tired of people trying to intimidate her; and a clumsy, childish trick like that one added insult to injury.

Rob was late to work. She had to unlock the shop herself. Damn him, she thought, surveying the unemptied ashtray on the front desk and the tumbled folders scattered across the table. It wouldn't have taken him five minutes to tidy up. She straightened the folders, observing that a scant half dozen of the Georgetown book remained. It had been selling like hot cakes, all right; Julie's cynical assessment had been accurate. Maybe I'd better have another look at it, Karen thought. Maybe I can find a nasty scandal about someone else I know. Not mentioning any names… Wouldn't it be funny if Shreve were anxious to retrieve Granny's things because somewhere in the lot was evidence of an antique misdemeanor Granny had committed?

Rob finally sauntered in, magnificent in designer jeans and shirt, his hair newly styled. "Like it? There's the dearest little person in a new place on M Street; he could do wonders for you, duckie, you ought to give him a try."

He then retreated to the office and his paperback. Karen watched him go, lean hips swaying, muscles rippling, hair gleaming, and smiled ruefully as a familiar sensation rippled through some of her own muscles. No wonder women found Rob so devastating. He must work like a fiend to keep that body looking the way it did. Too bad he had such a feeble little mind to go with it.

During the next lull in business she opened her notebook, which she had decided to carry with her-as if it were a magic talisman promising success, or as if some variety of osmosis would magically transfer onto its blank pages the information she needed to put there. Lists, she thought. Why is it I can't make lists? Some people love to make them. Sometimes they even get around to doing the things on the lists.

She had accomplished one thing that morning; she had called one of the lawyers on the list Mr. Bates had given her, and she had an appointment for the following day. But her brief sense of accomplishment faded when she began listing her other chores. They weren't small chores, quickly done. Find a suitable building; see what work needs to be done; call contractors, plumbers, electricians; apply for a permit-permits, rather-heaven only knew how many she would need and for what…

Karen groaned and dropped her head into her hands. That was just the beginning. She ought to be attending auctions and flea markets and yard sales. Visiting museums. Reading her reference books. Washing, mending, finding sewing supplies.

And dealing with the most basic question of all: What was she going to use for money?

The solution slipped into her mind so smoothly and gently that she knew it must have been there all along. What she needed was a partner. Any business enterprise-including marriage, she told herself wryly-requires two people if it is to succeed. Two bodies, since one person can't be in two places at the same time; two pairs of hands to lighten burdens and carry twice the number of loads.

Cheryl's talents complemented her own. Cheryl had, or would soon have, the business training she lacked. Cheryl didn't wince when the word "computer" was mentioned. She was fascinated by the old garments, good with a needle, intelligent. She was easy to get along with. She had a sense of humor. (After dealing with Julie, Karen appreciated the importance of the last two attributes.) Cheryl had even mentioned that she had a little money saved and that eventually she hoped to invest it in her own business.

It was the perfect solution. In fact, as she remembered some of the things Cheryl had said, Karen realized that she had dropped several broad hints. So why had it taken her so long to recognize it?

She knew the answer. One word. A name.

It was high time she got the name and the complex, difficult emotions it aroused, out of her system. She could now admit that Mark also had some right to feel injured. If he could forgive and forget, she could do no less. There was no reason why they couldn't be friends. "Friendly" was the word for his behavior the other night. Strange that a word so warm and comforting when applied to one person should sound so cold when applied to another…

Men seemed to prefer the kind of life he was presently leading, without commitments, flitting from woman to woman as the King of Siam had advised, having casual extramarital flings with the wives of colleagues and associates.

There's plenty of that going on, Karen reminded herself with a sour smile. Men weren't the only ones who had no qualms about the Seventh Commandment.

She decided she would talk to Cheryl that evening. Of course she might be mistaken; Cheryl might not be interested. But even the possibility lifted Karen's spirits. She gathered up her despised lists with new determination and carried them back to the office, ordering Rob to man the shop.

She was at Julie's desk scribbling busily when she heard the doorbells tinkle, and Rob's saccharine coo, which he reserved for old customers. "Darling, how divine to see you. I do hope you want to buy lots and lots of expensive goodies."

Rob had a lot in common with anchovies-either you adored him or he made you slightly nauseous. Karen decided she had better go out and see which category the customer belonged to.

Judging by her expression, she belonged to the second category. Her frown smoothed out when she saw Karen, and then Karen recognized her. The old school ties were strengthening; it was Miriam Montgomery, who had been with Shreve on an earlier visit to the shop, and who had snubbed her almost as thoroughly as Shreve. Though she wore a well-cut linen dress, she didn't have Shreve's style; the garment hung from her slumped shoulders like any cheap copy from a department-store rack. Her flat, rather doughy features showed the same combination of expensive equipment improperly employed; her mascara was too dark for her pale-blue eyes and her lipstick was smeared.

She returned Karen's cautious greeting and then gave Rob a casual, dismissive glance as definitive as a royal "We give you leave to go." Rob winked at Karen and discreetly faded away.

"How can you stand working with that man?" Miriam asked. Her voice was high-pitched and rather whiny. "He's such a poseur."

"Oh, Rob's not so bad," Karen said, knowing full well that the office door had been left open a crack. "Are you looking for something in particular, Miriam, or would you rather browse in peace?"

"I came to talk to you." Miriam frowned at an almost invisible spot on her white handbag. "I hope you don't think I was rude the other day."

"Why, no."

"I'm afraid I was. I didn't mean to be. It's Shreve's fault. Of course she's an old friend and I'm terribly fond of her, but she is awfully bossy. And tactless. You'd think that after all these years in Washington she would have learned a little discretion. But no, she just charges straight ahead like a bull in a china shop, without realizing that she antagonizes people."

Nothing like an old friend who is terribly fond of you to cut you down, Karen thought. Aloud she said carefully, "Shreve always had a-a strong personality."

"Anyway, I thought I ought to explain why I behaved so rudely."

"You weren't rude. Don't give it another thought."

"I don't like people to think badly of me," Miriam murmured.

Karen reassured her again. Miriam seemed to require a lot of reassurance. Who would have supposed that a woman so richly endowed with worldly goods could be so insecure? According to Julie, Mr. Montgomery was one of the wealthiest men in the Southeast.

"I'm so glad you understand," Miriam said. "Now I hope you can help me. I'm thinking of giving a little party next month. Everyone seems to be into nostalgia these days-though I can't imagine why…"

Her voice trailed off indecisively.

"The good old days," Karen said.

"What was so good about them? I wouldn't want to live my high school years over-would you?"

"No," Karen said, with an involuntary grimace. "I guess not. So you want a theme for your party, is that it?"

"How clever of you! And I suppose I'll need a dress, won't I?"

"From the seventies?" Karen asked doubtfully. She was getting used to customers who took forever to tell her what they wanted, possibly because they didn't know themselves.

"I need something really smashing. I guess the seventies aren't really 'in,' are they?"

"Not in terms of vintage clothing, no. I have a few fifties and sixties dresses, but I wouldn't call them smashing. Some of the younger girls like those styles, but they aren't old enough to be vintage or quaint."

"What do you recommend?" The spot on Miriam's handbag seemed to bother her; she picked at it with a manicured nail.

"What about the twenties? I have some gorgeous dresses from that period. And you have the right figure for them."

Miriam smoothed her flat stomach complacently. "I try to keep in shape. The twenties? Yes, that could be fun. Jazz and prohibition and-and that sort of thing."

Like bootleggers and gang wars, Karen thought. Oh well, nostalgia is in the eye of the beholder.

"I have several beautiful flapper dresses," she said. "But they aren't here; they are designer originals and very expensive."

"I assumed they would be," said Miriam.

She wanted to see the dresses and she wanted to see them right away. She was perfectly pleasant about it; her excuse for insisting on immediate service-that she lived in Middleburg and did not get into the city often- was eminently reasonable. Karen did not hesitate long. She suspected Miriam was trying to do her a favor, as a way of apologizing for her rudeness the week before. If she didn't strike while the iron was hot, Miriam might change her mind, and she would lose a sale. Besides, Rob owed her for several long lunches and early departures.

At Karen's suggestion they walked to the house. This time she remembered Alexander and managed to collar him before he could sink his teeth into Miriam's leg. Miriam did not care for Alexander. She was rude enough to refer to him as a "hideous creature," and Alexander, resenting the insult, growled and struggled to free himself as Karen bore him away.

Miriam's attitude was now much more that of customer to shopkeeper; she seated herself regally in the parlor and let Karen trot up and down stairs with the dresses. They had to be carried one at a time, for the weight of the crystal drops and beads was so great that they cast a strain on the fragile fabric. Miriam seemed pleased and a little surprised at the beauty of the gowns; she wavered for some time between two that bore the names of famous designers. Both were the standard straight chemises with slit skirts. One was covered from neckline to hem with white crystal beads, on white silk. The other had iridescent Venetian glass beads on pale-aqua crepe de chine; the slightest movement bathed the wearer in a soft shimmer, like a mermaid in the moonlight. The color was flattering to Miriam's washed-out complexion, but she seemed loath to give up the white.

Finally she shrugged. "I may as well take both. How much?"

"Don't you want to try them on?" Karen asked in surprise.

"No, there's no need. You'll pack them for me, I assume."

"Oh, I can't let you have them today," Karen exclaimed. "Some of the beads are loose, and you can see they need cleaning-"

"Oh." Miriam thought for a moment. "When will they be ready?"

"I'm not sure. I'll have to ask the cleaners how long it will take. Shall I let you know?"