Shattered Silk (24 page)

"Well, we have to find out about those things. Most of the other merchants I've talked to have been nice and helpful."

The realtor was nice but not very helpful. As they had suspected, rentals in the center of town were beyond their means, and the few properties she had listed in outlying areas had other disadvantages. They left the office with a handful of Xeroxed papers to add to the other listings they had collected.

"I've had it," Karen announced, as they got back into the car. "Let's quit for the day."

"What do you say we go home by back roads? We can avoid some of the highway traffic and scout out the area."

"You're driving." Karen settled back. "Lord, it's hot. Turn that air-conditioning up, will you?"

The countryside steamed under a hazy sun. From the cool comfort of the car it looked very attractive, the lush greenery of trees and pasture forming a perfect setting for the white-pillared and soft red brick facades of handsome old houses. Cheryl drove easily and competently, undisturbed by the slow-moving farm vehicles that sometimes slowed their pace to a crawl. Fields of ripe hay glowed like golden tapestries; the corn was tassled and breast-high, and beyond white-painted fences horses grazed in the green meadows, their coats of black and russet shining in the sunlight.

"What a way to live," Cheryl said, glancing at a mansion high on a knoll beside the road.

"If you don't mind living with security guards and Dobermans," Karen said, indicating the closed gates and the two fierce dogs behind them.

Cheryl flicked on the turn signal. "I'm going to pull into the next driveway and let that Cadillac pass. It's been driving up my tailpipe for the last couple of miles, and I don't want to take any chances with your uncle's car."

As she suited the action to the words, the following car suddenly picked up speed and shot past, narrowly missing their rear bumper. Cheryl swore, and Karen exclaimed, "That looked like Miriam Montgomery."

"That friend of yours who bought the flapper dresses? She's a lousy driver."

"She's also no friend of mine. Just an acquaintance and, I hope, a good customer. She said she lived in Middleburg."

"Then I won't tell her she's a lousy driver. I'm going to turn and go back to the main road. I don't have the faintest idea where we are."

THEY
got home in the late afternoon, after stopping at the cleaner's.

"Let's not entertain this evening," Cheryl said, as Karen opened the gate. "We really do have lots to do."

"I had planned to invite the President for drinks, but since you insist…"

"Karen-Mrs. Nevitt!"

Karen turned to see the next-door neighbor in his doorway. He came trotting fussily toward them, the sun glaring on his bald head and winking off his glasses.

"Hello, Mr. DeVoto." Karen introduced Cheryl, adding, "Mrs. Reichardt is staying with me."

"Ah, I see. I am glad to know that. I had wondered who she might be." He turned his bespectacled gaze on Cheryl and explained seriously, "We watch out for one another here, Mrs. Reichardt. We are concerned citizens. In times such as these-the old values crumbling-crime rampant-moral and ethical standards deteriorating-and a young lady alone… You follow me, I am sure. I was only too happy to assure her aunt and uncle I would keep my eyes open."

Remembering Pat's reference to his neighbor as a fussy, prurient old fuss-budget, Karen was hard-pressed not to laugh.

"It's very kind of you," she said. "How is Mrs. DeVoto?"

"Keeping her spirits up, as always." He turned again to Cheryl. "My wife is bedridden, I am sorry to say. But always cheerful, always interested in the world around her. As a matter of fact, it is she whom you must thank for observing the incident I am about to relate to you. She insisted I tell you about it as soon as you returned home. She takes a great interest in young people. Karen is a particular favorite of hers."

Since Karen had seen Mrs. DeVoto twice in the past ten years, she took the statement with a grain of salt, but offered the apology that was obviously demanded. "I've been meaning to call on her, but I have been awfully busy. I work, you know."

"What incident?" Cheryl asked.

"A very peculiar-looking person came to your house today. Mrs. DeVoto happened to be at the front window. She is a keen student of human nature and enjoys watching people pass along the street…"

Mr. DeVoto was finally persuaded to come to the point. The very peculiar person had been a woman-"an elderly female, shabbily dressed; one of the sort they call street people, I believe, for she carried a number of parcels."

After knocking several times she had tried the front door, banging on it and rattling the knob. She had then gone to the back and banged on that door. When Mr. DeVoto spoke to her from his garden-"my wife had called me to the window, and of course I felt obliged to see what the woman was doing"-she had said something rude and gone away.

"Perhaps I should have called the police," he finished. "But since I am not acquainted with all your friends…"

"I'm glad you didn't," Karen said. "I think I know who it was. She's perfectly harmless, but a trifle eccentric. We mustn't keep you standing out in the heat, Mr. DeVoto. I do appreciate your concern."

Mr. DeVoto was not that easy to dismiss, but after it had become apparent that he had learned all he was going to learn, he retreated into his house to pass the information on to his wife.

"That's a relief," Karen said, closing the door behind them. "I was afraid he was going to lecture me about hanging laundry all over the garden."

"I am not relieved," Cheryl announced. "Hi, Alexander, did you miss us? I don't like the idea of that crazy old lady hanging around here."

"What's the harm? She can't get in. Mr. DeVoto and his wife are terrible busybodies, but I suppose they don't have much else to do, poor things. Oh, all right, Alexander, it's early, but I guess you may as well have your supper, you'll go on bugging me until you get it. I can hardly wait to get into the shower!"

"Go ahead, I'll feed Alexander."

When Cheryl came upstairs Karen was in her room, hair dryer in hand. "What are you doing?" Cheryl asked. Instead of applying the dryer to her damp hair, Karen passed it carefully over a dress spread across the bed.

"Killing mildew. This is satin, it can't be washed; according to that book, the mold can be dried, and then brushed or vacuumed off."

"New book?" Cheryl picked it up and began leafing through the pages.

"I sent away for it. It came in the mail today."

"Hmm. Well, I know you're the intellectual half of the partnership, but I think this stuff is a waste of time. These people are so pompous! Listen to this: 'Historical costumes should never be worn for any occasion.' If we followed that rule we'd never sell anything."

"Most of the books are written for museum curators and conservators," Karen said. "But you know…" Absently she turned the dryer onto her head and reached for a brush. "I understand how they feel. It's true that the great majority of the clothes we'll be handling won't be unique or museum quality, but when I think of those dresses of Mrs. Mac's I get a pang of conscience. They're real works of art, one of a kind. And I'm selling them to rich idiots with no appreciation of their beauty who will ruin them in one wearing and throw them away."

"If it were my dress, I'd want someone to wear it- and look pretty, and have fun in it," Cheryl said. "I wouldn't want it to be stuck up in a case in some museum."

"That's because you are a hopeless romantic," Karen said, smiling. "My romantic side agrees with you. I wouldn't mind so much if they were going to someone who appreciated them. Miriam doesn't care about anything except how much they cost."

"If you really feel that bad about it-"

"Don't suggest we keep them. We simply can't afford to. Maybe someday, when we're rich and successful, I can start collecting for myself. But right now we need every cent we can get our hands on."

"I was going to say, before I was so rudely interrupted, that maybe we could sell them to collectors. Like museums, for instance."

Karen stopped brushing; her hair stood up in a wild halo, like Frankenstein's bride. "I don't know why I didn't think of that. We could try, at any rate. The Costume Institute in New York has a terrific collection of designer dresses."

"There's a list of museums in one of your books. I'll copy it and we can write letters, or call."

"You're sensational." Karen beamed at her.

"Oh, hey, that's my job, being sensational. I'm also great at making lists, which is what I'm going to do now. I wanted to finish listing the merchandise we have."

She went into the other room, but came back after only a few minutes. "Karen?"

"I don't think this is working," Karen muttered, moving the dryer slowly back and forth over the dress. "Maybe it takes longer… What?"

"Did you move any of the clothes in your aunt's wardrobe just now?"

"No, I haven't even been in that room. What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure anything is wrong. But I could swear things have been moved. The blue peignoir was on the end last night. Now it's not."

Karen followed her into the bedroom. "I can't see anything different," she said, after a brief inspection.

"Maybe I'm imagining things."

"It's the baneful influence of Mrs. Grossmuller," Karen said with a laugh. "She couldn't have gotten into the house, Cheryl."

"I guess not."

"Is anything missing?"

"How would I know? That's why I want to finish that inventory. We can't even get insurance without it. Come and give me a hand when you've finished fooling around with your moldy satin."

Karen didn't resent her brusque tone; she could tell Cheryl was still brooding about Mrs. Grossmuller. Really, Cheryl seemed to be developing a complex about the old woman. To Karen, Mrs. Grossmuller was more pathetic than frightening and more pitiful than funny. Perhaps it was because she could understand better than Cheryl the years of desperation that had driven Mrs. Grossmuller over the edge. If she had gone on living with Jack, resenting every move he made and every word he said, would she have ended up, forty years from now, with a similar idee fixe? Not the same delusion necessarily, but one that reflected the same long-suppressed anger and indignation? Mrs. Grossmuller probably hadn't killed Henry; but oh, how often she must have wanted to!

At least divorce was a more acceptable option today. Not for Mrs. Grossmuller; in her time, decent middle-class women didn't get divorced. Socially it was more acceptable to murder an infuriating spouse-assuming you got away with it-than to leave him. Easier for me, Karen thought absently. All I had to do was get fat and sloppy…

Her mouth dropped open as the truth dawned- the answer to a question the psychologist had asked weeks ago.
That
was why she had let herself go. She didn't have the guts to come right out and tell Jack she wanted to leave him; she didn't even have the courage to admit it to herself. So she had pushed him into taking the fatal step, by turning herself into a careless, unattractive frump.

Was she succumbing to the weakness Cheryl had accused her of, blaming herself for everything that happened to her? No; there was a difference between feeling guilty and accepting responsibility. She had been silly and cowardly, but that didn't absolve Jack of his share of blame.

The telephone rang, interrupting her train of thought. She was not sorry to have it halted; her new insight would have to be considered and absorbed before she could really accept it.

The call did nothing to calm her. When she joined Cheryl a short time later, it was Cheryl's turn to ask, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Karen forced a smile. "That was Shreve."

"Oh. What did she want?"

"That's a good question. She was so busy dropping little hints and innuendoes I couldn't figure out what the hell she was driving at. Finally I just said, 'Do you want to buy something or don't you?' and she admitted she did."

"Good, another big sale," Cheryl said. She replaced a white nightgown and took out another garment. "Where did you get this?"

Karen frowned. "It's one of Ruth's, I think. Yes, it's her size."

"Blue wool suit, size 6, Garfinckel's label," Cheryl muttered, writing. "Which of the dresses are you going to sell that-Mrs. Givens?"

"I don't know. She'll want one of Mrs. Mac's gowns, I suppose. Keeping up with the Joneses-or, in this case, her dear friend Miriam. But I'm not going to let her have anything until I'm certain the museums aren't interested."

"Makes sense," Cheryl murmured, her head bent over the ledger.

It was easy to tell when Cheryl was embarrassed or uncomfortable. Karen knew why her face was averted, her comments brief and stiff. Karen didn't regret the way she had answered back when Shreve deliberately baited her in front of other people, but talking about her behind her back was a form of spitefulness she was determined to avoid. She didn't want Cheryl to get the wrong idea about her reasons for disliking Shreve.

She went on, in a voice she attempted to keep cool and detached, "I told her my best dresses were at the cleaners'. It's true, actually."

"Yes. I forgot to tell you, he didn't have the other things ready. Try again tomorrow, he said. But he wasn't very apologetic; acted like he was doing us a favor by working on them."

"By his lights he is. He's the 'in' cleaner for the smart set. I don't intend to use him except for really good clothes, but I don't want to take a chance on some incompetent ruining a valuable item."

"Is this one of your aunt's?" Cheryl held up a pink crepe afternoon dress. She was determined to stick to business, and Karen was content to go along with her. She didn't want to talk about Shreve, or think about her, any more than she had to.

"Yes. I think that finishes Ruth's things. Now this one-"

They worked steadily for several hours, stopping only long enough to snatch a hasty meal. They made good progress, although the telephone seemed to ring incessantly-first Mark, inquiring whether they had been burglarized lately and wanting to know what Cheryl had done with his black socks; then a realtor from Gaithersburg, with a new listing she wanted to show them; then Julie, tearful and reproachful and apologetic. They were in the kitchen looking over the list of properties they had inspected thus far when Julie's call came; and when Cheryl realized who was calling she didn't pretend not to listen. Karen had barely hung up when she burst out, "Honest, Karen, you haven't got the gumption of a rabbit. After all that woman did to you, and now you tell her you'll go back to work!"