Shattered Silk (29 page)

A telephone call from Jack later that evening was another salutary antidote to smugness, reminding Karen that he could not be airily dismissed with an apt metaphor. She was seething with rage when she hung up.

"Can you believe him?" she demanded of a sympathetic Cheryl. "He asked me to lunch tomorrow. He still thinks he can talk me into signing those papers."

"You turned him down, I hope."

"Naturally. It's getting dark; I'll bring in my laundry and then you can have your treat."

"Oh, goody. The cleaning."

"The cleaning. You may enjoy it, but I won't; I've got to pick out a dress for Shreve."

"You are going to sell her one, then."

"I have to. There was never any question of that. Those designer originals are my sole source of capital, Cheryl. It's only thanks to Mrs. Mac that I have them, but somehow it doesn't seem quite as bad as borrowing from Pat. Two or three more sales like the one to Miriam will bring enough money for me to contribute my half of our opening costs."

"Okay, okay. I'm on your side, remember?"

Karen bit her lip. "Sorry."

"I told you to stop apologizing. What time is she coming for the dress?"

"She isn't coming. I said I'd deliver it to her, at her house. Well, what else could I do, when she insisted?"

"Nothing," Cheryl murmured, following Karen to the door.

"She's so busy and so important," Karen went on. "And I'm just a scruffy little tradesman, after all. Lord, how I hate to hand over one of those gorgeous dresses to that…"

"Don't do it if it bugs you that much. There will be other buyers."

"I can't do that. If I begin getting sensitive about rudeness and bad manners, I'll never survive in business."

"Right."

Karen opened the back door. "I'll be right back. Put the kettle on, would you, please? We'll indulge ourselves in an extravagant cup of tea while we look at clothes we can't afford to wear ourselves."

I must stop doing that, she told herself, as she took the linens off the lines. I must have repeated every damn word Shreve said to me, twice over; Cheryl is sick of hearing it. No more bitchiness, no more sarcasm, no more self-pity. At least not tonight!

The bed in her room was stacked with boxes. Karen had determined to pretend she was as thrilled as Cheryl at the prospect of inspecting the dresses; when she lifted the lid off the first box she didn't have to pretend.

"Oh, gorgeous! He did a super job, even if he did charge an arm and a leg. Just look."

Silvery cloth glimmered under the light, the sleeveless, draped bodice molded by underlying tissue. A wide hip sash was studded with paste gems, ruby and emerald topaz surrounded by patterns of tiny jet beads. The sash ended in a two-foot fringe of the same jet beads.

"I cannot let her have that," Karen moaned, forgetting her recent resolution. "It's a Poiret original-one of his Egyptian models. That very dress is shown in one of my books."

In painful silence they replaced the lid and went on to the next box. "He said you wanted them stored flat," Cheryl said. "Not on hangers."

"That's right, you can't hang these beaded dressed without some support; it's too much of a strain on the fabric." Another groan came from Karen's lips as the lid came off to reveal a gown of black taffeta whose deep decolletage was framed by wide bands of intricately patterned crystal beads. The full skirt was looped and held in front by a glittering waterfall of beads lying in petaled festoons. "Lanvin," Karen murmured.

Cheryl snatched the lid from her and replaced it. "There are limits beyond which no woman can be expected to go," she announced firmly. "I'd just as soon cut off one of my fingers as give this up. What did the museums say, or did you have a chance to call them?"

"Museums prefer donations," Karen said. "A couple of them said they'd be in touch; the Costume Institute wants me to bring them to New York so they can have a look."

"Nuts to the Costume Institute. I don't even want the museums to have them. You know, Karen, we don't have to let all of them go. In fact, we'd be crazy to get rid of them. They could make the difference between our being just another old-clothes store and one of the top vintage clothing boutiques in the country. Which is what we're aiming to be, right?"

"Well, of course. But I don't see-"

"A collection like this is worth thousands in publicity, Karen. We can have fashion shows, and display these dresses in the shop as part of the decor; rent them, on rare occasions, to special customers-and charge the earth for the privilege-get write-ups in newspapers and magazines, maybe even TV interviews."

"Do you really think so?"

"Knowing we have things of this caliber will attract not only customers, but people who want to sell similar clothes. I'm telling you, we'd be making a big mistake to let them go."

"Do you mean it, or are you just being noble? I admit it's disgusting to see a grown woman cry over a dress, but…"

"I mean it, you dimwit. You'd have seen the possibilities yourself if you weren't so busy bending over backward to make yourself miserable."

They indulged themselves for a while, gloating over the glow of silk and satin, the rich softness of fur, the glitter of crystal and paste, and the sheer structural brilliance of the designs. The thought that they could keep the best of the beauties reconciled Karen to the approaching sale. "I'll have to offer her something good," she said finally. "Something I can really soak her for. I think I could bear to part with this one. It's Louiseboulanger, but it isn't one of my favorites."

"How about this black taffeta with the big fat silver flowers?"

"That's Cheruit," Karen mumbled. "Oh, well. I'll take these two and give her her choice. Okay, that's it. I don't know how you managed to get all this in the car," she added, surveying the piles of boxes on the bed and the floor.

"Ask how I paid for it," Cheryl said, grimacing. "I thought I'd need smelling salts when he handed me the bill. No, don't worry about that, it's a business expense; I put it in the book, broken down by item. There are a few more things in the wardrobe. They only rated the usual hangers and plastic bags. He said to tell you he couldn't get the stains out of some of them."

"But I'm sure he charged for them." Karen stripped off the cleaners' bag. "Hmmm. I was hoping this would clean."

"Another evening gown? We seem to be heavy on formal clothes."

"Evening and wedding dresses were only worn once-maybe twice-so they didn't wear out. And people were more inclined to save them." Karen laid the burgundy lace dress aside. "I may be able to cut the bad part out and take the skirt in; it's a large size. I got it from one of Mrs. Mac's less affluent friends."

"Which friend?" Cheryl reached for the ledger.

"Uh… I have it written down somewhere…"

Cheryl tactfully dropped the subject. "What's that?"

"That, my dear, is a total loss. Look at those stains; they're all over the front, bodice and skirt both. I don't know why I sent this to be cleaned, it must have gotten in by mistake."

She tossed the dress aside, and Cheryl picked it up. "I could try that new cleaning stuff."

"It's not worth the effort. The fabric is a synthetic. It's practically impossible to get set-in stains like rust out of polyester-cotton."

"The label says Saks."

"But it's not a designer dress; it isn't even very old. Just throw it in the wastebasket."

"I don't suppose I should ask where you got it."

"No, please don't. I seem to remember it was in a box with a lot of other things, all crumpled and rolled up. So we aren't out much except for the cleaning. I didn't pay much for any of the box lots. Oh, damn, here's another failure. The silk did disintegrate."

"Shattered," Cheryl said.

"Yes. He warned me it might, I'll say that for him." Karen threw the bodice aside. "This one… Yes, the lining shattered. But the velvet is in good shape. We can make another lining."

They finished looking through the rest of the things and Karen set two of the big white boxes aside. "These are the ones I sold Miriam. I ought to call her and tell her they are ready. She's been very patient, not like… Perhaps I should call her now."

"She's probably out on the town tonight. Isn't there some big gala at the Kennedy Center?"

"I don't know. I fear my invitation was misplaced in the post."

"Mine too. But there is, and she'll be there, because her husband contributed a million or two to the President's re-election campaign." Cheryl turned on the television set. "Maybe it will be on the news. I want to catch the weather report anyhow."

It was a slow news night. Even the pandas seemed to have lost interest. Cheryl got bored and went downstairs to make herself a sandwich. Alexander went with her. They missed the coverage of the gala, but Karen was rewarded by a glimpse of Miriam, standing in the background as the President waved and beamed.

Karen braced herself to hear some reference to Rob's murder. She had gone out of her way to avoid newspaper and television reports of the case; hearing it discussed in the impersonal and yet ghoulish style characteristic of the media would have brought the horror of it closer to home. However, new crimes had taken precedence. Day-old news was stale news, and apparently there were no new developments in the case.

Cheryl came back with Alexander in hot pursuit. "He's been out," she told Karen. "And he's had his biscuit. And all the doors are locked and double-locked."

"Fair and pleasant again tomorrow," Karen reported. "You missed Miriam."

"Oh, was she on?"

"Only a fleeting glance. She looked bored to death. Shall I turn it off?"

"Okay by me. Dammit, Alexander, give me a break. You had your treat, this is my sandwich."

Karen was a moment too late or just in time, depending on one's viewpoint. As she reached for the knob, the screen showed the interior of the terminal at National Airport and the announcer began interviewing the head of a group that was attending a fund-raiser in Atlanta. Cheryl leaned forward with a squeal of surprise. "Hey, there's Mark, right behind the speaker. Doesn't he look…"

He looked as if he wished he were somewhere else. It took him a moment to realize that the cameras were aimed in his direction and only another moment for him to get out of their reach. The movement was swift and smooth but not quite fast enough. Shreve had not been indiscreet enough to cling to him in public, but she was standing so close and watching him so narrowly that she might as well have been holding his arm.

MONDAY
lived up to the forecast. They had breakfast on the terrace and lingered over a second cup of coffee, while Cheryl described the yard sales she had investigated the previous day.

"They all sound marvelous," she said, with the worldly-wise voice of experience. "But they usually aren't. You have to learn to read between the lines, and plan your route so you can cover as many as possible."

"We'll try again next week. If we split up, we could cover more of them."

"But it wouldn't be as much fun. Half the pleasure is making rude remarks about the tacky merchandise."

"I'd like to go to a few, just for the sake of curiosity. I've never been to a yard sale."

"Boy, have you led a sheltered life. It's fun if you don't have anything better to do. But the chance of coming across anything in our line is practically nonexistent these days."

There was a certain feeling of constraint in their camaraderie that morning. Neither had referred to the news broadcast. Cheryl had tried-"I was surprised to see how large that delegation-"

Karen had not let her finish the sentence. "That wasn't a delegation, that was a typical Washington boondoggle, complete with sisters, cousins, and aunts. Do you want orange juice or grapefruit?"

Cheryl had selected grapefruit, her lips pursed as if she were already tasting the fruit, without sugar. As Karen prepared it, she tried not to think about Mark, but did not succeed. She also tried to believe she was angry with herself and not with him. How fatuous and naive she had been to hope his preoccupation the other evening had been with her affairs and her safety. He had probably been looking forward to his weekend-thinking of Shreve, anticipating their time together…

The knife slipped, slicing into her thumb, and she reached for a paper towel to stanch the bleeding. Like all good cooks, Ruth kept her knives razor-sharp. It was my own fault, Karen told herself; I went at that grapefruit as if it were… She managed to cut that thought off, and concentrated on what she was doing.

By the time they reached the realtor's office, Karen had-she believed-forgotten her ill humor and the event that had caused it. The shop had possibilities; they added it to their list.

They also investigated a few antique shops-a good many were closed on Monday-but came away empty-handed.

"Honestly, the prices people want for their junk," Cheryl grumbled.

"Junk to you and me, bargains to some," Karen said philosophically. "I suppose it all depends on what you're looking for. Our requirements are a bit esoteric."

"Yeah, that's right. Let's head out into the country. Maybe we'll find some innocent little old lady who is cleaning out her attic and hasn't heard the word 'antiques.'"

They did not, however, and they soon became surfeited with costume jewelry, empty Avon bottles, and oak furniture. Finding a roadside market, they stocked up on tomatoes and melons, corn and peaches, and headed homeward.

It made Cheryl's day when they arrived to find they had missed Mrs. Grossmuller. They didn't need Mr. DeVoto to tell them she had been there, for she had left a bulging shopping bag on the doorstep. A note fluttered coyly from the string handle. "I will come next week to pick up the money."

"It's nice that she trusts us," Karen said, as Cheryl glared at the stained, crumpled mass of fabric protruding from the top of the bag.

When they took the bag in and inspected the contents, the filthy object on top turned out to be a cutwork tablecloth, with its matching napkins wadded up beneath. In addition, there were three pairs of ladies' gloves, a calico apron, and a 1920s bathing suit of black wool full of moth holes.

"We've got to make her stop doing this," Cheryl declared grim-faced, while Karen laughed over the bathing suit.

"How? We can't complain to the police; she isn't doing anything illegal. You're right, though," Karen said, sobering. "I certainly don't want her turning up on the doorstep with her dirty clothes after Ruth gets back. Can you see poor Ruth's face? Not to mention Pat's…It would almost be worth it to hear Pat explode. We'll tell Mrs. Grossmuller we're moving right away."

"But don't tell her where," Cheryl pleaded.

"If I don't, she'll come back here. Besides, I don't want to lose a source. We can use the tablecloth and napkins, and maybe the apron. She may have other things."

"I'm going to throw the whole lot in the washing machine," Cheryl announced, picking up the bag with the tips of her fingers. "Even the things we don't want. We can't leave them in this condition; the whole house will be infected. I keep feeling as if fleas are hopping on me."

"Don't put the bathing suit in with the tablecloth."

"Please! I know better than that."

Karen felt sure Cheryl's fears were exaggerated; she hadn't seen any sign of fleas or other vermin. The moths that had devoured the bathing suit had been dead and dust for decades.

Alexander displayed an inordinate amount of interest in the clothes; Cheryl had to fight him off while she loaded the washing machine. Perhaps he scented his beloved Mrs. Grossmuller. Karen had never seen him react to anyone with such doting admiration. That said something about Mrs. Grossmuller, or Alexander-or both- but she wasn't sure she wanted to know what.

Cheryl's temper improved after she had put everything in the machine, or-in the case of the bathing suit- in the basin they used for hand-washing. Wiping her wet hands, she watched Karen unload the vegetables and fruit they had bought.

"What's for supper? Those tomatoes look nice; we could have a salad."

"I'm going out for dinner," Karen said.

"Heavy date?"

"I guess I forgot to tell you."

"No reason why you should. Did you pick up a new boyfriend, or is it Tony?"

Her tone made it sound like "good old Tony." When Karen said yes, it was Tony, she smiled placidly. "I hope he makes it this time. Poor boy, he needs some amusement."

"So I'm to be the good-conduct prize?"

"Hey, Karen, don't start that again."

"I won't. I think he deserves something too, and I'm fully prepared to deliver. Not only is he incredibly good-looking, he's nice and kind and considerate and sensitive and intelligent-"

"You really like him, huh?"

"One might reasonably draw that conclusion from what I just said."

"Good." Cheryl picked up a tomato and examined it with the concentration a scientist might devote to a specimen. "Sometimes I could kill that brother of mine."

"Now don't you start, Cheryl."

"Honest, Karen, he hasn't seen that woman for over a year. She's trying to make it look like more than it was, to hurt you. She always was the one who was chasing him, not the other way around." The words bubbled out as if she had held a cap on them too long, and they could no longer be repressed. "He never talks about people- women-not to me-but I told him all the nasty things she did to you, coming here and insulting you and all that, and I could tell he didn't-"

"I would appreciate it if you would stop trying to arrange my emotional life for me," Karen said between her teeth. "I could make a few pertinent comments about your hang-ups too, if I chose."

This time Cheryl's temper did not spark when rubbed the wrong way. She lowered her head, her mouth drooping. "I know. I've heard them."

"From Mark."

"Among others. I didn't mind so much from Mark. He knew Joe, they were buddies."

"And I'm sure he pointed out that Joe wouldn't want you to cut yourself off from love the rest of your life. What kind of tribute is that to him or to your marriage? Oh, all right, I'll shut up. You let me settle my own affairs and I'll let you sit there and-petrify."

Fortunately the telephone rang, or another quarrel might have developed. At first Karen could not identify the caller.

"Miss Everley? I don't believe… Oh, at Mrs. MacDougal's. Yes, of course; I thought your voice was familiar. Oh, you do? Worth? Yes, I'm very interested. No, I'm afraid I can't tomorrow afternoon. Would Wednesday… I see. Yes, Cannes should be delightful at this time of year. Just a minute…"

Cheryl's head had snapped up like that of a hunting hound at the sound of the name Worth. She began making frantic gestures.

"I can go tomorrow," she said, while Karen covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "Where does she live?"

"Clear out on the Eastern Shore. She's going abroad on Wednesday and she wants to get these things out of the way first."

"Let me talk to her." Cheryl reached for the phone.

She was beaming broadly when she hung up. "Sounds like a hot lead."

"Cheryl, are you sure? Maybe I could put Shreve off."

"You have to trust me sometime. I've got a pretty good idea of what to pay for things."

"It isn't that. But it's a long drive, and didn't you say you had to study for your finals?"

"I'll study tonight. We can't pass up a potential source-you're the one who keeps telling me that. And the old lady doesn't sound as if she would last much longer."

"All Mrs. Mac's friends sound like that."

"So we better strike while the iron is hot. What time are you going out tonight?"

"He said he'd pick me up at seven-thirty."

Karen dressed with care, pleased by the fact that the gradual decrease in her girth had produced a corresponding increase in her wardrobe. She was no longer self-conscious about wearing her vintage clothes. They were a good deal more stylish and far better made than anything else she owned.

From one of Mrs. MacDougal's sources-not old Mrs. Ferris-she had acquired a dress she was longing to wear. It had been just a trifle too tight when she sent it to the cleaner-a pale-yellow linen A-line from the late fifties, simply and flatteringly cut, with a subtly generous flare at the hips. It was no designer model, but it had a label from Debenham and Freebody, one of the better London stores. Karen was pleased to find that the dress went on without a wrinkle. The clear, bright shade was becoming to her dark hair and her new tan. Tony wouldn't be ashamed to be seen in public with her, at any rate. Good old Tony… He did deserve something better than the condescending affection that was all Cheryl had to give. Fond as she was of Cheryl, there were times when Karen could have shaken her partner, and this was one of them.

She was thoroughly out of temper with both brother and sister. Good old Tony and good old Karen could get along very well without them.

"MY
God, you're ready," Tony said. "I thought I'd have to sit in the parlor for half an hour with my toes turned out, making polite conversation with Cheryl and the dog."

"Don't tell me the ladies you date these days live with parents who put you through that old routine."

"No, I was just trying to be funny." He opened the car door for her and then turned to make a rude gesture at Cheryl, who was waving at them from the doorway and beaming in a way that made Karen want to repeat Tony's gesture more emphatically.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it earlier," he went on apologetically.

"For heaven's sake, don't be so humble. You're out there laying your life on the line for us defenseless citizens every day; the least we can do is accommodate ourselves to your schedules."

"I'm glad you feel that way about it. Not all my- I mean, not all women do."

From his expression Karen suspected he was thinking of one woman in particular. A present lover or a former lover? Cheryl? She couldn't help saying "It needn't be selfish vanity that causes that attitude, Tony. What you do is unpleasant and dangerous. I can understand how a woman might find that fear too hard to live with."

"I won't be doing it all my life. I'm not one of your dedicated TV cops; my big ambition in life is to become a small-town sheriff, where my biggest problems are Saturday-night drunks and harvesting the yearly marijuana crop out of the cornfields."

The discussion had taken a more serious turn than Karen expected or was ready for. Tony didn't seem to expect an answer. He changed the subject. They made casual conversation until he pulled into a vacant space at the curb. "This is about as close as I can get," he said lightly. "Do you mind walking a couple of blocks?"

"No, of course not. It's a lovely evening."

"Actually, I could have found a parking lot nearer the place," Tony admitted. "But this way I get a chance to show you off. That is one pretty dress."

Karen was pleasantly conscious of the way people looked at them. We're a handsome couple, she thought, amused at the cliche. At least Tony is; he's handsome enough for two.

The restaurant was small and quiet, with a country decor. The headwaiter greeted Tony by name. "I hope you're impressed," he said, after they had been seated. "This is the only place in town where they know my name."

"I doubt that."

"I meant in a social capacity."

He smiled as he spoke, but Karen was sorry she had reminded him of that other capacity. Yet the subject was bound to come up, sooner or later; she decided it would be better to face it and get it over with.

"There's something I feel I ought to tell you, Tony. I hate to talk about it, and I hate even more to spoil your evening off-"

Tony's smiled broadened, and he reached for her hand. "That's one of the things I like about you, lady. You don't back away from unpleasantness."

"Little do you know," Karen said wryly. "But I'm trying."

The warm, firm clasp of his hand on hers made it easier for her to repeat what she had learned from Julie, and to mention some of the ideas the information had suggested to her.

"Interesting," he said, when she had finished. "Like you, I feel as if I ought to have known. I guess I never gave much thought to that stupid little book."

"I gather you've read it."

"Parts of it. Mark has a copy; I think he got it from Mrs. MacDougal. The blackmail angle is certainly an idea."

"You're just being polite," Karen said, laughing. "You don't really believe it."

"It's too complicated for my simple cop's brain- more in Mark's line; he loves unlikely theories. I wonder if that's what he was referring to…He left a cryptic message for me-something about old and new murders. I called him back, but there was no answer. Guess he'd already left town."