Shattered Silk

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE only one who had a good night was Alexander. He managed to bite not one but both policemen. Cheryl and Karen didn't get to bed until after four. Karen expected she would lie awake, but she was so exhausted she was asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

Cheryl claimed she had slept too, but there were purple shadows under her eyes and lines around her mouth next morning. It was almost eleven before they sat down to breakfast, a meal in name only, for neither of them ate.

"Looks like rain," Cheryl said, breaking a long silence.

Karen said, "Uh-huh."

"Am I still in the doghouse?"

"What?"

"I've been thinking about what you said last night."

"I said a lot of things last night." Karen sipped her coffee, hoping a healthy dose of caffeine would clear her head. "I suppose I should apologize, but I'm not going to. I guess I owe you one," she added, with a futile attempt at a smile. "Five minutes of criticism, at your convenience."

Cheryl did not return her smile. "I'm tempted to take you up on it. You're so smart about most things and so incredibly dumb about others."

"Let's not fight now," Karen said. "I'm too tired."

"Okay."

"Cheryl."

"What?"

"I want you to move out. Go back to Mark's."

"I figured you were going to say that. Did you figure out what I'd say back?"

"I figured, yes. And I also figured what I'd say after you said what you said."

"Don't bother. Look at it this way, Karen-would you walk out on me if the situation were the other way around?"

"I certainly would."

"You're a damned liar."

Karen's lips quivered. She wasn't sure whether she was going to laugh or cry until laughter finally won out. "You're hopeless. Maybe I can hire someone to kidnap you."

"That's the only way you'll get me out of here." Cheryl's smile was almost back to normal. "They'll catch the guy, Karen. They're bound to. Tony said someone would be watching the house every night from now on. And if I know Tony, he'll be sticking pretty close too. Not to mention my only brother. I wonder what he's going to say about the latest developments. Looks as if his far-out theory was right after all."

"What theory? He never said what it was, just sat there poking holes in Tony's theories." Karen's jaw set. "If he gloats-if he says one word that can be interpreted as rubbing it in-I'll kill him. Tony feels rotten enough without that."

"Yeah." Cheryl didn't enlarge on the subject. After another silence she said, "So what are we going to do today?"

"Go bravely forward, like good soldiers, I guess. What else is there to do? We can't huddle in the house all the time. I'll take those dresses to Shreve."

"And I'll go see Mrs. MacDougal's friend. I don't know, though, Karen. Maybe you shouldn't go."

"Are you suggesting Shreve is the sheeted specter? Shreve, of all people? Climbing fences and waving butcher knives? In her Moygashel linen and her white gloves?"

Cheryl did not share her sour amusement. "She hates you."

"She has subtler methods of cutting me down. She doesn't need knives." Karen pushed her chair back and stood up. "Besides-in case you've forgotten-Shreve has the perfect alibi for last night. Vouched for by no less a personage than Congressman Brinckley, a.k.a. your only brother."

SHREVE'S directions had been clear and explicit. That didn't prevent Karen from getting lost. Stopping at a crossroads store, she discovered she was heading in precisely the wrong direction-a classic example of a Freudian slip in motion, she surmised. She was only fifteen minutes behind time, but she found Shreve pacing up and down the drive waiting for her.

"You're late," she snapped.

"I got lost. It's a long drive."

"How true. Come in, then."

"Can someone give me a hand with these?" Karen asked, opening the back door of the car. "They have to be carried carefully."

Shreve's eyebrows soared. "I'm afraid there's not a soul around, darling. I assumed you wouldn't want a witness."

"I beg your pardon?" Karen straightened, holding one of the boxes.

"And well you should. Oh, well, I'll take the other one, if you insist. This way."

Karen followed her into a room that might have been called a library if there had been any books on the shelves. It was furnished expensively and with a striking lack of originality. Shreve tossed the box carelessly onto a long leather sofa. "Is it in this one?"

Karen hesitated, not knowing what to say. She was completely bewildered by Shreve's remarks, and a faint but growing sense of uneasiness added to her confusion.

Before she could reply, there was the sound of an automobile horn-not a simple hoot, but a strident rendering of the first bar of "Dixie." Shreve scowled. "Damn. I might have known he'd turn up, just when… Stay here. I'll get rid of him. Don't leave this room."

Karen sat down to wait. The time stretched on; apparently Shreve was finding it difficult to dismiss her visitor. Karen shifted impatiently.

On a low table near her chair a number of glossy magazines were arranged in order, neat as an illustration out of a copy of House Beautiful. Karen went through them, taking a petty and malicious enjoyment out of the disorder she created. They were of the type she had expected to find on Shreve's table-Vogue and Vanity Fair, Washingtonian, the New Yorker.

One thin magazine differed from the rest. On the cover was a black-and-white photograph of a young girl dressed in white lace and pearls standing under a blossoming tree. Above the photo was a name Karen recognized-that of a prestigious private girls' school. Idly she picked it up and flipped through the pages. It appeared to be the commencement issue of the alumnae bulletin. Photos of beaming girls hugging one another and waving their diplomas; photos of commencement speakers and prominent parents. Karen was mildly entertained to learn that people actually did give children names like Muffin, Taffy, and Lolly.

Half the book was devoted to pictures of, and news about, alumnae-understandably, since the unspoken thrust of the publication was to extract money from same. There were photos of children and grandchildren and old graduation pictures. Among the latter was one of Shreve. Smirking as usual, Karen thought, studying the picture. It showed three girls, their arms around each other, with Shreve in the middle. They were wearing identical fluffy dresses with demure puffed sleeves and ruffled necklines. Karen had heard that some of the posh schools insisted all the girls wear the same dress for graduation, thus ostentatiously avoiding ostentation.

The truth didn't hit her all at once. It started as a tiny trickle of suspicion; then it widened, breaking down the walls of disbelief like a flood of evil-smelling, rancid water. The room darkened for a moment, and she had to hold tight to the arms of the chair; it seemed to be swaying under her like a swing.

She was on her feet when Shreve returned. After one quick glance at her face, the other woman turned back to the door. There was an ominous little click, which registered vaguely in Karen's mind as something she ought to worry about, but which made only a minor impression compared to the staggering knowledge she was trying to assimilate.

"It's a little late to get cold feet now," Shreve said. "You've been enjoying your little game of cat and mouse, haven't you? I must admire the way you handled it. Not a word, even in private, that could incriminate you. Everything innocent and straightforward. But I knew you'd slip up eventually. You were so damned pleased with your cleverness you got careless. Coming here alone was a big mistake. I don't suppose you were foolish enough to bring it with you, though…"

As she spoke she opened one of the boxes and tossed the dress aside with no more than a cursory glance. Karen winced as crystal tinkled and crisp pleats flattened, but she knew the condition of the merchandise was the least of her worries.

As Shreve opened the second box and rummaged among the tissues, Karen began edging toward the door. Her purse, with the essential car keys, was over her shoulder.

She can't stop me, Karen thought. She's in good shape, but I'm taller and heavier, and I don't think I'd have any scruples about hitting below the belt…

Shreve threw the empty box aside and turned, her face livid. Karen made a dash for the door. It was locked. As she fumbled for the key she watched Shreve over her shoulder, prepared to turn and resist if the other woman came after her. Instead Shreve ran to the desk and opened a drawer.

"I told you I was tired of your little games," she said coolly. "Come back here and sit down."

She held the heavy revolver the way people did in the movies-arms straight, one hand bracing the other.

Karen put her back against the door. "You wouldn't dare. Not with your own gun, in your own house."

Shreve's laugh was all the more shocking because it was genuinely amused. "Not my gun. Though I can use it-make no mistake about that. We're all frightfully, frightfully sporting here in Middleburg. No; this gun belongs to Pat MacDougal. Half of Washington knows he kept it in the drawer of the wardrobe in his bedroom. Believe me, my dear, I've thought this out very carefully. However, I've no particular desire to shoot you or anyone else. If you behave yourself and do as you're told, you'll be all right. Sit down!"

Too stunned by this latest piece of news to resist, Karen selected a chair as far from Shreve as possible. She didn't doubt that Shreve was speaking the truth. She must have taken the gun the night she woke Cheryl searching the wardrobe. She had planned this days-weeks-ago. But how had she gotten into the house?

Then Karen remembered the extra keys, conveniently left on the hall table, and Shreve's sudden request for something to drink after she learned Karen was unwilling to give up "Gran's old things."

"That's better." Shreve came out from behind the desk and sat down on its corner, her foot swinging. She rested the gun on her knee. "All I want is the dress. Hand it over and I'll leave you alone-but strictly alone, darling. Whatever gave you the consummate gall to suppose you could blackmail me, of all people?"

"I didn't. I wasn't trying… Honestly, I didn't know until a few seconds ago-" Her voice failed as she saw Shreve's skeptical smile.

Not that it mattered. She knew the truth now, she had admitted as much. "You can't let me go," she said stupidly.

"I can, actually-once the dress is destroyed. Your unsupported word can't hurt me. Especially after your carryings-on this past week; aren't the police getting a teeny tiny bit tired of your complaints?"

"You planned that? But you couldn't have. You were out of town last night."

Shreve's smile grew fixed. "I planned it, all right," she said sharply. "The idea was to discredit you-and it worked, didn't it? Once the dress is gone there won't be a shred of evidence."

"I can't understand why you didn't destroy it long ago." Karen felt quite calm except that her mouth was so dry that her lips felt stiff and leathery. She had to keep talking, though; the longer she could drag this out, the greater the hope that Shreve would relax her vigilance.

"I didn't because I couldn't think of a safer place for it than up in the attic among Gran's filthy rags. They should have been thrown out years ago. How could I anticipate that anyone would be imbecile enough to pay money for them-and that, of all the ironic coincidences, it would be you who bought them! One of the few people in the entire world who knew what she had and was low enough to capitalize on it."

It was a pity, Karen thought, that Shreve couldn't appreciate the crowning irony-that without her own efforts to retrieve the damning evidence, Karen would never have known it existed. She had been slow enough at that. Perhaps fatally slow.

There were still many things she didn't understand, but isolated events and statements to which she had paid no attention now made a horrible sense. The scattered clothing that had reminded Mark and Tony of a famous haunting had been, quite simply, an intruder's search for one particular garment. Every statement she had made to Shreve had been misinterpreted; and as she remembered what had been said, she realized that a listener expecting veiled threats and demands could have found them. And Rob… Had he known the truth before Shreve enlisted his aid in order to enter the shop, in a final desperate search for the dress she had failed to find at the house? Rob had researched the case and included it in his book. Perhaps he had suspected but had not been sure until Shreve gave herself away, somehow, on the night of the break-in. No wonder he had packed his bags and planned never to return to his poorly paid job and his cheap apartment; he had counted on extracting money from Shreve in return for his silence. His miscalculation had been fatal-literally. Shreve wasn't the type to submit to blackmail.

"We'd better get moving," Shreve said briskly. She stood up and went to a nearby cabinet, from which she took a decanter and a single glass. A little of the liquid slopped over as she poured, left-handed; with an exasperated, housewifely click of the tongue she carefully mopped up the spill with a handful of tissues. Then she offered Karen the glass. "Here. Drink it."

"No. No, I won't."

"You stupid little twit, this is for your own good. Would you rather be hit over the head and stuffed in the trunk of the car?"

Karen shook her head.

"God, you're slow," Shreve said contemptuously. "Do I have to spell it out for you? We are going back to your place and you are going to give me the dress. I'm not driving all that way with you sitting beside me, looking for a chance to jump out."

"I can't give you the dress," Karen said. "I threw it away."

"Sure you did. Drink this. Oh-you think I'm trying to poison you, is that it? Here…" She took a sip, then held the glass out again. "Drink."

There did not seem to be much choice. I can't do anything if I'm lying unconscious in the trunk, Karen thought. But as she choked the liquor down she felt the effects almost instantly. She had eaten practically nothing all day, and the frantic pounding of her heart sent the alcohol racing through her bloodstream. When she rose to her feet, prodded by the gun, she staggered and almost fell.

Her car was still in front, where she had left it. "Keys," Shreve said curtly. After watching Karen fumble in her purse she snatched it and found the keys before she tossed the purse into the car.

Karen got in the passenger seat as directed. Her head was spinning, but she knew there would be a moment, after Shreve shut the door and went around to the driver's side, when she might have an opportunity to make a break for it. There was another set of car keys in her purse. She always carried two sets in case she locked one in the car.

It was a desperate, almost hopeless risk, but she had to take it. There was a far-out chance that Cheryl had not thrown the dress in the trash; Cheryl was always trying to salvage things. But if she had done so, the dress was gone. The weekly trash pick-up had taken place that morning.

Anyway, Karen didn't believe Shreve's assurance that she would be released unharmed. Why should a multiple killer balk at murder number four? Compared to the others, this would be easy. Suicide, while in a state of depression following the break-up of her marriage, with a gun registered to her uncle-a gun that, so far as anyone knew, had never left the house. It would be said that she had arranged the false telephone call to get Cheryl out of the house-that she had played most of the tricks on herself or invented them, further evidence of a mental and emotional breakdown. Cheryl wouldn't believe it; but everyone else would. Even Tony. He had insisted all along that there was no connection between the harmless nocturnal visits and the violent incidents. And Mark…

She didn't dare think about Mark. Shreve must have had an accomplice. She could not have done everything alone…

Karen had worked most of it out while she walked to the car and fumbled for the keys, delaying as long as she could. But she had barely settled herself on the seat, one hand already reaching for the catch that would lock the doors, when Shreve raised the gun and brought the barrel down against her temple. She felt her forehead strike the dashboard and felt nothing more.

KAREN was not completely unconscious for long, but the state that followed her dazed recovery could not really be called consciousness. It was a nightmarish succession of isolated, incoherent memories separated by periods of dizzying darkness. Once or twice she must have tried to sit up, for she felt a hand shove her back into the corner of the seat. The motion of the car was erratic, sometimes smooth, sometimes jerking forward and then stopping. Traffic is always backed up on the bridge this time of day. The sentence floated to the surface of her mind, and her body tried to respond to the possibilities it suggested, but then something pushed her again, so hard that her bruised temple banged against the window glass and she lost track of things again.

The worst moment was when she heard voices, or thought she heard them; she never knew whether the incident really happened. "Your friend doesn't look so good, ma'am." A deep man's voice, that one, and Shreve's, replying smoothly, "I'm afraid she has had a little too much to drink, officer. I couldn't let her drive in her condition." Then something about a hospital, and Shreve's little laugh. "She'll be fine once I get her home and in bed." The hand again, covering her mouth and holding her in place with hurting strength. "Oh, darling, don't be sick here. I'll have you home in a jiffy. Officer, if you don't mind…"

She didn't remember being sick, but there was a sour taste in her mouth when she finally woke, and her head was beating like a tom-tom. Shreve was slapping her face, rhythmically and efficiently.

"Stop it," Karen croaked, raising a feeble hand to protect herself.

"Then sit up and take notice. You'll have to walk a few feet. I'll be damned if I'm going to carry you."

She dragged Karen out of the car and draped a limp arm over her shoulders. Cool wetness stroked Karen's cheeks. "It's raining," she mumbled.

"Pouring, in fact. Filthy driving weather. I hope your little friend is enjoying herself on those back-country roads."

They negotiated the gate and started up the walk. The bricks were uneven and slippery with rain; the boxwood bushes on either side glistened as if varnished. Karen's foot slipped. Instead of trying to recover her balance she let herself fall heavily to her hands and knees. Already her hair was soaked, but the cool water on her aching head cleared some of the cobwebs away. If she could just stay where she was, head bowed, for a few minutes, she might be able to think. One last chance, when Shreve opened the door, her attention concentrated on the stiff lock… And there was Alexander. Darling little Alexander. How could she have resented Alexander's wonderful habit of biting everyone who came in the door? Please, Alexander, do your stuff.

Shreve didn't give her a few minutes. She yanked Karen to her feet and shoved her toward the house. "Take the key. Unlock the door."

Karen dropped the keys. The gun jabbed painfully into her side. "Pick them up. And don't try that again."

She didn't have to make the threat explicit. In the gloom and the driving rain, half-hidden by shrubs, anything she chose to do would be unobserved from the street or the neighboring windows. Another chance gone. If only Alexander…

But when Karen opened the door there was no sign of the dog. Or of anyone else. She fell again, her wet shoes slipping on the smooth, polished floor of the hall. Shreve pushed her inside. The door slammed; the key turned in the lock, and a switch clicked. The chandelier overhead blazed into light so brilliant it cast shadows across the floor. A squat, huddled shadow and a longer one standing over the first: the shadows of killer and victim.

"Crawl if you prefer," Shreve said. "The position suits you. Where is it, upstairs?"

"I told you-"

Shreve's foot caught her in the ribs and toppled her onto her side. The light beat down, plunging fiery fingers into her eyes. Karen covered them with her hands and heard Shreve's brittle laugh.

"I'm beginning to enjoy this," Shreve said.

All right, Karen thought. That does it.

Physically she still felt as wretched as a sick dog, but the surge of anger brought a strange unnatural strength to her limbs. It couldn't last, but while it did she had better take advantage of it.

What could she tell Shreve, where could she take her that might offer a chance of escape? Not upstairs. Not any farther from the doors, front and back. Her strength was no match for Shreve's now, she wouldn't stand a chance in a hand-to-hand struggle, even if she got an opportunity to grapple for the gun. Get out of the house-that was her only hope. Once outside, she'd be safe. It was only on television that the bad guys stood out on the street blazing away at the fleeing hero.

The kitchen was one of the few places Shreve had not searched already. The kitchen possessed that most attractive of objects, a door. But there was no hiding place there that Shreve couldn't examine in a few moments.

From between her fingers Karen saw Shreve's weight shift, saw her raise her foot. The inspiration she had been searching for finally came. "I buried it. In the garden."

The look on Shreve's face consoled her a little- but only a little-for the kick. She mumbled, "It's in a cookie tin. Wrapped in plastic, sealed with tape…"

"Goddamn! Where in the garden?"

"Between the Marchioness of Lorne and Frau Karl Druschki. They are roses," Karen added.

Shreve's face twisted. Rain had reduced her sleek coiffure to a straggling ruin and washed off most of her makeup. Her linen dress was rumpled and damp, not only with rain but with perspiration. Without its mask her skin looked dry and mottled; her nose was longer than Karen had realized, and her lips were thin and colorless.

"At least the ground will be soft," she said. "Easier for you to dig. Let's go."

Karen took her time about getting to her feet. Was Shreve really going to allow her to get hold of a shovel? It would be Shreve's first mistake and with any luck it would be her last. Once outside in the rain, I'll take my chances with the gun, Karen thought. Her aim won't be too good if I'm swiping at her with a shovel.

Pretending a greater weakness than she felt, she stumbled along the hall, with Shreve close behind. The kitchen door was ajar. As Karen reached out to push it open, a light within suddenly went on.

Shielding her eyes, Karen heard Shreve's breath catch in a furious hiss. For a brief, exultant moment, hope leaped like a flame. Then she recognized the figure that stood between her and the back door; and the last missing pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

For once the tables were turned; Miriam was as composed and well-groomed as her friend was disheveled. There wasn't a spot on her dress. She must have arrived before the rain began. The only details that marred her appearance were her torn stocking and the carving knife in her hand.

"My dog," Karen cried. "What have you done to Alexander?"

Miriam's pale-blue eyes touched her indifferently and moved on. "I'm surprised at you, Shreve," she said in her gentle voice. "Were you really going to let her go outside? That was a trick, you know. She didn't bury it."

Shreve did not answer. Karen could almost feel the other woman's fear, like a heavy cloud whose edges touched her too.

"Don't stand there, come in," Miriam said. She gestured graciously toward a chair; the knife turned the movement into a grotesque travesty of courtesy.

Shreve nudged Karen. She had to nudge again, harder, before Karen moved. She had never seen anything more terrifying than the smiling, immaculate figure of her old classmate.

Shreve cleared her throat and made an attempt to reassert her authority. "Miriam, I told you not to come in the house. You were supposed to wait for me and drive me home."

"But that would have been silly. I wanted to search the house one more time. Now I'm sure. It isn't here. She must have given it to someone to keep for her. We'll have to make her tell us where it is."

"She will, Miriam. She will. Let me-"

"She's already told you a lot of lies, Shreve. You don't know how to question people. The only way you can be sure they aren't lying is to hurt them. That's how I was sure Rob was telling the truth when he said he didn't know about my dress."

Karen took a quick, involuntary step back. Shreve didn't look at her. She said urgently, "Miriam, put the knife down, okay? You'd better leave this to me. You know you get… you get too excited sometimes-"

"Please don't talk to me that way, Shreve," Miriam murmured. "I don't like it when you talk to me that way. As if I were irresponsible or something."

"Give me the knife, Miriam." Shreve stepped forward.

The blade made one brilliant, flashing move. Shreve's hands went to her breast. They could not hold back the flood; it bubbled out, staining her gloves and spreading across the crumpled linen of her dress. The sound of her body striking the floor made an appalling noise; it seemed to Karen as if the entire house vibrated with it.

"She shouldn't have done that," Miriam said. "She's so damned bossy."

"We've got to call a doctor. The telephone-"

"I'm afraid not." Miriam's voice was politely regretful. "I cut the wires, you see. Why don't you just give me the dress, Karen? Then I'll go, and you can do what you want about Shreve. I don't know why you're so worried about her, she always was nasty to you."

"But, Miriam…" Karen's voice failed. Was Miriam really so far removed from reality that she failed to see the old dress no longer mattered? Whether that was the case or whether Miriam intended to kill her too and hope she would be blamed for Shreve's death didn't really matter. The result for her would be the same, because she couldn't give Miriam the dress. Shreve was still alive-the ghastly stain was still spreading-but she would bleed to death if she didn't get help soon.

There were three doors in the room-one into the dining room, one into the hall, and the back door, the one closest to Karen. The way to it was barred, not only by Miriam, but-Karen realized with a jarring shock-by the dead-bolt lock. She would need a key to open it, and the same thing was true of all the ground-floor windows. She'd have to break the windows to get out, not only the panes of glass, but the connecting wooden strips. It looked easy in the movies, when the hero flung himself at a window and it exploded in fragments that left only a neat little cut on his cheek, but she had a feeling it wouldn't work so well in real life.

There was only one viable means of escape, then- the front door. She was almost certain Shreve had locked it from the inside, but the key would still be in the lock. She started edging toward the dining room door.

Shreve's purse had fallen too, spilling a clutter of objects across the floor. Miriam pushed them around with her foot. "She really shouldn't have done that," Miriam repeated, in a querulous, complaining voice. "She had it coming. So did he. He did it for years, you know. It started right after Mother married him. I was thirteen. I told her, but she didn't believe me. She must have known, though. She wouldn't stop him because she cared more about what people thought than she cared about me."

"Oh, God," Karen said involuntarily. "That was why…"

"I thought after I got out of high school I could go away to college and get free of him," Miriam said conversationally. "But he wouldn't let me. He said it was better for me to live at home and go to Georgetown. So I had to do it. And then, when she came in and saw what happened, I had to do it to her too, or she would have told someone it was me."

The sensation that froze Karen's limbs and came dangerously close to making her forget her own peril was not fear. It was a paralyzing blend of horrified pity and of mindless terror-terror of the irrational and the unknown. Miriam was beyond reason or appeal. Part of her mind was back in the past, reliving her torment and the double murder it had caused. Even her voice changed.

"Of course after I did it I was all splashed with blood. I knew the dress was the main thing. I had to get rid of it. Then I remembered Shreve was next door, visiting her grandmother. We were all going out someplace afterward, to celebrate. To celebrate…" A sudden, obscene giggle blurred her voice. Then she went on, "Shreve stopped to see the old lady because she'd told her she had a graduation present for her. We thought it would be a check, but it was only some tacky little cameo pin. Shreve had a change of clothes with her because we were going to meet her folks at the restaurant and we wanted to get out of those stupid pink dresses right away. So mean of them, making everybody wear the same dress. But it turned out to be lucky for me, so I guess I shouldn't complain.

"Anyway, I went out the back into the garden and signaled Shreve-we had a special place where we could climb the fence, we used it when she was at her grandmother's and we wanted to get together without anybody knowing. We changed clothes right there, in the yard. Nobody could see us, you know how high those walls are." She giggled again. "Shreve looked so funny standing there in her underwear holding that nasty, dirty pink dress of mine at arm's length. Her grandmother was half senile even then, and she knew she could get changed and hide the dress up in the attic without anybody seeing her, and that's what she did. I just went straight to my room by the back stairs. The maid had gone to the store to get liquor. She was the one that found them. She got hysterical, so I had to call the police. I think they were suspicious, all right. There was one horrible man with a big fat stomach and eyes like marbles who kept asking me questions. He shot his mouth off to the reporters, that's where they got that Lizzie Borden stuff, but my uncle threatened to sue the papers, so that stopped that. You see, the doctor said the killer must have been covered with blood, and they couldn't find any bloodstains on my clothes, except for the ones I got when I knelt by Mother after the police arrived. I thought I had better do that to cover up any spots on my shoes or under my fingernails. The dress got most of it, though."

A faint, bubbling moan stirred the air. Miriam glanced casually down at the still form at her feet. Her expression didn't alter, and Karen nerved herself for the final appeal.

"She was a loyal friend, Miriam. She helped you. She'll die if you don't get a doctor for her."

"Loyal to herself, you mean. Oh, sure, she helped me at first. I think she was so surprised and-well-excited, she just acted without thinking. But once she'd done it, she was an accessory, wasn't she? If the story ever got out, it would finish her husband's career. And Shreve wants to be First Lady someday. You know how this town is, every bit of mud sticks. I wonder what she did with…" Her foot nudged Shreve's purse.

Karen turned and ran.

The swinging door slapped shut behind her. She had never realized how long the dining room was; it seemed to take her forever to reach the farther door. It was closed. She lost several seconds there, because her hands, slippery with sweat, couldn't get a firm hold on the knob. The door opened outward. Shelter for a moment; but she dared not stop, and as she flung herself at the front door, reaching for the key, she saw out of the corner of her eye that Miriam had come out of the kitchen and was standing at the back of the hall.

The bullet smashed into the door, missing her head by only a few inches, sending splinters flying. Her body reacted before her dazed mind; falling, rolling as she fell, she cursed herself for not remembering the gun. Miriam had not forgotten about it. For a crazy woman Miriam was thinking and functioning very efficiently.

She was shooting well, too. The second bullet hit the floor on the spot Karen had just left as she scrambled, rolled, crawled through the doorway into the parlor.

Now which way? There were two doors, the one at the front through which she had come, another at the back of the room opposite the kitchen door. It was like some horrible game, the Lady and the Tiger-pick the right exit you win, pick the wrong one you're dead. She stayed down, crouching between the two big sofas. Through the thin curtains at the back of the room she could see the gray, rainswept garden. The entrance to Paradise could not have looked more seductive. If only she could get out of the house! The walls that had once formed shelter were now those of a prison, shutting her in with her own death. Once outside, she could make a run for it, risk a bullet. She remembered Pat telling her that hand weapons weren't accurate except at dose range. Inside, the range was close enough.

Two shots fired. How many did the damned gun hold? She knew absolutely nothing about guns except the one important fact: they fired hard little pellets that killed people. If only Cheryl were here…

Thank God Cheryl wasn't here. It would be over, one way or another, by the time Cheryl finished searching the back roads of the Eastern Shore and realized she had been sent on a wild-goose chase. No wonder the voice on the telephone had sounded familiar.

A board in the hall creaked. She wished she knew which one. There were several that protested when a foot pressed them. If Miriam had the sense to stay where she was, she had it made. From the hall she could cover both doors and cut off the stairs. Karen would have welcomed a chance to get upstairs now. Those windows weren't locked. It was a long way to the ground, but the boxwood under the windows of the master bedroom would break her fall.

Another creaking board. The same board, or another? Was Miriam moving or standing still, waiting, shifting her weight impatiently? Think, Karen told herself. Do something. You can't squat here forever.

But there was a false and dangerous illusion of safety in silence, immobility. She knew how a rabbit or a mouse must feel when it crouched motionless in the open, hoping to escape the cruel eyes of a predator. She scanned the room, trying to find something that would help her. There was a poker in the set of tools by the fireplace. She could have used something like that earlier, when the only weapon she faced was a knife. No good now.

As her eyes continued to search the room she saw something half hidden by the rose-pink draperies at the front windows. It looked like a muff or a moth-eaten fur collar torn from one of the old coats she had bought. It didn't move.

A stab of anguish as surprising as it was intense brought her to her feet. The heavy brass stand with its collection of fireplace tools fell with a crash as she snatched the poker. Had she heard a shot? She thought so; it was hard to tell, the ringing reverberations of the tumbling metal kept echoing, drowning out other sounds. She felt the pull of her lips, drawn tight over clenched teeth, and as she circled the couch on the way to the door at the back of the room she found a fleeting irony in the thought that it was Alexander-not Shreve, not even her own shrinking flesh-that had moved her to a fury so intense it swallowed fear. When the third-or was it the fourth-bullet shattered a vase inches from her elbow, she kept moving, straight through the door into the hall.

The thing that stopped her in her tracks was not the sight of Miriam standing half in and half out of the parlor and facing directly toward her. It was the sound of someone at the front door.

Miriam had to raise her voice to be heard over the fusillade of knocking. "They can't get in. They'll have to go away pretty soon. I'm getting very annoyed with you, Karen. Why don't you stop this nonsense?"

Karen pulled back into the shelter of the doorway. This latest development was almost too much for her reeling brain and her aching body to absorb. She knew who was at the door, even before she heard the peremptory voice demanding entry.

Mrs. Grossmuller. Mrs. Grossmuller come to collect the money owed her-banging on the door, yelling…

Mrs. Grossmuller would not go away pretty soon. Would Mr. DeVoto see her, and come out to ask what she wanted? It was still raining; he might not even notice she was there. And she, Karen, had told him not to call the police. She knew she ought to turn the old lady's presence to her advantage, but she couldn't think clearly.

Miriam was getting rattled. Another bullet smashed into the door; Mrs. Grossmuller's voice soared into a high-pitched shriek. Surely the bullet could not have penetrated the heavy door. She must have cried out in surprise, not in pain. Karen wondered how crazy Mrs. Grossmuller was. She'd have to be pretty far gone if she failed to realize that something peculiar was going on inside the house. Would she have sense enough to go to the police?

I can't risk it, Karen thought despairingly. It would take Mrs. Grossmuller forever to convince the police she had not been imagining things. And Mrs. Grossmuller was just as likely to go to the window and peer in, offering Miriam a clear shot.

Karen screamed at the top of her lungs. "Go away! Run! Get out of here!"

She heard Miriam's footsteps going rapidly toward the back of the hall. Dropping to all fours, Karen crawled behind the nearer sofa. There was no other sound, only Miriam's footsteps. What had happened to Mrs. Grossmuller? Had she left? Was she standing in the rain scratching her head and wondering what the devil was going on? Was she lying bleeding on the steps?

Miriam fired again from the doorway. The bullet thudded into the sofa behind which Karen crouched. She realized she was still holding the poker. It wasn't the most effective of missiles, but it would have to serve. If she threw it spear-fashion and ran in the opposite direction…

The pounding and calling broke out again, farther away now and muffled by closed doors. Another shot rang out. This time the bullet didn't come anywhere near Karen. She sank her teeth into her lower lip, fighting hysterical laughter. Good old Mrs. Grossmuller. A little thing like a bullet wouldn't stop her; she had gone around to the back door. And Miriam was losing her head, firing blindly in the direction of the knocking. Karen had lost track of how many shots she had fired. Not that it mattered. Now was the time to move, she could not delay any longer.

She rose to her knees, arm back, ready to throw. Then she heard something else that made her wonder if her brain had finally cracked. The racket from the back continued, but surely-surely that was the sound of a key in the front door. The lock stuck, as it always did.

There was only one person who had a key to the house.

Karen knew what was about to happen and she knew there was little she could do to prevent it. A scream or a cry for help would only bring Cheryl bursting in to her assistance. She pulled herself to her feet.

Miriam stood in the front doorway of the parlor. Her face was unrecognizable; every nerve twitched uncontrollably, every feature was drawn askew by distorted muscles. The gun in her hand swung in wild arcs, from the parlor to the front door to the back of the house, where Mrs. Grossmuller kept up her assault. The front door opened.

It was not Cheryl.

Mark said, "Hello-Mrs. Montgomery, isn't it? We met at a party, I believe."

Miriam shook her head. "I don't…"

"It's nice to see you again," Mark said conversationally. Rain darkened the shoulders of his raincoat and ran down his face. He didn't move.

Karen knew what he was trying to do. She knew it wasn't going to work. He had covered up his astonishment well; but whomever he had expected to find, it was not Miriam, and he could have no idea of her mental condition.

Miriam gave a small whimpering sound and steadied the gun. The trigger clicked on an empty chamber, and at the same instant Karen threw the poker. It struck Miriam across the shoulders and sent her staggering forward into Mark's raised fist.

He didn't even glance at her as she fell, but took two long steps and caught Karen in his arms.

"You hit her," Karen gasped. "You hit-"

"You're damned right I hit her. Are you hurt? Are you all right?"

There was no way she could answer, he was holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe, much less talk. But she dropped the poker and put her arms around him. That seemed to be the answer he wanted.

THE dress was never found. Cheryl had thrown it away, the trash had been picked up on schedule, and no one seemed interested in sifting through acres of garbage looking for its fragments.

"It doesn't matter," Tony said. "We have enough on her without resurrecting a decade-old crime, which could be a messy thing to prove after all this time. She'll never to go prison anyway."

"Why not?" Cheryl demanded. "Aren't two murders enough?"

"One. They think the Givens woman will make it."

It was later that evening and they were sitting in the parlor. Karen suspected the kitchen would not be her favorite room for a while; she would probably be compulsively scrubbing the floor at least once a day for days to come.

Cheryl, who had done the initial scrubbing, looked less distressed than angry. After finding that there was no such address as the one she had been given, she had driven straight back to Georgetown to find the street blocked by ambulances and police cars and a fire engine that had come by mistake. For several minutes thereafter she had required more attention from the medics than had Karen.

"Miriam'll end up in an institution," Tony went on. "Her husband can afford the best."

He appeared depressed for a man who had seen two outstanding cases closed, and who was supposed to be helping a friend celebrate her survival. In fact, it was a singularly quiet gathering for a celebration.

"She should have had help ten years ago," Karen said. "And he-her stepfather. It had been going on for five years when she… when she did it."

"It's a good defense," Tony began.

"Oh, no, it happened. I have no doubt it happened.

She wasn't trying to persuade me of anything, she was remembering-reliving it."

"It doesn't matter," Tony said again. "She's well around the bend how. Any halfway competent lawyer can get her off on the insanity plea. Her confession probably won't be admissible."

"She confessed?"

Tony's shoulders hunched as if he were repressing a shudder. Miriam's condition seemed to have affected him more than all the nauseating physical details he had seen over the course of his police career. "It wasn't so much a confession as a catharsis. They couldn't get her to shut up. If you could have seen her-bright and animated, perfectly poised-asking politely for a glass of water and explaining that her throat was dry from so much talking… Jesus."

"It's ironic, isn't it?" Cheryl said after a moment. "All our romantic ideas about long-lost treasures, and after all it wasn't a designer gown or a missing will or Dolley's jewelry-just a cheap, bloodstained dress."

"The real irony is that Miriam and Shreve brought the disaster on themselves," Karen said. "If they had left well enough alone, we'd have thrown the dress away and no one would ever have known."

"The guilty flee where no man pursueth," Tony said sonorously.

"I've never fully appreciated how true that is," Karen agreed. "When I remember the conversations I had with the two of them, I realize that every statement was misinterpreted-on both sides. When Miriam protested the price I asked for the dresses, she was really expressing amazement that I asked so little. And when I said I hoped she would buy more things, she interpreted it as meaning that there would be more demands for money, not only from her, but from Shreve. It would have been a rather ingenious blackmail method, actually; the merchandise was there, and as I kept telling everyone, the price depended solely on what people were willing to pay."

"I still don't understand why she killed Rob," Cheryl said, gazing at Tony with limpid blue eyes.

For once her attentive look and her appeal to his superior knowledge didn't improve Tony's morale. He answered almost reluctantly. "She-uh-explained that too. The house had been searched several times, without success; she thought Karen might have taken the dress to work and concealed it somewhere on the premises. She bribed Rob to let her in. They had been intimate-that's how she put it, intimate once upon a time-and she knew he'd do anything for money.

"What really killed the poor dumb bastard was a combination of curiosity and greed. Miriam told him Karen had something that belonged to her-implied it had been stolen. That wasn't good enough for Rob; he kept asking what it was. We'll never know whether he figured it out. Miriam thought he had-but as Karen has good reason to know, guilt makes people believe a lot of things that are false. Rob may well have had an inkling of the truth. After all, he had just written up that old murder case and he knew a lot about it. He knew Miriam was the girl whose parents had been killed; he may have suspected she did it. He wouldn't have been the only one to suspect her. However much he knew, he knew too much for Miriam. She believed she was already being blackmailed and she was not about to let someone else join the club.

"After they finished at the shop, he followed her in his car to that hamburger joint. It was closed by then; he left his car, and got in hers. She wouldn't tell us how she lured him into the woods. She just giggled and looked coy… God, it was awful. But he wouldn't, have been afraid of her. He was proud of his body and his muscles, and she was-is-a small woman."

"Maybe she forced him to go with her," Cheryl suggested. "At gunpoint."

"She didn't have the gun-not MacDougal's, at any rate. Mrs. Givens was the one who stole it. Both of them were in the house at different times; neither really trusted the other's honesty or competence. It was Miriam the first time, when Karen was attacked; she got in through a window, as I suspected. Then Mrs. Givens came to see if she couldn't retrieve the clothes by normal means, and Karen's reaction convinced her that Karen was aware of what she had and was determined to get as much money as she could for it. She stole the new house keys and had duplicates made; Miriam returned the originals next day, so Karen never realized they had been borrowed. Miriam was responsible for all the violence. Shreve-Mrs. Givens-didn't want that kind of trouble, she only wanted to find the dress and also play on Karen's nerves. I think she was always afraid of what Miriam might do. She knew only too well what her friend was capable of."

"Then Miriam was the one who almost ran Karen down?" Cheryl asked.

Tony couldn't stand it any longer. "Don't ask me, ask him!" He turned on Mark, who had not spoken a word, and who sat slouched in his chair, his eyes fixed morosely on the tips of his shoes. "He's the mastermind! The hero! Go ahead, buddy, enlighten the ignorant. Brag a little. Don't mind me."

"What?" Mark glanced up.

"You saved the day," Tony said bitterly. "Solved the case, dashed to the rescue, arrived in the nick of time-leaving the cops with egg all over their faces. Tell us how you did it. You're entitled to gloat."

Mark slumped lower and tried to push his chin into his chest. "Sure, rub it in. I don't blame you."

"Rub what in? You saved-"

"Saved nothing!" Mark yelled. "What saved Karen was that loony old lady! There's a gallant rescuer for you! If she hadn't gotten Miriam rattled and conned her into emptying the clip, I'd be dead. Me-not Karen. Karen was going for Miriam with a poker when I walked in the door. I was about as much use as-as that goddamn dog!"

Alexander, resting in his velvet-lined basket, lifted his head and growled. It was only a feeble echo of his old growl, for he was still full of dope and his ribs were confined by tape and plaster.

Tony stared at his sulking friend. Then his lips twitched. "Well, well. It never occurred to me… Sorry, pal. I guess I don't mind looking like a jackass so long as I have you keeping me company."

Cheryl glanced at Karen, her eyebrows lifting. Men, she seemed to be saying. Men. I'll never understand them.

At any rate, the air was considerably clearer after that. Tony loosened his tie; Mark sat up straight and ran his hands through his hair.

"Since I'm exposing my lack of intelligence I might as well tell all," he said amiably. "I didn't even pick the right killer. I thought it was Shreve. That's why I asked her to go with the group this weekend. I had to go myself, I couldn't get out of it, so I figured at least I could keep her away from Karen."

"That was a noble, self-sacrificing gesture," said Karen.

Mark looked at her uneasily and decided not to pursue the point. "I knew a number of things you didn't know," he explained to Tony. "Mostly from Cheryl. She talks all the time, and I usually don't hear one word in five, but when she was talking about Karen I tended to pay closer attention. She told me all about old Mrs. Ferris being Shreve's grandmother, and Shreve trying to get the clothes back. It meant nothing to me at the time, but it stuck in the back of my mind while we were discussing what the burglar might have been looking for. But there were so many other possibilities-historic jewels, those expensive dresses.

"I had also read Rob's book. Your description of the way he was cut up stirred my memory again, but I didn't make the connection. The names were misleading rather than helpful; I knew Miriam only by her married name, and as I learned later, she had never assumed her stepfather's surname. So even Karen, who had known Miriam by her maiden name, wouldn't have connected her with the Ferguson case unless she had read the story."

"Which I didn't," Karen admitted. "I skimmed through most of the book, but the only stories I actually read were the nice harmless ones about Georgetown ghosts. There was no photograph of Miriam-"

"Rob wouldn't have used one," Tony said. "He was skirting the edge of libel on that story anyway, especially with the title-'Lizzie Borden or Jack the Ripper?' Lizzie being, as we all know, the proper daughter who was accused of murdering her father and stepmother. Actually, Rob got the idea from some of the reporters who followed the case at the time. The parallels were too close to miss. I missed them, though. All the times we've discussed the Borden case…"

"It's the classic of all classic crimes," Mark said thoughtfully. "Miss Elizabeth Borden was actually brought to trial for the murders of her father and stepmother. She got off; the townspeople simply couldn't believe a prim, proper lady would do such a vicious thing. But the clincher was the fact that the police never found a bloodstained dress. People are still arguing that one; a dress was burned-witnesses said there was no blood on it, but were they correct? Did she strip and commit the murders naked? Nobody knows. But the essence of that case was the bloody dress, just as it was in the Ferguson case. Miriam was suspected by the police-but there she was, in the same dress she had worn all day, and it didn't have a spot on it.

"After reading the story again and looking at the pictures I realized that Mrs. Ferris lived next door to the Ferguson house, and I began to wonder whether Shreve had had something to do with those killings. It simply never occurred to me that there was another woman involved. Again, the thing that misled me was the difference in the names.

"When I got back from Atlanta Tuesday morning- this morning, for God's sake-I can't believe it… I went straight to the office. I called Tony around lunchtime, but he wasn't in. I didn't reach him until early in the afternoon. I had no idea anything had happened. When he told me, I… Well, I won't attempt to describe my state of mind. I'd been wrong, dead wrong, that was all I could think. I started calling here. I guess I called every fifteen minutes. I had no idea where you had gone; if I had known, I'd have been even more scared than I was. Finally I couldn't stand it any longer, so I grabbed a cab and came on over. The first thing I saw was Karen's car, and then I felt better; I figured she'd just gotten home. But when I got to the door there was that-that old lady. She turned coolly to me and said, 'What an extraordinary thing! That was a bullet. Don't you think it is extremely bad manners to shoot at someone who is knocking at one's door? They needn't answer if they don't choose to see me just now.'"

His imitation of Mrs. Grossmuller made Karen laugh. "Wasn't she wonderful?"

"Wonderful," Mark agreed gloomily. "I said, 'Are you sure it was a shot you heard?' and she said, 'I assure you I could hardly be mistaken, young man; before I poisoned him in 1965 my late husband the Judge greatly enjoyed shooting things.'

"So," Mark went on, "we conferred-briefly-and she said she'd go to the back door and create a diversion. I-uh-I had keys. I'd asked the locksmith to make extras for me…"

He looked as if he expected a reprimand. Karen said tactfully, "Anyway, Mrs. Grossmuller was super. Cheryl, I wish you could have seen her face when Mark let her in and she saw poor Shreve lying on the floor, and all that blood. I thought for a minute she was going to make some remark about poison, and how much neater it was… She just looked the situation over, nodded calmly, and said it looked as if we had things under control, and where was that nice little dog? She was the one who rushed Alexander to the vet. I must send her some flowers."

"I already did," Mark grunted.

"What kind? No, don't tell me-red roses?"

"What else?" Mark smiled faintly.

There was a brief silence. Then Cheryl said, "It's stopped raining. The sun is coming out."

"I'm starved," Karen said suddenly.

"What would you like?" Cheryl started up. "There's some salad-"

"I don't want anything healthy. I want ice cream. Lots of ice cream."

"Sounds good," Tony said, grinning. "What kind?"

Karen thought. "Pralines and cream. Or butter pecan.

"I'll see what's available." Tony got to his feet.

"Chocolate," Mark said absently.

"Cheryl?"

"Can I come with you?" Cheryl asked.

"Sure." Tony's grin expanded. "Let's go, babe."

As they left the room Karen called, "Pralines and cream and butter pecan."

"I thought you were on a diet," Mark said.

"Not anymore." Karen settled herself comfortably in her chair. "I'll never be a size 6 again, and I don't care. I like myself the way I am."

"Do you think I don't recognize a cue when I hear it?" Mark pulled her out of her chair and onto his lap. "Okay, I like you the way you are too."

After a long interval, during which she discovered what had been missing in Tony's kisses-only one thing, but it was the one that counted most-Mark said, "I guess we'd better get married. Ruth won't like my moving in unless we're properly engaged."

"Your concern for Ruth touches me, but I wouldn't want you to do anything rash."

"Look what happened the last time I forgot to ask you."

After another, longer interval, Karen murmured, "That wouldn't happen again."

"Oh? I was beginning to worry about Tony. Did he-"

"None of your business."

"Right. None of my business. Do you think he and Cheryl will make it?"

"I'm more hopeful than I was. I'm going to suggest that he refuse to rent to us unless she puts out."

"My dear girl, how vulgar," said Mark, imitating Mrs. Grossmuller. "So you're going ahead with the shop, are you?"

"Any objections?"

"God, no, I wouldn't dare object. Besides, I've always wanted a wife who has her own income."

"Mark."

"Mmmm?" said Mark, his lips against her ear.

"It was sweet of you to minimize what you did to spare Tony's feelings-"

"Sweet, hell. I was threatened with extreme bodily harm by my own sister if I didn't."

"-but I know what you did, and I think you're brave and noble and brilliant and wonderful…"

This time it was the telephone that interrupted them. Karen went to answer it. Her exclamation of delight brought Mark to the door.

"Pat! Pat, darling, where are you? Still in Borneo? How is Ruth? Is Mrs. Mac all right? How are you? Oh, great. Yes, I'm fine. What have I been doing?" She glanced at Mark, and laughed softly. "Well, Pat, you aren't going to believe this…"