Shattered Silk

CHAPTER TEN

MARK pounded the table with his beer can. "I hereby call the meeting to order-"

"Don't," Cheryl said, wincing. "This isn't a meeting of your awful old Murder Club, Mark."

"Well, I'm damned if I am going to go into deep mourning over Rob Simpson's demise," Mark said. "If a murder victim ever asked for it, he did. And if he was the one who's been harassing Karen, he got what was coming to him."

"I must be hearing things," Tony said. "Don't tell me you agree with me for once."

"I didn't say he was the one. I said he might be. It's possible-"

"Forget it," Tony said curtly. "I'm in no mood for your far-out theories tonight."

He looked older and more formidable as he sat hunched over the table, his hands clasped around his can of beer. Patches of wet darkened the fabric of his shirt and his black hair had curled into damp knots. There were a few wisps of dried grass clinging to it, and Cheryl gently plucked out the longest of them.

"You look exhausted, Tony. Why don't you go home and get some rest?"

Tony sat up straighten "I'm not tired. Just hot. Those Virginia woods were like a steam bath. I thought you'd want to know what happened. But if I'm in the way-"

A chorus of protests assured him he was not, and the lines in his face smoothed out. "It wasn't all that bad. Relatively neat, as these things go. The body wasn't far from the road-"

"Buried deep?" Mark asked.

"Not buried at all, just covered with loose brush and branches. The killer probably believed he wouldn't be found for months. What he didn't know was that there's a new subdivision just over the hill, on a parallel road. Kids and dogs…"

Cheryl made a faint sound of protest. Karen knew she was thinking of little Joe and imagining the shock a child would feel, stumbling over such a horror.

"Julie," she exclaimed. "Has she been told?"

"She was the first to be notified," Tony answered. "In fact, she identified him. Not that there was any doubt; his wallet and ID hadn't been taken. But there are formalities to be observed, and he didn't have any relatives in town, so…"

Karen rose. "I'm going to call her."

Cheryl started to speak, but then subsided with a shrug. "I have to," Karen said, answering the implicit objection. "I'll use the phone in the other room; you just… just go on talking."

But her cowardly hope that she might not hear the gruesome details was in vain; when she returned, the others were sitting in silence, waiting for her. At the sight of her face, Mark's brows drew together. "What did she say to you?" he demanded.

"She wants me to come tomorrow," Karen said wearily. "Well, what could I say? She was… very upset."

"Can't blame her," Tony said. "Her boyfriend was not a pretty sight."

Mark's was the only face that did not mirror Tony's distaste. "So the motive wasn't robbery," he said coolly. "How was he killed?"

"Multiple stab wounds, back and front. Some shallow and glancing, some deeper; it was one in his throat that did the job, tore the carotid artery. But a couple of the others-"

He stopped with an apologetic glance at the women.

"They won't thank you for treating them like shrinking violets," Mark said.

"That's right," Cheryl agreed. "I've heard worse from the two of you when you were dwelling on the gruesome details of your favorite murders. It's different for Karen, though. She knew him."

"Yes, I knew him. I didn't like him very much, but he enjoyed living so enormously, and it's horrible to think of someone you've met and talked to… But I'd rather know the facts than imagine things."

"The facts aren't very pleasant," Tony said. "He had been stabbed repeatedly, with a razor-sharp knife- not a switchblade, something longer and heavier. There were cuts on his forearms. The doc thinks he was on the ground by then, trying to shield his face and throat." He raised the can to his lips and drank deeply before continuing. "And more cuts on his back. Presumably he rolled over onto his face in the final moments, and the killer just-kept on slashing him."

Karen thought that after all she could not have imagined anything much worse. The shadowy charade was so vivid she could almost see it-the dim forms moving and whispering in the darkness under the tangled trees; the sudden lunge, the strangled cry, the fall and the struggle-and a featureless blackness stooping over the prostrate man, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing again, in a blind frenzy of hate.

"There must have been a lot of blood," said Mark.

"There was," Tony said, "a lot of blood."

"Then the killer would be splashed with it."

"Yeah, well, that would be a useful clue if we had any suspects," Tony said dryly. "We can't examine every closet in the Washington area. The killer has had time to change and destroy his clothes by now."

"It reminds me of something," Mark muttered. "Some case we discussed a year or two ago. Damn. My brain's gone sour."

Tony was not as hardened as he appeared. His reaction to Mark's remark was exaggeratedly violent. "Goddamn it, Mark, don't give me your crap about poltergeists and homicidal maniacs! I'm in no mood for academic discussions."

"You were the one who mentioned poltergeists the last time," Mark said mildly. "I'm talking about a murder case, one of the classic unsolved crimes. Something you said reminded me of it, but I can't pin it down."

"Huh," said Tony, only half-appeased. "You can find parallels to everything, Mark. There's nothing new under the sun. Especially these days, when half the killers we haul in are high on something or other."

"Your favorite junkie again?" Mark asked.

"Well, hell, what other explanation is there? From what I've heard about this guy, he had some peculiar friends. They wouldn't have to be all that peculiar; a lot of the smart young Washington types play around with coke and the latest fads in designer drugs. Either he picked the wrong friend to assist him in his burglary, or he ran into someone later that night who wasn't dealing from a whole pack."

"What does this do to your theory that Rob was the one hassling Karen?"

"It doesn't affect it in the slightest. I know-some crazy driver came close to nailing you last night, and it sure as hell wasn't Rob. It's my belief that that had nothing to do with the other incidents."

He eyed Mark warily, as if anticipating an objection, but Mark only shrugged. "It wasn't the same sort of attack."

"Again we agree. Or is this the first time? You can't eliminate the possibility of a drunk driver, there are plenty of them around. Also"-he looked at Karen-"your soon-to-be ex is driving a rental car, a tan Olds 88. There's no use testing it for bloodstains or dents, since the car didn't actually hit you. Also…"

He hesitated. "Oho and aha," said Mark. "Don't tell me you've located pretty boy Horton?"

"He's not in Cleveland," Tony admitted reluctantly. "That lead didn't pan out. He could be anywhere, including Washington. However, I can't think of any reason, sensible or otherwise, why he would want to harm Karen. It's been a week since she saw him; he must know she'd have reported it by now."

"Hmph," said Mark helpfully.

"Believe me, there is absolutely no reason for the girls-excuse me, the ladies-er-"

"Try 'women,'" said Cheryl.

Tony scowled at her. "The female persons to be alarmed. Whether Rob was the joker or not, his murder has absolutely nothing to do with the other business. That was harassment pure and simple. The frequency of the incidents proves it-night after night, a constant battering at the nerves of the victim. I think you've seen the end of that. A certain person got the bejesus scared out of her tonight-"

"Julie?" Karen exclaimed.

"It could have been her and Rob working together. She's the right type-malicious, neurotic."

"But why would Julie-"

"Motive is the last thing we worry about, Karen. People do the damnedest things for the damnedest reasons… Let's talk about something else, okay? I'm off duty-for a few hours-and I'd like to forget about crime. Tell me about your house-hunting."

"It's not very interesting," Karen began.

"It is to Tony," Mark said with a smile. "That's how the big tough cop spends his spare time-looking at houses."

"I don't know what's so damned funny about that," Tony said stiffly. "It's stupid to pay rent when you can be building up equity in a house. And our tax laws make investment property very attractive."

"Don't count on that continuing," Mark warned. "It's one of the loopholes I'm hoping to close."

"You fuzzy-minded liberals don't worry me, pal. There are too many special-interest groups fighting you. What's this one?"

Cheryl surrendered the sheet of paper, with a self-conscious glance at Karen. "It got mixed in with the others by mistake. We aren't really considering it."

"Why not?" Tony studied the fuzzy black-and-white photograph. After a moment he said quietly, "It looks like a house in one of those old-time books-Tom Sawyer, or Huckleberry Finn. Front porch, big shade trees, picket fence…"

"The photograph doesn't do it justice," Karen said. "It's a charming house. Needs work-"

"But nothing major," Cheryl said quickly. "Just painting and plastering and a little carpentry. They put in a new furnace five years ago-"

"How's the plumbing?" Tony asked.

"That was brought up-to-date at the same time. It needs new wiring-"

"That's not a major problem. The price isn't bad. You could probably talk them down a few thousand."

He and Cheryl went on talking. Karen listened in silence. Cheryl had really fallen in love with the house; it was a pity they couldn't get it, for the premises would have been ideal. If she had had the cash, or if she thought she could depend on a reasonable settlement from Jack, she might have been tempted to take a chance-a gamble, really, for it would be at least two years before they would know whether their business would turn a profit. Just as well I don't have it, she thought. I'm not going to risk Pat's money on something so chancy.

She glanced at Mark; she couldn't help it, he drew her gaze as irresistibly as a magnet attracts a nail. Whatever subject occupied his mind and furrowed his brow, it was not one that pleased him. His battered face was a silent reminder of how close they had come to death the night before. Random, coincidental, that attack? She had a feeling Mark was not convinced. She had a feeling she wasn't either.

Alexander shifted his weight across her feet, grumbling in his sleep. Across the table two heads, shining gold and dishevelled black, bent over the papers. Outside, darkness and mist pressed at the window, trying to come in-failed. Held back, not by a physical barrier of glass but by the opposing forces within-light, safety, companionship. They were more than four separate people, they were a group connected by complex, intertwining strands. It was nothing so simple as friendship, though that was an element; there were different levels of loyalty and frustration and old resentment and new caring.

Karen was reminded of the other occasions, so long ago, when four of them had sat around the same table. She and Mark, Pat and Ruth. Usually it was Mark and Pat who did most of the talking then, arguing about everything under the sun from the Shakespeare ciphers to pro wrestling; seldom agreeing, sometimes changing sides in mid-argument just for the fun of it. Occasionally Ruth would interject a comment in her quiet, ladylike voice, a commonsense, pointed remark that stopped the combatants in mid-shout and reduced them to foolish smiles. Karen had never said much. It was pleasure enough to listen and laugh, to feel herself part of such accepting warmth. Besides, it wasn't easy to get a word in edgewise when Pat was in full spate! At least that was what she thought at the time, if she thought about it at all. She had a feeling that when the group met again-if it ever met again-her voice would be heard more often, even if she had to yell to make it heard.

As if feeling her gaze, Mark looked up. Perhaps his thoughts had been running along a similar line, for he said, "Have you heard from Pat and Ruth?"

"Only a cable from Pat after Mrs. MacDougal arrived. He threatened me with nameless things for letting her get away."

"He couldn't have stopped her either. Mrs. Mac is a force of nature, like a hurricane."

"It was nice of you to visit her."

"Nice, hell. I didn't do it to be nice. I didn't keep in touch with Pat and Ruth to be nice. I don't do anything to be nice, for God's sake!"

Tony couldn't resist that. He interrupted his discussion with Cheryl long enough to remark, "You never said a truer word. Quit insulting the man, Karen."

Karen waited until the conversation across the table had resumed-Tony was asking about zoning regulations, a subject on which Cheryl was well informed-before she said quietly, "I didn't mean it to be insulting. 'Nice' is a rare quality. I wish there were more of it in the world."

"It's okay."

"Ruth was the one who told you where I was working, wasn't she?"

A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "As a matter of fact, it was Mrs. Mac."

"I suspected Julie."

"Not her. She wouldn't do you any…" He checked himself. After a moment he muttered, half to himself, "She fits the profile. I just can't see… What has she got against you?"

"Nothing! Oh, there were a few little irritants; she had hoped to get some of Ruth's and Mrs. Mac's antiques for her shop and she was furious when I decided to keep the clothes for myself. But Julie blows her stack about everything, and then she cools off and forgets it. Besides, she has other ways of getting at people."

"Such as?"

"Oh…" Karen gestured helplessly and laughed a little. "I was tempted to say that, being a mere male, you wouldn't understand; but after reading some of the congressional transcripts I know men are just as good at it as women. The insults disguised as compliments, the constant pricks and jabs that hit the victim's weakest point. For instance, she kept telling me…" Karen stopped. I am strong, I am invincible, she told herself, but I am double-damned if I am going to tell Mark Brinckley about Julie's comments on my weight and my dowdiness. She went on, "For instance, she gave me that awful book about ghosts and murders and hinted that there was some terrible story about this house."

"Oh?" Mark's face showed a spark of interest. "That sounds as if she were setting you up for a scare."

"But there wasn't anything in the book about this house."

"House? What house?" Tony looked up alertly.

"You've got real estate on the brain," Karen said with a smile. "We were talking about another subject entirely."

"Then I don't want to hear about it," Tony said. "I'm trying to talk Cheryl into making an offer on this Leesburg house. You know, you could probably qualify for various loans-"

"We're so damned broke we could qualify for unemployment and welfare both," Cheryl said with a wry smile. "But that's not the problem, Tony. We just can't afford to get stuck with a huge mortgage, and taxes, and repairs, and all the rest. What do you think of the Poolesville property?"

They continued their discussion and this time Karen joined in. Mark relapsed into silence; he sat brooding, as animated as a mushroom, for some time and then suddenly got to his feet.

"I'm leaving," he announced.

"What's your hurry?" Cheryl asked.

"I've got some reading to do. Try to have a quiet night, please."

"We'll do our best. See you around."

"You won't see me around until Tuesday or Wednesday. I have to go out of town for a few days."

"Oh. Well, have a nice time."

"Thanks. You coming, Tony?"

"I think I'll stick around for a while," Tony said comfortably.

Mark nodded and wandered out.

Karen didn't offer to accompany him. He seemed totally preoccupied with some absorbing problem. Perhaps he was worrying about the job that lay ahead of him that weekend. Greatly as she had resented his efforts to watch over them, Karen had been conscious of a strange, flat feeling when she heard him say he would be gone for several days.

She was getting sleepy, but she hated to suggest that Tony leave. He seemed to be enjoying himself-elbows on the table, his face relaxed and free of care. He needed an interlude like this one even more than most people.

It was Cheryl who finally yawned loudly and declared she was too tired to talk any longer, even about real estate. She was kind enough to add, "You've been a big help, Tony. Karen and I will have another look at the Poolesville place tomorrow."

"I can't," Karen said. "I promised Julie I'd work tomorrow."

"Oh, damn, so you did. I guess you have to."

"It's the least I can do. I should have asked her to spend the night here-or offered to go to her…"

Tony got up. Taking Karen's hand, he raised her to her feet. "You're a nice person, Karen. Don't worry about that one, she's a survivor. Come on, walk me to the door. Night, babe."

"Mmm," said Cheryl, returning to her fact sheets.

"I'm sorry I had to cancel tonight," Tony said, when they were outside the room.

"For heaven's sake, you couldn't help it. That's part of your job."

"Want to try again Monday night?"

"Why… Sure, I guess so."

"Such enthusiasm." His teeth flashed in the light, and one hand lightly touched her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Tony. I feel…" She raised her hands in a small, bewildered gesture. "Unreal. So much has happened the last few days, and then this, tonight…"

Somehow her hands settled on his chest and his arms were quick to respond, circling her shoulders and waist. There was strength and support rather than passion in their grasp and she pressed against him, grateful for the warm strength of him under her hands.

"You're one tough little lady, Karen. What you've been through would have floored most women. Most people," he amended hastily, and she laughed and leaned closer.

"I'm not so tough," she said.

"I meant it as a compliment."

He was just the right height-tall enough so that she had to raise her face for his kiss, not so tall that the long, lingering caress put an intolerable strain on her muscles. His lips were warm and softer than she had expected; not so much tentative-for he knew exactly what he was doing, and how to do it-as inquiring. Is this what you want? How do you feel about it? And this…

Her lips parted and all individual sensation-the warmth of his body against her breasts, the movements of lips and tongue and hands, were swallowed up in an overwhelming wave of sheer physical pleasure. She was only vaguely aware of a voice somewhere in the background, but Tony responded to it, releasing her, reaching for the door.

"See you Monday," he said, and was gone, with a last lingering brush of fingertips across her lips.

Cheryl called again. "Yes, I'm coming," Karen called back.

But she didn't move immediately. Tony was already out of sight, lost in the darkness. The air was steamy, sticky, and hot, but it didn't warm her; for a few blissful moments she had been enveloped in comfort, like wrapping herself in a warm coat on a winter day, and now she was cold again.

There had been more to it than that. How much more she was unable to assess. She realized she was reluctant to face Cheryl. It was as if Tony's kiss had left a luminous imprint no observer could miss.

IT rained during the night. Karen didn't hear the rain, or anything else; she slept heavily and woke later than she had planned. When she went downstairs she found Cheryl dressed to go out while the radio announcer burbled happily about the weather. "… sunny and warm, lower humidity, unseasonably mild…" From the pride and pleasure in his voice one would have thought he had produced the lovely weather by praying, or casting spells.

Karen poured coffee and sat down. She felt rumpled and disoriented; though she could not remember the details of her dreams, she knew Tony Cardoza had played a prominent part in them. She was not sure what she wanted to do about Tony-or whether she had any choice in the matter.

"I thought I'd let you sleep," Cheryl said. "After the awful day you had yesterday."

"Your day was the same as mine. At least nothing happened last night. What do you have on the agenda?"

Cheryl's curls were pinned high on her head, in an attempt to make her look businesslike. She glanced at the paper in her hand. "I'm going to see a realtor in Alexandria. There was an ad in the paper this morning that sounded interesting, so I called and made an appointment. I want to check out a few yard sales and get back early to do some mending."

Her handwriting was as compact and as neat as printing. Karen wondered whether there was some connection between neat handwriting and a neat, well-organized mind. Probably. Her own writing was barely legible, even to her.

"Very good," she said respectfully.

"You might be thinking about a logo," Cheryl went on, making a precise check by one of the items on her list. "We need something eye-catching that we can use on signs and ads and business cards and promotional literature. You're the artistic half of this partnership, so that's your assignment for the day."

"Logo, my eye," Karen said. "We need a name! They go together, don't they? At least they should."

Cheryl looked at her rather blankly and then burst out laughing. "My gosh, that's right-we haven't got a name yet. That's your department too, you're the smart one."

"I don't know why you keep saying that. I have some skills you don't have, but the reverse is certainly true-and yours are a lot more useful than mine."

"I don't believe it, but I sure love to hear it," Cheryl said.

"You can't get out of it that easily. We'll both think about a name and a logo. It will distract me from Julie's moaning," Karen added. "I really do feel sorry for her, but I'm not looking forward to this afternoon. I wish I could go with you. It looks like a gorgeous day."

"It is." Cheryl got up and opened the back door, admitting Alexander, who paused to sniff at Karen's foot before heading for his bed. "They say it will be nice tomorrow too. We'll spend the whole day rambling around."

Karen was a few minutes early, but she found that the shop was already open. At first she saw no one within and assumed Julie was in the office. Then something moved behind the desk in front, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Karen saw Julie's pale face. It seemed to hang bodiless in mid-air, a pale oval lifeless as a mask. The parted lips and wide eyes were like an exaggerated artist's rendering of startled fear.

Then Julie let out a long, quivering sigh. Karen saw that her eyes were red-veined and her garish clown's makeup was less than perfect.

"I didn't think you'd come," Julie said.

"I told you I would. I'm sorry about Rob."

"You never liked him," said a flat voice she scarcely recognized as Julie's.

"I didn't dislike him."

"Yes, you did. And with good reason. He was a two-timing, cheap bastard." A single tear rolled down Julie's cheek, trailing a black slime of mascara. It was an obscenely pitiful sight, all the more so because Julie's frozen look did not alter and she made no attempt to wipe her face.

"I'm sorry," Karen repeated-but this time she meant it. "I didn't realize you were-that you had-"

"I wasn't," Julie said. "But I had." A ghost of her old mocking smile touched her lips. "Along with half the other female inhabitants of D.C. and suburbs. Maybe some of the males too. Oh, hell." She got up from her chair and went to the mirror. "What a mess," she said in a more normal voice, and reached for a tissue.

"Is there something special you want me to do?" Karen asked. She couldn't offer conventional expressions of sympathy; Julie's behavior, and her relationship with Rob, were not conventional.

Julie dabbed carefully at her eyes and replied, without turning, "There's plenty to do. I'm closing for a week, maybe two. My nerves are shot to hell. And with nobody to help me…"

The complaint was an echo of Julie's old maliciousness, aimed directly at Karen; but Julie's heart wasn't really in it, and Karen did not react.

"I think that's a good idea," she said. "You need a rest. August is always slow, a lot of places close then."

"Here comes a customer," Julie said. "Take care of him. I have a lot of paperwork to clear up."

She spent most of the afternoon in the office. Karen didn't disturb her; the fine weather had brought shoppers out in large numbers and she was kept busy. One woman who had bought a Victorian nightgown from her came back, bringing a friend, and was disappointed to find Karen had nothing on hand. Karen took down her name and address and promised to notify her when she was open for business. She realized she should have started a mailing list earlier. Perhaps Julie would let her display her cards and brochures-in return for favors rendered, of course. She knew Julie's present mood was temporary; she would bounce back, bitchy and greedy as ever, after the initial shock had worn off.

The telephone kept Karen busy too. Most of the calls were inquiries she could handle herself; a few she passed on to Julie. Late in the afternoon came a call for Karen herself. With typical arrogance Shreve did not identify herself. She assumed-correctly-that Karen would recognize her voice.

"I called the house," she announced. "That woman-your partner?-said you were at work."

"That's no woman, that's Mark's sister," Karen said. "She is my partner, yes."

"Oh. You don't like to be alone, do you? Always someone hanging around."

Karen suppressed her irritation. Everything Shreve said had a heavy current of innuendo. It must be a Washington habit; even "hello" could be made to sound sinister or suggestive.

"Well, you know how it is," she said meaninglessly. "What can I do for you, Shreve?"

"We've discussed it before."

"A dress for the party?"

"The dress, yes. I'm getting tired of being put off, Karen. When can I have it?"

Karen hesitated. She knew she was being silly, behaving like a nervous mother watching a favorite child leave home for the first time, but she really hated seeing one of the beautiful old dresses go to Shreve.

Since it must be done, let it be done quickly. She said, "They've been cleaned. If you're that anxious, you can come to the house tomorrow."

"I'm going out of town. What about Tuesday?"

"All right."

"I'll be back Tuesday morning. Come about three. Do you know how to get to the house?"

"No. Why can't you-"

"Because I choose not to. Because I'm buying and you're selling. It's the good old free enterprise system- remember?"

Karen discovered she was squeezing the hard plastic of the telephone so hard her hand ached. Carefully she relaxed her fingers, one by one. Rude customers are part of the deal, she told herself. Rude customers are part of the deal…

There was some comfort in the thought that Shreve wouldn't crack the whip quite so hard if she were not angry about something else. Mark hadn't liked her overt demonstration of possessiveness the other night.

Stop it, she told herself. You're pathetic. Like a teenager with her first crush, finding signs of hope in every careless word.

"Are you writing this down?" Shreve demanded.

"Sorry. I was thinking about something else. Give it to me again."

After she had hung up she sat quietly for a moment, clenching and unclenching her fists and counting under her breath. When she looked up, she saw that Julie had come into the shop and was watching her. "Was that Shreve?"

"Yes. She wants a dress for some party Miriam is giving."

"Watch out for her," Julie said. "She can be a real bitch."

"I know. But thanks for the warning."

"She and Mark," Julie began. Karen felt her face stiffen. She met Julie's look with one of cool disinterest, and after a moment Julie turned away. "It's almost closing time. I want to pack some of the smaller things, there's no sense in leaving them lying around. Give me a hand, will you?"

They filled several cartons with jewelry, silver, and the more valuable pieces of crystal, and stacked them by the door.

"That's it, I guess," Julie said. She looked so tired and forlorn, Karen put an impulsive arm around her. Julie flinched, as if her touch had been red-hot.

"I'm sorry," Karen said in surprise.

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean… I'm just so damned jumpy." She hesitated, then said awkwardly, "I didn't mean to give you a hard time, all these weeks. You've been a big help."

Karen knew that was all the thanks she was going to get. It was, in fact, more than she had expected. "I wasn't easy to get along with either," she said. "If you still need help after you get back…" Cheryl would kill her if she heard that, but Karen did not retract the offer.

"That's okay. I have somebody lined up to start the middle of August. I'll-uh-keep in touch."

"Please do." Karen reached in her pocket. "Here are the keys."

"Right." The pause prolonged itself, became uncomfortable. Then Julie muttered, "I suppose you want your paycheck."

"If you hadn't mentioned it I would have asked," Karen said calmly.

"I think you would have at that. Oh, well." Julie went to the desk and scribbled rapidly. "Don't deposit it till Wednesday, okay? My cash flow…"

"Sounds familiar."

"It will sound even more familiar once you're in business," Julie said. "I wish you luck. Here's a number where I can be reached in an emergency; I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know about future murders, break-ins, muggings, and little things like that."

"Let's hope there won't be any." Karen was standing by the table; idly she glanced down. "I see you sold out on the Georgetown book."

"I threw it in the trash." Julie came to the door. "Here."

Karen took the check and the paper on which Julie had written the telephone number. "You threw the books away?"

The surprise in her voice brought a sour smile to Julie's lips. "Yeah, imagine me throwing away money. I couldn't stand the sight of the damned things. You knew. You must have figured it out."

Until that moment Karen had not known, and yet she felt as if Julie were only confirming some long-accepted fact. "Rob wrote it?"

"Yes. To me it stood out like a sore thumb, his writing style was so much like the way he talked. I suppose it's stupid of me, but when I first heard about his death I couldn't help wondering…"

"That is silly, Julie," Karen said. "Tony… Someone I know told me that nothing in the book was new. All the information came from newspapers and other printed sources. I did hear that people were annoyed at having old scandals revived; but what good would it do them to kill the author? That wouldn't stop the gossip, it would only exacerbate it."

"I know. I said it was a stupid idea. Did you read that story about your aunt's house?"

"There wasn't anything about Ruth's house."

"No? Rob said there was. He was giggling over it…" Her face twisted, and for a moment Karen thought she was going to break down. Fond memories of an old lover, recalling the laughter they had shared over someone's discomfort and distress… Perhaps the incongruity also struck Julie, because she recovered herself without shedding any tears.

"So," she said. "I'll get the car. You can start dragging the boxes out to the curb; I'll have to double-park."

When the boxes had been loaded Julie drove off with a final wave that had almost her old panache. There was no need to worry about Julie. As Tony had said, she was a survivor. How oddly she had behaved, though, almost as if she were not only grief-stricken but…

Afraid.

Afraid of me? Karen thought incredulously. The way she flinched when I touched her…Oh, but that was too absurd. Guilt as well as fear could produce such a reaction; if Tony was right, Julie had good reason to feel guilty about what she had done, and to regret her involvement in that grubby little scheme.

But suppose she was involved in some of Rob's other schemes? He probably had plenty of irons in the fire; he certainly had other women. The problem with tracking down Rob's killer was not a lack of motive, but an overabundance of them. Jealous husbands-and wives?-jealous lovers and ex-lovers. And blackmail? Tony hadn't mentioned that among Rob's "misdemeanors," but it fit Rob's personality. Victims of blackmail seldom go to the police. If pressed, they may take direct action to keep the secret hidden.

What if Rob's death had been the result, not of a story in his book but of a story that was not in it? Omitted, at the urgent request of one of the participants, after a sizable payment? Suppose Rob had been talking in his bright, chatty way about writing a sequel. And suppose, as well, that Rob had dropped hints to Julie, but had not mentioned names. He had been a hopeless gossip, but he would have known better than to involve her directly in something both criminal and dangerous. If Julie suspected the truth but didn't know the details, it would explain her odd behavior, including her repeated questions about Ruth's house. There was nothing in the book about Ruth's house, unless one of the stories that named no names and gave no precise address referred to some old, half-forgotten and undocumented tragedy. It didn't really matter. Rob's hints had been designed to alarm and frighten her, they need not have any basis in fact.

A story that wasn't in the book… That theory would explain why Julie had decided to get out of town for a while. She had not told Karen where she was going or given her an address; only a phone number.

Karen felt certain of one thing: Julie might not know who had killed Rob, but she knew more than she was saying.

KAREN hastened home to tell Cheryl about her new theory. Cheryl listened politely, but she was not inclined to take the matter seriously; she had a happy facility of dismissing problems that weren't imminent and concentrating on things she could do something about.

"Even if you're right, where does it get you?" she demanded. "It's hard enough to pick one answer out of a list of possibles, but you're trying to find one that isn't even on the list."

"True," Karen said gloomily. "There must be enough scandals in Washington to fill an encyclopedia."

"I wonder if that's what Mark was mumbling about," Cheryl said casually. "Seems to me he did say something about that book. It would be funny if both of you came up with the same idea. You know what they say about great minds-"

"Mark called?"

"He was here, not long after you left."

"I thought he was going away."

"He is. He stopped on his way to the airport. He had some new idea," Cheryl said, with a tolerant, sisterly smile.

"Did he say what it was?"

"To be honest, I didn't ask. Mark is always coming up with wild theories. I tell him he ought to write thrillers. Margaret Truman does it, and Senator Hart, so why not Congressman Brinckley? He insisted on going through all the clothes again."

"Still looking for the diamonds?"

"Who knows? He asked me if we had anything from the late sixties or early seventies."

"There are a few things of Ruth's," Karen said curiously.

"I know, I showed them to him, but he just swore and said he was going to miss his plane-as if I was the one who was holding him up. He's speaking at some sort of fund-raiser and he didn't dare be late."

"Tonight?"

"I suppose so, otherwise he wouldn't have been worried about catching the plane."

"I only wondered because he said he would be out of town for a few days."

"I don't know what he's doing the rest of the time. Some kind of political business, I guess."

Her tone of utter indifference to the politics of the nation as exemplified in the person of her brother made Karen smile. She didn't pursue the subject. It was none of her business what Mark did in his spare time. But she couldn't help wondering whether he was off on a quest, following up the new theory that had brought him to the house that day. It would be nice to think he cared enough to spend so much time and effort.

"So what are we doing tomorrow?" she asked, going to the refrigerator for more ice.

Cheryl pushed her papers aside and frowned thoughtfully. There was a pencil behind her ear and a pen in her hand and a smear of ink on her cheek, but she didn't look like a businesswoman. She looked like Shirley Temple, dimples and all. Karen decided not to mention the resemblance. She had a feeling Cheryl wouldn't appreciate the compliment.

"No luck with the yard sales," Cheryl said. "But I found a store in Springfield that has possibilities. I told the realtor I'd bring you to look at it."

"Okay. What's on the schedule tonight?"

Cheryl's eyes sparkled. "I was hoping we could look at the dresses we got from the cleaner. We didn't have a chance before."

Karen shook her head with a rueful smile. "You poor woman. Is that your idea of an exciting evening? We ought to treat ourselves to something special, after that less-than-thrilling Saturday night."

Cheryl's eyes went back to the papers and clippings that heaped the table. "I guess I've forgotten what Saturday night means to most people. After little Joe was born we didn't go out much. It cost so much-baby-sitters and tickets and gas-even a night at the movies ran fifteen, twenty bucks if we went for a hamburger afterward. Usually I'd pop popcorn and Joe would get a six-pack and we'd sit and watch TV, and talk…"

"It sounds nice," Karen said sympathetically. She was touched, but the look on Cheryl's face-the remote, smiling glow of remembered love-also roused a degree of irritated impatience. You're just jealous, she thought; jealous because you've never had the chance, or the right, to feel that way about someone.

"Anyhow." Cheryl's voice was once more brisk and matter-of-fact. "I don't want to keep you from doing something. Do you want to go out? I'll go anywhere you want."

"I was not about to suggest a singles bar," Karen said; there had been a faint but unmistakable note of martyrdom in Cheryl's voice. "It's not my kind of scene either."

"We could go out to dinner."

When faced with a decision, Karen found she couldn't think of anything she wanted to do. "No, that's silly. It's too expensive. We'll be good little businesspersons and work tonight. Let's do something really wild and exciting and have supper on the terrace. It's a lovely evening."

They carried their tuna salad and iced tea outside- and their papers and ledgers as well. The soft, clear air affected even Cheryl's dedication to duty; leaning back, she put her feet on the chair opposite and said lazily, "This was a good idea. The garden is so pretty."

A breeze ruffled the leaves, and the dappled patterns of sunlight on the lawn below the trees shifted like flowing water. A robin hopping across the grass stopped and cocked a bright eye in their direction. Alexander, lying across Karen's feet, didn't even lift his head, and the robin proceeded to attend to his supper. Plunging his beak into the ground, he came up with a fat grub and flew off.

"We may as well enjoy the weather while it lasts," Cheryl went on. "The Gulf Stream is doing something funny-"

"Don't you mean the jet stream?"

"Whatever. Anyhow, days like this are rare, and we've got six more weeks of misery before fall."

"It's funny," Karen said musingly. "I hate this damned sticky heat, but when I look back on the years I lived in Georgetown I don't even remember it. Only the lavishness of spring-all the flowers bursting out at once and smelling like heaven-and crisp days in fall, and winter days inside around the fire."

"I mark only the sunny hours," Cheryl said. "I saw that written on a sundial. It's a well-trained memory that operates on the same principle."

"Mine must be better-trained than I thought, then. When I was talking to Miriam-"

"Who?"

"Miriam Montgomery. I told you about her, she's that friend of Shreve's."

"Oh, right. The one we toasted. How could I forget her?"

"Anyhow, she said she'd hate to live her youth over again. I agreed with her-and I still wouldn't want to go back-but neither would I want to forget these days entirely. There were some wonderful memories."

Cheryl glanced at her and then looked away. From the quirk of her lips, Karen knew she was wondering how many of those memories concerned Mark. But Cheryl was learning discretion; she didn't ask and Karen didn't elaborate.

Alexander rose with a grumbling growl and stretched. He sauntered off to investigate the garden and see if there were any new smells. Apparently he found some, for he burrowed under the azaleas and disappeared from sight.

"He must smell that cat of Mr. DeVoto's," Karen said.

"Uh-huh." Even the seductive summer air and the lovely long shadows could not distract Cheryl for long. "I hope we can have a yard someday. I don't mean right away; it looks as if we'll have to settle for an apartment and a stall in one of those antique malls at first. But maybe in a few years…"

"A yard is a lot of work. We won't be able to hire help, even in the shop, for a long time."

"I love yard work. We could buy a secondhand mower; they have them at yard sales sometimes. Your aunt sure keeps her garden nice. I suppose she has a gardener?"

"I suppose. No, I know she does, I send him a check every month. But he reminds me of the shoemaker's little elves. I never see him."

"We wouldn't want a garden as fancy as this. Roses take a lot of care. Well." Cheryl reached for a ledger. "I'd better get to work."

"Me too. There are several hours of daylight left, and a good breeze; those old linens would probably dry before dark if I hung them out right away." But Karen didn't move. It was too pleasant to sit in lazy contentment enjoying the peace of the secluded garden. Not that the future promised all clear sailing. There were patches of rough water, financial and emotional, ahead; Jack represented a big squall all by himself. But the worst seemed to be over, and she had no excuse for self-pity. Thanks to the loving help of friends old and new, she had been relieved of problems that might have sunk a vessel as heavily loaded as hers had been. But she had done some of it herself; at least she had the gumption to take advantage of the opportunities presented. Julie was off her back, and so was Rob. Poor Rob. She could pity him, but she still could not understand why he had done such cruel things. One could only feel sorry for a mind so burdened with malice-and be guiltily relieved that it was no longer a factor in one's life.

"You're looking pleased with yourself," said Cheryl. "What are you thinking about?"

"I'd be ashamed to tell you. I just had a bad attack of smugness. I guess I'd better drown it in hot water and bleach."

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.