Shattered Silk

Chapter FOUR

BY the time she finally persuaded Julie to leave, Karen had a splitting headache. Almost immediately Rob pranced away, golden curls agleam-"I anticipate a most interesting evening, my dear; I must save my strength!"- leaving the task of locking up to Karen. It was a complex procedure, involving an alarm system and an arrangement of steel grilles, and she performed it with painstaking concentration. It did not improve her mood to realize that if Rob's evening was as interesting as he hoped, he would probably be late to work next day.

As she headed homeward, holding her flounces high above the dirty sidewalk, she wondered uneasily what Alexander had been up to during her absence. Mrs. MacDougal let him roam freely among her treasures, and even Rachel admitted grudgingly that he was not destructive; but it was impossible to predict what he might do in a new environment, particularly if he resented the change.

Karen's steps quickened, even though she knew it was silly to hurry now. Alexander had had all afternoon to work his will.

He was not on the hearthrug, nor was that precious article damaged except for the inevitable accumulation of dog hair. Karen called. There was no answer.

She found Alexander in the kitchen standing by the back door. It wasn't difficult to deduce what he wanted, and she praised him effusively as she let him out. By a simple twitch of his shoulders Alexander expressed his contempt for this transparent attempt to win his approval.

He seemed content to stay outside, so Karen thankfully removed her elaborate and uncomfortable dress and settled down at the kitchen table with a glass of iced tea and the mail. Most of it was for Pat-professional journals, appeals for money from various causes worthy and unworthy, and a few bills. Karen put these aside to be dealt with later; her aunt and uncle had set up an account in her name so that she could pay the household expenses. She drew on it for her own needs, because she had to- the wages Julie gave her barely covered expenses-but she was keeping track of everything she spent on herself, with the intention of paying it back as soon as she could.

The only thing for her was a letter from a lawyer in Dubuque. It was the fourth such epistle she had received. She had not opened any of them, and after hesitating for a moment, she laid this one aside. Her headache was subsiding, but she was in no mood to cope with the painful emotions the letter would undoubtedly arouse. Except for the brief note in the box of her clothes, Jack had not communicated directly with her. Perhaps it was unfair to blame him. She hadn't written or called him either.

I suppose I ought to find a lawyer, she thought listlessly. Another unpleasant duty she had put off--Well, she couldn't do anything about it until Monday. Offices were closed on the weekend and office workers, including lawyers, were relaxing at home, picnicking, entertaining friends. Enjoying themselves. Unlike some people, who had nothing to look forward to except the company of a homely, malevolent dog, and a pile of old clothes to mend.

At least she could get out of the house that evening. She had an appointment with another of Mrs. MacDougal's friends, who had old laces and linens and a few pieces of clothing she might be willing to sell. Such visits had all the fascination of a voyage of exploration into unknown lands; one never knew what would turn up, junk or jewels, treasure or trash. In this case Karen's anticipation was tempered with mild trepidation, for Mrs. Mac had warned her that Mrs. Ferris was a very old friend indeed-"practically gaga" had been her appraisal.

Karen had protested. "I can't take advantage of someone who is senile. And suppose she changes her mind later, and accuses me of cheating or robbing her?"

"Oh, she has her lucid moments. Just make sure she signs a receipt and get the housekeeper to witness it. Betsy is a good soul, she's been with Joan Ferris for years."

Alexander demanded entry, so Karen let him in and fed him. He was only supposed to eat once a day, but she had no intention of trying to enforce rules Alexander didn't choose to obey. It was far too late in the game to turn him into a well-behaved, well-trained dog, even if she had felt strong enough to make the attempt. He deserved a little extra treat anyway. He must be missing his owner; he hadn't lunged at her ankles yet.

There was nothing wrong with his appetite. He polished off his food to the last crumb, belched, and then headed for the parlor, where he lay down on the rug before Karen could stop him. I'll do something about the rug later, she told herself cravenly. There's no time now, I mustn't be late. Mrs. Ferris probably goes to bed at sunset.

However, before she could leave the house the telephone rang. Karen had been thinking about the letters from the lawyer; it came as something of a shock to hear the speaker identify himself as a member of the same profession.

"I don't suppose you remember me, miss-I beg your pardon, it's Mrs., isn't it? I'm afraid I can't recall your married name."

"Nevitt. But it won't be my name long."

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's why you called, isn't it? About my divorce? I do remember you, Mr. Bates, and I had planned to call you, but I must say I'm surprised Ruth would take it upon herself to talk to you without consulting me first."

"You refer, I presume, to the younger Mrs. MacDougal?"

"You are her lawyer, aren't you?"

"Our firm represents Mr. and Mrs. Patrick MacDougal, yes. We also represent Mrs. MacDougal senior." He waited just long enough for Karen to realize that she had jumped to conclusions. Then he went on in tones of freezing politeness, "I assure you that no one has approached me on the matter of your domestic difficulties. I called about another matter entirely."

"I'm sorry," Karen muttered. "I'm a little upset, Mr. Bates, or I wouldn't have said that. Please excuse me."

"Certainly." The lawyer's voice thawed slightly. "I understand. Ordinarily we don't handle divorce cases, but if you would like me to recommend someone…"

"I would appreciate that. Perhaps I might call you one day next week. I do hope nothing has happened to Mrs. MacDougal?"

"So far as I know, she is winging her way westward," the lawyer replied poetically. "It is not Mrs. MacDougal but her automobile that is the object of my concern."

"The Rolls? What's happened to it?"

That, Mr. Bates explained, was the problem. The car had not been delivered to the garage at the appointed time. The owner of the garage had not become concerned for several hours. He had been busy, and like everyone else in Washington, he considered traffic delays part of the normal scheme of things. Mr. Bates had not been notified until midafternoon, and it had taken several more hours to convince the alarmed lawyer that the car had indeed been stolen.

"But that's impossible," Karen exclaimed. "The Rolls is unique. How could anyone make off with it?"

"How it was done is still unknown. That it was done is, unfortunately, beyond any shadow of doubt. The chauffeur's quarters have been cleared out and the man himself has vanished. A Virginia state trooper saw the car heading south on Route 95 shortly after one p.m. The Virginia police are presently making inquiries along all the local routes leading off 95 between Occoquan and Fredericksburg, but they hold little hope of success. It is likely that the automobile was driven into a large closed van, which may now be well on its way to… anywhere."

"Oh, dear."

"You may well say so," remarked Mr. Bates morosely.

"Joseph-poor Joseph! How is he taking it?"

"Very badly indeed. He blames himself. Quite unnecessarily; it is no one's fault. All precautions were taken."

"Yes, I'm sure they were. Is there anything I can do? Look at mug shots, or-"

"No, no, certainly not. The young man had no local criminal record. I hired him myself; you can hardly suppose I would neglect to check that."

"I'm sure you did everything you could."

"I hope Mrs. MacDougal shares your sentiments," said Mr. Bates. "I telephoned you only to inquire whether you have in your possession any of Mrs. MacDougal's property."

"Well, really, Mr. Bates!"

"Pray don't misunderstand. I expressed myself badly; I am, I confess, somewhat distraught." Karen could almost see the lawyer mopping his brow. She didn't blame him; Mrs. MacDougal might not hold him responsible, but she could certainly be annoyed, and she was not in the habit of mincing words.

The lawyer went on, "It is necessary to assume that this was not, in police parlance, a one-man job. Whether the others involved were professional thieves or only amateurs is as yet unknown. It is probable that the automobile was the sole object of their interest. However, the police are keeping a close eye on the house, on the remote possibility that the miscreants may take advantage of Mrs. MacDougal's absence to loot the place. Mercifully the most valuable of the antiques have been stored and Mrs. MacDougal's jewels and silver are in her vault at the bank; but, knowing her eccentric habit of generosity, I thought it possible that she might have given you something to keep for her, or perhaps-"

Karen couldn't endure the careful, pedantic speech any longer. She knew what the lawyer was driving at, and she didn't like the idea at all.

"You mean they-he-that big hulk of a chauffeur-might try to break in here?"

"No, no, you mistake my meaning. I consider it most unlikely. Quite unlikely indeed. I have no desire to alarm you-"

"Well, you have!"

"Then she did give you-"

"Just her clothes."

The lawyer emitted a sharp bark of laughter. "I hardly think thieves would bother about a bundle of old clothing. That is all?"

"Yes. Oh, and the jewelry-a necklace and earrings. But it's not valuable, just semi-precious stones and enamel. She handed it to me when she got out of the car this morning-a little memento-"

"Jewelry." Mr. Bates' voice sounded hollow. "It isn't, by chance, of black enamel bordered in silver-gilt, set with rosettes of pearls, emeralds, and diamonds?"

Karen's hand flew to her throat. "Diamonds? Emeralds? I thought they were peridots and rhinestones-"

"The stones themselves are not valuable," said Mr. Bates. "However, the jewelry belonged to Dolley Madison. It is depicted in the Warren portrait, and its pedigree is authenticated."

"Oh, my-oh, good Lord! Honestly, I had no idea- I'll bring it right over to your office. I don't want-"

"Please calm yourself, Mrs. Nevitt. If Mrs. MacDougal gave you the jewelry, she wants you to have the jewelry, and therefore you must keep the jewelry. I do suggest that you place it immediately in your safe-deposit box-"

"What safe-deposit box? I don't have one."

"Then you had better get one," said Mr. Bates dryly. "Is that all? You are certain she didn't give you the Beall emeralds or ask you to store her collection of Revere silver? I am relieved to hear it. Though the necklace and earrings are historic treasures, they are not intrinsically valuable, so I don't believe you need worry."

After he had hung up Karen took off the necklace and sat staring at it. So much for her expertise on the subject of antique jewelry! She hadn't even dated it correctly. It wasn't Victorian but Georgian, dating from the early part of the nineteenth century, before Victoria ascended the throne.

So Mr. Bates didn't believe she needed to worry. He was fairly sure the necklace and earrings would not attract a thief. It was nice that Mr. Bates was so unconcerned.

Even if the gang to which the chauffeur belonged decided to go after Mrs. MacDougal's other property, they might not be interested in the jewelry. The individual stones weren't worth much, and the set could not be pawned; it would be instantly recognized. But the same thing was true of the Rolls. And Horton knew she had the jewelry; not only had he seen Mrs. Mac give her the case, but she had removed one of the earrings during the drive back from the airport-held it up in full view of anyone who might glance into the rearview mirror.

Her fingers moved respectfully over the smooth surface of the enamel, the settings of the small gems. James Madison, fourth President of the United States, might have fastened the clasp around Dolley's plump neck. Dolley had worn it or carried it with her when she and the President escaped from Washington with the flames of the burning city reddening the sky behind them-the only time the capital had been sacked and destroyed by an invading enemy. Dolley had taken it all in her stride-a plump, pleasure-loving little woman who liked to wear turbans because they made her look taller. Washington Irving, among other admirers, had praised her beauty and contrasted it with the feeble face and diminutive figure of her husband. Pretty Dolley, with a pretty woman's fondness for nice clothes and jewelry…

The only reason Karen knew these things was that, by a strange coincidence, she had been reading about Dolley Madison only the night before, in the Georgetown legends book Julie had given her. Dolley wasn't really a Georgetown ghost, but she was certainly one of the most peripatetic of Washington's revenants, and as the author frankly admitted, distinguished spirits lent a book a certain cachet. Among other places, Dolley had been seen(?) in one of the old mansions on Dumbarton Avenue, where she must have danced and partied a number of times.

Karen put the necklace back in the case and checked to make sure the earrings were solidly fastened. She couldn't get to the bank tonight. Where could she hide the jewelry in the meantime? Then she remembered the secret drawer in Ruth's wardrobe. It wasn't very secret, since the hinges could be seen by anyone who looked closely, but it was the best she could do for Dolley at the moment.

Not that she really thought she was in danger of being burglarized. Horton had not struck her as the type who went in for esoteric objets d'art. Cars, yes. Perhaps he had simply fallen in love with the glamorous old automobile, as a woman might with a gown or a jewel, and had persuaded a few friends to join him in what must have seemed an irresistible opportunity. If she had not been so distressed on Mrs. MacDougal's account, Karen could have laughed when she remembered Horton's sudden descent from the formal manners of a hired employee. And the sheer effrontery of his last remark…The five-dollar tip must have seemed a howling joke to him when he was about to make off with a car worth hundreds of thousands.

But as she showered and dressed she kept seeing Horton as he had stood in the hall, grinning down at her- his heavy features and massive chest; his hands, twice the size of hers. Harmless enough, no doubt; but not the figure one would like to meet in a dark alley. Or in a room of one's own house.

THE telephone call had delayed her. She arrived breathless and perspiring on Mrs. Ferris' doorstep. Externally the house on Thirty-sixth Street resembled Ruth's- a red brick Georgetown Federal of approximately the same age. Unlike its neighbors which it also resembled, it had a forlorn appearance; the small front yard was filled with weeds and the windows on the ground floor had draperies or shades drawn, like blind white eyes.

Karen's knock was promptly answered by a stout, smiling woman with gray hair arranged in an astonishing beehive coiffure. She drew Karen inside. "I'm sure glad to see you, honey. Glad to see anybody, to tell the truth! You don't mind if I call you Karen, do you? Miz MacDougal talks about you so much I feel like I know you. She's about the only human soul that ever comes here, God bless her. I'd just about go loony from lonesomeness if it wasn't for her-and my soaps, of course. Couldn't live without my soaps."

The vestibule was a gloomy cavern lit only by a single bulb in the chandelier. "Sorry about the dark," the housekeeper went on in a lower voice. "She"-with a significant nod at a shadow-filled doorway-"she doesn't like to waste electricity. Old age takes some people that way. Miserly. Don't let her cheat you on them old scraps she's trying to sell."

"I won't." Karen was grateful for an ally.

A quavery, querulous voice issued from the cavernous darkness of the parlor. "Who's that? Who are you talking to, Betsy? Is it that girl? Bring her in, bring her in; don't stand out there whispering about me. I can hear you. I can hear you saying things about me."

At first glance Mrs. Ferris was only a shapeless bundle, swathed in shawls and lap rugs despite the stifling heat of the room. The housekeeper turned on an overhead light and the bundle took on identity. The face that peered at Karen was a mass of wrinkles, the head almost hairless except for a few dry white wisps; but the eyes that met hers were alive and aware.

"Turn that off, Betsy," the old woman croaked. "Waste, always waste!"

Betsy winked at Karen. "Now, Miz Ferris, how can the young lady look at your junk in the dark?"

Mrs. Ferris acknowledged the truth of the statement with a grunt. Her clawed hands fumbled at something on her lap.

Blinking in the light-dim enough in itself, but dazzling after the gloom that had prevailed before-Karen was afraid to move from the doorway. The room was so cluttered with furniture, there was scarcely room to pass between the little tables and the overstuffed chairs, the horsehair sofas and the bookcases and bureaus and desks. And every surface was strewn with fabric. Crumpled silks and ragged linens draped the chairs, scraps of embroidery and lace black with dirt lay heaped on tables and footstools.

Karen's heart dropped down into her sandals. Junk was right. How was she going to get out of here without buying something she couldn't use?

Mrs. Ferris raised her hands. Suspended from her twisted fingers was a web of creamy lace. "My wedding veil," she croaked. "Valenciennes. Worth a fortune. How much?"

The transaction took hours. At first the old lady haggled over every item and told interminable stories about each scrap. The stories, some tragic, some touching, some frankly slanderous, would have fascinated Karen if she had known any of the people concerned, and if she had not been so hot. She couldn't decide whether Mrs. Ferris was too stingy to turn on the air-conditioning, or so old she needed heat to keep her body functioning. She didn't perspire, but sweat beaded Karen's face and made her blouse stick to her body. As time went on, she would have been glad to pay any price just to get away, but the housekeeper's nods and winks confirmed her suspicion that Mrs. Ferris was enjoying the company, and the bargaining.

At last she began to tire and to wander down pathways into the past, addressing Karen as Susie ("Her daughter," the housekeeper whispered. "Just say, 'yes, Mama.'") When Karen offered a flat sum for the last few boxes, sight unseen, she nodded wearily.

She perked up, though, when Karen handed over the money-Mrs. MacDougal had warned her she would be expected to pay cash-and scribbled her name on the prepared receipt. Karen had to call a taxi to carry away the loot, and when she left the room Mrs. Ferris was chuckling to herself as she counted the bills and silver, briskly as a bank cashier.

As she stood on the step with Betsy, waiting for the taxi, the housekeeper said, "You gave the old dear a real shot in the arm. She'll squirrel that money away before I get back in the room; Lord knows how much she's got tucked away, under chair cushions and behind pillows. And she'll talk for days about what a sharp bargainer she is."

"I hope I didn't cheat her."

"Good land, honey, that stuff has been rotting in the attic for thirty years or more. I'm glad to get it out of the house."

"But won't her children resent her selling family heirlooms? I mean, the wedding veil-"

"Well, honey, it's hers, isn't it? Seems to me she's entitled to do what she wants with it. There's no family except a daughter and granddaughter, and they sure don't put themselves out any for her; one of 'em comes by every month or so, and it's downright indecent how disappointed they are when they find she's still alive and kicking. Here's your taxi, honey."

The cabdriver good-naturedly helped Karen carry the overflowing cartons to the door and then left, his headlights cutting twin beams through the darkening street. Alexander ambled to the door and Karen began tugging the boxes into the house. She was anxious to examine her purchases in a decent light. Either she had made an excellent deal or she had just wasted $78.50. If it was the former, she had no qualms; she had had to work for every penny.

As she dragged the last of the boxes inside, the dog made a sudden dart for the door. Karen grabbed and missed; Alexander scampered down the steps and ran to the gate, barking furiously.

Thank goodness she had closed the gate. She went after the dog. He had stopped barking, but he seemed to be intent on something across the street.

A pool of darkness had gathered there, equidistant between two streetlights. The windows of the opposite house were unlighted. After a moment Alexander turned and went back into the house.

Until that moment Karen had forgotten her conversation with the lawyer. She was sorry to have been reminded. Not that Alexander's aggressiveness was significant; he might have been barking at a squirrel or a shadow. Nevertheless she retreated quickly into the house and locked the front door.

Alexander was sniffing at the cartons. A violent sneeze indicated his opinion; he stalked off, shaking his head.

Karen pulled the boxes into the dining room. She had cleared the long table and covered the surface with thick layers of newspaper so she could use it as a work table. She began unloading her purchases.

At first she was inclined to agree with Alexander, and her heart sank. Seventy-eight dollars wasn't much money, she supposed, but from the point of view of someone who had none at all, it was too much to waste on material that could never bring a profit. Just touching the fabrics made her want to scrub her hands. She reminded herself that she had been spoiled by the superb condition of Ruth's and Mrs. MacDougal's clothes. The things she had bought from Mrs. Mac's other friends had not been up to that standard, but neither had they been as bad as this. Most of the cloth reeked of mold and mustiness. Some appeared to have been stored without being washed. She shook out a long pink organdy dress stained all down the front; it looked as if it had been wrapped around a rusty iron frying pan.

But there were treasures among the trash. The laces were beautiful, ranging from separate pieces of edging and insertion only a foot long to big sections large enough to have been overskirts or dress panels. Most were of cotton; they would respond well to plain soap and water.

She took a double handful of laces, some of the ones that would require what her pamphlets called "heroic treatment," and carried them upstairs. Filling the basin in the bathroom with warm water and detergent, she left them to soak overnight. Tomorrow she would rinse them thoroughly and wash them again, adding a small amount of ordinary bleach to the water.

It was still early-early on a Friday night, the beginning of the weekend. Karen raised the window in the master bedroom, which looked over the street. The house across the way showed lighted windows now; the sound of voices drifted across to her. A puff of stale, hot air warmed her face and she lowered the window. Georgetown gardens were beautiful, but she didn't envy the people who were sitting in the one across the street, talking and drinking and having fun, in spite of the heat. At least she didn't envy them much…

She went downstairs. Alexander raised his head when she turned on the lights in the parlor, but he did not move. He had refused to occupy his bed-antique basketry, lined with crushed velvet-when it was in the kitchen, so Karen had given up and put it in the parlor, on the hearthrug.

"Come on," she said. Her voice sounded strange in the empty room. "You're not much, Alexander, but you're better than nothing. How about coming upstairs with me?"

A rude sniff was the only reply. Karen had been prepared for a refusal. She held out the chicken breast she had taken from the refrigerator. Alexander was passionately fond of chicken-only the white meat, of course.

It took a while, but she finally got Alexander, and his bed, into her room. The only book on the bedside table was the Georgetown legends book. The phantom of Dolley Madison held no charm for Karen that night; she found a children's book in one of the bookcases in the hall.

Little Women was as bland and harmless as a piece of literature could be, and it finally put Karen to sleep. Yet she dreamed that night, for the first time since Ruth and Pat had left. She dreamed Horton was waltzing with Mrs. Ferris, he in his chauffeur's uniform, she swathed in her wedding veil like a mummy in its wrappings. The dance grew wilder and Horton lifted the fragile old woman clear off her feet, whirling her around like a withered leaf; and as the music swelled she shriveled and turned brown, until she was a leaf, sere and dead, but giant in size. Then Horton, grinning till his gums showed, let her go and she fluttered in diminishing circles around the room until someone opened a window and out she blew into the darkness. A faint shriek, like the squeal of a rusty hinge, shivered and died into silence.

KAREN had never believed in the virtues of being early to bed and early to rise, but in Washington, in the summer, the second part of the adage made good sense. From dawn to midmorning-sometimes earlier, during a severe heat wave-the temperature was at least tolerable.

It was a surprisingly sociable time of day, too. Joggers and runners and exercise buffs were out in full force, not only because of the relative coolness but because most of them worked during the day. Karen had been jogging, or trying to, for over a week. The first time she emerged from the house into the pale light and long, soft shadows, she had been self-conscious and a little uneasy. Now she enjoyed it. There was a camaraderie among the would-be healthy, a pleased awareness of their superiority over the slothful majority who were still snoring in their beds. The truly dedicated ran in a state of profound detachment from reality, their eyes fixed in vacancy, their faces bright-red and streaming; but there were plenty like Karen, who had time for a friendly wave or grin, or gasped greeting, as they stumbled along. The tree-lined streets seemed cooler than they really were, and the towpath along the old B and O Canal was delightful at that time of day, shaded by surrounding buildings, with the water rippling gently under the footbridges.

Julie had given her a copy of the "new diet." Julie collected diets, though as far as anyone could observe she followed none. Karen was trying to stick to this one, though she found cottage cheese for breakfast an abomination difficult to accept, much less enjoy.

It was only a few minutes after eight when she returned to the house; time enough to do a load of laundry before she went to work. She couldn't believe how much she enjoyed washing clothes-not even in a machine, but tediously and carefully by hand.

The pamphlets she had obtained from the Smithsonian and the book Mrs. Mac had supplied intimidated her at first, with their dire warnings and their insistence on distilled water and special cleansing agents. In fact, they were singularly lacking in practical, precise advice. Most were written by or for museum curators, whose chief concern was preservation rather than appearance or wear-ability; Karen got the distinct impression that if these experts could have had their way, the garments wouldn't even have been displayed, but would have been packed away forever in special containers, safe from damaging light and touch.

The few books written for wearers and sellers of vintage clothing went to the opposite extreme. If the clothes can't be washed and cleaned by ordinary methods, don't bother with them, was the gist of their advice. Karen had had to rely on her own judgment and common sense in most cases. Anxious experimentation had proved to her that the white linens and cottons responded beautifully to soap and water and a careful use of bleaching agents. She learned to detect worn spots that might give way when wet, and she found that some long-set stains such as rust could not be removed without destroying the cloth itself. She tried the old methods-sun-bleaching, or lemon juice and water with a pinch of salt. One of Mrs. Mac's friends, delighted at finding an interested listener, told her how the frilly voluminous undergarments had been laundered when she was a girl-scrubbed by hand on a ridged washboard, starched and sprinkled and rolled and ironed with heavy irons heated on the stove. Karen wasn't moved to buy a washboard or give up her handy electric steam iron, but she searched the stores for old-fashioned Argo starch and followed the directions on the box, boiling and straining and diluting it as directed. It gave a better finish than spray starch, her mentor assured her, and lasted through several washings.

Part of Karen's pleasure was purely sensuous. It was good to handle the natural fabrics, linens and cottons and silks, and to see them transformed as if by magic from dingy, crumpled wads of cloth to garments dazzling in their whiteness and perky with starch.

There was another reason why she enjoyed a job she would once have considered unworthy of her intelligence. This job had visible, tangible results. They hung in lacy elegance from hangers and rods, and danced on the drying lines strung across the garden. They were the product of her own labors and her own good sense, and they would mean money in the bank-money she had earned. All she had ever gained from her long hours of labor for Jack was an occasional line in the finished book. "And finally I must thank my wife, who typed the manuscript…"

In the morning light the laces she had bought the previous night looked even better than she had hoped. She washed and bleached and rinsed again; by midmorning the clotheslines in the garden were full. Karen rewarded herself with a second cup of coffee-black-and sat down on the terrace to relax for a few minutes and admire the results of her labors.

She wondered how long it would be before the neighbors complained. The look was definitely not Georgetown, and even though the high fence ensured a degree of privacy, old Mr. DeVoto, who lived in the house to the north, was a first-class busybody. Let him object, she thought defiantly. But it would be nice to have her own place, in the country or in a small town, where the air was free of exhaust fumes and smog. She couldn't go on living with Ruth and Pat. Even if pride had not forbidden such a course, her uncle's temper would surely crack if he had to fight his way through dangling linens and laces every time he wanted to sit on the terrace or use the bathroom.

Karen arrived at the shop promptly at eleven, to find that Rob had already opened for business. Her surprise and pleasure at this unexpected development were cut short when Rob informed her that he was taking the afternoon off. He brushed her protests aside with an airy wave of the hand. "Darling, you must have more confidence in yourself. It's a piece of cake. I mean, sweetie, what's the problem?"

The problem was that Saturday was the busiest day of the week, when it would have been advantageous to have two people on duty. Rob knew this as well as Karen did, but although she was sorely tempted to give him a piece of her mind, she decided it was not worth the effort. She had no authority to hire or fire employees; if Rob took umbrage at her criticism and quit she would be left with no help at all. Like Alexander, he wasn't worth much, but he was better than nothing. She wondered how he managed to keep his job. He must have some hold over Julie, to get away with such a casual attitude; she had seen him do the same thing before. She couldn't believe Rob and Julie were lovers, though. Surely Rob wouldn't flaunt his affairs so flagrantly if that were the case. Perhaps there had been something between them in the past.

Rob left at two, reeking of some strong, supposedly sexy aftershave, and smirking in a way that made Karen want to throw something at him. Business was brisk. She didn't sell much, but the shop bell never stopped tinkling and she didn't have a moment to sit down. Finally, at around four, the traffic began to slow. The sunshine without was hazy with heat, and most people were heading for Happy Hour.

Karen had just collapsed into a chair when the telephone rang. Instead of reaching for it she eyed it warily; she was still smarting from the last call, from a dealer who had some urgent business with Julie-an appointment she had obviously forgotten, since she had said nothing about it. The dealer, not a well-bred man, had taken his ire out on Karen and she was in no mood for another such encounter.

However, the phone had to be answered. The voice that replied to her formal "Old things. May I help you?" was familiar.

"Karen? This is Cheryl. Mark's sister."

"Oh, hello."

"Hello. I just happened to be in… I mean, I was wondering… I thought maybe you'd like to go to dinner or a movie or something tonight. I know it's awfully short notice-"

"That's no problem," Karen said. "I'm not exactly the most sought-after female in Washington."

"That makes two of us. Anyway, we're not alone; what's the ratio of women to men in this town-three to one?"

"More like ten to one, I think."

"I guess it feels that way to lots of women," Cheryl agreed. "Look, you don't have to say yes just for politeness. If you had other plans-"

"To tell you the truth, I had planned to spend the evening washing and ironing clothes. Not exactly a wild and frivolous time."

"It sounds absolutely thrilling compared to what I was looking forward to."

"I suppose Mark is busy," Karen said. Just like Mark, she was thinking-bringing the poor girl here to cook and keep house for him while he goes to all those glamorous parties…

"He has to work tonight, the poor guy. I try to keep out of his way when he's preparing a speech or writing a bill, or whatever it is they do up there on the Hill. He wanders around the house talking to himself and running into the furniture-"

"Here comes a customer," Karen said, as the door opened. "Can I call you back?"

"Well, uh… I'm at a phone booth, actually, and…"

"Which just happens to be in the neighborhood?" Karen remembered Cheryl's first unfinished sentence. "Why don't you come to the shop and we'll decide what we want to do."

The customer was looking for antique jewelry. Karen displayed Julie's few pieces of Art Deco and Art Nouveau, and the customer, who was only interested in Victorian and Georgian jewelry, departed. The next person to enter was Cheryl. Karen realized she couldn't have been more than two blocks away when she called.

Her curls were limp with damp and her perspiring face shone like a mirror, but her smile would have cheered the most confirmed misogynist. You can't help being glad to see her, Karen thought; she's so openly glad to see you.

"Boy, it's hot out there," Cheryl announced, with the air of someone who has just made a new scientific discovery. "Are you all alone? Where's your assistant?"

"It's a moot point as to who is assisting whom, or if anybody is assisting anybody," Karen said.

"That bad, huh?"

"Oh, not really, I'm just in a bitchy mood. This is my first day without Julie and Rob decided to take the afternoon off. I guess I'm a little nervous. It's a big responsibility."

"Good experience, though," Cheryl said. "For running your own place."

"It's teaching me what not to do, at any rate. All this clutter and confusion isn't my style. It's too hard to keep track of things and people."

"Do you have much shoplifting?" Cheryl sounded as if she were genuinely interested.

That was all Karen needed. She didn't stop talking until she was interrupted by another customer, and after she had dealt with him she was surprised to see that it was after five.

"We haven't even discussed what we're going to do this evening," she said, adding apologetically, "I didn't mean to monopolize the conversation. It's just that I have so much to do and it's on my mind all the time-"

"And it's so fascinating!" Cheryl said enthusiastically.

"I wouldn't say that." Karen began the complicated process of closing up. "The clothes themselves are fun, I love that part of it, but when I think about finding the right location and getting more stock and all the business end… I guess that's it. We can go now."

"What computer system are you going to get?" Cheryl asked, helping Karen pull the grille across the door.

"Oh, God, don't mention computers! I'm going to start with a few old-fashioned ledgers. Maybe I can deal with them, I know I can't learn how to handle a computer."

"But that's-" Cheryl stopped suddenly.

"All set," Karen announced, dropping the keys into her purse. "I have to go home to check on the dog anyway; why don't we have a drink there and discuss our plans?"

They never did discuss plans for the evening; they didn't get to a movie or even to a restaurant. By the time they reached the house Karen was talking nonstop, her half-formulated plans and unexpressed worries pouring out in a verbal flood. Missing Mrs. MacDougal for her laughter and her companionship and her support, she had not realized how much she also missed a sounding board for new ideas. Cheryl was a perfect audience, asking an occasional question at just the right moment.

Alexander was waiting at the door, and not until she actually saw his featureless furry face did Karen remember she had failed to warn Cheryl of his habits. She tried to grab him as he charged, missed as she always did; cried out in warning--

Cheryl's lifted foot caught Alexander square in the chest and tipped him gently onto his backside. For a moment he balanced, paws flailing in the air, jaws still moving; then he toppled over backward.

"I didn't kick him," Cheryl said earnestly. "He just ran into my foot; he isn't hurt."

"Only his dignity," Karen said, laughing as Alexander rolled over and strolled away. "Serves him right. He's not my dog, I was conned into keeping him for a friend."

"Mrs. MacDougal?"

"Why yes. How did you know?"

"She's a friend of Mark's. I've met her a couple of times; she's a sweetheart. Say, what's this story about her car being stolen?"

So it might well have been Mark she had seen at the airport, saying good-by. With red roses, yet…

Karen explained about the Rolls as they trailed an aloof Alexander to the kitchen and tended to his needs. She found that Cheryl already knew the details, for Mark had called the lawyer that morning after seeing a paragraph in the newspaper.

"I don't think that lawyer appreciated having Mark call him," Cheryl said seriously. "I couldn't hear what he said, of course, but Mark answered him back in that cold, cutting way he has when he's mad. He said he never trusted that man-the chauffeur-and he wouldn't have hired him to look after a used Chevy, much less a car worth half a million bucks. I figure he must have been exaggerating, don't you? How could any car be worth that much?"

"He may have exaggerated, I don't know about such things; but it was valuable-custom-built, and very expensive to begin with."

"You saw the guy, didn't you? Did he look like a crook?"

Karen was not anxious to discuss Horton, but the naive question made her laugh. "Crooks come in all shapes and sizes. Horton was definitely a large size. Handsome, if you like bulging muscles and wet red lips and fleshy cheeks…"

"Which you obviously don't. Did he say anything-do anything-unusual?"

"He didn't make a pass at me, if that's what you mean." Karen knew that was what she meant, but she wondered what had prompted Cheryl to ask. Was it possible that Mark… No, it wouldn't have occurred to him to worry about something like that. He was only concerned about the car.

She went on to tell Cheryl how Horton had reacted to her offer of a tip, adding, "Looking back on it, I realize why he was so amused, but I couldn't possibly have anticipated what was going to happen."

"Of course not."

"Anyway, it's no great tragedy. I'm sure the car was insured. Mrs. Mac would really be upset if someone had been hurt, but fortunately that wasn't the case. Would you let Alexander in, please, and we'll decide where we're going to go."

When Cheryl opened the door she saw the linens draping the clotheslines in back, and offered to help bring them in. Two hours later they were still sitting in the kitchen eating crackers and cheese and talking clothes, and it was Karen who finally changed the subject. "I'm being very rude. You must be starved."

"Not really. But you-"

"I'm trying to diet anyway. I'm sure I can find something here-salad, tuna-"

"I couldn't impose on you like that." Karen smiled. "Cheryl, you don't really want to go to a movie, do you?"

"Sure, if you do."

"There's nothing around I want to see." "And everyplace is so crowded on Saturday night…"

"It's such a pain getting dressed to go out…"

Karen couldn't keep her face straight, and after a moment Cheryl grinned back at her, albeit somewhat shamefacedly. "I'm so damned obvious. You knew all along I invited myself over here so I could play with your toys." "Saturday night is a bad night to be alone," Karen said, sobering. "You did me a favor. I am getting hungry, though. Let's see if there is anything fit to eat in the fridge."

Alexander approved of their staying home. He followed them upstairs of his own free will after supper and settled down in his velvet-lined bed. When Cheryl stooped to fondle his head he emitted a strange sound like a hoarse, magnified purr.

"He's a sweet little doggie," Cheryl said.

"He is not a sweet little doggie. But he seems to like you, for some reason… Don't get me wrong, that wasn't an insult to you, but to Alexander. He hates everybody except Mrs. Mac."

"I expect he misses her."

"It's hard to tell what Alexander thinks or feels. His manners seem to be improving slightly, though. Maybe a good swift kick now and then is what he needs."

"I'm glad you have a dog," Cheryl said. She glanced at the windows, now black with unrelieved night. Moon and stars had little chance of penetrating the cloud of smog and humidity that hung over the city. "You aren't nervous here alone?"

"No."

"I didn't mean you should be. There's nothing to be scared of, nothing at all-"

"There's plenty to be scared of," Karen said bluntly. She began taking clothes out of the wardrobe, for she had promised Cheryl a fashion show of Mrs. MacDougal's designer gowns. "Burglars and muggers and rapists and perverts. But that's true of any big city, and if you spent all your time worrying about what might happen, you'd never accomplish anything."

Cheryl, who had stretched out across the bed, rose up with a shriek. She was not disagreeing with Karen's remarks, but reacting to the Schiaparelli Karen held.

"Oh, Lord, it's the most beautiful thing I ever saw! Is that real mink?"

"Try it on," Karen invited.

"Could I? Oh, no, I shouldn't. It's too delicate-"

She allowed herself to be persuaded. The dress was too big for her, but as she pirouetted and turned in front of the mirror her face shone with delight. "I never in my life wore anything this classy," she breathed. "I never expected I would. How much is it worth?"

"A thousand dollars, maybe more. A Vionnet sold at auction a few years ago for about eight thousand."

Cheryl's eyes grew round as silver dollars. "Jeesus! Here, get it off me."

"Don't be silly. Everything has to go to the cleaner before it's sold; they've all been hanging in an attic for decades. Actually," Karen added, "I'm glad you inspired me to get these things out. According to the books I've been reading, some of them shouldn't be on hangers. See here, on this Poiret, how the weight of the beaded skirt has pulled the threads loose."

"If you can't hang them up, how do you store them?"

"Lying flat, and unfolded. They ought to be wrapped in cotton or acid-free paper, because regular tissue contains chemicals that will eventually damage the fabric. I got out some old muslin sheets of Ruth's-she saves everything!-to put around them, but I just haven't had time."

"Can I help? Please?"

"Twist my arm," Karen said, smiling.

As they folded and wrapped the dresses, Cheryl said hesitantly, "I'm awfully dumb. I never heard of Vionnet or some of those other people."

She stumbled a little over the name. Karen didn't correct her. "I'd never heard of them either, until I started reading. Oh, I knew a few names-don't ask me how, I guess if you like clothes you absorb some information without realizing it. Worth, for instance; he was the first of the great designers. An Englishman, surprisingly enough; we think of haute couture as French. He did open his salon in Paris, and most of his successors were French. Paul Poiret, Callot Soeurs-they really were sisters-and Jeanne Lanvin were among the first. Madeleine Vionnet was another great designer who wasn't really successful until the twenties, but she has been called 'the architect among dressmakers.' Her clothes looked soft and flowing, but they were so cleverly constructed that they emphasized all the wearer's good points and glossed over the defects. This is one of hers; isn't it a lovely blue? Supposedly the color was her own special discovery."

Much as she admired the designer clothes, it was the "whites" that pleased Cheryl most. "They're more my kind of clothes. Simple cottons and crochet, like my grandma used to do. I don't feel as if I was a bird in borrowed feathers."

"They look good on you," Karen said, admiring the sleeveless camisole and full, ruffled petticoat Cheryl was modeling. "I think it's because you have the right kind of figure."

"Big boobs and a fat tush," said Cheryl, making a face.

"The Edwardians wouldn't have put it that way. An hour-glass figure, madam, nicely rounded as a woman should be. Now I look ridiculous in clothes of that period. I'm too tall and I'm practically flat fore and aft, with no visible waistline."

"This is your style." Cheryl held up a shimmering peach nightgown, cut low in front and clinging across the hips. "What do you call it?"

"It's a bias-cut satin nightgown from the thirties. The Jean Harlow look. I might have been able to wear it once…"

"Try it on. Come on, you have to play too."

Karen had to tug the gown down over her hips, but it was something of a boost to her ego that she could get it on at all. "If I don't breathe I'm all right," she said, sucking in her stomach.

"You look absolutely super. That's your style all right, lean and slinky. You know, you may have something with this idea of analyzing women's figures according to historical periods. Maybe we-I mean, you-could start a fashion-guidance salon, like the color-analysis business. You know, winter, spring, fall, summer colors?"

"The world is full of opportunities," Karen said ironically, peeling the nightgown cautiously over her head.

Later, as she sat cross-legged on the bed watching Cheryl rummage through a box of odds and ends, she was still thinking about what she had said, and regretting her lapse into cynicism. Cheryl had not complained or asked for sympathy, and heaven knew she had a right. She had obviously been deeply in love, and to lose a young husband so unexpectedly, to find herself poor and untrained, with a child to support, was a much more difficult situation than Karen had to face.

"Some of these things are awful dirty," Cheryl remarked, still rummaging.

"They aren't as bad as the lot I acquired last night. I dropped a few off at the cleaners today, but I doubt he can do much with them."

"This would be real pretty if it was clean."

"Let's see."

Cheryl tossed it to her-a lavender crepe-de-chine blouse with cap sleeves and a scalloped hem.

"I'll try washing it," Karen said doubtfully. "Some silks wash in cold water and turn out well, but in this case the fabric is so worn it will probably tear. What's that one?"

Cheryl straightened, holding a short jacket with leg-o'-mutton sleeves and a high collar. The fabric was silk taffeta with tiny black-and-white checks, and a complex scrolled pattern of black braid edged the lapels and waistline. From top to bottom the entire garment was cut by parallel slashes. Only the stitching at the shoulder and around the hem held them in place; they fluttered like strips of bunting as Cheryl lifted the garment.

"That's beyond repair," Karen said. "Too bad; it was a pretty thing once. Shattered silk."

"Shattered? It looks like it had been slashed by a knife."

Karen laughed. "Nothing so dramatic. It's a condition you sometimes find in silks from around the turn of the century, when manufacturers used a finishing process to weight the fabric and improve its appearance. The substance contained metallic salts; eventually they rotted the fabric, but only along the warp-hence the parallel tears."

"Can't it be repaired?"

"According to one of my books, 'there is no remedy.'"

"What a sad phrase!"

"It is, rather. True, though. Just toss it into the wastebasket."

"You're going to throw it away?"

"Might as well. 'There is no remedy.'"

"Can I have it?"

"Why… Of course you can. Though what you are going to do with it-"

"The trimming can be salvaged," Cheryl said, examining the jacket with a pensive expression. "The braid and the cute little buttons."

"You're welcome to it. It's of no use to me."

From Cheryl's grateful thanks one would have thought she had had a Chanel gown bestowed upon her. She really does love these things, Karen thought.

"I guess I'd better get going," Cheryl said reluctantly. "Mark said to call him when I was ready to leave…"

She looked doubtfully at Karen, who said calmly, "That's a good idea. It's not easy to get a cab on Saturday night."

But the suggestion had cast a slight air of constraint, and when they went downstairs to wait for Mark, Cheryl was obviously ill at ease. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in going to an auction tomorrow," she said.

"An auction?"

"Yes, up in central Maryland. You mentioned you'd have to start finding other sources of merchandise and I just thought… But I don't suppose you want to."

Karen had not realized until that moment how much she had dreaded the long Sunday alone. "That sounds like fun."

Cheryl's eyes lit up. "Does it really? Would you really like to go? I'm crazy about auctions, but it's not so much fun going alone. I've been buying some things for Mark. You wouldn't believe the junk that boy has, and a man in his position needs classy furniture, don't you think? And I've seen old clothes-what do you call them, vintage?-at auctions, and you said you'd be needing jewelry and other things too- Oh, that's great. I hate Sundays, there's nothing to do except study, and I've already done my next assignment. I'll see if Mark needs the car."

"I have a car. It's my uncle's, actually; he made me get a D.C. license so I could keep the car in running order while he's gone. I've only driven it once since he left, so I guess I ought to take it out again."

"That's good, because then we can stay as long as we want. I know how to get there. I made Mark take me once, but he hates auctions."

"I'll pick you up," Karen said slowly. She had just realized what she had gotten herself into by admitting she had a car.

"You don't have to do that." Cheryl's exuberant grin faded. "I'm being pushy again," she muttered. "I should have waited for you to call me, I'm always the one who… But I thought maybe you didn't like… I don't know what happened with you and Mark, he never said, honest he didn't, but I wondered… So that's why I keep inviting you all the time."

It may have sounded like a non sequitur, but Karen had no difficulty in following Cheryl's train of thought.

She laughed lightly. "I don't know why you should think I want to avoid Mark. We were… we were good friends once, but that was a long time ago. My feelings toward him are… are perfectly amiable. Casual, but-er-amiable."

"Really?"

"Really. What time tomorrow?"

"We ought to leave early so we can be there when it starts. But you don't have to come get me, it will save time if I take a cab here, then we can get right onto the parkway. Suppose I come at eight. Is that too early?"

"No, that's fine."

"There's Mark. I'd better run. I hope they have some old clothes! But even if they don't, it will be good practice for you, bidding and all that. You have to be very sly and tricky."

Karen laughed. Cheryl being tricky was a sight she wanted to see.

She stood watching as Cheryl got into the waiting car. Mark didn't get out, or wave. I got more attention from Horton, Karen thought wryly. But of course Mark's windows were closed because of the air-conditioning. The night air was hazy with mist and close as a steam bath.

He did sound the horn, though, as he drove off- a familiar syncopated signal that sent a stab of memory along Karen's nerves.

A lurid pinkish glow lit the sky. Faintly to her ears came the sounds of revelry by night-isolated shrieks of laughter, the beat of music, the throb of automobile engines. As usual, every legal parking space along the street was filled. People were more cautious about parking illegally these days; the District police didn't fool around, they booted or towed violators instead of issuing meaningless tickets. Shadows passed along the sidewalk; people hurrying to and from the night spots on Wisconsin, residents walking dogs or taking a late-night stroll. Lots of people around. Nothing to be nervous about.

She went back in and followed Alexander through his nightly routine-the final trip to the comfort station in the back yard, and the reward for good behavior, a gourmet dog biscuit. He didn't linger over his outdoor activities, and Karen was glad to close the door against the shrouded night. There were lights outside the back door, but they did not extend far into the darkness.

She handed over the biscuit and then dropped her hand onto the dog's head in a brief caress. "No squirrels out there tonight, Alexander? Let's hit the sack, okay?"