Shattered Silk

Chapter Five

KAREN cut her jogging short next morning, but Cheryl was early and she was still rummaging through her clothes trying to decide what to wear when the doorbell rang. She had no idea what constituted proper attire for a country auction; presumably pearls and mink were not appropriate, which was just as well, because she possessed neither. Except, of course, for the tiny pearls in Dolley's necklace and the mink trim on the Schiaparelli gown.

She ran downstairs to admit Cheryl and apologize for being late. When she explained her dilemma about what to wear, Cheryl looked surprised.

"The coolest thing you've got. It's already pushing eighty degrees. And comfortable shoes."

She was wearing sneakers almost as battered as Karen's, and her legs were bare. A sleeveless white blouse and a dirndl skirt almost old enough to qualify as vintage completed her costume, and as Karen dashed back upstairs to finish dressing she thought how relaxing it was to be with someone who dressed for comfort instead of style- and who wouldn't make malicious remarks about how other people looked.

When she came back down, Cheryl was sitting on the stairs talking to Alexander, who sat with his fuzzy head tilted to one side as if listening.

"I'm sorry, I didn't even offer you a cup of coffee," Karen said.

"No time; we'd better get going if we want to be there before the auction starts. Do you have a couple of lightweight stools or lawn chairs? This place doesn't have seating, and it could be a long day."

Carrying the chairs, they walked to the garage where Pat kept his car, several blocks from the house.

"Wow," Cheryl said admiringly. "What a car! It's a Porsche, isn't it?"

"Yes. The MacDougals have a weakness for fancy automobiles. Frankly, I hate sports cars, I always feel as if I'm sitting right smack on the pavement, and trucks look like cliffs. Can you squeeze in, or shall I back out?"

"No problem. There's not much trunk space, is there? I hope we don't fall in love with anything bigger than a breadbox today. I suppose you'll be getting a station wagon, or a van?"

"Oh, Lord, that's another problem I hadn't considered." Karen eased the car carefully out of the garage. "I don't know what made me think I could go into business for myself, I'm so damned disorganized…"

"Nobody who was disorganized could do those things you did for your husband-taking notes and reading all those books."

"I didn't do anything a halfway competent secretary couldn't do. And according to Jack, I didn't do it very well. Do I turn right or left at M Street?"

Cheryl gave her a peculiar look but said only, "Right. Then straight on."

Traffic patterns had changed in the past ten years and Karen was a little nervous about Pat's valuable car. Not until she had left the Washington Beltway and was heading north on 270 did she really relax.

"The worst is over," Cheryl said encouragingly. "You're a good driver."

"That kid in the pickup didn't think so. What was it he said?"

"Don't ask. He was drunk anyhow."

"This car is Pat's baby," Karen explained. "He'd kill me if anything happened to it. And I haven't done much city driving lately. Jack always…"

She fell silent; she had determined she wasn't going to say anything that could be interpreted as a complaint or a demand for sympathy. After a moment Cheryl said, "I had the same problem."

"You did?"

"Sure. The trouble with being married is that you let the other guy do so many things. You share. Then, when you're alone… I suppose it's just as hard for men. They feel as helpless about cooking and cleaning as we do when we have to fix a leaky faucet or put oil in the car."

"Help," Karen said. "Don't remind me of all the things I can't do! I don't think I've ever put oil in the car."

"I'll show you, it's easy. The only thing to remember," Cheryl said solemnly, "is that the oil doesn't go in the same little hole the dipstick is in."

"Dipstick?"

"I'll show you that too." Cheryl grinned, then sobered again. "There were times when I thought it wouldn't be the big tragedy that defeated me, but the constant little aggravations, day after day. At least you can learn to handle the little things. You can't fix a broken heart or a broken spirit so easy… The next exit is ours."

Though they were in good time, with a quarter of an hour to go before the auction was to begin, there were already cars parked on both sides of the narrow road leading to a graveled lot next to a low, sprawling building. A man directed them into a field, and Karen guided the car over bumps and humps to the end of a row of other vehicles. She gritted her teeth and prayed for Pat's muffler; the field had been roughly mowed, but not leveled.

"Looks like a big crowd," she said, as they got out.

"There are two kinds of people here," Cheryl explained. "Dealers like you-this is their business, after all-and people who just get a kick out of attending auctions."

Karen felt a small thrill at the matter-of-fact tone in which Cheryl had said "dealers like you." It was, however, partly a shudder of trepidation. "I don't know what I'm doing," she groaned.

"Well, you have some idea of what things are worth," Cheryl said. "What prices you can ask, I mean. You just figure out how much you can afford to spend and don't go over that amount when you bid."

"It can't be as simple as that."

"Just about." Cheryl gave a wriggle of pleasure. "This is such fun. I'm one of the second group. If I didn't have other things to do, I'd be at an auction or flea market or yard sale every darned day."

Innocently delighted at being able to display her knowledge, Cheryl explained the arrangements. The auction building, open on one side, contained the choicer items that were to be sold. The auctioneer's podium, at the front, was flanked by long tables piled with small items-glasses and china, clocks and lamps, linens and ornaments. Furniture was stacked around the perimeter, leaving the center open for the bidders. This space was already half-filled with portable chairs, some occupied, some empty.

They set up their own chairs in a strategic spot and then Cheryl led Karen outside. Here the less valuable merchandise was arranged in parallel lines. It was a motley, shabby collection-chairs with no seats, tables with no finish, chests of drawers with half the drawers missing, rusty tools and pieces of machinery, and dozens upon dozens of cardboard cartons filled with everything from books to empty jelly jars.

"This is just junk," Karen exclaimed.

"Junk to you, treasure trove to people who are willing to do some painting and repairing. Come on, he'll be starting soon, probably with these box lots. I want to have a look at the linens. You never know…"

That phrase, Karen soon realized, was the bidder's creed. You never knew what might have been overlooked by a busy auctioneer or an ignorant seller. Among the dime-store ornaments might be a Sevres saucer; a hand-knit cotton-warp bedspread could be hidden under piles of moth-eaten blankets. Watching Cheryl as she squatted and rummaged, her skirts trailing in the dust, Karen began to get the urge too.

When the auctioneer's voice rose over the hubbub, announcing the sale was about to begin, Cheryl rose to her feet and dusted off her hands. "We'd better get our numbers. There's nothing here you want, is there?"

Karen agreed that there was not. The most exciting thing Cheryl had turned up was a set of kitchen towels embroidered with puppies in strident shades of green and red.

They stood in line to register. After displaying her driver's license and giving her telephone number, Karen was issued a piece of cardboard with a number scrawled on it. The process struck her as extremely casual, but when she said as much to Cheryl, the latter shrugged.

"I guess the big expensive places ask for bank references and like that, but there isn't a lot of money involved in these small auctions. If you pass a bad check, the word gets around and then you can't play anymore. They don't usually take out-of-state checks, though, so it's lucky you have a local driver's license. The District is considered local, here and in Virginia. What you really ought to get is a dealer's number, then you wouldn't have to pay state sales tax."

Karen rolled her eyes and threw up her hands at the reminder of another chore to be done, and Cheryl laughed self-consciously. "There I go again. Why don't you just tell me to shut up when I butt into your business?"

They returned to the scene of the action, which had warmed up considerably in both senses of the word. A crowd surrounded the auctioneer; they attached themselves to the fringes.

At first Karen found the proceedings confusing. Microphone in hand, the auctioneer, a tall, rawboned man wearing a Western-style straw hat moved slowly down the line of merchandise. Sometimes one of his assistants held up the item being auctioned, but Karen was not always sure precisely what was about to be sold, and the bidding went with terrifying speed-or so it seemed to her. She had never attended an auction before. It was a popular avocation with some faculty wives, but she had never had time for such things. There was always a paper to be typed or a set of references to check, and besides, Jack despised secondhand merchandise. He didn't even like antiques, only neat, clean reproductions.

"Here's a nice lot, folks," the auctioneer drawled as his assistant lifted a cardboard carton. "Sheets, towels, hardly used. Who'll start it off with ten bucks? Seven-fifty, then. Five…"

The bidding started at two dollars and went up by fifty-cent increments. "That was a good buy," Cheryl said, as the box was finally knocked down for eight dollars. "But it's early yet, the crowd is just getting started."

"Good buy? Who wants sheets other people have used?"

"You sleep on 'em all the time in hotels," Cheryl said practically. "Do you know how much new sheets cost, even on sale? How're you doing-getting the hang of it?"

"I need to scratch my chin," Karen said nervously. "But I'm afraid to move. Some of these people seem to bid by raising an eyebrow, or wriggling their ears."

Cheryl grinned. "No problem. Fred's a good auctioneer; he knows a serious bidder from a nervous twitcher. Just hold up your card when you want to bid. But watch out for auction fever."

"What's that?"

"Bidding on things you don't want and don't need."

"Why would anybody do that?"

"It's like a disease," Cheryl said seriously. "It still happens to me sometimes; comes on without warning. You find yourself going higher and higher and you can't seem to stop. If you see me doing it, just take my card away from me and don't let me have it back, even if I beg."

Karen laughed, thinking she was joking. Nothing like that would ever affect her! She decided, though, that she would rather accept some unwanted article than admit she had made a gesture in error; many of the bidders were known to the auctioneer, and he interspersed his droning spiel with jokes and friendly insults. "Sam, if you don't want the stuff, stop waving your hat; I don't care if the flies are driving you crazy. Lady, you're raising your own bid; it's okay by me, but try to keep track, will you?"

Cheryl bought a box of bedding for six dollars, and Karen regretted her earlier snobbish comment. The sheets weren't for Mark's expensive town house; they were for the home Cheryl hoped to establish for herself and her little boy.

The sun rose higher and the complexions of the bidders turned pink and shiny with sweat. A few people left, having attained their hearts' desires or lost them to higher bidders, but the crowd increased as late-comers arrived. The auctioneer turned his mike over to a colleague and retired into the shade.

Karen was about to suggest that they emulate him when the attack Cheryl had warned her of occurred. It came on her with the suddenness of a sharp pang of indigestion, when a box of odds and ends was about to be knocked down for two dollars. Before she knew what she was doing, she was waving her cardboard ticket high above her head.

"Two-fifty," the auctioneer droned. "Do I hear three bucks?"

He didn't hear three bucks, for the excellent reason that there was nothing in the box except two rusty license plates and a red plaster dog with a chipped ear. The auctioneer's assistant deposited the box at Karen's feet, and Cheryl giggled. "What did you do that for?"

"I don't know," Karen admitted.

She and Cheryl contemplated the red plaster dog. "A rare example of antique folk art," said Cheryl.

The two exchanged glances and dissolved into laughter. "I warned you," Cheryl gasped, wiping her eyes. "Give me your card."

"No, no. I'm all right now," Karen assured her, clutching the magic ticket. "I won't do it again, I promise."

When the auctioneer started on the last row of decrepit furniture, Cheryl glanced at her watch. "Let's get something to eat and check out the things inside. It should take him about half an hour to finish this lot."

"No, wait a minute," Karen said abstractedly. "I want to see how much he gets for that old rusty stove."

"No, you don't. Aren't you hungry?"

"No. I just might be able to use that-"

"Karen!"

"Oh, all right," Karen grumbled, and let herself be led away.

Karen was glad she had a knowledgeable companion; she would not have thought to bring something to sit on, and now that her fit of auction fever was subsiding she realized her legs were wobbly with weariness. They found their chairs and Karen collapsed with a sigh.

"I should have told you to bring a hat," Cheryl said, looking anxiously at Karen's flushed face.

"I'm fine. Just let me sit a minute."

"You stay there, I'll get us something to drink."

She returned with cold drinks and sandwiches and two pieces of cake. Karen decided to forget about her diet; the cake was homemade and delicious. Refreshed and revived, she got to her feet and headed purposefully for the tables at the front of the shed, followed by an amused Cheryl.

Karen was tempted to linger over the dishes and glassware. Some of the pieces, especially the hand-painted Bavarian and Austrian bowls, were quite charming. However, after having watched Julie sell a single goblet for three hundred dollars and another that looked identical for twenty-five, she had decided she would not deal in such items. She simply didn't know enough about them, and she couldn't become an expert in every field of antiques.

One table was piled with linens and quilts. The choicer of these items were displayed on wooden racks, and Karen reached a covetous hand toward an appliqued quilt, each square of which had a different pattern.

"That's an album quilt," Cheryl said. "The squares were made by different friends-"

"I know, Julie had one. She sells these things for five and six hundred dollars. If I could get it for two hundred-"

"You won't," said another woman, who was subjecting the quilt to a searching scrutiny.

Karen stared at her. She was a pleasant-faced person, about Karen's age, with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and laughter lines around her mouth; but Karen's viewpoint had changed. All other bidders were now potential rivals, and she was prepared to dislike each and every one of them.

"Are you going to bid?" she asked suspiciously.

"Probably. But I won't get it either. See that gal over there?" A flick of her thumb indicated a tall, white-haired woman dressed elegantly and incongruously in a knit dress, hose, and heels. "That's Liz Nafziger. She's got more money than God, and she collects linens and quilts. She can top any offer I could make, because I have to make my profit."

"You're a dealer?" Karen asked.

The woman nodded. "I have a shop in Harper's Ferry. Quilts, coverlets, old lace, vintage clothing."

"My friend is a dealer, too," Cheryl said proudly. "She specializes in vintage."

"Oh?" The other woman's smile faded; she and Karen studied one another warily. "Where's your shop?"

"I don't have one yet," Karen admitted. "I'm just starting. To be honest, I don't know what I'm doing."

"Sisters under the skin." The other woman held out a tanned dusty hand. "Helen Johnson."

Karen introduced herself and Cheryl. "I don't want to bid against you," she began.

"Boy, do you have a lot to learn," Helen said bluntly. "You bid against anybody and everybody, dear, and the devil take the hindmost. Don't bid against Liz, though, unless you want to run the price up just for spite. And speaking of spite, there's one you want to watch out for- see that fat little dumpling with the rosy cheeks and the sweet smile? She's got a place in Baltimore and she'll rearrange the boxes while you aren't looking."

"I don't understand."

Helen nudged the cardboard cartons under the table with her sandaled toe. "Well, suppose you scrounge around in these boxes and find something you'd like to have. You're bidding on the whole lot, but that one piece makes it worthwhile. So when your box comes up, you bid, and you get it cheap, and you think, hip hip hurrah- until you take a closer look and discover the one item you wanted isn't there. By a strange coincidence it happened to work its way into the box Margie just bought."

"It's very nice of you to tell me these things," Karen said humbly.

"You'll find it pays to stay on good terms with your colleagues in crime," Helen said. "We can help each other out now and then because we aren't competing, in the usual sense; our merchandise is one of a kind. If a customer comes in who is looking for a particular style or size I don't have, I'll send her on to you, and you do the same for me. If a check bounces on you, you warn me, and vice versa. Once you acquire a reputation for square dealing, people will be more likely to deal fairly with you. Don't expect any special favors, though," she added with a smile. "Not even from me."

"But doesn't it make sense for dealers to agree beforehand not to bid against each other-taking turns on the items they all want?"

Helen tried to look shocked. "Why, Karen, that's considered unethical, if not downright immoral." The amusement she had attempted to suppress surfaced in an unexpected dimple; grinning, she added, "I'm sure you wouldn't dream of doing such a thing, any more than I would. At least you shouldn't discuss it aloud."

She turned with apparent casualness to a heap of linens that had been left in a hopeless tangle by inquiring buyers. Helen's tanned, capable hands sorted swiftly through them.

"Nothing here," she announced. "Actually, I seldom buy at auctions. The merchandise is usually in terrible condition."

"Where do you get your stock?" Karen asked innocently.

Helen moved on to another pile of fabrics without answering. Karen was about to repeat the question when Cheryl nudged her. "Would you tell other dealers about your sources?" she whispered.

"Oh," Karen whispered back.

There were a few old dresses and bits of wearing apparel in the pile Helen was examining. One caught Karen's eye, and after Helen had tossed it aside she picked it up.

It was a dress made of ivory silk, the body unfitted, the modest neckline bordered with lace. A deep flounce of lace trimmed the hem, and rows of pearls, some of them missing, edged the neck and hipline. The rotted remains of a silk flower clung horribly to the left hip, like a big brown spider.

"How pretty," said the romantic Cheryl, seeing the dress as it had once been, not as it was now. "What period is it, Karen?"

Karen glanced at Helen. "Late twenties or early thirties, I think," she said timidly.

Helen nodded. "It's in terrible condition. The lace is hopelessly rotted and most of the beads are gone."

"But the fabric of the dress is in good shape," Cheryl said.

She was right; there were not even perspiration stains, which, as Karen had learned, made a silk garment useless to a dealer. Perspiration rotted silk and left a stain that no cleaner could remove.

"It's a wedding dress," she said.

Cheryl laughed. "She must have got married in January, in an unheated church. Or else she was the calmest bride in recorded history."

"But who would sell her wedding dress, or her mother's?" Karen asked. "I bought a veil from someone the other day; honestly, it's enough to make you a cynic about marriage."

"It was mine," said a voice behind them.

An arm reached out and seized the dress. The arm belonged to an elderly woman wearing a cotton house dress and faded sneakers. Her lined, deeply tanned face was bare of make-up and her hair had been pulled back into a tight, ugly bun. Her eyes, deep-set under bushy gray brows, fixed on the dress with strange intensity.

"Mine," she repeated in a crooning voice. "I wore it in 1931. I was seventeen years old. Henry was thirty-eight. Quite a catch, Henry was. A member of the legal profession, from a fine old family. I poisoned him in 1965."

With no change of tone or expression she tossed the dress onto the table and stalked away.

"What did she say?" Karen gasped.

Helen chuckled. "Mrs. Grossmuller is a little…" She twirled her finger alongside her ear.

"She didn't really poison him, did she?" Cheryl asked, fascinated.

"Who knows? He was a judge, and reputedly one of the meanest bastards in the state. Mrs. G. was never arrested, anyhow."

Helen wandered off, with a casual flip of her hand. The shed was filling up and the auctioneer came in to start the sale.

As Karen had expected, Helen bid on the wedding dress. So did Mrs. Grossmuller. She started the bidding at "two bits" and kept repeating the same amount in a stentorian voice, which the auctioneer blandly ignored. He knocked the dress down to Karen for twenty-five dollars. She knew she could replace the rotted lace from pieces in Mrs. Ferris' collection. Repaired and restored, the dress would probably sell for two hundred dollars or more. Vintage wedding dresses were popular with young brides who went in for the nostalgic look.

She bought a few other garments and had to be forcibly restrained from bidding on a Bavarian chocolate set to which she had taken a fancy. It went for a price at least as high as anything Julie would have asked. Helen had been right about the album quilt; the collector she had pointed out bought it for $675.

It was late afternoon before Karen and Cheryl decided there was nothing else they wanted. They paid for their purchases and gathered up their belongings. As they left the building, Helen Johnson raised a beckoning hand, and they stopped to speak with her.

"Here's my card," she said, handing it to Karen. "Come by or give me a call sometime."

"That's very kind of you," Karen said.

Helen shrugged. "As I said, we can sometimes give one another a helping hand."

"I don't have a card yet." Karen dug in her purse, found paper and pencil. "Here's my address and phone number…Thanks a lot, Helen."

"Don't thank me till I do something for you. Oh-oh, here comes Mrs. Grossmuller; excuse me if I make myself scarce. I've heard that story about her poisoning dear Henry too many times."

She glided gracefully out of the danger zone, but Karen, trying to pick up the chairs and clothing she had set down when she wrote her address for Helen, was fairly caught.

"Changed my mind," Mrs. Grossmuller announced. "I don't want to sell my dress. Give you two bits for it."

"But I paid twenty-five dollars," Karen protested.

She expected a scene and was not looking forward to an argument with the old woman who was, despite her age, heavy-set and formidable-looking. To her relief and surprise, Mrs. Grossmuller suddenly changed her mind.

"Oh, well, that's all right then. You might's well have it as anyone. What did you say your name was?"

Somewhat reluctantly, Karen told her. "How do you do," said Mrs. Grossmuller, in an abrupt change to stateliness. "I am Mrs. Henry Grossmuller. Judge Grossmuller's widow. I poisoned him, you know. In 1965."

Mrs. Grossmuller trailed them to their car, chatting amiably. Except for occasional references to the murder of her husband, her conversation was perfectly lucid until Karen and Cheryl were in the car and Karen had started the engine. Then Mrs. Grossmuller thrust her head in the open window and grinned fiendishly at Karen.

"Twenty-five dollars, eh? Thank you, my dear, I admit the money will not be unwelcome. But you're loony, you know; the dress isn't worth two bits."

The last they saw of her she was wandering down the line of parked cars.

"You don't suppose she's driving, do you?" Cheryl exclaimed.

"How else could she get here?" Karen steered carefully across the bumpy field. "Just because she has a little bee in her bonnet doesn't mean she's incompetent."

"So you say," Cheryl remarked skeptically. "One thing about this business, Karen: you sure meet some fascinating people."

THEY stopped for supper at a country inn, to avoid a sudden thunderstorm that rumbled through, turning the road into a shallow, running stream. Karen felt self-conscious about entering a restaurant in her sweat-stained, rumpled clothes, but when Cheryl explained to the hostess that they had been auctioning all day, the woman nodded understandingly. "Fred Behm's? Hear he had a good crowd. Hope you were lucky."

They shared a half carafe of wine in the low-ceilinged, candlelit dining room and Karen found herself talking about things she hadn't even told Ruth. Cheryl did not need wine to loosen her tongue; she talked to everybody, including the waitress, in a way that would have left Jack in a state of horrified disgust. The conversation bore useful fruit; the waitress knew of a place in Woodsboro that might be for rent, all fixed up; it had been a craft shop.

She also knew Mrs. Grossmuller. "Poor old soul, she's a little strange. Not crazy nor nothing, she can take care of herself all right. Just kind of-well-strange. They say she's got millions stashed away, but the way she acts you'd think she was dirt poor. Want your coffee now or later?"

"I like places like this," Cheryl announced. "People are so friendly. Not like Washington."

She admitted she missed her friends back home. Some of the people she had met through Mark were nice enough, but they weren't interested in the things she cared about. Karen sympathized; but when she hinted that Mark should not have forced such an incompatible role on his sister, Cheryl was quick to defend him.

"He doesn't make me do anything I don't want to do. I never go to those really formal parties with him; I don't know the right way to act, and I'd just embarrass him. But I owe him so much, and I like to do everything I can to help him."

"I'm surprised you don't want to rush back tonight to get his dinner," Karen said. She regretted her sarcastic tone as soon as she spoke, but Cheryl appeared not to notice it.

"Listen, I'm in no hurry to get back, believe me. Tonight is the Murder Club, and those guys-"

"The what?"

Cheryl giggled. "That's what I call it. It's just Mark and a buddy of his sitting around drinking beer and arguing. They argue about everything under the sun, actually, but Tony is a cop-a detective-and he's interested in crime."

"I suppose he would be," Karen agreed. "But isn't that rather a busman's holiday for him? I'd think he would get enough of crime at work."

"Yeah, you would, wouldn't you? But the cases they discuss are old ones-classic unsolved crimes, Tony calls them. One time I remember they spent the whole night arguing about some king of England who murdered his two little nephews. Only Mark said he didn't."

"Richard the Third?"

"I guess so. That's right, you know all about history." Cheryl looked at her respectfully. "It was all Greek to me. But you know, some of them are kind of interesting. I'm real squeamish-I never would go hunting with Joe, even though I am a damned good shot-but there's something about those old cases, they happened such a long time ago they don't seem real. More like a book."

"So Mark thinks Richard the Third was innocent," Karen said, amused.

"Oh, you know Mark, he'll argue about anything. He takes the opposite side just to get Tony mad. There was one time when they had a big fight about something that happened back in the 1850s-the Bell Witch, I think it was-"

"Witch? That's not crime, that's pure superstition."

"Sure, you know that and I know that-and Mark knows it too. He likes to get Tony riled up. Tony says everything has a rational explanation, and when Mark starts talking about poltergeists and haunted houses, he just about blows his stack."

"I think I'd like Tony."

"You'll have to meet him. He's a nice guy."

"But not when the Murder Club is in session. I can't imagine how anyone could find that sort of thing entertaining."

"Really? I couldn't help noticing that book on your bedside table…"

At first Karen couldn't imagine what Cheryl was talking about. "Oh, the Georgetown legends book," she exclaimed. "Julie foisted that off on me the other day; either she hoped it would give me nightmares, or she expected the story about Mrs. MacDougal would upset me."

"Swell friend," Cheryl said. "Don't tell me Mrs. MacDougal has a ghost. But I guess if there was such a thing, it would hang out in a house like hers."

"It wasn't a ghost story, it was an old scandal," Karen said distastefully. "Fifty years old. According to the book, some idiot shot himself in Mrs. Mac's billiard room -killed himself for love of her."

Cheryl grinned and quickly sobered. "I'm sorry! But it sounds so silly when you put it that way."

"It sounds pretty silly any way you put it," Karen agreed. "But you're right about the deadening effect of time; it's impossible to get emotionally involved in something that happened so long ago."

"You wouldn't say that if you could hear Tony and Mark arguing about that King Richard," Cheryl said darkly.

The storm had passed by the time they left the restaurant. There was little traffic on the quiet country road, and they drove in companionable silence for a while as stars blossomed in the darkening west. Then Cheryl, who had been stroking the soft silk of the old wedding dress, said dreamily, "I know you must get sick of hearing me say it, but I really do admire you, Karen."

"I'll be older than Mrs. Mac before I get tired of hearing that. But if you're referring to my business plans, such as they are, I haven't done anything worthy of admiration; it was pure good luck and the good will of friends that got me started."

"But it's such a fascinating business. The old dresses and underwear-excuse me, lingerie-it's as if they were alive, you know? They have histories just the way people do."

"To me they're just merchandise," Karen said, touching the brake as a pair of bright circles reflected her headlights. The rabbit prudently withdrew into the brush at the side of the road.

"Watch out for-oh, good, you saw him. You can't mean that; you have lots of imagination. Like this wedding dress. Can't you picture that poor girl, barely seventeen, standing there in front of the minister-cold as ice, because she was marrying a man she feared and hated…"

"What a romantic you are," Karen said amiably. "Just because the lucky lady didn't perspire-"

"She hated him," Cheryl insisted. "I know she did."

Karen was silent. Cheryl nudged her. "You're thinking about something. I can practically hear you thinking. What?"

"I was remembering something that happened last week," Karen admitted. "A girl came in and wanted to try on the flapper dress I had in the window. Light-pink chiffon with sequins and crystal beads. It fit her well-she was one of those skinny little things, practically anorexic- but she barely had it over her head before she began trying to tear it off. I could have killed her; you can't be rough with clothes like that, they're too old and fragile. I said something rude-well, not really screaming rude, cold and nasty. She stared at me with big, pale-blue eyes, just like a dead fish, and said, 'Can't you feel the vibes? Something awful happened to the woman who wore that dress! I wouldn't have it if you gave it to me.'"

"Geez," said Cheryl, impressed.

"I thought she was just being dramatic. And," Karen added firmly, "I still think so."

"Oh, right. I wasn't trying to suggest there was anything spooky about it. Like Tony says, everything has a rational explanation. The way I feel about this dress comes from meeting Mrs. Grossmuller and hearing her talk about-about her husband. But the clothes themselves can give you clues about the people they belonged to, can't they? Suppose the seams are all pulled and stretched; you figure the woman was either too poor to buy a new dress after she gained weight or too vain to admit she needed a bigger size."

"Clothes are historical artifacts, like pottery and tools," Karen agreed. "I suppose they have an additional mystique because they actually touched and were shaped by the people who wore them. A historian can learn a great deal about a culture from costume-not only the bare facts of fashion, but the social and political attitudes of the period. The clothing women wore in the late nineteenth century directly reflects their status; tight corsets and heavy, cumbersome fabrics and long skirts prevented the wearers from engaging in any useful activity whatever."

"You sure know a lot of fancy words," Cheryl said.

Her voice was noncommittal, and in the darkness Karen could not see her face. "I didn't mean," she began.

"Oh, hey, I like it." After a moment Cheryl added, "You don't talk down to me. I appreciate that."

Karen decided to park on the street that night rather than carry their purchases all the way from the garage.

She had to drive around the block several times before she found a legal parking space. Except for streaks of sullen crimson low in the west, the skies were dark; the streetlights sent shimmering reflection across the wet pavement.

Karen had not expected they would be so late, and she had neglected to leave any lights burning. As they felt their way carefully along the short stretch of sidewalk between the gate and the steps, the carton Cheryl carried slipped from her arms, spilling the contents onto the ground.

"Damn," Cheryl said. "Oh well, they needed washing anyway. Don't try to help me, Karen, you've got your arms full. How about turning on some lights so I can see what I'm doing?"

Karen ran up the steps, trying to find her key without losing her grip on the chairs and the armful of clothes. Cheryl was still crawling under the boxwood that lined the walk when Karen opened the door and stepped into the darkened hall.

Before she could reach for the light switch, something grabbed her. The attack was so unexpected that pure shock froze her for an instant-time enough for the fumbling, anonymous hands to find her throat and close around it. The door slammed shut with a crash like a rifle shot, and from somewhere in the house came the frenzied, muffled barking of a dog. Those sounds, and the thick hoarse voice whispering were all she heard before the roaring of the blood in her ears drowned out sound altogether.

Light dazzled her eyes when she forced them open. She was lying on her back staring up at the chandelier in the hall. No one else was there except Alexander. He was sitting a few feet from her, and although his eyes were invisible as usual, she deduced from his alert pose that he was staring at her. As she turned her head he let out a sharp peremptory bark and went trotting off.

Running footsteps heralded the arrival of Cheryl, breathless and pale. She knelt beside Karen.

"He got away, dammit! Are you all right? Just lie still. I called the police; they should be here any minute."

"Don't believe it." Karen clutched her throat. "I'm all right. Help me get up."

With Cheryl's assistance she staggered into the parlor and dropped onto the sofa. Cheryl peered anxiously at her.

"How about a cup of tea?"

"How about a stiff drink?" said Karen.

"Right." Cheryl went in search of refreshment and Karen rearranged her skirt, and her scattered thoughts. Physically she was not in bad shape. A lump on the back of her head and a sore spot on her throat seemed to be the extent of the damage. But for some reason she couldn't stop shaking. The sight of Alexander wandering nonchalantly around the room infuriated her.

Cheryl came back with a glass in each hand. "I could do with a little something myself," she announced. "But I'm not so sure about you. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"None. You've got all ten of them wrapped around those glasses. I don't have a concussion, Cheryl, I just bumped my head when I fell. There's nothing wrong with me except-except…"

"Shock," Cheryl said gently, steadying her shaking hand. "Here. Take it slow."

She had brought brandy-the conventional remedy for swooning females. Karen hated brandy, but she didn't say so. The beverage lived up to its reputation; after a few sips her hands stopped quivering.

She let Cheryl take the glass and then leaned back against the cushions. The color had returned to Cheryl's face; she had been as white as a bleached petticoat. Sipping her own brandy, she said, "We're going to make a great impression on the cops, both stinking of alcohol."

"Don't expect the cops to show up for a while. The weekend revelers are winding up their celebrations, and a little old break-in isn't going to impress the boys in blue."

However, it was not long before there was a vigorous pounding on the front door and Karen said in surprise, "Such enthusiasm. Cheryl, would you-"

Cheryl rose slowly. "I think maybe," she began.

"Oh, wait. Where's Alexander?"

"In the kitchen, I guess. Karen, I guess I should tell you-"

"You had better let them in before they kick the door down. I hadn't expected such zeal."

As she should have known, from the vehemence of the knocking and from Cheryl's hesitation, it was not the police. Naturally, she would call Mark, as well as the cops, Karen thought. He's her brother, after all.

There was another man with Mark, a muscular youngish man whose Hispanic ancestry showed in his olive complexion and opaque dark eyes. He was almost too handsome to be believable; one expected to see a makeup person hovering, and hear a director shout, "Ready for Take 2." A heavy mustache only partially concealed his delicate, finely cut lips. Like Mark, he was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. Compared to Mark he looked as dapper as the male model he resembled. Mark had not shaved that day and his shirt was streaked with stains. Beer stains, Karen thought, remembering Mark's habit of using a beer can as a baton, waving it in the air to orchestrate his arguments, banging it on the table to emphasize a point. He was always very apologetic when it splashed on the furniture and people's clothes…

No one spoke for a few seconds. Then, with an irritated glance at his silent, staring companion, the dark man smiled in an embarrassed fashion. "I'm Tony Cardoza-"

Karen was still shaky and disoriented. "You can't be. Tony the cop? Tony the rationalist? Tony who spends his spare time arguing about old murders?"

Cardoza's smile faltered, and Mark found his voice. "What's the matter with you, Karen?" His eyes moved to the two glasses side by side on the coffee table and his eyebrows rose. "I might have known. Sitting here getting sloshed-you never did have any head for liquor-damn it, Cheryl, don't you know better than to give alcohol to an injured person? She could be concussed, or-or-"

Karen interrupted with a yell. "Watch out! Cheryl- grab him-"

It was too late. Alexander had only hesitated for a moment because he could not decide whom to bite first. His leap was one of his best ever. He caught Mark square in the calf and hung there, slobbering and growling, while Cardoza stared and Mark swore and Cheryl burst into a peal of slightly hysterical laughter.

The police arrived shortly thereafter. Cheryl carried Alexander away in disgrace, and although Cardoza identified himself to the patrolmen, he effaced himself thereafter, following Cheryl to the kitchen. Mark sat stiff and scowling, his arms folded, while an officer took down Karen's statement. The dignity of his demeanor was only slightly marred by his scruffy cheeks and chin and by the loose flap of denim that bared a sizable patch of hairy leg.

The statement didn't take long. There was little Karen could add to the bare facts: "I walked in the door and somebody grabbed me by the throat." Mark followed the policemen out. He had not spoken to Karen since his initial outburst.

Left alone, she drowsed off, and did not awaken until she heard Cheryl say softly, "Poor baby, she's worn out. I'm going to put her to bed. Mark, could you-"

Karen's eyes popped open. "I don't need to be carried. Mark, if you dare-I'm too heavy-"

"That's okay, I've been working out." His smile recalled an old, almost forgotten joke between them. His slim build and lack of inches had caused a lot of people, including Karen herself initially, to underestimate his wiry strength. In spite of herself, her stiff lip curved in an answering smile. But she stiffened again when his arms lifted her and held her close. Mark's smile faded.

"Relax, will you? I'm not about to take unfair advantage of you, not with a cop right at my elbow…"

"I-uh," said Cardoza. "I guess I'll be running along."

"Please don't," Karen murmured. "I mean-I'd like to talk to you, about what happened."

Mark started up the stairs, moving as lightly as if he were carrying an empty dress. Karen could feel the hard muscles under his thin shirt, but for all the emotion he displayed he might as well have been carrying an empty dress. Why did I do that? Karen thought wretchedly-and then, with a spurt of anger, And why does he have to be so supersensitive?

"I'm not even here officially," Cardoza protested.

He was still at the foot of the stairs, still talking, when Mark carried Karen into her room. Her shriek brought him bounding up. "What the hell-"

"Look-just look!" Karen cried. "Look what he did! All my things-all over-I spent hours washing and ironing-"

"Please-stop-kicking," Mark gasped. "I don't want to drop you on your-"

"Put me down!"

"Where?"

It was a reasonable question. The mattress had been dragged off the bed, trailing sheets and blankets. Every drawer in the dresser and chifferobe stood open, the contents tumbled as if by a giant beater or tossed helter-skelter onto the floor.

Cardoza leaned against the doorjamb breathing heavily. "Don't scare me like that," he said furiously. "I know the room is a mess, I saw it. So are the other bedrooms-"

Karen burst into tears and buried her face against Mark's shoulder.

"Crying over a bunch of clothes," Cardoza said, shaking his head. "I'll never figure women out. There I was thinking what a cool lady you were, kidding me and smiling sweetly-"

"That's a chauvinist speech if I ever heard one," Cheryl snapped. "It was delayed shock, that's what it was. I'd like to see how you'd behave after somebody choked you half to death and scared the fits out of you. And what's more, Tony Cardoza-"

"Okay, okay." Cardoza smiled at Cheryl affectionately, as he might have smiled at a pretty child. "I should have warned her, I guess. You too, Cheryl, I thought you were going to start bawling too."

"If you knew how much time and effort it took to get those clothes so nice and pretty, you'd be more sympathetic. No, put that down; it's sweet of you to try and help, but you're just making more of a mess."

Karen was in her bed, which had been restored to its proper state. Murmuring distressfully, Cheryl was smoothing and folding the crumpled garments. Mark was sprawled in the one comfortable overstuffed chair, his legs stretched out, his expression dour. Cardoza occupied the desk chair; arms folded, one ankle resting on the other knee, he looked quite at home. In fact, there was something insanely cozy about the whole business, and they were all drinking tea-which Cheryl seemed to consider a universal panacea-except Cardoza, who held a can of beer.

"I'm not driving," he had explained gravely. "But Mark can't have any."

Karen felt rather like a medieval monarch holding court, as those gentry were wont to do in their bedrooms, but even more like a sick child being visited by the grownups. Cheryl had bundled her into the least crumpled of the white nightgowns; it had long sleeves with ruffles on the cuffs, and it buttoned clear up to its ruffled neckline.

"So he got in through a window," Mark said.

"Must have. The back door was standing open, but we can assume he unlocked it after he entered the house- in preparation for the conventional quick getaway. The lock hadn't been tampered with, and one of the downstairs windows was unlocked."

"Stupid," said Mark, looking at Karen.

Cardoza came to her defense. "Those old window locks are easy to force. Too bad people around here are so set on their antiques; the wooden frames are so warped you can get a crowbar in the crack between the sashes."

"Fingerprints," said Mark. "Footprints."

"Mark, we've been over this a dozen times," Cardoza said patiently. "The back yard is all grass and graveled paths and nice neat mulch. Not a patch of handy mud anywhere. The guy got on the roof of the garden shed and went over the wall. As for fingerprints-sure, they'll check, but most crooks know enough these days to wear gloves."

"In the middle of the summer? Your favorite junkie, who is supposedly too strung-out to know which end his head is on?"

"What are you trying to suggest-that Mrs. Nevitt has a secret enemy who's out to strangle her?" Cardoza demanded.

Karen's eyes opened wide. "Hey, wait-"

"No, of course not," Mark muttered.

"He was alone," Cardoza said. "Cheryl only saw one person-nothing more than a shadow, actually. If there had been two of them or more, they might have… well, they might not have run away. So it wasn't a gang. Gangs go after TV sets, hi-fi's, things like that. This guy tore up the bedrooms, not the downstairs. He was looking for money or for jewelry-something small and portable he could hock. That's the obvious, rational conclusion, and I'm damned if I can see why you're trying to make something more out of it."

"I'm not. I just don't understand why-"

The telephone rang, and Mark reached across Karen and picked it up. "Hello? Yes, she's here, but she isn't able to talk right now. May I take… What? My name is Brinckley. Mark Brinckley. Who is this?"

In the silence that followed they heard the far-off voice quacking unintelligibly. A wave of dull crimson moved slowly up Mark's face from the base of his throat to his hairline.

Karen sat up. She had seen the phenomenon before. It was not a sign of shame or embarrassment; Mark was never embarrassed. It was pure red rage.

"Give me the phone," she said, and took it from his hand. "Hello, Jack."

"I've been trying to reach you all day. Where have you been?"

"Out."

"Obviously. Why haven't you answered the letters from my lawyer?"

The cool incisive voice, with its peremptory tone, affected her as it always had. Instead of replying in kind, she heard herself mutter feebly, "I haven't been… I was a little upset…"

"Not too upset to console yourself, I see. It was rather careless of Brinckley to answer the telephone at this hour of the night. Adultery is still grounds for divorce in this state, and some judges are influenced by it when it comes to alimony."

"But I didn't-"

"Not that I have any objections. Being a fair-minded man, I felt obliged to point out the legal complications you may incur. Personally I'm relieved that you have found a protector. You are quite incapable of managing your life by yourself. It's decent of Brinckley to take you back. Some men might be more particular about secondhand goods. But he never was very fastidious."

His voice had risen in pitch and in intensity. "Hang up," Mark said suddenly.

"What?" Karen felt dazed. Jack was still talking; he sounded shrill and hysterical.

"Hang up the phone."

"Oh." Karen obeyed. She wiped her hand on the bedspread.

Said Cardoza, staring into space, "You can get a restraining order, you know."

The telephone rang again. Mark picked it up. He was about to slam it back into the cradle, unanswered, when Cardoza said casually, "Do you mind if I…"

Mark's angry color subsided. Smiling grimly, he handed over the telephone. Karen said nothing. She felt bruised and sick with shame. She had a good idea of what Jack had said to Mark.

"This is Detective Cardoza of the D.C. police," Cardoza announced. "Who's this?"

The reply was inaudible. Cardoza grinned and winked at Karen. "Mrs. Nevitt's home was broken into tonight and she was assaulted. Where did you say you were calling from? I see. You have witnesses who can verify that, I suppose?"

The quacking began again. Cardoza's smile broadened, displaying even white teeth. "Yes, I'm sure you are concerned. I'll tell her that. Good night, Mr. Nevitt." He hung up. "That should take care of him."

"Mr. Cardoza," Karen said earnestly, "I think I love you."

"In that case, you'd better start calling me Tony."

"If you two have quite finished the compliments," said Mark, through tight lips, "I'd like to return to the case at hand."

"There isn't any case," Tony said, his patience wearing thin. "At least there's nothing we can follow up. If we had a description…"

"I didn't even see him," Karen said. "He grabbed me from behind and it was pitch-dark in the hall."

"You're sure it was a man?"

"Well, of course… No. No, I'm not sure of anything except that he, she, or it had two hands."

"No distinctive smell? After-shave, unwashed body…" He glanced at Mark. "Marijuana, alcohol?"

"I can't remember."

"Did you feel anything other than the hands? Cloth, hair, mustache, fur? Big hands or small? Calloused?"

Karen kept shaking her head. "I didn't see him or smell him or feel him or… Oh!"

Tony sat up alertly. "What?"

"I heard him," Karen said slowly. "He whispered. Right in my ear, the same words over and over, like a recording. 'Where is it, where is it, where is it?'"