Shattered Silk

CHAPTER SIX

THE memory of that obscene whisper was Karen's last coherent recollection. She was vaguely aware of voices and movement as Cheryl shooed the men out of the room, and she half-heard Cheryl's statement that she intended to spend the night. She was too drowsy to protest the offer even if she wanted to, which she emphatically did not. Once recalled, the whisper went on echoing in the corridors of her mind; she was almost afraid to go to sleep for fear it would follow her into her dreams.

However, she slept heavily and dreamlessly until she was awakened by a thud that shook the bed, and by a hot and not particularly sweet-smelling breath on her face. It was, of course, Alexander. The sight of his prize-winning ugliness only inches from her eyes was so horrible she promptly closed them again. Alexander bit her on the nose. Karen sat up with a shriek. Alexander retreated to the foot of the bed, where he sat down and began to bark.

The gist of his comments would have been plain to the slowest intelligence. When Karen looked at the clock she was forced to agree he was right. It was after nine o'clock. This was a workday, and she was supposed to be at the shop at eleven.

She got out of bed. Except for a sore throat, she felt remarkably well, and the sight of the confusion that still reigned in her room filled her with a burst of anger that sent the adrenaline pumping healthily through her veins. Cheryl had not had time to do more than fold and hang the crumpled garments over the chairs and bureau. The empty dangling sleeves and limp skirts looked pathetic. Most would need washing and ironing; at the thought of all her hours of wasted work, Karen stamped her foot and swore.

The door opened a crack before she had finished swearing and Cheryl's voice remarked, "I don't blame you, but maybe you should save your strength. Ready for breakfast?"

"You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble," Karen said.

"No trouble." Cheryl put the tray on the desk, which was practically the only uncluttered surface in the room. Sadly surveying the confusion, she shook her head. "It sure is a mess. But you know, you're lucky in a way; they're just dirty and wrinkled. I've heard of cases where the burglars got mad because they couldn't find drugs or money and they slashed everything with knives and-well-got them dirty…"

"I know." Karen sniffed appreciatively. "That coffee smells great. You are going to join me, I hope."

"I brought two cups." Cheryl pulled up a chair. Alexander, smelling bacon, came out from under the bed and squatted at her feet.

Karen scowled at him. "My, my, how charming you are when you smell food."

"He doesn't bite people out of meanness," Cheryl assured her. "It's just a habit. He sure is devoted to you, he wouldn't leave your room last night."

"That's a new twist. He's been barely civil."

Alexander put his front paws on Cheryl's knee and barked. Cheryl meekly handed over the strip of bacon she had been about to eat, and Alexander retreated under a chair, growling over his prize.

"He does look more cheerful today," Karen said. "I guess he needed an interest in life. There's nothing like a burglar to perk a dog up. But I can't give him any prizes as a watchdog."

"It wasn't his fault. He was shut up in the dining room. You look pretty cheerful yourself for someone who was half strangled last night. How do you feel?"

"My throat is a little sore, but otherwise I feel fine." Karen forced down a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Her stomach was still queasy, but she was grateful for Cheryl's efforts, and even more for Cheryl's willingness to pretend that nothing more distressing than an attempted burglary had occurred the previous night.

"I might be in much worse shape if you hadn't rushed to the rescue," she said. "It was very brave of you, Cheryl, but it was also very foolhardy. How did you get in? I seem to remember hearing the door slam…"

"Well, that was how I knew something was wrong. I figured you wouldn't slam the door in my face and leave me out there in the dark! Luckily you had left your keys in the lock. All I saw when I opened the door was something dark and shapeless, fading away into the shadows. By the time I turned on the light and made sure you weren't badly hurt and let Alexander out of the dining room, he'd gone out the back door. I should have chased him right away."

"Good Lord, no, you shouldn't have," Karen said sharply. "You did exactly right."

"You aren't mad because I called Mark?"

"No, I'm not mad at you." Karen took a deep breath and plunged into the subject she had avoided. It felt like jumping into a pool, not of water, but of some viscous slimy liquid. "I'm only sorry you had to overhear that telephone conversation."

"I didn't really hear anything."

"You heard enough to realize what was going on. You know Mark as well as… you know him better than I do; you've seen him look like that, you can imagine what was being said. Jack has a tongue like an adder; it leaves welts that sting for days. At least," Karen said, with a dreary little laugh, "Mark can derive some satisfaction from having his accusations confirmed. I called him paranoid and egotistical when he told me Jack's principal reason for marrying me was to get back at him. Now I know he was right. I ought to tell him so. It's the least I can do after subjecting him to that-that garbage."

"Stop it," Cheryl said sharply.

"Stop what?" Karen had expected sympathy; she had not expected to see a scowl darken Cheryl's face and hear the anger in her voice.

"Stop blaming yourself for everything. So you made a mistake. Everybody makes them. It's not your fault that your husband is a mean bastard. And Mark is a big boy. He's heard a helluva lot worse than your husband can dish out. He hears worse every day." Then she clasped her hand over her mouth. "I shouldn't have said that," she mumbled, behind it. "I'm so tactless…"

"You are tactful to a fault," Karen said, recovering from her surprise. "You've known about Jack and his- his little foibles all along, haven't you? And Mr. Cardoza- Tony-too. He wouldn't have been so quick to react if he hadn't heard plenty. I guess I can hardly blame Mark for sounding off to his best friends. He has good reason to detest me."

"There you go again. Have you always been little Mrs. Martyr? What did that man do to you?"

"It wasn't all Jack's fault," Karen said slowly. "I let him do it. I never was a very aggressive person. My sister was the tough one; she was smarter, prettier, older, taller… Cheryl, don't you dare laugh."

"I'm not laughing."

"Well, maybe you should. It sounds pretty silly, doesn't it? Sara was-is-just great. She couldn't help being taller, older… What was she supposed to do, cut her feet off at the ankles and fail exams to make me feel more secure? Funny; I couldn't see that at the time-that it was my problem, not hers. Then she married Bruce, and they were so happy…Jack sure as hell didn't help. Not that he ever laid a hand on me. He just… cut me to ribbons inside, where it didn't show. Like that old jacket. Shattered silk… Slow corrosion, attacking the fabric at its weakest points."

"Oh, come on, don't be so dramatic." Cheryl's smile took the sting out of the words. "There's no remedy for shattered silk-right? You're cured-"

"Not yet. But I think I'm on the road to recovery. It may take a while."

"I'm glad you told me," Cheryl said.

"So am I. Now we can forget about it. But I wish," Karen said wistfully, "that I could have seen Jack's face when Tony practically accused him of attacking me."

Cheryl giggled. "I guess Tony probably shouldn't have done that. It was like intimidation or exceeding his authority or something. But he got a kick out of it, I could tell. He likes you. Oh, he said to tell you he'd let you know if they got any leads, but don't count on it."

"He still thinks it was an amateur-someone looking for money to buy drugs?"

"Well, he claims a professional thief would have gone for the antiques and the silver. I guess your aunt's things are pretty valuable?" Karen nodded, and Cheryl went on, "He says the man must have been high on something or he wouldn't have behaved so inconsistently- throwing everything around but not damaging or taking anything, trying to choke you and then running like a scared rabbit when I came in."

"But you don't agree?"

Cheryl looked doubtful. "It sounds too convenient. You know what I mean? Like saying, I don't know why he acted that way, so I guess he was out of his mind. Seems to me Mark has a point-"

"If Mark thinks there's a maniac out there with my name at the top of his list, I don't want to hear about it."

"Oh, no, it's just the opposite. He doesn't think the man intended to hurt you; he just panicked when you walked in on him unexpectedly. Karen, are you sure you heard him say, 'Where is it?'"

"I'm sure."

"He was looking for something, then," Cheryl said.

"He might have meant money. He sounded…" Karen searched for a word. Even the memory of the hoarse whisper made her shiver. "… not normal," she finished weakly. "That fits Tony's theory of someone on drugs."

"I guess so. But Mark says it's too much of a coincidence that this should happen so soon after Mrs. Mac's car was stolen. He wondered if the guy was after something of hers."

Karen jumped up. "Good heavens. I completely forgot…" She ran into the master bedroom.

The burglar had turned that room into a shambles too. The furniture was heaped high with the crumpled clothing Cheryl had picked up from the floor. But he had not found the secret drawer. The panel slid aside under Karen's pressure and there was the shabby red morocco case, just as she had left it. She opened it, to make certain the contents had not been disturbed, and carried it in to show it to Cheryl.

"It's pretty," Cheryl said politely. "But it doesn't look like the kind of jewelry a burglar would care about."

"It's the only thing of real value I've acquired lately, though. Anyhow, if that's what he was looking for, he didn't find it. Cheryl, you have a very peculiar look on your face. What are you thinking?"

"I was remembering that weird old lady."

"Mrs. Grossmuller?" Karen's voice rose incredulously.

"I guess you think I'm silly."

"Why, no. I just-"

"He did." Cheryl's cheeks flamed. "He practically laughed in my face."

It wasn't difficult for Karen to deduce the identity of the person referred to. "You told Tony about Mrs. Grossmuller?"

"Yes, I did. I'm sorry if you didn't want me to."

"I don't mind. But it is pretty far out, Cheryl. Even admitting she's that disturbed, which I doubt, how could she track me down so quickly?"

"Your address was on your check," Cheryl said. "She could have gotten it from the auctioneer. And we stopped for supper, that took a couple of hours. Mrs. Grossmuller is a big, stout woman, in spite of her age. And insane people are supposed to have unusual strength."

THE manic strength of the insane… Karen didn't know whether it was true or not, but the idea accompanied her through the day like an unwelcome guest who will not go home. She could not decide whether she preferred to be the victim of a hopped-up young thug or a crazy old woman-or, if Mark was right, the unwitting possessor of a valuable object that might or might not be still in the house. On the whole, Tony's theory was less threatening; random violence was not likely to recur.

Rob saw the scratches on her throat and demanded to know what had happened. When she replied briefly that she had been mugged, he shrugged-"Welcome to the club, sweetie-" and went on to tell her in laborious detail about his own encounters with crime.

Monday was usually a slow day, and Karen's boredom was increased by her desire to get back to the house and deal with the chores that awaited her-not only the endless laundry but a number of other tasks she had allowed to accumulate. One, which she might not have thought of doing, had already been done for her. Mark had called a locksmith and asked him-or ordered him- to make an emergency call. The man had telephoned just before she left the house to say he'd be there between one and three.

Cheryl had offered to wait until he came. "I hope you're not mad," she began guiltily.

Karen smiled. "You're a fine one to lecture me about apologizing for the things other people do. I'm grateful- to you and to Mark. Please thank him for me."

But neither of them had mentioned one unpleasant corollary implied by the need for additional locks-that the intruder had not had to force a window because he had a key to the house. It was only an unproved theory, after all.

Karen had not had time to take the necklace to the bank, or to call Mr. Bates. The latter task at least she could do now. She wasn't keen on having Rob eavesdrop, which he would undoubtedly do, but if she waited till she got home, Mr. Bates might have left for the day. She couldn't keep putting things off. Jack's vicious verbal attack had shattered her apathy and inspired her with an urgent need to be done with him.

Knowing Mr. Bates' busy schedule, she expected she would have to leave a message and wait for him to call her back, but when she gave her name, the secretary put her straight through.

"I had expected to hear from you before this" was Mr. Bates' only greeting. "In fact, I tried several times to reach you, without success."

His critical tone filled Karen with resentment, probably because it followed a similar complaint from Jack. Really, people had a lot of nerve yelling at her because she wasn't available when it happened to suit their convenience.

"I've been busy," she said. "There are several questions-"

"Do you still have the Madison jewelry?"

Karen was still annoyed, and his peremptory tone did not soothe her feelings. "I haven't hocked it yet, if that's what you mean."

"I am glad," said Mr. Bates, in a tone that flatly contradicted his words, "that you can joke about it. One would think that after having been physically assaulted-"

"How did you hear about that?"

"I received a telephone call from Congressman Brinckley."

"Oh."

"The jewelry-"

"I have it." Karen heard an audible sigh of relief. She went on, "That was one of the things-"

"I strongly suggest that you bring it to me immediately."

"Now?"

"Immediately."

"I can't. I'm in charge here, and we don't close until five. After that-"

"After that I am attending a cocktail party." Mr. Bates brooded briefly. Karen fancied he must be looking through his appointment book. "I will return to the office afterward," he announced. "Can you be here by seven-thirty?"

"I-yes, I suppose so. Why not tomorrow?"

"The answer to that should be self-evident. Not that I subscribe to Congressman Brinckley's fantastic theory that your assailant was a member of the gang that stole the Rolls-"

An uncomfortable prickling sensation touched the nape of Karen's neck. "Wait a minute," she said. "Wait just a minute…It didn't dawn on me at first…How did Mark-Mr. Brinckley-know I had something of Mrs. MacDougal's? Did he mention the jewelry?"

"Why, yes. I assumed you had-"

"No. I didn't tell him."

"Then Mrs. MacDougal must have done so. Really," the lawyer said impatiently, "this is all beside the point, Mrs. Nevitt. Although I am convinced there is absolutely no connection between the two events, I do most strongly urge-"

"Yes, all right," Karen said abstractedly. "I'll come at seven-thirty. I also need the name of a good divorce lawyer."

"I will have the information for you this evening."

"Have you heard anything from-" Karen began. But the lawyer had hung up.

He was definitely annoyed with someone, and Karen suspected it wasn't she. Mark must have read him the riot act. It would be like Mark to concoct a wild theory just for the fun of getting the lawyer's back up. Mrs. MacDougal must have told Mark what she planned to do with Dolley's jewelry. Or possibly Cheryl had mentioned it to him.

She hung up and went back to the office. His feet on the desk, Rob was busily reading a paperback novel- one of the popular best-sellers focusing on the lives of the rich, dissolute, and famous. His look of profound concentration would not have deceived a child.

"I hope I talked loudly enough for you to hear without straining yourself," Karen said.

Rob put the book down and smiled sweetly. "It was fascinating, darling. I'm so pleased you've decided to press on with your divorce; it's a fatal mistake to delay these things. But what's all this about Mrs. MacDougal's car, and necklaces and urgent appointments?"

Karen couldn't remember having mentioned the car. Rob must have been listening in on the extension in the office. Rather than allow him to speculate and invent preposterous stories, she explained briefly.

Rob admitted he had heard about the Rolls. "So thrilling, like one of those super crime films." The necklace, which Karen described only as a relatively inexpensive personal memento, didn't appear to interest him. However, Karen made a point of mentioning that she intended to hand it over to the lawyer that evening.

In fact, Rob was the last person she would have suspected of trying to throttle her. He would have been more likely to scream and run when she caught him in the house. As for the Dolley Madison jewelry… Oh, surely it was absurd to think it was involved. The fact that the intruder had not found it was no proof that he had not looked for it, but no ordinary thief would be aware of its presence. No ordinary thief… Her assailant had been no ordinary thief. That thick, hoarse whisper… There were only two people, aside from Mr. Bates and Cheryl, who knew she had Dolley's jewelry.

No, Karen thought. It couldn't have been Horton. Horton would not have run from Cheryl. Horton's big-muscled hands could have snapped her neck like a twig.

At five o'clock she left Rob to lock up and hurried home. Alexander was waiting; he led her directly to his empty food dish. Not until the dog's demands had been satisfied did Karen see the note Cheryl had left. The locksmith had come and gone; the keys were on the hall table.

Karen went to look. The keys made a formidable heap; there were three for each new door lock, front and back, and several more for the elaborate latches that had been added to the downstairs windows.

It must have taken the locksmith most of the afternoon. Congressman Brinckley's influence, Karen thought; usually it took days to get a service person to come, even in an emergency. But who was she to complain?

She went back to the kitchen and finished reading Cheryl's note. "I hope you don't mind, I did a little mending and washing. Love working with those things. Have to go to some boring party tonight, will call if we aren't too late getting home."

The telephone rang while Karen was getting supper. It was Western Union with a cable for her and a complaint, rather than an apology, that they had tried to reach her earlier, without success. The cable read, "I'll get you for this someday, you traitor. Ruth sends love. I don't. Pat."

Karen decided she could safely conclude that Mrs. MacDougal had arrived on her son's doorstep, by gnu or some other means. Grinning, she put a diet TV dinner into the microwave and went upstairs to see what Cheryl had done. "A little" mending and washing turned out to be ludicrously understated. Many of the petticoats and chemises had been meticulously laundered and returned to their hangers. Across the bed lay several pieces of lace; all had been washed and ironed and one tattered strip had been neatly mended.

She was eating supper when the doorbell rang. Before she could get up she had to dislodge Alexander, who was sprawled across her feet. He had insisted on sampling the fish in her frozen dinner and had promptly spat it out. Now he followed her to the door, hoping for something that tasted better.

Instead of opening the door, Karen looked out through the small spy-hole. Though grotesquely distorted, the figure outside was definitely that of a woman.

There was nothing to be afraid of. It was still broad daylight outside, and whoever the caller might be, she was certainly not Mrs. Grossmuller. No distortion, however extreme, could make Mrs. Grossmuller's stocky figure look so slim.

But Karen left the chain in place when she opened the door. Alexander promptly lunged for the opening. The frown on the visitor's face deepened as she looked down at the furry muzzle trying to push through the crack.

"Shut that damned dog up," she said sharply.

Karen stared. What was Shreve Danforth-no, Shreve Givens now-doing on her doorstep? She was dressed for a formal dinner or party, in a glittering white dress that set off her deep tan. Diamonds winked at her throat and twinkled in the auburn hair that half-covered her ears. Shreve, who had been so rude the day she visited the shop; Mark's latest lady.

Shreve's silver shoe began to tap impatiently. "Well, are you going to let me in? I'm in rather a hurry."

"Oh. Oh, yes. Of course. Just a minute."

Karen scooped up the dog and shut him in the kitchen. When she returned to the door, Shreve's foot was tapping faster and she was glancing ostentatiously at her watch.

Acutely conscious of her faded housecoat and bare feet, Karen admitted her visitor. She wished she could have thought of an excuse for refusing to do so; something like "Sorry, I think I'm catching the plague." The old habit of courtesy had prevailed, and it was too late now.

"I'm sorry it took me so long," she said. "I'm rather wary of letting people in until I'm sure who they are. Someone broke in here last night-"

"Oh, really?" Shreve's lips stretched into an expression that was not quite a smile. "I do hope nothing was taken."

"No. I had new locks put on, though. Mark was kind enough to send a locksmith around this afternoon."

Now why had she said that? Karen knew the answer, but she could have kicked herself for challenging an opponent like Shreve. The other woman's smile widened as she looked Karen over, from her unkempt hair to her dusty feet. Gently she said, "Mark has such a kind heart. He spends a lot of time with old Mrs. MacDougal too."

Well, I deserved that, Karen thought. I should have known better; I can't fight her on her terms.

With freezing politeness she said, "Can I offer you something to drink?"

"No." Shreve reached into her bag and took out a checkbook. "I just stopped by to get those things of Granny's. She had no right to sell them to you. The old witch is completely goofy. I believe you paid her seventy-five dollars?"

The amount she mentioned gave her bewildered listener the essential clue. "Mrs. Ferris is your grandmother?"

"Yes, didn't you know?" Shreve uncapped a gold pen and began to write, resting the checkbook on the hall table. "Seventy-five…"

"It was seventy-eight fifty, to be precise." Karen braced herself. "But I won't take your check."

"How much do you want, then?" Shreve asked coolly.

"Nothing. Not from you. I haven't had a chance to inspect all the merchandise yet, but that's what it is to me-merchandise. It was an honest business transaction-"

"Business," Shreve murmured. "I suppose it is good business to take advantage of a senile old woman."

Karen was so angry she felt lightheaded. The sensation was rather agreeable. "It's called free enterprise, Shreve. I'm surprised you haven't heard of it. Your husband is such an enthusiastic supporter of the system…"

Shreve blinked rapidly, as if someone had aimed a blow at her face. It was a low blow, Karen thought, as her anger gave way to self-contempt. Congress had finally confirmed Mr. Givens' appointment, but not until after a long and acrimonious debate over certain "questionable business practices."

"Is there anything of yours in the boxes?" Karen asked.

"Good Lord, no." This suggestion seemed to outrage Shreve even more than Karen's refusal to sell. "What gave you that idea?"

"I only meant that if your grandmother had sold something that wasn't hers, I would of course return it."

"I see." Shreve bit her lip. "I think I will have a drink after all. Do you have Stolichnaya vodka?"

"I don't know."

"Vodka and tonic, with just a squeeze of lime. If you don't have Stolichnaya I'd prefer plain Perrier and lime."

"I'll see," Karen said. "Excuse me."

By the time she had ascertained that Pat preferred another, cheaper brand of vodka, and had unearthed a lone bottle of Perrier from the back of the liquor cabinet, she was-she fondly hoped-in control of her temper. There wasn't a lime in the house, nor did she bother looking for one.

She had not asked Shreve to sit down, but she found her in the parlor, poised on the edge of the sofa and looking about her with cool interest. "Ruth really ought to replace those draperies," she remarked. "They are quite faded. Maybe it's just as well she didn't; by the time the dog gets through with them she'll need new ones."

Karen handed her the glass and a coaster. She was determined to behave like a lady if it killed her, but she wanted to get Shreve out of the house as soon as she could.

The very sight of her, poised and slim and elegant, was like a shoe rubbing a blister.

"Was it your grandmother's wedding veil you wanted?" she asked.

"Wedding veil?" Shreve looked blank. "I don't give a damn about Gran's junk. I just don't like the idea of its being displayed in some cheap shop window, where people can see it and say that Gran was so poor she had to sell her clothes-that her family wasn't taking proper care of her."

The secret was out. All Shreve cared about was what people would say. Karen found it more believable than sentiment, a quality Shreve obviously lacked. It did not make her feel any more kindly toward Shreve.

"No one would recognize your grandmother's things. And anyway, if Mrs. MacDougal isn't embarrassed at having her clothes in a shop window, it shouldn't bother you. Hers are very distinctive and very valuable, and she told me I could-"

"I'll give you a hundred and fifty."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I hope to make a good deal more than that."

Shreve's eyes narrowed unpleasantly. "How much more?"

"I'm afraid you are missing the point," Karen said. "I am in business to make as much money as I can. The value of the merchandise I sell depends on a number of different factors, primarily on what people are willing to pay." Shreve continued to stare at her, lips pressed tightly together, and some imp of perversity made Karen add, "When they are ready for sale, cleaned and pressed and mended, I'll let you know. If you care to pay the price, they're all yours."

"I see," Shreve said slowly. "I'm to be allowed to bid-is that it?"

"No bidding, no haggling. I set the price; you pay it or someone else will. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment and I've barely time to change."

SHE really was late, but instead of dashing upstairs to dress she did a clog dance down the length of the hall, to the consternation of Alexander, whom she freed from bondage as she passed the kitchen door.

"I'm sorry," Karen said breathlessly. "That was a dance of triumph, Alexander. You wouldn't understand, and anyway I haven't time to explain it to you."

Talking to the dog was only one step better than talking to herself, but she had to crow to someone. A month ago she would not have been able to handle Shreve as ably as she had. She would have meekly accepted the check and handed over the merchandise, as Shreve had expected she would. Shreve wasn't accustomed to having people bite her back, especially someone she remembered as quiet and yielding. It would have been a fatal mistake to give in, for it would have set a precedent, for herself if not for her customers. She might end up doing something as asinine as letting Mrs. Grossmuller buy her wedding dress back for two bits.

What was more, she had not lost her temper, though the provocation had been extreme. As she came downstairs, neatly if hastily attired, she remembered Shreve's insolence, and the anger she had suppressed boiled up stronger than before. How Mark could fall for such a vulgar, arrogant woman… But it wasn't Shreve's personality that interested Mark. He was kind and charitable to old friends and former enemies, but he liked his women slim and sexy and influential.

Stop it, Karen told herself. She concentrated intently on locking the door. The new keys were a trifle stiff, but they would probably loosen up in time.

It was lucky for Karen that she approached her interview with the lawyer in such high spirits, for he did everything possible to depress her. He looked exactly like the picture she had formed of him in her mind-a little man, short and spare, with a narrow, closed-in face. His eyes were obscured by thick glasses and his thinning hair had been carefully brushed across his bald spot. He held a chair for her, but she had barely seated herself before he made his chief concern evident.

"The jewelry, Mrs. Nevitt. May I-"

"I didn't bring it." Karen settled herself more comfortably.

"You didn't… May I ask why not?"

His tone was only too reminiscent of the one Jack used to demoralize and intimidate her. This time Karen refused to yield. She was getting tired of being pushed around; instead of explaining and apologizing, she went on the attack.

"What are you worried about, Mr. Bates? The jewelry or me?"

"Why-I-"

"Because if it's the jewelry, that's no longer your responsibility. It belongs to me, and I intend to wear it and enjoy it as Mrs. Mac meant me to, not lock it up in a bank. And if you are afraid I might be in danger from someone who wants it-"

"Nonsense," said Mr. Bates shortly.

"Okay, it's nonsense. So why the fuss? Anyway, there is no point in my getting rid of a potential danger unless the presumed thief knows I've gotten rid of it. I should have come here carrying a sign? 'Attention, everybody: Dolley's jewelry is being handed over to Mr. Bates'?"

"Really, Mrs. Nevitt-"

"If anyone is watching me, my visit to you this evening will suggest to them that I've handed the jewelry over. What further precautions could I take, short of putting an advertisement in the newspaper? Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to discuss something more important."

Mr. Bates sighed, adjusted his glasses, brushed his hair back from his high forehead, and gave her his full attention.

He took a dim view of her plans. A young woman with no business experience had, in his opinion, little hope of success. But Karen was moved almost to tears when he grudgingly informed her that her uncle by marriage had cabled to put a large sum of money at her disposal, to be drawn upon at need.

"You have heard from Pat, then," she murmured, reaching for a tissue and pretending she was blotting away perspiration. "That was one of the things I wanted to ask you."

Mr. Bates eyed her warily. He knew perfectly well that emotion rather than heat had necessitated the tissue, and he obviously disapproved of women who wept.

"Yes. Only the information I have just given you, and the news that Mrs. MacDougal senior has arrived safely. I must add that had Professor MacDougal consulted me before arranging for a transfer of funds, 1 would have counseled him-"

"You needn't worry," Karen cut in. "I have no intention of abusing Pat's generosity. Now I wonder if you would mind reading these letters from my husband's lawyer. It may be a few days before I can get an appointment and they sound very peremptory."

Her quick recovery from ill-conceived emotion brought a frosty gleam of approval to Mr. Bates' pale-gray eyes. As he read the letters his nostrils quivered. "Hmph," he said. "It appears you may have a fight on your hands, Mrs. Nevitt. The offers are outrageous. I beg you will not reply in any way until you have consulted the attorney I will recommend to you."

Karen assured him she was not that stupid, and Mr. Bates looked as if he would like to have believed her but couldn't quite manage it.

There was no news about the missing automobile or the missing chauffeur. The police investigation had fizzled out-Mr. Bates didn't use the word, but that was what it amounted to. Yes, he had cabled Mrs. MacDougal about the car. He had not yet received a reply. He would let Karen know when he got word. He would give them all her love. And would she please-implicit in his manner, if not expressed-get the hell out of his office and let him go home?

The long summer twilight was dying as Karen stood on the corner waiting for a bus. The air was gray, not with twilight but with exhaust fumes, and according to an electric sign on a nearby corner, the temperature was still in the high eighties. No wonder Washingtonians fled the city in late July and August. The only wonder was that they had functioned so long without air-conditioning. The affectionate phrase, "the Federal Swamp," though it had acquired other connotations, had originally been a literal description of geographical fact.

A bus lumbered into sight but stopped half a block away as the traffic light turned red and cars and trucks barred its further progress. Karen glanced casually at the poised traffic, and suddenly froze. A brand-new bright-red, Ferrari convertible, in the middle lane… The top was down. The twin mufflers throbbed as the driver jiggled the gas pedal, ready to take off the instant the light changed.

As if the intensity of her stare sent out palpable waves, the driver turned his head and looked directly at her. His full red lips pursed like those of a girl expecting to be kissed. They shaped words. She couldn't hear them, but she knew what he had said. Before she could react, the light changed and the convertible took off like a bullet, narrowly avoiding a crossing van that had run the last second of the yellow.

Karen turned and bolted back into the building she had just left.

Mr. Bates drove her home. He could hardly avoid doing so; she had caught him as he emerged from the elevator, his car keys in his hand.

He felt sure she had been mistaken. "There are many men of that type," he said distastefully. "We had been speaking of the matter, so it was on your mind. I assure you, Horton is miles away by now. He would not be so foolish as to remain in the city."

"I know it was Horton. He knew me. He said, 'Hi, doll.'"

"But you informed me you could not hear-"

"I read his lips. He called me doll once before. Oh, for heaven's sake, Mr. Bates, can't you at least notify the police? It was a new red Ferrari with Virginia plates, and the first two letters were BV You know whom to talk to, and they'll pay more attention to you."

"Very well. However, I feel certain they will inform me that Horton has been seen in three other places, all miles from Washington."

Despite his skepticism he insisted on going to the door with her and on waiting until she had opened it. He didn't have to insist much. This time she managed to catch Alexander's collar while he was in mid-leap as Mr. Bates, obviously only too familiar with the dog's habits, skipped nimbly aside.

"Thank you," she said, as the lawyer cast a keen if seemingly casual glance inside. "I hope I haven't taken you out of your way."

"Not at all. I live in Chevy Chase; I can as easily go up Wisconsin as Connecticut."

Then why didn't you offer to drive me home in the first place? Karen wondered. Mr. Bates might make light of her identification of the chauffeur, but he wasn't altogether easy in his own mind or he would not have accompanied her home after hearing her story. Horton knew where she lived; he might even have a key to the house. Mrs. Mac probably had one, and she was notoriously careless with her possessions.

Thank goodness for the new locks, Karen thought. The darkening air was still breathlessly hot, but a shiver ran through her as she pictured Horton's big brown hands and fleshy, smiling mouth. She still could not believe Horton had been her attacker. But now he had a reason to seek her out. If he thought he could silence her before she told the police she had seen him…

She knew she was overreacting. Anyone who drove breezily around the city in a car as conspicuous as that one obviously wasn't concerned about being seen. Either Horton was extremely stupid, or he just didn't give a damn.

Alexander growled. He did not enjoy being hugged. Karen carried him back into the house and locked the door.

She wandered restlessly through the various rooms, turning on lights, checking and rechecking the locks on the doors and windows. The house was very quiet, very empty. She found herself hearing sounds that were not there-the ghostly echo of Pat's booming laughter, Ruth's quiet voice. If only they had been in some civilized part of the world she would have been tempted to call them. There was no one she could call, no familiar voice that was reachable by telephone.

Karen knew what was wrong with her. It had different names, some simple, some ponderous and scientific-shock, post-stress syndrome, whatever. It was, simply and starkly, an awareness of her own vulnerability. She was no more open to attack than she had ever been- less so, in fact, thanks to the new locks and her heightened awareness of danger. But her sense of safety had been violated; her private place had been entered by those who had no right to intrude. She had heard other victims of crime speak of the sensation. Now she knew how it made people feel-naked, exposed, helpless.

She went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. The refrigerator clicked; she jumped and cried out. I've got to stop this, she thought. I'll drive myself crazy if I go on this way. Find something to do, something to occupy my mind…

She made the rounds once more, compulsively relocking doors that were already locked, touching window latches, looking out into the street and the garden. Alexander ought to go out once more. Alexander would have to take his chances, that was all. Before she lured the dog upstairs with a handful of his favorite dog munchies, she pushed a chair against the back door and piled it with pots and pans.

She felt more relaxed after she had locked herself in her room and climbed into bed with a book. Pat had an enormous collection of mysteries; he favored the tough-private-eye variety, and Karen hoped the exotic and unlikely perils encountered by those fictitious heroes would distract her-rather like hitting oneself with a hammer to forget the pain of a broken leg.

It was not long before she knew she had made a mistake. The tough, wise-cracking PI was captured by members of the drug ring he was investigating. The author lingered with loving affection on the tortures inflicted by the chief villain-"a big, hulking character with a pretty pouting mouth like that of a girl expecting to be kissed."

Karen threw the book across the room and turned on the television, only to encounter another cynical wisecracking PI being beaten up by members of a drug ring he was investigating.

She was relieved to be able to settle for the late news. Forest fires in the Western states, drought in the Northeast, tornadoes in the Midwest; breakdown of the arms talks, plane crashes, riots, and murders. But the giant pandas were making love. Thank God for the pandas.

Sleep was still out of the question, and since TV at its most engrossing occupies only half the mind of the beholder, she looked around for something else to do.

There was more than enough to do. Jack's caustic comments about her lack of organization had not been entirely unjustified. She hated keeping records, making lists, balancing accounts. But accurate records were essential for the business she hoped to start. At Mrs. Mac's suggestion (i.e., order) she had bought a looseleaf notebook and some paper. It took her quite a while to find them, and when she did, she was dismayed to see so many empty pages. She hadn't meant to fall so far behind. Leafing through the book, she realized she had not even finished listing the items from Ruth's attic.

The idea was to have a separate page for each article, giving the source and the price paid, plus notes on repairs, restoration methods, and-ultimately-the selling price. Not only would she need the information for tax purposes, but it would be an invaluable reference.

Karen grimaced. Oh, well; there was nothing like concentrating on a hated, boring job to get her mind off other worries.

While the anchorman's voice droned on, she dragged out a box of miscellaneous linens and got to work. They had come from Mrs. Ferris, and they reminded her of Shreve. So Shreve wanted Granny's things, did she? If she could see the condition of the pieces she wouldn't touch them with the tip of her fastidious finger.

Karen shook out a tattered petticoat and sneezed violently as dust billowed up around her. The old lady must have worn it to scrub floors or climb fences; the fabric was torn, and covered with ugly black spots. But the deep flounce of the lace might be salvageable. Karen found a pair of scissors and cut it off, then wadded the rest of the garment and threw it into the wastebasket, wrinkling her nose at the sour smell of mold.

She forced herself to finish sorting and listing the contents of the box. She was getting sleepy, and she felt as if she would never get the smell of mold off her hands. Cheryl had not called. One more chore, Karen thought, and then I'll go to bed. She won't call after midnight- but it's not quite midnight yet.

The flounce she had removed from the old petticoat might be right for Mrs. Grossmuller's wedding dress. For some reason the mold had not affected the lace. Perhaps it had something to do with the type of fabric.

After a prolonged search she finally located the dress at the back of the wardrobe. Cheryl must have picked it up off the floor of the hall, along with the other things Karen had bought at the auction-and dropped when the fumbling hands found her throat. Yes, the rest of them were there-the frayed petticoat with the crocheted trim, the absurd bloomers, and the linen nightgown.

A muted howling from without rose and fell-Mr. DeVoto's cat, seeking romance and/or a fight. Karen identified the sound, but her skin prickled, and Alexander twitched and mumbled in his sleep.

She decided she had better list the auction items while their origin was still fresh in her mind. "Lace-trimmed bloomers, circa 1910," the name of the auctioneer, and the date. She entered the dress last, and her writing faltered. But she had the information; it would be ridiculous to omit it. "Wedding dress of Mrs. Henry Grossmuller, 1931." Mrs. Henry Grossmuller, who poisoned Henry in 1965 and who claimed the dress wasn't worth two bits.

"I will not write that down," Karen said aloud. No need to, she would never forget it. Damn the old woman, and damn Cheryl too, for talking about the romance of old clothes and the tragedy of a terrified young bride…

No, that wasn't fair. Cheryl had not blathered on about auras and vibes, she had better sense. It was Karen's own imagination that invested the innocent fabric with an almost palpable coating of some dark, slimy substance.

The lace was certainly dark, and as Karen inspected it she knew her first assessment had been correct. The lace was beyond repair; the staining substance had had a corrosive effect, leaving great rents in the delicate web. Into Karen's mind popped a vivid, most unwelcome picture of Mrs. Grossmuller kneeling by her husband's body, the flounce of her wedding dress trailing in a pool of his blood.

She really must get her imagination under control. It would be an effective scenario for a horror film-the abused wife putting on the dress she had worn as an unwilling bride before wreaking her vengeance on her torturer. But Mrs. Grossmuller hadn't stabbed Henry, she had poisoned him.

Karen let out a gasp of laughter. One day she might be able to tell the Mrs. Grossmuller story and find it genuinely funny. But at best it would always be black humor, for there was something sad and twisted behind the old woman's insistence-guilt or fear or frustrated anger. Like the anger she herself had felt, and was only now beginning to acknowledge?

Resolutely Karen turned her mind back to business. The lace she had removed from the petticoat was just right. It was the same width, and there was so much of it that she could remove the damaged sections and still have enough left to edge the dress.

She took the lace into the bathroom and dunked it in warm water, to soak overnight. Now all she needed to restore the dress were pearls (hers wouldn't be genuine, but the originals hadn't been either) and a silk flower to replace the limp brown specimen on the hipline. She cut off a pearl bead to serve as a sample and began a list of needed materials on a page at the back of the book. As she had already discovered from her earlier attempts at mending the old garments, ordinary cotton and polyester sewing thread was often too coarse. Shops specializing in fine fabrics carried silk thread. She ought to lay in a supply, in a variety of colors, and get needles to match. Buttons- old ones, if possible. They wouldn't be easy to find, but there must be sources for such things.

She kept glancing at the clock. At twelve-thirty she decided Cheryl wouldn't call so late. At any rate, she was now tired enough to sleep soundly. As she had hoped, the need to concentrate on a specific task had quieted her nerves.

There was nothing wrong with Alexander's nerves, but unfortunately his bladder was not as good. He wanted to go out and he would not take no for an answer. When he started to lift his leg against the bed flounce, Karen gave in. There were too many things Alexander could ruin if he chose, and unless he got his own way, he probably would choose.

She had to disassemble the tottering structure of pans in order to open the door. Alexander shot out like an arrow from a bow. The night air was still and hot, with trails of ground mist curdling among the shrubbery. A furious rattle of foliage and a feline squawl explained the dog's haste; the cat paused on top of the storage shed to address a rude remark to its pursuer. Karen saw its eyes glow eerily red. A Siamese cat. Mr. DeVoto always had Siamese.

Alexander returned the cat's compliments in his own tongue. Not until the Siamese left, melting into the darkness with only a rustle of leaves to prove it material, did Alexander go about his business. He took his own sweet time about it, probably to punish Karen for being so reluctant to let him out, and she swore at him under her breath as she shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. There was no sense in yelling at him and disturbing the neighbors; and he wouldn't pay attention anyway. She did not want to go out after him. The mist was thickening, and although there was not a breath of air stirring, the pale trails of fog seemed to sway and shift, with a motion of their own.

Alexander finally gave up-she assumed he had been backtracking the cat-and came in. Karen double-checked the locks again, and rebuilt the tower of pots. Alexander followed her from room to room whuffling irritably. He knew he was entitled to a dog biscuit but Karen held off giving it to him until after he had gone upstairs with her.

In the dream that quickly seized her she was picking her way across a landscape covered with tumbled ruins, cyclopean columns, and fallen blocks of stone. The stones were carved with reliefs; but though she examined them with an absurd and nightmarish intensity, she could not make out their meaning. At last, dim in the purple distance, she caught a glimpse of some intact structure towering high above the plain. She ran toward it. A tottering column crumpled and collapsed; the fragments struck the earth, not with a solid thud, but ringing like metal.

The dog's barking shot her out of sleep, every muscle knotted. Alexander was at the window. The scraping of his claws on the glass made her skin crawl.

Karen fumbled for the lamp. It seemed to take forever to find the switch. The dog was getting frantic. He ran to the door, clawed at it, trotted back to the window.

The cat, Karen thought. He must have heard the cat. Siamese have loud voices. Audible through closed windows, the hum of air-conditioning?

Clinging to the idea of the cat as to a lifeline, she got out of bed and went to the window.

The mist had condensed into a layer of solid fog. The roofs and chimneys of the houses on the street behind the garden were invisible; nearer shapes shone ghostly, soft gray tree trunks pearly with wet, garden chairs gleaming like silver thrones in the glow of the lights by the back door.

Something was sitting in one of the chairs.

It was on the terrace, close enough to the lights so that she should have been able to identify the shape that occupied it-filled it, rather, like a giant featherbed that had been punched and pummeled into a rough imitation of a human form. It might have been the fog that softened its outlines so that they appeared to melt into nothingness.

Alexander was still trying to bark, but he was so short of breath the sound came out in weird little squeaks. It was probably this touch of low comedy that kept Karen on her feet. The sound that came from her taut throat was a rather pathetic echo of Alexander's squeak, but she meant it for laughter, and the hands she raised hardly shook at all. She unfastened the window and threw up the sash.

The thing in the chair rose up and drifted across the yard. It was quite opaque. However, its means of locomotion were as uncanny as its general appearance, for it seemed to float, without haste, threading a path around the rose bushes and the trees until it was swallowed up by the fog.

Alexander ran to the door.

I can't open it, Karen thought.

But neither could she remain in her room without knowing what might be outside the locked door. Alexander sounded like one of his own squeaky toys, but his small size and shortness of breath did not deter him; he wasn't cowering or hiding. How could she, a member of a supposedly superior species, do less?

Karen unlocked the door, but she let Alexander go first. Not until she heard a horrible crash from the kitchen did she realize she had made a mistake. Alexander had flung himself head-long into the pile of assorted hardware, and now she would never know whether some or all of them had already fallen, producing the far-off ringing sound that had entered her dreams and had, perhaps, wakened Alexander from his.

The lights in the hall burned steadily. She took a poker from the set of fireplace tools and went out of the room.

By the time she reached the kitchen Alexander was pushing the pots around with his nose looking for something edible. He had clearly lost interest in going out. The door was locked.

She gave Alexander the treat he deserved and they went upstairs together. The dog was sound asleep within minutes, but Karen sat by the window looking out until the sounds of morning traffic began and sunrise brightened the blanket of fog muffling the garden.