Houses of Stone (15 page)

There was no sign of life from the house, but Karen felt sure Mrs.
Fowler was watching from behind the discreetly curtained front windows as they drove past. Hayes had suggested they take her car; feeling sure she knew why, Karen decided to settle that matter once and for all. "I've not only ridden in trucks that looked worse than this, I've driven them," she said firmly. "Let's skip the Southern gallantry, shall we? This is a business deal, not a date."

Hayes watched as she opened the door and climbed nimbly into the seat. "I'll give it my best shot," he said, and went around to the driver's side, leaving her to close the door.

He took her to an unpretentious restaurant outside town. "The food is terrible," he said coolly. "But we're not likely to encounter any of my innumerable acquaintances or kinfolk. Is the manuscript in that briefcase you're clutching with all ten fingers?"

The abrupt question caught her by surprise. It was a logical deduction, though.

"A copy. The original is in a safe-deposit box."

His eyebrows lifted. "It's that valuable?"

"It is to me."

Indicating a booth, he slid into the seat facing her. "I have no right to ask this, but you've aroused my curiosity. What's it about?"

"The plot, you mean?"

Obviously that was what he meant. But asking the question and awaiting his response gave her time to consider his request. There was no reason why she shouldn't tell him, she supposed.

Cameron nodded. "Since you dragged all those boring books with you, I assume this is the same sort of thing. Gothic novels, isn't that what they're called?"

There was no reason why she shouldn't tell him.

Her summary of the plot didn't impress him. "So what's the point of it all? This woman—Ismene?—doesn't seem to have done much except wander around wringing her hands and finding sinister meanings in perfectly innocent activities. She's got a home and servants and friends and a kindly guardian—"

"1 haven't gotten very far yet," Karen interrupted. "But the sinister overtones aren't just in her mind. You'll have to take my word for it."

"I guess I will. You're the authority. What would you like?"

Karen realized that the question was about food. The waitress was
hovering. Without looking at the menu she ordered a tuna-salad platter; every restaurant of this type offered a tuna-salad platter.

"I don't want to sound any more ignorant than I can help," Cameron said, "but I'm trying to get this straight. You think the house in the book is based on Amberley, and that the author once lived there? That she is, in fact, an ancestress of mine?"

"It's a strong possibility. I can't prove it unless I find documentary evidence. That's why I need all the family records I can get my hands on."

"Uh-huh." He waited until the waitress had deposited their plates on the table. "You know those boxes of papers I mentioned? They're gone."

"What?" Karen gasped. "How? Gone from where?"

"They weren't in storage. I had them ... in a place I considered secure. Especially," he added, with a wry twist of his lips, "since I had no reason to suppose they had the slightest value. The only person who could have taken them was Lisa. She must have done the job yesterday, when I was working at the house. I looked for them this morning, meaning to bring them to you."

"Can't you get them back?"

"I can try. She can't sell them without my consent, but she has as much right as I to have them in her possession. They aren't even listed in the inventory."

"Damn. You know what she's going to do with them, don't you?"

"I could offer a reasonably good guess. I've met your friend Meyer."

"He's no friend of mine," Karen protested. "Damn, damn, damn! When did he contact you?"

"Sunday. He spoke highly of you," Cameron said. "In fact, he was very civilized and aboveboard. Called to make an appointment, showed me his credentials, explained what he wanted and why he wanted it."

"Strictly business," Karen murmured.

"He indicated he would be willing to make me an offer. Depending, naturally, on whether the materials included anything of interest to him."

"What did you say?"

Cameron's smile didn't reach his eyes. "What any practical businessman would say. That I'd think about it. I didn't know then that Lisa had made off with the cartons. I suppose by now he's talked to her about them."

"Once he gets his hands on those papers he won't make either of you an offer. He'll take what he wants or copy it."

"I doubt Lisa would be gullible enough to hand the material over to him."

"But you were willing—"

"To go through the material with you. No offense, Dr. Holloway, but as you said, this is strictly business."

"Right." Karen thought furiously. It required all the self-discipline she possessed to make herself relax and give him a rueful, charming smile. "No offense taken, Mr. Hayes. I can only hope your cousin is as canny a businesswoman as you believe. I'd prefer to deal with you, though. I'll . . . I'll buy those papers, sight unseen. You set the price. I trust you."

He studied her thoughtfully. "You aren't a stupid woman, Dr. Holloway. Why do you—"

"Please call me Karen."

"Thank you." He wasn't stupid either. His expression indicated he was well aware of her reason for establishing a friendlier, more casual relationship, but there was no way short of rudeness that he could avoid responding in kind. "Some of my so-called friends call me Ron, or Cam, but I'm not fond of nicknames."

"Neither am I. I can't explain why this is so important to me, Cameron; only another crazy academic would understand. Bill Meyer's motives are the same as mine, except that he'd derive additional satisfaction from getting the better of me. It's a personal vendetta."

"Personal? Do you mean ..."

Karen was tempted to confirm his assumption and spin a pathetic story that would arouse the old-fashioned chivalry she ordinarily scorned. Not that she had any scruples about using underhanded female tricks to gain her ends; fluttering lashes and quivering lips only worked with men who underestimated women to begin with. But the idea of claiming Bill Meyer as a rejected lover was too repulsive. Ludicrous, too. Some of her colleagues claimed he had made passes at them, but he'd never indicated the slightest interest in her.

"No," she said. "It's just basic antipathy, I guess. He's such a sneering, supercilious son of a gun. He doesn't like competition, especially from
women. Look, I'm not asking you to take sides. Just give me a fair chance." "Certainly." He looked at her untouched plate. "Is the food that bad or were you too distracted to eat? Don't worry; all other things being equal, I'd prefer to deal with you. I didn't much care for Professor Meyer myself."

He dropped her at the apartment after promising to speak with Lisa and let her know what had transpired. Karen's first act was to find a safe hiding place for the manuscript—or try to. It didn't take long to decide that the only options—under the mattress, in the oven, behind the books—were far from secure. She would simply have to take it with her when she left the apartment.

After putting away a few odds and ends, she stood looking around the small living room, uncertain as to what to do next. There were too damned many things to do, and as she thought of Bill Meyer doing them, one step ahead of her all the way, she couldn't settle down. Damn Peggy, she thought, conveniently ignoring the fact that she had not exactly encouraged Peggy to participate. Why did she have to go rushing off on some meaningless social visit? She could be doing some of the research.

The most urgent matter was to find out all she could about the family that had inhabited the house during the years between 1775 and 1850. In fact, she was fairly certain the book had not been written before 1790 or after 1830, but even that was a broad time span. If only she could narrow it down! So far she had found no reference in the manuscript to a specific date or a specific event. Some such clue might yet turn up, but she couldn't count on it, and in the meantime Bill the Bastard was hot on the trail of the alternative sources. He knew how to go about it as well as she did, and she wouldn't put it past him to remove relevant material to prevent her from seeing it.

At this point she couldn't even be certain that Ismene was one of Cameron's progenitors. According to him the house had been in his family—one branch or another of it—from the beginning. According to Peggy, who knew her Tidewater history well, that claim was questionable. Many of the old families had died out. She'd have to trace the ownership of the property and construct a genealogy before she could
make even an educated guess as to the identity of the woman who called herself Ismene. That was almost certainly a nom de plume; it wouldn't be mentioned in family records.

At least Karen hoped it wouldn't. Meyer was probably looking through those papers at this very moment. Cursing, she picked up the briefcase and headed for the door.

Her best and nearest hope lay in the local Historical Society. Cameron had pointed out its headquarters—a handsome antebellum mansion on Main Street, which also served as the library. There were plenty of parking spaces. The shopping malls had drawn buyers away from the downtown area.

The interior of the mansion wasn't as handsome as the outside. Lack of space and meager funding had resulted in close-packed rows of metal shelves, a few worn tables and battered chairs. The young African-American woman behind the desk had her elbows on its surface and her eyes fixed suspiciously on a group of high school students gathered around one of the tables.

When Karen had explained what she wanted, the librarian shook her head. "I'm afraid we don't have anything here. The local history material is in the possession of the Historical Society, and they're only open three afternoons a week. This isn't one of those afternoons."

Figuring she might as well use all the weapons at her disposal, Karen introduced herself and threw in the names of Cameron Hayes and Mrs. Fowler for good measure. The librarian studied her with increased interest. "You're renting that—er—that apartment of Miz Fowler's? She can help you then. She pretty well runs the Historical Society."

"I can believe that," Karen murmured.

A discreet smile acknowledged the comment. "My name's Tanya Madison. I'd let you into the Society offices, but Miz Fowler doesn't trust anybody else with the keys. Anyhow, I don't like to leave the desk while those darned kids are hanging around. They tear pictures and maps out of the periodicals for their school papers if I don't keep an eye on them."

Karen left with proper thanks. Tanya Madison had lost interest in the darned kids; her dark eyes, bright with curiosity, followed Karen to the door.

All roads seemed to lead back to Mrs. Fowler. Karen had intended to
probe the old lady's store of local legendry; she knew enough about historical research to know that oral tradition could offer useful clues. She wasn't in the mood that day for violets and Lapsang souchong, but the pervasive sense of a saturnine, dark man looking over her shoulder forced her to make the effort. After changing her jeans for a skirt and forcing her lower extremities into panty hose and pumps, she walked grumpily toward the house.

She could have sworn she saw the folds of the curtains flutter, but Mrs. Fowler allowed a decent interval to elapse before she opened the door, and her little squeal of surprised pleasure sounded authentic.

"Why, my dear, what a pleasure to see you. No, no, you aren't intruding one bit. I was just about to have tea, and I'd surely welcome company. It's been three years since my dear Harry passed on, but I still miss him. Living alone is so—so lonely, isn't it?"

Karen declined the tacit invitation to discuss her living arrangements; she felt sure Mrs. Fowler had already noticed her ringless left hand. After considerable fuss and bustle her hostess produced a second cup and what appeared to be the same plate of macaroons. They discussed the lovely spring weather for several minutes until Karen decided it was proper to ask the question that had brought her there.

"Why, surely," Mrs. Fowler exclaimed. "I'd be honored to show you our little collection, though a scholar like you probably won't think much of it. I can take you around tomorrow morning if you like. It will have to be early, I'm afraid; I have a luncheon meeting at noon. The Garden Club. I'm giving a paper on columbaria."

Karen had no idea what columbaria was—if Mrs. Fowler hadn't mentioned the Garden Club she would have assumed it had something to do with Greek architecture—and she didn't want to find out. Mrs. Fowler did not pursue the subject. In a deceptively casual voice she said, "It's the Cartright family you're interested in, I understand."

It did not seem likely that Mrs. F. was gifted with second sight. How much had Cameron told her? Or had she made an inspired guess after hearing of Karen's visits to the mansion?

"That's right," she admitted.

"I do hope you're not considerin' buyin' that old monstrosity of a house. Cameron's wasting his time, as I told him over and over. There's
more than a little paint and plaster wanted; every piece of pipe and electric wire is at least fifty years old. Anyhow, you couldn't pay me to stay in that place. It gives me the cold chills to step inside."