Houses of Stone (16 page)

Taken aback by the vitriolic tone, Karen could only murmur, "I haven't any intention of buying it."

"Well, I'm right relieved to hear that. Course I wish poor Cameron every success. That's all he's interested in, makin' money." She sighed. "But seems as if all the young people are that way. No respect, no interest in manners or in tradition. And Cameron has a lot of expenses. That private school for his little girl must cost a fortune, but you couldn't expect the child to go to public school, not in New Yawk, at any rate, where she'd have to mix with riffraff and colored folks."

Karen tried to conceal her surprise—not at Mrs. Fowler's assessment of the citizenry of New York City, which was typical of her class, but to the seemingly casual reference to Cameron Hayes's daughter. She knew the bright, unwinking eyes were measuring her reaction.

"He didn't mention he was divorced?" Mrs. Fowler inquired.

"There's no reason why he should," Karen said.

"Why, no, it doesn't make the least bit of difference these days . . . does it? And I certainly wouldn't say Cameron was to blame, though Maribelle was my own blood niece. They were too young, I expect. At least that's the excuse people give nowadays. I was only seventeen when I married my dear Harry, and we lived in unblemished happiness for forty-seven years." She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her embroidered napkin. "Ah, well, it won't be long till we meet again, never to part. What was it you wanted specially to know about the Cartrights, my dear?"

By that time Karen was sorry she had introduced the subject, and she was not inclined to give Mrs. Fowler any additional information. Undeterred by her vague response, Mrs. Fowler continued to spout gossip— all of it malicious. It was rumored that the founder of the house, one Obadiah Cartright, had fled England a step or two ahead of the law. "He was a highwayman, or something romantic like that," said Mrs. F. with a sniff. "More likely a petty thief. He sure did act like one, hiding himself away in that remote region. Nobody living anywhere near, and he didn't encourage company. There's a streak of that in the family, always has been. Snobbishness. As if they considered themselves too
good for other folks. There's a story that young Tom Jefferson passed by Amberley one time, and Obadiah wouldn't let him in the house. Made him and his men camp on the front lawn. Not that young Tom was anybody in particular then, but hospitality to strangers was a Virginia tradition. And another time ..."

How long she would have gone on if Karen had not excused herself, the latter could not imagine. When she left the house and saw the sunlight golden on the lawn she felt as if she had escaped from prison— the dark cell of Mrs. Fowler's narrow little mind. What a malicious, hypocritical old bitch the woman was. If she was a friend of Cameron's, he didn't need enemies.

She was about to start up the stairs when she remembered the cupboard was bare. So was the fridge. She ought to have gone grocery shopping that morning, instead of finishing
The Castle of Otranto.
The chores of daily living took an outrageous amount of time. Bathing, brushing your teeth, acquiring and preparing the necessary nourishment, transporting yourself and your belongings from place to place ... At least she wouldn't have to go upstairs. She had her purse with her, and the briefcase was in the trunk of the car.

Backing out of the driveway, she headed for the shopping center on the edge of town. There was a small convenience store closer at hand, but she might as well stock up and get it over with.

She had
to
mention Mrs. Fowler's name in order to cash a check. Another boring, necessary chore she had overlooked—establishing credit. The manager gave her a temporary card, which solved that problem, but his questions—prompted as much by small-town courtesy as by curiosity, she knew—annoyed her. She reminded herself that anonymity was impossible in such a small place. By now everybody in Mrs. Fowler's social circle must know who she was, and most of them would be speculating on why she was there . . . All at once a possible explanation for the old lady's malicious remarks about Cameron occurred to her. She wondered why she hadn't thought of it before. Naturally a woman like that would assume another woman was in hot pursuit of a man.

By the time she had carried six bags of groceries and the briefcase up the wooden stairs that gave access to her front door she was hungry enough to eat anything that didn't bite her first. There was no microwave, so she chopped lettuce for a salad and opened a can of soup. As she sat
at the kitchen table eating and reading, her thoughts kept wandering from the text she knew so well she could recite large portions from memory.

If Mrs. Fowler's interest in her love life was part of the deal, the apartment might be more trouble than it was worth. It had other disadvantages—having to carry everything up those steep steps, for one thing. Mrs. Fowler was probably violating a number of zoning laws; the plumbing and wiring were almost as antiquated as old Josiah Cartright's, and that staircase was the only exit from the apartment. Presumably it had been the chauffeur's quarters in the days when the town gentry could afford live-in servants. Nobody cared whether a chauffeur burned to death.

Karen tossed
Jane
Eyre
aside and got to her feet. Reading Gothic novels was not good for the nerves, especially the nerves of a woman alone in a strange place after dark. Especially a novel that contained a horrific description of a burning house with a madwoman raging on the battlements.

From her windows she could see over all but the tallest trees. Lights shone comfortingly—from the street, from houses nearby, from one of the upper windows in the main house. The area immediately surrounding the garage was unlit, however. Odd that Mrs. Fowler, the fluttery Southern lady personified, hadn't taken the precaution of surrounding the house with floodlights. She must have a lot of confidence in her fellow citizens.

Karen wasn't worried about burglars, even a burglar named William Meyer. Anyone entering the apartment would have to climb the stairs and break down the front door. There was one window on that side, but it couldn't be reached from the stairs. She was more concerned about being able to get out than about someone else getting in. An ironic smile curved her lips as she continued her inspection. It was the classic dilemma, the contradictory threats faced by all the heroines of the traditional Gothic novel: fear of being imprisoned, unable to get out; fear of a deadly danger that could not be kept out.

However, the danger of fire was real. Garages were often used to store paint and other flammable materials, and her car was directly under her bedroom. There wasn't even a smoke detector in the apartment. Another violation of code, surely, but it wouldn't matter; by the time the detector sounded it might be too late.

Karen's lips parted in an exclamation of protest. What was the matter with her? Too many Gothics? All the same, she added another item to her mental shopping list. Taking sensible precautions was not neurotic. It was . . . sensible.

Having decided this, she closed the curtains and went calmly to bed. Nothing disturbed her sleep. She had not dreamed of enclosure and darkness since she arrived.

Mrs. Fowler was on the doorstep bright and early next morning—fifteen minutes early, to be precise. The intensity of the dislike that filled Karen at the sight of the pink, round, smiling face surprised her. She was forced to invite Mrs. Fowler in; as she hastily finished breakfast and got her things together, she felt sure Mrs. F. had wanted an excuse to inspect the apartment. Her beady little eyes missed nothing.

The Historical Society turned out to be another waste of time. The premises consisted of two rooms: an antechamber, formerly the upper landing of the mansion, which had high windows and a molded ceiling and no furniture except an antique rug and a mahogany desk; and a small cramped room behind it which contained all the society's records. Karen's hopes plummeted when she saw the piles of dusty papers heaped haphazardly on the shelves. The Historical Society was an ineffectual amateur organization—another of the games the old ladies of the town liked to play. Regally ensconced behind the handsome desk, they awaited visitors who never came and exchanged genteel gossip instead of filing materials.

It was impossible to work with Mrs. Fowler around. She was an accomplished ditherer, and she never stopped talking. Settling Karen at the single small table, she bustled from shelf to shelf shifting stacks of papers and murmuring to herself. "Now where has that box got to? I know I put it here; Flora Campbell must have moved it, she's always shifting things around ..."

The box in question contained the correspondence of a late-Victorian Cartright lady. She had been a tireless traveler and letter writer; the letters had been sent to her friends from all over England and the Continent, and all of them contained a demand that the recipient keep the letter. "She'd go visiting and collect them after she got back," Mrs. Fowler reported with a giggle. "Quite an eccentric, Eliza was. Fancied
herself an intellectual. She talks somewhere about having tea with Disraeli."

That particular letter was not to be found, though Mrs. Fowler spent fifteen minutes searching for it—to Karen's poorly suppressed fury. The other treasures eventually deposited on the table consisted of yellowed newspaper clippings, most of them obituaries of turn-of-the-century Cartrights, a collection of rust-stained caps, gloves and moldering fans ("I'm almost certain these came from Fanny . . . unless it was one of the Grants . . .") and seven volumes of Eliza's diaries.

"You can borrow those if you like," Mrs. Fowler said, with the air of one making an enormous concession. "I know you'll take proper care of them."

She had begun glancing at her watch. Karen didn't feel she could refuse the offer, though nothing on earth interested her less than Eliza Cartright's reflections on travel. "I had hoped for something from an early period," she said hopelessly. "Or a genealogy. Surely one of the family must have belonged to the D.A.R. or the Colonial Dames."

"They were members of the Daughters of the Confed'racy, of course," Mrs. Fowler said.

"That's later in time than the period in which I am interested. It is necessary, isn't it, to submit proof that one of your direct ancestors served in the Revolution before you can join the D.A.R. ?"

"Yes, naturally. My dear grandmama traced our family tree when she applied for membership; our ancestor was a Colonel Byrd, who served under Washington and Lafayette."

From what Karen had heard, there had been very few privates in the ragtag American forces.

"Now that's a very good question," Mrs. Fowler mused. "Seems to me there was a genealogy. We might even have a copy somewhere. I'll have a look for it another time."

Gently but inexorably she urged Karen toward the door. Lips compressed, Karen accepted the loan of boring Eliza's diaries. If she could persuade Mrs. Fowler to let her rummage through the shelves by herself, she might find something useful, but she doubted the remote chance was worth the effort. The D.A.R. was a better bet, even if it would necessitate a quick trip to Washington. They might have a copy of the Cartright genealogy, if one existed.

She dropped Mrs. Fowler at her front door and then went shopping, picking up a number of odds and ends she had forgotten the previous night. After returning to the apartment she unwrapped the bundle she had bought at the hardware store. It was a heavy, unwieldy object, but it seemed to work as advertised. Karen stowed it away in the bedroom closet.

When she returned to the living room she saw something she had overlooked when she entered, her arms full of bundles. The envelope must have been slipped under the door. Her foot had kicked it farther inside.

The envelope was sealed but not addressed and the enclosure began abruptly, without salutation. "I spoke with Lisa. She assures me she will offer you the same opportunity she gave Meyer—a chance to examine the papers in her presence. Call her to make arrangements."

He had signed his full name. So much for her effort to establish a friendly relationship. Not even a "sincerely" softened the curtness of the note.

She went at once to the telephone and called the number he had given her. There was no answer.

Did Lisa's willingness to let her have a chance at the papers indicate that Bill Meyer had refused to make an offer, or that Lisa was looking for another bidder in the hope of running the price up? In either case, Karen felt she was already at a disadvantage. If there was anything of value in the collection, the first person to get a look at it would have a head start. Pacing from living room to kitchen and back again, Karen tried to reason with herself. She was behaving like a teenager on a treasure hunt. The worst possible scenario was the least likely, and even if the box contained what would amount to a signed confession by Ismene, that would only be the beginning of a long process. The winner would be the one who dealt most professionally with the material. Rushing into print, risking the chance of error, wouldn't add luster to a professional career. It might have an adverse effect. Meyer wasn't the only one of her colleagues whose idea of criticism was splitting hairs.

She called the number twice more before she persuaded herself to calm down and relax. She was eating a nutritionally balanced and carefully prepared lunch (a lettuce-cheese-and-tomato sandwich on whole-grain bread) when there was a knock at the door.

Hoping her visitor was Cameron, with good news, fearing it was Mrs. Fowler wanting to gossip, she was struck dumb by what could only be an answer to prayer. Lisa Fairweather wore a dress that had a strange resemblance to her despised pink voile. She also wore white gloves and a matching pink hat.

Lisa's first act was to remove the hat and toss it onto the sofa. Her second act was to strip off the gloves. "What a relief. I feel like a kid let out of school."

"The Garden Club?" I ought to have known, Karen thought.

"Uh-huh. The uniform is obligatory. I hate pink. And gardening."

"Why do you go?" Karen asked curiously.

"It's called good manners, honey. Also tact, respect for tradition, kindness to your elders. Would you think me rude if I begged for a cup of coffee—good strong coffee? The dear old ladies brew a beverage that looks like weak tea and tastes like warm water."

"Just instant, I'm afraid."

"That'll be fine."

She followed Karen to the kitchen and perched on a chair, chatting, while the kettle came to a boil. "I swear to you this is the first and last time I'll appear uninvited. But Cam said he'd been in touch with you, and I thought you might have called while I was out. I feel as if I owe you an explanation—an apology, even. I had no idea those papers would interest you."

Give her the benefit of a doubt, Karen thought. Aloud she said, "I suppose you couldn't have known. I haven't been exactly forthcoming about my reasons for being here. Reticence can become a bad habit with academics; I've known historians who sat on some obscure bit of research for twenty years, hoarding it like a miser."

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," Lisa said, looking at Karen from under her lashes. "But I'm not exactly stupid, and if I knew exactly what you were looking for, I might be able to help. I know more about the family history than Cam does. He's never been interested."