Shattered Silk (16 page)

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,
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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…