The Walker in Shadows (12 page)

Pat grimaced. The theory was unconvincing, even to her. It was hard for her to dismiss her sensations of loathing as sheer imagination.

There was another explanation. Pat let it emerge into her conscious mind, from the depths where it had been simmering, and looked at it dispassionately.

Josef Friedrichs had engineered the whole thing. He had, in fact, attacked his daughter on the first occasion, and had stage-managed a second "supernatural" attack in order to conceal his guilt.

"No," Pat said aloud. She shook her head violently.

"I'll make it nine hundred," said the dealer, who had been showing her a piecrust table, in the fond belief that her fixed stare indicated interest.

"What?" Pat started, and blushed as she realized she had been talking to herself. "Oh-no, thank you, I'm sorry."

She turned into the next aisle. Nancy was nowhere in sight, but Pat fancied she heard the familiar tones raised in hoarse triumph somewhere in the distance.

The next booth featured old books. One of the titles caught Pat's eye, and she stopped to examine the volume. It was a battered, cheaply bound cloth edition of a history of Maryland, and she turned to the chapters on the Civil War. She was familiar with some of the material. Jerry had talked about it. But the story proved unexpectedly interesting, in the light of Mark's comments, and she was deeply absorbed when the dealer's voice cut into her reading.

"Let you have it cheap, lady. A bargain. First edition, rare book…"

He was a sharp-faced man with graying brown hair and tobacco stains on his teeth. At least his tone had been courteous; Pat wouldn't have blamed him for pointing out that he was not running a library.

At five dollars the book wasn't really a bargain. It was certainly a first edition, but Pat suspected that was because it had not been popular enough to rate more than one printing. Nancy would have offered three dollars, and probably would have gotten the book for that price. Pat paid five.

"Do you have anything else on local history?" she asked.

The dealer shook his head.

"Not my field. Try Blake."

"Is he here?"

"Not him. He's got a shop in New Market. He's an independent old-er-cuss; won't do shows. But he's the man for Maryland history, if that's your bag."

Pat thanked him, and went to look for Nancy. She was suddenly anxious to get home. For one thing, it would be a good idea to find out whether or not she might expect overnight guests. She had planned to get Chinese food, or pizza, or something of that sort for herself and Mark. But if the Friedrichs were going to be there for supper…

Nancy was also ready to leave. Flushed with triumph, she clutched an armful of bargains even more hideous than her usual spoils-a battered oil lamp, its glass base chipped; a crocheted bedspread, spotted with ambiguous stains; a large china figure of a puppy and two repulsive kittens.

"That's the third bedspread you've bought in a month," Pat exclaimed.

"But this was a real buy. I bargained the woman down to thirty bucks. The stains will come out, with bleach."

Pat doubted that, but she didn't say so. When they were in the car, on their way home, Nancy stopped gloating over her buys and said accusingly, "Didn't you get anything?"

"Just a book." Pat displayed it, admitted that she had paid five dollars for it, and listened amiably while Nancy told her that she should have bargained over the price.

"I thought Jerry was the book addict," Nancy said. "Are you going in for that now?"

"Not really. It's just that Mark and I were talking about history the other day, and I decided I'd like to know more about my house. Jerry always meant to do some research."

"Mmm." Nancy swerved to avoid a child on a bicycle. Putting her head out the window, she yelled, "You're going to get killed if you don't stay off main roads, young man." Then she went on, "You ought to talk to Jay Ran-kin, Pat."

"Who is he?"

"You have become such a recluse it is unbelievable," Nancy said severely. "If I've told you once, I've told you a dozen times… He's the curator of the county historical association. Bachelor… Not your type, though. He's one of those weedy-looking kids with long hair and a beard." She chuckled as Pat made a wordless noise of negation and disapproval. "Anyhow, he's too young. He and a couple of other boys moved into the Jenkins house at the end of the street last year. The Jenkinses wanted to rent to a couple, but they were in a hurry to get the house off their hands, and at least these young fellows have jobs-I mean, if you could see some of the communes, or whatever they call them, that have moved into some of the houses in the county…,"

Pat smothered a grin as Nancy went on with her diatribe. Nancy 's own four sons were as amiably disorganized, as frankly disinterested in work as the types she was so vigorously castigating. At least the topic kept Nancy busy for the rest of the drive. She came to a crashing halt-her driving was like her personality, vigorous and decisive-in front of Pat's house and asked, "Do you want Jay's number?"

"I expect he's in the book." Pat opened the car door. "Thanks, Nancy, I enjoyed it."

"There's a show in Columbia next week."

"I'll see. If I'm not busy…"

Nancy did not reply. She was staring out the window at the house next door. Through a gap in the hedge Pat saw what had caught Nancy 's attention: a bright-golden head and a flutter of pink.

"She's out," Nancy announced, leaning out the window in order to see better. "Hey-somebody is with her. A boy, as I live and breathe. I wonder who."

Mark was wearing the same horrible jeans and dirty T-shirt all the local boys wore, but there was no hiding his gangling height. Nancy knew his appearance almost as well as she knew that of her own sons. She turned a bright, speculative gaze on Pat and let her lips curl in an expression her neighbor knew only too well.

"How long has that been going on?"

"I can't see that much is going on," Pat said. "It's late, Nancy. I'll call you-"

"Wait till I tell Ron," Nancy said. Ron was her oldest son, Mark's buddy and rival. "He's been trying to date that girl for weeks. Of course Mark has the advantage of proximity."

Pat finally made good her escape. Peeking through the curtains of the Gothic bay, she saw that Nancy 's car remained parked in front of her house for ten more minutes. But the young people had disappeared, and finally Nancy gave up and drove away, with the usual squeal of tires.

A few moments later Pat heard the kitchen door open and went to investigate. She found Mark foraging in the refrigerator. Kathy, slim as a pencil in her faded jeans and pink shirt, her fair hair windblown, leaned against the stove.

"Hi," she said blithely. "I hope you don't mind, Mrs. Robbins. Mark offered me a Coke."

" Nancy saw you," Pat said. "What were you two doing next door?"

Mark filled two glasses, spilling liquid all over the counter and spraying fragments of ice hither and yon.

"You want one, Mom?"

"I'll have coffee," Pat said, turning on the burner under the kettle. "Mark, why were you and Kathy over there?"

"What difference does it make?" Mark asked.

"Well… none, I guess. I just don't want Nancy to know Kathy is sleeping here."

"Naturally." Mark rolled his eyes and flung a muscular, oil-stained arm aloft in a theatrical gesture. "She'll never learn the truth from me."

Kathy giggled appreciatively. She had a pretty laugh, light and bubbly as champagne-one of the sweeter, cheaper California varieties, Pat thought sourly. She had spent the entire afternoon worrying, while these two tiptoed through the tulips.

"Where is your father?" she asked.

"Working. But," Kathy added gaily, "he's going to take us out to dinner tonight."

"I don't think that is a good idea," Pat said.

"Why not?"

"We still have some decisions to make, Kathy. I think we could talk more freely here. I'll cook some-uh- something."

"I'll call Dad, then," Kathy said. "It's time he stopped working, anyhow." As she went toward the phone, she added, "I'll just write our number in your little book, Mrs. Robbins. We're not listed, and you just might want to call sometimes."

"Yes, I might," Pat said drily. "If your father insists on going out, let me talk to him, please."

Apparently Josef was not in an intransigent mood. Kathy hung up after a brief exchange.

"He's coming right over," she announced.

The teakettle began to shriek. Pat made herself a cup of coffee. When Josef appeared at the back door, she waved the kettle at him.

"Coffee?"

"I'd rather have a drink." He was wearing a sports coat and tie; the pale-blue coat was an unexpectedly frivolous touch, but it set off his dark eyes and graying hair. From behind his back he produced two bottles. "Scotch and gin. If I had four hands I could offer more variety."

"Help yourself," Pat said. "I'll stick to coffee."

Josef made himself a Scotch and water, while Pat watched.

"Kathy says you don't want to go out," he said. "Why not?"

"Oh, this is ridiculous," Pat exclaimed. "We stand around here acting like any normal…" She cut off the word she had almost said, but it hung in the air as if it had a palpable shape of its own. "Family." Hardly, Pat thought angrily. She went on, with rising heat, "It's getting late, and we don't even know where you two are going to spend the night. We left everything hanging. It's driving me crazy, not knowing-"

"That's the trouble with your generation," Mark said, slurping his Coke. "You haven't learned to relax. You've got to hang loose, and let things-"

"Quiet," Josef said. "Your mother is right. The trouble with your generation is that you never plan in advance. And who gets stuck with the chaotic results of your lack of foresight? Your despised parents, that's who. I have had so many cases-"

"Okay, okay," Pat said hastily. She had seen the bright spots of temper form on Mark's cheekbones, and wanted to avert an argument. "You're both right. I am too up-tight. On the other hand, we could stand a little advance planning. For instance, what happens tonight?"

"I wanted to take you out," Josef said. "As a token of appreciation, if nothing more. But if you don't want to go-"

"I want to talk. I want to plan. I want to know where the hell everybody is going to sleep tonight!"

Kathy giggled.

"You're a very cool mother, Mrs. Robbins."

"Oh, damn," Pat said.

"I agree with Mom," Mark said. "I mean, I think we'd be more relaxed here than in some restaurant. But we have to eat."

"I can't imagine you going without nourishment for more than two hours," Pat agreed. "Why don't you and Kathy go to the Oriental and get some Chinese food to bring home?"

"I'll go," Josef said. "Where is the place?"

He was obviously unfamiliar with the routine, and so was Kathy. Watching the girl's pleased amusement as they bickered over what to order, and then placed the call so that the food would be ready to be picked up, Pat wondered how the Friedrichs had lived b.p.-before Poolesville. Had they always dined formally at the best French restaurants? Had Mrs. Friedrichs been a gourmet cook? And what business was it of hers anyway?

Josef went to get the food, the two young people vanished into the upper regions, and Pat set about cleaning up the breakfast dishes, which were, as she might have expected, still squatting in the sink. It might have occurred to someone to wash them, she thought, scrubbing at encrusted egg and wondering why someone hadn't thought to make cement with that as a base. Cleaning up the kitchen took longer than anyone might have reasonably supposed. Twilight was well advanced and she was setting the table when Josef returned, walking into the kitchen without knocking, as if he lived there.

"Where are-" he began.

"Upstairs," Pat said. She hated washing dishes. That may have been one of the reasons why she was in a bad mood. "They are not in bed together," she said nastily. "But I suppose you will want to go and check."

"Now why should you suppose-"

"Oh, forget it."

"I'd rather not, if you don't mind. That abominably conceited son of yours is right about one thing: we've all been forced by circumstances beyond our control into a situation which, if nothing else, demands some degree of honest communication." He unloaded the cartons of food as he spoke; his expression, as he peered uncertainly at a bag of egg rolls before putting it on the table, was comically at variance with his sober, precise voice. "Believe me," he went on, "I regret the intrusion into your life as much as you must resent it. But-"

"I don't resent it," Pat said.

"You don't?"

Pat felt herself flushing.

"Not in the way you mean. I'd pitch in and help any neighbor who was in trouble-although God knows I've never encountered anything like your problem! I like Kathy. I like her… very much. I think we could all be… well, friendly, without getting into anything… I mean, I've no interest in and no intention of…"

She had begun fluently enough. Now to her annoyance she felt her cheeks burn more hotly as she began to stutter and stumble over the words.

Josef came to her rescue.

"You needn't go on, Pat. We have not known one another long, but as you say, the circumstances are extraordinary. I think I know you well enough to realize…"

He stopped speaking. Pat realized he was as embarrassed as she was.

"This is silly," she said, her own self-confidence rising as his declined. "Two middle-aged adults ought to be able to talk without blushing or stammering. We understand one another, I think. Now let's get to the heart of the problem. It's not me you're worried about; it's Mark. You think he is using this situation as an excuse to-well, to get closer to Kathy."

"And you're going to assure me he would never dream of doing such a thing."