Houses of Stone, KATHY [classic literature books TXT] 📗

Meyer had been watching for them. They took his car—Simon in front with Meyer, "ladies" in the back. Typical, Karen thought. Peggy let out a gurgle and poked Karen in the ribs when he pulled up in front of one of Baltimore's most expensive restaurants. "He's definitely up to no good," she mouthed.

They drank another toast, in imported Chablis. Peggy studied the menu with an anticipatory expression that made it difficult for Karen to keep her face straight. As she had expected, Peggy ordered the most expensive entree available.

Meyer directed the conversation skillfully, sticking to neutral subjects until their orders had been delivered and the obsequious waiter had left. Then he opened fire.

"I hope your ankle is better, Karen?"

Simon didn't choke on his food or demand an explanation; he was far too well-bred. But the look he gave Karen assured her that she was due for a lecture when the truth came out, as Meyer intended it should.

"It's fine," she said. "Not a twinge."

"I'm glad we arrived when we did," Meyer mused. "I shudder to think what might have happened if you had been trapped in that filthy hole, unable to climb out, with the water rising and night coming on."

Simon did choke then, and Karen lost her precarious hold on her temper. "You've been reading too many Gothic novels, Bill," she snarled. "I stumbled into a window well, Simon. It was a basement window, and the hole was less than five feet deep. I could easily have gotten out by myself. My ankle was twisted, not sprained, and the water was three inches deep."

"All the same, you were taking a dangerous risk, going to such an isolated place alone," Meyer said. "I'm surprised you would let her do it, Dr. Finneyfrock."

"I'm not her keeper," Peggy retorted, while Karen sputtered speechlessly. "She doesn't need one, even if she is a woman. Seems to me you've got some explaining to do yourself, Dr. Meyer. What were you doing there? Mr. Hayes is the executor of the estate. You didn't have his permission."

"I was accompanied by Miss Fairweather, who is one of the heirs. Come to that," Meyer added gently, "Karen didn't have Mr. Hayes's permission either."

Simon's head had been turning from one speaker to the other. Now he said, "She was in touch with him, however. I didn't give you his name, Dr. Meyer."

"Karen is aware of that, Mr. Hallett. Your integrity has never been in question." Meyer leaned back, smiling smugly. "I reasoned it out myself."

"But you haven't any right," Peggy began.

"Ah, but I do. Let's be candid, shall we? Cards on the table."

"That," said Karen, "I would like to see. No, Peggy, let me speak for myself. Dr. Meyer is correct. We can't prevent him from pursuing his own inquiries. Publication of the manuscript is the main issue, but the identity of the author is also important. If my honorable colleague can figure that out before I do he diminishes my achievement and adds further luster to his distinguished career. A nice guy would give up gracefully and admit I have a moral, if not legal, right to pursue that search. But you're not a nice guy, are you, Bill?"

"Now, now, let's not be rude," Meyer said with a grin. "I was about to suggest a compromise. We can waste a lot of time and energy getting in one another's way; and I must warn you that Dorothea is also on the trail. She's even less interested in nice than I am, and she's furious at being outbid."

A brief silence followed, while they considered this information. It was Simon who spoke first. "That sounds to me like a threat, Dr. Meyer."

"A warning, not a threat," Meyer said smoothly. "I can't imagine why Karen is so determined to think the worst of me. You don't suppose I would be stupid enough—or unscrupulous enough—to do something illegal, do you? Dorothea might. She has a grudge against Karen, who is everything she'd like to be"—his eyes lingered on Karen's flushed face, moving deliberately from her eyes to her lips—"and whose career is on the rise as Dorothea's is fading. Dorothea hasn't published anything significant for over a decade. I wouldn't like to commit myself as to what she might do to get that manuscript—or a copy of it. Think it over, Karen. I can be useful to you in a number of ways if you agree to my offer of assistance. If you don't agree ..." He glanced at his watch. "Excuse me; I have another appointment. You'll want to discuss the matter with your friends, I'm sure."

"If he thinks he's going to stick us with the check," Peggy began, as Meyer made his way between the tables.

"He wouldn't be so crude," Simon muttered. "Good heavens, Karen, what have you gotten yourself into? This is beginning to sound like gang warfare."

Peggy patted his hand. "Poor Simon. You don't know much about the inner workings of the academic world, do you?"

Ismene woke to find herself wrapped in warmth and in light. Her thoughts were as diffuse and hazed as her vision; how strange, she mused, that Paradise should present itself in such familiar and homely images; not the dazzling brilliance of That Divine Visage, or the splendor of golden palaces, but a soft red glow like firelight. The softness that enclosed her might be that of blanket and comforter, rather than cloud or feathery wings.

The wings of the faceless angel? She shuddered at the recollection. So might Lucifer, the shining child of the morning, have appeared to the all-seeing Eye that observed in the shadowing of that angelic face the dread forecast of his inevitable fall from grace.

The face that presented itself to the field of her vision was no angel's visage, unless the Redeemer's promise to the oppressed was indeed fulfilled in a sense more literal than hope dared envisage. Wrinkled and kindly, dusky dark and crowned with a close-wrapped cloth of purest white, it smiled upon her and spoke in the