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

left the apartment early, at the same time her fellow tenants were heading for work. No one was lying in wait. Relieved and embarrassed at her foolishness she drove straight to the bank and deposited the manuscript. She would have to refer to it before she published the book, trying to decipher blurred or illegible passages, but for a first read-through the copy would be good enough.

It would also be good enough for a would-be thief, Karen reminded herself. So long as the original was in her safe-deposit box a thief wouldn't gain the most important thing—exclusive possession of the text—but he or she could work from the copy and try to publish first. She'd have to guard the copy as closely as she had the original. Maybe she shouldn't have left it in the apartment. But it was safer there than it would have been in the car. She caught herself glancing frequently in the rearview mirror and gave herself a mental slap on the wrist. Taking reasonable precautions was one thing; becoming suspicious of every vehicle that followed her for more than a block was raging paranoia.

The campus was reassuringly well populated. Suspecting that Joe Cropsey would be lying in wait for her, she asked a passing student to take the final grades to the English Department office instead of delivering them herself. One more dirty job awaited her, and although it wasn't as unpleasant as an encounter with Cropsey would have been, she was not looking forward to it.

The trip to Nag's Head had been Joan's idea. She would probably scream like a banshee when Karen announced she couldn't go, and Sharon would probably support Joan. She had already expressed concern about Karen's growing "obsession" with her work, and her professional training made her only too ready to find hidden motives for every action.

They were waiting for her when she arrived at the restaurant. Joan was drinking wine, Sharon mineral water with a twist of grapefruit peel. At least it looked like grapefruit. The latest health fad, Karen supposed. Sharon followed every one.

She had decided to blurt it out and get it over with. "I have to cancel Nag's Head," she announced, sliding into a chair.

The other two contemplated her in stony silence. Joan's hair was so curly and of such a bright, improbable red that it looked like a wig. She was ten years older than Karen and several inches taller—a big woman, heavy-boned and imposing in appearance. Sharon was almost as tall, but she weighed fifty pounds less than Joan and her arms bulged with muscle. She worked out every day, attended aerobics classes several times a week, and ate like a Victorian lady. Currently she was on a low-fat, low-protein, vegetarian diet. Watching her eat always made Karen want to order the richest dessert on the menu. In her admittedly biased opinion Joan was much more attractive than Sharon. Joan looked like a woman, not an artificial model of one.

Joan looked at Sharon, who nodded at her. It was one of Sharon's significant nods. Karen knew what was coming.

"Aren't you being a teeny bit unfair to Joan, Karen? She can't afford to go by herself even if she wanted to, and it's too late now to find someone else."

"Weren't you the one who told me I had to stop being such a wimp and focus on my self-needs?"

"Not in those precise words, I hope," Sharon answered in assumed horror.

"That was a free translation," Karen admitted with a smile. "I know it isn't fair to Joan, but when you hear my reasons I'm confident you'll understand. I couldn't talk about it before the deal was concluded, not even to you."

She was a good lecturer, and she gave this one all she had, finishing with an animated description of the lunch with Meyer. "So you see I daren't waste time. Bill the Bastard is already nose-down on the trail, and I'll be damned if I let him get ahead of me."

"Meyer," Joan repeated. "Didn't I meet him? Tall, good-looking guy with a supercilious sneer?"

"I don't think he's good-looking. But 'supercilious' is certainly accurate."

"It sounds like a wonderful find, Karen," Sharon said coolly. "Congratulations. But I don't see why you're finding such—may I say 'theatrical'?—implications in Dr. Meyer's behavior. He's a professional, a scholar. You seem to be suggesting he will engage in conduct that is unbecoming—"

"She's right," Joan declared. "Honest to God, Sharon, sometimes I wonder what ivory tower you've taken up residence in. I don't know much about literature, but if Karen's appraisal of the manuscript is correct it's a major discovery, enough to justify burglary, assassination, and blackmail. Scholars aren't any nobler than the next man."

"You're as bad as Karen," Sharon said fastidiously.

"Oh, I don't suppose he'd commit burglary or murder," Joan admitted. "But he'll cheat her of the glory if he can. You really don't have any idea of who this woman was, Karen?"

"Not yet. But I think I've located the house, and I'm pretty sure she was a member of the family that has owned it for over two hundred years."

"That's a good start," Joan agreed.

"You do understand, then," Karen said, relieved. "You're not mad?"

"I'd do the same thing if I were in your shoes," Joan admitted. "Tell me more."

Karen needed no further encouragement. It was a relief and a pleasure to talk about her big discovery to sympathetic listeners. Joan's field was sociology, Sharon was a psychologist; but both were intelligent and well-read. Karen had expected Joan would be the more responsive of the two, since her imagination was better developed, and she was right. Joan was enthralled; she kept interrupting with questions and comments. Sharon listened in silence, nibbling daintily at her vegetarian salad. However, she was unable to refrain from one professional caveat.

"I just hope you aren't going overboard on this, dear. Just remember, if you ever need to talk about it . . ."

"She means well," Joan said with a grin that bared most of her teeth. "Ignore