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

little Ms. Freud, Karen, I'm on your side. This sounds like fun. When did you say you were leaving?"

Karen had been frowning over the check, trying to figure out how much each of them owed. Absorbed in abstruse calculations, she was slow to comprehend the implications of Joan's question. Her heart sank. Why hadn't it occurred to her that Joan, at loose ends after her defection, would want to join what she obviously thought of as a jolly kind of treasure hunt? She appreciated her friend's interest, but at this moment all she wanted was peace and privacy and a chance to work without enthusiastic interruptions.

"As soon as I finish packing," she said firmly. "I'll call you as soon as I've found a place to stay."

They had come in separate cars; Sharon took leave of the other two outside the door of the restaurant, but Joan insisted on walking Karen to her car, spouting questions as they walked. "How long are you going to be there? When do I get to read the book? Are you sure there's nothing you want me to do? How about that creepy Joe Cropsey? You want me to tell him you've gone to Antarctica?"

"Sounds like a great idea," Karen said abstractedly. "Joan, my dear old buddy, I really am in a hurry. I promise I'll call in a day or two."

"I can take a hint." Joan enveloped her in a mighty hug. "Take care of yourself, babe."

The driver of the car next to Karen's had parked so close she wondered whether she would be able to open her door wide enough to squeeze in. Cursing the thoughtlessness of others, she managed to unlock the door and open it. When the voice boomed out behind her, she started and dropped her keys.

She had recognized the voice; she had half-expected to hear it sooner or later; but she hadn't anticipated the sense of absolute, dry-mouthed panic that seized her when she turned and saw Dorothea looming over her. Dorothea was almost six feet tall and correspondingly broad. One might have described her as fat—a number of enemies had—but the word would have been inaccurate. She was big-boned and massive; solid flesh and muscle evenly distributed from her broad shoulders to her thick legs and large feet. Bright-red lipstick and black eyeshadow gave a grotesque look of parody to her heavy features.

Karen told herself it was ridiculous to be afraid. What could Dorothea do to her, in broad daylight, with people all around? The answer was unfortunately too obvious. Dorothea's body completely filled the space between the two vehicles, and the open door behind Karen pinned her between two barriers, the one of flesh as impenetrable as the one of metal.

"You'll have to excuse me, Dorothea," she said breathlessly. "I'm in rather a hurry—"

"I want to talk to you." The other woman's eyes moved slowly over the interior of the car and then fixed on the briefcase-sized purse Karen held.

"I said I'm in a hurry." In order to slide into the driver's seat, she would have to turn her back on Dorothea. The very idea made her skin prickle.

"You have to listen to me." Dorothea's tongue crawled over her lower lip. "I don't want to do anything drastic unless you force me to."

Reason suggested she agree to anything Dorothea proposed, and wait for a chance to get away. Reason lost to rising outrage and the inability of rational people to believe other people can behave irrationally. "Damn it, Dorothea, are you threatening me? We have nothing to discuss. Get out of my way."

"Is this a private fight or can anybody join in?"

The cheerful familiar voice and the glimpse of a mop of red hair made Karen go limp with relief. Dorothea turned, slowly and clumsily in the confined space.

"Who the hell are you?" she bellowed.

"A friend," Joan cried in a resonant shout. "Britomart, the warrior maiden, riding to the rescue! I think that was her name," she added, calmly. "I'm a sociologist, not an English major. And who the hell are you? And what the hell do you think you're doing, making a scene and threatening innocent people? There's a squad car pulling into the lot; I'll just give it a hail—"

She skipped nimbly out of the way as Dorothea beat a quick retreat. "Get in the car, quick," she called to Karen. Karen jumped in and slammed the door. She was just in time; the car next to hers was Dorothea's, as she ought to have anticipated, and it scraped jarringly along the side of her own vehicle as Dorothea backed out of the parking space. She took off with a screech of tires.

Karen got out to inspect the damage. "God damn that bitch! I'm going to have her arrested! Where's that squad car?"

Leaning against the rear fender, arms folded, Joan said, "There isn't one. I just made it up. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"It was a very good idea," Karen said. She raised a shaking hand to her face. "God. Thanks, Joan. I mean—thanks a lot. I mean—-"

"You all right?" Joan moved to her side.

"Yes, sure. This isn't the first time I've seen her act that way, she's famous for it. It wouldn't have bothered me so much if I hadn't been worried about the manuscript."

"She's one of your rivals?"

"Dorothea Angelo. She's a full professor at Berkeley."

"And I thought sociologists were a crazy lot," Joan mused. "Well, I'm delighted to have been of assistance, ma'am. So long, and happy trails."

"So long, Britomart."

Though Karen felt sure even Dorothea wouldn't risk a second encounter, she did not relax until she had finished loading the car and had driven some distance without any sign of Dorothea's Chevy behind her. She had definitely made the right decision; Wilmington was getting a little too crowded for comfort. It would be nice to retreat to a small peaceful Southern town where no one knew her and no one wanted anything she possessed.

Karen's prospective landlady turned out to