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

the library. There were plenty of parking spaces. The shopping malls had drawn buyers away from the downtown area.

The interior of the mansion wasn't as handsome as the outside. Lack of space and meager funding had resulted in close-packed rows of metal shelves, a few worn tables and battered chairs. The young African-American woman behind the desk had her elbows on its surface and her eyes fixed suspiciously on a group of high school students gathered around one of the tables.

When Karen had explained what she wanted, the librarian shook her head. "I'm afraid we don't have anything here. The local history material is in the possession of the Historical Society, and they're only open three afternoons a week. This isn't one of those afternoons."

Figuring she might as well use all the weapons at her disposal, Karen introduced herself and threw in the names of Cameron Hayes and Mrs. Fowler for good measure. The librarian studied her with increased interest. "You're renting that—er—that apartment of Miz Fowler's? She can help you then. She pretty well runs the Historical Society."

"I can believe that," Karen murmured.

A discreet smile acknowledged the comment. "My name's Tanya Madison. I'd let you into the Society offices, but Miz Fowler doesn't trust anybody else with the keys. Anyhow, I don't like to leave the desk while those darned kids are hanging around. They tear pictures and maps out of the periodicals for their school papers if I don't keep an eye on them."

Karen left with proper thanks. Tanya Madison had lost interest in the darned kids; her dark eyes, bright with curiosity, followed Karen to the door.

All roads seemed to lead back to Mrs. Fowler. Karen had intended to probe the old lady's store of local legendry; she knew enough about historical research to know that oral tradition could offer useful clues. She wasn't in the mood that day for violets and Lapsang souchong, but the pervasive sense of a saturnine, dark man looking over her shoulder forced her to make the effort. After changing her jeans for a skirt and forcing her lower extremities into panty hose and pumps, she walked grumpily toward the house.

She could have sworn she saw the folds of the curtains flutter, but Mrs. Fowler allowed a decent interval to elapse before she opened the door, and her little squeal of surprised pleasure sounded authentic.

"Why, my dear, what a pleasure to see you. No, no, you aren't intruding one bit. I was just about to have tea, and I'd surely welcome company. It's been three years since my dear Harry passed on, but I still miss him. Living alone is so—so lonely, isn't it?"

Karen declined the tacit invitation to discuss her living arrangements; she felt sure Mrs. Fowler had already noticed her ringless left hand. After considerable fuss and bustle her hostess produced a second cup and what appeared to be the same plate of macaroons. They discussed the lovely spring weather for several minutes until Karen decided it was proper to ask the question that had brought her there.

"Why, surely," Mrs. Fowler exclaimed. "I'd be honored to show you our little collection, though a scholar like you probably won't think much of it. I can take you around tomorrow morning if you like. It will have to be early, I'm afraid; I have a luncheon meeting at noon. The Garden Club. I'm giving a paper on columbaria."

Karen had no idea what columbaria was—if Mrs. Fowler hadn't mentioned the Garden Club she would have assumed it had something to do with Greek architecture—and she didn't want to find out. Mrs. Fowler did not pursue the subject. In a deceptively casual voice she said, "It's the Cartright family you're interested in, I understand."

It did not seem likely that Mrs. F. was gifted with second sight. How much had Cameron told her? Or had she made an inspired guess after hearing of Karen's visits to the mansion?

"That's right," she admitted.

"I do hope you're not considerin' buyin' that old monstrosity of a house. Cameron's wasting his time, as I told him over and over. There's more than a little paint and plaster wanted; every piece of pipe and electric wire is at least fifty years old. Anyhow, you couldn't pay me to stay in that place. It gives me the cold chills to step inside."

Taken aback by the vitriolic tone, Karen could only murmur, "I haven't any intention of buying it."

"Well, I'm right relieved to hear that. Course I wish poor Cameron every success. That's all he's interested in, makin' money." She sighed. "But seems as if all the young people are that way. No respect, no interest in manners or in tradition. And Cameron has a lot of expenses. That private school for his little girl must cost a fortune, but you couldn't expect the child to go to public school, not in New Yawk, at any rate, where she'd have to mix with riffraff and colored folks."

Karen tried to conceal her surprise—not at Mrs. Fowler's assessment of the citizenry of New York City, which was typical of her class, but to the seemingly casual reference to Cameron Hayes's daughter. She knew the bright, unwinking eyes were measuring her reaction.

"He didn't mention he was divorced?" Mrs. Fowler inquired.

"There's no reason why he should," Karen said.

"Why, no, it doesn't make the least bit of difference these days . . . does it? And I certainly wouldn't say Cameron was to blame, though Maribelle was my own blood niece. They were too young, I expect. At least that's the excuse people give nowadays. I was only seventeen when I married my dear Harry, and we lived in unblemished happiness for forty-seven years." She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her embroidered napkin. "Ah, well, it won't be long till we meet again, never to part. What was it you wanted specially to know about the Cartrights, my dear?"

By that time Karen was sorry she had introduced the subject, and she was not inclined to