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

give Mrs. Fowler any additional information. Undeterred by her vague response, Mrs. Fowler continued to spout gossip— all of it malicious. It was rumored that the founder of the house, one Obadiah Cartright, had fled England a step or two ahead of the law. "He was a highwayman, or something romantic like that," said Mrs. F. with a sniff. "More likely a petty thief. He sure did act like one, hiding himself away in that remote region. Nobody living anywhere near, and he didn't encourage company. There's a streak of that in the family, always has been. Snobbishness. As if they considered themselves too good for other folks. There's a story that young Tom Jefferson passed by Amberley one time, and Obadiah wouldn't let him in the house. Made him and his men camp on the front lawn. Not that young Tom was anybody in particular then, but hospitality to strangers was a Virginia tradition. And another time ..."

How long she would have gone on if Karen had not excused herself, the latter could not imagine. When she left the house and saw the sunlight golden on the lawn she felt as if she had escaped from prison— the dark cell of Mrs. Fowler's narrow little mind. What a malicious, hypocritical old bitch the woman was. If she was a friend of Cameron's, he didn't need enemies.

She was about to start up the stairs when she remembered the cupboard was bare. So was the fridge. She ought to have gone grocery shopping that morning, instead of finishing The Castle of Otranto. The chores of daily living took an outrageous amount of time. Bathing, brushing your teeth, acquiring and preparing the necessary nourishment, transporting yourself and your belongings from place to place ... At least she wouldn't have to go upstairs. She had her purse with her, and the briefcase was in the trunk of the car.

Backing out of the driveway, she headed for the shopping center on the edge of town. There was a small convenience store closer at hand, but she might as well stock up and get it over with.

She had to mention Mrs. Fowler's name in order to cash a check. Another boring, necessary chore she had overlooked—establishing credit. The manager gave her a temporary card, which solved that problem, but his questions—prompted as much by small-town courtesy as by curiosity, she knew—annoyed her. She reminded herself that anonymity was impossible in such a small place. By now everybody in Mrs. Fowler's social circle must know who she was, and most of them would be speculating on why she was there . . . All at once a possible explanation for the old lady's malicious remarks about Cameron occurred to her. She wondered why she hadn't thought of it before. Naturally a woman like that would assume another woman was in hot pursuit of a man.

By the time she had carried six bags of groceries and the briefcase up the wooden stairs that gave access to her front door she was hungry enough to eat anything that didn't bite her first. There was no microwave, so she chopped lettuce for a salad and opened a can of soup. As she sat at the kitchen table eating and reading, her thoughts kept wandering from the text she knew so well she could recite large portions from memory.

If Mrs. Fowler's interest in her love life was part of the deal, the apartment might be more trouble than it was worth. It had other disadvantages—having to carry everything up those steep steps, for one thing. Mrs. Fowler was probably violating a number of zoning laws; the plumbing and wiring were almost as antiquated as old Josiah Cartright's, and that staircase was the only exit from the apartment. Presumably it had been the chauffeur's quarters in the days when the town gentry could afford live-in servants. Nobody cared whether a chauffeur burned to death.

Karen tossed Jane Eyre aside and got to her feet. Reading Gothic novels was not good for the nerves, especially the nerves of a woman alone in a strange place after dark. Especially a novel that contained a horrific description of a burning house with a madwoman raging on the battlements.

From her windows she could see over all but the tallest trees. Lights shone comfortingly—from the street, from houses nearby, from one of the upper windows in the main house. The area immediately surrounding the garage was unlit, however. Odd that Mrs. Fowler, the fluttery Southern lady personified, hadn't taken the precaution of surrounding the house with floodlights. She must have a lot of confidence in her fellow citizens.

Karen wasn't worried about burglars, even a burglar named William Meyer. Anyone entering the apartment would have to climb the stairs and break down the front door. There was one window on that side, but it couldn't be reached from the stairs. She was more concerned about being able to get out than about someone else getting in. An ironic smile curved her lips as she continued her inspection. It was the classic dilemma, the contradictory threats faced by all the heroines of the traditional Gothic novel: fear of being imprisoned, unable to get out; fear of a deadly danger that could not be kept out.

However, the danger of fire was real. Garages were often used to store paint and other flammable materials, and her car was directly under her bedroom. There wasn't even a smoke detector in the apartment. Another violation of code, surely, but it wouldn't matter; by the time the detector sounded it might be too late.

Karen's lips parted in an exclamation of protest. What was the matter with her? Too many Gothics? All the same, she added another item to her mental shopping list. Taking sensible precautions was not neurotic. It was . . . sensible.

Having decided this, she closed the curtains and went calmly to bed. Nothing disturbed her sleep. She had not dreamed of enclosure and darkness since she arrived.

Mrs. Fowler was on the