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

did everybody else who read the poems. But if that pile of rubble was a literal, physical stone house, it opens up all kinds of interesting speculations. Sit down, Cameron. Our menu today includes ham-and-cheese sandwiches, with a choice of soda or cola, and for dessert a tempting array of supermarket cookies."

He insisted on helping her. Karen didn't offer; arms folded, she watched them move from the refrigerator to the table, exchanging witticisms about the elegance of the waxed-paper and foil serving dishes and the gourmet menu. She suspected Cameron was fully aware of the reason for Peggy's corny jokes and motherly concern about his sore, scraped hands. She was flirting with him, literally batting her lashes and letting him lift everything that weighed more than half a pound. Not only did he know exactly what she was doing, he enjoyed it. Meekly he allowed her to bully him into eating two of the four sandwiches and half a box of cookies, but when she offered to help with the painting, he laughed and said, "Don't overdo it, Peggy."

Unabashed, she smiled back at him. "I'm a damned good painter."

"I'm sure you are damned good at everything you do," Cameron said pointedly. "Thanks just the same. What can I do for you?"

"I'm going to need some help excavating that pile of stones. Not from you," she added quickly. "You have enough on your hands with the house. Can you recommend some kids with strong backs who'd work for minimum wage?"

"Are you serious?"

"Quite serious. There's no hurry, I probably won't get around to it for another week or so. We can come to an arrangement about a short-term lease—"

"That won't be necessary," Cameron said. "If you find anything, it might be an inducement to prospective buyers. I can tell them the place is of great historical interest."

"It is," Peggy said.

She was unusually silent during the drive back. "I'll be back about six, if that's agreeable to you," she announced, when they reached Karen's apartment. "I want to shower and change. Who knows, I might even spend some time thinking."

Karen didn't argue. She wanted some time to think too.

When she unlocked the door she saw the square envelope on the floor.

The pale-violet color told her who her correspondent must be. In darker violet ink Mrs. Fowler presented her compliments and an invitation to tea on Monday, for Karen and her distinguished friend, of whose arrival she had heard. She didn't say from whom she had heard it.

Karen was tempted to call and refuse—or stick a little note under Mrs. F. 's door, to the same effect. She had a pretty good idea of how Peggy probably felt about tea parties. However, with Peggy one could never be certain. She might be able to get more information from the old lady than Karen had managed to do.

Preoccupied with the annoying habits of Mrs. Fowler, she was halfway across the room before something struck her. Something . . . but what? After a moment she realized that the books she had left lying on the table didn't look quite right. She was in the habit (a neurotic habit, according to Sharon) of stacking them with the spines aligned. Had she neglected to do it that morning? They were definitely not aligned now.

She could not be certain about the books, but a look around the apartment convinced her that someone had searched the place during her absence—even the kitchen cupboards. Another (neurotic) habit of hers was to separate the canned goods: all the soups in one group, all the vegetables in another. Now the mushroom soup rubbed shoulders with the canned peas and the chili was next to the tomato juice. In the bedroom she found the final proof: the worn chenille spread had not been tucked under the pillows but pulled clumsily up over them.

Mrs. Fowler was the most obvious suspect. She was the only one who had a key, and bored old ladies were notorious snoops. Such a harmless-sounding word, snoop. Snooping was prompted by idle curiosity, a harmless if socially indefensible habit, with no particular end in mind.

She could have been looking for "dirty" books or more titillating objects indicative of sexual activity. A little old lady would be certain to look under the mattress, since that was where she would hide the evidence of her own secret vices. But a little old lady would know the proper method of making a bed.

Bill Meyer? He was the most likely suspect from another point of view—that of motive. Karen opened the front door and examined the lock. There were no signs of forced entry. No, he wouldn't risk that, and it was unlikely that an academic—even a louse like Bill Meyer— knew how to pick a lock without leaving traces. But he might have charmed or tricked Mrs. Fowler into lending him a key, or stolen hers for long enough to have a copy made.

Lisa Cartright was no little old lady; Karen doubted she was in the habit of making beds, hers or anyone else's. She was on good terms with Mrs. Fowler and could have borrowed a key, with or without the old lady's knowledge. Not all snoops were elderly women; but there was another reason, stronger than idle curiosity, that might have inspired Lisa to search the place. She knew, thanks in part to Karen herself, that certain people would be willing to pay a lot of money for a copy of the manuscript.

The same motive could apply to Cameron. He had had no idea what the manuscript was worth when he sold it; some people in his position would feel they had been cheated, and were, therefore, entitled to whatever extra they could pick up. Only a sick, warped individual would feel that way, but there were a lot of sick, warped individuals running around loose. And it was a safe bet that Cameron had never made a bed in his life.

Considering various methods of laying a trap for an intruder,