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

Oh? . . . Yes, certainly. That's a good idea . . . Yes, I think so. And you? . . . Good . . . Yes, of course . . . Good night."

The kettle shrieked. Karen snatched it off the stove and poured water into the cups. Looking up, she saw Peggy standing in the doorway, watching her with an amused smile. "What tact. Did you think I was going to murmur sweet nothings?"

"No, I expected to hear ribald remarks that would offend my ladylike sensibilities. That was a very businesslike conversation."

Peggy sat down at the table and spooned sugar into her tea. "I've talked with Simon a number of times," she said. "I hope the relationship will continue to develop."

"Do you mean you and Simon are ..." Surprise loosened Karen's tongue. She stopped herself. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business."

"No, it's not," Peggy said coolly. "I only mentioned it because I don't want you to suspect me of plotting with him behind your back. Tonight's conversation, in contrast to others we've had, was strictly business; he got a call today from the dealer from whom he bought the manuscript. While preparing for the auction—which is on Saturday, in case you've forgotten—the guy found more papers at the bottom of a box of linens. He wanted to know if Simon was interested."

"What did he say? What kind of papers? How much did he—"

"Calm yourself, please. I will give you the information in an orderly manner. Simon, moral giant that he is, refused the implicit offer; interest having been aroused, the seller stands to gain more in an open auction than in a private deal. He doubts the papers are important. All the dealer could tell him was that they look old—which as Simon knows, and you ought to know, doesn't mean a damned thing."

"Does that mean we have to bid for them on Saturday, in competition with everybody else attending the auction?" Karen demanded.

"Not without having a look at them first." Peggy tugged thoughtfully at her ear. "I'd planned to attend the auction, of course. There may be other things we'll want."

"What?"

"I won't know till I see them," Peggy said, maddeningly vague. "Usually there is a preview the day before, to give potential buyers a chance to examine the merchandise. We could attend that, but I'd prefer a private viewing, without a lot of auction freaks breathing down my neck. Do you think Cameron could arrange it?"

"I could ask."

"Do that little thing." Peggy gulped down the last of her tea and rose.

"I'm off. I want to get to the courthouse as soon as the offices open tomorrow. I'll turn up here in time for Happy Hour, okay?"

Karen followed her to the door. "Be careful on the stairs," she warned. "It's awfully dark."

"It is, isn't it? Be sure and lock up."

Karen stood in the open door until Peggy had started the engine and turned on the headlights. The glare of their beams shattered the darkness and shadows turned familiar objects into grotesque caricatures. A shiver shook Karen's body as she remembered the last sentence she had read before Peggy interrupted her that afternoon. "Sometimes," Ismene had written, "it is better not to know what lies hidden in the dark."

She was hard at work the following morning when a pounding at the door interrupted her. Automatically Karen covered the manuscript with a blank sheet of paper, and got stiffly to her feet, wondering who it could be. Not Mrs. Fowler, unless she had run out of violet notepaper and was employing clenched fists instead of ladylike knuckles to the door. Karen hesitated, struck by a sudden thought. Could the person demanding entrance so peremptorily be Dorothea Angelo? She had feared that Dorothea would track her down sooner or later, and she wasn't keen on facing that large angry individual alone.

I'll be damned if I'll let the woman intimidate me, she told herself. Squaring her shoulders, she reached for the doorknob.

Despite her bravado it was with considerable relief that she recognized her visitor. Joan's red hair was windblown, and she was wearing a bright-green T-shirt covered with feminist mottoes and insignia. The least provocative of the mottoes read, "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle."

"Hi," Joan said brightly.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm a refugee from a rowing machine. Can I come in?"

Brushing past Karen, she rattled on, "I had to get away from that place. If I don't get my teeth into a hamburger or a taco within the next few hours I may turn cannibal. Everything on the menu over there is low-fat, low-cal, low-protein, and low-taste. I've consumed so goddamn many bean sprouts I keep feeling my head to make sure things aren't growing in my hair."

"Where's Sharon?" Karen asked, looking out the door.

"Lunching on vegetable consomme and fat-free yogurt, after a morning on a treadmill. Didn't they used to sentence vicious criminals to the treadmill? Aren't you glad to see me?"

Karen indicated a chair. "Yes, to both questions. But don't think you can make a habit of this. It drives me crazy to have people think they can interrupt my work just because I'm sitting in my living room instead of in somebody else's office."

"I know. I get that all the time too. I'll call next time, I swear. This was one of those sudden, irresistible impulses Sharon keeps talking about." Her repentant frown turned to an unrepentant grin. "She doesn't even know I'm gone. I sneaked out. Come on, let me take you to lunch."

"Lunch?" Karen looked at her watch. "I didn't realize it was so late. I can't take the time, though. I could make us a sandwich—"

"It probably wouldn't be greasy enough. I came prepared to bribe you if necessary." Joan reached into her bulging purse and whipped out a paperback book. "Look what I found yesterday, during a brief moment of recreation Sharon allowed me at a bookstore."

"Haunted Houses of the Tidewater?" Karen read the title aloud. "No, thanks. I've