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

volumes, Peggy handed it to Karen. "This is your specialty, not mine."

Karen opened the book to the title page. " 'Oeuvres diverses de M. Pannard,' " she read. " 'Tome deux, Operas-comiques.' Obviously Pannard was a playwright, but I've never heard of him. French lit. is not my field."

"It's dated 1783," Lisa said eagerly. "It's the oldest, but some of the others are almost as old."

They were also almost as obscure—collections of essays and sermons. "Salutary reminders of the ephemeral nature of fame," Peggy remarked. "Two hundred years from now, will collectors come across a book by Stephen King and wonder who the hell he was?"

"Modern books won't last that long," Karen said abstractedly, leafing through the yellowed but intact pages of a volume of Sheridan's plays. "The paper is made of wood pulp and treated with acidic compounds. Old paper was handmade from cotton and linen rags. At least Sheridan's name and fame have survived. I honestly don't know whether this is worth anything or not. It's one volume of a set, and in poor shape, and it's certainly not a first edition ..."

By accident or intent, Lisa had saved the best till last. Peggy insisted afterward that she did it deliberately, after observing that her initial offerings failed to attract them. She also bawled Karen out for reacting with a gasp and an exclamation.

"You've got to develop a poker face! Antique dealers pray for customers like you."

"I couldn't help it," Karen protested. "Ismene must have read Children of the Abbey, it was a best-selling early Gothic. This could have been her own copy."

The books—all the books—were in the back seat of the car. Stars shone dimly through the misty night. Darkness had not brought much relief from the heat, however, and Karen had turned on the air-conditioning without being asked. Meekly, she added, "Thanks for buying the rest of them. They may not have been hers, but they're old enough to have been in the library of Amberly during her lifetime. One of the points I'll want to discuss is what she might have read—"

"Yeah, right." Peggy lit a cigarette. There had been no object resembling an ashtray in Lisa's apartment, and even Peggy hadn't had the gall to ask if she might smoke. "They probably won't set us back that much," she admitted, in a less aggressive voice. "I'll check with Simon as I promised I would, but I doubt these are rare books. It is an error to assume that a book is valuable just because it's old."

"So you're becoming an authority on rare books now. Is that what you and Simon talk about?"

Teasing Peggy was wasted effort. She chuckled richly. "That and other things. Shall I tell you what other things, or are you still young enough to think it's disgusting for people over fifty to be interested in sex? He knows more erotic poems than any man I've ever met. Which reminds me, maybe you could make some suggestions."

"I'll think about it," Karen said.

Peggy had left her car at the restaurant; after Karen had dropped her off she drove down the street toward the apartment. It was not late by her standards, but small Southern towns rolled up the sidewalks early on weeknights; only the restaurant and a convenience store had lighted windows. Mrs. Fowler's house, like most of the others nearby, was dark.

The mist had thickened, dimming the starlight. Karen left the car lights on while she opened the trunk and took out the briefcase, but after she had switched them off she was blinded by darkness. Groping, she found the banister and the first step, and felt her way up, cursing Mrs. Fowler's penuriousness. She might at least have provided an outside light. I ought to fake a fall and sue the old witch, Karen thought. After this I'll leave a light on inside. Or take a flashlight. I wonder what happened to that flashlight that used to be in the glove compartment? No use going back to look for it; even if it's still there, under the maps and other junk, the batteries must have died long ago.

It took forever to get the key in the lock. Once inside, she fumbled for the switch to the right of the door, and pressed it up and down several times before she was willing to admit the truth. Every light in the damned place was out. It wasn't a single burned-out bulb; the switch controlled all the lamps in the room.

Karen swore and kicked the door shut. It was not much darker inside than it was outside, and for once she preferred enclosure to open air. The significance of accessories she had failed to understand now came home to her. Those cute little candle holders, glass kittens and ceramic flowerpots and whatnot, weren't ornamental. There must be some problem with the electricity—an antiquated fuse box, perhaps—that caused frequent failures.

Muttering profanely, she felt her way across the room toward the bookshelves. She barked her shin painfully on a chair before she reached them and knocked half a dozen books off the shelf groping for the candle. It wasn't until she had located it that she realized she had neither matches nor lighter.

Taking a firm hold on her temper she stood perfectly still and tried to think sensibly. She certainly didn't intend to wander around in the dark looking for a fuse box; it might even be downstairs, in the garage. Why hadn't she thought of buying a flashlight? The stove was gas. She might be able to light a candle from the burner flame . . .

A puff of hot air from the open window stirred the curtains and made her start. The heat and humidity seemed to have increased since the sun went down; perspiration slid down her face and into her eyes, making them smart and water. Her discomfort wasn't entirely physical. The darkness pressed against her. Every inch of exposed skin tingled. It wasn't panic, in the strict sense of the