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

"No." Karen yawned. "The officer called this morning, to say they'd keep the case open, but since they had no leads ..." Another ear-splitting yawn interrupted her; she went on indistinctly, "Mrs. Fowler told them she didn't see or hear anything. She also mentioned that nothing of the sort had ever occurred until I got here."

"Nice," Peggy muttered. "Well, I guess it could have been worse. You saved the manuscript."

"It was the cat that saved it." Karen laughed feebly. "She must have stepped on its tail. I never heard such a sound. It was as loud and as effective as a burglar alarm."

"She," Peggy repeated.

"She was wearing perfume. I didn't recognize the scent, I hardly ever use the stuff because of my allergies."

"Men use cologne these days. And aftershave."

"None of the men I know use anything that pervasive. It was musky and heavy, the kind that has names like Passion Flower and Jungle Lust."

"Mrs. Fowler douses herself with some sickly flower scent," Peggy said. "Supposed to be violets, I guess."

"Lisa too. Now don't suggest it was a casual burglar with exotic tastes. She was lying in wait for me and the first thing she grabbed was the briefcase."

"I'm not going to suggest any such thing. Your reasoning is logical. The lights?"

"The master switch had been thrown. The fuse box is in the garage; it's one of those old-fashioned types with fuses instead of breakers. The whole damned electrical system probably violates some housing code."

"I expect this place violates a lot of codes," Peggy agreed. "She got in through the front window?"

"Yes. The screen had been replaced, but not secured. She must have left it open long enough for the cat to jump in. It was under the bed, curled up in a box of sweaters." Karen rubbed her nose. The itch was strictly psychosomatic; the sweaters were in the car. She'd have to have them cleaned before she could wear them again.

Peggy opened the front door and went out onto the landing. When she returned Karen said snuffily, "I know, I looked too. It was stupid of me to suppose that just because I couldn't reach that window from the steps, nobody could. All the same she couldn't have managed it without hammering in a spike to stand on while she slit the screen and unlocked it."

"You think that's it? There's no spike now, just a hole."

"Had to be." Karen yawned. "The whole thing was neatly done. She came back out after she'd unlocked the door, and removed the evidence. The cat could have slid past her then, while the door was open. She might not have seen it."

"Maybe it wasn't only the racket the cat made that scared her into leaving. Visible scratches, on hands or face, would be a dead giveaway if. . ."

"If it's someone I know," Karen finished. "It could have been Dorothea Angelo. She's big and husky and unscrupulous, and she douses herself with perfume. But it could also have been someone big and husky and unscrupulous who had doused himself with perfume to pin the blame on Dorothea."

Peggy sucked in her breath. "Bill?"

"It would be so easy," Karen said. "In the dark, my sense of smell was the only sense available for purposes of identification, so long as the intruder didn't speak. Which he didn't. Would Dorothea be stupid enough to overlook that distinctive aroma?"

"She might," Peggy muttered.

"Oh, sure, she might; you can get so accustomed to a particular odor that you don't notice it yourself. But there are other suggestive points. Hammering in that spike to stand on, for instance—isn't that the sort of thing a man would think of, rather than a woman?"

"Now you're being sexist," Peggy said critically.

"True. And you are prejudiced. You don't want to suspect Bill."

"True." Peggy's smile was half hearted. "But we'll inspect him for cat scratches. Hell, we'll inspect everybody."

Soon afterward they went their separate ways, Peggy to the courthouse and Karen to the table in the living room to work on the manuscript.

Peggy paused in the doorway to remark gruffly, "I don't have to tell you to keep that window closed and locked, even if the temperature in here gets to be a hundred."

"You don't have to tell me." Karen wiped perspiration off her forehead. "It's almost as hot outside anyhow."

"Looks like rain." Peggy studied the low-hanging clouds. "A good thunderstorm would clear the air."

"Be careful driving."

"Ha! You be careful."

After a second cup of coffee and a cold shower Karen got to work, but the oppressive weather made her sleepy and she was rather too full of coffee when Peggy returned late that afternoon carrying two brown paper bags.

"Deli," she announced, unpacking cold cuts and cheese, rolls and salad. "It's too hot to cook and I don't feel like going out."

"You mean you don't want me going out and coming back to what might not be an empty house." Karen leaned against the door, arms folded. "Did you bring your jammies?"

"No use suggesting I stay the night, huh?"

Peggy stood with feet braced and arms folded. She looked like a belligerent elderly child. Touched and amused, Karen managed not to smile. "I appreciate the offer, Peggy, and I'm sure you'd be a match for Bill and Dorothea combined. But it's not necessary. She won't try this again."

"She's not registered at the motel." Peggy stowed the food in the fridge and took out a tray of ice cubes.

"How do you know? They surely wouldn't let you look at the register."

"Of course not. I told the clerk I was expecting a friend, a famous and eccentric author who gets a kick out of surprising her buddies. She's so famous she always registers under a pseudonym."

"That is the most preposterous story I've ever—"

"The clerk bought it." Peggy chuckled. "She thinks it's Alexandra Ripley."

Karen began to laugh helplessly. "Peggy, how awful of you! I've seen pictures of Ripley; if she ever finds out about this—this masquerade she'll sue you for slander."

"I'll worry about that tomorrow," Peggy said, chuckling.