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

series of spitting, piercing howls jerked her back to wakefulness. They faded as she listened; one of the combatants had thrown in the towel and fled. She hoped the winner was her unwitting defender. Peggy had wanted to reward it with a lavish spread of delicacies, but Karen had talked her out of it. She didn't want to encourage the cat to hang around. Maybe, before she left town, she could deliver a basket of cat goodies to its owners.

The break in the weather was brief. It was raining again next morning, a slow, dismal drizzle that enlarged the puddles on the sodden ground. Karen was ready and waiting when Peggy arrived. She blinked in surprise at the apparition standing on her threshold. Crimson umbrella, scarlet raincoat, snappy matching cap . . .

"Very cheerful," she said.

"I'm sprucing myself up," Peggy explained shamelessly. "Simon likes bright colors. No, I won't come in, if you're ready to go; no sense dripping all over your carpet. I'll drive, I'm parked behind you. We can lock the manuscript in my trunk."

She had it all figured out. Karen shrugged into her old raincoat, feeling very drab next to the dapper little figure in scarlet.

"Do you know where the place is?" she asked, getting into the passenger seat.

"Cameron gave me directions. Now listen good, I am going to give you a run-down on procedure. The first thing you do is practice an expression of impenetrable disdain. Like this." She curled her lip and wrinkled her nose. "Plaster it on your face and leave it there. Don't look excited or squeal in delight even if you run across a diary labeled 'Jane Jones, aka Ismene.' Since we don't know exactly what we're looking for, we'll have to go through every box. A pile of what appears to be old magazines might have other papers within. If you do find anything you want, take careful note of its location. Got that?"

"I guess so," Karen said uncertainly. "It sounds much more complicated than I'd realized."

"My dear, bidding is an art form that requires not only natural talent but years of practice." Peggy squinted through the streaming windshield. "I think we turn here. Can you read that street sign?"

Karen obliged. With a grunt of satisfaction Peggy swung right. "Two and a half miles to Old Forge Road. Watch out for the auction sign. Yes, dearie, I'm an old hand at country auctions. I used to hit one every weekend, before my house got so crammed full. I've cut back lately, but Joan and I—"

"Joan!" Karen exclaimed. "I forgot about her. She said she was coming. Suggested we all have dinner tonight."

"We'll see." Peggy was concentrating on business. "Ah, there's the sign."

The road was a narrow two-lane stretch of macadam. Water flowed through the ditches on either side. Peggy slowed and pulled to the right as a pickup approached, taking up more of the road than was its due. "Damned farmers always think they own the road," she grumbled. "Why have you got your hands over your eyes? Relax, I know what I'm doing."

The auction house was a rambling, flat-roofed structure set among fields green with growing crops. A big tentlike structure flanked one side of it, and a graveled parking area the other. More parking was available across the road, in a field that had been mowed but not paved. It was a sea of mud and flattened weeds that morning; since they were early, there was space available in the graveled lot.

Peggy cast a professional look over the other vehicles. "Look at the license plates. New York, Pennsylvania, Florida . . . Dealers. I was afraid of this. He must have advertised in antique papers clear across the country. Get your sneer in place."

Karen followed her into the building. When she saw the interior she stopped and stared in consternation. Peggy had not overstated the size of the job. The large room was crammed with objects in haphazard array, tables piled on top of bureaus and sideboards, cardboard cartons heaped atop one another, long tables covered with stacked quilts and linens and china. There were more cartons under the tables. To the right of the entrance was a small platform with a desk and high stool—the auctioneer's podium, Karen assumed. Glass cases on either side held smaller, choicer objects; the overhead lights glinted off silver and crystal. At the back of the room, opposite the podium, a stout, aproned woman was dispensing coffee and doughnuts to several men who leaned on the counter talking and laughing.

"Old, favored customers," Peggy muttered, indicating the men. "They've been here before. Let's get some coffee and do a preliminary survey together."

She had stripped for action, leaving her coat and umbrella in the car, and was professionally attired in dungarees, denim shirt and heavy laced boots. Karen was glad she had been warned to wear old, comfortable clothes; the bare cement floor of the building was already marked by wet, muddy footprints.

Carrying a Styrofoam cup, she trotted obediently after Peggy as the latter walked along the rows of merchandise. Before they had gone ten feet, everything began to blur in Karen's mind. She understood why Peggy had insisted she bring a clipboard. Several of the dreaded dealers carried them too.

They finished their circuit of the room and their coffee simultaneously. Tossing her empty cup into a stained oil drum outside the door, Peggy flexed her arms and spoke.

"They save the big stuff like furniture and silver till later in the day. They'll start with the miscellaneous objects they don't expect will bring much—like those cartons. I'll let you excavate the ones on the floor, if you don't mind. My knees are giving me hell in this wet weather. Drag things out and dig to your heart's content, but be sure to put everything back in the same box you got it from."

Abject panic gripped Karen. "Suppose I miss something. I don't know what I'm looking for!"

"Neither do I." Peggy grinned broadly. "Have fun."

Karen didn't