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

of a husband and wife. That's about all I could tell, but if it were cleaned and restored . . . Shall we go for it?"

"My God, yes! This is incredible!"

Peggy returned the portrait to its original place. "Don't get your hopes up, this is probably two other people. I figure it's worth a try, though, and if you can keep your big mouth shut and your big brown eyes from shining, we might get it cheap."

"I will. I swear. I—"

"Shut up," Peggy said amiably. "Back to work now. We haven't even looked at the books."

They spent the next half hour examining the contents of the glass cases—just in case, as Peggy said. The cases had to be unlocked by the woman in charge, and she kept a watchful eye on the objects, some of which were small enough to be slipped into a pocket or handbag. Her imagination fired, Karen examined every piece of jewelry and every ornament. It was a deflating experience, however; some of the old jet and garnet jewelry was attractive and, according to Peggy, fairly valuable, but the oldest dated, according to the same expert, to the mid-nineteenth century.

"I'll bet this was jumbled together in a box in the attic," Peggy muttered. She had whipped out a jeweler's loupe and gave an appearance at least of professional competence as she squinted through it. "A lot of the stones are missing, and some are chipped."

"You got it," said the custodian, visibly impressed by the loupe. "The good jewelry, if there was any, must've been sold a long time ago. Guess the old guy forgot about this collection. If you'd seen the place, you'd see how he could. Took us two months just to sort through the stuff."

"You'll get good prices for some of these, though," Peggy said consolingly. "Antique jewelry is skyrocketing. I might have a try for this garnet necklace; it's in pretty good shape."

Karen had lost interest. "Are you almost through here? The place is filling up, it must be after one."

"A few more minutes," Peggy said, indicating a pile of jet pieces to the attendant. "You don't have to hang around."

Karen headed like a homing pigeon for the boxes of books. They had called to her all morning; only a stern sense of duty had enabled her to resist. She hadn't rummaged among old books for a long time. It was like breaking your diet.

Some of the Cartrights had been readers. As she moved on from box to box, she began to see a pattern. Few books were as early in date as the ones Lisa had acquired—"pilfered," most likely, Karen thought. One large group dated from the late eighteen hundreds—an eclectic collection of novels and essays, poetry and drama, biographies and travel books. Another sizable lot had dates in the teens and twenties of this century. She recognized some of the best-selling authors of that period. Could they have belonged to the old man who had recently died? If so, he had stopped buying books in the early thirties. The Great Depression? Possibly. A pile of condensed books, much later in date, gave her pause until she realized they must come from Uncle Josiah's scavenging period. The books were worthless, people couldn't give them away—except to pack rats, collectors of junk, like the old man. A shiver of pity ran through her. What a horrible thing to happen to someone. His had not been a house of stone in the literal sense, but he had shut himself up in a prison as impenetrable—that of his lonely, suspicious mind.

She was rummaging through a box of ledgers and recipe books when Joan appeared, sinking cross-legged to the floor beside her. Giving her friend an abstracted "hi," Karen continued to rummage.

"Finding goodies?" Joan plucked a tattered paper-covered book from her hand. It bristled with clippings and scraps that had been stuck between the pages. "Best-Loved Poems of the World. This doesn't look very enticing. She's cut poems out of the paper too. 'A Mother's Lament for her Dead Infant.' 'Thy tiny brow now marble-cold in death ..." Yucko."

She tossed the book back into the box. "Have you been here all day? Then you need a break. Come on, I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

Karen returned the other books to the carton. "Oh, all right," she said abstractedly.

Joan hauled her to her feet. "The warmth of your welcome touches my heart. Where's Peggy?"

"Somewhere around." Karen scanned the room. "Where's Sharon?"

"She hates auctions. After she dropped me she went to the motel. I figured I'd hitch a ride back with you and Peggy."

"Son of a bitch," Karen exclaimed.

"If it's that much trouble, never mind." Following the direction of Karen's intent stare, she let out a gurgle of laughter. "Oh, I see. It is the son of a bitch. You've upgraded him from bastard, have you?"

Meyer was watching them. He smiled and raised a hand in greeting. Karen smiled and waved back and went on walking.

"I'm making nice, following orders from Peggy," she said. "That doesn't mean I've changed my opinion."

"If you don't want him, how about introducing me?"

"It may come to that," Karen muttered. "Excuse me. I'm going to wash my hands."

When she returned, Joan was waiting, guarding two cups of coffee and two pieces of pie. Karen realized she was starved.

"One of the reasons I come to auctions is the food," Joan announced, scraping her plate. "I think I'll have a piece of red devil's food cake next. I need nourishment. Do you know what I had for lunch?"

"I don't want to hear about it."

"No, you don't. What can I do to help? Tell me what you're looking for and I will work my fingers to the bone."

"Early papers and books," Karen said vaguely. "But you needn't sacrifice yourself. We've covered most of the stuff."

"Including the barn?"

"What barn?"

"The barn out in back. The stuff for Sunday's auction is there. They won't move it in till tonight or tomorrow morning."

Karen gaped at her in horror. An