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

nonsense, Simon. You had to let me see it and I had to have it." She turned the cup in her hands, trying to find the right words. "I can't believe I am in physical danger, if that's what is worrying you. None of the people involved in this business are capable of violence."

"I would agree with you," Simon said, "if I had not received a telephone call the other day from Dr. Angelo. She sounded almost unbalanced."

"Oh, she does that all the time," Karen said reassuringly. Glad as she was of another ally, she didn't want Simon to worry about her. "Dorothea's threatening phone calls are notorious. And please don't mention menopause."

"That is not a subject I care to discuss," Simon said fastidiously.

Karen laughed. "In her case it's certainly not menopausal. She's always had a foul mouth and a nasty temper. What can she do to me except call me bad names?"

"Aside from the fact that she would make two of you . . . Ach, never mind, I am being a nervous old man. Here is Peggy coming. It was her idea, not mine, that the manuscript should be in a safe place today, but I am in complete agreement with her. It would be too easy to break into a car parked in the lot, with so many people coming and going."

After they had seen the briefcase placed in the safe in the auctioneer's office, they separated for final inspections.

"Simon saved three seats for us," Peggy said, indicating the tent, which was now filled with rows of wooden chairs.

"What about Joan and Sharon?"

"They'll have to fend for themselves. Joan's an old hand, she's probably brought folding chairs. Let's register and get our numbers. Remember, you are not to bid on anything, and I mean anything, without asking me."

Karen realized her heart was beating faster than usual. As they stood in the line waiting to register, she scanned the thickening crowd. It was beginning to look like a high school reunion—everyone seemed to know everybody else, and she saw several familiar faces. Lisa Fairweather, clipboard in hand—to keep track of how much money she was going to make; Mrs. Fowler, complete with violets and with the Colonel in devoted attendance; a squat, pasty-faced man whom, for a heart-stopping moment, she took for Joe Cropsey; Bill Meyer . . . She gasped aloud.

The square inches of skin he had lost were on his face. The left side of it, from cheekbone to jaw, looked like raw meat. A single patch of white was visible on the same side of his forehead, near the temple.

Peggy had seen him too. "Wow," she said, impressed. "He must have hit a patch of gravel on his way to a final landing. He was so coated with mud, I didn't realize how extensive the damage was. Don't you think a polite thanks might be in order?"

Karen was forced to agree. She was able to postpone the gesture, however, for by the time she had finished registering, Meyer had disappeared and it was time for them to take their seats.

As they crossed the room they found themselves face-to-face with Mrs. Fowler. Her smile froze. She acknowledged Peggy's cheerful "Good morning" with a nod, and then proceeded to cut Karen dead. It was the first time it had ever happened to Karen, but she had read about it. When someone looks straight through you and then deliberately turns her back, the point is hard to miss.

Peggy took Karen's arm and drew her away. She was shaking with silent laughter. "You're supposed to shiver and say, 'Brrrrr,' " she pointed out.

"If she weren't an old lady and I were not . . . well ... a lady, I'd slap her silly face," Karen muttered.

"She's a welcome touch of comic relief. Now remember what I said. If you raise your arm without permission, I'll break it."

They took their seats. Peggy arranged herself comfortably, clipboard and auction list on her knee, pen in her hand. Karen turned, looking for Simon. She couldn't see him; the chairs were all filled and people were roaming around.

"Peggy!"

Peggy jumped. "What?"

"I forgot. The papers Simon told us about—when he called the other night—"

"Oh." Peggy relaxed. "Don't hiss at me like that, I thought you'd seen something important. The auctioneer showed me the papers yesterday. They aren't important, just a lot of late account books and miscellaneous junk. I may bid on that box, though; there were a couple of elegant lace-trimmed petticoats—"

"You're as bad as Uncle Josiah," Karen said critically. "Is there anything you don't collect?"

"Lots of things. License plates and antique Coke bottles, among others. Shhh, he's about to start."

Things didn't get interesting until late morning. It took that long to sell the miscellaneous box lots and what Peggy described contemptuously as "collectibles." Most of them went cheap, except for the license plates and one box of books. Karen was allowed to bid on it, but dropped out after the price reached twenty dollars. It was finally knocked down at two hundred, and Karen turned to stare at Peggy. "What in heaven's name was in that lot?"

"God knows. And Simon."

"You mean he ... I didn't see him bidding."

Simon was wandering back and forth, sometimes sitting with them, sometimes strolling around the room.

"You're not supposed to. There are a lot of book people here. They're all watching him and each other." Peggy chuckled and hugged herself. "Wheels within wheels within wheels. Are you having fun? I am."

She had bought two boxes of old clothes and the painting of the dog. Karen stiffened as one of the auctioneer's helpers carried in another painting. "There's the old lady. Are you—"

"No. And neither are you."

"But—"

"Hush up." Peggy reached up and straightened her hair bow.

The bidding was brisk. When the painting was finally knocked down, Peggy let out a satisfied sigh. "Got it," she whispered.

"You didn't even . . . You mean someone else is—"

"Shhh." Peggy relaxed. "They're starting on the lamps and fixtures. That'll take a while.