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

illumined fountains. Peggy hadn't stopped to dress; she had slipped her feet into sneakers and thrown a coat over her nightgown. It flapped around her calves as she ran toward Karen.

"Are you all right?"

"Fit as a fiddle. I told you I was."

"I saw the ambulance and I thought—"

"It's for Mrs. Fowler," Karen said without expression. "They don't believe she's in any danger. Just a precaution."

"Shock, I expect." The little woman standing next to Karen shook her fluffy white head. "I near fainted myself when I saw that place on fire. Thought the young lady here was still inside. If I've told Miz Fowler once I've told her a hundred times she shouldn't keep paint cans and old newspapers in the garage."

"This is Mrs. Miller," Karen explained. "She's been wonderful. This is her raincoat I'm wearing, and her coffee I'm drinking. My friend Peggy Finneyfrock, Mrs. Miller."

"Ah, the owner of that handsome cat." Peggy offered her hand. "Thanks for coming to Karen's rescue."

"Well, my land, what else would a person do? I offered to put her up for the night, but she said she'd already telephoned you. Would you like some coffee, Peggy?"

"That would probably save my life," Peggy said gratefully. "If it's not too much trouble."

"Not a bit. Be right back."

As soon as she was out of earshot Karen said urgently, "Simon mustn't know about this. You didn't wake him, I hope."

"No, I didn't. But he's bound to find out sooner or—"

"Make it later. There's no need to worry him unnecessarily."

"Unnecessarily!" Peggy's voice cracked. "How can you be so cool about this?"

"I don't know," Karen admitted. "Maybe it hasn't hit me yet. But this doesn't change anything. The garage was an accident waiting to happen. The fire may be—probably is—unrelated to anything else."

"Oh, Christ!" Peggy threw up her hands. "Let's get the hell out of here. It makes me sick at my stomach just to look at that charred mess."

"You have to drink Mrs. Miller's coffee first," Karen said calmly. "Besides, I expect the fire chief wants to talk to me."

The two arrived simultaneously. Mrs. Miller proffered a heavy mug, and the chief—a tall, stooped man with a face as long and melancholy as that of a bloodhound—took off his hat and blotted his wet face with his handkerchief. "All secure," he announced. "I'm afraid there's nothing left, miss. Any idea how it could have started?"

Mrs. Miller snorted. "The wiring in that place is fifty years old, Bill. And she had all that junk in the garage."

"I think it started in the garage," Karen agreed. "When I woke up, the living room was burning, but there was fire below, under the bedroom, too. It burned through the garage wall when I was halfway down the ladder. I had to jump."

Bill scratched his grizzled head and looked grave. "I told Miz Fowler time and time again she was in violation of the law; at least she went to the trouble of getting one of them ladders. Lucky for you she did, miss. If you'd had to jump from the upstairs window you could've broken something, or knocked yourself unconscious, and then ..."

Coffee sloshed over the edge of the cup Peggy was holding. Taking it from her, Mrs. Miller scolded, "That's enough, Bill. Why talk about terrible things that didn't happen? Oh, my land, look—they're carrying Miz Fowler out on a stretcher. I better go see ..."

"There's nothing serious wrong with her, is there?" Karen asked, as Mrs. Miller trotted off.

"Don't guess so. But she's an old lady and she was whooping and carrying on and yelling about her heart, so we figured it was better to be on the safe side. Expect you're ready for some rest too, miss. Where'll you be?"

Karen supplied the information and led Peggy to the car. "I'll drive," she said. "No, don't argue; you're shaking like a leaf. Give me the keys."

"They're in the ignition. Mrs. Fowler didn't buy that ladder, did she?"

"No."

"I think I'm going to throw up."

"It's your car. Suit yourself."

A choked laugh from Peggy told her she had said the right thing.

A knock on the door woke Karen next morning. It took her several seconds to orient herself; the bed, the room, even the nightgown were unfamiliar. Then the events of the past night came flooding back and she sat up with a start, in time to see a man in a white jacket beating a hasty retreat. Peggy was pouring coffee. Carrying a cup to Karen she remarked, "Well, you gave one young waiter the thrill of a lifetime."

Karen pulled the nightgown back over her shoulders. It was Peggy's, and far too large for her.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"He wasn't." Peggy sat down on the edge of the other bed. "I hated to wake you, but time's awastin'. Your car has been removed; I told the guy from the garage he'd have to figure out what to do about the keys, since you'd lost yours in the fire. Simon has gone, innocent and unwitting." Peggy made a wry face. "You may have ruined the romance of the century. When he finds out how I lied to him . . . Anyhow, he said to tell you if you weren't home by Friday, he'd come back and carry you off, bound and gagged if necessary. Tanya called. So did Lisa. So did Cameron. So did Bill."

"Wait a minute," Karen begged. "I'm still half asleep. Talk slower. When did all these things happen? I didn't hear the phone ring."

"I told the switchboard not to put calls through. I've been downstairs in the lobby for the past two hours; took the calls there. I had breakfast with Simon. Come and eat yours. And don't dawdle. We've got to buy you a whole new wardrobe, replace your credit cards, checks, keys—"

"Don't." Karen slumped into a chair and buried her face in her hands. "I don't want to think about it."

"Don't think. Eat."

Peggy waited until she had consumed a restorative amount of food before she spoke again. "The most