Shattered Silk, page 15
"Oh. Oh, yes. Of course. Just a minute."
Karen scooped up the dog and shut him in the kitchen. When she returned to the door, Shreve's foot was tapping faster and she was glancing ostentatiously at her watch.
Acutely conscious of her faded housecoat and bare feet, Karen admitted her visitor. She wished she could have thought of an excuse for refusing to do so; something like "Sorry, I think I'm catching the plague." The old habit of courtesy had prevailed, and it was too late now.
"I'm sorry it took me so long," she said. "I'm rather wary of letting people in until I'm sure who they are. Someone broke in here last night-"
"Oh, really?" Shreve's lips stretched into an expression that was not quite a smile. "I do hope nothing was taken."
"No. I had new locks put on, though. Mark was kind enough to send a locksmith around this afternoon."
Now why had she said that? Karen knew the answer, but she could have kicked herself for challenging an opponent like Shreve. The other woman's smile widened as she looked Karen over, from her unkempt hair to her dusty feet. Gently she said, "Mark has such a kind heart. He spends a lot of time with old Mrs. MacDougal too."
Well, I deserved that, Karen thought. I should have known better; I can't fight her on her terms.
With freezing politeness she said, "Can I offer you something to drink?"
"No." Shreve reached into her bag and took out a checkbook. "I just stopped by to get those things of Granny's. She had no right to sell them to you. The old witch is completely goofy. I believe you paid her seventy-five dollars?"
The amount she mentioned gave her bewildered listener the essential clue. "Mrs. Ferris is your grandmother?"
"Yes, didn't you know?" Shreve uncapped a gold pen and began to write, resting the checkbook on the hall table. "Seventy-five…"
"It was seventy-eight fifty, to be precise." Karen braced herself. "But I won't take your check."
"How much do you want, then?" Shreve asked coolly.
"Nothing. Not from you. I haven't had a chance to inspect all the merchandise yet, but that's what it is to me-merchandise. It was an honest business transaction-"
"Business," Shreve murmured. "I suppose it is good business to take advantage of a senile old woman."
Karen was so angry she felt lightheaded. The sensation was rather agreeable. "It's called free enterprise, Shreve. I'm surprised you haven't heard of it. Your husband is such an enthusiastic supporter of the system…"
Shreve blinked rapidly, as if someone had aimed a blow at her face. It was a low blow, Karen thought, as her anger gave way to self-contempt. Congress had finally confirmed Mr. Givens' appointment, but not until after a long and acrimonious debate over certain "questionable business practices."
"Is there anything of yours in the boxes?" Karen asked.
"Good Lord, no." This suggestion seemed to outrage Shreve even more than Karen's refusal to sell. "What gave you that idea?"
"I only meant that if your grandmother had sold something that wasn't hers, I would of course return it."
"I see." Shreve bit her lip. "I think I will have a drink after all. Do you have Stolichnaya vodka?"
"I don't know."
"Vodka and tonic, with just a squeeze of lime. If you don't have Stolichnaya I'd prefer plain Perrier and lime."
"I'll see," Karen said. "Excuse me."
By the time she had ascertained that Pat preferred another, cheaper brand of vodka, and had unearthed a lone bottle of Perrier from the back of the liquor cabinet, she was-she fondly hoped-in control of her temper. There wasn't a lime in the house, nor did she bother looking for one.
She had not asked Shreve to sit down, but she found her in the parlor, poised on the edge of the sofa and looking about her with cool interest. "Ruth really ought to replace those draperies," she remarked. "They are quite faded. Maybe it's just as well she didn't; by the time the dog gets through with them she'll need new ones."
Karen handed her the glass and a coaster. She was determined to behave like a lady if it killed her, but she wanted to get Shreve out of the house as soon as she could.
The very sight of her, poised and slim and elegant, was like a shoe rubbing a blister.
"Was it your grandmother's wedding veil you wanted?" she asked.
"Wedding veil?" Shreve looked blank. "I don't give a damn about Gran's junk. I just don't like the idea of its being displayed in some cheap shop window, where people can see it and say that Gran was so poor she had to sell her clothes-that her family wasn't taking proper care of her."
The secret was out. All Shreve cared about was what people would say. Karen found it more believable than sentiment, a quality Shreve obviously lacked. It did not make her feel any more kindly toward Shreve.
"No one would recognize your grandmother's things. And anyway, if Mrs. MacDougal isn't embarrassed at having her clothes in a shop window, it shouldn't bother you. Hers are very distinctive and very valuable, and she told me I could-"
"I'll give you a hundred and fifty."
"No."
"Why not?"
"I hope to make a good deal more than that."
Shreve's eyes narrowed unpleasantly. "How much more?"
"I'm afraid you are missing the point," Karen said. "I am in business to make as much money as I can. The value of the merchandise I sell depends on a number of different factors, primarily on what people are willing to pay." Shreve continued to stare at her, lips pressed tightly together, and some imp of perversity made Karen add, "When they are ready for sale, cleaned and pressed and mended, I'll let you know. If you care to pay the price, they're all yours."
"I see," Shreve said slowly. "I'm to be allowed to bid-is that it?"
"No bidding, no haggling. I set the price; you pay it or someone else will. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment and I've barely time to change."
SHE really was late, but instead of dashing upstairs to dress she did a clog dance down the length of the hall, to the consternation of Alexander, whom she freed from bondage as she passed the kitchen door.
"I'm sorry," Karen said breathlessly. "That was a dance of triumph, Alexander. You wouldn't understand, and anyway I haven't time to explain it to you."
Talking to the dog was only one step better than talking to herself, but she had to crow to someone. A month ago she would not have been able to handle Shreve as ably as she had. She would have meekly accepted the check and handed over the merchandise, as Shreve had expected she would. Shreve wasn't accustomed to having people bite her back, especially someone she remembered as quiet and yielding. It would have been a fatal mistake to give in, for it would have set a precedent, for herself if not for her customers. She might end up doing something as asinine as letting Mrs. Grossmuller buy her wedding dress back for two bits.
What was more, she had not lost her temper, though the provocation had been extreme. As she came downstairs, neatly if hastily attired, she remembered Shreve's insolence, and the anger she had suppressed boiled up stronger than before. How Mark could fall for such a vulgar, arrogant woman… But it wasn't Shreve's personality that interested Mark. He was kind and charitable to old friends and former enemies, but he liked his women slim and sexy and influential.
Stop it, Karen told herself. She concentrated intently on locking the door. The new keys were a trifle stiff, but they would probably loosen up in time.
It was lucky for Karen that she approached her interview with the lawyer in such high spirits, for he did everything possible to depress her. He looked exactly like the picture she had formed of him in her mind-a little man, short and spare, with a narrow, closed-in face. His eyes were obscured by thick glasses and his thinning hair had been carefully brushed across his bald spot. He held a chair for her, but she had barely seated herself before he made his chief concern evident.
"The jewelry, Mrs. Nevitt. May I-"
"I didn't bring it." Karen settled herself more comfortably.
"You didn't… May I ask why not?"
His tone was only too reminiscent of the one Jack used to demoralize and intimidate her. This time Karen refused to yield. She was getting tired of being pushed around; instead of explaining and apologizing, she went on the attack.
"What are you worried about, Mr. Bates? The jewelry or me?"
"Why-I-"
"Because if it's the jewelry, that's no longer your responsibility. It belongs to me, and I intend to wear it and enjoy it as Mrs. Mac meant me to, not lock it up in a bank. And if you are afraid I might be in danger from someone who wants it-"
"Nonsense," said Mr. Bates shortly.
"Okay, it's nonsense. So why the fuss? Anyway, there is no point in my getting rid of a potential danger unless the presumed thief knows I've gotten rid of it. I should have come here carrying a sign? 'Attention, everybody: Dolley's jewelry is being handed over to Mr. Bates'?"
"Really, Mrs. Nevitt-"
"If anyone is watching me, my visit to you this evening will suggest to them that I've handed the jewelry over. What further precautions could I take, short of putting an advertisement in the newspaper? Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to discuss something more important."
Mr. Bates sighed, adjusted his glasses, brushed his hair back from his high forehead, and gave her his full attention.
He took a dim view of her plans. A young woman with no business experience had, in his opinion, little hope of success. But Karen was moved almost to tears when he grudgingly informed her that her uncle by marriage had cabled to put a large sum of money at her disposal, to be drawn upon at need.
"You have heard from Pat, then," she murmured, reaching for a tissue and pretending she was blotting away perspiration. "That was one of the things I wanted to ask you."
Mr. Bates eyed her warily. He knew perfectly well that emotion rather than heat had necessitated the tissue, and he obviously disapproved of women who wept.
"Yes. Only the information I have just given you, and the news that Mrs. MacDougal senior has arrived safely. I must add that had Professor MacDougal consulted me before arranging for a transfer of funds, 1 would have counseled him-"
"You needn't worry," Karen cut in. "I have no intention of abusing Pat's generosity. Now I wonder if you would mind reading these letters from my husband's lawyer. It may be a few days before I can get an appointment and they sound very peremptory."
Her quick recovery from ill-conceived emotion brought a frosty gleam of approval to Mr. Bates' pale-gray eyes. As he read the letters his nostrils quivered. "Hmph," he said. "It appears you may have a fight on your hands, Mrs. Nevitt. The offers are outrageous. I beg you will not reply in any way until you have consulted the attorney I will recommend to you."
Karen assured him she was not that stupid, and Mr. Bates looked as if he would like to have believed her but couldn't quite manage it.
There was no news about the missing automobile or the missing chauffeur. The police investigation had fizzled out-Mr. Bates didn't use the word, but that was what it amounted to. Yes, he had cabled Mrs. MacDougal about the car. He had not yet received a reply. He would let Karen know when he got word. He would give them all her love. And would she please-implicit in his manner, if not expressed-get the hell out of his office and let him go home?
The long summer twilight was dying as Karen stood on the corner waiting for a bus. The air was gray, not with twilight but with exhaust fumes, and according to an electric sign on a nearby corner, the temperature was still in the high eighties. No wonder Washingtonians fled the city in late July and August. The only wonder was that they had functioned so long without air-conditioning. The affectionate phrase, "the Federal Swamp," though it had acquired other connotations, had originally been a literal description of geographical fact.
A bus lumbered into sight but stopped half a block away as the traffic light turned red and cars and trucks barred its further progress. Karen glanced casually at the poised traffic, and suddenly froze. A brand-new bright-red, Ferrari convertible, in the middle lane… The top was down. The twin mufflers throbbed as the driver jiggled the gas pedal, ready to take off the instant the light changed.
As if the intensity of her stare sent out palpable waves, the driver turned his head and looked directly at her. His full red lips pursed like those of a girl expecting to be kissed. They shaped words. She couldn't hear them, but she knew what he had said. Before she could react, the light changed and the convertible took off like a bullet, narrowly avoiding a crossing van that had run the last second of the yellow.
Karen turned and bolted back into the building she had just left.
Mr. Bates drove her home. He could hardly avoid doing so; she had caught him as he emerged from the elevator, his car keys in his hand.
He felt sure she had been mistaken. "There are many men of that type," he said distastefully. "We had been speaking of the matter, so it was on your mind. I assure you, Horton is miles away by now. He would not be so foolish as to remain in the city."
"I know it was Horton. He knew me. He said, 'Hi, doll.'"
"But you informed me you could not hear-"
"I read his lips. He called me doll once before. Oh, for heaven's sake, Mr. Bates, can't you at least notify the police? It was a new red Ferrari with Virginia plates, and the first two letters were BV You know whom to talk to, and they'll pay more attention to you."
"Very well. However, I feel certain they will inform me that Horton has been seen in three other places, all miles from Washington."
Despite his skepticism he insisted on going to the door with her and on waiting until she had opened it. He didn't have to insist much. This time she managed to catch Alexander's collar while he was in mid-leap as Mr. Bates, obviously only too familiar with the dog's habits, skipped nimbly aside.
"Thank you," she said, as the lawyer cast a keen if seemingly casual glance inside. "I hope I haven't taken you out of your way."
"Not at all. I live in Chevy Chase; I can as easily go up Wisconsin as Connecticut."
Then why didn't you offer to drive me home in the first place? Karen wondered. Mr. Bates might make light of her identification of the chauffeur, but he wasn't altogether easy in his own mind or he would not have accompanied her home after hearing her story. Horton knew where she lived; he might even have a key to the house. Mrs. Mac probably had one, and she was notoriously careless with her possessions.
Thank goodness for the new locks, Karen thought. The darkening air was still breathlessly hot, but a shiver ran through her as she pictured Horton's big brown hands and fleshy, smiling mouth. She still could not believe Horton had been her attacker. But now he had a reason to seek her out. If he thought he could silence her before she told the police she had seen him…
She knew she was overreacting. Anyone who drove breezily around the city in a car as conspicuous as that one obviously wasn't concerned about being seen. Either Horton was extremely stupid, or he just didn't give a damn.
Alexander growled. He did not enjoy being hugged. Karen carried him back into the house and locked the door.
She wandered restlessly through the various rooms, turning on lights, checking and rechecking the locks on the doors and windows. The house was very quiet, very empty. She found herself hearing sounds that were not there-the ghostly echo of Pat's booming laughter, Ruth's quiet voice. If only they had been in some civilized part of the world she would have been tempted to call them. There was no one she could call, no familiar voice that was reachable by telephone.
Karen knew what was wrong with her. It had different names, some simple, some ponderous and scientific-shock, post-stress syndrome, whatever. It was, simply and starkly, an awareness of her own vulnerability. She was no more open to attack than she had ever been- less so, in fact, thanks to the new locks and her heightened awareness of danger. But her sense of safety had been violated; her private place had been entered by those who had no right to intrude. She had heard other victims of crime speak of the sensation. Now she knew how it made people feel-naked, exposed, helpless.
She went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. The refrigerator clicked; she jumped and cried out. I've got to stop this, she thought. I'll drive myself crazy if I go on this way. Find something to do, something to occupy my mind…
She made the rounds once more, compulsively relocking doors that were already locked, touching window latches, looking out into the street and the garden. Alexander ought to go out once more. Alexander would have to take his chances, that was all. Before she lured the dog upstairs with a handful of his favorite dog munchies, she pushed a chair against the back door and piled it with pots and pans.
She felt more relaxed after she had locked herself in her room and climbed into bed with a book. Pat had an enormous collection of mysteries; he favored the tough-private-eye variety, and Karen hoped the exotic and unlikely perils encountered by those fictitious heroes would distract her-rather like hitting oneself with a hammer to forget the pain of a broken leg.
It was not long before she knew she had made a mistake. The tough, wise-cracking PI was captured by members of the drug ring he was investigating. The author lingered with loving affection on the tortures inflicted by the chief villain-"a big, hulking character with a pretty pouting mouth like that of a girl expecting to be kissed."
Karen threw the book across the room and turned on the television, only to encounter another cynical wisecracking PI being beaten up by members of a drug ring he was investigating.
She was relieved to be able to settle for the late news. Forest fires in the Western states, drought in the Northeast, tornadoes in the Midwest; breakdown of the arms talks, plane crashes, riots, and murders. But the giant pandas were making love. Thank God for the pandas.
Sleep was still out of the question, and since TV at its most engrossing occupies only half the mind of the beholder, she looked around for something else to do.
There was more than enough to do. Jack's caustic comments about her lack of organization had not been entirely unjustified. She hated keeping records, making lists, balancing accounts. But accurate records were essential for the business she hoped to start. At Mrs. Mac's suggestion (i.e., order) she had bought a looseleaf notebook and some paper. It took her quite a while to find them, and when she did, she was dismayed to see so many empty pages. She hadn't meant to fall so far behind. Leafing through the book, she realized she had not even finished listing the items from Ruth's attic.
