Shattered Silk (13 page)

"Really? I couldn't help noticing that book on your bedside table…"

At first Karen couldn't imagine what Cheryl was talking about. "Oh, the Georgetown legends book," she exclaimed. "Julie foisted that off on me the other day; either she hoped it would give me nightmares, or she expected the story about Mrs. MacDougal would upset me."

"Swell friend," Cheryl said. "Don't tell me Mrs. MacDougal has a ghost. But I guess if there was such a thing, it would hang out in a house like hers."

"It wasn't a ghost story, it was an old scandal," Karen said distastefully. "Fifty years old. According to the book, some idiot shot himself in Mrs. Mac's billiard room -killed himself for love of her."

Cheryl grinned and quickly sobered. "I'm sorry! But it sounds so silly when you put it that way."

"It sounds pretty silly any way you put it," Karen agreed. "But you're right about the deadening effect of time; it's impossible to get emotionally involved in something that happened so long ago."

"You wouldn't say that if you could hear Tony and Mark arguing about that King Richard," Cheryl said darkly.

The storm had passed by the time they left the restaurant. There was little traffic on the quiet country road, and they drove in companionable silence for a while as stars blossomed in the darkening west. Then Cheryl, who had been stroking the soft silk of the old wedding dress, said dreamily, "I know you must get sick of hearing me say it, but I really do admire you, Karen."

"I'll be older than Mrs. Mac before I get tired of hearing that. But if you're referring to my business plans, such as they are, I haven't done anything worthy of admiration; it was pure good luck and the good will of friends that got me started."

"But it's such a fascinating business. The old dresses and underwear-excuse me, lingerie-it's as if they were alive, you know? They have histories just the way people do."

"To me they're just merchandise," Karen said, touching the brake as a pair of bright circles reflected her headlights. The rabbit prudently withdrew into the brush at the side of the road.

"Watch out for-oh, good, you saw him. You can't mean that; you have lots of imagination. Like this wedding dress. Can't you picture that poor girl, barely seventeen, standing there in front of the minister-cold as ice, because she was marrying a man she feared and hated…"

"What a romantic you are," Karen said amiably. "Just because the lucky lady didn't perspire-"

"She hated him," Cheryl insisted. "I know she did."

Karen was silent. Cheryl nudged her. "You're thinking about something. I can practically hear you thinking. What?"

"I was remembering something that happened last week," Karen admitted. "A girl came in and wanted to try on the flapper dress I had in the window. Light-pink chiffon with sequins and crystal beads. It fit her well-she was one of those skinny little things, practically anorexic- but she barely had it over her head before she began trying to tear it off. I could have killed her; you can't be rough with clothes like that, they're too old and fragile. I said something rude-well, not really screaming rude, cold and nasty. She stared at me with big, pale-blue eyes, just like a dead fish, and said, 'Can't you feel the vibes? Something awful happened to the woman who wore that dress! I wouldn't have it if you gave it to me.'"

"Geez," said Cheryl, impressed.

"I thought she was just being dramatic. And," Karen added firmly, "I still think so."

"Oh, right. I wasn't trying to suggest there was anything spooky about it. Like Tony says, everything has a rational explanation. The way I feel about this dress comes from meeting Mrs. Grossmuller and hearing her talk about-about her husband. But the clothes themselves can give you clues about the people they belonged to, can't they? Suppose the seams are all pulled and stretched; you figure the woman was either too poor to buy a new dress after she gained weight or too vain to admit she needed a bigger size."

"Clothes are historical artifacts, like pottery and tools," Karen agreed. "I suppose they have an additional mystique because they actually touched and were shaped by the people who wore them. A historian can learn a great deal about a culture from costume-not only the bare facts of fashion, but the social and political attitudes of the period. The clothing women wore in the late nineteenth century directly reflects their status; tight corsets and heavy, cumbersome fabrics and long skirts prevented the wearers from engaging in any useful activity whatever."

"You sure know a lot of fancy words," Cheryl said.

Her voice was noncommittal, and in the darkness Karen could not see her face. "I didn't mean," she began.

"Oh, hey, I like it." After a moment Cheryl added, "You don't talk down to me. I appreciate that."

Karen decided to park on the street that night rather than carry their purchases all the way from the garage.

She had to drive around the block several times before she found a legal parking space. Except for streaks of sullen crimson low in the west, the skies were dark; the streetlights sent shimmering reflection across the wet pavement.

Karen had not expected they would be so late, and she had neglected to leave any lights burning. As they felt their way carefully along the short stretch of sidewalk between the gate and the steps, the carton Cheryl carried slipped from her arms, spilling the contents onto the ground.

"Damn," Cheryl said. "Oh well, they needed washing anyway. Don't try to help me, Karen, you've got your arms full. How about turning on some lights so I can see what I'm doing?"

Karen ran up the steps, trying to find her key without losing her grip on the chairs and the armful of clothes. Cheryl was still crawling under the boxwood that lined the walk when Karen opened the door and stepped into the darkened hall.

Before she could reach for the light switch, something grabbed her. The attack was so unexpected that pure shock froze her for an instant-time enough for the fumbling, anonymous hands to find her throat and close around it. The door slammed shut with a crash like a rifle shot, and from somewhere in the house came the frenzied, muffled barking of a dog. Those sounds, and the thick hoarse voice whispering were all she heard before the roaring of the blood in her ears drowned out sound altogether.

Light dazzled her eyes when she forced them open. She was lying on her back staring up at the chandelier in the hall. No one else was there except Alexander. He was sitting a few feet from her, and although his eyes were invisible as usual, she deduced from his alert pose that he was staring at her. As she turned her head he let out a sharp peremptory bark and went trotting off.

Running footsteps heralded the arrival of Cheryl, breathless and pale. She knelt beside Karen.

"He got away, dammit! Are you all right? Just lie still. I called the police; they should be here any minute."

"Don't believe it." Karen clutched her throat. "I'm all right. Help me get up."

With Cheryl's assistance she staggered into the parlor and dropped onto the sofa. Cheryl peered anxiously at her.

"How about a cup of tea?"

"How about a stiff drink?" said Karen.

"Right." Cheryl went in search of refreshment and Karen rearranged her skirt, and her scattered thoughts. Physically she was not in bad shape. A lump on the back of her head and a sore spot on her throat seemed to be the extent of the damage. But for some reason she couldn't stop shaking. The sight of Alexander wandering nonchalantly around the room infuriated her.

Cheryl came back with a glass in each hand. "I could do with a little something myself," she announced. "But I'm not so sure about you. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"None. You've got all ten of them wrapped around those glasses. I don't have a concussion, Cheryl, I just bumped my head when I fell. There's nothing wrong with me except-except…"

"Shock," Cheryl said gently, steadying her shaking hand. "Here. Take it slow."

She had brought brandy-the conventional remedy for swooning females. Karen hated brandy, but she didn't say so. The beverage lived up to its reputation; after a few sips her hands stopped quivering.

She let Cheryl take the glass and then leaned back against the cushions. The color had returned to Cheryl's face; she had been as white as a bleached petticoat. Sipping her own brandy, she said, "We're going to make a great impression on the cops, both stinking of alcohol."

"Don't expect the cops to show up for a while. The weekend revelers are winding up their celebrations, and a little old break-in isn't going to impress the boys in blue."

However, it was not long before there was a vigorous pounding on the front door and Karen said in surprise, "Such enthusiasm. Cheryl, would you-"

Cheryl rose slowly. "I think maybe," she began.

"Oh, wait. Where's Alexander?"

"In the kitchen, I guess. Karen, I guess I should tell you-"

"You had better let them in before they kick the door down. I hadn't expected such zeal."

As she should have known, from the vehemence of the knocking and from Cheryl's hesitation, it was not the police. Naturally, she would call Mark, as well as the cops, Karen thought. He's her brother, after all.

There was another man with Mark, a muscular youngish man whose Hispanic ancestry showed in his olive complexion and opaque dark eyes. He was almost too handsome to be believable; one expected to see a makeup person hovering, and hear a director shout, "Ready for Take 2." A heavy mustache only partially concealed his delicate, finely cut lips. Like Mark, he was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. Compared to Mark he looked as dapper as the male model he resembled. Mark had not shaved that day and his shirt was streaked with stains. Beer stains, Karen thought, remembering Mark's habit of using a beer can as a baton, waving it in the air to orchestrate his arguments, banging it on the table to emphasize a point. He was always very apologetic when it splashed on the furniture and people's clothes…

No one spoke for a few seconds. Then, with an irritated glance at his silent, staring companion, the dark man smiled in an embarrassed fashion. "I'm Tony Cardoza-"

Karen was still shaky and disoriented. "You can't be. Tony the cop? Tony the rationalist? Tony who spends his spare time arguing about old murders?"

Cardoza's smile faltered, and Mark found his voice. "What's the matter with you, Karen?" His eyes moved to the two glasses side by side on the coffee table and his eyebrows rose. "I might have known. Sitting here getting sloshed-you never did have any head for liquor-damn it, Cheryl, don't you know better than to give alcohol to an injured person? She could be concussed, or-or-"

Karen interrupted with a yell. "Watch out! Cheryl- grab him-"

It was too late. Alexander had only hesitated for a moment because he could not decide whom to bite first. His leap was one of his best ever. He caught Mark square in the calf and hung there, slobbering and growling, while Cardoza stared and Mark swore and Cheryl burst into a peal of slightly hysterical laughter.

The police arrived shortly thereafter. Cheryl carried Alexander away in disgrace, and although Cardoza identified himself to the patrolmen, he effaced himself thereafter, following Cheryl to the kitchen. Mark sat stiff and scowling, his arms folded, while an officer took down Karen's statement. The dignity of his demeanor was only slightly marred by his scruffy cheeks and chin and by the loose flap of denim that bared a sizable patch of hairy leg.

The statement didn't take long. There was little Karen could add to the bare facts: "I walked in the door and somebody grabbed me by the throat." Mark followed the policemen out. He had not spoken to Karen since his initial outburst.

Left alone, she drowsed off, and did not awaken until she heard Cheryl say softly, "Poor baby, she's worn out. I'm going to put her to bed. Mark, could you-"

Karen's eyes popped open. "I don't need to be carried. Mark, if you dare-I'm too heavy-"

"That's okay, I've been working out." His smile recalled an old, almost forgotten joke between them. His slim build and lack of inches had caused a lot of people, including Karen herself initially, to underestimate his wiry strength. In spite of herself, her stiff lip curved in an answering smile. But she stiffened again when his arms lifted her and held her close. Mark's smile faded.

"Relax, will you? I'm not about to take unfair advantage of you, not with a cop right at my elbow…"

"I-uh," said Cardoza. "I guess I'll be running along."

"Please don't," Karen murmured. "I mean-I'd like to talk to you, about what happened."

Mark started up the stairs, moving as lightly as if he were carrying an empty dress. Karen could feel the hard muscles under his thin shirt, but for all the emotion he displayed he might as
well
have been carrying an empty dress. Why did I do that? Karen thought wretchedly-and then, with a spurt of anger, And why does he have to be so supersensitive?

"I'm not even here officially," Cardoza protested.

He was still at the foot of the stairs, still talking, when Mark carried Karen into her room. Her shriek brought him bounding up. "What the hell-"

"Look-just look!" Karen cried. "Look what he did! All my things-all over-I spent hours washing and ironing-"

"Please-stop-kicking," Mark gasped. "I don't want to drop you on your-"

"Put me down!"

"Where?"

It was a reasonable question. The mattress had been dragged off the bed, trailing sheets and blankets. Every drawer in the dresser and chifferobe stood open, the contents tumbled as if by a giant beater or tossed helter-skelter onto the floor.

Cardoza leaned against the doorjamb breathing heavily. "Don't scare me like that," he said furiously. "I know the room is a mess, I saw it. So are the other bedrooms-"

Karen burst into tears and buried her face against Mark's shoulder.

"Crying over a bunch of clothes," Cardoza said, shaking his head. "I'll never figure women out. There I was thinking what a cool lady you were, kidding me and smiling sweetly-"

"That's a chauvinist speech if I ever heard one," Cheryl snapped. "It was delayed shock, that's what it was. I'd like to see how you'd behave after somebody choked you half to death and scared the fits out of you. And what's more, Tony Cardoza-"