"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
"Straighten the place up. You can start with that table by the door, the one with the books and pamphlets. People make such damn messes-"
The pamphlets, devoted to Georgetown shops and sights, had been disarranged, but not to the extent Julie's comment implied. As she sorted and stacked them, Karen's eye was caught by an item that had not been on the table the day before. Like most of the other local guidebooks, it was paper-bound and appeared to have been published by a small vanity press. The cover bore the title Legends of Georgetown in blazing scarlet letters above a hand holding a dagger dripping with the same lurid shade.
Karen picked up a copy. Julie, who had been watching her, said casually, "Eye-catching, isn't it? I just got it this morning."
"There's no author's name."
Julie chuckled. "Take a look at the table of contents and you'll understand why."
The innocuous title of the book certainly did not suit the contents. "The Sinister Specter of the Murdered Madam" was one chapter title; others included such provocative gems as "The Georgetown Strangler," "Lizzie Borden or Jack the Ripper?" and "Murder in High Places."
"All the standard Georgetown ghost stories are included," Julie said. "But there are some nice gruesome modern scandals too. That's why the author prefers to remain anonymous. A lot of people are going to be howling for his blood when they read about their family skeletons."
"His? Do you know who it is?"
Julie hesitated. Karen could see she was dying to boast of inside information, but discretion won out. "I used the masculine pronoun for the sake of convenience, darling. Yes, I know who it is, that's one of the reasons why I said I'd stock the book. I always like to give a helping hand to old friends who are down on their luck. Have a copy on me-go ahead, take it. You need something to amuse you during those long, dull evenings alone. Who knows, you may recognize some of the subjects. Wasn't there some funny story about that house of your aunt's?"
"Not that I know of."
"Well, of course she wouldn't want to tell you- being all alone and defenseless in the house as you are. You know this area has the highest rate of violent crime-"
The door opened and Julie went to greet the entering customer. A smile of satisfaction curved her wide mouth.
Karen retreated into the office with the book. She had won the battle, but Julie intended to make sure she didn't enjoy her victory. Julie knew a lot of ways to needle people.
Karen was sufficiently disturbed by her hints to examine the grisly little volume in more detail while she ate a late lunch at the cafe next door. There was nothing about Ruth's house. One chapter-the one entitled "Lizzie Borden or Jack the Ripper?"-mentioned a "certain red brick Federal house not far from Wisconsin Avenue," but the case turned out to be a horrible double knife murder that had occurred several years before Karen came to Georgetown.
She was obscurely relieved. Not that it should have disturbed her unduly to learn that the house had been the scene of a past crime; few houses that age had histories unstained by tragedy of one sort or another. All the same…
She was leafing idly through the book when a name jumped out of the page at her with the impact of a poisoned dart. Mrs. Jackson MacDougal-"the former Bess Beall, spoiled debutante darling of that luxurious era when even adultery had a glittering glamour." The sentence was only too typical of the author's style-bad syntax combined with innuendo that never quite toppled over into actual libel. Karen's eyes widened as she read on, about the ambassador "from a noble family of impeccable lineage," who had cut his throat in the MacDougal billiard room, leaving a note accusing the mistress of the mansion of toying with his affections and then casting him aside. The billiard table had to be cast aside too.
A thin sheaf of grainy black-and-white photographs in the center of the book showed some of the author's victims. Karen would not have recognized Mrs. MacDougal; but she recognized the dress. She had seen it only that morning-a flowing gown of white crepe and satin, dripping with swaths of white fox. The wearer's figure was as fashionably slim as that of a young boy, and even the poor quality of the photographic reproduction could not impair her gamin prettiness. Soft dark hair cupped the beautifully shaped little head, and the wide eyes were framed by extravagant lashes. But the grin was unmistakably that of Mrs. MacDougal.
"Age cannot wither…" Karen's eyes were wet as she gently closed the book. Perhaps that gallant laughter was the only thing time could not destroy.
Business was slow, and by four o'clock Julie's mood was as gray as the weather. "I don't know why I don't just close up for two weeks while I'm in New England," she grumbled.
"Why don't you?" Karen asked.
"I have to pay rent and utilities and insurance anyhow. You never know-some sucker might wander in and fall in love with one of the white elephants I've been trying to sell for months." Julie sighed noisily. "You're out of your mind to think of opening your own place, Karen. If you knew half the headaches…"
Karen ignored this not-too-subtle hint and retired to the office. Rob was out making a delivery. He would probably not return that day; the customer lived in Virginia, and traffic on the bridges during rush hour was horrendous, especially in bad weather, for all of Washington seems to go mad when the roads are wet. Karen sat down at the desk and opened the file containing Julie's purchase orders for the past six months. She was curious about Julie's sources and profit margins. It behooved her to learn as much as she could, before Julie decided there was no sense in running free classes in merchandising for a potential competitor.
It was all she could do to force her tired eyes to read Julie's writing. The interview with Mrs. MacDougal had been exhausting; she felt as if the old lady had turned her inside out, hosed her down to clear out the cobwebs, and hung her up to dry. Then the strident argument with Julie… Julie was right. She couldn't start her own business. She didn't have the guts, or the know-how, or the strength.
She was drooping over the papers-having noted, with a faint surge of malicious interest, that the so-called Pennsylvania highboy had been part of a shipment from Glasgow, Scotland-when she heard the door chimes. Reluctantly she pushed the papers aside and got to her feet. Shoplifting was an everpresent problem, and it was hard for one person to keep an unobtrusive eye on several customers at once without spoiling the air of gracious ease antique dealers liked to create.
As she started to open the door, she heard Julie's shrill voice. "Karen! Karen, come on out; here's an old friend who's dying to see you."
Karen was tempted to close the door and pretend she had not heard. Several "old friends" had visited the shop since she started working, and when she was feeling particularly low she suspected Julie of calling all her former acquaintances and inviting them to come and gloat over her. Morbid and absurd, of course-but she still winced when she thought of Miriam Montgomery, nee Spaulding, and Shreve Danforth. Shreve was now Mrs. Assistant Secretary of State Givens; she was as slim and sleekly muscled as she had been ten years ago, when she and Karen had competed for top seed on the university women's tennis team. They had competed in another arena as well…