"But not when the Murder Club is in session. I can't imagine how anyone could find that sort of thing entertaining."
"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."