"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.
The idea was to have a separate page for each article, giving the source and the price paid, plus notes on repairs, restoration methods, and-ultimately-the selling price. Not only would she need the information for tax purposes, but it would be an invaluable reference.
Karen grimaced. Oh, well; there was nothing like concentrating on a hated, boring job to get her mind off other worries.
While the anchorman's voice droned on, she dragged out a box of miscellaneous linens and got to work. They had come from Mrs. Ferris, and they reminded her of Shreve. So Shreve wanted Granny's things, did she? If she could see the condition of the pieces she wouldn't touch them with the tip of her fastidious finger.
Karen shook out a tattered petticoat and sneezed violently as dust billowed up around her. The old lady must have worn it to scrub floors or climb fences; the fabric was torn, and covered with ugly black spots. But the deep flounce of the lace might be salvageable. Karen found a pair of scissors and cut it off, then wadded the rest of the garment and threw it into the wastebasket, wrinkling her nose at the sour smell of mold.
She forced herself to finish sorting and listing the contents of the box. She was getting sleepy, and she felt as if she would never get the smell of mold off her hands. Cheryl had not called. One more chore, Karen thought, and then I'll go to bed. She won't call after midnight- but it's not quite midnight yet.
The flounce she had removed from the old petticoat might be right for Mrs. Grossmuller's wedding dress. For some reason the mold had not affected the lace. Perhaps it had something to do with the type of fabric.
After a prolonged search she finally located the dress at the back of the wardrobe. Cheryl must have picked it up off the floor of the hall, along with the other things Karen had bought at the auction-and dropped when the fumbling hands found her throat. Yes, the rest of them were there-the frayed petticoat with the crocheted trim, the absurd bloomers, and the linen nightgown.
A muted howling from without rose and fell-Mr. DeVoto's cat, seeking romance and/or a fight. Karen identified the sound, but her skin prickled, and Alexander twitched and mumbled in his sleep.
She decided she had better list the auction items while their origin was still fresh in her mind. "Lace-trimmed bloomers, circa 1910," the name of the auctioneer, and the date. She entered the dress last, and her writing faltered. But she had the information; it would be ridiculous to omit it. "Wedding dress of Mrs. Henry Grossmuller, 1931." Mrs. Henry Grossmuller, who poisoned Henry in 1965 and who claimed the dress wasn't worth two bits.
"I will not write that down," Karen said aloud. No need to, she would never forget it. Damn the old woman, and damn Cheryl too, for talking about the romance of old clothes and the tragedy of a terrified young bride…
No, that wasn't fair. Cheryl had not blathered on about auras and vibes, she had better sense. It was Karen's own imagination that invested the innocent fabric with an almost palpable coating of some dark, slimy substance.