by Kathy
He sounded as if he didn't believe it. She could see herself reflected in his look as in a mirror—round face and dimpled chin, snub nose and smooth pink cheeks. "Except for my hair I look like that damned moppet Shirley Temple," she had once shouted angrily at her mother, from whom she had inherited the characteristics in question. It was no consolation to know that when she was her mother's age, she would look fifteen years younger. Right now she needed those years. It was difficult enough for a woman to make men take her seriously. A moppet, even an adult moppet, didn't stand a chance.
"That is correct," she said coldly. "It was not your fault; my mind was on something else. We didn't have an appointment, did we?"
"No. I took the chance of stopping by, since I was in the neighborhood. My name is Cameron Hayes. You don't know me . . ."
She did, though—suddenly, surely, illogically. Her icy expression slipped; she beamed at him as if he had been a long-lost lover. Hayes's face relaxed into an answering, if tentative smile. "I'm the person you wrote to a few weeks ago, Miss Holloway. Or should it be 'Doctor'?"
"Ms. will do," Karen said. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Hayes."
And that, she thought, was the understatement of the year. Somehow she managed to unlock the door without losing her grip on her books. Not until she had him settled in a chair did she dare believe he was really there. "I'm so glad to meet you," she repeated. "I'd given up hope of hearing from you. It was kind of you to come."
Hayes leaned back, hands loosely clasped. They jarred with the white-collar businessman image, for they were callused and scratched—the hands of a manual laborer. He was much more at ease than she, Karen thought. She was babbling like a giddy student.
"I didn't get your letter until a few days ago," he explained. "I thought it might be better if we discussed the situation in person, instead of by letter or phone. But I don't want to interfere with your plans—"
"No, that's all right," Karen assured him, with the utmost sincerity.
Hayes nodded. "I had no idea that bundle of ragged papers would arouse such interest, but after I got your letter I checked with some people on the faculty at William and Mary. They said—"
"Oh, no!"
"I'm sorry. Shouldn't I have done that?"
"You had every right," Karen admitted, trying to remember if there was anyone in the English Department at William and Mary who specialized in early women's lit. Marian Beech. ... It wasn't her field, precisely, but she would spread the word. Damn, damn, damn! Why hadn't it occurred to her to ask Hayes to keep her letter confidential?
"The thing is, I wanted to keep the discovery under wraps until after I acquired the manuscript," she explained. "From your point of view, it doesn't matter; you've already sold it, so you don't stand to gain anything by increased competition."
"How painfully true. Not that I'm complaining; Mr. Hallett paid a fair price, considering that neither I nor Jack Wickett had the faintest idea of what the thing was." He moved one hand in a gesture of dismissal.
"Maybe we can still make a deal. Not on the manuscript, that's out of my hands. But I gather you are interested in other things. What, specifically?"
"Information. I did explain that I'm interested in the provenance of the manuscript?"
"Uh-huh. Well, I can tell you where I found it, but that's about all. I don't know how my great-uncle got his hands on it. You see, he ... Are you sure you've got time for this? It's rather a long story."
"I've got the time," Karen assured him. "But, Mr. Hayes, I don't want to take advantage of you. You said something about a deal—"
"I'm a businessman, Ms. Holloway. Believe me, you aren't going to take advantage of me. But I don't charge for information—especially information you could easily acquire without my assistance. Shall I go on?"
Karen nodded. She was beginning to respect Mr. Hayes. He was shrewd enough to realize that now that she knew his name, she could easily trace him, and the family history he was about to relate was probably common knowledge in his home town.
"I'll have to go back a bit to give you the picture," Hayes said. "My family has been settled in the Tidewater area for a long time. A couple of centuries, to be precise. The old homestead is called Amberley. It's on the James . . . What's the matter? Did I say something wrong?"
"No," Karen murmured. This was too good to be true. This was what she had hoped to hear.
"My great-uncle had two sons; one was killed in World War Two, the other died, without issue, sometime later. Uncle Josiah turned into a recluse, shut himself up in the house and sat there brooding, while the place fell down around his ears. He was ninety-one when he passed away, leaving only daughters to inherit."
"Then Hayes is not the family name?"
"Correct. That's what sent the old boy into a decline—the fact that there were no sons to carry on the sacred name of Cartright."
"How long ..." Karen turned the catch in her breath into a cough. She didn't want him to know how important the question and its answer were to her. "How long has the family lived at ... Amberley, you said?"
"You won't have heard of it," Hayes said. "Unlike the famous James River plantation houses, it's never been open to the public. It has neither architectural distinction nor historical associations that would attract visitors. It is old, though. According to my mother, who used to amuse herself with genealogical research, the family has lived there since the beginning of the eighteenth century. They were definitely not one of the First Families of Virginia, though."
"You don't have a Virginia accent," Karen said—though why she said it she could not imagine. It was not only irrelevant, it was none of her business.
Hayes's expression suggested that he didn't think it was any of her business either. Karen got a grip on herself. To have him turn up out of the blue, after she had almost given up hope of hearing from him, had gotten her so excited she had not been able to think clearly.
"Perhaps we had better postpone our discussion," she said briskly. "I do have another appointment, and there's someone else involved—my partner."
"I see." Hayes had been rubbing his hands absent-mindedly. Some of the reddened patches might have been poison ivy, Karen thought. When he realized she was staring at them he folded his hands again. "I wondered about that. Mr. Hallett told me you had the right of refusal on the manuscript, and I got the impression that the price was going to be pretty stiff. No offense, Dr. Holloway, but I know what academic salaries are like. You have a backer?"
"A partner," Karen repeated. "A friend of mine."
He acknowledged the correction with a faint smile. "Fair enough. We'll meet later, then. Where and when?"
After he had gone, Karen ran to the window, which overlooked the parking lot, but he didn't appear. He must have parked on the street.
Or elsewhere. Why did she have the feeling that he had kept something back? He had appeared candid enough, had spoken without apparent reserve, and yet ... He wanted something from her, he wouldn't have come in person and agreed to another appointment solely in order to oblige a stranger. Money? That was the most obvious explanation. His curiosity about her financial status had been overt, and out of character for the Virginia gentleman role. He wasn't stupid. She had to be careful. Thank God some instinct had warned her to postpone the discussion until she had had time to calm down and think clearly about how to handle the situation. And confer with Peggy. Karen reached for the telephone.
"Well?" Karen demanded.
"Shhh." Peggy took her arm and pulled her away from the entrance to La Vieille France, Wilmington's most elegant and expensive restaurant. The food was supposed to be excellent, but Karen couldn't have testified on its behalf. She couldn't even remember what she had ordered, much less what it had tasted like. Glancing over her shoulder at the shadowy form retreating down the darkened street, she said irritably, "He can't hear us. What do you think?"
"He's not bad." Peggy unlocked her car door and shoved Karen inside. "Except that his eyes are a little too
close together."
"For God's sake, Peggy!"
"Wait till we get to my place." Peggy slammed the car into gear and pulled away from the curb with a screech of tires. "We need to talk about this. The guy is up to something."
"If you had met me before dinner—"
"I couldn't. I had that meeting. If you had given me advance notice—"
"He didn't give me any."
"Right. I wonder if that was deliberate." Peggy pondered the question. "He wasn't too crazy about me being there."
"That's nonsense. You were the one he wanted to meet. You and your checkbook."
Peggy sighed. "They're always after my money. Even Simon. Someday I'll meet a man who loves me for myself."
Karen couldn't help laughing. "You don't come across as a susceptible, swooning millionaire, Peggy. That suit—"
"What's wrong with it? Years more wear in this suit." Peggy pulled into the curb in front of her house.
The house would have made a better impression than its owner. It was one of the old Victorians, lovingly restored. The glow of a nearby streetlight showed neatly trimmed boxwood behind an ornate wrought-iron fence and gate. The lawn was as smooth as a green carpet; flower beds were mulched and weedless. Peggy must employ a gardener, she couldn't keep the place in such impeccable condition by herself, and the house, with its ornate gingerbread trim and spreading porches, must cost its owner a fortune in yearly maintenance. Karen wondered why she hadn't realized before that Peggy had money. Well, the answer was obvious. It hadn't mattered to her before.
The interior, furnished with fine antiques, was as spotless as the exterior. Peggy must also employ a cleaning team. She had no live-in servants. It was an interesting contrast—Peggy's careless personal appearance and her impeccable house.
Peggy tossed her coat onto a chair. "Want a drink?"
Standing in the open doorway, Karen shook her head. "I really can't stay, Peggy. You know how those cats of yours affect me. My nose is already starting to itch."
"Oh, come on. I'll keep them away from you."
"You said that the last time. It's impossible; cats always head straight for me. Anyhow, it's the dander that sets off my allergy, and your house is full of it. Damn, there they come—"
Peggy scooped up the half-grown tabby that had plunged down the stairs and was indeed making a beeline for Karen. "Oh, all right, we'll sit on the porch." She tossed the tabby onto the stairs, fended off another admirer with a well-placed foot, and followed Karen out the door.
The night air was cool but not uncomfortably so. They settled into a pair of wicker chairs, and Peggy said, "Well?"
"I asked you first."
"So you did. Okay. The simplest and most obvious explanation for his behavior is that he wants to sell you something."
"What? He's already sold the manuscript."
"And regretting it. Not that he had much choice; as he candidly admitted, he had no idea that mess of papers was worth money. But behind his rueful, charming admission of fallibility, I sensed a certain smugness. He's got something else he wants to sell. Family documents? Maybe even the house itself. And now he knows it's worth money, at least to you. I'll bet used-car dealers love you."
"I'm not that gullible," Karen protested.
"Your appearance is against you," Peggy said, studying her critically. "Leaving off the makeup and wearing tailored suits doesn't help. Instead of an older, professional woman, you look like a kid trying to look like an older professional woman."
Karen scowled. "For your information, I handle used-car dealers just fine. I knew what he was doing. But when I started thinking about what he might have, I ... so, okay, I lost it." She leaned forward, her eyes shining. "More poems. A diary. Letters. Even the missing pages of the manuscript!"
"The house has been cleared out," Peggy reminded her. "Simon already told you that."
"Yes, but the sale hasn't been held yet. They're waiting till May—the height of the auction season."
Peggy shook her head. "That sounds fishy to me."
"You're just determined to throw cold water on everything," Karen said sulkily.
"Somebody has to. You're flying high, honey. If you fall, the crash is going to hurt like hell. You have no proof that Ismene ever lived in that house. The manuscript could have been acquired at a sale."
"There's only one way to find out."
"That's not true. There are a lot of ways. But," Peggy admitted, "we'll have a look at the place. Weekend after this, maybe. Or the following week."
Smiling, and outwardly calm, Karen nodded agreeably. It took all her willpower to keep that fixed smile in place, and to conquer the anger that knotted her stomach. She was sick and tired of being ordered around, treated like a child. Everybody did it. Simon, Peggy, her parents, her friends, her ex-husband.
Especially her ex-husband. Her decision to leave Norman had stunned her acquaintances. "But he adores you," one of them had said in obvious bewilderment. "He takes such good care of you."
His Baby.
Karen left town at ten o'clock Friday evening, after meeting all her classes, keeping several student appointments, attending a faculty meeting, and turning down Joe Cropsey's invitation to have a drink with him. Shortly after midnight she checked into a motel outside Frederick. It would have been irresponsible to drive straight through. Unproductive, as well; she could hardly go prowling around the grounds of a strange house in the small hours of the morning.
As she locked the door of the motel room and tossed her overnight bag onto the bed, a heady sense of escape filled her. No one knew where she was. No one could find her. There would be no knock at the door, no ringing of the telephone. This was the ultimate freedom—with no Grand Inquisitor lying in wait to drag her back to her cell.
Her slippered feet sank deep into mud that squelched and clung. The wet, matted weeds in the center of the rutted track were slick as ice. Interlaced branches formed a canopy overhead, a dark, twisted fabric through which the rain forced passage, now in trickles, now in heavier streams. Her wet hair writhed like a living thing, coiling around her throat. She reached up to pull it away, and saw the house ahead, looming dark against a storm-gray sky.
Karen stopped and rubbed her eyes. Her lashes were heavy with wet, but an overactive imagination, not impaired vision, must have produced those fleeting impressions. Her hair wasn't long; it was cut short, and plastered to her head by the rain that had soaked through her scarf. Her shoes were sensible brogues, not thin slippers. The skies were cloudy, but not menacingly dark; it was just past noontime.
The house still looked forbidding. It was no typical Tidewater mansion, beautifully proportioned and painstakingly hand-crafted (by slave labor, Karen reminded herself), but a graceless square block with narrow windows that gave it the appearance of a fort rather than a home. Chimneys on either end, disproportionately tall and slender, pointed skyward. Even the signs of long neglect and the weedy, untended grounds did not wholly account for its unprepossessing appearance. Hayes had been right; of architectural distinction there was none.
There were signs of recent attempts at renovation. The lawn had been mowed, though its green owed more to clover and variegated weeds than to grass. Some of the shutters had been painted. Others hung, gray and dispirited, from rusty hinges. Two of the windowpanes on the lower level were boarded up. Another set of panes had been recently replaced; the small paper stickers still adorned them.
So that was why Cameron Hayes's hands looked as if they had been chewed by a bear. He must be doing some of the work himself. The place certainly needed attention, it must have been neglected for decades. If the inside was as bad as the outside, Hayes's hope of finding a buyer were slim.
The house was for sale; she had seen the sign. The driveway gates were chained and padlocked, so she had been forced to leave her car outside. The small side gate, hung with "No Trespassing" signs, was padlocked too. She had climbed over it.
Karen gave herself a little shake. She couldn't
stand here dripping and dreaming all day. Workmen wouldn't show up on a Saturday, especially in such weather, but Cameron Hayes might. She didn't particularly want him to find her here, but if he did, she would stand her ground—no sense trying to sneak away unseen, the presence of her car would tell him someone was inside—and make her excuses. "I just happened to be in the neighborhood ..." She smiled wryly. Excuses be damned; she was hooked, and he probably knew it. Peggy had been right about that, at any rate; her eager questions had given her away.
Of course she ought to have called to tell him she was coming. She hadn't, though. It could be argued (she argued) that his willingness to answer her questions implied permission to visit the house, but that excuse was decidedly feeble. She hadn't called because she wanted to be alone on this first, secret visit.
Yet as she went on more slowly, slipping on the wet grass, uneasiness prickled along her spine. It wasn't a Gothic tingle, but rational, if belated, apprehension. Perhaps she ought to have approached Hayes directly, or at least told someone where she was going. She had not realized the place was so isolated. She had not seen another house or even another vehicle after she left the highway and turned onto the narrow back road, overhung with trees and studded with potholes. The only sounds that broke the silence were those made by wind and falling rain. She was over a mile from the highway, too far to hear traffic noises. Some such noise, some indication of life, would have been welcome just then. A bird chirping, a dog barking. . . Well, maybe not a dog. In her present mood a howling in the woods would conjure up images of wolves—or worse. More prosaically, this was the sort of place that would attract trespassers with less noble motives than hers—vagrants, poachers, hunters . . .
"Serial killers," she jeered at herself, and started at the sound of her own voice echoing in the silence. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. Wisps of fog drifted across the grass.
