Houses of Stone

by Kathy

  "It's a strong possibility. I can't prove it unless I find documentary evidence. That's why I need all the family records I can get my hands on."

  "Uh-huh." He waited until the waitress had deposited their plates on the table. "You know those boxes of papers I mentioned? They're gone."

  "What?" Karen gasped. "How? Gone from where?"

  "They weren't in storage. I had them ... in a place I considered secure. Especially," he added, with a wry twist of his lips, "since I had no reason to suppose they had the slightest value. The only person who could have taken them was Lisa. She must have done the job yesterday, when I was working at the house. I looked for them this morning, meaning to bring them to you."

  "Can't you get them back?"

  "I can try. She can't sell them without my consent, but she has as much right as I to have them in her possession. They aren't even listed in the inventory."

  "Damn. You know what she's going to do with them, don't you?"

  "I could offer a reasonably good guess. I've met your friend Meyer."

  "He's no friend of mine," Karen protested. "Damn, damn, damn! When did he contact you?"

  "Sunday. He spoke highly of you," Cameron said. "In fact, he was very civilized and aboveboard. Called to make an appointment, showed me his credentials, explained what he wanted and why he wanted it."

  "Strictly business," Karen murmured.

  "He indicated he would be willing to make me an offer. Depending, naturally, on whether the materials included anything of interest to him."

  "What did you say?"

  Cameron's smile didn't reach his eyes. "What any practical businessman would say. That I'd think about it. I didn't know then that Lisa had made off with the cartons. I suppose by now he's talked to her about them."

  "Once he gets his hands on those papers he won't make either of you an offer. He'll take what he wants or copy it."

  "I doubt Lisa would be gullible enough to hand the material over to him."

  "But you were willing—"

  "To go through the material with you. No offense, Dr. Holloway, but as you said, this is strictly business."

  "Right." Karen thought furiously. It required all the self-discipline she possessed to make herself relax and give him a rueful, charming smile. "No offense taken, Mr. Hayes. I can only hope your cousin is as canny a businesswoman as you believe. I'd prefer to deal with you, though. I'll . . . I'll buy those papers, sight unseen. You set the price. I trust you."

  He studied her thoughtfully. "You aren't a stupid woman, Dr. Holloway. Why do you—"

  "Please call me Karen."

  "Thank you." He wasn't stupid either. His expression indicated he was well aware of her reason for establishing a friendlier, more casual relationship, but there was no way short of rudeness that he could avoid responding in kind. "Some of my so-called friends call me Ron, or Cam, but I'm not fond of nicknames."

  "Neither am I. I can't explain why this is so important to me, Cameron; only another crazy academic would understand. Bill Meyer's motives are the same as mine, except that he'd derive additional satisfaction from getting the better of me. It's a personal vendetta."

  "Personal? Do you mean ..."

  Karen was tempted to confirm his assumption and spin a pathetic story that would arouse the old-fashioned chivalry she ordinarily scorned. Not that she had any scruples about using underhanded female tricks to gain her ends; fluttering lashes and quivering lips only worked with men who underestimated women to begin with. But the idea of claiming Bill Meyer as a rejected lover was too repulsive. Ludicrous, too. Some of her colleagues claimed he had made passes at them, but he'd never indicated the slightest interest in her.

  "No," she said. "It's just basic antipathy, I guess. He's such a sneering, supercilious son of a gun. He doesn't like competition, especially from women. Look, I'm not asking you to take sides. Just give me a fair chance." "Certainly." He looked at her untouched plate. "Is the food that bad or were you too distracted to eat? Don't worry; all other things being equal, I'd prefer to deal with you. I didn't much care for Professor Meyer myself."

  He dropped her at the apartment after promising to speak with Lisa and let her know what had transpired. Karen's first act was to find a safe hiding place for the manuscript—or try to. It didn't take long to decide that the only options—under the mattress, in the oven, behind the books—were far from secure. She would simply have to take it with her when she left the apartment.

  After putting away a few odds and ends, she stood looking around the small living room, uncertain as to what to do next. There were too damned many things to do, and as she thought of Bill Meyer doing them, one step ahead of her all the way, she couldn't settle down. Damn Peggy, she thought, conveniently ignoring the fact that she had not exactly encouraged Peggy to participate. Why did she have to go rushing off on some meaningless social visit? She could be doing some of the research.

  The most urgent matter was to find out all she could about the family that had inhabited the house during the years between 1775 and 1850. In fact, she was fairly certain the book had not been written before 1790 or after 1830, but even that was a broad time span. If only she could narrow it down! So far she had found no reference in the manuscript to a specific date or a specific event. Some such clue might yet turn up, but she couldn't count on it, and in the meantime Bill the Bastard was hot on the trail of the alternative sources. He knew how to go about it as well as she did, and she wouldn't put it past him to remove relevant material to prevent her from seeing it.

  At this point she couldn't even be certain that Ismene was one of Cameron's progenitors. According to him the house had been in his family—one branch or another of it—from the beginning. According to Peggy, who knew her Tidewater history well, that claim was questionable. Many of the old families had died out. She'd have to trace the ownership of the property and construct a genealogy before she could make even an educated guess as to the identity of the woman who called herself Ismene. That was almost certainly a nom de plume; it wouldn't be mentioned in family records.

  At least Karen hoped it wouldn't. Meyer was probably looking through those papers at this very moment. Cursing, she picked up the briefcase and headed for the door.

  Her best and nearest hope lay in the local Historical Society. Cameron had pointed out its headquarters—a handsome antebellum mansion on Main Street, which also served as the library. There were plenty of parking spaces. The shopping malls had drawn buyers away from the downtown area.

  The interior of the mansion wasn't as handsome as the outside. Lack of space and meager funding had resulted in close-packed rows of metal shelves, a few worn tables and battered chairs. The young African-American woman behind the desk had her elbows on its surface and her eyes fixed suspiciously on a group of high school students gathered around one of the tables.

  When Karen had explained what she wanted, the librarian shook her head. "I'm afraid we don't have anything here. The local history material is in the possession of the Historical Society, and they're only open three afternoons a week. This isn't one of those afternoons."

  Figuring she might as well use all the weapons at her disposal, Karen introduced herself and threw in the names of Cameron Hayes and Mrs. Fowler for good measure. The librarian studied her with increased interest. "You're renting that—er—that apartment of Miz Fowler's? She can help you then. She pretty well runs the Historical Society."

  "I can believe that," Karen murmured.

  A discreet smile acknowledged the comment. "My name's Tanya Madison. I'd let you into the Society offices, but Miz Fowler doesn't trust anybody else with the keys. Anyhow, I don't like to leave the desk while those darned kids are hanging around. They tear pictures and maps out of the periodicals for their school papers if I don't keep an eye on them."

  Karen left with proper thanks. Tanya Madison had lost interest in the darned kids; her dark eyes, bright with curiosity, followed Karen to the door.

  All roads seemed to lead ba
ck to Mrs. Fowler. Karen had intended to probe the old lady's store of local legendry; she knew enough about historical research to know that oral tradition could offer useful clues. She wasn't in the mood that day for violets and Lapsang souchong, but the pervasive sense of a saturnine, dark man looking over her shoulder forced her to make the effort. After changing her jeans for a skirt and forcing her lower extremities into panty hose and pumps, she walked grumpily toward the house.

  She could have sworn she saw the folds of the curtains flutter, but Mrs. Fowler allowed a decent interval to elapse before she opened the door, and her little squeal of surprised pleasure sounded authentic.

  "Why, my dear, what a pleasure to see you. No, no, you aren't intruding one bit. I was just about to have tea, and I'd surely welcome company. It's been three years since my dear Harry passed on, but I still miss him. Living alone is so—so lonely, isn't it?"

  Karen declined the tacit invitation to discuss her living arrangements; she felt sure Mrs. Fowler had already noticed her ringless left hand. After considerable fuss and bustle her hostess produced a second cup and what appeared to be the same plate of macaroons. They discussed the lovely spring weather for several minutes until Karen decided it was proper to ask the question that had brought her there.

  "Why, surely," Mrs. Fowler exclaimed. "I'd be honored to show you our little collection, though a scholar like you probably won't think much of it. I can take you around tomorrow morning if you like. It will have to be early, I'm afraid; I have a luncheon meeting at noon. The Garden Club. I'm giving a paper on columbaria."

  Karen had no idea what columbaria was—if Mrs. Fowler hadn't mentioned the Garden Club she would have assumed it had something to do with Greek architecture—and she didn't want to find out. Mrs. Fowler did not pursue the subject. In a deceptively casual voice she said, "It's the Cartright family you're interested in, I understand."

  It did not seem likely that Mrs. F. was gifted with second sight. How much had Cameron told her? Or had she made an inspired guess after hearing of Karen's visits to the mansion?

  "That's right," she admitted.

  "I do hope you're not considerin' buyin' that old monstrosity of a house. Cameron's wasting his time, as I told him over and over. There's more than a little paint and plaster wanted; every piece of pipe and electric wire is at least fifty years old. Anyhow, you couldn't pay me to stay in that place. It gives me the cold chills to step inside."

  Taken aback by the vitriolic tone, Karen could only murmur, "I haven't any intention of buying it."

  "Well, I'm right relieved to hear that. Course I wish poor Cameron every success. That's all he's interested in, makin' money." She sighed. "But seems as if all the young people are that way. No respect, no interest in manners or in tradition. And Cameron has a lot of expenses. That private school for his little girl must cost a fortune, but you couldn't expect the child to go to public school, not in New Yawk, at any rate, where she'd have to mix with riffraff and colored folks."

  Karen tried to conceal her surprise—not at Mrs. Fowler's assessment of the citizenry of New York City, which was typical of her class, but to the seemingly casual reference to Cameron Hayes's daughter. She knew the bright, unwinking eyes were measuring her reaction.

  "He didn't mention he was divorced?" Mrs. Fowler inquired.

  "There's no reason why he should," Karen said.

  "Why, no, it doesn't make the least bit of difference these days . . . does it? And I certainly wouldn't say Cameron was to blame, though Maribelle was my own blood niece. They were too young, I expect. At least that's the excuse people give nowadays. I was only seventeen when I married my dear Harry, and we lived in unblemished happiness for forty-seven years." She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her embroidered napkin. "Ah, well, it won't be long till we meet again, never to part. What was it you wanted specially to know about the Cartrights, my dear?"

  By that time Karen was sorry she had introduced the subject, and she was not inclined to give Mrs. Fowler any additional information. Undeterred by her vague response, Mrs. Fowler continued to spout gossip— all of it malicious. It was rumored that the founder of the house, one Obadiah Cartright, had fled England a step or two ahead of the law. "He was a highwayman, or something romantic like that," said Mrs. F. with a sniff. "More likely a petty thief. He sure did act like one, hiding himself away in that remote region. Nobody living anywhere near, and he didn't encourage company. There's a streak of that in the family, always has been. Snobbishness. As if they considered themselves too good for other folks. There's a story that young Tom Jefferson passed by Amberley one time, and Obadiah wouldn't let him in the house. Made him and his men camp on the front lawn. Not that young Tom was anybody in particular then, but hospitality to strangers was a Virginia tradition. And another time ..."

  How long she would have gone on if Karen had not excused herself, the latter could not imagine. When she left the house and saw the sunlight golden on the lawn she felt as if she had escaped from prison— the dark cell of Mrs. Fowler's narrow little mind. What a malicious, hypocritical old bitch the woman was. If she was a friend of Cameron's, he didn't need enemies.

  She was about to start up the stairs when she remembered the cupboard was bare. So was the fridge. She ought to have gone grocery shopping that morning, instead of finishing The Castle of Otranto. The chores of daily living took an outrageous amount of time. Bathing, brushing your teeth, acquiring and preparing the necessary nourishment, transporting yourself and your belongings from place to place ... At least she wouldn't have to go upstairs. She had her purse with her, and the briefcase was in the trunk of the car.

  Backing out of the driveway, she headed for the shopping center on the edge of town. There was a small convenience store closer at hand, but she might as well stock up and get it over with.

  She had to mention Mrs. Fowler's name in order to cash a check. Another boring, necessary chore she had overlooked—establishing credit. The manager gave her a temporary card, which solved that problem, but his questions—prompted as much by small-town courtesy as by curiosity, she knew—annoyed her. She reminded herself that anonymity was impossible in such a small place. By now everybody in Mrs. Fowler's social circle must know who she was, and most of them would be speculating on why she was there . . . All at once a possible explanation for the old lady's malicious remarks about Cameron occurred to her. She wondered why she hadn't thought of it before. Naturally a woman like that would assume another woman was in hot pursuit of a man.

  By the time she had carried six bags of groceries and the briefcase up the wooden stairs that gave access to her front door she was hungry enough to eat anything that didn't bite her first. There was no microwave, so she chopped lettuce for a salad and opened a can of soup. As she sat at the kitchen table eating and reading, her thoughts kept wandering from the text she knew so well she could recite large portions from memory.

  If Mrs. Fowler's interest in her love life was part of the deal, the apartment might be more trouble than it was worth. It had other disadvantages—having to carry everything up those steep steps, for one thing. Mrs. Fowler was probably violating a number of zoning laws; the plumbing and wiring were almost as antiquated as old Josiah Cartright's, and that staircase was the only exit from the apartment. Presumably it had been the chauffeur's quarters in the days when the town gentry could afford live-in servants. Nobody cared whether a chauffeur burned to death.

  Karen tossed Jane Eyre aside and got to her feet. Reading Gothic novels was not good for the nerves, especially the nerves of a woman alone in a strange place after dark. Especially a novel that contained a horrific description of a burning house with a madwoman raging on the battlements.

  From her windows she could see over all but the tallest trees. Lights shone comfortingly—from the street, from houses nearby, from one of the upper windows in the main house. The area immediately surrounding the garage was unlit, however. Odd that Mrs. Fowler, the fluttery Southern lady personified, hadn't taken th
e precaution of surrounding the house with floodlights. She must have a lot of confidence in her fellow citizens.

  Karen wasn't worried about burglars, even a burglar named William Meyer. Anyone entering the apartment would have to climb the stairs and break down the front door. There was one window on that side, but it couldn't be reached from the stairs. She was more concerned about being able to get out than about someone else getting in. An ironic smile curved her lips as she continued her inspection. It was the classic dilemma, the contradictory threats faced by all the heroines of the traditional Gothic novel: fear of being imprisoned, unable to get out; fear of a deadly danger that could not be kept out.

  However, the danger of fire was real. Garages were often used to store paint and other flammable materials, and her car was directly under her bedroom. There wasn't even a smoke detector in the apartment. Another violation of code, surely, but it wouldn't matter; by the time the detector sounded it might be too late.

  Karen's lips parted in an exclamation of protest. What was the matter with her? Too many Gothics? All the same, she added another item to her mental shopping list. Taking sensible precautions was not neurotic. It was . . . sensible.

  Having decided this, she closed the curtains and went calmly to bed. Nothing disturbed her sleep. She had not dreamed of enclosure and darkness since she arrived.

  Mrs. Fowler was on the doorstep bright and early next morning—fifteen minutes early, to be precise. The intensity of the dislike that filled Karen at the sight of the pink, round, smiling face surprised her. She was forced to invite Mrs. Fowler in; as she hastily finished breakfast and got her things together, she felt sure Mrs. F. had wanted an excuse to inspect the apartment. Her beady little eyes missed nothing.