Barbara Michaels - Shattered Silk

Karen couldn't endure the careful, pedantic speech any longer. She knew what the lawyer was driving at, and she didn't like the idea at all.

"You mean they-he-that big hulk of a chauffeur-might try to break in here?"

"No, no, you mistake my meaning. I consider it most unlikely. Quite unlikely indeed. I have no desire to alarm you-"

"Well, you have!"

"Then she did give you-"

"Just her clothes."

The lawyer emitted a sharp bark of laughter. "I hardly think thieves would bother about a bundle of old clothing. That is all?"

"Yes. Oh, and the jewelry-a necklace and earrings. But it's not valuable, just semi-precious stones and enamel. She handed it to me when she got out of the car this morning-a little memento-"

"Jewelry." Mr. Bates' voice sounded hollow. "It isn't, by chance, of black enamel bordered in silver-gilt, set with rosettes of pearls, emeralds, and diamonds?"

Karen's hand flew to her throat. "Diamonds? Emeralds? I thought they were peridots and rhinestones-"

"The stones themselves are not valuable," said Mr. Bates. "However, the jewelry belonged to Dolley Madison. It is depicted in the Warren portrait, and its pedigree is authenticated."

"Oh, my-oh, good Lord! Honestly, I had no idea- I'll bring it right over to your office. I don't want-"

"Please calm yourself, Mrs. Nevitt. If Mrs. MacDougal gave you the jewelry, she wants you to have the jewelry, and therefore you must keep the jewelry. I do suggest that you place it immediately in your safe-deposit box-"

"What safe-deposit box? I don't have one."

"Then you had better get one," said Mr. Bates dryly. "Is that all? You are certain she didn't give you the Beall emeralds or ask you to store her collection of Revere silver? I am relieved to hear it. Though the necklace and earrings are historic treasures, they are not intrinsically valuable, so I don't believe you need worry."

After he had hung up Karen took off the necklace and sat staring at it. So much for her expertise on the subject of antique jewelry! She hadn't even dated it correctly. It wasn't Victorian but Georgian, dating from the early part of the nineteenth century, before Victoria ascended the throne.

So Mr. Bates didn't believe she needed to worry. He was fairly sure the necklace and earrings would not attract a thief. It was nice that Mr. Bates was so unconcerned.

Even if the gang to which the chauffeur belonged decided to go after Mrs. MacDougal's other property, they might not be interested in the jewelry. The individual stones weren't worth much, and the set could not be pawned; it would be instantly recognized. But the same thing was true of the Rolls. And Horton knew she had the jewelry; not only had he seen Mrs. Mac give her the case, but she had removed one of the earrings during the drive back from the airport-held it up in full view of anyone who might glance into the rearview mirror.

Her fingers moved respectfully over the smooth surface of the enamel, the settings of the small gems. James Madison, fourth President of the United States, might have fastened the clasp around Dolley's plump neck. Dolley had worn it or carried it with her when she and the President escaped from Washington with the flames of the burning city reddening the sky behind them-the only time the capital had been sacked and destroyed by an invading enemy. Dolley had taken it all in her stride-a plump, pleasure-loving little woman who liked to wear turbans because they made her look taller. Washington Irving, among other admirers, had praised her beauty and contrasted it with the feeble face and diminutive figure of her husband. Pretty Dolley, with a pretty woman's fondness for nice clothes and jewelry…

The only reason Karen knew these things was that, by a strange coincidence, she had been reading about Dolley Madison only the night before, in the Georgetown legends book Julie had given her. Dolley wasn't really a Georgetown ghost, but she was certainly one of the most peripatetic of Washington's revenants, and as the author frankly admitted, distinguished spirits lent a book a certain cachet. Among other places, Dolley had been seen(?) in one of the old mansions on Dumbarton Avenue, where she must have danced and partied a number of times.

Karen put the necklace back in the case and checked to make sure the earrings were solidly fastened. She couldn't get to the bank tonight. Where could she hide the jewelry in the meantime? Then she remembered the secret drawer in Ruth's wardrobe. It wasn't very secret, since the hinges could be seen by anyone who looked closely, but it was the best she could do for Dolley at the moment.

Not that she really thought she was in danger of being burglarized. Horton had not struck her as the type who went in for esoteric objets d'art. Cars, yes. Perhaps he had simply fallen in love with the glamorous old automobile, as a woman might with a gown or a jewel, and had persuaded a few friends to join him in what must have seemed an irresistible opportunity. If she had not been so distressed on Mrs. MacDougal's account, Karen could have laughed when she remembered Horton's sudden descent from the formal manners of a hired employee. And the sheer effrontery of his last remark…The five-dollar tip must have seemed a howling joke to him when he was about to make off with a car worth hundreds of thousands.

But as she showered and dressed she kept seeing Horton as he had stood in the hall, grinning down at her- his heavy features and massive chest; his hands, twice the size of hers. Harmless enough, no doubt; but not the figure one would like to meet in a dark alley. Or in a room of one's own house.

THE telephone call had delayed her. She arrived breathless and perspiring on Mrs. Ferris' doorstep. Externally the house on Thirty-sixth Street resembled Ruth's- a red brick Georgetown Federal of approximately the same age. Unlike its neighbors which it also resembled, it had a forlorn appearance; the small front yard was filled with weeds and the windows on the ground floor had draperies or shades drawn, like blind white eyes.

Karen's knock was promptly answered by a stout, smiling woman with gray hair arranged in an astonishing beehive coiffure. She drew Karen inside. "I'm sure glad to see you, honey. Glad to see anybody, to tell the truth! You don't mind if I call you Karen, do you? Miz MacDougal talks about you so much I feel like I know you. She's about the only human soul that ever comes here, God bless her. I'd just about go loony from lonesomeness if it wasn't for her-and my soaps, of course. Couldn't live without my soaps."

The vestibule was a gloomy cavern lit only by a single bulb in the chandelier. "Sorry about the dark," the housekeeper went on in a lower voice. "She"-with a significant nod at a shadow-filled doorway-"she doesn't like to waste electricity. Old age takes some people that way. Miserly. Don't let her cheat you on them old scraps she's trying to sell."

"I won't." Karen was grateful for an ally.

A quavery, querulous voice issued from the cavernous darkness of the parlor. "Who's that? Who are you talking to, Betsy? Is it that girl? Bring her in, bring her in; don't stand out there whispering about me. I can hear you. I can hear you saying things about me."

At first glance Mrs. Ferris was only a shapeless bundle, swathed in shawls and lap rugs despite the stifling heat of the room. The housekeeper turned on an overhead light and the bundle took on identity. The face that peered at Karen was a mass of wrinkles, the head almost hairless except for a few dry white wisps; but the eyes that met hers were alive and aware.

"Turn that off, Betsy," the old woman croaked. "Waste, always waste!"

Betsy winked at Karen. "Now, Miz Ferris, how can the young lady look at your junk in the dark?"

Mrs. Ferris acknowledged the truth of the statement with a grunt. Her clawed hands fumbled at something on her lap.