Barbara Michaels - Shattered Silk

"Museums prefer donations," Karen said. "A couple of them said they'd be in touch; the Costume Institute wants me to bring them to New York so they can have a look."

"Nuts to the Costume Institute. I don't even want the museums to have them. You know, Karen, we don't have to let all of them go. In fact, we'd be crazy to get rid of them. They could make the difference between our being just another old-clothes store and one of the top vintage clothing boutiques in the country. Which is what we're aiming to be, right?"

"Well, of course. But I don't see-"

"A collection like this is worth thousands in publicity, Karen. We can have fashion shows, and display these dresses in the shop as part of the decor; rent them, on rare occasions, to special customers-and charge the earth for the privilege-get write-ups in newspapers and magazines, maybe even TV interviews."

"Do you really think so?"

"Knowing we have things of this caliber will attract not only customers, but people who want to sell similar clothes. I'm telling you, we'd be making a big mistake to let them go."

"Do you mean it, or are you just being noble? I admit it's disgusting to see a grown woman cry over a dress, but…"

"I mean it, you dimwit. You'd have seen the possibilities yourself if you weren't so busy bending over backward to make yourself miserable."

They indulged themselves for a while, gloating over the glow of silk and satin, the rich softness of fur, the glitter of crystal and paste, and the sheer structural brilliance of the designs. The thought that they could keep the best of the beauties reconciled Karen to the approaching sale. "I'll have to offer her something good," she said finally. "Something I can really soak her for. I think I could bear to part with this one. It's Louiseboulanger, but it isn't one of my favorites."

"How about this black taffeta with the big fat silver flowers?"

"That's Cheruit," Karen mumbled. "Oh, well. I'll take these two and give her her choice. Okay, that's it. I don't know how you managed to get all this in the car," she added, surveying the piles of boxes on the bed and the floor.

"Ask how I paid for it," Cheryl said, grimacing. "I thought I'd need smelling salts when he handed me the bill. No, don't worry about that, it's a business expense; I put it in the book, broken down by item. There are a few more things in the wardrobe. They only rated the usual hangers and plastic bags. He said to tell you he couldn't get the stains out of some of them."

"But I'm sure he charged for them." Karen stripped off the cleaners' bag. "Hmmm. I was hoping this would clean."

"Another evening gown? We seem to be heavy on formal clothes."

"Evening and wedding dresses were only worn once-maybe twice-so they didn't wear out. And people were more inclined to save them." Karen laid the burgundy lace dress aside. "I may be able to cut the bad part out and take the skirt in; it's a large size. I got it from one of Mrs. Mac's less affluent friends."

"Which friend?" Cheryl reached for the ledger.

"Uh… I have it written down somewhere…"

Cheryl tactfully dropped the subject. "What's that?"

"That, my dear, is a total loss. Look at those stains; they're all over the front, bodice and skirt both. I don't know why I sent this to be cleaned, it must have gotten in by mistake."

She tossed the dress aside, and Cheryl picked it up. "I could try that new cleaning stuff."

"It's not worth the effort. The fabric is a synthetic. It's practically impossible to get set-in stains like rust out of polyester-cotton."

"The label says Saks."

"But it's not a designer dress; it isn't even very old. Just throw it in the wastebasket."

"I don't suppose I should ask where you got it."

"No, please don't. I seem to remember it was in a box with a lot of other things, all crumpled and rolled up. So we aren't out much except for the cleaning. I didn't pay much for any of the box lots. Oh, damn, here's another failure. The silk did disintegrate."

"Shattered," Cheryl said.

"Yes. He warned me it might, I'll say that for him." Karen threw the bodice aside. "This one… Yes, the lining shattered. But the velvet is in good shape. We can make another lining."

They finished looking through the rest of the things and Karen set two of the big white boxes aside. "These are the ones I sold Miriam. I ought to call her and tell her they are ready. She's been very patient, not like… Perhaps I should call her now."

"She's probably out on the town tonight. Isn't there some big gala at the Kennedy Center?"

"I don't know. I fear my invitation was misplaced in the post."

"Mine too. But there is, and she'll be there, because her husband contributed a million or two to the President's re-election campaign." Cheryl turned on the television set. "Maybe it will be on the news. I want to catch the weather report anyhow."

It was a slow news night. Even the pandas seemed to have lost interest. Cheryl got bored and went downstairs to make herself a sandwich. Alexander went with her. They missed the coverage of the gala, but Karen was rewarded by a glimpse of Miriam, standing in the background as the President waved and beamed.

Karen braced herself to hear some reference to Rob's murder. She had gone out of her way to avoid newspaper and television reports of the case; hearing it discussed in the impersonal and yet ghoulish style characteristic of the media would have brought the horror of it closer to home. However, new crimes had taken precedence. Day-old news was stale news, and apparently there were no new developments in the case.

Cheryl came back with Alexander in hot pursuit. "He's been out," she told Karen. "And he's had his biscuit. And all the doors are locked and double-locked."

"Fair and pleasant again tomorrow," Karen reported. "You missed Miriam."

"Oh, was she on?"

"Only a fleeting glance. She looked bored to death. Shall I turn it off?"

"Okay by me. Dammit, Alexander, give me a break. You had your treat, this is my sandwich."

Karen was a moment too late or just in time, depending on one's viewpoint. As she reached for the knob, the screen showed the interior of the terminal at National Airport and the announcer began interviewing the head of a group that was attending a fund-raiser in Atlanta. Cheryl leaned forward with a squeal of surprise. "Hey, there's Mark, right behind the speaker. Doesn't he look…"

He looked as if he wished he were somewhere else. It took him a moment to realize that the cameras were aimed in his direction and only another moment for him to get out of their reach. The movement was swift and smooth but not quite fast enough. Shreve had not been indiscreet enough to cling to him in public, but she was standing so close and watching him so narrowly that she might as well have been holding his arm.

MONDAY lived up to the forecast. They had breakfast on the terrace and lingered over a second cup of coffee, while Cheryl described the yard sales she had investigated the previous day.

"They all sound marvelous," she said, with the worldly-wise voice of experience. "But they usually aren't. You have to learn to read between the lines, and plan your route so you can cover as many as possible."

"We'll try again next week. If we split up, we could cover more of them."

"But it wouldn't be as much fun. Half the pleasure is making rude remarks about the tacky merchandise."

"I'd like to go to a few, just for the sake of curiosity. I've never been to a yard sale."

"Boy, have you led a sheltered life. It's fun if you don't have anything better to do. But the chance of coming across anything in our line is practically nonexistent these days."

There was a certain feeling of constraint in their camaraderie that morning. Neither had referred to the news broadcast. Cheryl had tried-"I was surprised to see how large that delegation-"