Barbara Michaels - Shattered Silk

Karen had not let her finish the sentence. "That wasn't a delegation, that was a typical Washington boondoggle, complete with sisters, cousins, and aunts. Do you want orange juice or grapefruit?"

Cheryl had selected grapefruit, her lips pursed as if she were already tasting the fruit, without sugar. As Karen prepared it, she tried not to think about Mark, but did not succeed. She also tried to believe she was angry with herself and not with him. How fatuous and naive she had been to hope his preoccupation the other evening had been with her affairs and her safety. He had probably been looking forward to his weekend-thinking of Shreve, anticipating their time together…

The knife slipped, slicing into her thumb, and she reached for a paper towel to stanch the bleeding. Like all good cooks, Ruth kept her knives razor-sharp. It was my own fault, Karen told herself; I went at that grapefruit as if it were… She managed to cut that thought off, and concentrated on what she was doing.

By the time they reached the realtor's office, Karen had-she believed-forgotten her ill humor and the event that had caused it. The shop had possibilities; they added it to their list.

They also investigated a few antique shops-a good many were closed on Monday-but came away empty-handed.

"Honestly, the prices people want for their junk," Cheryl grumbled.

"Junk to you and me, bargains to some," Karen said philosophically. "I suppose it all depends on what you're looking for. Our requirements are a bit esoteric."

"Yeah, that's right. Let's head out into the country. Maybe we'll find some innocent little old lady who is cleaning out her attic and hasn't heard the word 'antiques.'"

They did not, however, and they soon became surfeited with costume jewelry, empty Avon bottles, and oak furniture. Finding a roadside market, they stocked up on tomatoes and melons, corn and peaches, and headed homeward.

It made Cheryl's day when they arrived to find they had missed Mrs. Grossmuller. They didn't need Mr. DeVoto to tell them she had been there, for she had left a bulging shopping bag on the doorstep. A note fluttered coyly from the string handle. "I will come next week to pick up the money."

"It's nice that she trusts us," Karen said, as Cheryl glared at the stained, crumpled mass of fabric protruding from the top of the bag.

When they took the bag in and inspected the contents, the filthy object on top turned out to be a cutwork tablecloth, with its matching napkins wadded up beneath. In addition, there were three pairs of ladies' gloves, a calico apron, and a 1920s bathing suit of black wool full of moth holes.

"We've got to make her stop doing this," Cheryl declared grim-faced, while Karen laughed over the bathing suit.

"How? We can't complain to the police; she isn't doing anything illegal. You're right, though," Karen said, sobering. "I certainly don't want her turning up on the doorstep with her dirty clothes after Ruth gets back. Can you see poor Ruth's face? Not to mention Pat's…It would almost be worth it to hear Pat explode. We'll tell Mrs. Grossmuller we're moving right away."

"But don't tell her where," Cheryl pleaded.

"If I don't, she'll come back here. Besides, I don't want to lose a source. We can use the tablecloth and napkins, and maybe the apron. She may have other things."

"I'm going to throw the whole lot in the washing machine," Cheryl announced, picking up the bag with the tips of her fingers. "Even the things we don't want. We can't leave them in this condition; the whole house will be infected. I keep feeling as if fleas are hopping on me."

"Don't put the bathing suit in with the tablecloth."

"Please! I know better than that."

Karen felt sure Cheryl's fears were exaggerated; she hadn't seen any sign of fleas or other vermin. The moths that had devoured the bathing suit had been dead and dust for decades.

Alexander displayed an inordinate amount of interest in the clothes; Cheryl had to fight him off while she loaded the washing machine. Perhaps he scented his beloved Mrs. Grossmuller. Karen had never seen him react to anyone with such doting admiration. That said something about Mrs. Grossmuller, or Alexander-or both- but she wasn't sure she wanted to know what.

Cheryl's temper improved after she had put everything in the machine, or-in the case of the bathing suit- in the basin they used for hand-washing. Wiping her wet hands, she watched Karen unload the vegetables and fruit they had bought.

"What's for supper? Those tomatoes look nice; we could have a salad."

"I'm going out for dinner," Karen said.

"Heavy date?"

"I guess I forgot to tell you."

"No reason why you should. Did you pick up a new boyfriend, or is it Tony?"

Her tone made it sound like "good old Tony." When Karen said yes, it was Tony, she smiled placidly. "I hope he makes it this time. Poor boy, he needs some amusement."

"So I'm to be the good-conduct prize?"

"Hey, Karen, don't start that again."

"I won't. I think he deserves something too, and I'm fully prepared to deliver. Not only is he incredibly good-looking, he's nice and kind and considerate and sensitive and intelligent-"

"You really like him, huh?"

"One might reasonably draw that conclusion from what I just said."

"Good." Cheryl picked up a tomato and examined it with the concentration a scientist might devote to a specimen. "Sometimes I could kill that brother of mine."

"Now don't you start, Cheryl."

"Honest, Karen, he hasn't seen that woman for over a year. She's trying to make it look like more than it was, to hurt you. She always was the one who was chasing him, not the other way around." The words bubbled out as if she had held a cap on them too long, and they could no longer be repressed. "He never talks about people- women-not to me-but I told him all the nasty things she did to you, coming here and insulting you and all that, and I could tell he didn't-"

"I would appreciate it if you would stop trying to arrange my emotional life for me," Karen said between her teeth. "I could make a few pertinent comments about your hang-ups too, if I chose."

This time Cheryl's temper did not spark when rubbed the wrong way. She lowered her head, her mouth drooping. "I know. I've heard them."

"From Mark."

"Among others. I didn't mind so much from Mark. He knew Joe, they were buddies."

"And I'm sure he pointed out that Joe wouldn't want you to cut yourself off from love the rest of your life. What kind of tribute is that to him or to your marriage? Oh, all right, I'll shut up. You let me settle my own affairs and I'll let you sit there and-petrify."

Fortunately the telephone rang, or another quarrel might have developed. At first Karen could not identify the caller.

"Miss Everley? I don't believe… Oh, at Mrs. MacDougal's. Yes, of course; I thought your voice was familiar. Oh, you do? Worth? Yes, I'm very interested. No, I'm afraid I can't tomorrow afternoon. Would Wednesday… I see. Yes, Cannes should be delightful at this time of year. Just a minute…"

Cheryl's head had snapped up like that of a hunting hound at the sound of the name Worth. She began making frantic gestures.

"I can go tomorrow," she said, while Karen covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "Where does she live?"

"Clear out on the Eastern Shore. She's going abroad on Wednesday and she wants to get these things out of the way first."

"Let me talk to her." Cheryl reached for the phone.

She was beaming broadly when she hung up. "Sounds like a hot lead."

"Cheryl, are you sure? Maybe I could put Shreve off."

"You have to trust me sometime. I've got a pretty good idea of what to pay for things."

"It isn't that. But it's a long drive, and didn't you say you had to study for your finals?"