Barbara Michaels - Shattered Silk

Her eyes kept returning to the objects on the table-ordinary household items, harmless in their origin and function, now ominously suggestive-a crumpled, bloodstained sheet and a knife, its blade dulled and sticky. The sheet was double-sized, a polyester-and-cotton blend; at a rough guess, several hundred thousand of its duplicates presently existed in linen closets and on store shelves throughout the area. It had been roughly tailored-the trailing corners hacked off, a narrow slit ripped away so the wearer could see where he was going. The knife was almost as undistinguished-a Solingen steel-bladed carving knife, eight inches long. There was one almost like it in the rack next to the sink.

Cheryl dismissed her own question with a grumble. "Men act so silly. Here's Tony worrying about what his boss will say to him, like some kid whose mother forgot to write him an excuse, when he ought to go to the-"

Karen's resolution about staying out of other people's business vanished in a puff of smoke. "Damn it, Cheryl, are you really that insensitive? Can't you see how he feels? He went rushing out there to rescue us poor defenseless females from a maniac, and ended with us untangling him from a sheet. He feels like a fool."

Cheryl's jaw dropped. "He did not! Look like a fool, I mean."

"You may not think so and I certainly don't think so, but I have a nasty feeling the lieutenant will think so. His friends will never let Tony hear the end of this one. His theories have been knocked into a cocked hat; he'll be hearing oblique references to bed sheets for months to come; and worst of all, he has to sit here and be interviewed by the police, like any other helpless victim of crime. For a cop, a professional, that's the crowning humiliation. Compared to all that, a knife wound doesn't even hurt!"

"I never thought-"

"Maybe it's time you did, then. He's just as vulnerable as anyone else under that tough exterior, and you're ripping him to shreds emotionally. Give the guy a break."

Someone else had said that recently, Karen remembered. Tony-to her. About Mark. "Oh, Lord," she said wearily, "what's the use? I'm a fine one to talk."

But the sight of Cheryl's stricken face and quivering lips didn't make her regret what she had said.

Tony came back into the kitchen. "Someone will be here in a minute," he said curtly. He looked at Cheryl. "Go and get some clothes on. Now."

Cheryl fled without another word.

THE only one who had a good night was Alexander. He managed to bite not one but both policemen. Cheryl and Karen didn't get to bed until after four. Karen expected she would lie awake, but she was so exhausted she was asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

Cheryl claimed she had slept too, but there were purple shadows under her eyes and lines around her mouth next morning. It was almost eleven before they sat down to breakfast, a meal in name only, for neither of them ate.

"Looks like rain," Cheryl said, breaking a long silence.

Karen said, "Uh-huh."

"Am I still in the doghouse?"

"What?"

"I've been thinking about what you said last night."

"I said a lot of things last night." Karen sipped her coffee, hoping a healthy dose of caffeine would clear her head. "I suppose I should apologize, but I'm not going to. I guess I owe you one," she added, with a futile attempt at a smile. "Five minutes of criticism, at your convenience."

Cheryl did not return her smile. "I'm tempted to take you up on it. You're so smart about most things and so incredibly dumb about others."

"Let's not fight now," Karen said. "I'm too tired."

"Okay."

"Cheryl."

"What?"

"I want you to move out. Go back to Mark's."

"I figured you were going to say that. Did you figure out what I'd say back?"

"I figured, yes. And I also figured what I'd say after you said what you said."

"Don't bother. Look at it this way, Karen-would you walk out on me if the situation were the other way around?"

"I certainly would."

"You're a damned liar."

Karen's lips quivered. She wasn't sure whether she was going to laugh or cry until laughter finally won out. "You're hopeless. Maybe I can hire someone to kidnap you."

"That's the only way you'll get me out of here." Cheryl's smile was almost back to normal. "They'll catch the guy, Karen. They're bound to. Tony said someone would be watching the house every night from now on. And if I know Tony, he'll be sticking pretty close too. Not to mention my only brother. I wonder what he's going to say about the latest developments. Looks as if his far-out theory was right after all."

"What theory? He never said what it was, just sat there poking holes in Tony's theories." Karen's jaw set. "If he gloats-if he says one word that can be interpreted as rubbing it in-I'll kill him. Tony feels rotten enough without that."

"Yeah." Cheryl didn't enlarge on the subject. After another silence she said, "So what are we going to do today?"

"Go bravely forward, like good soldiers, I guess. What else is there to do? We can't huddle in the house all the time. I'll take those dresses to Shreve."

"And I'll go see Mrs. MacDougal's friend. I don't know, though, Karen. Maybe you shouldn't go."

"Are you suggesting Shreve is the sheeted specter? Shreve, of all people? Climbing fences and waving butcher knives? In her Moygashel linen and her white gloves?"

Cheryl did not share her sour amusement. "She hates you."

"She has subtler methods of cutting me down. She doesn't need knives." Karen pushed her chair back and stood up. "Besides-in case you've forgotten-Shreve has the perfect alibi for last night. Vouched for by no less a personage than Congressman Brinckley, a.k.a. your only brother."

SHREVE'S directions had been clear and explicit. That didn't prevent Karen from getting lost. Stopping at a crossroads store, she discovered she was heading in precisely the wrong direction-a classic example of a Freudian slip in motion, she surmised. She was only fifteen minutes behind time, but she found Shreve pacing up and down the drive waiting for her.

"You're late," she snapped.

"I got lost. It's a long drive."

"How true. Come in, then."

"Can someone give me a hand with these?" Karen asked, opening the back door of the car. "They have to be carried carefully."

Shreve's eyebrows soared. "I'm afraid there's not a soul around, darling. I assumed you wouldn't want a witness."

"I beg your pardon?" Karen straightened, holding one of the boxes.

"And well you should. Oh, well, I'll take the other one, if you insist. This way."

Karen followed her into a room that might have been called a library if there had been any books on the shelves. It was furnished expensively and with a striking lack of originality. Shreve tossed the box carelessly onto a long leather sofa. "Is it in this one?"

Karen hesitated, not knowing what to say. She was completely bewildered by Shreve's remarks, and a faint but growing sense of uneasiness added to her confusion.

Before she could reply, there was the sound of an automobile horn-not a simple hoot, but a strident rendering of the first bar of "Dixie." Shreve scowled. "Damn. I might have known he'd turn up, just when… Stay here. I'll get rid of him. Don't leave this room."

Karen sat down to wait. The time stretched on; apparently Shreve was finding it difficult to dismiss her visitor. Karen shifted impatiently.

On a low table near her chair a number of glossy magazines were arranged in order, neat as an illustration out of a copy of House Beautiful. Karen went through them, taking a petty and malicious enjoyment out of the disorder she created. They were of the type she had expected to find on Shreve's table- Vogue and Vanity Fair, Washingtonian, the New Yorker.