Barbara Michaels - Shattered Silk

One thin magazine differed from the rest. On the cover was a black-and-white photograph of a young girl dressed in white lace and pearls standing under a blossoming tree. Above the photo was a name Karen recognized-that of a prestigious private girls' school. Idly she picked it up and flipped through the pages. It appeared to be the commencement issue of the alumnae bulletin. Photos of beaming girls hugging one another and waving their diplomas; photos of commencement speakers and prominent parents. Karen was mildly entertained to learn that people actually did give children names like Muffin, Taffy, and Lolly.

Half the book was devoted to pictures of, and news about, alumnae-understandably, since the unspoken thrust of the publication was to extract money from same. There were photos of children and grandchildren and old graduation pictures. Among the latter was one of Shreve. Smirking as usual, Karen thought, studying the picture. It showed three girls, their arms around each other, with Shreve in the middle. They were wearing identical fluffy dresses with demure puffed sleeves and ruffled necklines. Karen had heard that some of the posh schools insisted all the girls wear the same dress for graduation, thus ostentatiously avoiding ostentation.

The truth didn't hit her all at once. It started as a tiny trickle of suspicion; then it widened, breaking down the walls of disbelief like a flood of evil-smelling, rancid water. The room darkened for a moment, and she had to hold tight to the arms of the chair; it seemed to be swaying under her like a swing.

She was on her feet when Shreve returned. After one quick glance at her face, the other woman turned back to the door. There was an ominous little click, which registered vaguely in Karen's mind as something she ought to worry about, but which made only a minor impression compared to the staggering knowledge she was trying to assimilate.

"It's a little late to get cold feet now," Shreve said. "You've been enjoying your little game of cat and mouse, haven't you? I must admire the way you handled it. Not a word, even in private, that could incriminate you. Everything innocent and straightforward. But I knew you'd slip up eventually. You were so damned pleased with your cleverness you got careless. Coming here alone was a big mistake. I don't suppose you were foolish enough to bring it with you, though…"

As she spoke she opened one of the boxes and tossed the dress aside with no more than a cursory glance. Karen winced as crystal tinkled and crisp pleats flattened, but she knew the condition of the merchandise was the least of her worries.

As Shreve opened the second box and rummaged among the tissues, Karen began edging toward the door. Her purse, with the essential car keys, was over her shoulder.

She can't stop me, Karen thought. She's in good shape, but I'm taller and heavier, and I don't think I'd have any scruples about hitting below the belt…

Shreve threw the empty box aside and turned, her face livid. Karen made a dash for the door. It was locked. As she fumbled for the key she watched Shreve over her shoulder, prepared to turn and resist if the other woman came after her. Instead Shreve ran to the desk and opened a drawer.

"I told you I was tired of your little games," she said coolly. "Come back here and sit down."

She held the heavy revolver the way people did in the movies-arms straight, one hand bracing the other.

Karen put her back against the door. "You wouldn't dare. Not with your own gun, in your own house."

Shreve's laugh was all the more shocking because it was genuinely amused. "Not my gun. Though I can use it-make no mistake about that. We're all frightfully, frightfully sporting here in Middleburg. No; this gun belongs to Pat MacDougal. Half of Washington knows he kept it in the drawer of the wardrobe in his bedroom. Believe me, my dear, I've thought this out very carefully. However, I've no particular desire to shoot you or anyone else. If you behave yourself and do as you're told, you'll be all right. Sit down!"

Too stunned by this latest piece of news to resist, Karen selected a chair as far from Shreve as possible. She didn't doubt that Shreve was speaking the truth. She must have taken the gun the night she woke Cheryl searching the wardrobe. She had planned this days-weeks-ago. But how had she gotten into the house?

Then Karen remembered the extra keys, conveniently left on the hall table, and Shreve's sudden request for something to drink after she learned Karen was unwilling to give up "Gran's old things."

"That's better." Shreve came out from behind the desk and sat down on its corner, her foot swinging. She rested the gun on her knee. "All I want is the dress. Hand it over and I'll leave you alone-but strictly alone, darling. Whatever gave you the consummate gall to suppose you could blackmail me, of all people?"

"I didn't. I wasn't trying… Honestly, I didn't know until a few seconds ago-" Her voice failed as she saw Shreve's skeptical smile.

Not that it mattered. She knew the truth now, she had admitted as much. "You can't let me go," she said stupidly.

"I can, actually-once the dress is destroyed. Your unsupported word can't hurt me. Especially after your carryings-on this past week; aren't the police getting a teeny tiny bit tired of your complaints?"

"You planned that? But you couldn't have. You were out of town last night."

Shreve's smile grew fixed. "I planned it, all right," she said sharply. "The idea was to discredit you-and it worked, didn't it? Once the dress is gone there won't be a shred of evidence."

"I can't understand why you didn't destroy it long ago." Karen felt quite calm except that her mouth was so dry that her lips felt stiff and leathery. She had to keep talking, though; the longer she could drag this out, the greater the hope that Shreve would relax her vigilance.

"I didn't because I couldn't think of a safer place for it than up in the attic among Gran's filthy rags. They should have been thrown out years ago. How could I anticipate that anyone would be imbecile enough to pay money for them-and that, of all the ironic coincidences, it would be you who bought them! One of the few people in the entire world who knew what she had and was low enough to capitalize on it."

It was a pity, Karen thought, that Shreve couldn't appreciate the crowning irony-that without her own efforts to retrieve the damning evidence, Karen would never have known it existed. She had been slow enough at that. Perhaps fatally slow.

There were still many things she didn't understand, but isolated events and statements to which she had paid no attention now made a horrible sense. The scattered clothing that had reminded Mark and Tony of a famous haunting had been, quite simply, an intruder's search for one particular garment. Every statement she had made to Shreve had been misinterpreted; and as she remembered what had been said, she realized that a listener expecting veiled threats and demands could have found them. And Rob… Had he known the truth before Shreve enlisted his aid in order to enter the shop, in a final desperate search for the dress she had failed to find at the house? Rob had researched the case and included it in his book. Perhaps he had suspected but had not been sure until Shreve gave herself away, somehow, on the night of the break-in. No wonder he had packed his bags and planned never to return to his poorly paid job and his cheap apartment; he had counted on extracting money from Shreve in return for his silence. His miscalculation had been fatal-literally. Shreve wasn't the type to submit to blackmail.

"We'd better get moving," Shreve said briskly. She stood up and went to a nearby cabinet, from which she took a decanter and a single glass. A little of the liquid slopped over as she poured, left-handed; with an exasperated, housewifely click of the tongue she carefully mopped up the spill with a handful of tissues. Then she offered Karen the glass. "Here. Drink it."