Barbara Michaels - Shattered Silk

The kitchen was one of the few places Shreve had not searched already. The kitchen possessed that most attractive of objects, a door. But there was no hiding place there that Shreve couldn't examine in a few moments.

From between her fingers Karen saw Shreve's weight shift, saw her raise her foot. The inspiration she had been searching for finally came. "I buried it. In the garden."

The look on Shreve's face consoled her a little- but only a little-for the kick. She mumbled, "It's in a cookie tin. Wrapped in plastic, sealed with tape…"

"Goddamn! Where in the garden?"

"Between the Marchioness of Lorne and Frau Karl Druschki. They are roses," Karen added.

Shreve's face twisted. Rain had reduced her sleek coiffure to a straggling ruin and washed off most of her makeup. Her linen dress was rumpled and damp, not only with rain but with perspiration. Without its mask her skin looked dry and mottled; her nose was longer than Karen had realized, and her lips were thin and colorless.

"At least the ground will be soft," she said. "Easier for you to dig. Let's go."

Karen took her time about getting to her feet. Was Shreve really going to allow her to get hold of a shovel? It would be Shreve's first mistake and with any luck it would be her last. Once outside in the rain, I'll take my chances with the gun, Karen thought. Her aim won't be too good if I'm swiping at her with a shovel.

Pretending a greater weakness than she felt, she stumbled along the hall, with Shreve close behind. The kitchen door was ajar. As Karen reached out to push it open, a light within suddenly went on.

Shielding her eyes, Karen heard Shreve's breath catch in a furious hiss. For a brief, exultant moment, hope leaped like a flame. Then she recognized the figure that stood between her and the back door; and the last missing pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

For once the tables were turned; Miriam was as composed and well-groomed as her friend was disheveled. There wasn't a spot on her dress. She must have arrived before the rain began. The only details that marred her appearance were her torn stocking and the carving knife in her hand.

"My dog," Karen cried. "What have you done to Alexander?"

Miriam's pale-blue eyes touched her indifferently and moved on. "I'm surprised at you, Shreve," she said in her gentle voice. "Were you really going to let her go outside? That was a trick, you know. She didn't bury it."

Shreve did not answer. Karen could almost feel the other woman's fear, like a heavy cloud whose edges touched her too.

"Don't stand there, come in," Miriam said. She gestured graciously toward a chair; the knife turned the movement into a grotesque travesty of courtesy.

Shreve nudged Karen. She had to nudge again, harder, before Karen moved. She had never seen anything more terrifying than the smiling, immaculate figure of her old classmate.

Shreve cleared her throat and made an attempt to reassert her authority. "Miriam, I told you not to come in the house. You were supposed to wait for me and drive me home."

"But that would have been silly. I wanted to search the house one more time. Now I'm sure. It isn't here. She must have given it to someone to keep for her. We'll have to make her tell us where it is."

"She will, Miriam. She will. Let me-"

"She's already told you a lot of lies, Shreve. You don't know how to question people. The only way you can be sure they aren't lying is to hurt them. That's how I was sure Rob was telling the truth when he said he didn't know about my dress."

Karen took a quick, involuntary step back. Shreve didn't look at her. She said urgently, "Miriam, put the knife down, okay? You'd better leave this to me. You know you get… you get too excited sometimes-"

"Please don't talk to me that way, Shreve," Miriam murmured. "I don't like it when you talk to me that way. As if I were irresponsible or something."

"Give me the knife, Miriam." Shreve stepped forward.

The blade made one brilliant, flashing move. Shreve's hands went to her breast. They could not hold back the flood; it bubbled out, staining her gloves and spreading across the crumpled linen of her dress. The sound of her body striking the floor made an appalling noise; it seemed to Karen as if the entire house vibrated with it.

"She shouldn't have done that," Miriam said. "She's so damned bossy."

"We've got to call a doctor. The telephone-"

"I'm afraid not." Miriam's voice was politely regretful. "I cut the wires, you see. Why don't you just give me the dress, Karen? Then I'll go, and you can do what you want about Shreve. I don't know why you're so worried about her, she always was nasty to you."

"But, Miriam…" Karen's voice failed. Was Miriam really so far removed from reality that she failed to see the old dress no longer mattered? Whether that was the case or whether Miriam intended to kill her too and hope she would be blamed for Shreve's death didn't really matter. The result for her would be the same, because she couldn't give Miriam the dress. Shreve was still alive-the ghastly stain was still spreading-but she would bleed to death if she didn't get help soon.

There were three doors in the room-one into the dining room, one into the hall, and the back door, the one closest to Karen. The way to it was barred, not only by Miriam, but-Karen realized with a jarring shock-by the dead-bolt lock. She would need a key to open it, and the same thing was true of all the ground-floor windows. She'd have to break the windows to get out, not only the panes of glass, but the connecting wooden strips. It looked easy in the movies, when the hero flung himself at a window and it exploded in fragments that left only a neat little cut on his cheek, but she had a feeling it wouldn't work so well in real life.

There was only one viable means of escape, then- the front door. She was almost certain Shreve had locked it from the inside, but the key would still be in the lock. She started edging toward the dining room door.

Shreve's purse had fallen too, spilling a clutter of objects across the floor. Miriam pushed them around with her foot. "She really shouldn't have done that," Miriam repeated, in a querulous, complaining voice. "She had it coming. So did he. He did it for years, you know. It started right after Mother married him. I was thirteen. I told her, but she didn't believe me. She must have known, though. She wouldn't stop him because she cared more about what people thought than she cared about me."

"Oh, God," Karen said involuntarily. "That was why…"

"I thought after I got out of high school I could go away to college and get free of him," Miriam said conversationally. "But he wouldn't let me. He said it was better for me to live at home and go to Georgetown. So I had to do it. And then, when she came in and saw what happened, I had to do it to her too, or she would have told someone it was me."

The sensation that froze Karen's limbs and came dangerously close to making her forget her own peril was not fear. It was a paralyzing blend of horrified pity and of mindless terror-terror of the irrational and the unknown. Miriam was beyond reason or appeal. Part of her mind was back in the past, reliving her torment and the double murder it had caused. Even her voice changed.

"Of course after I did it I was all splashed with blood. I knew the dress was the main thing. I had to get rid of it. Then I remembered Shreve was next door, visiting her grandmother. We were all going out someplace afterward, to celebrate. To celebrate…" A sudden, obscene giggle blurred her voice. Then she went on, "Shreve stopped to see the old lady because she'd told her she had a graduation present for her. We thought it would be a check, but it was only some tacky little cameo pin. Shreve had a change of clothes with her because we were going to meet her folks at the restaurant and we wanted to get out of those stupid pink dresses right away. So mean of them, making everybody wear the same dress. But it turned out to be lucky for me, so I guess I shouldn't complain.