Barbara Michaels - The Walker in Shadows

In the cold light of day she found it harder and harder to believe what had happened the previous night. Surely- surely!-there must be some sensible explanation. Mark was young and given to strange enthusiasms… but he was just plain nuts if he really believed this ghost theory. Kathy was also young, and so infatuated with Mark she would believe the sun set in the east if he told her it did.

Pat couldn't dismiss Josef's experience so easily. She tried, though; and as her eyes moved unseeingly over displays of medicine bottles, postcards, Victorian chamber sets, and other dubious treasures, she finally came up with a hypothesis-not a wholly satisfactory hypothesis, but one that was easier to accept than Mark's ghost. The Chinese vase was tall and top-heavy, tapering down from swelling sides to a relatively narrow base. If Josef, running to his daughter's aid, had tripped and started to fall, his outflung arm, or even the vibration of his footsteps, might have toppled the vase. In his overwrought state, he might fancy the object had moved of its own accord. The whole thing was self-hypnotism, autosuggestion… And that same convenient diagnosis would explain her own sensations as she stood in horrified suspense under Kathy's window.

Pat grimaced. The theory was unconvincing, even to her. It was hard for her to dismiss her sensations of loathing as sheer imagination.

There was another explanation. Pat let it emerge into her conscious mind, from the depths where it had been simmering, and looked at it dispassionately.

Josef Friedrichs had engineered the whole thing. He had, in fact, attacked his daughter on the first occasion, and had stage-managed a second "supernatural" attack in order to conceal his guilt.

"No," Pat said aloud. She shook her head violently.

"I'll make it nine hundred," said the dealer, who had been showing her a piecrust table, in the fond belief that her fixed stare indicated interest.

"What?" Pat started, and blushed as she realized she had been talking to herself. "Oh-no, thank you, I'm sorry."

She turned into the next aisle. Nancy was nowhere in sight, but Pat fancied she heard the familiar tones raised in hoarse triumph somewhere in the distance.

The next booth featured old books. One of the titles caught Pat's eye, and she stopped to examine the volume. It was a battered, cheaply bound cloth edition of a history of Maryland, and she turned to the chapters on the Civil War. She was familiar with some of the material. Jerry had talked about it. But the story proved unexpectedly interesting, in the light of Mark's comments, and she was deeply absorbed when the dealer's voice cut into her reading.

"Let you have it cheap, lady. A bargain. First edition, rare book…"

He was a sharp-faced man with graying brown hair and tobacco stains on his teeth. At least his tone had been courteous; Pat wouldn't have blamed him for pointing out that he was not running a library.

At five dollars the book wasn't really a bargain. It was certainly a first edition, but Pat suspected that was because it had not been popular enough to rate more than one printing. Nancy would have offered three dollars, and probably would have gotten the book for that price. Pat paid five.

"Do you have anything else on local history?" she asked.

The dealer shook his head.

"Not my field. Try Blake."

"Is he here?"

"Not him. He's got a shop in New Market. He's an independent old-er-cuss; won't do shows. But he's the man for Maryland history, if that's your bag."

Pat thanked him, and went to look for Nancy. She was suddenly anxious to get home. For one thing, it would be a good idea to find out whether or not she might expect overnight guests. She had planned to get Chinese food, or pizza, or something of that sort for herself and Mark. But if the Friedrichs were going to be there for supper…

Nancy was also ready to leave. Flushed with triumph, she clutched an armful of bargains even more hideous than her usual spoils-a battered oil lamp, its glass base chipped; a crocheted bedspread, spotted with ambiguous stains; a large china figure of a puppy and two repulsive kittens.

"That's the third bedspread you've bought in a month," Pat exclaimed.

"But this was a real buy. I bargained the woman down to thirty bucks. The stains will come out, with bleach."

Pat doubted that, but she didn't say so. When they were in the car, on their way home, Nancy stopped gloating over her buys and said accusingly, "Didn't you get anything?"

"Just a book." Pat displayed it, admitted that she had paid five dollars for it, and listened amiably while Nancy told her that she should have bargained over the price.

"I thought Jerry was the book addict," Nancy said. "Are you going in for that now?"

"Not really. It's just that Mark and I were talking about history the other day, and I decided I'd like to know more about my house. Jerry always meant to do some research."

"Mmm." Nancy swerved to avoid a child on a bicycle. Putting her head out the window, she yelled, "You're going to get killed if you don't stay off main roads, young man." Then she went on, "You ought to talk to Jay Ran-kin, Pat."

"Who is he?"

"You have become such a recluse it is unbelievable," Nancy said severely. "If I've told you once, I've told you a dozen times… He's the curator of the county historical association. Bachelor… Not your type, though. He's one of those weedy-looking kids with long hair and a beard." She chuckled as Pat made a wordless noise of negation and disapproval. "Anyhow, he's too young. He and a couple of other boys moved into the Jenkins house at the end of the street last year. The Jenkinses wanted to rent to a couple, but they were in a hurry to get the house off their hands, and at least these young fellows have jobs-I mean, if you could see some of the communes, or whatever they call them, that have moved into some of the houses in the county…,"

Pat smothered a grin as Nancy went on with her diatribe. Nancy 's own four sons were as amiably disorganized, as frankly disinterested in work as the types she was so vigorously castigating. At least the topic kept Nancy busy for the rest of the drive. She came to a crashing halt-her driving was like her personality, vigorous and decisive-in front of Pat's house and asked, "Do you want Jay's number?"

"I expect he's in the book." Pat opened the car door. "Thanks, Nancy, I enjoyed it."

"There's a show in Columbia next week."

"I'll see. If I'm not busy…"

Nancy did not reply. She was staring out the window at the house next door. Through a gap in the hedge Pat saw what had caught Nancy 's attention: a bright-golden head and a flutter of pink.

"She's out," Nancy announced, leaning out the window in order to see better. "Hey-somebody is with her. A boy, as I live and breathe. I wonder who."

Mark was wearing the same horrible jeans and dirty T-shirt all the local boys wore, but there was no hiding his gangling height. Nancy knew his appearance almost as well as she knew that of her own sons. She turned a bright, speculative gaze on Pat and let her lips curl in an expression her neighbor knew only too well.

"How long has that been going on?"

"I can't see that much is going on," Pat said. "It's late, Nancy. I'll call you-"

"Wait till I tell Ron," Nancy said. Ron was her oldest son, Mark's buddy and rival. "He's been trying to date that girl for weeks. Of course Mark has the advantage of proximity."

Pat finally made good her escape. Peeking through the curtains of the Gothic bay, she saw that Nancy 's car remained parked in front of her house for ten more minutes. But the young people had disappeared, and finally Nancy gave up and drove away, with the usual squeal of tires.

A few moments later Pat heard the kitchen door open and went to investigate. She found Mark foraging in the refrigerator. Kathy, slim as a pencil in her faded jeans and pink shirt, her fair hair windblown, leaned against the stove.