Houses of Stone by KATHY (booksvooks .TXT) 📕

understand; that the one dearest to her heart was a stranger to her thoughts.

Karen let out a sigh of pleasure. What a discovery—a hitherto unknown Early American woman writer who was also a feminist and an abolitionist!

She wouldn't have to plead for grants to enable her to work on the book; foundations would be lining up at her door, fighting to give her money.

In practical terms the passage gave her the terminus a quo she had hoped for. The book must have been written after 1780—after the Declaration of Independence, the decisive Battle of Yorktown, and/or the final peace treaty between Britain and her rebellious American colonies. That didn't tell her anything new; she had already concluded, on the basis of the literary style, that a date after 1800 was most likely. Still, the reference to the Declaration of Independence and the end of the Revolution were solid facts that would look good in her introduction.

Closing her notebook, she gathered the papers together, put them in the briefcase, and stowed it away under the bed. She felt foolish doing this, like a nervous old lady hiding the family silver before retiring, but what the hell, she thought defiantly. There was nobody watching her.

One more chore before she could go to bed. She had promised Joan and Sharon she'd call when she got settled. Joan would still be up, she was a night owl.

Not only was Joan still up, she had guests. They sounded very happy. Joan was feeling no pain either, but when Karen apologized for interrupting the party and tried to cut the conversation short, Joan would have none of it. "It's just the usual bunch of my drunken, boring friends," she shouted. "They're composing limericks. I hate limericks. Wait a minute, I'll take the phone into the other room . . . Okay, that's better. I'm glad you called, I wanted to warn you. Cropsey telephoned me yesterday. He's looking for you."

"I hope to God you didn't tell him where I am!"

"What kind of lousy rat fink do you take me for?"

"Thanks," Karen said sincerely. "Did he tell you why he's trying to find me?"

"Oh, sure. You know Joe. He's got this delusion that he can persuade or bully people into doing whatever he wants. He needs to talk to you about the manuscript you found. He is at a loss to understand why you did not confide in him. You have put him in an impossible position. People keep calling and asking him about it and it is humiliating to be forced to confess he knows nothing. He is deeply hurt. He is also pissed. He didn't say that, but I figured it out."

"It'll do him good."

"I couldn't agree more. How did he find out? I swear to God I never said anything."

"I believe you. Warn Sharon, though, will you? She's so damned conscientious she might fall for his whining."

"Fear not, fair maiden, your secret is safe with us. So tell me what you've been up to."

Karen obliged with a spirited description of her encounters with Mrs. Fowler and Lisa. "I've got the genealogy," she finished. "But Bill the Bastard is on the trail and on the spot. Fortunately he was his usual detestable self and managed to piss off both Lisa and Cameron."

"It sounds like fun," Joan said wistfully. "Plots and counterplots, mysteries and treasure hunts. Maybe I should join you. I could seduce the Bastard and distract him while you—"

"No, thanks. I don't need femmes fatales, I need help in ordinary boring research. Peggy is coming on Saturday. Without wishing to denigrate your talents I think she'll be more useful than you could be."

"Oh, yeah? Is the house haunted?"

The question was so unexpected, Karen couldn't think what to say. Joan went on, her voice quite serious, "You shouldn't ignore folklore and oral tradition. The old lady with a fixation on violets sounds like a hoot, but she and her buddies could tell you some good stuff. I wasn't kidding about the ghosts, either. So-called psychic investigators crow when they find out somebody really was murdered in a house whose occupants have seen bloody specters and heard horrible screams. They don't realize it works the other way around. A tragedy inspires legends and makes nervous, imaginative people see things."

Nervous, imaginative people. She had seen nothing. But there were other senses among the normal five. The blast of cold air, palpable as a plunge into an icy river, the voice calling from empty air ... "There aren't any ghosts," she said firmly. "Nor a tragedy."

"How do you know? Life is full of tragedies and in those far-off days ..." The murmur of voices in the background suddenly rose in pitch, and Joan said, "Oh, hell. The party's getting noisy. I'd better see what they're doing before the neighbors start calling the cops. What's your number?"

Before she got into bed Karen went through her evening routine. Going from window to window, she looked out into the darkness. Mrs. Fowler must be asleep; no light shone from her window. There was movement out there, though—branches swaying in the breeze, a shadowy shape gliding silently across the driveway. The shape was that of a cat; its eyes glowed eerily, reflecting some unknown source of light, before it vanished into the shrubbery.

All the same, Karen decided to take a sleeping pill.

The morning skies were as gloomy as Karen's mood. She hated taking sleeping pills; they took too long to wear off, leaving her grumpy and groggy. She was finishing her second cup of coffee and feeling slightly less inclined to slash her wrists when a faint sound got her onto her feet and into the living room. Someone at the door? The sound had not been a knock. Then she saw a white triangle next to the door. It moved toward her, growing larger, turning from a triangle into a rectangle.

Karen opened the door. Cameron Hayes got to his feet. "I was just leaving a note for you," he explained unnecessarily.

"So