Houses of Stone by KATHY (booksvooks .TXT) 📕

she showered and changed into clean clothes. Several methods occurred to her, but none of the ones she had read about would provide a clue to the intruder's identity. Offhand she couldn't think of an excuse for asking to take the suspects' fingerprints.

With an irritated shrug she dismissed the matter. There had been no harm done, and as long as she kept the manuscript with her at all times she didn't risk losing anything she valued. Most likely the snoop had been Mrs. Fowler.

The distraction had come as a welcome relief; it prevented her from thinking about the clearing in the woods, so open and empty and so filled with voices.

Could there be a simple physical cause for the feeling of cold—something as harmless as low blood pressure, or a vitamin deficiency? Her last physical had given her a clean bill of health, but people dropped dead every day from conditions that hadn't shown up in physical examinations.

A happy thought. She would have embraced that theory, though, had the feeling of cold been the only unusual phenomenon. Peggy had heard the scream too. It had scared hell out of her, and she wasn't a nervous woman.

So, find another rational explanation for that occurrence. An acoustical peculiarity of the hollow? A police or ambulance siren on the highway, thrown like the voice of a ventriloquist away from its source? There were places like that, she had read of them—the Whispering Gallery at St. Paul's, for one.

Peggy had apparently forgotten about Karen's nightmares. She had almost forgotten them herself; they had not occurred after she got hold of the manuscript. They were the easiest of all to explain away. Dreams of darkness, enclosure, burial alive. Frustration. A classic feminist nightmare.

Three different rationalizations for three different phenomena. Well, why not, Karen thought; They weren't connected in any other way.

When Peggy arrived she was carrying a brown paper bag. "Hope you like Chinese," she announced. "There aren't a lot of food options in this burg. The alternatives were hamburgers or hoagies."

"I take it we are not going out," Karen said.

Peggy looked surprised. "I thought you might be too tired."

"I'm not tired. It doesn't matter," she went on, before Peggy could reply. "We have a lot to discuss."

"Right. I made an agenda." She had put her clipboard in the bag with the cartons of food. Muttering, she reached for a paper towel and scrubbed at a greasy spot.

"Before you get started on it, I have some new business," Karen said. "Someone searched the apartment while I was gone."

Peggy trailed after her while she pointed out the evidence, which she had not disturbed. The badly made bed provoked Peggy's first comment. "I haven't made a bed in twenty years. You sure you don't suspect me?"

"I might, if you hadn't been with me all afternoon." Karen faced her. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"It's not what a cop would call conclusive."

"You're not a cop. You're supposed to be a friend."

Peggy exhaled deeply. "What do you want from me, tactful acquiescence or honest criticism? In my book friends can disagree and still be friends. In fact, honesty is the only possible basis for lasting friendship. Oh, I know I'm a bossy, opinionated, irritating old bitch; I should have asked you whether you wanted to go out to dinner, and what kind of takeout you preferred. So tell me when I step out of line, okay? Talk, don't sulk. And tell me when you think I'm wrong. I am wrong occasionally. Not often, but occasionally."

"You're wrong," Karen said. "Someone was here."

After a moment Peggy's scowl turned to a sheepish smile. "Right. I stepped out of line. Sorry."

"I was out of line too," Karen said. "I guess I'm a little scared. It's a nasty feeling, having your space invaded—the classic nightmare of beleaguered heroines, come to think about it. Having forced upon you the knowledge that you aren't safe even in your own home."

"It's any woman's nightmare," Peggy muttered. "Any person's, male or female, these days. I was a little scared too; why do you suppose I yelled at you? Okay, where's my clipboard? New business: burglar. Would-be burglar, rather; nothing is missing?"

"There's nothing a burglar would bother with, not even a TV. I don't have valuable jewelry and I don't leave cash lying around."

"I just mentioned that in order to cover all the bases," Peggy said. "It's unlikely that your ordinary sneak thief would bother with a place like this, in broad daylight and practically under your landlady's nose. I agree with you that she's the most likely suspect. I must meet the old dear."

"You can meet her tomorrow if you like." Karen gave her Mrs. Fowler's note. "Another piece of new business I forgot to mention."

"We'll accept, of course," Peggy said. "You wouldn't happen to have any pink notepaper, would you? Preferably something with little flowers on it. Don't bother answering," she added with a smile. "The question was rhetorical. I'd also like to meet Lisa Fairweather. You might offer to take her to lunch. There's nothing like food and drink, especially the latter, to inspire confidences."

"All right. What sort of confidences are you hoping to inspire?"

"Cameron mentioned 'boxes' of family papers, didn't he? Lisa only gave you one box."

"Damn, that's right. Do you think she's holding out on me?"

"Could be the plural was just a slip of the tongue. It's worth asking about, though."

"Certainly." She watched Peggy check off an item on her list. "I'm not criticizing you or being overly sensitive, but it seems to me you're going over the same ground I've already covered—and expecting me to trail along. There are so many other things we could be doing—"

"And will do. This is going to be a long, complicated process. What's the hurry?"

"Bill Meyer has already beaten us to the punch once. God knows what other clues he found; he bragged about knowing how to skim a text. And he's seen the genealogy."

"You think of it as a competition, do you?"

"It is."

"Maybe so. Relax, he