Houses of Stone by KATHY (booksvooks .TXT) 📕

light. Peggy wiped the perspiration off her face with the back of her hand. "Haven't you got air-conditioning?"

"There's no point in turning it on. We're almost there."

Peggy grunted critically but did not pursue the point. "Is that the main library?"

"The one and only. And that," Karen said, "is the librarian."

The light changed and traffic began to move, but not before Tanya had seen them. She bared all her teeth in a broad grin and raised a clenched fist. Karen waved.

"One supporter," Peggy said. "Do you know her?"

"Slightly. I checked out the library first thing. There's nothing there."

"You sure you don't want to go to my place?" Peggy inquired delicately.

"No. I want to change out of this ladylike ensemble. And I'm not going to sneak in after dark."

Mrs. Fowler was sitting on the porch. She held a piece of embroidery, but when they caught sight of her, her eyes were fixed on the street. Karen had slowed to make the turn into the driveway; moved by an irresistible impulse, she put her arm out the window and waved vigorously. She slowed even more, waiting for a response, but there was none; Mrs. Fowler sat like a statue and glared like Medusa.

"That is not a happy person," said Peggy, chuckling. "But I guess she doesn't intend to confront you directly. Maybe she's left you one of her little notes."

"Or sent an emissary?" Someone was sitting on the bottom step, his head bent over a book. Hearing the car he looked up and rose to his feet. Karen went on, "He arranged for me to rent the place; if she wants me out, she'd likely get him to do the dirty work."

Cameron didn't look like the bearer of bad news. After greeting Karen he hurried to open the car door for Peggy, who had remained in her seat looking particularly demure. "I hope you haven't been waiting long," she murmured, accepting the hand he offered and stepping more or less gracefully out of the car.

"Only a few minutes. I was just about to leave a note." He flourished the object he had been reading—not a book, a thick sheaf of papers. "I thought you might like to see the auction catalog. I just got a copy myself."

"And you brought it straight to us? How sweet!"

"I do appreciate it," Karen said. Cameron seemed to be enjoying the byplay, but Peggy was inclined to overdo her performance. "Come in, if you have time."

He accepted readily. As she preceded the other two up the stairs, Karen wondered if it was the presence of a chaperone that had made him agree to an invitation he had been reluctant to accept before. Peggy would love that idea. She'd probably go all out for the role of duenna, nodding and smiling in a rocking chair, with a wad of knitting on her lap.

Propped against the door was a large white box. For one insane moment Karen thought Mrs. Fowler had been there to leave, not a note, but a bomb or some less theatrical demonstration of disapproval. Peggy identified it at once. "Someone's sent you flowers," she exclaimed, lifting the top to display a bouquet of tulips, daffodils and ferns nestled in green tissue paper.

"Not I," Cameron said, frowning. "I didn't even come up the stairs."

Leaving Peggy to carry the flowers, Karen got her key out and opened the door. She had a strong suspicion as to the identity of the sender, so she let Peggy lift the container out of the box and search for a card. "Well, well," said Peggy. "Guess who."

"Bill Meyer, I suppose."

"Right on the mark. He says, 'With heartfelt admiration and deep respect.' "

"I take it," said Cameron, "that you and Dr. Meyer are no longer at odds?"

Wooden and stiff as a cigar-store Indian, he stood in the doorway.

"We are certainly not collaborating," Karen said. "I don't know what he hopes to gain by ... Oh, never mind. Come in, Cameron, and sit down. Please."

"How about a drink?" Peggy asked. "All we've got to offer is Scotch, I'm afraid; Karen's no drinker. It's one of the few flaws in her character. Oh, come on, you wouldn't let a lady drink alone, would you?"

Cameron lowered himself cautiously into a chair and Karen excused herself. When she returned, cleaner and cooler in loose shirt and slacks, the others were looking over the auction list. She was in time to hear Peggy exclaim in tones of deep disgust, "Silver dollars, Indian-head pennies, stamp collection, Meissen figurines . . . Was there anything he didn't collect?"

"Not if it was cheap. You should have seen the place; every room was crammed with junk. There were stacks of old magazines and newspapers, from the present time all the way back to the twenties. Most worthless, unfortunately, because they are in such poor condition." Absently Cameron rubbed a patch of red, roughened skin on his cheek. It looked like poison ivy. "On the other hand, he kept everything he'd inherited, which included some good things. The Meissen was his mother's, and there's a lot of old silver."

"Some wheat among the chaff," Peggy muttered, scanning the list.

"A lot more chaff than wheat. That's why I handed the whole mess over to Jack Wickett. He's reputed to be honest, and it required more expertise than I possess to weed out the junk. I was surprised he kept so much of it, but he tells me some people collect anything."

"Correct. Barbed wire, soft-drink bottles, license plates . . . Yep, here they are on the list, along with old clothes, linens, paintings, books." Peggy turned over the last sheet. "I want to have a look at this stuff, Cameron. At my leisure, before the public viewing."

"I could arrange that, I guess. Jack is giving other people the same privilege."

"Including Bill Meyer?" Karen asked.

"If he requests it, there's no reason why I should refuse, is there? It's to my advantage to have you two bidding against each other."

So that was why he had appeared annoyed