Afraid.
Afraid of me? Karen thought incredulously. The way she flinched when I touched her…Oh, but that was too absurd. Guilt as well as fear could produce such a reaction; if Tony was right, Julie had good reason to feel guilty about what she had done, and to regret her involvement in that grubby little scheme.
But suppose she was involved in some of Rob's other schemes? He probably had plenty of irons in the fire; he certainly had other women. The problem with tracking down Rob's killer was not a lack of motive, but an overabundance of them. Jealous husbands-and wives?-jealous lovers and ex-lovers. And blackmail? Tony hadn't mentioned that among Rob's "misdemeanors," but it fit Rob's personality. Victims of blackmail seldom go to the police. If pressed, they may take direct action to keep the secret hidden.
What if Rob's death had been the result, not of a story in his book but of a story that was not in it? Omitted, at the urgent request of one of the participants, after a sizable payment? Suppose Rob had been talking in his bright, chatty way about writing a sequel. And suppose, as well, that Rob had dropped hints to Julie, but had not mentioned names. He had been a hopeless gossip, but he would have known better than to involve her directly in something both criminal and dangerous. If Julie suspected the truth but didn't know the details, it would explain her odd behavior, including her repeated questions about Ruth's house. There was nothing in the book about Ruth's house, unless one of the stories that named no names and gave no precise address referred to some old, half-forgotten and undocumented tragedy. It didn't really matter. Rob's hints had been designed to alarm and frighten her, they need not have any basis in fact.
A story that wasn't in the book… That theory would explain why Julie had decided to get out of town for a while. She had not told Karen where she was going or given her an address; only a phone number.
Karen felt certain of one thing: Julie might not know who had killed Rob, but she knew more than she was saying.
KAREN hastened home to tell Cheryl about her new theory. Cheryl listened politely, but she was not inclined to take the matter seriously; she had a happy facility of dismissing problems that weren't imminent and concentrating on things she could do something about.
"Even if you're right, where does it get you?" she demanded. "It's hard enough to pick one answer out of a list of possibles, but you're trying to find one that isn't even on the list."
"True," Karen said gloomily. "There must be enough scandals in Washington to fill an encyclopedia."
"I wonder if that's what Mark was mumbling about," Cheryl said casually. "Seems to me he did say something about that book. It would be funny if both of you came up with the same idea. You know what they say about great minds-"
"Mark called?"
"He was here, not long after you left."
"I thought he was going away."
"He is. He stopped on his way to the airport. He had some new idea," Cheryl said, with a tolerant, sisterly smile.
"Did he say what it was?"
"To be honest, I didn't ask. Mark is always coming up with wild theories. I tell him he ought to write thrillers. Margaret Truman does it, and Senator Hart, so why not Congressman Brinckley? He insisted on going through all the clothes again."
"Still looking for the diamonds?"
"Who knows? He asked me if we had anything from the late sixties or early seventies."
"There are a few things of Ruth's," Karen said curiously.
"I know, I showed them to him, but he just swore and said he was going to miss his plane-as if I was the one who was holding him up. He's speaking at some sort of fund-raiser and he didn't dare be late."
"Tonight?"
"I suppose so, otherwise he wouldn't have been worried about catching the plane."
"I only wondered because he said he would be out of town for a few days."
"I don't know what he's doing the rest of the time. Some kind of political business, I guess."
Her tone of utter indifference to the politics of the nation as exemplified in the person of her brother made Karen smile. She didn't pursue the subject. It was none of her business what Mark did in his spare time. But she couldn't help wondering whether he was off on a quest, following up the new theory that had brought him to the house that day. It would be nice to think he cared enough to spend so much time and effort.
"So what are we doing tomorrow?" she asked, going to the refrigerator for more ice.
Cheryl pushed her papers aside and frowned thoughtfully. There was a pencil behind her ear and a pen in her hand and a smear of ink on her cheek, but she didn't look like a businesswoman. She looked like Shirley Temple, dimples and all. Karen decided not to mention the resemblance. She had a feeling Cheryl wouldn't appreciate the compliment.
"No luck with the yard sales," Cheryl said. "But I found a store in Springfield that has possibilities. I told the realtor I'd bring you to look at it."
"Okay. What's on the schedule tonight?"
Cheryl's eyes sparkled. "I was hoping we could look at the dresses we got from the cleaner. We didn't have a chance before."
Karen shook her head with a rueful smile. "You poor woman. Is that your idea of an exciting evening? We ought to treat ourselves to something special, after that less-than-thrilling Saturday night."
Cheryl's eyes went back to the papers and clippings that heaped the table. "I guess I've forgotten what Saturday night means to most people. After little Joe was born we didn't go out much. It cost so much-baby-sitters and tickets and gas-even a night at the movies ran fifteen, twenty bucks if we went for a hamburger afterward. Usually I'd pop popcorn and Joe would get a six-pack and we'd sit and watch TV, and talk…"
"It sounds nice," Karen said sympathetically. She was touched, but the look on Cheryl's face-the remote, smiling glow of remembered love-also roused a degree of irritated impatience. You're just jealous, she thought; jealous because you've never had the chance, or the right, to feel that way about someone.
"Anyhow." Cheryl's voice was once more brisk and matter-of-fact. "I don't want to keep you from doing something. Do you want to go out? I'll go anywhere you want."
"I was not about to suggest a singles bar," Karen said; there had been a faint but unmistakable note of martyrdom in Cheryl's voice. "It's not my kind of scene either."
"We could go out to dinner."
When faced with a decision, Karen found she couldn't think of anything she wanted to do. "No, that's silly. It's too expensive. We'll be good little businesspersons and work tonight. Let's do something really wild and exciting and have supper on the terrace. It's a lovely evening."
They carried their tuna salad and iced tea outside- and their papers and ledgers as well. The soft, clear air affected even Cheryl's dedication to duty; leaning back, she put her feet on the chair opposite and said lazily, "This was a good idea. The garden is so pretty."
A breeze ruffled the leaves, and the dappled patterns of sunlight on the lawn below the trees shifted like flowing water. A robin hopping across the grass stopped and cocked a bright eye in their direction. Alexander, lying across Karen's feet, didn't even lift his head, and the robin proceeded to attend to his supper. Plunging his beak into the ground, he came up with a fat grub and flew off.
"We may as well enjoy the weather while it lasts," Cheryl went on. "The Gulf Stream is doing something funny-"
"Don't you mean the jet stream?"
"Whatever. Anyhow, days like this are rare, and we've got six more weeks of misery before fall."
"It's funny," Karen said musingly. "I hate this damned sticky heat, but when I look back on the years I lived in Georgetown I don't even remember it. Only the lavishness of spring-all the flowers bursting out at once and smelling like heaven-and crisp days in fall, and winter days inside around the fire."