They found a number of messages waiting for them. Peggy thumbed through them as they rode up in the elevator. "Aren't we popular? Here's one from Cameron; we needn't return his call, we've already heard what he thinks of us. At least he hasn't canceled our permit to excavate . . . Lisa! I'll call her first; she may have something for us ... William Something or other—I can't read the writing. Is that the fire chief? Better call him, it's probably an official demand . . . Bill Meyer . . . Bobby Mansfield . . . The pimply brother-in-law. What do you suppose he wants?"
"He's probably wondering if I'm going to sue the old lady," Karen grumbled. "And hoping to charm me out of it. The hell with him, I don't want to talk to him."
"How about Bill?" Peggy unlocked the door.
"I don't want to talk to him either."
"He might buy us dinner."
"I don't want—"
"Oh, all right. I'll talk to him. You have no objection to his joining us tomorrow, I hope."
It wasn't a question, so Karen didn't answer it. She unpacked her purchases and employed her brand-new toothbrush while Peggy spoke on the telephone. When she came out of the bathroom Peggy reported, "Bill is deeply hurt but resigned. He'll meet us tomorrow at Amberley. Lisa's on her way over here. I figured we might as well make her come to us if she's as eager as she sounds. She must have something good. You've got time to call Bill the Chief before we meet her in the bar."
She sat on the bed listening while Karen talked. "What was that all about?" she demanded, as Karen slammed the phone into the cradle. "I can see you're furious, but I didn't get enough out of your side of the conversation to make sense of it. Did I hear something about smoking? He didn't imply—"
"He didn't. Mrs. Fowler did." Karen bit off the words. "She claimed I must have been smoking in bed. There's no other way the fire could have started, she says."
"Well, she would say that, wouldn't she? A good offense is the best defense. How about the papers and paint cans in the garage?"
"She says Bobby Boy cleared the garage out that day. He supports her. It's my word against theirs, and I can't even swear the garage wasn't empty when we got there that night. I didn't look."
"Well, well. Now we know why Bobby Boy called, don't we? They can't prove negligence on your part since there was none, so he's hoping to scare you into a tidy little out-of-court settlement."
"It won't work."
"Of course not. Have the cops got any idea how the fire did start?"
Karen's furious scowl turned to a thoughtful frown. "I got the distinct impression that there is something suspicious about it. I mean, wouldn't the chief have told me if it was something like spontaneous combustion or faulty wiring?"
"Maybe not. Officials of all varieties are tight-lipped by nature." Peggy glanced at her watch. "We'd better go down and meet Lisa the Greek."
"The who?"
"You know about Greeks bearing gifts." Peggy picked up her purse and gestured toward the door.
Lisa was waiting for them. She had already ordered a drink—not a ladylike pastel concoction or a glass of white wine, but a stiff shot of Bourbon. Before getting down to business she wanted to know all about the fire. There was something almost ghoulish about her repeated questions and expressions of concern. Finally Peggy put an end to them.
"So how is Mrs. Fowler?"
"They sent her home this afternoon. She's still pretty upset, as you can imagine. Bobby is staying with her till she gets over the shock."
"Shock, hell." Peggy didn't bother being tactful. "She ought to be apologizing to Karen and thanking her. Her negligence was responsible for the fire, and if the house had caught she'd have been burned in her bed. She was dead drunk."
Lisa choked. "That's a terrible accusation to make."
"It's the truth," Peggy said. "I'm tired of gossip and innuendo and veiled threats. You tell the old bitch we know what she's trying to do, and she isn't going to get away with it. If she wants to start trouble she'll get more than she's bargained for."
"I don't—"
"Of course you don't. Let's drop the subject. What have you got?"
Wide-eyed and silent, Lisa produced her offering. It was a Bible—a huge folio four inches thick, with brass clasps and engravings from Durer. Lips set in a sneer, Peggy thumbed through the pages at the front. "No good," she said curtly.
"What? You said you wanted—"
"This edition was printed in 1890. We've already got this information, it's in the genealogy."
She laid the book on the table and held it open. The page was headed "Births" and framed by an elaborate border of vines and flowers and fat, doughy-faced cherubs. The first name was that of Frederick Cartright, born February 18, 1798. Karen recognized the name; it had been that generation, the third, that Peggy had investigated in such detail. Peggy closed the Bible and pushed it toward Lisa.
"You don't want it?" Lisa's face had fallen.
Peggy shrugged. "I'll give you twenty bucks for it. As a gesture of goodwill."
After Lisa had gone—with the twenty-dollar bill—Peggy paid the check and hoisted the Bible into her arms. "That was a bust. I guess I should have expected it."
Karen had remained silent, transfixed by mingled horror and admiration. Following Peggy into the elevator she exclaimed, "You were absolutely vicious. What happened to your policy of winning people over by tact and kindness?"
"I'm getting mad," Peggy said briefly.
"So I noticed. What are you going to do with that Bible? You're right, it's of no use to us."
Peggy tossed the book irreverently on the bed. "I'll give it back to Cameron. Lisa probably stole it from his mother's house, along with the other cartons. Now that you've seen the situation there, you can see how
