"Well?" Karen demanded.
"Shhh." Peggy took her arm and pulled her away from the entrance to La Vieille France, Wilmington's most elegant and expensive restaurant. The food was supposed to be excellent, but Karen couldn't have testified on its behalf. She couldn't even remember what she had ordered, much less what it had tasted like. Glancing over her shoulder at the shadowy form retreating down the darkened street, she said irritably, "He can't hear us. What do you think?"
"He's not bad." Peggy unlocked her car door and shoved Karen inside. "Except that his eyes are a little too close together."
"For God's sake, Peggy!"
"Wait till we get to my place." Peggy slammed the car into gear and pulled away from the curb with a screech of tires. "We need to talk about this. The guy is up to something."
"If you had met me before dinner—"
"I couldn't. I had that meeting. If you had given me advance notice—"
"He didn't give me any."
"Right. I wonder if that was deliberate." Peggy pondered the question. "He wasn't too crazy about me being there."
"That's nonsense. You were the one he wanted to meet. You and your checkbook."
Peggy sighed. "They're always after my money. Even Simon. Someday I'll meet a man who loves me for myself."
Karen couldn't help laughing. "You don't come across as a susceptible, swooning millionaire, Peggy. That suit—"
"What's wrong with it? Years more wear in this suit." Peggy pulled into the curb in front of her house.
The house would have made a better impression than its owner. It was one of the old Victorians, lovingly restored. The glow of a nearby streetlight showed neatly trimmed boxwood behind an ornate wrought-iron fence and gate. The lawn was as smooth as a green carpet; flower beds were mulched and weedless. Peggy must employ a gardener, she couldn't keep the place in such impeccable condition by herself, and the house, with its ornate gingerbread trim and spreading porches, must cost its owner a fortune in yearly maintenance. Karen wondered why she hadn't realized before that Peggy had money. Well, the answer was obvious. It hadn't mattered to her before.
The interior, furnished with fine antiques, was as spotless as the exterior. Peggy must also employ a cleaning team. She had no live-in servants. It was an interesting contrast—Peggy's careless personal appearance and her impeccable house.
Peggy tossed her coat onto a chair. "Want a drink?"
Standing in the open doorway, Karen shook her head. "I really can't stay, Peggy. You know how those cats of yours affect me. My nose is already starting to itch."
"Oh, come on. I'll keep them away from you."
"You said that the last time. It's impossible; cats always head straight for me. Anyhow, it's the dander that sets off my allergy, and your house is full of it. Damn, there they come—"
Peggy scooped up the half-grown tabby that had plunged down the stairs and was indeed making a beeline for Karen. "Oh, all right, we'll sit on the porch." She tossed the tabby onto the stairs, fended off another admirer with a well-placed foot, and followed Karen out the door.
The night air was cool but not uncomfortably so. They settled into a pair of wicker chairs, and Peggy said, "Well?"
"I asked you first."
"So you did. Okay. The simplest and most obvious explanation for his behavior is that he wants to sell you something."
"What? He's already sold the manuscript."
"And regretting it. Not that he had much choice; as he candidly admitted, he had no idea that mess of papers was worth money. But behind his rueful, charming admission of fallibility, I sensed a certain smugness. He's got something else he wants to sell. Family documents? Maybe even the house itself. And now he knows it's worth money, at least to you. I'll bet used-car dealers love you."
"I'm not that gullible," Karen protested.
"Your appearance is against you," Peggy said, studying her critically. "Leaving off the makeup and wearing tailored suits doesn't help. Instead of an older, professional woman, you look like a kid trying to look like an older professional woman."
Karen scowled. "For your information, I handle used-car dealers just fine. I knew what he was doing. But when I started thinking about what he might have, I ... so, okay, I lost it." She leaned forward, her eyes shining. "More poems. A diary. Letters. Even the missing pages of the manuscript!"
"The house has been cleared out," Peggy reminded her. "Simon already told you that."
"Yes, but the sale hasn't been held yet. They're waiting till May—the height of the auction season."
Peggy shook her head. "That sounds fishy to me."
"You're just determined to throw cold water on everything," Karen said sulkily.
"Somebody has to. You're flying high, honey. If you fall, the crash is going to hurt like hell. You have no proof that Ismene ever lived in that house. The manuscript could have been acquired at a sale."
"There's only one way to find out."
"That's not true. There are a lot of ways. But," Peggy admitted, "we'll have a look at the place. Weekend after this, maybe. Or the following week."
Smiling, and outwardly calm, Karen nodded agreeably. It took all her willpower to keep that fixed smile in place, and to conquer the anger that knotted her stomach. She was sick and tired of being ordered around, treated like a child. Everybody did it. Simon, Peggy, her parents, her friends, her ex-husband.
Especially her ex-husband. Her decision to leave Norman had stunned her
