They shared a half carafe of wine in the low-ceilinged, candlelit dining room and Karen found herself talking about things she hadn't even told Ruth. Cheryl did not need wine to loosen her tongue; she talked to everybody, including the waitress, in a way that would have left Jack in a state of horrified disgust. The conversation bore useful fruit; the waitress knew of a place in Woodsboro that might be for rent, all fixed up; it had been a craft shop.

She also knew Mrs. Grossmuller. "Poor old soul, she's a little strange. Not crazy nor nothing, she can take care of herself all right. Just kind of-well-strange. They say she's got millions stashed away, but the way she acts you'd think she was dirt poor. Want your coffee now or later?"

"I like places like this," Cheryl announced. "People are so friendly. Not like Washington."

She admitted she missed her friends back home. Some of the people she had met through Mark were nice enough, but they weren't interested in the things she cared about. Karen sympathized; but when she hinted that Mark should not have forced such an incompatible role on his sister, Cheryl was quick to defend him.

"He doesn't make me do anything I don't want to do. I never go to those really formal parties with him; I don't know the right way to act, and I'd just embarrass him. But I owe him so much, and I like to do everything I can to help him."

"I'm surprised you don't want to rush back tonight to get his dinner," Karen said. She regretted her sarcastic tone as soon as she spoke, but Cheryl appeared not to notice it.

"Listen, I'm in no hurry to get back, believe me. Tonight is the Murder Club, and those guys-"

"The what?"

Cheryl giggled. "That's what I call it. It's just Mark and a buddy of his sitting around drinking beer and arguing. They argue about everything under the sun, actually, but Tony is a cop-a detective-and he's interested in crime."

"I suppose he would be," Karen agreed. "But isn't that rather a busman's holiday for him? I'd think he would get enough of crime at work."

"Yeah, you would, wouldn't you? But the cases they discuss are old ones-classic unsolved crimes, Tony calls them. One time I remember they spent the whole night arguing about some king of England who murdered his two little nephews. Only Mark said he didn't."

"Richard the Third?"

"I guess so. That's right, you know all about history." Cheryl looked at her respectfully. "It was all Greek to me. But you know, some of them are kind of interesting. I'm real squeamish-I never would go hunting with Joe, even though I am a damned good shot-but there's something about those old cases, they happened such a long time ago they don't seem real. More like a book."

"So Mark thinks Richard the Third was innocent," Karen said, amused.

"Oh, you know Mark, he'll argue about anything. He takes the opposite side just to get Tony mad. There was one time when they had a big fight about something that happened back in the 1850s-the Bell Witch, I think it was-"

"Witch? That's not crime, that's pure superstition."

"Sure, you know that and I know that-and Mark knows it too. He likes to get Tony riled up. Tony says everything has a rational explanation, and when Mark starts talking about poltergeists and haunted houses, he just about blows his stack."

"I think I'd like Tony."

"You'll have to meet him. He's a nice guy."

"But not when the Murder Club is in session. I can't imagine how anyone could find that sort of thing entertaining."

"Really? I couldn't help noticing that book on your bedside table…"

At first Karen couldn't imagine what Cheryl was talking about. "Oh, the Georgetown legends book," she exclaimed. "Julie foisted that off on me the other day; either she hoped it would give me nightmares, or she expected the story about Mrs. MacDougal would upset me."

"Swell friend," Cheryl said. "Don't tell me Mrs. MacDougal has a ghost. But I guess if there was such a thing, it would hang out in a house like hers."

"It wasn't a ghost story, it was an old scandal," Karen said distastefully. "Fifty years old. According to the book, some idiot shot himself in Mrs. Mac's billiard room -killed himself for love of her."

Cheryl grinned and quickly sobered. "I'm sorry! But it sounds so silly when you put it that way."

"It sounds pretty silly any way you put it," Karen agreed. "But you're right about the deadening effect of time; it's impossible to get emotionally involved in something that happened so long ago."

"You wouldn't say that if you could hear Tony and Mark arguing about that King Richard," Cheryl said darkly.

The storm had passed by the time they left the restaurant. There was little traffic on the quiet country road, and they drove in companionable silence for a while as stars blossomed in the darkening west. Then Cheryl, who had been stroking the soft silk of the old wedding dress, said dreamily, "I know you must get sick of hearing me say it, but I really do admire you, Karen."

"I'll be older than Mrs. Mac before I get tired of hearing that. But if you're referring to my business plans, such as they are, I haven't done anything worthy of admiration; it was pure good luck and the good will of friends that got me started."

"But it's such a fascinating business. The old dresses and underwear-excuse me, lingerie-it's as if they were alive, you know? They have histories just the way people do."

"To me they're just merchandise," Karen said, touching the brake as a pair of bright circles reflected her headlights. The rabbit prudently withdrew into the brush at the side of the road.

"Watch out for-oh, good, you saw him. You can't mean that; you have lots of imagination. Like this wedding dress. Can't you picture that poor girl, barely seventeen, standing there in front of the minister-cold as ice, because she was marrying a man she feared and hated…"

"What a romantic you are," Karen said amiably. "Just because the lucky lady didn't perspire-"

"She hated him," Cheryl insisted. "I know she did."

Karen was silent. Cheryl nudged her. "You're thinking about something. I can practically hear you thinking. What?"

"I was remembering something that happened last week," Karen admitted. "A girl came in and wanted to try on the flapper dress I had in the window. Light-pink chiffon with sequins and crystal beads. It fit her well-she was one of those skinny little things, practically anorexic- but she barely had it over her head before she began trying to tear it off. I could have killed her; you can't be rough with clothes like that, they're too old and fragile. I said something rude-well, not really screaming rude, cold and nasty. She stared at me with big, pale-blue eyes, just like a dead fish, and said, 'Can't you feel the vibes? Something awful happened to the woman who wore that dress! I wouldn't have it if you gave it to me.'"

"Geez," said Cheryl, impressed.

"I thought she was just being dramatic. And," Karen added firmly, "I still think so."

"Oh, right. I wasn't trying to suggest there was anything spooky about it. Like Tony says, everything has a rational explanation. The way I feel about this dress comes from meeting Mrs. Grossmuller and hearing her talk about-about her husband. But the clothes themselves can give you clues about the people they belonged to, can't they? Suppose the seams are all pulled and stretched; you figure the woman was either too poor to buy a new dress after she gained weight or too vain to admit she needed a bigger size."

"Clothes are historical artifacts, like pottery and tools," Karen agreed. "I suppose they have an additional mystique because they actually touched and were shaped by the people who wore them. A historian can learn a great deal about a culture from costume-not only the bare facts of fashion, but the social and political attitudes of the period. The clothing women wore in the late nineteenth century directly reflects their status; tight corsets and heavy, cumbersome fabrics and long skirts prevented the wearers from engaging in any useful activity whatever."