Karen threw the book across the room and turned on the television, only to encounter another cynical wisecracking PI being beaten up by members of a drug ring he was investigating.

She was relieved to be able to settle for the late news. Forest fires in the Western states, drought in the Northeast, tornadoes in the Midwest; breakdown of the arms talks, plane crashes, riots, and murders. But the giant pandas were making love. Thank God for the pandas.

Sleep was still out of the question, and since TV at its most engrossing occupies only half the mind of the beholder, she looked around for something else to do.

There was more than enough to do. Jack's caustic comments about her lack of organization had not been entirely unjustified. She hated keeping records, making lists, balancing accounts. But accurate records were essential for the business she hoped to start. At Mrs. Mac's suggestion (i.e., order) she had bought a looseleaf notebook and some paper. It took her quite a while to find them, and when she did, she was dismayed to see so many empty pages. She hadn't meant to fall so far behind. Leafing through the book, she realized she had not even finished listing the items from Ruth's attic.

The idea was to have a separate page for each article, giving the source and the price paid, plus notes on repairs, restoration methods, and-ultimately-the selling price. Not only would she need the information for tax purposes, but it would be an invaluable reference.

Karen grimaced. Oh, well; there was nothing like concentrating on a hated, boring job to get her mind off other worries.

While the anchorman's voice droned on, she dragged out a box of miscellaneous linens and got to work. They had come from Mrs. Ferris, and they reminded her of Shreve. So Shreve wanted Granny's things, did she? If she could see the condition of the pieces she wouldn't touch them with the tip of her fastidious finger.

Karen shook out a tattered petticoat and sneezed violently as dust billowed up around her. The old lady must have worn it to scrub floors or climb fences; the fabric was torn, and covered with ugly black spots. But the deep flounce of the lace might be salvageable. Karen found a pair of scissors and cut it off, then wadded the rest of the garment and threw it into the wastebasket, wrinkling her nose at the sour smell of mold.

She forced herself to finish sorting and listing the contents of the box. She was getting sleepy, and she felt as if she would never get the smell of mold off her hands. Cheryl had not called. One more chore, Karen thought, and then I'll go to bed. She won't call after midnight- but it's not quite midnight yet.

The flounce she had removed from the old petticoat might be right for Mrs. Grossmuller's wedding dress. For some reason the mold had not affected the lace. Perhaps it had something to do with the type of fabric.

After a prolonged search she finally located the dress at the back of the wardrobe. Cheryl must have picked it up off the floor of the hall, along with the other things Karen had bought at the auction-and dropped when the fumbling hands found her throat. Yes, the rest of them were there-the frayed petticoat with the crocheted trim, the absurd bloomers, and the linen nightgown.

A muted howling from without rose and fell-Mr. DeVoto's cat, seeking romance and/or a fight. Karen identified the sound, but her skin prickled, and Alexander twitched and mumbled in his sleep.

She decided she had better list the auction items while their origin was still fresh in her mind. "Lace-trimmed bloomers, circa 1910," the name of the auctioneer, and the date. She entered the dress last, and her writing faltered. But she had the information; it would be ridiculous to omit it. "Wedding dress of Mrs. Henry Grossmuller, 1931." Mrs. Henry Grossmuller, who poisoned Henry in 1965 and who claimed the dress wasn't worth two bits.

"I will not write that down," Karen said aloud. No need to, she would never forget it. Damn the old woman, and damn Cheryl too, for talking about the romance of old clothes and the tragedy of a terrified young bride…

No, that wasn't fair. Cheryl had not blathered on about auras and vibes, she had better sense. It was Karen's own imagination that invested the innocent fabric with an almost palpable coating of some dark, slimy substance.

The lace was certainly dark, and as Karen inspected it she knew her first assessment had been correct. The lace was beyond repair; the staining substance had had a corrosive effect, leaving great rents in the delicate web. Into Karen's mind popped a vivid, most unwelcome picture of Mrs. Grossmuller kneeling by her husband's body, the flounce of her wedding dress trailing in a pool of his blood.

She really must get her imagination under control. It would be an effective scenario for a horror film-the abused wife putting on the dress she had worn as an unwilling bride before wreaking her vengeance on her torturer. But Mrs. Grossmuller hadn't stabbed Henry, she had poisoned him.

Karen let out a gasp of laughter. One day she might be able to tell the Mrs. Grossmuller story and find it genuinely funny. But at best it would always be black humor, for there was something sad and twisted behind the old woman's insistence-guilt or fear or frustrated anger. Like the anger she herself had felt, and was only now beginning to acknowledge?

Resolutely Karen turned her mind back to business. The lace she had removed from the petticoat was just right. It was the same width, and there was so much of it that she could remove the damaged sections and still have enough left to edge the dress.

She took the lace into the bathroom and dunked it in warm water, to soak overnight. Now all she needed to restore the dress were pearls (hers wouldn't be genuine, but the originals hadn't been either) and a silk flower to replace the limp brown specimen on the hipline. She cut off a pearl bead to serve as a sample and began a list of needed materials on a page at the back of the book. As she had already discovered from her earlier attempts at mending the old garments, ordinary cotton and polyester sewing thread was often too coarse. Shops specializing in fine fabrics carried silk thread. She ought to lay in a supply, in a variety of colors, and get needles to match. Buttons- old ones, if possible. They wouldn't be easy to find, but there must be sources for such things.

She kept glancing at the clock. At twelve-thirty she decided Cheryl wouldn't call so late. At any rate, she was now tired enough to sleep soundly. As she had hoped, the need to concentrate on a specific task had quieted her nerves.

There was nothing wrong with Alexander's nerves, but unfortunately his bladder was not as good. He wanted to go out and he would not take no for an answer. When he started to lift his leg against the bed flounce, Karen gave in. There were too many things Alexander could ruin if he chose, and unless he got his own way, he probably would choose.

She had to disassemble the tottering structure of pans in order to open the door. Alexander shot out like an arrow from a bow. The night air was still and hot, with trails of ground mist curdling among the shrubbery. A furious rattle of foliage and a feline squawl explained the dog's haste; the cat paused on top of the storage shed to address a rude remark to its pursuer. Karen saw its eyes glow eerily red. A Siamese cat. Mr. DeVoto always had Siamese.

Alexander returned the cat's compliments in his own tongue. Not until the Siamese left, melting into the darkness with only a rustle of leaves to prove it material, did Alexander go about his business. He took his own sweet time about it, probably to punish Karen for being so reluctant to let him out, and she swore at him under her breath as she shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. There was no sense in yelling at him and disturbing the neighbors; and he wouldn't pay attention anyway. She did not want to go out after him. The mist was thickening, and although there was not a breath of air stirring, the pale trails of fog seemed to sway and shift, with a motion of their own.