"To us," Karen said.

"Couldn't've said it better myself."

They had retired to Karen's room to inspect the merchandise and go over the books. "I tell you what," Karen said, trying to collect her wits. "You better not go home in that condition. Oh, I know you aren't drunk. But neither of us is exactly sober, now are we? Why don't you spend the night?"

"Okay," Cheryl agreed. "I better call Mark. Ask him if I can spend the night."

"What do you mean, ask him?"

"You're right, you're right. Don't ask him-tell him. Only…" Cheryl's mouth drooped. "Only I don't have my toothbrush or my nightie."

"No problem. Ruth is one of those perfect hostesses who always has extra toothbrushes for guests. And if you want a nightgown-" Karen walked, none too steadily, to the wardrobe and threw open the door. "Take your pick. Victorian with handmade eyelet ruffles, Edwardian with pin tucks and tatting, bias-cut peach satin-"

"What, wrinkle the merchandise?" Cheryl's eyes widened in horror. "I'll sleep in my skin. First, better call ol' Mark."

Cheryl pulled herself together enough to sound relatively coherent when she announced to her brother that she would not be home that night. Karen, preparing Ruth and Pat's room for a guest, overheard enough to deduce that Mark had been properly congratulatory about the partnership and rather pleased than otherwise that he would not have to deal with a giggling, tipsy sister.

After she had tucked her new partner into bed, Karen went downstairs to let Alexander out. It was not until she looked into the darkened garden that she remembered her ghost. "Nothing like cash in hand to scare away spooks," she thought with a smile as she called Alexander in, checked the doors and windows, and went up to bed.

"Karen! Karen!"

Muzzy with sleep and champagne, it took her a while to recognize the voice. She struggled to sit up, muttering, "Whazzamatter?"

Cheryl stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from the hall. She had been persuaded to wear one of the older, more tattered nightgowns; it was too big for her and puddled around her bare feet.

"What's the matter?" Karen repeated.

"There was somebody in my room."

The only body in Cheryl's room belonged to Alexander, who was engaged in a thorough sniff of every corner. Someone had certainly been there, however, or else Cheryl was guilty of walking in her sleep. The wardrobe doors were flung wide, and most of the clothes had been removed from the hangers.

"What happened?" Karen gasped, reaching for some of the garments that littered the floor.

Cheryl caught her arm. "Don't touch anything yet. Did you feel a draft when we came through the hall?"

They stared at one another. Then Karen ran for the stairs, with Cheryl close behind. The draft of air became stronger as they descended. Karen heard Cheryl stumble and swear as Alexander scooted between her legs. He passed Karen, tumbled down the last few steps, and scrambled wildly on the slippery floor before achieving a right-angle turn and vanishing in the direction of the kitchen.

When Karen reached the room he was gone. The back door stood wide open.

She stopped to catch her breath, and Cheryl caught up with her. "For God's sake, Karen, wait a minute. You don't know what the hell is out there."

Clinging to one another, they ventured cautiously out the door and onto the terrace. A faint, far-off rumble of thunder shivered in Karen's ears, and a gust of wind hot as a breath from an inferno stirred her hair. There was a storm brewing; but the stars overhead were still bright, and a sliver of moon hung low in the sky. The white forms crowding the garden shone faintly in the starlight, stirring feebly like victims of a massacre who had been thrown in broken, distorted attitudes across the bushes. A limp sleeve fluttered, as if in a last futile appeal for help.

They got the clothes in before the storm broke. Thunder crackled overhead as Cheryl made coffee, just in time; the electricity went out soon after the kettle had boiled. The telephone was also dead. They sat at the kitchen table with candlelight throwing gruesome shadows across their strained faces.

"I shouldn't have shut Alexander in with me," Karen reproached herself. "When I think what could have happened-"

Cheryl was equally angry with herself. "Lord knows how long he was in there rummaging around before I woke up. If only I hadn't had so damned much to drink!"

"Thank God you did. If you had screamed, or made a sudden move…" She couldn't finish the sentence, or decide what horrified her more-the thought of what the intruder might have done to Cheryl, or Cheryl's appalling nonchalance.

"Try the phone again, Karen," Cheryl urged. "The storm seems to be letting up."

"I'm not sure I want to call the police."

Cheryl's jaw dropped. "Why not? This is the second time-"

"That's just it. It isn't the second time I've complained to the police, it's the third; and it would be the fourth if I had reported what happened last night… Damn. I'm so shaken up I can't keep my mouth shut. I wasn't going to tell anyone about that."

"Well, you'd damned well better tell me. Honestly, Karen, I can't figure you out. You're too brave for your own good. What happened last night?"

Karen hoped Cheryl would laugh at the bed sheet incident. She didn't laugh. "There's something funny going on, all right," she said soberly. "All the more reason why you should notify the police."

"But don't you see, they're going to get sick of hearing from me! They get calls all the time from nervous women who think there are burglars under the bed-"

"Men, too," said Cheryl, loyal to her sex. "Tony told me about some screwball who is convinced aliens from outer space are tapping his phone. What does that have to do with you? You aren't imagining things. I saw what happened tonight-"

"You did have a lot to drink tonight. I could have crept into your room and cleaned out the wardrobe-done all the rest of it-before I went back upstairs and made noises to waken you."

Cheryl studied her gravely. "You're your own worst enemy, Karen. It's as if you were still blaming yourself for everything that happens to you. You can't just sit here wringing your hands and letting people hassle you."

"You think that's the motive behind all this?"

"I don't know. It doesn't make sense. I guess I don't have the right to boss you around, but…"

"You want me to call the police."

"I sure as hell do. After all," Cheryl said. "I've got a half interest in that merchandise."

It was late morning before an officer finally arrived in response to the call they made after the storm had ended and telephone service had been restored. The bad weather had produced flooding and innumerable minor traffic accidents, and he was obviously in no mood to sympathize with their complaint. One of the first things he did was scold them for disturbing the scene of the crime.

"What were we supposed to do, leave the door wide open with a thunderstorm going on?" Cheryl demanded, looking like an indignant hen with her ruffled yellow curls and bright eyes. "Let the clothes get soaked? They're our merchandise!"

The officer looked with polite incredulity at the limp blue negligee she was waving at him. "If you say so, ma'am. But there's not much I can do except file a report."

After he had gone, Karen could not resist. "What did I tell you?"

"We did the right thing, anyhow." Cheryl yawned.

"Why don't you go back to bed for a few hours?"

"Who, me? I'm going to Gaithersburg to see that realtor."

"What realtor?"

"Anyone I can find. We talked about it last night, remember? Or have you changed your mind?"

"About the shop? Of course not. I thought perhaps you might have had second thoughts."