"Most of the books are written for museum curators and conservators," Karen said. "But you know…" Absently she turned the dryer onto her head and reached for a brush. "I understand how they feel. It's true that the great majority of the clothes we'll be handling won't be unique or museum quality, but when I think of those dresses of Mrs. Mac's I get a pang of conscience. They're real works of art, one of a kind. And I'm selling them to rich idiots with no appreciation of their beauty who will ruin them in one wearing and throw them away."

"If it were my dress, I'd want someone to wear it- and look pretty, and have fun in it," Cheryl said. "I wouldn't want it to be stuck up in a case in some museum."

"That's because you are a hopeless romantic," Karen said, smiling. "My romantic side agrees with you. I wouldn't mind so much if they were going to someone who appreciated them. Miriam doesn't care about anything except how much they cost."

"If you really feel that bad about it-"

"Don't suggest we keep them. We simply can't afford to. Maybe someday, when we're rich and successful, I can start collecting for myself. But right now we need every cent we can get our hands on."

"I was going to say, before I was so rudely interrupted, that maybe we could sell them to collectors. Like museums, for instance."

Karen stopped brushing; her hair stood up in a wild halo, like Frankenstein's bride. "I don't know why I didn't think of that. We could try, at any rate. The Costume Institute in New York has a terrific collection of designer dresses."

"There's a list of museums in one of your books. I'll copy it and we can write letters, or call."

"You're sensational." Karen beamed at her.

"Oh, hey, that's my job, being sensational. I'm also great at making lists, which is what I'm going to do now. I wanted to finish listing the merchandise we have."

She went into the other room, but came back after only a few minutes. "Karen?"

"I don't think this is working," Karen muttered, moving the dryer slowly back and forth over the dress. "Maybe it takes longer… What?"

"Did you move any of the clothes in your aunt's wardrobe just now?"

"No, I haven't even been in that room. What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure anything is wrong. But I could swear things have been moved. The blue peignoir was on the end last night. Now it's not."

Karen followed her into the bedroom. "I can't see anything different," she said, after a brief inspection.

"Maybe I'm imagining things."

"It's the baneful influence of Mrs. Grossmuller," Karen said with a laugh. "She couldn't have gotten into the house, Cheryl."

"I guess not."

"Is anything missing?"

"How would I know? That's why I want to finish that inventory. We can't even get insurance without it. Come and give me a hand when you've finished fooling around with your moldy satin."

Karen didn't resent her brusque tone; she could tell Cheryl was still brooding about Mrs. Grossmuller. Really, Cheryl seemed to be developing a complex about the old woman. To Karen, Mrs. Grossmuller was more pathetic than frightening and more pitiful than funny. Perhaps it was because she could understand better than Cheryl the years of desperation that had driven Mrs. Grossmuller over the edge. If she had gone on living with Jack, resenting every move he made and every word he said, would she have ended up, forty years from now, with a similar idee fixe? Not the same delusion necessarily, but one that reflected the same long-suppressed anger and indignation? Mrs. Grossmuller probably hadn't killed Henry; but oh, how often she must have wanted to!

At least divorce was a more acceptable option today. Not for Mrs. Grossmuller; in her time, decent middle-class women didn't get divorced. Socially it was more acceptable to murder an infuriating spouse-assuming you got away with it-than to leave him. Easier for me, Karen thought absently. All I had to do was get fat and sloppy…

Her mouth dropped open as the truth dawned- the answer to a question the psychologist had asked weeks ago. That was why she had let herself go. She didn't have the guts to come right out and tell Jack she wanted to leave him; she didn't even have the courage to admit it to herself. So she had pushed him into taking the fatal step, by turning herself into a careless, unattractive frump.

Was she succumbing to the weakness Cheryl had accused her of, blaming herself for everything that happened to her? No; there was a difference between feeling guilty and accepting responsibility. She had been silly and cowardly, but that didn't absolve Jack of his share of blame.

The telephone rang, interrupting her train of thought. She was not sorry to have it halted; her new insight would have to be considered and absorbed before she could really accept it.

The call did nothing to calm her. When she joined Cheryl a short time later, it was Cheryl's turn to ask, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Karen forced a smile. "That was Shreve."

"Oh. What did she want?"

"That's a good question. She was so busy dropping little hints and innuendoes I couldn't figure out what the hell she was driving at. Finally I just said, 'Do you want to buy something or don't you?' and she admitted she did."

"Good, another big sale," Cheryl said. She replaced a white nightgown and took out another garment. "Where did you get this?"

Karen frowned. "It's one of Ruth's, I think. Yes, it's her size."

"Blue wool suit, size 6, Garfinckel's label," Cheryl muttered, writing. "Which of the dresses are you going to sell that-Mrs. Givens?"

"I don't know. She'll want one of Mrs. Mac's gowns, I suppose. Keeping up with the Joneses-or, in this case, her dear friend Miriam. But I'm not going to let her have anything until I'm certain the museums aren't interested."

"Makes sense," Cheryl murmured, her head bent over the ledger.

It was easy to tell when Cheryl was embarrassed or uncomfortable. Karen knew why her face was averted, her comments brief and stiff. Karen didn't regret the way she had answered back when Shreve deliberately baited her in front of other people, but talking about her behind her back was a form of spitefulness she was determined to avoid. She didn't want Cheryl to get the wrong idea about her reasons for disliking Shreve.

She went on, in a voice she attempted to keep cool and detached, "I told her my best dresses were at the cleaners'. It's true, actually."

"Yes. I forgot to tell you, he didn't have the other things ready. Try again tomorrow, he said. But he wasn't very apologetic; acted like he was doing us a favor by working on them."

"By his lights he is. He's the 'in' cleaner for the smart set. I don't intend to use him except for really good clothes, but I don't want to take a chance on some incompetent ruining a valuable item."

"Is this one of your aunt's?" Cheryl held up a pink crepe afternoon dress. She was determined to stick to business, and Karen was content to go along with her. She didn't want to talk about Shreve, or think about her, any more than she had to.

"Yes. I think that finishes Ruth's things. Now this one-"

They worked steadily for several hours, stopping only long enough to snatch a hasty meal. They made good progress, although the telephone seemed to ring incessantly-first Mark, inquiring whether they had been burglarized lately and wanting to know what Cheryl had done with his black socks; then a realtor from Gaithersburg, with a new listing she wanted to show them; then Julie, tearful and reproachful and apologetic. They were in the kitchen looking over the list of properties they had inspected thus far when Julie's call came; and when Cheryl realized who was calling she didn't pretend not to listen. Karen had barely hung up when she burst out, "Honest, Karen, you haven't got the gumption of a rabbit. After all that woman did to you, and now you tell her you'll go back to work!"