The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

Brewster. So you went—where?”
    “Back to my apartment. I didn’t feel like facing the crowds at that damned church do. I had a few drinks. Later I went out to the Farm—now don’t ask me when—I don’t know exactly. But I hadn’t been there long when you called…and that’s every word I’ll say.”
    “Well, thanks then, Brewster. As I said before, it’s all quite, quite clear.”
    As the two men were walking slowly along Beech Street to James’s apartment, Fredericka was recovering in the sitting room chair of Miss Hartwell’s bookshop. She could still see Roger staring at her, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. But she had behaved like a child. Margie Hartwell would have behaved better.
    Margie Hartwell. Poor child, with her miserable secret hiding place in the old greenhouse. No wonder she kept making sudden appearances. No wonder she resented the presence of a stranger in her aunt’s bookshop. But why was her resentment so deep-seated? All week long she had hindered rather than helped Fredericka. She had even left an ugly caricature between the pages of Fredericka’s manuscript. The drawing had been crude but the likeness to herself had been unmistakable. There was no doubt who the artist was, of course, even though Margie had denied all knowledge of it. A tiresome, troublesome teenager but, in the light of today’s discoveries, perhaps more to be pitied than despised.
    Peter Mohun pitied her but then Margie behaved better to him. Probably he would also pity Roger and have no sympathy with Fredericka’s fears. But he would have to agree that Margie and Roger both hated Catherine Clay. Still, there was nothing extraordinary in that. No one had loved Catherine, not even James Brewster, unless his attitude toward her in the inn last Sunday had been merely the result of some lovers’ quarrel. But it hadn’t seemed so. No, if what Roger had said was true, Catherine had had little love, even from her own mother.
    But these thoughts were getting her nowhere. She looked at her watch and discovered, to her amazement, that it was only a few minutes past four. She got up, went to the desk in the office, and pulled her writing things toward her with a gesture of fierce determination. This time she made some progress but the afternoon grew steadily hotter, and presently she began to nod.
    After a brief struggle against sleep, she got up, climbed the stairs slowly and threw herself onto her bed. She fell at once into a heavy sleep, from which she did not waken until the church clock was striking six. She turned over and was coming slowly to consciousness when she became instantly wide awake and aware of the frightening silence. To quiet her nerves and restore her common sense, Fredericka got up quickly and went to the bathroom to throw cold water on her hot face. After this she felt better, but no amount of private bustle could dispel the loneliness of the empty house. “Haunted Bookshop” it is, she thought: altogether too haunted. On a sudden impulse, she decided to change her clothes and go to the inn for supper.
    As she started down the front path, the sun was setting behind angry thunderclouds. She scowled up at the sky, and then decided to go back for her raincoat. The house seemed emptier than ever, and she dreaded the thought of returning after dark.
    When she walked up the driveway of the Coach and Horses she could hear the hum of voices inside. Goodness, she thought, it’s like a swarm of bees. The whole town must be there. And then she heard herself say out loud: “I hope to goodness it isn’t a party.”
    To her amazement, someone behind her answered: “Not a party. It’s only that everyone with any sense takes advantage of the inn’s Sunday night special. It’s a buffet supper, famed far and wide.”
    The voice with its slight foreign accent and hissing s’ s was familiar and Fredericka turned quickly to find Philippine Sutton close on her heels. “Goodness, I didn’t hear you come up behind me. I must get over this tiresome habit of talking to myself. It comes from living too much alone.”
    “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I wear these sandals in the lab and half the time I forget to change them when I take off my white coat. I do apologize. I didn’t realize I was creeping up on you like that.”
    “It’s quite all right. And I am glad to see you again.”
    It was true. Of all the people at the farm, Philippine was the most approachable and friendly. Mrs.