Barbara Michaels - House of Many Shadows

House of Many Shadows

ELIZABETH PETERS

W R I T I N G AS

BARBARA

MICHAELS

To my daughter Beth

Contents

Chapter 1

The sounds bothered Meg most. Calling

them auditory hallucinations helped...

Chapter 2

From Sylvia's description Meg expected

the house to be a...

Chapter 3

In an earlier and simpler era,

Wasserburg had been a...

Chapter 4

Meg wasn't sure which of them had

led the retreat.

Chapter 5

The implications of what she had

found whirled around in...

Chapter 6

Meg had expected to miss Andy--not

because he was so...

Chapter 7

They had planned to investigate the

Historical Association collection in...

Chapter 8

"Let me see!"

Chapter 9

When Meg came down the next morning,

Andy was making...

Chapter 10

By the time Meg had finished smearing

iodine on the...

Chapter 11

Andy was in a cheerful mood next

morning, as if...

Chapter 12

They took their prize to the library,

and Meg picked...

Chapter 13

Meg never remembered how she got the

door closed. She...

About the Author

Praise

Other Books by Barbara Michaels

Cover

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter

the sounds bothered meg most. calling them auditory hallucinations helped a little--a phe- nomenon is less alarming when it has a proper, technical name. Meg had always thought of hal- lucinations as something one saw. She had those too, but for some illogical reason it was easier for her to accept visual illusions as nonreal than to ignore the hallucinatory sounds. When you were concentrating on typing a letter, and a voice said something in your ear, it was impossible not to be distracted.

The problem was hard to explain, and Meg wasn't doing a good job of explaining. But then it had always been difficult to explain anything to Sylvia. Sylvia knew all the answers.

Meg tried again.

Barbara Michaels

"The dictaphone was absolutely impossible. I couldn't hear what Mr. Phillips had said. Voices kept mumbling, drowning out his voice. Once the whole Mormon Tabernacle Choir cut out the sec- ond paragraph of a very important memo."

She smiled as she spoke. It sounded funny now, but at the time it had not been at all amusing.

Sylvia didn't smile. "The Mormon Tabernacle Choir? Why them?"

Meg shrugged helplessly. "No reason. That's the point; they are meaningless hallucinations. The doctor says they'll go away eventually, but in the meantime.... Mr. Phillips was very nice about it, he said he'd try to find an opening for me when I'm ready to work again, but I couldn't expect him to keep me on. I had to listen to some of those tapes three times before I got the message clear, and there was always the chance I'd miss something important. And I'd already used up all my sick leave. Three weeks in the hospital..."

"You should be thankful you weren't killed," said Sylvia. "To think they never caught the man who was driving the car! New York is an absolute jungle. I don't know how you can stand living here. May I have another cup of tea?"

Meg poured, biting back an irritated retort. She couldn't afford to offend Sylvia, especially now, when she was about to ask a favor, but the clichs that were Sylvia's sole means of communication had never annoyed her more. Why should she be thankful she hadn't been killed? She might just as

House of Many Shadows well be thankful she didn't have leprosy, or seven- year itch; or thank God because she had not been born with two heads. It was just as reasonable, and a lot more human, to feel vexation instead of gratitude. Why me, God? The old question, to which there was never any answer.... Why did it have to be me in the path of that fool driver; why did I have to land on my head instead of some less vulnerable part of my anatomy; and why, oh, why, God, did I have to have these exotic symp- toms instead of a nice simple concussion? Why do I have to be the poor relation, with no savings to fall back on, while Sylvia...

Sylvia's close-set gray eyes were intent on the tea- pot. "Such a nice piece of silver," she murmured.

The tea set was the only valuable thing Meg owned--the only family heirloom her parents had left her. The rest of the apartment was furnished with leftovers and makeshifts--colorful posters instead of paintings, remnants turned into cur- tains and patchwork cushions, secondhand furni- ture painted and refinished by Meg herself. It was attractive, because Meg was accustomed to mak- ing do, but it was not at all the ambience to which Sylvia was accustomed. And trust Sylvia to pick out the only object of value in the place! She had the old acquisitive gleam in her eyes; it was the only emotion that ever warmed their coldness.

Sylvia's left hand was half buried in the luxuri- ous softness of the sable cape that lay beside her on the couch. She had refused Meg's offer to hang

Barbara Michaels it up; and indeed, the thought of that smoky el- egance hanging between Meg's worn trenchcoat and six-year-old fake leopard was rather incon- gruous.

As she had so often done, Meg studied her sec- ond cousin once removed with incredulity. How had Sylvia done it? Three husbands, all wealthy men, one of them a multimillionaire. If Sylvia had been the conventional sexpot, svelte and blond and heavy-eyed, it wouldn't have been so hard to understand. But Sylvia looked like the kind of woman who walked the aisles of the supermar- ket with a little hand computer, ticking off the prices as she filled her shopping cart. Her hair was nicely tended, but frankly gray; the sables and the expensive suit didn't conceal the dumpi- ness of her figure. Sylvia wore glasses--pale-blue frames with little rhinestones set in them. As she bent over the plate on which Meg had arranged a few cookies, Meg watched her curiously, seeking something--some warmth of kindness or flicker of wit--and found nothing. With a sigh, she gave it up. Sylvia had her good points, but none of them seemed likely to attract a man, much less a millionaire. They were points that might be useful to an indigent relative, however.

"Manhattan isn't the best place in the world to live in," she said. "In fact, the doctors say it's a bad place for me just now. Apparently this--this condition will clear up more quickly if I have rest and quiet."

House of Many Shadows

"You won't get it here," Sylvia said compla- cently. "The noise level is enough to send any- body off her rocker."

"I need your help," Meg said abruptly. "I hate to ask you, Sylvia..."

"Naturally you do," Sylvia said, looking up. Her plain, lined face was relaxed, and Meg knew her comment referred to the first part of the ap- peal, not to the second. If Sylvia was without imagination, she was equally without malice.

"I've been thinking what would be best," Syl- via went on. "I don't suppose the doctor gave you any idea how long this will last? No, they never do, do they? Well.... Six months, perhaps? Yes, I should think six months would do it."

She reached for another cookie, and then glanced at Meg, as the latter sank back in her chair with an audible gasp.

"You're white as a sheet," she said critically. "You always were too thin; of course you're not tall, but you ought to carry more flesh than you do. I suppose you lost weight while you were in the hospital. Have a cookie. Sugar gives you quick energy."

Meg laughed and obeyed. The laughter was a little shaky, and so was her hand as she reached for the plate. She had known she could count on Sylvia, but.... After all, the relationship was a distant one, and Sylvia didn't owe her a thing. It is not pleasant at the age of twenty-three, to find oneself at the end of your rope with nothing to