The Balloon Man

by Charlotte MacLeod

  Alone or in couples, even whole septs, members of the Zickery clan had drawn away to revel in pastures new; to opulent suburbs, to in-town apartments that would receive a new cachet as condominiums. With air travel so fast and so convenient, provided the plane didn't fall apart in the air, they could always fly back to Ireson's Landing for a brief visit with those relatives who'd preferred to stay.

  “Finally the last of them vamoosed,” Jem said. “Once in a blue moon somebody would pull up in a car to walk the boundaries and put up a fresh flock of ‘No Trespassing’ signs, then drive away and not be seen again until the next blue moon or reasonable facsimile. Didn't you ever see them, Sarah? You and Alexander used to come here a lot.”

  “We never went that way. There were those ‘No Trespassing’ signs, after all, and why push through all the brush and brambles when the beach walk was so much nicer? Not that we had much time for walks together.”

  “Not with Caroline demanding every spare instant of Alex's time and energy,” Jeremy Kelling said with a snort.

  “There's something about that place that gives me the creeps,” Sarah admitted. “When I used to stay at Ireson's Landing as a child, I got so many warnings about staying away from the Zickery place that I developed something pretty close to a phobia about it. I'm sure the grown-ups' warnings were about real hazards like poison ivy and rotted well heads, but I took them all very seriously. To tell you the truth, I'm still scared to death of that house. I wouldn't go there alone if you gave me the whole thirty acres with a clear title. And that's going some for a Kelling.”

  “Can't say I blame you.” Jem closed the album he had been holding and reached for another. “Most of the photos are upside-down or sideways. Just like Appie. She hasn't labeled them, either. Who's this?”

  Sarah leaned forward and looked at the photograph. “You'd be more likely to recognize him than I, Uncle Jem. That raccoon coat was surely in fashion during your younger days, and isn't that a Packard he's leaning against?”

  “Yes, by Jove, now I've got him! It's the coat. How we used to rag old Alister about that rug.”

  “That's Alister?” Sarah couldn't believe it. The features under the natty cap were blurry and the photo had faded, but the young Allie was certainly more amiable looking than the present-day version. “Why did you rag him about the coat? They were hot stuff back then, weren't they?”

  “Oh, yes. Had one myself. Whatever happened to that raccoon coat, Egbert?”

  Egbert stifled a yawn. “Mrs. Emma Kelling borrowed it, Mr. Jem, don't you remember? For one of her theatrical performances, before she began specializing in Gilbert and Sullivan. Charlie's Aunt was the play in question, I believe.”

  “The coat's probably still in her attic,” Max said, knowing the Kelling reluctance to dispose of any garment until it had literally fallen to pieces.

  “Damn, I had forgotten. Must remember to ask Emma to give it back. Plenty of good wear still in that coat. Not like Alister's. He claimed he'd trapped and skinned the raccoons himself, and the damned coat sure looked like it.”

  “That's disgusting,” Sarah said. “Was he the kind of boy who'd do something like that?”

  “No, not really. Alister Zickery was always bragging about what a macho fellow he was—we didn't use that word back then, of course—but he was a wimp at heart. He'd pick a fight with some other boy, but once he'd got the fight all set up, he'd back off and leave it for some other boy to take the pounding. The more I remember that young blister, as Alister was then, the less I'd have to do with him now. I hope my innate tendency toward unbridled geniality didn't come over me at the wrong moment. Was I too cordial?”

  “That's not how I'd describe it,” Max said. “Are you two looking for something in particular in those albums, or are you just killing time?”

  “I thought we might find a photograph that shows the rubies,” Sarah said. “It's been so long since I saw them, or even a picture of them, that I'd forgotten exactly what they looked like.”

  “I haven't,” Max said grimly.

  “No, darling, I don't suppose you could, after examining the copies and the photographs as closely as you must have done. I suppose I was hoping against hope that it was some other ruby parure, though goodness knows there can't have been many like it. No one would wear such things nowadays, they're too ostentatious.”

  “You might not, but you have excellent taste,” her husband remarked. “Some women would love to flash that ensemble. I haven't had a chance to check the voice mail; maybe Pepe has finally got around to reporting in.”

  Not only were there telephones of every possible color and type around the house, they were equipped with all the gadgets that might be useful to a man of Max's profession. He turned on the speakerphone so the others could listen.

  The first message of interest was from Brooks. Thus far he had had no success in tracing the background of the unlucky Joe Macbeth. “It must be an alias,” Brooks said. “We've run the usual name checks, with the usual agencies; you may be surprised to hear that we located a dozen individuals named Joseph Macbeth. All of them are accounted for, however, alive or dead. Sorry to have so little to report, Max, but such inquiries take time, as you know. The police got his fingerprints, and we'll start on that tomorrow.”

  “Damn,” Max muttered.

  “Why damn?” Jem asked. “Even if he doesn't have a criminal record, he was old enough to have served in some war or other, so his fingerprints must be on file somewhere.”

  “Yes, but that sort of search takes a long time. Oh, well, it's probably a long shot. Poor old alias Macbeth may have been killed because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Let's see what Pepe has to contribute.”

  Pepe hadn't much to contribute. The astute lady from Amsterdam had left no direct descendants. Her entire estate had been sold to benefit several lucky charities, including the World Bureau of Art Theft and Forgery, which Max considered a rather nice touch. Her jewels had been handled by a well-known international auction house in Zurich. Pepe had obtained a copy of the catalog, which included a breathtaking range of expensive geegaws. Conspicuous by its absence was the ruby parure.

  “It is therefore to be presumed, mon cher Max, that the parure was disposed of by some other means, possibly a secret trust. I will endeavor to ascertain more, but you know, my old hat, how these lawyers are. Inform me, if you will, whether bribery or breaking into their offices is to be preferred.”

  “He thinks he's a comedian,” Max muttered, switching off the machine.

  “Breaking and entering would be my advice,” Jem said. “It costs too much to bribe a lawyer. What a pity my old pal Wouter Tolbathy is singing with the celestial choir. He'd invent some ingenious method of befuddling the legal beagles.”

  “Such as shooting them with a tranquilizer gun,” Max said, remembering some of Wouter Tolbathy's stunts. The tranquilizer gun had been designed for the purpose of shooting at a fuchsia-turquoise-and-chartreuse-colored hippo, also constructed by Wouter, which would begin to snore if it was hit in the proper place. Fearing Jem was about to launch into additional reminiscences about the late lamented prankster, he said quickly, “Isn't it time you and Egbert were in bed?”

  Jem tossed aside the album and hoisted himself to his feet. “Time for a final nightcap, you mean. Come along, Egbert, old cabbage. You can brew up some of that tea that's supposed to be good for what ails you, and I'll have a martini straight up.”

  “Just make sure you're still straight up when you tackle the stairs,” said Sarah. “We don't want any more broken legs around here.”

  Her uncle's response was a hearty, “Bah, humbug,” anticipating the season by several months but perfectly in character.

  The telephone rang. Max had left the speaker on; Brooks's precise Andover accents came through clear as a bell. “If you're there, Max and/or Sarah, turn on the ten o'clock news. There's just been a teaser, as I believe it is termed, for a story that may interest you. I'll ring off now so you can give
it your full attention,”

  14

  “Do you suppose Callie and Allie inflated the balloon for the benefit of the television viewing audience?” Max asked.

  “Thanks to Mr. Lomax, they didn't do any filming here,” Sarah said. “They had to get footage of something, and you must admit the balloon makes a pretty picture.”

  “Can't say the same for the Zickery twins.”

  The swelling, gaily colored shape of the balloon did make an attractive image. Then the camera closed in on the proud owners, standing beside it. Alister was wearing his aeronaut outfit complete with helmet, but Calpurnia had chosen to charm the viewing audience in a purple sweatsuit that did not flatter her lined face. She was all smiles, however, rambling on about how happy she and her brother were to return to their roots and how much they regretted having dropped in uninvited on a family celebration. As for the body under the tent, she had no idea how it had got there or who it was. The police had confirmed that the balloon baloon could not have caused the fatal injuries and that the corpse had been put under the tent at a later time. Alister confined his agreement to vigorous nods and an occasional stretch of the lips.

  Callie hadn't hinted by so much as a raised eyebrow that her dear neighbors the Bittersohns must have had a hand in the murder. The commentator was also careful to avoid any statement that might leave the station open to a lawsuit, but innuendos fell hot and heavy. There were references to earlier murders in which various Kellings and Bittersohns had been involved, lurid descriptions of the agency's more unusual cases, and clips from past broadcasts showing, among other victims, an infuriated Jeremy Kelling brandishing a stick at a reporter who had attempted to interview him about the death of his old friend Wouter Tolbathy.

  “No wonder they didn't get it on the six o'clock broadcast,” Sarah exclaimed. “It must have taken hours to locate those old films and patch them together. Where did they find them? I thought TV studios reused or discarded old … Oh, Max!”

  There on the screen was the Sarah Max had first seen, white-faced and shivering in front of the family vault, where the skeleton of a former burlesque queen had been discovered.

  “I'll give Uncle Jake a call,” Max said savagely. “If he cant find a way of suing those sons of bitches—”

  “But that's so unromantic, darling. The least you can do is go to the television station brandishing a horsewhip” After the first gasp of horrified surprise, Sarah had recovered herself She even managed a laugh. “We do have a colorful past, don't we? Everything the man said was true. I just hate to think—”

  The telephone rang. Sarah sighed. “I knew this would happen. What do you bet it's Cousin Mabel?”

  There were no takers. It was at least a hundred to one that Mabel Kelling would get her oar in the water before everybody else.

  “Sarah, have you gone stark, raving mad? Dont you ever give a moment's thought to your family? Our family, I should have said, just to remind you that you do have one. Staging that ridiculous pageant of a wedding, not that I know much about it since I never got an invitation even though those Bittersky creatures came in droves, I was told, all dressed up to the eyeballs, and now there's Jem Kelling, mad as a hatter, shooting his mouth off about murders and God knows what else. If you ask me, that old fool ought to be in one of those loony bins where they keep them locked up twenty-four hours a day and don't let them have knives and forks.”

  There was no stopping her; Mabel was off and running again. “It's a wonder Jem hasn't murdered somebody himself. That Egbert of his is about as much good as nothing at all. Percy's the one who ought to be handling Jem's money, but Percy's all for Percy, as you well know. Catch him doing anything for anybody else unless he gets paid in advance. And there's Anne in her own little world, chasing the bugs off her precious roses. I can't stand that woman and never could, even if she is my second cousin once removed.”

  By this time, Sarah had developed a serious case of the giggles and Max was taping every word because this was Mabel at her most venomous and ought to be preserved for the family archives if anybody ever got around to writing them. Mabel was building up steam and would have gotten around to the rest of the family if Sarah hadn't dropped a gentle hint that this was Mabel's money they were talking on. That did it. Mabel hung up after a final comprehensive “Well!”

  Sarah stood up and shook the wrinkles out of her housecoat.

  “Thank goodness for Aunt Mabel. A little comic relief is just what I needed. Come on, dear, let's go up. I told Mrs. Blufert to take tomorrow off. She's given us so much time lately that she's gotten behind on her own work, so she won't be here to help out with Davy, and I need to do some grocery shopping, strange as it may seem considering the amount of food that's been in and out of this house during the past few days. Do you have any early appointments?”

  “No, my love,” said Max. “I don't intend to stir till the rooster crows.”

  “What rooster?” Sarah had little affinity with poultry in any form.

  “Good question. Would you care to go rooster shopping tomorrow? We could send one to your cousin Mabel.”

  “Nonsense, I wouldn't send Cousin Mabel a pleasant look. At least Jem and Egbert were safely tucked away when she called.”

  “What did you do with my other bathrobe?”

  “What other bathrobe? You only have one here because you took the purple one that Theonia gave you to Tulip Street and forgot to bring it back.”

  “Then why didn't you remind me?”

  “Because I couldn't remember where we'd left it, that's why. You're a big boy now, in case you hadn't noticed. It's high time you started being a role model for Davy, or he for you, whichever gets there first. Weren't we planning to go to bed?”

  “That's the best suggestion I've heard all day,” Max said.

  He didn't sleep well, though. Twice he slid carefully out of bed, so as not to wake Sarah, and prowled the house, checking doors and windows and listening for unusual noises. It seemed to him he had been sleeping only a few hours when he was waked up, not by a rooster crowing, but by a heavy weight pressing down on his diaphragm. When he opened his eyes he saw another pair of eyes inches from his.

  “You awake,” Davy announced.

  “I am now,” Max admitted. “What's up, tiger?”

  “You.” Davy tugged at him. “Up, Daddy.”

  Max located his sole remaining bathrobe and struggled into it, then accompanied his son and heir downstairs, where Sarah tenderly assisted him into a chair and waved a cup of coffee under his nose.

  “Here you are, you poor old man. Davy, your cereal is all ready; eat it up while I make Daddy his eggs.”

  Max remembered the first night he'd spent in the Kelling house on Beacon Hill. Someone had tried to burn the house down and had been foiled by Sarah with a pail of boiling water; Max had wrecked a folding chair that was a Kelling family relic and had had a mouse run up his pant leg. Next morning Sarah had fried him two eggs. They'd come out the color and texture of leather. He'd eaten every bite.

  “I should have had them framed,” Max said.

  “What, darling?”

  “Those first eggs you ever cooked me, remember? They'd look great on the kitchen wall.”

  Sarah deposited a kiss on the top of his head. “What a touching thought. Come to think of it, I've seen so-called modern paintings that looked worse than those eggs.”

  By the time Egbert and Jem made their appearance, Davy had finished his cereal and was demanding action. “What we do today?”

  “What would you like to do?” Sarah asked.

  “Go see the balloon.”

  “Not today,” Sarah said quickly.

  “Why not?” Davys lower lip went out.

  “We haven't been invited.”

  “The lady said I could bring my alligator to see her.”

  Max took his mutinous son onto his knee. “The lady doesn't want company yet, Davy. She and Mr. Zickery just got here, and they have a lot of work to do fixing up the
house.”

  “But—”

  “Suppose we have a picnic instead,” Sarah suggested. “Before we do anything, you have to get dressed. Come on, we'll pick out something to wear. Would you like to be a bluejay, or a pink-and-blue butterfly, or a green turtle with red feet?”

  “Like Uncle Jems turtle,” Davy said eagerly. “He had a great big turtle once, its name was Peter, and Uncle Jem used to ride it around and around and win all the prizes at the turtle races.”

  Sarah laughed. “Did he really?”

  “He told me so himself.”

  “He'd never invent a thing like that,” Max said. “Run along, kid, and we'll see if we can find you a turtle race.”

  Jem's mouth was full, but he nodded agreeably. After Sarah and Davy had gone, he swallowed, stared at Max, and shook his head. “You look like hell. Something worrying you?”

  “Its frustration more than worry. None of our leads have panned out, and we don't seem to be getting anywhere. I should be working the case myself, but I don't like to leave Sarah and Davy alone. I can't farm them out to the relatives; I've done that too many times already.”

  “I think you're being a little hard on yourself, Max. It seems to me that you're doing your full share and quite a bit over. What sort of life do you think Sarah would have had if you hadn't come along when you did? She'd have been trapped by family pressure in the same old net, wearing her mother's hand-me-downs and going to all the family funerals for her entertainment. Alexander was a dear chap, but he'd have been pretty much of a stick even if he hadn't had to be at Caroline's beck and call about twenty-seven hours in the day.”