Some day, she’d possess more jewels than any one woman could possibly wear. It was ridiculous that she mightn’t be allowed to enjoy a few of the pieces now. What a ghastly life, hanging around waiting for Aunt Caroline to die!
Was that what they were doing? Startled by a thought she had never allowed to enter her head before, Sarah stared, with no sense of identification, at the face reflected in the greenish, speckled mirror. It was only some young woman with light brown hair and gray brown eyes, one set a tiny bit higher than the other in a pale, square face. She dabbed a little color on the lips, grabbed up the amethyst eardrops that went with the brooch, and ran downstairs, fastening them in her ears as she went.
Alexander was still waiting. He had the shiny, balding muskrat cape that had been her mother’s ready to throw over her shoulders.
“You mustn’t hurry so in that long skirt,” he chided gently. “You might trip and fall.”
“But you said to rush,” she snapped back. “Where’s Aunt Caroline?”
“Out on the front steps. Mother likes to take her time going down, you know.”
Of course Sarah knew. There was not one quirk or whim of her mother-in-law’s that she hadn’t had drilled into her during the past seven years. This was still Caroline Kelling’s house, and around Caroline it still revolved. Who could object to that, when common sense dictated that everything be left where it always had been so that a blind woman could find her way about the rooms without having to be guided, and common decency decreed that somebody doubly afflicted be given every consideration? Could a wife begrudge her husband’s spending most of his waking hours with his mother, when it was only through Alexander that Caroline was able to lead anything like a normal life?
Not even if helping Caroline live as she wished meant that Sarah and Alexander had no life at all? They hardly even talked to each other any more. They’d had a more satisfying relationship back when Sarah was six years old and Cousin Alexander a godlike young man in Brooks Brothers flannels who took her for walks in the Public Garden on Sunday afternoons while his mother played chess with Sarah’s father. She’d adored him then. She supposed she still did. Anyway, there wasn’t much she could do about it now.
Hugging the inadequate wrap around her shoulders, Sarah tagged after her husband and the white-haired woman who was almost as tall as he. Caroline Kelling kept one hand on her son’s arm because the sidewalk had an almost precipitous pitch, but she held her back straight as the white cane she carried, and never once stumbled on the uneven bricks.
The Lackridges lived on the water side of Beacon Hill, in a smart town house converted from what had once been Leila’s grandparents’ carriage house. What was originally the family mansion now housed a prestigious but not always lucrative publishing business that Leila’s family had established and Harry Lackridge had married his way into.
When Leila and Harry were married, they’d scouted their respective families’ attics and storerooms for whatever oddments of furniture they could lay their hands on. Leila had then called in an interior decorator and bullied her into making visual sense of the hodgepodge. Now she had a cleaning service in once a week, and every six or eight years she had the place repainted and papered in much the same patterns and colors as before. Over the years, the rooms had taken on a curious quality of being embalmed. Leila never noticed. She had other things to do.
It was in good part because of Leila Lackridge that Caroline Kelling led such a busy life. The pair of them were among the movers and shakers in local civic affairs, Leila doing most of the moving and shaking, while Mrs. Kelling gained sympathizers by her mere presence on any platform, her sightless eyes hidden by tinted glasses, her beautiful face attentive to the message that her friend or her son spelled out into the palm of her hand.
Not all people who lose both sight and hearing in adult life succeed in learning alternate methods of communication. Caroline had mastered Braille and also a shorthand system of hand signals that only Leila and Alexander could transcribe fast enough to keep up with her quick mind and sometimes biting tongue. Sarah had tried hand-talking, but the impatient crisping of Aunt Caroline’s fingers discouraged her from plodding on. Now she poked out notes in Braille with a stencil and stylus, or let Alexander translate when she had anything special to say to her mother-in-law. She seldom did nowadays, since she’d taken over most of the housekeeping and no longer had to be coached about what to do.
These dinners of the Lackridges’ were always last-minute affairs because both Harry and Leila were on the go so much that it was hard to schedule them in advance. As a rule, Sarah could have done nicely without them. The cocktail hour dragged on and on, with Leila and Aunt Caroline holding forth about their latest cause and the two men reminiscing about their days at prep school and college, years before Sarah was ever born. The house was always cold, even in summer, and the food was abominable.
Tonight perhaps it wouldn’t be quite so bad. They might let her tell her amazing story. If not, she could curl up in her wool cocoon and sneak a nap. She was drowsy from hanging around in the cold air, and sated with her late, heavy lunch. At least being with Leila and Harry was better than having to spend the evening in an undertaker’s rooms listening to Cousin Dolph pontificate. There were to be no visiting hours. Great-uncle Frederick’s codicil had also been explicit about letting relatives gloat over his remains.
Sarah had always thought Leila and Harry rather resented her marriage to Alexander. The Lackridges had made such a cozy foursome with him and Caroline for so many years that they tended to shunt the young bride into the background whenever possible. Tonight, however, she was the guest of honor. To her astonishment, Harry swooped her into his arms even before he gave Caroline her ritual kiss.
“Here she is, in person! How’s our little celebrity? Still speaking to us common folks?”
Sarah was too flustered to say anything. Alexander asked a mild question.
“Celebrity?”
“Didn’t you see the news?” crowed Harry. “Oh, I keep forgetting you intellectual snobs don’t watch television.” His yellowed teeth flashed in the grin that looked so charming in photographs Alexander treasured from their school days. The years had not been kind to Harry.
“Sarah!” His wife was upon them now, swathed in an Oriental caftan that didn’t sit well on her angular form. Unlike her husband, Leila had never been even passably good looking. At forty-seven, she was ugly as one of the dragons printed on her robe, yet she made a more pleasing impression than he did because her face was always aglow with some new enthusiasm. This was the first time she’d ever shown any wild interest in Sarah.
Caroline, ignored for once, began to speak. Nobody paid her the slightest attention, not even Alexander.
“Sarah,” he demanded, “have you the faintest idea what they’re talking about?”
“I expect so. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“Do you mean he hasn’t heard?” Leila whooped.
“They say the husband’s always the last to know,” Harry chimed in, “but this is ridiculous!”
“It’s his own fault,” said Sarah. “I didn’t get home till a little while ago. I wanted to tell him then, but he wouldn’t listen. Then he rushed us over here at such a pace I could hardly pant, let alone talk. You know what a punctuality freak he is.”
“But, Sarah,” Alexander began.
“But her no buts, old buddy,” Lackridge interrupted. “Come and have a drink. If anybody was ever about to need one, thou art the man.”
By now, Caroline Kelling was furious. They got her calmed down and into the living room amid a good deal of confusion. Sarah headed for her usual corner by the fireplace before she noticed that end of the sofa was already pre-empted. A young man was standing there rather awkwardly waiting to be introduced. Since the Lackridges were both occupied with placating the elder Mrs. Kelling, Sarah went up to him and put out her hand.
“How do you do? I’m Sarah Kelling.”
Sarah smiled back. “Did I really? I have to confess I hadn’t the foggiest idea they were taking my picture until it was done. Otherwise, I’d have been scared to death.”
It would have been pleasant to sit down for a quiet chat with this personable chap, so much closer to her own age than anybody else in the room, but that was not to happen. As soon as Harry had supplied them all with drinks, he commanded that she tell her story. Sarah started talking, piling on the lurid details in response to Leila’s urgings, and had got almost to the end of her tale when she noticed that Alexander’s hands were absolutely still. Aunt Caroline wasn’t getting one word.
She was so surprised that she stopped in the midst of a sentence. “Alexander, aren’t you going to tell your mother?“
He looked at her blankly, as though he’d forgotten who she was. Then he shook his head.
“No, I think not. It would—upset her dreadfully.”
He seemed to be having a hard time getting the words out.
“I—she—never would—”
“Believe there was an honest-to-God skeleton in the family closet, as one might say?” Harry pounded him on the shoulder. “Relax, old buddy. Bask in the reflected limelight. Ready for a freshener?”
Alexander Kelling shook his handsome head. “Not now, thank you. I—I just can’t—”
“Come on, Alex, you’re overreacting. Lord a’mercy, if old Fred ever knew the kind of company he’s getting into! Lots of fun and games next Hallowe’en night, eh? Personally, I think you’re a double barreled fink not to tell Caro. Go on, Leila, you tell her.”
“No, please,” the son insisted. “She’s already disturbed about having to go to Uncle Fred’s funeral tomorrow. You know how she is about changes. This—this would—”
Her husband’s agitation went to Sarah’s heart. She ought to have made him listen, back at the house. It was cruel to spring such a shocker in company, just because he’d pushed her to do something she didn’t want to. At least she could support him now.
“Alexander’s right, Harry. You people don’t realize how moody Aunt Caroline can get. She locks herself in her boudoir and does embroidery on the curtains, which is heartbreaking because the stitches don’t even show up against the pattern. We never know what’s going to set her off, and sometimes she mopes for days. You won’t, Leila, will you?”
Mrs. Lackridge shrugged, causing the dragons printed on her caftan to crawl about in a most unsettling way. “Not if Alex is going to have a snit about it. I must say it doesn’t seem particularly important to me one way or the other. Harry, didn’t you say somebody else was coming?”
“Yes, my pearl of the Orient. A bloke named Bittersohn, who’s some kind of expert on rare jewels. He’s doing a book for us, and I thought he’d get a charge out of meeting Caro.”
Alexander looked at the publisher sharply. “I hope you haven’t made him any promises. You know how Mother is.”
“I do, and I have not. Come to think of it, I’m not sure why I did invite him, except that he’s getting a whopper of a subsidy out of some jewelers’ guild to defray the costs of printing, which automatically makes him our Fair-haired Boy of the Month despite the fact that he’s a trifle on the swart and Semitic side. Right, Bob?”
“Right, Chief,” the elf replied smartly, helping himself to a large handful of salted peanuts.
“Trust a Jew to know where to pick the lettuce.”
There were several things about Harry Lackridge that annoyed Sarah. This attitude of his toward all non-Wasps was one of them.
“I thought anti-Semitism was passé,” she snapped.
Her host raised a colorless eyebrow. “Who’s anti? Business being what it is these days, we could hardly be more pro. Right, Bob?”
“Right, Chief.”
Young Dee took more peanuts. Probably he knew more or less what his chances were of getting an edible dinner. Most times it was Sarah who ate the peanuts. She felt a twinge of fellow-feeling for him, although she did wish he weren’t quite so ready with his, “Yes, Chief.” That was hardly fair, to fault Harry’s employee for agreeing with a boss who could, she suspected, be something of a tyrant.
Apparently the jewelry expert was in no hurry to push his way into their group. He didn’t show up until they were well along with their drinks, and he didn’t look as if he’d made any special effort to impress them. In contrast to Alexander’s somber finery, Harry’s purple velvet Edwardian smoking jacket, and Bob Dee’s turtleneck jersey and dashing plaid blazer, Bittersohn had on a dark gray worsted suit, a plain white shirt, and an unassuming tie. His hair was brown, his eyes were either blue or gray, and his complexion was closer to fair than swarthy. Nevertheless, there was something about him that made the other men look washed-out by comparison.
“Hope I haven’t held you up, Mrs. Lackridge,” he apologized. “I was watching the news and the time got away from me. Did you happen to see Channel Seven at six o’clock? They had a thing on about a family that wants to bury some old uncle in one of your historic tombs. When they opened the vault, they found the skeleton of a chorus girl who’d been missing for almost thirty years.”
“Yes, we saw it.”
“Quite a show, wasn’t it? This pop-eyed Colonel Blimp character sounding off about outrage and desecration, and a skinny little kid with a red nose trying to shut him up and preserve the dignity of the family. Kelling, I believe the name was. You don’t happen to know them?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Lackridge, “yes. The gentleman with his foot in his mouth, people, is Max Bittersohn. And reading from left to right we have Caroline Kelling, Alexander Kelling, and in living color up to and including the red nose, Sarah Kelling.”
“My God,” said Bittersohn.
He walked over to the older pair, hesitated for a second as people always did when struck for the first time by Alexander’s incredible beauty, then shook the stiff hand that was automatically held out to him.
“How do you do, sir?”
As Caroline made no sign of acknowledging the introduction, he must have assumed he’d annoyed her by his tactlessness, for he added, “Mrs. Kelling, I hope I haven’t offended you or your daughter.”
“My mother does not see or hear,” said Alexander in a dead flat voice.
“Sarah is my wife.”
“Flubbed it all around, Max,” said his host with no sign of concern. “What are you drinking?”
“Got any strychnine?”
“Not till after you deliver your typescript. Settle for scotch?”
“Fine.”
The author took his drink and looked around, presumably for a hole to crawl into. Moved by compassion, Sarah beckoned him over.
“Sit here, Mr. Bittersohn. You can admire my red nose and tell me about your book. Are you a jeweler yourself?”
“No, but I had an uncle who ran a hockshop.”
Bittersohn took the place beside her, squeezing Bob Dee over to the far end of the sofa and causing Sarah to regret her charitable impulse. She might have had brains enough to move to the center so she could have one on either side. After having been mistaken for Alexander’s daughter, though, it might be wiser to stay clear of the younger man. In any event, Leila soon sent Dee for more ice, leaving Sarah alone with the writer, which was probably just as well.
Bittersohn must be ten years or so younger than Alexander, which could still put him close to forty. His features were rugged but by no means coarse, and he did have a marvelous head of hair. He’d tried to slick it down, but it kept rising in exuberant waves as he sipped at what was no doubt a tumblerful of cheap straight scotch. Sarah had often said Harry’s drinks were strong enough to curl one’s hair, but she’d never actually seen it happening before.
She started to giggle, then realized what her own drink was doing on top
of the two old-fashioneds Dolph had bought her. She felt as if the sofa were floating, and her eyelids had to be kept from snapping shut by a stern effort of will. For Alexander’s sake, she must stay alert.
For once, Sarah was grateful to Leila for being an impossible hostess. It was a house rule at the Lackridges’ that while Harry might invite his business acquaintances whenever he wished, Leila wasn’t to put herself out for them. The publisher’s wife had hardly bothered to greet Bittersohn, now she was ignoring him and holding forth to Caroline and Alexander about a hearing at the State House, talking with both voice and hands, her thin fingers writhing and twisting in the deaf woman’s palm to keep up with the rapid-fire of her words.
Alexander appeared to be paying close attention. Sarah thought he was using Leila as an excuse to avoid chatting with the man who’d hurt his feelings. He always hated it when strangers mistook him for Sarah’s father. Then she realized he wasn’t doing anything at all but sitting. There was no more life to him than there was to that pile of bones in its rotted finery, waiting now at the city morgue for somebody to claim what was left of Ruby Redd and bury her in a grave of her own. What a ghastly comparison!
Bittersohn was watching Leila’s incredibly swift fingers, fascinated as people always were. After a moment he asked Sarah, “Has your—Mrs. Kelling always been like that?”
“Oh, no,” Sarah told him. “It didn’t happen till about thirty years ago, when she was in her forties. She was in a boating accident. She went deaf right away, but the blindness came on gradually. I can remember when Aunt Caroline could still see.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Forever. Her husband was distantly related to both my parents, and we used to live practically around the corner from them. Alexander used to be my baby-sitter. Weren’t you, darling?” she called across the room in a sudden panicky urge to get some kind of reaction out of him.
Perhaps he didn’t hear, at least he didn’t respond. Bittersohn might have noticed Sarah’s hands clenching. He said quickly, “How did the accident happen?”
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