Family Vault

by Charlotte MacLeod

  It wasn’t a bad exit line, but she realized at once that she was foolish to go so soon. She ought to have waited to see what style of raincoat the man was wearing, and she certainly should have visited the convenience before committing herself to another half-hour’s driving. Getting back to Boston before he did wasn’t going to accomplish anything.

  If Bittersohn’s meeting her like this was no more than a wild coincidence, he’d be likely to mention the fact to Harry Lackridge, who’d tell Leila, who’d pass it on to Caroline and Alexander, who would insist on knowing what she’d been up to and why. God alone knew what might happen then.

  If Bittersohn didn’t say anything, she’d be forever wondering if he had some special reason to keep quiet, which would be lovely since there was absolutely no way she could get out of working with him. Now that Harry had decreed Sarah was to do those drawings, Sarah would deliver, or she’d never hear the end of it.

  How could this meeting have been a coincidence? The most reasonable assumption was that Bittersohn had happened to notice Sarah heading for the garage, which wasn’t far from the publishing house, and decided to find out where she was going by herself in such a downpour—but why? She’d met a number of men who assumed the young wife of an elderly husband must be looking for something she wasn’t getting, but if he thought that, why follow her all the way to Ireson’s Landing and back? Why not simply stop her and ask if she’d like to have a drink or go to a coffeehouse with him, right there on Charles Street? He could always use the excuse of wanting to discuss the artwork for his book.

  For some reason, Mrs. Wandelowski popped into Sarah’s head. What was it the landlady’s doctor had accused her of, wanting to get the dirt on some male relative so she could blackmail him into buying her a mink, which was the last thing on earth she’d ever want? Was the idea of being followed so ridiculous, after all?

  Suppose, for instance, Max Bittersohn had seen Alexander Kelling’s wife sneaking down the Hill alone. Wouldn’t it be natural for him to think she might be slipping out to meet a lover? Might he not wonder who the man was, and think it might be to his advantage to find out? There again, why? Not to pressure Sarah into doing his piddling drawings for nothing, certainly, he’d been genuinely embarrassed about that. It would have to be something big.

  The Kelling jewels were big. If Bittersohn was the expert he claimed to be, he must have a far better idea than the family did about what such a collection might be valued at in today’s market. That ruby parure alone must be worth a small fortune. Whatever was she going to do with it when she got it? The mere thought of rubies gave her the horrors.

  Maybe Bittersohn had some ideas about that. If he’d had any notion of coercing Caroline Kelling into letting him into that bank vault, he’d wasted an evening. Even if he’d caught Sarah in the midst of an orgy, Aunt Caroline would only laugh in his face and tell him to go peddle his findings wherever he liked. What did she care if people sneered and gossiped when she could neither see nor hear them? Should scandal cause a divorce, she’d get back her son’s undivided attention, and that wouldn’t break her heart.

  The only way anyone could threaten Caroline Kelling would be through Alexander. If Bittersohn was the one who’d followed Sarah down the path this evening, he was now in a position to do that He knew from the talk at the Lackridges’ that Alexander had known Ruby Redd. He knew the vault had been bricked up. If he saw her take that brick from her handbag and compare it to the ones in the wall, he’d have to be an awful idiot not to draw the obvious inference, and he looked to be anything but that. He could have gone down to the wall after she left, found the brick where she’d dropped it, and made his own comparison. Perhaps he’d kept the brick.

  What if he did? How could he prove she’d brought it from the vault? No picture was made of the barrier it was part of except her own sketch, and she’d destroyed that.

  No, she hadn’t. She’d torn it up and thrown away the pieces, which wasn’t the same thing at all. What if he’d picked them up and pieced them together? Oh, why in God’s name hadn’t she buried them, or rubbed them to pulp in the mud?

  A car honked frantically. Sarah flinched and pulled back into her own lane. She’d better forget about Max Bittersohn for now and concentrate on getting home alive.

  10

  SHE MADE IT BACK to Charles Street more by luck than by skill. To her astonishment, the clock in the garage said it was only a little after ten. Around here, that was barely the shank of the evening. Her chance of meeting somebody else she knew was all too good. Sarah ducked into the corner grocery that never seemed to close, and spent her last dollar on a quart of milk and a loaf of bread.

  That was an intelligent move. She’d hardly got out the door with her bundle, when she heard somebody calling her name.

  “Mrs. Kelling? Hi, Sarah, I thought that looked like you. I’m Bob Dee from Harry’s office, in case you don’t remember.”

  “Of course I do,” said Sarah with what little cordiality she could muster. “Isn’t this a wretched night?”

  “You can say that again. What brings you out?”

  “I happened to remember we’ve run out of some things we’ll need for breakfast, and my husband has a bug. Otherwise he’d be here getting soaked instead of me. Are you a Hillite, too?”

  “Isn’t everybody? I share a squalid pad with a couple of guys on Anderson Street. Any chance of luring you up for a drink?”

  “Not tonight, I’m afraid. I must get home in case my husband wakes up. He’d have fits if he knew I’m out alone at this hour.”

  “Then I’ll walk you back.”

  Dee took the wet paper bag from her and fell into step. “This saves me a phone call. We were wondering if you’d be willing to do some artwork for us. Harry says you’re quite an artist.”

  “How kind of him,” Sarah replied guardedly. “What’s your project?”

  “Remember that author who was with us Monday night, the guy who mistook you for your husband’s daughter, as who wouldn’t?”

  “The near-sighted Mr. Bittersohn.” Did Dee think he was paying her a compliment? “What about him?”

  “This book of his is giving us a few problems. He’s got a lot of photographs showing clasps and settings and stuff in close-up that he wants to use. We think some of your nice little line sketches would be more appealing.”

  “Also cheaper to reproduce,” Sarah replied. “Harry’s idea is to make him pay for extra artwork while reducing your own production costs, is that it?”

  Dee thought that was pretty funny. “Right on! Why not? Bittersohn’s loaded and God knows we’re not. We honestly do think, though, that drawings would add visual interest, and it’s a chance for you to pick up some extra cash. I don’t know if that’s any consideration for you, living on the opposite side of the Hill from us peasants.”

  “Anybody who lives around here needs all the spare cash he can get, I assure you.”

  Sarah was by no means averse to making money, but she did wonder how valuable her contribution would be in proportion to what Bittersohn might hope to realize out of his book. This sort of thing seldom made the bestseller list, it was more apt to wind up on the remaindered tables at bookstores.

  Whose side was she on, anyway? A little while ago, she’d been thinking Bittersohn might be a blackmailer, now she was seeing him as the innocent pawn in one of Harry Lackridge’s well-known Yankee horse trades. She was not going to turn the job down flat. This would be a welcome task to keep her occupied over the winter while Alexander was squiring his mother to teas and committee meetings. Still, she didn’t like being used, and it was high time Harry found that out.

  “I think what we’d better do,” she said, “is sit down with Mr. Bittersohn and make a list of everything I’m supposed to do and how much it would cost. Then he can make up his own mind whether or not he wants to spend that much extra money.”

  “Harry usually prefers to make his own arrangements,” the young assistant demurred.

 
; “I know he does.”

  Sarah had a shrewd suspicion that what Harry preferred was to charge the author about three times what he paid the artist. “However, I’d rather handle it my way. If you care to work on that basis, let me know and I’ll meet with you and Mr. Bittersohn whenever it’s convenient. Thanks for seeing me home. I shan’t ask you in now, but perhaps you’d like to come another time?”

  “That would be great.” Dee didn’t sound altogether sure it would. “Then I’ll tell Harry what you said, and get back to you later.”

  “Do that. Good night.”

  Sarah took back her soggy bundle and let herself into the house. She kicked off her boots, tiptoed out to the kitchen in her bare feet, got rid of her wet coat and the groceries. Then she sneaked up the back stairs and put the keys back on Alexander’s dresser. He was still sleeping, fortunately.

  At last she was free to shut herself in the bathroom and take stock of her damages. It was a good thing she hadn’t been insane enough to visit Bob Dee’s pad. What would he have thought if he’d seen her under a light, barelegged, battered, looking like a corpse washed up by the tide? Maybe that offer of Bittersohn’s to see her home had been prompted simply by the visual evidence that she wasn’t safe to be out alone.

  She wondered what the author would say when next they met, assuming they ever did. Harry might not give her the chance of doing Bittersohn’s drawings when he found out she wasn’t going to let him manage the business to suit his own notions. Harry could be awfully petty sometimes. No matter, she had graver things to worry about.

  However, she’d done all the worrying she was going to do tonight. Sarah got herself washed and into bed, read two pages of that neverfailing soporific, The Philosophy of William James, and knew no more until she heard her husband in the bathroom at seven o’clock the next morning.

  “Alexander, how do you feel?” she called out.

  When he didn’t answer, she got up and barged into the room. He was standing in front of the open medicine cabinet, staring blankly at the crowded shelves.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked, more sharply than she’d meant to.

  He turned his head in her direction, but she was not at all sure he saw her.

  “What is it, Alexander? Can I get you something?” He only shook his head. She took him by the arm. “You’re going straight back to bed, and stay there.” That roused him a little. “But Mother will be—”

  “No, she won’t. This is her morning for the hairdresser, and Edith will go with her as she always does.”

  “Oh, yes. I forgot.” He managed something like a smile. “You’re getting very bossy, Sadiebelle.”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet. Here, put your feet up.”

  She got him back into bed and settled among the pillows. “Now lie still and behave yourself. I’m going to fix you an eggnog.”

  When she brought back the egg drink, he was asleep again. Sarah left the glass on his night stand and went to give Aunt Caroline a note explaining that Alexander wouldn’t be down.

  Mrs. Kelling flicked her fingertips over the Braille message, said, “Humph,” and ate her breakfast without saying a word to her daughter-in-law. After that, she and Edith set out for the beauty shop she’d patronized ever since she came to the Hill as a bride. She was due for a permanent luckily, so they’d be gone for hours. Edith was carrying a Braille book for her mistress and no doubt looking forward to catching up on the movie magazines herself. The proprietress, who thought Mrs. Kelling was wonderful, would fetch coffee and sandwiches and a good time would be had by all.

  After last night’s soaking, Sarah’s own hair was in desperate need of attention. The budget wouldn’t run to two hairdressing appointments, so she gave herself a shampoo. While she was drying, she busied herself making some minor alterations to a thin silk dress she intended to wear to the tea, because Anora was sure to have the fireplace roaring and the thermostat set at eighty-five.

  The dress was one she could dimly recall her own mother wearing when Sarah was a little girl. No doubt some of the other guests would remember it, too, but she didn’t care. Nobody in that crowd was going to fault a woman for wearing what she had instead of squandering money on the paltry excuse of being in style.

  Nevertheless, as soon as she could get her hands on some ready cash, this and all the other relics were going straight to the Bargain Box and she to Hurwich Brothers for a sumptuous wardrobe that had never known a mothball. How easy it was to beguile one’s mind with trifles. Sarah bit off her thread and went to check on Alexander once more.

  He must have waked long enough to drink his eggnog, since the tumbler was empty and she could not believe he’d pour good food down the bathroom sink. This frugality of his had alternately amused and exasperated her, now she was beginning to wonder if there could be something pathological about it.

  His father, Uncle Gilbert, had been as rich as any of the Kellings, and that was saying a good deal. To be sure, Aunt Caroline’s medical bills must have been enormous, money wasn’t worth what it used to be, and keeping up the two places was getting more expensive every year, even though they ran them both on cheeseparings. Nevertheless, there ought to be a good deal left of Uncle Gilbert’s fortune besides the real estate and the jewelry.

  In spite of that, ever since they had been married, Sarah, her husband, and his mother had all been living on the interest from Sarah’s own inheritance which was a relative pittance by family standards. Sarah knew they had, because Alexander insisted on presenting her annually with an itemized account showing what she’d earned in interest, what they’d spent, and precisely how much was left in the trust fund.

  She’d never fully understood why they lived on her money instead of his. She’d assumed it was proper because Alexander was her legal guardian under the terms of her father’s will, and he wouldn’t do this if it were not in her interest. Besides, they were man and wife, so it was only right to share. But was it right? Ought she to have recognized this miserly streak as a symptom of some deep disturbance? Ought she to be realizing this minute that her husband was having some kind of mental breakdown? Was it possible he’d had one before, and that Ruby Redd was what happened the other time?

  No, it was not possible. Sarah went down to the kitchen and boiled herself an egg for lunch, put on her coat and walked twice around the Public Garden at a furious pace, came back and found Alexander up and dressed, looking like a marble effigy but clearly intending to go to Anora’s tea.

  “Mother’s back,” he said. “She’s upstairs resting.”

  “Why aren’t you?” Sarah retorted.

  “My dear, I slept all morning. I must go and bring the car around.”

  “No, you mustn’t. I’ll do it as soon as I change. I have to run down to Clough and Shackley’s, anyway. By the way,” Sarah added, trying to sound casual, “could you give me a couple of dollars? I have to get some things.”

  This was the family euphemism for articles of feminine hygiene and the one request Alexander was sure to meet without question. He handed over five dollars, as she’d known he would. Now she could put gas in the car before he had a chance to observe that the gauge was down. Goody for her. She’d rather have a flaming row than this grayfaced apathy any day.

  “I’ll fix you a bite before I go upstairs,” she said.

  “Please don’t bother.” He sat back in his father’s chair and closed his eyes.

  Sarah didn’t press the issue. There would be plenty to eat at Anora’s, and he’d hear nagging enough from his mother on the way. She got herself ready and went on her errand. When she got back with the Studebaker, Alexander and his mother were waiting in the library.

  Caroline could have passed today for the younger of the two. Her hair was magnificently coiffed, she had on a lovely violet-colored frock her sister, Marguerite, had picked out for her birthday. Her face had been delicately made up by the hairdresser, her lips touched with the pale rose lipstick she always favored. She looked exactl
y like a beautiful lady going to a party with every intention of enjoying herself, probably because she knew Edgar Merton would be there, too.

  Edgar Merton was what Alexander would turn into if he lived another twenty years: a gentleman of the old school, handsome, quietly distinguished, exquisitely courteous, always impeccably dressed in a style that had never varied during the past fifty years. It was generally supposed that he cherished a lifetime’s adoration of Caroline Kelling, although he had never told anybody so and never would so long as his wife was alive.

  Alice Merton was in a rest home now, practically a vegetable according to last report, and Edgar had a little freedom at last. It was hardly thinkable that he’d care to saddle himself with another such responsibility as Caroline after having had to cater to Alice all these years. Still, he played backgammon with her three or four times a week, and when he tried to converse with her in sign language, Caroline did not pull her hand away and demand that Leila or Alexander do the translating.

  The Kellings were putting their coats on when Leila called in a fury to say that Harry had taken her car and gone off God knew where till God knew when without saying a word as usual, and could they give her a lift to Anora’s?

  “Of course,” Sarah told her. “We’ll pick you up in about three minutes.”

  That was a stroke of luck. Leila could keep Caroline amused and let Alexander rest. Sarah didn’t ask if he’d prefer to drive now that his mother had someone to talk with, and he didn’t offer. It seemed about all he could manage to get out and open the door for Leila, who piled in beside Caroline and went on airing her grievance.

  “I ought to be used to it by now, I suppose. I’ve put up with him for twenty-three years, don’t ask me why. Just picks up his heels and goes, comes back when he feels like it. Probably got a woman somewhere. What do you think, Caro?”

  Caroline thought the idea was uproarious. She was in tearing spirits this afternoon. Could there be a little more going on between her and Edgar than she was letting anybody know? What absolute Heaven it would be if Edgar should inherit Alice’s fortune and take Aunt Caroline off their hands! Even now they’d make a handsome couple, although he was almost a full head shorter than she.