“I’ll ask my Uncle Jem,” Sarah was through being a heroine.
“Good. And keep that phone number I gave you handy just in case, eh?”
“Is that part of your job, too?”
Sarah smiled at him and he smiled back.
“Sure. I’ll be in touch.”
He was gone and she was alone again, but not for long. Just about teatime, Edgar Merton came to call. Seeing that dapper figure on the doorstep, Sarah felt a surge of utter panic. She forced herself not to show it, though she couldn’t manage much in the way of a cordial greeting. That was all right, he’d hardly expect a new widow to bubble over with enthusiasm. If he actually was Caroline’s “little love,” he himself must be feeling a terrible sense of loss.
If he was, he didn’t show it. He spoke of Caroline as a gallant lady whom he’d admired and respected. He was sorry she was dead, but clearly far from desolated. He was much more concerned about Sarah herself, how she was bearing up, what were her plans, whether there was some way he might make himself useful to her. On this last subject he became so importunate that Sarah began to simmer. Why couldn’t he have made himself useful to Aunt Caroline when she’d spent all Uncle Gilbert’s money paying off the blackmailers?
Then she remembered they hadn’t yet proved Edgar was the man, and felt ashamed of herself for judging him.
“Sit still, I’m going to put the kettle on. You’d like tea, wouldn’t you?”
“That would be delightful,” he replied in a somewhat puzzled tone, “but doesn’t Edith usually take care of culinary matters?”
How did she answer this one? Of course people would find out sooner or later that the old retainer was no longer here, but Sarah wasn’t keen on having it known just now that she was alone in the house. She decided to say Edith wasn’t feeling very well.
“Are you sure she’s not just angling for attention?” he replied. “I know this has been a shock to her, as it has to all of us, but this is no time for her to give way. She ought to be thinking of your convenience and comfort. Perhaps, as an old friend of the family, I might nip down and have a word with her? Ginger her up a bit?”
“She’s not here,” Sarah had to tell him then. “She’s gone out to her nephew’s.”
“Leaving you in the lurch? That’s a fine thing, I must say! If she was well enough to travel—”
“He came and got her in his van. We all agreed it was the best thing to do. I forget, do you take cream or lemon?”
“Oh dear, have I made so little impression on your memory? Lemon, please, and just a speck of sugar.”
Sarah wished she hadn’t offered tea, now she was stuck with him for at least another half hour. Edgar’s manner was really strangely frisky in view of the circumstances. Was he beginning to go soft in the head, like Alice? She gave him the stack of condolences to sort as a sobering influence, and took her time about fixing the tray. When she got back, he greeted her like a long-lost daughter.
Or would it be a daughter? Did daughters get their hands patted so often? Incredible as it seemed, she was forced to wonder if Edgar was, as Aunt Emma would say, making up to her.
“Yes, this is a terrible loss. I remember Caroline as a beautiful young woman. I myself was a child at the time, of course, though I trust I was never so ungallant as to remind her of the difference in our ages.”
“I trust you weren’t, either,” Sarah thought, “because you’d have been brought up short if you’d tried.”
What kind of fool did he think she was? He’d been at Harvard with Uncle Mortimer, who was Class of ’26, and judging from Uncle Mort’s reminiscences, Edgar had been no infant prodigy.
He wasn’t being very clever now, laying it on so thick about her fortitude, courage, presence of mind, and how lovely she looked in her grief, which was an outright lie because she looked ghastly and knew it. At last he got down to business.
“Knowing you were accustomed to the companionship of a man whom I may venture to consider my contemporary, and being painfully aware that my own bereavement may take place any day now—”
This was too much! White to the nostrils, Sarah got up and began rattling cups back on the tray. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Edgar, I didn’t realize it was so late. I have to be somewhere soon, and I’ve barely time to change.”
He was too well-bred to do anything but get up and go, though not without a few more tender pressings and a fervent promise to call again soon. Was the old goat actually intending to offer a conditional proposal of marriage before the flowers were dead on Alexander’s grave? Surely he wouldn’t have the atrocious taste to go that far, but he must be paving the way for something.
One thing certain, he couldn’t have cared any more for Caroline Kelling than he did for Alice Merton. That long hearts-and-flowers courtship had been nothing more than his way of keeping another possible meal ticket on the string in case the doctors’ bills ate up Alice’s money before she died. With Caroline gone, he was already trying to line up a substitute. Was this what Aunt Caroline had eaten her heart out for so many years? Could a woman of her mentality ever have been taken in by such a lightweight?
Probably, if she wanted to be badly enough. Sarah dumped the tea things in the sink and went to call Uncle Jem. Egbert was awfully sorry, Miss Sarah, but the boss was sick in bed with a cold he’d caught at the funeral, and there was no sense taking the phone to him because he’d lost his voice, which was one consolation from Egbert’s point of view.
Sarah said, “Oh, that’s too bad. Give him my love and tell him to take care of himself,” and hung up. Now what? Who else might be willing to come on such short notice? Leila would, if she was around, but Sarah couldn’t ask Mrs. Lackridge to come and hold her hand after having delivered that blast about minding her own business, and she didn’t want her, anyway. And everybody else was so old, or so far away.
She could drive out to Chestnut Hill and sleep over at Aunt Appie’s or the Protheroes’, but they’d want to know why Edith wasn’t around and why Sarah was so squeamish about staying alone, and a lot of other whys that Sarah wasn’t ready to talk about—yet. She’s made her bed, she might as well go upstairs and lie in it.
25
IT WAS FAR TOO early for that, though. Worn out as she was, Sarah knew she’d only drop off for a few hours, then wake up with a long, dark night ahead of her. She ought to eat some dinner, too, though she wouldn’t be hungry for a couple of hours now that she’d had tea. She might as well get back to her thank-you notes, work till eight or thereabout then fix herself a snack and take another good soak in that elegant pink tub of Aunt Caroline’s. After that, one could always fall back on William James.
She turned on the radio for company and made herself concentrate on writing. The music on WCRB was soothing, but it soon gave way to news and Sarah found that listening to other people’s tragedies was too harsh a reminder of her own. She tried switching stations, got more of the same, switched off the set. She looked at her pile of notes, decided she couldn’t stand the sight of one more kind word, slammed down her pen, went around drawing the shades, found herself pacing through the empty house like the tigress at Franklin Park Zoo she and Alexander used to feel so sorry for.
This was horrible! She’d almost rather see Edgar Merton back than endure any more of her own depressing company. She was on the verge of calling Anora Protheroe to beg a night’s lodging and brave the inquisition when the doorbell rang again. It was Bob Dee, with a flat white pasteboard carton and a brown paper bag.
“I hope you’re in the mood for pizza and beer. I couldn’t think what else to bring.”
“You didn’t have to bring me anything, but what a lovely idea. Come in, Bob. I was just thinking I must do something about dinner, now I shan’t have to. Why don’t we eat in here in front of the fire? I’ll get some plates and glasses.”
“Hey, you don’t have to bother. At the pad we eat with our fingers and drink out of the cans. Saves washing up.”
“I’m
afraid several generations of Kellings would turn over in their graves if I tried that. Put on another log, will you, Bob? I’ll only be a minute.”
Pizza in the drawing room with an unattached male might not be the height of propriety for a woman in her circumstances, but at least it was a change. Bob Dee might be a nincompoop, but he was cheerful and forgiving. And young. Sarah ate the soggy, stringy, spicy pastry, drank her beer, and let him prattle.
For a while she rather enjoyed herself. One of the tall cans was all the beer she could manage, though, and Dee was obviously not about to let the rest of the six-pack go to waste. The more he drank, the louder and sillier he got. When she dropped a hint that the party was over, he horrified her by turning amorous.
“Hey, the night is young and you’re so beautiful. How about it, beautiful?”
“Bob, would you please bear in mind that I’ve just lost my husband?”
“I’m bearing, I’m bearing. What do you think I came for? Off with the old, on with the new, like it says in Shakespeare. Don’t try to kid me, Sarah. The guy was old enough to be your father, and there’s a very naughty name for screwing around with your old man. I’m sure you wouldn’t do anything naughty. No,” he wrapped an arm around her and puffed beer in her face. “You’re going to be nice. Aren’t you, Sarah?”
She wrenched her body out of his clutch and snatched up the poker. “I’m going to beat your ears off if you don’t get out of here and leave me alone. I was stupid enough to think you came simply out of kindness, but I shan’t make that mistake again. If you bother me any more, I’ll tell Harry Lackridge exactly what sort of person he has working for him.”
For some reason, Dee thought that was pretty funny. “Okay, Sarah, if that’s the way you want to play it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Thanks for the use of your john.”
Sarah slammed the door behind him and put the chain up. She was relieved he hadn’t turned ugly, but thoroughly disgusted with herself for having been such a fool as to let him in. That session with Edgar Merton should have warned her. Everybody thought she was about to fall into a huge fortune. She was going to be a target for every wolf in Boston.
That safe-deposit box full of bricks might turn out to be a blessing in disguise, at that. Once the word got around that Sarah Kelling was flat broke and about to be foreclosed on, at least she wouldn’t be bothered by the likes of Bob Dee. She thrust the empty pizza carton into the fireplace and took a savage pleasure in watching it burn. She gathered up the rest of the litter, took it out to the kitchen, filled the sink with hot water and detergent, and conducted a rite of purification. Getting the dirty dishes out of the way made her feel one degree less soiled herself. A hot bath did more.
Those dreadful curtains she’d meant to get rid of were still hanging in the boudoir. She’d have to attend to that tomorrow, and find some to hang in their place. Bare windows at the front of the house would look awful. Some of Aunt Caroline’s old pals would be sure to notice and wonder why the young widow was in such a hurry to change things. The less attention she attracted, the better for her.
If one were going to stay in the house, it might be fun to redecorate the boudoir for a sitting room. Then she could rent the rooms on the other floors and keep this suite for herself. It would be a way of getting money to pay the mortgage, and there would be people around.
Sarah turned the idea over in her mind. With half a dozen lodgers and what she could make out of freelance illustrating, she just might be able to scrape through. She’d need a certain amount of capital for mattresses, linens, things of that sort. Perhaps she could sell some of the furniture she wouldn’t be needing any more. There were still a number of good pieces in the house, probably because Aunt Caroline hadn’t dared get rid of them for fear people would start asking too many questions about the jewelry. That escritoire might fetch a decent sum. Perhaps Mr. Bittersohn would know how to market it so she wouldn’t get skinned.
And how did she know Mr. Bittersohn himself wouldn’t skin her? She mustn’t start thinking of him as Sir Galahad just because he hadn’t yet made a pass at her. Why should he? He knew she didn’t have any money. Sarah whacked at her pillows to plump them up, and reached for William James.
That incident with Bob Dee must have left her even more shaken than she realized. She read a full twelve pages before she managed to get to sleep. Punctually at midnight, she was awakened by the telephone on the night stand beside her bed. When she picked it up and said hello, nobody answered, but she could hear heavy breathing. Some drunk who’d got a wrong number, no doubt. She slammed down the receiver and tried to get back to sleep.
Fifteen minutes later to the second, the phone rang again. Again there was no voice on the line, only that same breathy sound. When it happened a third time at half-past twelve, she realized she was being deliberately harassed. She picked up the receiver to break the connection and put it back without answering.
This must have been what Bob Dee had in mind when he said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” It was exactly the sort of spiteful nonsense he’d think was funny. She’d take the receiver off the hook, set the phone outside her door so she wouldn’t have to listen to the telephone company making noises on the line, and let him entertain himself getting a busy signal.
But what if Mr. Bittersohn took it into his head to check up on her, and went into another swivet because he couldn’t get through? Late as it was, she’d better call and explain why the phone would be out of commission. Sarah turned on the light, read off the number he’d dictated to her, and dialed. To her relief, he answered right away.
“This is Sarah Kelling,” she said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, not at all. I was sitting here reading. What’s up?”
“Nothing, really. Some pest is calling up every fifteen minutes and breathing at me. I’m going to take the receiver off the hook, but I thought I should let you know in case you tried to call for any reason.”
“How long has it been going on?”
“Since midnight. He’s done it three times so far.”
“How do you know it’s a he?”
“I don’t. It’s just that I had a—a rather silly experience with our mutual friend Bob Dee this evening, and I thought it might be his notion of a practical joke.”
“Mrs. Kelling, I don’t think you ought to take anything for granted, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to tie up your telephone. I’d like to come over, if you don’t mind, and be on hand when the next call comes in. Wait five minutes, then come downstairs and turn on the outside light. Don’t open the door till you make darn sure you know who it is. I’ll give five short rings. Okay?”
Sarah started to say, “If you really think—” realized he’d already rung off, and started putting on her bathrobe and slippers.
But what if it was Bittersohn himself who was making the calls so that she’d give him an excuse to come over—as she’d just done? Why on earth would he do a thing like that? She mustn’t get paranoid. She mustn’t be stupid, either. She wouldn’t go down there in her nightgown, and she would keep that poker handy, just in case.
Sarah put on slacks and a sweater, shoved her feet into woolly slippers because the floor was cold, and padded silently downstairs. It wasn’t five minutes yet, but her nerves wouldn’t let her sit up there cold-bloodedly watching the clock hands inch around.
A cup of hot coffee mightn’t be a bad idea. She was so wide-awake already that a little caffeine wasn’t going to make any difference. Not bothering to turn on a light because she knew the way so well, Sarah went out to the kitchen and was about to put the pot under the faucet when she heard a noise.
Of course one was always hearing things in the city: trucks and fire engines going by, students whooping it up on the sidewalk, drunks being sick in the alley. This noise was none of those. It sounded as if somebody was trying to take the cellar door off its hinges.
She didn’t know what put that notion into her head, but it was simple enough
to check. The back entry was directly below the kitchen window. Thankful that she hadn’t put on a light or made any racket herself, she flattened her nose against the pane and looked down.
Yes, there was somebody, hard at work. She could see a dull gleam from the shaft of some long tool he was using, probably a big screwdriver. She thought it must be a man because he appeared to be working with no great effort, and it must take real strength to budge those rusted-in screws. All she was actually able to make out was a large dark blob and a couple of whitish oblongs perhaps ten inches high sitting on the pavement beside him. Were those his tool boxes? Why more than one?
Whatever they were, he’d better get them out of there fast. Moved by exasperation to recklessness, Sarah ran boiling hot water into a pail, eased the window open, and dumped the bucketful square on his head.
It must have burned, it certainly shocked. Whoever was there dropped whatever he had and took off like the proverbial scalded cat. She was filling the kettle again in case he came back for his tools when the doorbell rang five quick tings.
Before she cracked open the door on its chain, she made very sure it was Bittersohn. Even then, she wasn’t ready to let him in.
“Turn around slowly under the light so I can get a good look at your coat.”
“If you want,” he said in surprise. “Any special reason?”
“I want to see if you’re wet. I just poured a bucket of hot water on somebody who was trying to break in from the alley.”
“My God, woman, you’re dangerous! No, fortunately, I’m dry. I hope you’re not going to try any assault and battery on me.”
“Don’t push me, then. I threatened Bob Dee with a poker this evening.”
“Too bad you didn’t let him have it. What did he do?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Okay, you don’t have to. What happened to the burglar?”
Family Vault Page 22