The Odd Job

by Charlotte MacLeod

  Invariably, the collar would be fastened by a really good antique gold bar pin set with seed pearls and three sapphires of small size but fine quality that must be a family heirloom. Her salt-and-pepper hair was worn in a bun at the back of her neck, held in place by four tortoiseshell hairpins and a next-to-invisible hairnet. She smelled, only faintly, of violet talcum powder. Her shoes were laced-up black oxfords with one-inch heels. Her stockings were a darkish taupe that was neither sheer nor opaque. They gave the impression that she must have bought a job lot of them sometime in the dim past and was still trying to use them up, as why should she not? Miss Tremblay had achieved a style that was right for her and saw no reason to change it. Sarah found her wholly admirable.

  The office protocol was familiar. Sarah smiled, not too broadly, and refrained from offering a handshake. “Good morning, Miss Tremblay. It’s nice to see the sun after that downpour last night.”

  “Yes, that was quite something. But at least the rain washed some of the dirt and trash off the sidewalks. I believe Mr. Redfern is ready for you, Mrs. Bittersohn. Just let me make sure he’s not on the phone.”

  This was part of the ritual. As always, Miss Tremblay stepped noiselessly across the dark-green heavy-duty indoor-outdoor carpeting and opened the inner office door exactly eight inches. “Mrs. Bittersohn is here, Mr. Redfern.”

  “Ah, good, right on time. Thank you, Miss Tremblay. Please show her in.”

  As always, Miss Tremblay opened the door wider and stepped back. As always, Sarah found Mr. Redfern making a fussy gesture with a sheaf of papers; she’d often wondered whether he kept that same sheaf handy as yet another part of the ritual. As always, he laid them down with exaggerated care on his immaculate green desk blotter and half-rose to shake hands across his desk rather than waste his valuable time walking around it.

  Not that she cared a fiddle or a fig, but it did occur to Sarah that Mr. Redfern would have walked around if his visitor had been Cousin Dolph or Uncle Jem. And this notwithstanding Jeremy Kelling’s having committed the fiscal sin of dipping into his capital and Adolphus Kelling’s squandering the better part of his late uncle Frederick Kelling’s enormous fortune remodeling an old factory on prime waterfront land into a far too lavishly appointed communal residence for indigent senior citizens.

  However egregious their follies, Mr. Redfern would continue to hold the family in high esteem. A Kelling was, after all, a Kelling; and most of them, even scatty Appollonia, still had sense enough to keep their legal affairs in his capable, conservative hands. The truly horrific way in which the late Caroline Kelling had mishandled her dead husband’s estate had caused Mr. Redfern extreme perturbation, as well it might; but his darkest day of all had dawned when young Sarah Kelling Kelling married out of the family and out of her caste and turned over the major portion of her legal business to her second husband’s uncle, Attorney Jacob Bittersohn.

  Sarah had, however, left the Tulip Street property in Redfern’s hands, so he could hardly be too cavalier in his greeting. As always, he ran through a litany of inquiries as to the well-being of various Kelling connections—but not a word about the Bittersohns—before he clasped his hands, as always, over his gold tie clip in the shape of Justitia’s scales and got down to business.

  “Now then, Sarah.”

  Mr. Redfern had been calling the late Walter Kelling’s only child by her first name ever since she’d first appeared at his office in white knee socks and black patent Mary Janes. Sarah would no more have expected him to drop the habit at this late date than she would have ventured to call him James. He cleared his throat, as always, and switched smoothly from old family friend to trusted member of the Massachusetts Bar.

  “We seem to have a somewhat distressing circumstance on our hands, Sarah. As you may recall, about six years ago, if memory serves me, you recommended me to Mrs. Dolores Tawne, a member of the staff at the Wilkins Museum, who wanted a will drawn up. This was a small matter. I drew up the will in accordance with her wishes and, quite frankly, gave neither the client nor the will any further thought until about six o’clock yesterday evening, when I received a telephone call from the Boston Police Department.”

  Mr. Redfern rather went in for dramatic pauses, but Sarah was in no mood for histrionics. “Yes, I know,” she said. “Two of the museum guards called me at half past five. She’d been found dead in the garden and they didn’t know what to do. I told them to call the police and the head of trustees; evidently they did.”

  “Er—yes. Her body had, I was told, been taken to the city morgue in accordance with usual procedure. Her handbag had been opened at the scene of her demise by the officer in charge, in order to discover her place of residence and inform her family, if any. They had thus far been unable to locate a next of kin and were looking for an executor. Fortunately I was able to give them your name and your Tulip Street address.”

  “But why me?”

  The lawyer went so far as to raise an eyebrow. “Because you are the executrix, of course. Sarah, is it possible that Mrs. Tawne failed to get your permission before she so named you in her will?”

  “Oh yes, quite possible. Dolores was like that. I don’t know why she didn’t pick on Cousin Brooks, she’d known him longer than she did me.” But that was before he’d married the beauteous Theonia. Oh, well. Sarah had been getting stuck with odd jobs ever since she was twelve years old, why make a fuss over this one? Somebody had to do it and really, who else was there?

  “All right, Mr. Redfern,” she said. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Ar-hunh.” True to form, Mr. Redfern, having cleared his throat, would now take out his handkerchief and use it to polish the lenses of his eyeglasses. As always, he didn’t speak again until the glasses were safely and spotlessly perched again on his sharp little beak of a nose, the handkerchief refolded and tucked just so into his breast pocket, and the fingers of both hands tented together over the tiny effigy of Justice on his tie clip.

  “In principle, Sarah, what the executor—or, as in your case, the executrix—must first do is to procure a signed court order making him or her—in this case, you—responsible for the deceased’s estate and everything pertaining to it.”

  Oh dear. “And how do I get the court order?”

  “In point of fact, you already have it, thanks to the—ah—diligence of some early-rising underling from the offices of Mr. Elwyn Fleesom Turbot, who brought it here to me immediately after having procured it from the court officer. If you’ll just sign this receipt for the record …”

  In for a penny, in for a headache. Sarah took out the elegant gold pen with a small ruby on the tip that Max had given her to add a touch of glamour to her ledger-keeping and appended her signature. Mr. Redfern nodded his approval.

  “That’s it, Sarah. You are now officially in full charge of the Tawne estate, for whatever it may be worth. There will be certain formalities, such as advertising for possible heirs, which I am quite ready to perform as lawyer for the estate, under your direction and with your consent. Do I have your permission to do so?”

  “Yes, please.” Sarah hoped there’d be money enough to pay for Redfern’s services but the odds were that she herself would wind up footing the bill. Well, as Max’s mother was given to saying, what could you do? “Just tell me where to start.”

  “Ah, yes. Your most immediate duty should be to make a judgment with regard to the—er—remains and to arrange the funeral, should you deem it appropriate to hold one. Any costs incurred in cremation or interment may be billed to the estate, unless you decide to pay them yourself and claim reimbursement after the will has been duly proved and whatever funds there are made available for distribution. I might just mention that there is no need to tie up your own money; funeral directors are quite accustomed to extending credit.”

  “For how long?”

  Redfern shrugged. “For as long as it takes, is the best answer I can give you. Usually about a year. This brings us to your next most immediate duty, w
hich is to secure the original will. Since Mrs. Tawne elected to keep it in her own hands, leaving only a copy in our files, I assume the original will turn up either among her papers or in her savings deposit box, if she has one. Once you’ve located the will, all you need to do is bring it to me and I’ll initiate the process of probate. We may assume that the judge of the probate court will declare the will to be legal and reasonable, since I can think of no reason why it should not be so found. This takes about a month, usually, after which the process of probate can begin. Probate entails settling all outstanding debts and liens against the estate, such as income tax and so forth. I did not get the impression that Mrs. Tawne’s estate would be either large or complicated, but one never knows.”

  “That’s true enough,” said Sarah. “Now I suppose the next thing is for me to go to the police station and collect Dolores’s keys. May I use your phone to call and see if they’re available?”

  “They are.” Mr. Redfern shuffled a few more papers in a haphazard way. “Lieutenant Harris left a message on our machine to the effect that the keys to Mrs. Tawne’s—er—studio would be made available to you at the station on presentation of your court order. In fact, there’s no way he could keep you out,” the lawyer added a bit spitefully. “He added that Mrs. Tawne’s handbag and her set of keys to the museum are being kept as evidence, though he didn’t say to what. He also left her address. It’s—”

  “In the Fenway Studio Building on Ipswich Street,” Sarah finished for him. “I’ve been there a few times. I’d better get over to the station, then.”

  “Now, Sarah, there’s no need for you to rush off. Perhaps you might care for a cup of coffee, I’m sure Miss Tremblay would be glad to—”

  Sarah didn’t think Miss Tremblay would be at all pleased to have her morning’s routine disturbed by a cup of coffee; she wondered whether the lawyer’s offer had been prompted by solicitude for her delicate sensibilities or by plain, old-fashioned snoopiness. “Mr. Redfern,” she said, “you’re not by any chance trying to spare my fragile feminine feelings? I was the first to suspect that Dolores Tawne was murdered by having an old-fashioned hatpin shoved into her spinal cord. In fact, I’m the one who turned over the hatpin to Lieutenant Harris and suggested having the medical examiner look for a pinhole wound at the nape of her neck.”

  “Really, Sarah!” The old lawyer’s neck was as red as a turkey cock’s wattle. “I must say I—God in heaven, what would your father have thought?”

  “I can’t imagine what my father would have thought, Mr. Redfern, but you may rest assured that he wouldn’t have been thinking about me. Now is there anything else I ought to know before I leave? What about money to pay the light bill and so forth? May I draw on Dolores’s bank account?”

  Redfern took a few deep breaths and got back on familiar ground. “You would be best advised to have the bank transfer any checking or savings accounts to your own name as trustee for the estate of Dolores Tawne. Do you know where Mrs. Tawne did her banking?”

  “I think it’s the High Street Bank, but I’m not sure,” Sarah answered. “Dolores was more what might be called a business acquaintance than a close friend. Brooks knew her best. He used to work with her off and on at the museum. They socialized to some extent, but were never on intimate terms as far as I know. Dolores never seemed to me to be the sort of person who needed close relationships, she was too self-sufficient.”

  “Too full of herself” would have been a more accurate description but Sarah could never have said so, at least not to stuffy old Mr. Redfern. “I’d better be getting along. Thank you for letting me take up so much of your time.”

  “Not at all, that’s what I’m here for.”

  Redfern was all set for a long, fatherly chat, but Sarah was not about to oblige him. She skated over the bare facts as fast as she decently could, then picked up her gloves, handbag, and borrowed stole. “I’ll bring you the will when I find it. Thanks for your help.”

  Once outside the building, she could see the wind puffing up dust and debris from the pavement; she hugged Theonia’s stole around her and decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take time out for some shopping. Her silk suit was too light, this deep-crimson stole too eye-catching. What she needed was a seasonable outfit as different as possible from what she had on without being freakish. In fact, the duller might be the better.

  Chapter 10

  TAKING TIME OUT FOR a change of wardrobe before Sarah picked up the keys from Harris and pushed on to Ipswich Street would make no difference to the dead woman now. If there was anything to certain theories held by some of Theonia’s former colleagues in the transcendental line, Dolores must be busy dusting off the astral plane by now and having the time of her transmigrated life. Since nobody had ever been able to tell Sarah for sure what would happen to the liberated spirit once the bar had been crossed, she was content to hope for the best and turn her attention to more mundane affairs.

  A mannequin in a window on Newbury Street caught her eye; it displayed a warm-looking green jacket and a kilt that was mostly green and blue with a thin red stripe. Sarah hadn’t bought anything green in ages, she stepped inside and started browsing through the racks. She decided against the green; the businesslike young woman who left the shop half an hour later was soberly but tastefully clad in a darkish-gray flannel jacket and skirt and a lighter-gray silk shirt. Her light-brown hair was mostly hidden beneath a gray felt fedora with a black grosgrain band such as Kelling ladies had been wearing since the days of the Gibson girl, whether anybody else was wearing them or not. Her pearl earrings were small but genuine. She wore black kid gloves and low-heeled black pumps, she carried a black handbag that could have been her grandmother’s and a paper shopping bag that bore the name of the fairly exclusive boutique she had just patronized.

  Anybody looking inside the bag might have glimpsed a fuzzy mass of crimson mohair and possibly a flash of blue silk, but nobody did because pink tissue in multiple layers had been so neatly tucked in on top. The bearer might have been executive secretary to somebody important, or a rising young member of the bar. A more discerning eye would have spied a dedicated young matron of the so-called leisured class on her way to organize something respectable and meritorious.

  Sarah Kelling Bittersohn had affairs of her own to organize, she’d better get cracking now that she’d taken on the appropriate protective coloration. There were still Dolores’s keys to be picked up, and the original will to be found. She hadn’t even thought about a funeral, except in passing; she hoped to goodness Dolores had left instructions as to what sort of send-off she wanted.

  It would have made sense, Sarah thought, to ask Mr. Redfern to show her his copy of the will while she was in his office; but he always made such a pother over everything. He’d have insisted on reading the whole document aloud to her with a running commentary in tedious legalese at every whereas and whyfor; she’d have been ready to fly into fits before he got to the parts that mattered.

  Her shopping bag was bulky but not heavy. Rather than take a taxi and get caught up in traffic, she cut across Boylston and legged it for police headquarters. Nobody paid any attention to a small woman in dull, sensible clothes, dull, sensible shoes, and a face-hiding hat. She ducked pedestrians, dodged traffic, and made good time to the station. Lieutenant Harris was not in but he had left an envelope at the desk for her. He’d also instructed a uniformed policeman to drive Mrs. Bittersohn to the Fenway Studio Building and stay with her while she made her search of the late Mrs. Tawne’s apartment.

  That was good news to Sarah; she hadn’t relished the thought of having to ransack a murdered woman’s premises all by herself. Officer Drummond, as he turned out to be, stowed her shopping bag in the back seat of the police car and suggested that she sit up front with him because he’d had to rush an injured dog to the Angell Memorial after a car smash and hadn’t had time yet to brush the hairs off the backseat upholstery. That said, he left her alone and concentrated on his driving while she d
elved into the lieutenant’s envelope.

  As she’d expected, Dolores Tawne’s keys were inside, identified as hers by a cardboard tag on a string. A note written on lined yellow paper with a ballpoint told Sarah what she’d already surmised. According to the medical examiner’s report, the hatpin which Mrs. Bittersohn had brought in was indeed the murder weapon. Whose hand had wielded it was not known and perhaps never would be; a beaded hatpin in a bad state was not the optimum object on which to hunt for fingerprints. As for Mrs. Tawne’s effects, Harris had made a preliminary examination without finding anything that looked to him like a clue. There was a will, but he hadn’t found any bankbooks in her handbag or in the apartment. He hoped Mrs. Bittersohn would have better luck.

  Sarah hoped so too. It was considerate of the lieutenant to have provided her with an escort; although she couldn’t help thinking he’d have been remiss not to, considering what had happened yesterday at the office. Maybe she and Officer Drummond ought to stop at the Little Building after they got through at the studio and check the office for further signs of unauthorized entry or potentially lethal souvenirs. Then again, maybe they oughtn’t. She’d have to think it over. But first things first, and here they were turning into Ipswich Street. She tried not to wish they weren’t.

  As a young member of an old family, Sarah had on more than one occasion been stuck with the task of sorting over the effects of a dead relative for proper disposal. There’d been her mother, who’d died early and slowly of cancer; her father, who’d died before he’d known what ailed him; her gentle, handsome, self-sacrificing first husband and his blind, deaf, imperious mother, who’d died together in the wreck of a 1920 Milburn electric runabout. Those had been the hard ones. There had been other deaths, but always people she’d known well. How was she going to feel when she got upstairs about rummaging through a studio in which she’d set foot only three other times, and those before she’d married Max?