“Nice to have met you, Rovedock,” he said with a curt nod. “But you’re not going?” Appie cried. “I took it for granted you’d be dining with us. Really, it won’t be a speck of trouble. I’ll just pop my casserole into the oven.”
“Aunt Appie, you’ll do nothing of the sort.” Sarah hoped she hadn’t screamed, but suspected she had. “I told you before, you’re here as a guest.”
“Sarah dear, I was only—”
“Trying to be useful. I know. When I want help I shan’t hesitate to ask for it. Until I do, you’re not to volunteer. Fix her drink, Bradley, and tell her to behave herself. Max, shall I keep something hot for you or leave a snack in your room?”
“Don’t bother. I’ll grab something. Enjoy your dinner.”
He was gone. Aunt Appie’s flood of trivia swelled behind him. Sarah went out to the kitchen and slammed the tuna fish casserole into the oven.
Perhaps Bradley was perceptive enough to have noticed there were undercurrents. When Appie had to go upstairs for, as she girlishly put it, personal reasons, he took the opportunity to remark to Sarah, “I hope my staying hasn’t upset your domestic arrangements.”
“I haven’t had time to make any,” Sarah replied. “Max and I just got here this afternoon. I wasn’t expecting Aunt Appie till next week, but Miffy got the bright idea of calling her up and hurrying her along, before I’d even unpacked my toothbrush. For goodness’ sake don’t let Aunt Appie realize what a pickle she’s put me in by coming too early. She’d either slink back to Cambridge in tears or else foul everything up even worse than it is now by pitching in and trying to help. Right now I couldn’t cope with either.”
“Poor little Sarah. I hate having to think of your being forced to cope with anything. It bothers me dreadfully that I wasn’t around when I might have been of some use to you.”
Sarah didn’t care to dwell on what might have been. “Where were you this time?” she asked him. “The Galapagos Islands?”
“I’ve been puttering around down among the Bahamas and the Antilles, mostly, dodging winter. Gets into an old man’s bones, you know.”
His smile was somewhat like Alexander’s, Sarah thought. He used it oftener, but then Bradley Rovedock had a great deal more to smile about. He’d inherited all the money he’d ever need and no encumbrances. Looks and charm weren’t exactly rife among the yacht club set, but Bradley had more of both than anybody else in the group, now that Alexander was gone. He had the yachtsman’s weathered skin, the bleached-out hair, the wrinkles around the eyes from squinting across open water for hours at a stretch, day after day, year after year. He also had the trim figure and the easy carriage of an outdoorsman. Sarah, who was on her second Scotch and probably shouldn’t have been, felt an urge to giggle.
“What’s so funny, little Sarah?”
“Nothing really,” she told him. “I suspect I’m a wee bit drunk. It was just the idea of your old bones. You’ll never change, Bradley.”
“Is that a compliment or a criticism?”
“Right now I’d say it’s a comfort.”
“I’m glad.”
He reached over to brush the back of her hand with the tips of his fingers. Then Appie Kelling came downstairs and it was casserole time. After they’d eaten, Bradley took his leave either out of consideration or because he was afraid he’d be offered a second helping.
That was one thing to be said for her aunt’s casseroles, Sarah thought as she washed up after the meal. Once word got around that she was making them, nobody else would accept Appie’s invitations to take potluck at the Kellings’. Alice B. would pump Bradley tomorrow about what he’d got to eat here, and would draw the correct inference from what he didn’t tell her.
Even Appie herself had fallen back on Alice B.’s clam tarts as an excuse to refuse a larger helping. Sarah set the still almost-full baking dish outdoors for some undiscriminating creature of the night to clean for her, and looked down over the knoll to see whether there was a light in the carriage house window yet. No, Max wasn’t back. Off interviewing a new female assistant, maybe. Why couldn’t he have told her?
Because he was still hurt over Barbara’s desertion, she supposed. Men were like that. Crammed things down where they wouldn’t show, and pretended they weren’t feeling the misery. Women knew enough to cry and complain and make scenes. Sarah felt like making one now.
A fat lot of good it would do her. Aunt Appie would start crashing around with hot milk and mustard plasters or some other abominations and Max wouldn’t even know because he was somewhere else with God-knew-whom.
Maybe he didn’t mix sex with business, as he claimed, but Sarah didn’t believe for one second that he’d gone celibate ever since Barbara had run out on him. Maybe he hadn’t been suffering quite so much as he’d complained about these past few months while he’d allegedly been pining for young widow Kelling to quit grieving after what she’d never had in the first place.
Sarah was no fool. She realized now that what she couldn’t let go of was the might-have-been that never was, the marriage that had lasted seven years without ever becoming a real marriage at all. Alexander had been too overwhelmed by those misfortunes he’d never talked about to get around to the things people were presumed to marry for. Sarah could have had an affair herself, she supposed. Alexander probably would never have noticed and wouldn’t have blamed her much if he had.
But she hadn’t, and she wasn’t about to have one with Max Bittersohn. Meaningful encounters weren’t her sort of thing, nor was that what Max himself wanted. Now she could understand why he was so insistent on getting the knot firmly tied. Or had been, until tonight. Could any man’s ardor survive the kind of summer this was starting out to be?
Sarah couldn’t blame Max for having walked out on Aunt Appie and Bradley Rovedock. If she’d had brains enough, she might have thought up an excuse to go with him. Assuming he’d have wanted her. Maybe all Max needed was a chance to be by himself for a while to think things out. As to what he might be thinking she’d better not speculate if she expected to get any sleep tonight. Sarah went back into the house, finished straightening the kitchen, then sat down with Aunt Appie and the family photograph album.
Chapter 5
LONG AFTER AUNT APPIE had yawned herself off to bed, Sarah stayed downstairs, doing the chores she hadn’t been able to get at earlier, casting glances over at the carriage house far oftener than she meant to. The outside light stayed on, and the inside remained dark. At last she gave up and went to bed.
The new mattress was sublime, the sound of waves breaking against the cliff ought to have been lulling. It was a long time, though, before Sarah got to sleep and still she hadn’t heard any car come up the drive. She woke later than she’d meant to, and then only because Appie Kelling was poking a sloppy cup of lukewarm tea under her nose.
“Surprise!” Appie caroled. “I was up with the birds, communing with the gulls and the terns. Such a glorious morning. Now you lie there and drink your tea, dear. I’ll pop down to the kitchen and whip us up a batch of pancakes.”
“No you won’t.” How Appie always managed to burn something as thin as a pancake to a black crust outside while leaving it raw in the middle was a mystery Sarah had never been able to unravel, nor had she any desire to be faced with it this morning. “Cousin Theonia sent a gorgeous coffee ring that has to be eaten before it goes stale. Anyway, the kitchen is off limits to everybody but me. That’s captain’s orders, Aunt Appie. You’d better remember, or I’ll send a squadron of gulls to bombard you with clamshells. Is that the telephone ringing? Go answer it since you’re champing to be useful. If it’s for me, ask them to hold on a minute.”
“Aye aye, captain.”
Delighted to be of service, any service, Appie sped away. Sarah made a quick trip to the bathroom, splashed cold water over her face because there wasn’t any hot and wouldn’t be until she broke down and lit the heater, then threw on her old corduroy slacks and a sweater, for the morning was still crisp
.
As she ran downstairs, she wondered whether the phone call was from Max. Since last January, when he’d begun occupying her basement room on Tulip Street, she’d gotten used to having him leave the house without fanfare, then call up from Mexico City or somewhere to say he wouldn’t be in to dinner. He’d told her he had nothing urgent on at the moment, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t thought of something by now.
Aunt Appie wasn’t making any noises about calling her to the phone, though. When she got downstairs, Appie clapped a hand over the mouthpiece and hissed, “It’s Miffy.”
That was a relief. Miffy must be after Appie to come over for luncheon and bridge or something. Sarah dodged into the kitchen and began filling the coffeepot. She couldn’t get a clear view of the carriage house from here on account of the sloping ground and the trees between, but she did manage to notice that the outside light had been switched off, and thought she caught a glimpse of his car through the leaves.
No sense waiting breakfast for him. The kitchen clock Mr. Lomax had wound up and set going for her said only half-past eight. Early rising was not Max’s forte at any time, and heaven only knew what time he’d blown in last night. He’d straggle along sooner or later, unless he was still in a snit.
Maybe she’d saunter down that way after she’d got a cup of coffee into her and lay a wreath of forget-me-nots on the doorstep. But why should she be the peacemaker? It was Max himself who’d—no, it was Alice B. who’d stirred up the trouble between them for the fun of being nasty. If either she or Miffy thought Sarah Kelling was ever going to attend another of their booze-ups, they might as well think again. She was putting Cousin Theonia’s elegant coffee cake on the table when Appie came into the kitchen.
“Sarah?”
“Pull up a chair. The coffee’s almost ready. I’m just going to—Aunt Appie, what’s the matter?”
“That was Miffy.”
“Yes, I know. You said so before. What’s wrong? Is she sick?”
“It’s Alice B. She’s dead.”
“You don’t mean it! But why? She looked fine yesterday. Was it a heart attack?”
“They think it was the axe.”
“The what?”
“The axe. From the woodpile, you know. Miffy and Alice B. always come to Ireson Town so early and leave so late—”
“Aunt Appie, are you saying she went to chop wood for a fire and cut herself so badly that—no, it wasn’t that, was it? Somebody—”
“I don’t think they actually chopped her up, dear. Not into bits, anyway. Otherwise, Miffy wouldn’t have known it was Alice B., would she? Oh, Sarah!”
Not even Appie could go on being bright and cheery about such a horror as this. She sat down at the table and buried her face in the checkered napkin Sarah had laid out for her. Sarah got the whiskey and poured a tot into a juice glass.
“Here, drink this. I’ll get you some hot coffee.”
“Sarah dear, I don’t need—”
“Yes you do. You’ve had a ghastly shock.”
“But what about you?”
“I’ve grown used to this sort of thing,” Sarah told her grimly. “Anyway, you liked Alice B.”
“Of course, dear. Everyone did.”
“I didn’t.”
“But Alice B. was so full of fun!”
“Alice B. was a malicious old bitch. Her notion of fun was slipping a dagger between somebody’s ribs when they weren’t expecting it.”
“Sarah, how can you say such a thing?”
“Because it happens to be true. Her getting murdered doesn’t make Alice B. any more amiable. It simply removes her as an active menace. I shouldn’t wonder if the only person who may honestly feel sorry about this is yourself. And Miffy, I suppose, because now Alice B. won’t be around to fetch and carry for her.”
“Oh, Sarah.”
Appie Kelling took a sip of the coffee Sarah placed before her and automatically murmured, “Delicious. But dear, it’s so horrible.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t. Murder is always horrible, but if anybody ever went looking to be killed, Alice B. did. Hasn’t Miffy any idea who may have done it?”
“She could barely talk straight. I must go to her, Sarah. You don’t have a bicycle, do you? Or perhaps that young man in the carriage house would—”
“Max Bittersohn? I expect he would, under the circumstances, but I’ve no idea how late he got in or how long he’ll want to sleep. Can’t you call one of the crowd? No sense in phoning down for the station taxi. It takes them forever to come. Didn’t Miffy give you any details at all?”
“As far as I could gather, she says she came downstairs about five o’clock this morning to get a Bromo Seltzer because she couldn’t find any in her upstairs medicine cabinet. She wandered into the dining room for some reason I couldn’t make out, and there was Alice B. on the floor in a pool of—”
Appie drank more coffee. “Miffy says it must have been robbery. She couldn’t think why else, and there have been so many break-ins.”
“Recently?”
“Of course. Why else would they still be talking about them? It seems to me that was all I heard yesterday. Pussy Beaxitt even lost her great-grandmother’s horsehair sofa. Can you imagine? She says they drive right up with a moving van and cart the stuff away, bold as brass.”
“Did Miffy tell you anything of hers was missing?”
“She was so upset—”
Meaning she was too drunk to make sense, Sarah thought. Paced with a corpse on the floor, Miffy’s instinctive reaction would have been to reach for the nearest gin bottle.
“You had better get over there right away,” she said aloud. “Miffy’s probably not safe to leave alone. Here, eat a slice of coffee cake and drink another cup of coffee. You can’t go there on an empty stomach or you’ll get sick yourself. While you’re having your breakfast, I’ll run down to the carriage house and see if Max is awake. Maybe he’ll let me take his car and drive you over myself.”
“Oh good, then you can stay and help me with Miffy.”
“Not on your life. I’ve too much to do here. Anyway, Max will be wanting his car back.”
“But surely, for an old friend like Miffy—”
“Max never met Miffy until yesterday and I doubt very much if he ever wants to see her again.”
“Alice B. knew him and that aunt of his or whoever it was he used to live with. I didn’t quite catch what they were talking about but I definitely heard Alice B. say something about a woman named Bertha.”
“Did you? Well, I’ll go see. Here, let me cut you some more coffee cake. Then maybe you’d better phone Pussy, if she doesn’t get to you first. The wires will be humming, I expect.”
Actually, Sarah herself could have telephoned down to the carriage house. The old speaking tube that once ran from the kitchen to the coachman’s quarters had perished long ago, of course, but Max had got a private phone installed as soon as they’d decided he was to use the apartment. She didn’t want to talk to him with Aunt Appie hissing in the background, though, and she’d be silly to pass up an excuse to escape.
It was delicious being out on a morning like this, with the mist still rising from the ground and the wet grass licking at her bare ankles as she ran over the unmown hillside instead of decorously following the path. No doubt she was behaving wretchedly in treating Alice B.’s dreadful death as a personal deliverance, but Sarah had never been one to lie to herself, and she was awfully fed up with having to be sweet to people at the breakfast table.
Especially people who barged into her bedroom and dribbled cups of tea over her neck before she’d got her eyes open. Sarah had meant this to be her special summer, maybe the last one she’d ever get to spend at Ireson’s. Already it had begun to go sour, with everyone trying to change her plans for her. Aunt Appie was a dear, but she was also a pest. Having her over at Miffy’s instead of underfoot here would be a relief beyond words.
Sarah had reached the carriage house now. She pushed at the
outer door and found it unlocked. She ought to remind Max about locking up, she supposed, but what was the sense when there was really nothing down here worth bothering about. The upstairs would be locked, surely. They probably should have put some kind of outside entrance to the apartment, but there wasn’t one, just a remarkably fancy staircase with a sawn fretwork casing that ran up from inside what used to be the tack room.
Sarah had always liked coming over here, especially on rainy days when her parents were visiting at the big house and she was the only child in the party. It was a wonderful place to skip rope or bounce a ball. She’d tried sliding down the varnished banister once and got splinters in her behind. She’d suffered in silence until they got back to Boston, then asked Cook to take them out rather than confess to her mother and risk being told she couldn’t play in the carriage house any more. On the whole, she thought she must have been happier at Ireson’s than anywhere else she could remember.
So had Alexander. He’d had the Milburn to dote upon here, for one thing. There’d been firewood to cut and driftwood to gather that made wonderfully colored flames when they’d burned it later in the huge stone fireplace. There’d been wildflowers to find and birds to look at through field glasses that had to be adjusted differently for his eyes and Sarah’s because he was so much older than she.
Alexander had known all the birds by their calls, while Sarah couldn’t tell them apart unless she managed to sort them out from the foliage and observe the markings on their feathers. She ought to be missing him more out here, but somehow it was working the other way around.
She’d thought of him often enough during these past weeks when she’d been coming out here on the train to spend a day with Mr. Lomax, deciding where to plant the lettuce and the cucumbers, rearranging what was left of the furniture to make a few rooms livable, sneaking an hour off to roam the beach and the headlands.
The Bilbao Looking Glass Page 4