The Bilbao Looking Glass

by Charlotte MacLeod

“But that was the whole point, dear. We were trying to cheer Miffy up.”

  “That was kind of you,” Sarah told her aunt wearily, “but what did it have to do with me? Don’t you recall that right after you got here yesterday I told you to go ahead and make any plans you wanted with your friends, but to leave me out of them because I have too many projects of my own going?”

  “Darling, you might at least have told me.”

  “I just got through reminding you that I did tell you. Furthermore, what with Lionel’s tribe burning down my boathouse about five minutes after they got here this morning, this has been an exceptionally distracting day for me.”

  Sarah was sorry she’d said that, but she needn’t have been. It was the sort of thing her aunt simply didn’t hear.

  “Fren was dreadfully disappointed.”

  “He’ll get over it. I’m sorry you put your friends through this for nothing. If you think I owe an apology, please consider it given and thank you for being concerned enough to come. Can I offer anybody a cup of coffee before you leave?”

  “You might at least tell us where you’ve been.”

  Sarah was startled. She’d realized there were other people in the room, but she’d been too furious with her aunt to notice who they were. That high-pitched whine could only be Pussy Beaxitt’s. Pussy wasn’t losing any time snatching up Alice B.’s fallen torch as official newsmonger for the crowd. She wouldn’t depart without an answer, so Sarah might as well come across.

  “Considering the state I appear to have gotten you all into, I wish I had something exciting to tell. In fact, however, Max and I have been spending a very pleasant evening with his people over at the other end of town.”

  “His people? You mean that Rivkin who runs the gas station?”

  Pussy made her incredulous derision as offensive as possible. Her husband Biff emitted a snort of either laughter or outrage, not that it mattered which.

  Bradley Rovedock, who’d been hanging back in the shadows no doubt wishing he hadn’t got roped into this, stepped forward.

  “I’m glad to see you making new friends, Sarah, but I’m selfish enough to hope you won’t forget the old ones. My own purpose for coming along on this rather impertinent late visit tonight was to see whether I could lure you out tomorrow for a day cruise aboard Perdita. Mr. Bittersohn too, of course, if he’d care to come. Appie’s going to be busy with Miffy, she tells me, but Lassie and Don Larrington have said they’ll join us. I thought we might run over to Little Nibble and pay a short call on the Ganlors.”

  “Thanks,” said Max, “but I have to be out of town. Why don’t you go, Sarah? The change might do you good.”

  If she’d thought Max was tactfully effacing himself, Sarah would have refused like a shot. He’d told her on the way to Miriam’s, though, that he had to catch the early shuttle to New York in quest of a Titian stolen from the Wilkins Museum. There was no telling when he’d be back, so she might as well accept Bradley’s invitation. It was the least she could do after the bother he’d been put to on her behalf.

  Besides, a day sail to Little Nibble had always been one of Sarah’s most particular summertime treats. She adored the Ganlors, who were still holding aloft the banner of transcendentalism well over a century after the Fruitlands colony had given it up. She even enjoyed listening to them quote Bronson Alcott as if they actually understood what he’d been driving at; though her own thoughts tended to be with the original counterparts of Marmee, Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy, out slopping the hogs and digging potatoes while Papa composed his profundities.

  Sarah knew what the day would be like because she’d done it so many times before. Bradley’s housekeeper would have packed a huge wicker hamper full of cold chicken, salad, ineffable little pastries, with chilled white wine to go with the lunch and hot drinks in thermos bottles for the sail home when the sun began to sink and the wind to rise. There would be no endless round of cocktails. On Little Nibble there’d be nothing but herb tea or lemonade because the Ganlors went in for plain living and high thinking on a scale not to be believed by the uninitiated.

  “Thank you, Bradley,” she said. “I’d love to come. What time shall I be ready?”

  They settled on nine o’clock, then the lot of them cleared out, mercifully taking Aunt Appie and the photograph album with them. Appie thought she’d show the album to Miffy tomorrow, to take her mind off Alice B.’s upcoming funeral.

  “That’s assuming Miffy ever comes out of the stupor she drank herself into tonight,” said Biff Beaxitt.

  “You’re a fine one to talk,” snapped his wife. “Here, give me those car keys. You’re in no fit state to drive, yourself.”

  After the cars had pulled away, Max said to Sarah, “I think I’ll take a look around, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to scare you, but after what Lomax told us about the light switches, it looks to me as if somebody may have a key to this place. You’d better leave some of these lights on downstairs, just in case. I could sleep over, if you like,” he added helpfully.

  “Do you think for one second Pussy Beaxitt isn’t going to come sneaking back after she’s got Biff stashed away, to find out what we’re up to?” Sarah asked him. “Don’t worry about me. I expect there’s a spy behind every shrub in the back yard waiting to see whether you go back to the carriage house or not. I couldn’t be better protected in the Franklin Park Zoo.”

  “Yeah, well, they get plenty of trouble around Franklin Park, too,” Max grunted.

  Sarah gave him a kiss on the nose. “Go ahead and do your prowl if it will make you feel better. I’m going to fix you a thermos of coffee and something to eat before you leave tomorrow morning. I don’t want you catching that plane on an empty stomach and getting airsick.”

  “I never get airsick.”

  “There’s always a first time. I do hate to think of your having to start out so early. We should have left Miriam’s ages ago, but I was having such fun. And then Aunt Appie had to go and spoil it all. I might have known she’d go into a tizzy when I didn’t show up at that stupid dinner.”

  “But you didn’t expect her to be at the club either,” Max reminded her. “Cheer up, kid. Now they know what kind of company you’re keeping, they’ll drop you like a hot potato.”

  “Don’t you believe it. They’ll all be hounding me to use my influence with Ira to get them free tune-ups. Well, not all of them, I don’t suppose. Aunt Appie wouldn’t, but then she doesn’t drive. Lionel would, you can bet. I wonder who got stuck with him tonight.”

  “I fully expect to find him and the wolf pack tucked up in your bed.”

  “If you do, we’ll call the police. Go see, for goodness’ sake, then get on to bed yourself.”

  The rooms proved empty of anything but a few mosquitos that Max gallantly swatted before he took his breakfast basket and vanished among the shrubbery. He called two minutes later from his own phone to ask if she was okay and did she miss him? Sarah said she was and did, and entertained herself with a few pleasant fantasies before she dropped off to sleep. This had not been exactly the best and worst of days, but it certainly had presented an interesting mixed bag.

  Chapter 11

  SARAH WOKE ABOUT HALF-PAST seven, phoned the carriage house to make sure Max hadn’t overslept, was reassured by getting no answer, then set about preparing herself for the yachting party. There was a book of Alexander’s she thought the Ganlors would like, to remember him by. It was time she began giving his things away. Bradley Rovedock ought to have a keepsake, too. She’d have to think of something appropriate.

  But not today. The weather was going to be perfect, puffy clouds and just enough wind to make the cruise exciting without turning it into one of those all-hands-to-the-pumps affairs. Having sailed so seldom, and then only as a passenger, Sarah was not amused by watching the jib split or being told the rudder had carried away in a sudden squall.

  She knew she wouldn’t get seasick. At least she never had. Since she’d been lecturing Max on that very subject, t
hough, she ate a sparing breakfast of tea and toast just in case. After that, she went down to make up Max’s bed and found the empty thermos on his dresser with a few wild daisies stuck in it. They’d wilted because he’d forgotten to put any water in, but it was the sentiment that counted. She watered the poor things anyway, and took the thermos back to the big house with her.

  Mr. Lomax and Pete weren’t scheduled to come today, so she didn’t have to worry about setting any tasks for them. She locked up carefully, got her sun hat, dark glasses, and windbreaker together, and was ready and waiting when Bradley arrived to pick her up.

  Bradley drove the only Rolls Royce in Ireson Town. The Rolls was almost as much of a local landmark as the Kellings’ 1920 Milburn used to be, except that it was much newer, infinitely more luxurious, and didn’t need its batteries recharged every few miles. Alice B. had once tried to start a rumor that the car had been a gift from some Arabian potentate for whom Bradley had performed a great but secret service during his long wanderings. She hadn’t got far, though. Nobody would credit the notion that Alice B. couldn’t worm any secret from anybody given enough time and opportunity.

  Bradley himself had laughed off her tale. He’d had a chance to pick up the car at roughly half price, he explained, and figured he’d be a fool to pass up the deal. Since a Rolls was built to last forever, more or less, he’d save in the long run by never having to buy another car. That made sense to the yacht club set, and everyone but Alice B. was satisfied.

  Bradley was ahead of the game so far. After twelve years, the Rolls was still as good as new. One felt a sense of privilege to be riding in it. Bradley Rovedock did have that effect on people, Sarah thought as she settled herself on the sumptuous leather seat next to him. He could make one feel special without seeming to try. Certainly Bradley himself didn’t make any attempt to be impressive, but he didn’t have to. He simply was. Like Richard Corey, Sarah thought—then wondered why.

  When they got to the yacht club, they found the Larringtons waiting on the dock. Lassie said, “Well, Sarah,” and offered a limp handshake. Don said, “Well, Sarah,” and got busy helping Bradley put the gear into Perdita’s dinghy. Sarah began to wonder if she’d been wise to accept the invitation.

  She wondered more when they’d rowed out to Perdita and found Fren Larrington already aboard. He gave her a helping hand out of the dinghy, though, and appeared ready to bury the hatchet. She wished that particular cliché hadn’t come to mind, considering Alice B. and her lurid demise.

  Anyway, he said, “Sorry we got our wires crossed last night,” which was pretty magnanimous for Fren. Sarah replied that she hoped they’d had as good a time as possible under the circumstances. Then Bradley steered the conversation to marlin fishing, at which Don Larrington was the club’s acknowledged expert, and the party began to liven up.

  Lassie, showing them how at home she was aboard Perdita, went below to the galley and brewed a pot of coffee. Bradley turned over the helm to Fren and the sheets to Don, putting the twins in their glory, then brought up Peterson’s guide and a pair of binoculars so that Sarah could study the sea birds. All Kellings were known to be avid bird watchers, though some of them had to pretend fairly hard in order to maintain the family reputation. Sarah happened to be among the genuinely interested. She welcomed both the diversion and the excuse not to make conversation with the Larringtons.

  Bradley lounged beside her on the cockpit cushions, chatting about bananaquits and long-tailed tropic birds he’d seen during last winter’s cruise. Once he snatched the binoculars from her thinking he’d spied a Franklin’s gull which, according to Peterson, ought to be out somewhere around Minnesota. Then he realized it was only a laughing gull, as Sarah could have told him in the first place, and they both laughed with the gull.

  They raised Little Nibble Cove about ten minutes ahead of what Bradley claimed had been his best running time to date. That set Fren and Don cock-a-hoop. Lassie demanded they celebrate by eating lunch before going ashore. Everybody was agreeable, knowing how transcendental the fare would be at the Ganlors’. Little Nibble, as Fren put it in a surprising burst of wit, was well-named. So they dropped anchor offshore and fetched up the picnic hamper.

  Lunch was all Sarah had expected it would be. She took her fair share, since the dry toast had worn off ages ago. Lassie did the serving.

  “I’m so used to acting as hostess for Brad,” she explained with a deprecating laugh. “You don’t mind, Sarah?”

  “Not in the least. Why should I? I love being waited on.”

  “Poor little Sarah.” Bradley edged closer and topped up her glass of chablis. “They tell me you’ve been slaving for a houseful of—does one say paying guests?”

  “One might, I suppose. We say boarders, ourselves. Actually I don’t slave much any more. Cousin Brooks and his wife Theonia are taking over, and I have an incredible maid and butler who really run the show. In fact, right now I’ve let my own room and there’s not even room for me in the house.”

  “What will you do next winter?”

  Sarah felt a bit giggly. “Who knows? No thanks, Bradley, I’ve had far too much wine already. I might just trifle with one more of those heavenly almond cakes, though.”

  She might as well coddle herself while she had the chance. Sarah hadn’t been used to luxuries. Her mother hadn’t believed in coddling and her father had often appeared to forget she wasn’t another grown-up with whom he was barely acquainted. He’d never sent his only child to school, but hired someone to come in and give her lessons. After his wife died, he’d taken it for granted that Sarah would handle the housekeeping. She’d been twelve then, with only a cook and a part-time maid to help her. Her father had died when she was eighteen and she’d married a fifth cousin some twenty years her senior, who was saddled with a blind mother and an old retainer who’d managed to dump most of her responsibilities on the young bride. Then her husband had been killed and she’d been left with a fresh set of burdens.

  Now here she was, moderately solvent, relatively free, almost but not quite ready to marry a charming man with a lucrative though offbeat profession, eating French pastry on a millionaire’s yacht. Despite the plague of relatives being visited upon her, despite the burned-out boathouse, despite a niggling suspicion that she was somehow mixed up in a particularly messy murder and robbery, Sarah had the distinct impression that she was happy.

  She did wonder why Lassie Larrington kept eyeing her so oddly. No doubt Pussy Beaxitt had already been on the phone giving Lassie an earful about last night. Maybe Lassie was surprised that Bradley’d still cared to have Sarah aboard Perdita. Or perhaps the crowd had got together and decided Walter’s daughter was a brand to be snatched from the burning. It was an amusing concept. Sarah ate the last almond drop and announced that she for one was ready to go ashore.

  “We can’t go yet,” Fren objected. “We haven’t drunk all the wine.”

  “Want to heave anchor for me, Don?” was Bradley’s only reply.

  Don obviously did not want to do that or anything else except curl up on the cockpit cushions and sleep off his lunch, but he couldn’t very well say so. He groped his way forward with his eyes half shut, managed the windlass deftly enough, and got the dripping flukes stowed in the bow. One thing about the yacht club crowd, Sarah thought, they did take their sailing seriously. She took pleasure in watching how deftly Bradley, taking the helm himself for this maneuver, set the big yacht right up to Little Nibble’s long but somewhat tumbledown wharf.

  He’d gone in under power, needless to say. Docking under sail would have been more impressive but a lot riskier, and Bradley wasn’t one to take chances. He looked dapper as a tern, Sarah thought, in a dark Greek fisherman’s cap he’d picked up on his travels, a matching turtleneck jersey, and the white duck trousers that had been de rigeur for sailing when Bradley’d entered his first Beetle Cat in the children’s races. Bradley had never since then worn anything but white ducks aboard and probably never would, even if he had to
get them tailor-made at fabulous expense by now. One could not possibly imagine Bradley Rovedock in blue jeans.

  Of all the Ireson crowd, he was the one who’d worn best. Sarah couldn’t see that Bradley looked much different today than he had the first time she’d been aboard Perdita, back when her parents were both alive and Alexander, a young god in white ducks like Bradley’s, had been kindly concerned to make sure little Sadie-belle got to hold the wheel for a few thrilling moments.

  Granted she’d been more interested that day in the luncheon hamper than in the host who’d provided the goodies, but there’d been many more of these day cruises since then. Each year she’d seen Alexander a shade older, a shade more careworn while Bradley stayed about the same except for a few more sun wrinkles around the eyes and now, she noticed, brown blotches that were not freckles on the backs of his hands.

  Sarah couldn’t even notice any gray in Bradley’s blondish hair when he took off the Greek cap to old Mrs. Ganlor. The doyenne of the island was sitting on the dock with her crabbing net and her falling-apart copy of Emerson’s Essays, just as she’d been sitting every other time they’d come into Little Nibble Cove, wearing the same none-too-clean seersucker dress and the same droopy-brimmed, time-yellowed man’s Panama hat she’d always worn. She rose to greet them with the same affable dignity Queen Elizabeth the First might have shown Sir Francis Drake when he returned from defeating the Spanish Armada.

  “How kind of you to call, Bradley. Won’t you come up to the mess hall? I think there’s something left from lunch, though I can’t recall what we had. If indeed I realized at the time.”

  “Thank you,” he said, “but we lunched aboard Perdita. My cook, you know. She’s sensitive about her prerogative as chief provider.”

  “Ah yes. She holds the power and bears the responsibility. Abraham Lincoln would have approved. But let me see whom you’ve brought with you. My other spectacles must be somewhere.”

  Mrs. Ganlor searched her pockets, then retrieved her glasses from the crabbing bucket, wiped off a few strands of seaweed, perched them on her nose, and peered at the little group behind Bradley.