“At the funeral of a murder victim? Lionel, I do think that’s a bit much. Besides, they’ve already coped when your father died.”
After the obsequies, it had been the consensus that the prospect of never having to put up with his grandsons again must have made death a welcome release for Uncle Samuel. Sarah could picture Miffy going into raging hysterics all over the church if they got a chance to try on their antics at Alice B.’s funeral.
“But Vare said—”
“When did Vare say? Alice B. only got killed night before last.”
“I spoke with her last night. The boys and I had to go back to Cambridge, as you should have realized, since other hospitality was not forthcoming.”
“You could have gone to a public campground.”
“And fork out some outrageous fee to be crowded in with a pack of God-knows-whats? I’d already had to spend all that money at the laundromat. Anyway, I knew Vare would be planning to attend the funeral, so I decided I might as well call her up and discuss the matter with her.”
“Why should Vare come to the funeral?”
“Because Alice B. was her aunt, of course.” Sarah gasped. “Lionel, I’d completely forgotten. Vare was a Beaxitt, wasn’t she?”
“She still is. Rather, she has resumed her maiden name, if the term is still in use.”
“Then she’s also related to Biff and Pussy.”
“To Biff, certainly. They are first cousins once removed. It was Biff’s wife Pussy, in fact, who may be said to have brought Vare and me together.”
“Then if Pussy gets axed to death next, we’ll know whom to blame.”
“I trust, Sarah, you meant that as a witticism.” However, Lionel looked thoughtful as he pulled the hatchet out of the log and added a last row of curls to his fuzz stick.
Chapter 13
SARAH LEFT HER COUSIN sitting on the log and walked back out to the drive, wishing she could meet Max coming back and hear him tell her not to be silly. Why did Lionel have to be so handy with a hatchet? Why did he have to choose tonight to engage for the first time in his life in cousinly confidences about his marital problems, his financial woes, and his slipping self-control? Why had he reminded her Vare was a niece of Alice B., and why did he have to be so damned psychologically oriented? If Lionel was able to admit he’d come that close to killing Vare, Sarah wouldn’t put it past him to decide he should displace his hostilities in a sane and healthy manner by butchering Vare’s aunt instead.
And what about Alice B.’s money? If there was no will, then Vare ought to come into something, along with Biff Beaxitt. If there was, Vare was more likely than Biff to be mentioned because of Alice B.’s feud with Pussy over the garnet jewelry.
Lionel himself didn’t stand much chance of getting anything, but he’d benefit indirectly if Vare were to inherit. Then he’d have a legitimate excuse not to pay her any more allowance. Sarah put little stock in his assertion that he’d put a stop to that. She knew Vare too well, and so did he.
As to having known what to steal, both Vare and Lionel ought to qualify, and not just because of their art courses. They’d been in and out of Miffy’s house often enough to know every stick in it, not because Miffy wanted them there but because Appie’s son and Alice’s niece had to be tolerated regardless. They’d have felt duty-bound to pay attention to the works of art it contained. With Lionel, appreciation and appraisal would go hand in hand as a matter of course.
Vare was no slouch when it came to current market values, either. She read the consumer reports. She did her grocery shopping with a miniature calculator in her hand, and woe to the supermarket cashier who came up with a different total than Vare’s.
Lionel was, after all, Sarah’s own cousin and Aunt Appie’s only son. Sarah couldn’t help not wanting him to have got himself involved with something he’d surely get caught for. Lionel was a great planner, but his logic always had a flaw in it somewhere. Anyway, of the two, Vare did seem the likelier suspect.
In the first place, she’d stuck Lionel with their sons. If he’d tried to sneak out on them the night of the murder, one or the other of the boys would surely have found out and ratted on him, they being the little dears they were. Besides, Vare had Tigger to help her. That would go along with Sarah’s theory about two people being involved. If Tigger’s looks and manner were any clue to her proclivities, a spot of bloody mayhem ought to be right up Tigger’s alley.
To be sure, there was always the possibility Lionel and Vare had done it together. They might have gone through this splitting-up act for the express purpose of putting the police off their scent. That did seem pretty farfetched. Lionel had sounded awfully sincere in his lamentations just now.
But why pick on Lionel just because he was good at making fuzz sticks with a hatchet? What about Fren Larrington, who had a rotten temper and didn’t mind bashing hurt animals over their heads with rocks? Fren was no doubt in the same boat as Lionel, with a divorced wife demanding alimony. Who wouldn’t expect to be lavishly compensated for having put up with Fren all those years?
How could Fren pull off such a selective robbery, though? He didn’t know thing one about art. And what if he didn’t? His sister-in-law was Pussy Beaxitt’s tennis partner and willing ear. It was a safe bet Lassie knew to the penny how much every last thing in Miffy’s house was worth. Pussy would have made it her business to find out, and pass the word along. Lassie would have told Don, who loved hearing about large sums of money in any context, and Don would have told Fren because Fren was his twin.
The corollary to that was, if Fren had been the robber, then Don had been his helper. He’d have been the one who stood outside, taking the loot and coaching Fren about what to steal next. Sarah could see Fren moving handily around Miffy’s cluttered house as he’d done today on Perdita’s deck. As he’d done in Sarah’s own kitchen yesterday morning, come to think of it, helping himself to what he wanted without so much as a by-your-leave, and chiding her for not keeping a more shipshape galley.
Not stealing Miffy’s diamond necklace would be characteristic of Fren, too. He was a good crewman, used to taking orders. If Don had told him to take the painting by the fireplace, he wouldn’t even have bothered to glance at what might be on the table below, but simply gone and got the painting.
Fren would have killed Alice B., too, if Don handed him the axe and told him to do it. Once she’d spotted the Larrington brothers committing a robbery, there could have been no question of leaving Alice alive to tell.
That alleged invitation to the yacht club could have been Don’s idea, also. The way Fren had delivered it smacked more of an errand boy doing a job than of a single man yearning for feminine companionship. No doubt he had been annoyed when Sarah didn’t show up after he’d gone to the bother of asking her, but that could be because she’d been supposed to be part of some elaborate alibi they were concocting.
Maybe Don and not Fren had instigated the robbery on his own behalf. Don was an investment counselor, and Lionel said the market was doing strange things. He might have some customers wanting to put their money into tangible assets, and what could be better than works of art? Better still, why not steal the paintings himself, sell them to his clients, take a hundred per cent profit on the sales, and not pay a cent of income tax? Don could even have convinced himself it wasn’t such a terrible thing to do, because he knew Miffy had everything insured right up to the hilt. She’d be reimbursed, and never have to pay any more premiums. That Miffy might like the things for their own sake would never occur to him.
Could one get away with a scheme like that? Max would know. She did wish he’d come home. Sarah walked back to the carriage house, but there was still no sign of him. The sensible thing would be to go back and climb into bed, but she still wasn’t sleepy after her nap, and she did have qualms about being alone in the main house when Max wasn’t within calling distance. That little business of the lights still bothered her. Why hadn’t she done the sensible thing today and got the electri
cian, instead of letting herself in for a day with the Larringtons?
But it hadn’t been just the Larringtons. There’d been Bradley, and the Ganlors, and the joy of being on the sea. Maybe she could get down to the water’s edge now. The wind didn’t seem to be gusting so hard. She picked her way to the long wooden staircase and used her flashlight to guide her down to the beach.
The tide was dead low, the sky was clear. This would have been a perfect night for stargazing, but she’d better concentrate on where she was walking. It wouldn’t do to turn an ankle on the slippery rocks. Alexander’d have had seven fits in a row if he’d known she was down here by herself at night.
Under the cliff, there was more shelter from the wind. Sarah could feel her mind flattening out, her whole self becoming attuned to the soothing lap of the water against the gravel. This was the first time she’d been here since Alexander was killed. She was coming to what they’d used to call her wishing rock, where the two of them had sat squeezed together in loving embrace that last morning, making plans for a future that hadn’t come. She’d thought she could never bear to go near the rock again. Tonight, it didn’t hurt at all.
Sarah climbed up to the scooped-out seat where she’d spent so much time when she was a little girl making believe she could see mermaids riding white sea horses. There weren’t any mermaids. That was gone, the pretending, the longing, the planning. Alexander was gone, too. The love was still with her, but the man was somewhere else, set free of this life forever and ever.
Now Sarah was free, too, and there was no sense in shilly-shallying any longer. She walked back to the steps and hauled herself up by the handrail, bending double as the wind hit her. She took out her house keys, went to Max’s apartment, and unlocked the door. She took off her clothes and lay down in his bed.
If Max had been here, she might not have acted so boldly. Then again, she might have. Sarah wasn’t thinking at all now, just doing what felt right. The bed seemed warmer than her own. Being around Max always gave her that sense of warmth. Nice to know it worked even when he wasn’t with her. She was smiling into the dark when she fell asleep.
Something woke her, she didn’t know what. Maybe that was Max now, just coming into the carriage house. But why was he puttering around down there so quietly? Max could move silently when he wanted to, but he was more apt to come leaping up the stairs two at a time. Had he dropped his keys?
What if he had? There was no need to grope around in the dark. He knew there was a light switch just inside the door, and another by the staircase. Sarah hadn’t bothered to turn them on herself because she’d had her flashlight, but why didn’t he? She knew he hadn’t because no gleam was showing through the crack under the door.
Perhaps a fuse had blown. What if it had? Max always carried a small pocket flash and had a powerful battery lantern in his car. Furthermore, if he’d run into any such minor inconvenience it wasn’t like him to suffer in silence. Was he drunk? Maybe she’d better—
Maybe she’d better not. That wasn’t Max downstairs. It might be an animal that had wandered in if she’d forgotten to shut the outside door, though she was pretty sure she’d remembered. It might be the trickster who’d planted that Bilbao looking glass in her front entry, or the fiend who’d hacked Alice B. to death, or both in one person. Most likely it was one of Lionel’s brats being cute. Sarah could imagine the repercussions if he were to catch her here in Max’s bed with no clothes on. She only hoped he wasn’t setting fire to the place, but she couldn’t take the chance of getting up to find out.
She didn’t smell smoke, anyway. Sarah lay there in the bed that didn’t feel cozy any more, not daring to move until she heard the stealthy closing of a door and a tiny rattle of gravel on the drive outside. She waited perhaps ten minutes longer just in case the intruder took a notion to come back, but heard nothing. At last she eased herself out of bed, retrieved enough of her scattered clothes to be decent, put them on any way she could, and opened the upstairs door inch by inch.
Nobody was down there now. The place felt empty, and was. Sarah switched on every light she could find and started checking around, particularly for any sign of attempted arson. She’d got her head into one of the old mangers when the door opened again.
“What the hell’s going on?”
That was Max, thank God. She rushed out of the stall.
“It’s me, darling. I was just making sure nothing’s on fire.”
“Why should it be?”
“I heard somebody, or something. You didn’t meet anyone on the drive?”
“To tell you the truth, I was too beat to notice. What a day! I ran my legs off from one end of New York to the other. Coming back we had to circle the airport for half an hour, don’t ask me why. To put the frosting on the cake, a car broke down in the Sumner Tunnel just ahead of me and blocked both lanes, don’t ask me how. There I was halfway under Boston Harbor breathing pure carbon monoxide and wondering when the roof was going to cave in on me. Then coming up the road here, some clown cut in front of me and damn near sliced my headlights off.”
“Are you sure he didn’t come out of our drive?”
“How can I be sure of anything? All I can tell you is, he was going like hell. What is this, anyway? How come you’re down here at this hour?”
Sarah flushed. “I was up in the apartment, if you want to know.”
“Doing what?”
“Waiting for you. Just—resting. I heard something moving around down here, and it scared me for a while, that’s all. I was afraid it might be one of Lionel’s boys setting another fire.”
“I thought you’d got rid of them.”
“So did I, but they’re back. They’ve built a lean-to, a latrine, and a well-sweep.”
“My God.”
He shifted his briefcase to the other hand and put his arm around her. “So you were waiting for me. Come back upstairs and tell me about it.”
It was a tight squeeze getting up that fretwork staircase with their arms around each other, but they managed. Max switched on the light and noticed the crumpled bed.
“Just resting, eh?”
He bent to pick up the brassiere she hadn’t been able to find during her scramble to get dressed in the dark. “Feel like resting some more?”
“It’s time, Max.”
Chapter 14
SHE WOULD HAVE TO pick the night he’d got stuck in the tunnel. Sarah moaned to herself half an hour later, while her allegedly importunate swain slumbered peacefully at her side. Well, you won some and you lost some. It was lovely just to be lying here snuggled against his body. She might as well shut her eyes and enjoy it.
Then the birds were chirping and the sun was shining in because neither of them had thought to draw the blinds. The watch that was the only thing Max had forgotten to take off said half-past seven. Mr. Lomax would be coming at eight, and Sarah hated to think what might already be going on down at the campground.
So much for la dolce vita. She slid out of bed without disturbing Max, put her clothes on once more, and sneaked back through the bushes to the big house. She made it in time to be showered and changed by the time the Lomaxes arrived, but it was a near squeak.
“Where’s my old buddy?” was Pete’s cheerful greeting. “I thought we might talk baseball a while.”
“I thought you might mend the drive while your uncle weeds the garden.”
Sarah didn’t at all care for the way Pete was smirking at her. What if it had been he prowling inside the carriage house last night? She wouldn’t put it past him. And what if he hadn’t gone away afterward, but hidden outside long enough to observe what went on before Max remembered to turn out the light?
She turned away so he wouldn’t see her blushing. “Be sure you fill that big pothole by the boathouse path. The pumper almost got stuck in it yesterday. Don’t just dump in some dirt, either. Use good, heavy rocks so they won’t get washed away.”
“Yeah, sure. Say, did you know them kids was back?”
> “Certainly I knew. Mr. Lomax, would you unlock the tool shed and let Pete get out a wheelbarrow and shovel? I want that hole fixed right away.”
The old man touched the peak of his cap and glared his nephew into submission. Sarah put on the coffeepot and was getting out spoons and forks when her demon lover blew in.
“Ran out on me, eh?” He rubbed his freshly shaven cheek against hers. “Couldn’t you have stuck around till I’d got some rest?”
She shook her head. “Mr. Lomax was coming. Max dear, I really don’t think I’m cut out for success as a femme fatale. There’s always too darn much else going on. Would you mind terribly if we slipped off quietly and got married instead?”
“Not at all. When did you have in mind?”
“I thought we might pick up the license tomorrow, if you’re free.”
“What’s wrong with today?”
“I have to go to Alice B.’s funeral.”
“That’s a hell of a reason. I suppose you want me to take you.”
“If you can spare the time. Otherwise, I’m sure I could get a lift with Bradley Rovedock.”
“The hell you will. You’re mine. Mine, do you hear me? Mine!”
“Then quit trying to crack my ribs and tell me what you want for breakfast. Oh, wouldn’t you know. I’ll get it. That must be Aunt Appie.”
Sarah went to answer the phone. It was Appie in a dither, as she’d expected.
“Sarah dear, I wanted to remind you about the funeral. It’s at ten o’clock, you know.”
“Ten? Lassie told me eleven.”
Was that an honest mistake, or did Lassie mean for her to miss the service and lose a few brownie points with Bradley? Could she actually have minded that much about Sarah’s being included in the yachting party? She’d be further disappointed today, then. Sarah wasn’t about to upset Aunt Appie for the sake of appeasing Lassie Larrington.
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