Terrible Tide

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “That’s not funny,” Holly snapped. “Honestly, Bert, a little while ago I thought she was dead.”

  “Hell’s bells, you couldn’t kill Annie Blodgett with a shotgun. She’s tough, like me.” Nevertheless Bert began to look worried. “No foolin’, Holly, is she that bad off?”

  “I wouldn’t have believed a person could get that sick from a few drinks of rum and water. She didn’t eat something that could have given her food poisoning?”

  “Far’s I know, she only et what we did. Didn’t bother you none, did it?”

  “No, I was all right as far as that went. How about you?”

  “My guts was kind o’ queasy this mornin’ an’ my eyeballs felt as if somebody was tryin’ to gouge ’em out with a dirty fingernail, but that went away once I’d swilled down a bucket or two o’ black coffee.”

  He ruminated awhile, working his stubbled jaws back and forth. “Know what I think? I seen this same thing happen once up in the Yukon. A Mountie’d trailed a crazy trapper single-handed in the dead o’ winter an’ brought ’im out by dogsled to a minin’ camp where he found everybody down with some pestilence or other, me included. Cripes, I was never so sick in my life. The Mountie was wore out hisself by then, but he nursed the whole bunch till a few of us was well enough to take care o’ the rest. Then him an’ me set out for Stillwater to turn over the prisoner an’ get help for the camp. I never seen a man so tuckered out as that Mountie, but he hung to it till we got there. Once he’d made ’is report, he folded up like a wet dishrag. They had to tilt up his head an’ spoon hot brandy into ’im to get his eyes open. He wasn’t sick, only plumb used up.”

  “You could be right,” said Holly. “Annie’s been here alone far too long. I’ve had one day of it and I’m beat to the socks already.” She sank into a chair and propped her sore leg up on the oven ledge. “How long did it take the Mountie to recover?”

  “I don’t know. I went back with the rescue team to show ’em the trail. Cripes, what a trip that was!”

  Bert launched into another of his interminable reminiscences. Holly let him talk, knowing it didn’t matter whether she listened. Bert was telling the story to himself, reminding himself that he’d once been as strong as the best, pulling a man’s weight in a world not made for weaklings. It was the strong who survived. Annie was tough. She’d make it. Feeling a little better, Holly got up to fix supper.

  Bert broke off his tale to remark, “Annie always offers me a hair of the dog before we eat.”

  “I didn’t think you’d want one, after last night.”

  “Hell, that was last night.”

  “Then do me a favor and stay away from the rum, I don’t even want to smell it. There’s about one good belt left in the whiskey bottle.”

  Bert grumbled, but he condescended to accept the glass Holly gave him. “I s’pose I’ll have to bring up another jar tomorrow if you’re goin’ to be so blamed stingy with Claudine’s.”

  “I’m not being stingy, I just don’t want another living corpse on my hands. I’ll pay for your jar if it makes you any happier.”

  “’Twon’t hurt my feelin’s none.” He took a swig. “Ah, that’s the stuff for what ails you. Why don’t you take a little nip to Annie?”

  “Because I don’t want to kill her, that’s why. Haul up your chair.”

  Baked beans on toast with a few fried eggs and a handful of store cookies, washed down with every drop he could wring from the whiskey bottle and a quart or so of strong tea satisfied Bert nicely. He scorned Holly’s offer of salad.

  “That stuff’s for rabbits. Gimme a few more beans if you got ’em handy.”

  “I don’t know where you put it all,” Holly marveled.

  The hired man had no more spare flesh on his bones than a picked crow, yet he ate enough to satisfy three ordinary appetites. Now that Holly’s yoghurt and carrot stick days were over, she wasn’t doing so badly at the table herself. It was a long jump from Seventh Avenue to Parlett’s Point. Who’d have thought she’d ever wind up sitting around a well-scrubbed oilcloth with a totally unscrubbed old reprobate, wondering if she had strength enough left to put that last load of wet sheets through the wringer?

  To heck with the sheets. There were still some clean ones upstairs even though she’d had to remake both her patients’ beds twice so far. She went up to check on Annie, carrying a cup of tea with her. Remembering Bert’s tale of the Mountie, she simply tilted the housekeeper’s head up and put the cup to her lips.

  “Drink it or I’ll pour it down your neck.”

  Annie began to swallow. Holly made her empty the cup, then went back to Bert.

  “I got a whole cup of tea into her,” she told him with satisfaction. “She’s still pretty feeble, but her color’s better than it was.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he grunted. “She’ll be back on ’er feet in a day or two.”

  “I hope my feet last that long.”

  Holly sat down again. Bert, in one of his unexpected bursts of gallantry, went and got some extra cushions so she could rest in comfort.

  “Thanks, Bert, that does feel better. I took some aspirin while I was upstairs. Maybe that’ll quiet this thing down for a while.”

  “Women are always dosin’ themselves,” he snorted. “Only one medicine ever done me any good.”

  “Bert, if you’re angling for another drink, forget it. I won’t have you passing out on me again tonight. Say something bright and witty.”

  “You tryin’ to make fun o’ me?”

  “I shouldn’t dream of it,” Holly assured him. “All right, if you won’t be funny, let’s talk shop. How’s it going at Howe Hill?”

  “’Bout the same as usual.”

  “Don’t be ornery. Tell me things.”

  “What sort o’ things?”

  “Well, for instance, how do they handle the shipping?”

  “Him an’ me crates it up, then she takes it down to Saint John.”

  “You mean to say Fan delivers the furniture all by herself?”

  “Not to say delivers it. As I understand it, she takes the crates to a shippin’ warehouse an’ they handle it from there.”

  “I see,” said Holly with a sinking heart. “What warehouse?”

  “Don’t ask me. ’Tain’t none o’ my business. That Miz Brown makes all the arrangements, sends ’em the customs’ forms an’ whatnot. Miz Howe, she does all the paperwork an’ Roger makes the crates hisself. Spends as much time on the crates as he does on the furniture, a’most. Way he fits ’em an’ pads ’em, you’d think he was cratin’ a baby.”

  “I suppose in a sense his creations are his children,” said Holly. “I’ve never thought of them that way before. To be honest with you, I’ve seldom thought about my brother at all, until lately.”

  There’s times I don’t think much of ’im, myself, if you want the honest truth. Any man that would let ’is wife go off alone in the dead o’ night drivin’ that wreck of a truck an’ sleepin’ alongside the road—”

  “Bert, is that really what Fan does?”

  “Yep. She gets Roger’s supper, then sets the table for his breakfast, an’ starts off all sole alone in the dark. She drives till she gets too sleepy to go any farther, then she pulls off somewheres an’ grabs forty winks, goes on an’ gets to the warehouse soon as it opens, about ha’past seven in the mornin’. The men there unload for her, then she gets reckless an’ selfish an’ splurges on a cup o’ coffee. After that she heads for home worryin’ for fear she won’t be there in time to get Roger’s dinner an’ he might have to spread hisself a piece o’ bread an’ butter.”

  Bert spat into the stove. Holly asked no more questions. She’d already learned more than she wanted to know. Once Roger’s work was out of the shop, Fan was free to take it anywhere she chose. She could simply pretend to start for Saint John, drive out here under cover of darkness, break into Cliff House as she’d broken into so many others, and switch the reproduction for the original.

  Opening the
crate and switching Roger’s nameplate wouldn’t take long. Small pieces like the Bible box and the piecrust tables would be easy for her to manage alone. Fan wouldn’t have to risk that perilous road along the ledge, just park within walking distance and carry the furniture back and forth. It was only big pieces like that Sheraton highboy Roger and Sam were now working on that would have to be hauled over the cliff. For that she’d need help, but there must be at least one other person involved in this racket anyway. Fan simply didn’t have what it took to manage a swindle of such magnitude on her own.

  Getting the stolen merchandise through customs would be no great problem. The original could be passed off as an authentic Roger Howe reproduction, with its little brass name-plate attached and all its papers filled out in good order. Was Fan really doing this, and did Roger know? His sending her off alone at night in a broken-down truck didn’t mean anything. He’d send her across the Grand Canyon on a tightrope if he happened to want a box of nails from the other side.

  “You asleep?”

  Holly jumped. She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts, she’d forgotten Bert was there. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “That aspirin must be putting me to sleep.”

  “Time I went along, then.” He got up and headed for the door. “Guess I’ll turn in early myself. It’s lonesome down there with nobody home. By the way, Sam called from Saint John. Says his mother’s doin’ fine, an’ he’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “That’s nice,” said Holly.

  But how did Bert know Sam really had called from Saint John? Or rather, how long had Sam been there? If Fan could make the trip overnight in that rattletrap of hers, Sam’s shiny new wagon ought to do it in half the time. Remembering that man who’d come so close to stepping on her in the yard last night, Holly had an uneasy feeling she’d better not make the mistake of trusting Sam Neill too far.

  Chapter 22

  DR. WALKER’S MEDICINE MUST be working. Despite her hectic day, Holly slept well and woke on Monday with her leg less inflamed. She treated herself to a therapeutic dunk in her beloved zinc tub, then went to check on her patients.

  “Hi, Annie. How are you feeling?”

  “Hello, dearie.” That seemed to be as far as Annie cared to go at the moment. Holly left her to feed Mrs. Parlett. When she got back half an hour later, Annie hadn’t stirred.

  “Would you like me to help you to the bathroom?” she asked.

  “No, dearie.”

  “How about sitting on the pot?”

  “Yes, dearie.”

  Sighing as if she begrudged the effort, Annie let Holly help her up on the awkward substitute for the bedpan they didn’t have. The procedure was tiring for both of them, but only Annie got to flop back on her bed afterward. Holly had to pick up her armload of dirty sheets and go down to the washing machine.

  That tended to, she fixed another tray of tea and porridge. Maybe it was bad psychology to offer Annie the same invalid fare as Mrs. Parlett’s, but what else could she do? She took up the tray, propped Annie’s head with pillows, and began spooning gruel into her mouth. At this, Annie did rouse herself a bit.

  “I’m not that far gone, dearie.”

  “Then prove it. Let’s see you empty this bowl.”

  Annie managed one or two mouthfuls, then let the spoon drop. “Too much work,” she muttered.

  “Then you’ve got to let me feed you. Open up.” This time, Holly had a little better success. Annie swallowed another spoonful of porridge and drank most of the tea before she turned her head away.

  “All right, you’ve been a good girl. Now I’m going to wash your face and hands and let you get back to sleep.”

  After she’d got Annie tidied, Holly went downstairs and fried herself a couple of eggs. She was eating when the phone rang. It was Fan.

  “Bert tells me you’ve got trouble out there. Anything I can do?”

  “Thanks, Fan, but we seem to be under control now. Annie’s better.”

  “How about you? All that running up and down stairs can’t be doing your leg much good.”

  “It isn’t bothering me, thank goodness. Dr. Walker must know his stuff.”

  “Well that’s a relief. Let me know if you need to see him again.”

  “I will. You’re sweet to be thinking of me.” Holly hung up, wondering. Why had Fan never once mentioned those trips to Saint John? She talked freely enough about everything else that concerned her.

  Or did she? A constant flow of words could be a form of noncommunication. By never letting anybody else get a word in, Fan made it impossible to have a real person-to-person exchange. What was it Fan wanted to hide? That she was a swindler, or the tool of one?

  Why not think about something easier? For instance, how did the thief get in and out of the house? Earl Stoodley had seen to it there were plenty of locks, and Annie was careful about them, especially since she’d started hearing those noises in the night. Keys alone wouldn’t help; there were chains and bolts to be unfastened and refastened afterward, or Annie would surely have noticed. There simply had to be an easy way. Holly put the breakfast dishes to soak, and started hunting.

  Cliff House had an amazing number of doors. Holly rattled more chains than Marley’s ghost but found no weak link anywhere. Some of the locks looked as if they hadn’t been turned in years. Of these she was especially wary, poking at the screws with a knife to make sure they hadn’t been loosened.

  Doors could also be lifted free of their locks by taking out the hinge pins. She got a screwdriver and hammer and tapped to make sure none of them slipped in and out with suspicious ease. She even used the reading glass to look for telltale scratches but found only a few fresh ones she’d made herself. Earl Stoodley would love her for that.

  Windows had to be checked, too. She saw dust lying in furry rows along the tops of sashes; window fasteners corroded so badly they’d never work again. When it came time to renovate Cliff House, the painters would have to unscrew the locks and—and why couldn’t she have thought of that before? It didn’t take her ten minutes to find a window that could be raised with its dust and its lock intact.

  There was nothing supernatural about it. Someone had taken the screws out of the back halves of the catches, reamed out the holes to twice their size, and put back the screws. When the sash was raised from the outside or the inside, the screws simply lifted free. When it was lowered, the screws settled back into their oversized holes. While Annie’d been fussing over all those locks and bolts every night, Cliff House had stayed wide open.

  Holly found trick windows in the dining room, the front parlor, Jonathan Parlett’s library, and in the room Aunt Maude had perhaps called her conservatory, where overturned flowerpots lay kicked into corners, perhaps by someone hurrying to get another of the family heirlooms out of the house.

  Well, the next time the ghost walked, it would be in for a surprise. Holly went down cellar, rummaged among the clutter, and came back with some putty and a handful of screws long enough to hold securely in the reamed-out holes. She made a botch of getting them in and put enough scratches in the woodwork to make Earl Stoodley’s heart bleed, but nobody would get through these windows again without having to break the glass.

  Probably she ought to get the police up here, but how could she? That would start a hue and cry, and it wouldn’t take long for anybody with half a brain to find out about the reproductions. They would lead directly to Roger Howe, and straight back to his sister who was so conveniently on the spot. In more ways than one. She’d better quit detecting and get back to her patients. It was almost noon.

  Why hadn’t Claudine telephoned to see how Annie was? She’d seemed concerned enough yesterday. Maybe she had, while Holly was down cellar or making too much noise with her hammering to hear the phone. It wouldn’t hurt to call the shop, just in case.

  Claudine was busy with a customer, or said she was. She listened to Holly’s brief report, said, “Let me know if you need anything,” and hung up. So much for the bleeding heart
department. Chicken soup time again. Holly went into the pantry, stared at the cluster of identical tins, and went back to the phone.

  “Claudine, send us some different kinds of soup. Annie hates chicken and so do I.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Holly hung up. She could do it, too. Feeling absurdly pleased with herself, Holly heated soup for Mrs. Parlett and whipped up an eggnog for Annie.

  When she took it up, Annie was awake. “How’s it going?” she asked. “Feeling better?”

  “Yes, dearie.” The voice was still hardly more than a breath.

  “That’s good. I’ve brought you an eggnog and I want you to have every drop of it drunk by the time I finish feeding Mrs. Parlett.”

  “Yes, dearie.”

  Annie didn’t pick up the glass. It would still be sitting on the night stand when Holly got back. She should have asked Claudine to send up some drinking straws, not that they’d do much good. What Annie needed was not just nourishment, but somebody to care that she got it. Holly bent down and kissed the wan cheek.

  “You be a good kid. I’ll be back soon.”

  Holly was glad she’d cleaned Mrs. Parlett’s room. How had Annie endured sitting day after day in such a dusty, gloomy, smelly place with this heart-wringing scrap of worn-out humanity?

  Maybe Annie had still been able to see this room as it was when she’d first come to Cliff House from the tumble-down farm where she’d slept three to a bed with her sisters, crammed in the middle because she was the littlest. That was when Aunt Maude had brought her here to work for her board and keep, treating her not as a person but as a source of cheap labor. Holly was glad it was Mathilde and not Maude she had to care for.

  “You’d never do a thing like that, would you?” she crooned.

  It seemed impossible Mathilde could understand, yet her eyelids lifted as if in agreement. Holly hadn’t noticed before how lovely Mathilde’s eyes still were. They were large, of an unusual grayish hazel like clear water running over stones in a brook. Then the lids dropped, ochre-colored rags hiding their beautiful secret. Holly spooned soup until the cup was empty, sponged Mathilde’s face and hands, checked her linen, and went back to Annie.