“I’m glad you did,” Max lied gallantly. “So you have no idea how he could have got there? He wasn’t desperate for a place to sleep, for instance?”
“Why should he have been? It wasn’t that cold last night, and anyway, Chet was no common vagrant. He collected Social Security every month and earned more from the center than any other member we’ve got. Which still wasn’t much, goodness knows, but it kept him off the streets. He rented a room from the janitor of an apartment building up off Cambridge Street somewhere. Osmond Loveday could tell you. The address is in his file.”
“What time does Loveday get in?”
“He ought to be at the center by now, I should think. He walks over every morning at half past seven to unlock the door so whoever’s on breakfast duty can get in to make the coffee and set out the cereal or whatever we’re serving. Then he walks back uptown, eats his own breakfast at a cafeteria across from the Common and comes back to the center at half past eight on the nose. He walks home at eleven, does his exercises, has an apple and a glass of skim milk for lunch, takes a nap, shows up again at two o’clock and works till half past five. That only comes to a six-hour day, but he fills in on the weekends sometimes, so it evens out more or less.”
“If you say so. Getting back to Arthur, couldn’t he have taken the subway or got a lift in a car?”
“Chet hated cars, and he wouldn’t ride the Green Line because it goes through the Back Bay.”
“Can you think of anything Chet liked?”
“Money,” said Mary. “Chet always knew how much he had coming to him when he brought in his salvage, and he made darn sure he got it, right down to the last penny.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere, maybe. What if somebody owed him money and wouldn’t pay? Would Chet chase after the welsher and try to make him cough up, even if it meant going into the Back Bay?”
“I suppose we never know what somebody might do under pressure,” Mary conceded. “All I can say is, it doesn’t seem likely. What good would the money be if he drowned trying to get it? Not that he would, I mean, but that’s how it would seem to Chet.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll drop in at the center later on. Are you going to be there?”
“If I’m not, I expect Dolph will be. But Osmond can tell you anything you want to know. How’s Sarah feeling this morning?”
They exchanged a few courtesies, then Max hung up and told Sarah what Mary had said. The call from Ghent came through. Max said he was ready to roll and was Sarah coming with him?
“I certainly am. Give me one minute.”
“Take two if necessary. I’ll get your coat. Which one do you want?”
“That white loden jacket you brought me from Austria, please. I can still fasten the top button, I think.”
Sarah had bought herself a full-cut jumper dress in a darkish green color that matched the jacket’s braid. The chemist was favorably impressed. “Let me get you a chair, Mrs. Bittersohn. This won’t take long.”
It didn’t. He came back looking a little frightened.
“Foot powder?” Max asked him.
“No, as a matter of fact, it’s heroin. You’re not supposed to have that sort of thing in your possession, you know, Mr. Bittersohn. By rights I ought to turn it in to the police.”
“I’ll turn it in myself,” Max promised him.
“Er—soon?”
“As soon as I possibly can.”
“That’s good enough for me. Anything interesting in the art line these days?”
The chemist, an elderly man with a face like an eagle’s, wanted to chat about art forgery techniques. Max didn’t. “We’ll see what we can dig up for you, Mr. Smithers. Thanks for the quick service.”
“My pleasure. Glad to have met you, Mrs. Bittersohn.”
Sarah, who was feeling rather sick from the laboratory odors and especially from what she’d just heard, said she was glad, too; and they left.
“Heroin?” she said when she’d got enough fresh air to quiet her stomach. “Max, that’s terrible.”
“It’s not good, baby. How do you feel?”
“How do you expect? Come on, we’d better get over to the center and see what Mr. Loveday has to say.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“The doctor says I have to exercise.”
“He didn’t say you had to get mixed up in a drug-related murder.”
“He didn’t say not to. Darling, I can’t sit home and crochet booties all day. I can’t crochet anything, it just comes out one big tangle. Anyway, your sister Miriam’s handling that end of the business. She’s up to three sweater sets and a fancy afghan for the baby carriage already.”
“Do we have a baby carriage?”
“We have that adorable wicker stroller your mother used to wheel you in when you were a year old, and the pram Aunt Emma’s parents ordered from London before Young Bed was born. Of course the pram’s carried her own sons, their children, and a few grandbabies by now, but she assures me there’s still plenty of mileage in it. Aunt Appie wanted to give us Lionel’s, but those four hyenas of his had reduced it to shreds long ago. His wife threw the remains out with the trash that time she cast off the shackles of motherhood and went to live with Tigger. Whatever happened to Tigger, I wonder? She used to be one of Aunt Appie’s standard nuisances, but she hasn’t been around for ages.”
Max shrugged. “Maybe she washed her face and died of the shock. Last time I saw her was in Rotterdam.”
“Max, you beast! You never told me.”
“Did you really want to know? As a matter of fact, I’d forgotten all about it till you mentioned her just now.”
“What was Tigger doing in Rotterdam?”
“I didn’t stop to ask.”
“Did she see you?”
“I made damn sure she didn’t.”
Sarah supposed one couldn’t blame him. She herself had never been sure whether Tigger was one of her Cousin Lionel’s old girlfriends or just a leftover from one of her aunt’s neighborhood Halloween parties. Tigger had merely shown up at various gatherings, glaring out from under a mat of uncombed black hair, snarling like a cornered coyote if anybody tried to engage her in conversation. They’d last seen Tigger at a funeral up on the North Shore. Tigger had been wearing a hairy brown poncho and filthy corduroy pants tucked into muddy hiking boots. Sarah decided not to think about Tigger any more, for the baby’s sake.
“Darling, what did you think of that performance Theonia put on for you last night?”
“I thought it damned peculiar, since you ask,” Max replied. “Theonia’s not in the habit of hurling good china around, is she?”
“Heavens, no. Theonia takes far better care of things than I ever did.”
“You don’t suppose I offended her by asking her to read the tea leaves? I only meant it as a joke.”
“She knew that. Theonia isn’t stupid. But she was brought up as a Gypsy, after all. If you really want to know, I think she was doing what she’d been taught was the right thing to do in the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“She saw something in the teacup, of course.”
“Sarah!”
“Darling, there’s no earthly point in your asking me questions if you don’t want to hear my answers. Surely you can’t think Theonia was a mere charlatan throughout her professional life?”
Max’s lips twitched.
“All right, I suppose there were times when she had to stretch a bit. With some customers it’s like trying to see through mud, she told me. But you have to tell them something because they’ve paid their three dollars, so you do the best you can. With others you begin picking things up as soon as they sit down. When that happens, you’re infallibly right.”
“Infallibly, eh?”
“That’s what she said,” Sarah insisted, “and Theonia doesn’t lie. Not to me, at any rate.”
“She did once,” Max reminded her.
“Only because she t
hought she had to. She never has since.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Believe me, I’d know. Wait thirty-seven days and I’ll prove it.”
“Oh yeah?” said Max. “What’s her prognosis?”
“A boy.”
“And what if our son turns out to be a daughter?”
“Then I’ll never trust another tea leaf and your mother won’t be cross with me. You know how Mother Bittersohn’s been saying she already has a grandson and now she wants a girl. She’ll think I had a grandson just to spite her.”
Actually Sarah was on pretty good terms with her mother-in-law these days. Last Christmas she’d accidentally filled Mrs. Bittersohn’s long felt but never expressed yearning for a genuine handmade tea cozy like Agatha Christie’s. Even so, Max’s mother felt the strain of having a swarm of WASPs in the mishpocheh and couldn’t help showing how much she’d have preferred having her only son married to a nice Jewish girl.
They’d work it out. Sarah wasn’t going to worry. She was excited about her baby, she felt marvelous, and she was enjoying the walk. The Senior Citizens’ Recycling Center being situated over toward North Station, she and Max had decided to walk along the Esplanade as far as it would take them. With the wind whipping off the Charles River, she was glad she’d put on the white beret that went with her outfit.
“It will be nice when I can button this jacket again,” she remarked. “I do love it so.”
“Maybe I’d have been smarter to buy you a cape,” Max answered. “That woman up ahead of us has one.”
“The brown thing that looks like a horse blanket? Ugh, I wouldn’t—good heavens, I know that poncho! Speak of the devil and she appears. Max, it’s got to be Tigger. Slow down, for goodness’ sake. We don’t want to catch up with her.”
They had no trouble avoiding Tigger; she was making good time. When they got up to where the shops were, they saw her cross the road, flap into a coffee shop and sit down with her back to the window.
This was only one of several eating places in the area. Sarah wondered why Osmond Loveday still bothered to walk all the way back to Beacon Hill for his breakfast. Because he always had, she supposed, or because this neighborhood was too grubby to suit him. She’d never known Mr. Loveday well, but he’d always impressed her as being a fussbudget.
It was strange that a man who balked at rubbing elbows with the hoi polloi had worked all his life for charitable organizations. But then he hadn’t been working for charity, he’d been working for the Kellings. Perhaps that had made the difference.
Chapter
4
ANYWAY, HERE THEY WERE and there he was, off in a cubicle by himself. They could see him through the big front window. This must have been some kind of store once. Now Mary’s taste and Dolph’s checkbook had turned a drab, bare space into an inviting place for their elderly members to meet, eat and rest from their labors.
Colored tiles brightened the floor. A good many armchairs, covered in hues of blue, green, and orange, were grouped around yellow plastic-topped tables. A long counter at the back, also plastic-topped, held a couple of big urns and enough cups and saucers to stock a tea shop. They were real cups and saucers, Sarah noticed, not thick institutional mugs. Mary had used far more plastic than she’d wanted to in the decorating because it was the only way to keep the place clean, but she’d drawn the line at utility china.
Attractive green draperies were looped back from freshly washed windows. Between them a big vase of chrysanthemums from the Kelling estate sat next to a discreet green and gold sign announcing that this was in truth the Senior Citizens’ Recycling Center. A tipped-over SCRC collecting bag with some debris spilling out of it in a tasteful and decorative manner completed the window display and served as a visual aid to those who couldn’t read the sign. Mary thought of everything.
A number of the members were sitting around the tables drinking coffee or tea and chatting. Others were playing checkers or dominoes and getting more advice than they wanted from onlookers. One man sat alone with his eyeglasses down near the tip of his nose, reading a church magazine. Perhaps this was the man who preached, getting some ideas for Chet Arthur’s funeral sermon.
Though the day was still young, members were already coming in with full bags and being ushered into the back room, not by Osmond Loveday but by an affable hostess wearing a dress that Sarah recognized with some sense of shock as having once belonged to her own mother. When they opened the center, Mary had gone around the family scrounging respectable hand-me-downs and Sarah had been delighted to unload. It was interesting to see the old duds still going strong.
The woman wouldn’t be a paid employee but one of the SCRC members putting in some volunteer time. She’d be recompensed with, a discreet gift of hosiery, underwear, another hand-me-down, a hot bath and a haircut, or whatever she happened to be most urgently in need of at the moment. Dolph was too wily to start paying for services at the low rate the center’s budget would allow and risk falling afoul of the regulations that beset employers. Those who chose to work at the center were content with this arrangement; those who preferred cash could earn it by selling their salvage. Most did a little of each.
Part of Mr. Loveday’s job, Sarah assumed, would be to keep track of the volunteers’ schedules. He’d have rubber stamps, no doubt, to mark their time cards. Mr. Loveday had always had a passion for rubber stamps. Sarah remembered how intrigued she’d been as a child by the neat rack of them he’d kept on his desk.
Her parents had taken her to Great-uncle Frederick’s office up behind the State House every so often. They’d always insisted she save half her weekly ten-cent allowance, to teach her the New England virtue of thrift. When she’d saved up enough to make the excursion worthwhile, she was given the privilege of bringing it to Mr. Loveday and forking it over to whatever cause Uncle Frederick was espousing at the moment. This was to teach her the particularly Brahmin virtue of public charity.
Sarah hadn’t thought much of her parents’ teaching methods, and she’d especially resented the fact that Mr. Loveday would never let her play with his stamps! She’d never protested because children weren’t supposed to, but the grievance had rankled.
Sure enough, Mr. Loveday was stamping something, with a finicky dab and his little finger sticking out straight, just as he always had. He might as well have been a goldfish, in his glassed-off corner. No doubt it made sense for him to have a place where he could work undisturbed and still keep an eye on what was happening in the room; but Sarah knew perfectly well the old prune had insisted on being separated because he really didn’t like being so close to the people who provided a reason for him to keep working for the Kellings.
The members must know it too. Sarah wondered how Mary managed to keep the peace, but she had every confidence in Mary’s ability to cope.
Naturally Sarah and Max got some curious looks when they went in. The hostess bustled over to meet them. Mr. Loveday rushed out and tried to outflank her, but Sarah eluded him and offered her hand to the woman.
“I’m sure you don’t remember me. I’m Dolph Kelling’s cousin, Sarah Bittersohn, and this is my husband. We stopped by to tell you how sorry we are about your friend, Mr. Arthur. We happened to be with Dolph and Mary last night when they got the news. What a dreadful thing to have happened.”
The hostess said it sure was and they were nice to call, and would they like some coffee?
“Yes, get them some coffee.”
There was no way Osmond Loveday could have been prevented from taking charge. “If you please,” he added with a professional smile, remembering just in time that he was supposed to be a model and a beacon to the disadvantaged.
“Well, well, little Sarah Kelling. It seems like only yesterday.” He didn’t specify what seemed like only yesterday. “Did you get my letter at the time of your terrible bereavement?”
“You were so kind to write,” Sarah replied automatically. “Mr. Loveday, this is my husband, Max Bittersohn.�
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Loveday cocked an interested eye. “Ah, yes. How do you do, Mr. Bittersohn? Come to see how the other half lives, have you? What can we tell you about the center?”
“Not much,” said Max. “We helped set it up. How long have you been working here, Mr. Loveday?”
“Only since last June, when all Mr. Frederick Kelling’s good works were finally dissolved and Dolph decided to phase out the office on Bowdoin Street, which had been my domain for thirty-seven years. This is quite a change for me, doing what might be called fieldwork after having been so long in a purely administrative position; but no doubt a new stimulus was what I needed. Not that working with Frederick Kelling was ever dull, I must say.”
“I should say not,” Sarah agreed, “with Great-uncle Frederick setting up some new foundation about once a month and dissolving them just as fast. Or forgetting to, and landing in another idiotic legal tangle over the mess he’d created. I’m sure you find working for the SCRC a good deal more restful.”
“I must say I haven’t had a chance so far to think of this position as restful,” Osmond Loveday replied with a wry smile. “Ah, here’s your coffee. Set the tray on the table—er—Annie. May I offer you a chair, Sarah? Or must I call you Mrs. Bittersohn now that you’re all grown up?”
“Whichever you prefer,” Sarah told him sweetly. “As a matter of fact, we’re here on a little errand for Dolph. Max, what was it he asked you to get from Mr. Loveday?”
“The address of that man Arthur who was killed last night, and any other information about him you may have in your files. I’m assuming the Chet is short for Chester Alan?”
The Recycled Citizen Page 3