The Recycled Citizen

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “With what?” Brooks asked.

  “A couple of big black trash bags from the kitchen. Loveday ran back and got them as soon as he saw Chet coming down the sidewalk with his bag. No question of unpremeditated murder there. So once he’d got Chet conveniently stowed away, Loveday conked him with a tire iron—the same one that was found at the scene, no doubt—and went home to Tiggywinkle.”

  “God!” said Dolph.

  “Oh, Osmond’s quite a guy. According to Tigger, they spent an interesting evening. When intermission time rolled around, Loveday sauntered back to the garage, drove Chet out to that place where he was found and dumped him, ripping the bag and scattering the cans to make it look like the routine mugging the police took it to be.”

  “And outsmarted himself by not having been interested enough in the members to know Chet had a phobia about the Back Bay,” said Mary. “I don’t see where he was so darn clever.”

  “God, when I think how Uncle Fred used to hold Osmond up to me as a model of all the virtues,” Dolph snorted. “And there he was, embezzling Uncle Fred’s money to buy that dive in Uncle Fred’s name. No wonder he kept the accounts in such a mess. Did it so he could siphon off a little at a time and nobody would notice, I suppose.”

  “What intrigues me is his setting up that Thanatopsis Trust with William Cullen Bryant, John G. Whittier and Oliver Wendell Holmes as officers,” said Brooks. “He must have the gall of an ox.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” said Max. “Tigger says he was planning to use some of his drug-running earnings to buy Dolph’s warehouse in the Thanatopsis name so that he could build some more condominiums instead of a senior citizens’ housing project.”

  “With a penthouse for him and Tiggywinkle,” Dolph added, “and make me look like the world’s greatest hypocrite if the truth ever came out. Even Harry Burr’s going to have a hard time finding a good word for Osmond when he hears that.”

  “I expect Harry will manage one way or another,” said Sarah. “What a life that man’s had, all because he’s honestly tried to practice what he preaches. Isn’t it amazing how few people can tolerate someone who’s thoroughly good?”

  “It’s much easier to follow someone who puts on a good show and caters to one’s personal prejudices,” Brooks agreed. “Speaking of shows, Dolph, I hope you’re prepared to perform. I’m sure the media people are waiting for you out at Chestnut Hill already.”

  “I know they are,” said Mary. “That’s why I wanted to stay here for a while and give Dolph a chance to catch his breath. As soon as I found out things were going to be all right, I phoned the house on that old private line of Uncle Fred’s. Henrietta says the other phone’s been ringing off the hook, and there are a slew of people out front with cameras and microphones. I told her to shut off the phone and keep the doors locked till we get back. The police were already out in the toolhouse looking for bloodstains in the wheelbarrows when the trucks began to roll up, so they’re doing emergency crowd control, bless their hearts, and Genevieve’s sneaking coffee and doughnuts out to them through the old coal chute. But, Max, didn’t you say it’s already established that Osmond killed Ted Ashe?”

  “No doubt about it, Mary. I didn’t give Loveday a chance to go home and change his clothes because I was hoping he’d kept the weapon on him. And damned if the arrogant twerp didn’t have this cute little pearl-handled popgun stuck down between his sock and his garter when the cops made him take off his pants.”

  “Just the way Dolph said they did in the movies. You’re so brainy, dear.”

  Mary gave her husband a look of complete and utter worship. Dolph bridled and stuck out his lip but refrained from saying he wasn’t. Jeremy Kelling, who until now had been saving his voice for “On Her Horsehair Sofa in Her Bombazine,” emitted a strange noise somewhere between a snort and a chortle.

  “By gad, a couple more episodes like this one and you’ll almost have me believing you, Mary Macushla. Only how did Loveday manage to shoot Ashe in the midst of that mob?”

  “In the first place,” said Sarah, “they weren’t in the mob. Dolph put Ashe out, remember, and left him there alone. In the meantime I’d told Mr. Loveday to see to the guests and gone upstairs. I’m sure as soon as my back was turned, he slipped into one of the shut-off rooms and slipped out of whatever door or window came handiest. He knows the house inside and out, you know, having stayed there so often when Dolph’s aunt and uncle were alive. I suppose he ran after Ashe, offered him a ride, led him to some convenient spot and shot him. It’s rather awful to think that if I’d stayed downstairs a few minutes longer, the murder wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Don’t feel that way, dear,” said Max. “It had to happen. Once Loveday found out he’d been letting a smirch artist infest the SCRC, he’d never have dared leave Ted Ashe alive. Ashe’s cover was blown, he’d been chucked out on his ear, he was a vindictive bastard and a damned effective mudslinger. It stood to reason he’d go straight to his typewriter and start ripping the SCRC to shreds. Even if he hadn’t yet caught on to the drug running, and Loveday had no way of being sure about that, Ashe could have thrown enough dirt to focus official attention on the center. He’d have played up Chet Arthur’s death and perhaps told something pretty close to the truth even if he hadn’t meant to. At the very least he could have made it impossible for Loveday to continue his highly lucrative delivery service and maybe got him in trouble with his own suppliers.”

  “But Loveday’s such a pip-squeak,” Jem argued. “We’re supposed to believe he shot Ashe with that popgun he had on him, lugged him to the toolhouse, picked the lock, got the body inside and whammed a pickax clean through it. How could he?”

  “He did,” said Max. “A twenty-two-caliber bullet matching Loveday’s gun was found in Ashe’s body, as I’d hoped it might be. A good deal of leaf mold was adhering to the back of that suede jacket Ashe was wearing. George keeps that toolhouse floor clean as a kitten’s whiskers, so the leaf mold had to come from the ground. Loveday probably used one of the garden carts to move the body.”

  “Why didn’t he just lure Ashe into the toolhouse and shoot him there?”

  “Probably because Ashe would have smelled a rat and not gone. As for picking the lock, I’m sure Loveday didn’t have to. Most likely Frederick Kelling did have a key at one time, and Loveday got hold of it.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Dolph. “Osmond stole Uncle Fred’s name and his money; why should he stop short of pinching a key? Kept it because he thought it might come in handy some day, I suppose. Like the rubber stamps, eh?”

  “I expect so,” said Max. “The key hasn’t been found on him, so we have to assume he tossed it into the shrubbery or somewhere after he’d taken care of Ashe. He wouldn’t be needing it again.”

  “But how could he have known he was going to need it this time?” Jem insisted.

  Brooks shrugged. “Precognition, maybe. What do you think, Theonia?”

  His wife settled her lace and smiled her Mona Lisa smile. “I should be inclined to believe Mr. Loveday carried the key simply because it tickled his vanity to know he could move more freely around the estate than its present owner thought he could. He must have resented the fact that Dolph and not he was Frederick Kelling’s heir.”

  “I think Theonia’s absolutely right,” said Sarah. “Remember how he swanked around in that silly dinner jacket last night, greeting people at the door as if he owned the house? He even wanted to make a speech of welcome before the auction started. I practically had to trip him up and sit on him.”

  “Good thing you headed him off,” Jeremy Kelling grunted. “I’d have picked him up and chucked him off the auction block single-handed.”

  “In a pig’s eye you would,” said Dolph, force of habit proving too much for his newfound bonhomie. “Osmond’s in damn sight better shape than you ever were. Walks, lifts weights, eats wheat germ. I’ve seen him.”

  “God, the follies people will commit! No wonder Loveday to
ok to a life of crime. Everybody knows wheat germ warps the mind. Egbert, I believe some of the party could use a spot of refreshment.”

  “In this house Egbert’s a welcome guest like the rest of you,” Brooks said firmly. “Sit down, Egbert. I’ll fix the drinks.”

  “What happened to your retinue of servants?” Max wanted to know.

  “Charles has a rehearsal and Mariposa’s gone to visit some of her relatives,” Theonia told him. “I believe they’re holding an engagement party for Annie and Uncle Pedro. And I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. We do a Sunday night buffet for our boarders, you know, and it’s time I did something about the food.”

  “I’ll help you,” said Sarah. “Max will take Mary and Dolph back to face the onslaught, and I’d suggest Uncle Jem go with them. The SCRC will have to be defended to the media, and after last night I’m convinced Uncle Jem could talk anybody into anything.”

  “Damn right,” said Dolph. “Come on, you old barfly. Make yourself useful, since you’re long past being ornamental.”

  “If you wish,” Jeremy Kelling replied with immense dignity. “As the Prince of Wales said to Lillie Langtry, ‘Ich dien.’ All I ask is a chance to collect a pair of my own pajamas. I slept in some of Dolph’s last night and dreamed I’d been swallowed by an elephant. Devilish disconcerting experience, I don’t mind telling you. Have you any idea how complicated elephants are inside those ill-fitting gray skins?”

  “No, and for goodness’ sake don’t tell us,” said Mary. “You’re right, Sarah, we really should get started. I hate to think what Genevieve and Henrietta are going through out there without us.”

  “I’ll phone and tell them you’re on your way,” Brooks promised. “I’d go with you myself, if we weren’t shorthanded here.”

  “You and Theonia have already done more than your share, Brooks. Heaven knows how we’d have managed without you.”

  “Before you get on the phone, Brooks, I’d like to make a quick call, if you don’t mind,” said Max. “Mind if I use the one upstairs, Theonia?”

  “Not at all.” Why should she, considering that the house was by now more his than hers?

  The quick call stretched out a good five minutes. Mary began to fidget. “Dolph, do you think we should call a taxi?”

  “I’ll go see what’s keeping Max,” said Sarah.

  She got there just in time to hear him say, “Oh Jesus! Eh bien, Pepe, tant pis. Keep your mustache on, we’ll work it out somehow.”

  “What’s the matter?” she asked when he’d hung up. “Couldn’t Pepe get back the two Paul Klees and the Winslow Homer?”

  “Oh yeah, he got them. Also a Utrillo and a Vuillard.”

  “But our client didn’t lose a Utrillo and a Vuillard.”

  “Précisément, ma chérie. That’s why I have to buzz over to Marseilles before the Sûreté catches up with Pepe.”

  “Mary’s awfully anxious to get home.”

  “Come on, then. First things first.”

  They got downstairs in time for a little more hugging and backslapping. Then Max and his passengers were on their way and Sarah was alone with Theonia. It was while they were setting out the china for the buffet that she saw her opening.

  “Theonia, would you forgive me if I asked you something rude?”

  “My dear Sarah, there would be nothing to forgive. Ask what you like.”

  “It’s about that first night, when we’d come back from Dolph’s and you threw the teacup into the fireplace.”

  “Oh, that.” Theonia hesitated, turning a perfectly clean cup in her shapely hands as if searching for words on the delicate porcelain. “I suppose you might call it forensic fortune-telling. I believe I told you once, my dear, that when I used to do readings, I’d sometimes get what I called a flash.”

  “When you knew something for a positive fact. I remember.”

  “Yes. Well, there’s another kind of flash, when you become aware of something but can’t put it into words. That was the kind of flash I had then, a feeling of great evil and terrible danger directed toward our circle. My Gypsy grandmother would have said somebody was practicing black magic against us. I may as well tell you that my immediate concern was for Max, but that was my mind working, not my spirit. I couldn’t tell where the curse was coming from or whom it was meant to harm. So all I could do was turn it around.”

  “Turn it around?”

  “Ill-wishing will always return to the ill-wisher if the person against whom it’s directed simply refuses to accept the curse. I knew I wasn’t going to hurt anybody except the person or persons from whom the evil was emanating, so I just let go and did what felt right to me. I grant you I was hard on your lovely china, like the old tyrants killing the messengers who brought them bad news. But you see, the same principle applied. The bearer of the tidings was assumed to have become impregnated with their aura.”

  “Like mailmen who read all the postcards?” Sarah suggested.

  “You’re laughing at me,” said Theonia, “and I don’t wonder.”

  “I am not. How could I? It worked, didn’t it? One ill-wisher is dead and the other’s a good deal worse off than he, in my opinion. And they did both bring it on themselves, when you come to think of it. Ted Ashe set himself up to be killed by crashing the auction as Hetherton Montague, for no good reason that I can see. If he’d been content to come as Ted Ashe and park cars the way Dolph expected him to, he could have done whatever he came for and got away with it, most likely.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Nobody would have challenged him, so Osmond Loveday wouldn’t have panicked and shot him,” Theonia agreed.

  “Then Mr. Loveday made his own punishment inevitable by keeping the gun,” Sarah went on. “That was a really crazy thing to do, you know, especially for someone so persnickety as he. It’s as if the pair of them were both blinded by their own cockiness. And now it’s over and Dolph and Mary are in a better position than ever to get on with their good work. Surely that’s worth a teacup.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Now let’s talk about something pleasant. I still haven’t heard any details about the auction. Was it fun?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say. I slept through most of it. All I know is that Aunt Appie bought all those seaweed mottoes.”

  “Oh my!” An odd expression flitted across Theonia Kelling’s superbly molded countenance.

  “What’s the matter?” Sarah teased.

  “I’m afraid so, dear. I have a hideous feeling Appie’s planning to give us each one of them for a Christmas present. Would you mind terribly if I smashed another teacup?”

  Epilogue

  BORN ON NOVEMBER 21, TO Mr. and Mrs. Max Bittersohn of Beacon Hill and Ireson’s Landing, a son, David Josiah Kelling.

  Letter from Mrs. Beddoes Kelling to Mrs. Max Bittersohn:

  Darling Sarah,

  Max called just after midnight with the joyful tidings … I am too, too delighted! Wanted to jump right into the car and have Heatherstone drive me straight to Phillips House, but there’s this bothersome kickoff luncheon for the Children’s Fund Drive and then the Garden Club’s Beautification Benefit … for the parks, dear, not the members, though I’m sure some of us could use a bit of titivating … but anyway, I’ll come as soon as I can. I’m simply bursting to see if Little Kell’s as handsome as his daddy and as adorable as his mummy … you were such a precious tyke, sweetie! Do remember that your old baby-sitting service is ready and eager to be reactivated at a moment’s notice. Mrs. Heatherstone is thrilled to pieces at the mere notion of filling your bunny mug again, and so am I. Take care of yourself, dear. Oceans of love to you all,

  Aunt Emma

  Letter from Mrs. Isaac Bittersohn to Mrs. George Gordon:

  Dear Leah,

  Just to let you know my daughter-in-law Sarah had her baby last night at half past eleven. Max is all excited. I hope it doesn’t wear off when he starts getting waked up in the night. It’s a boy. They’re calling him David Josiah after his two grandfa
thers and Kelling for her side of the family, which isn’t so bad. I’d have liked a granddaughter but at least he’s healthy, though only six and a half pounds. It would have been nice if she’d gone to a closer hospital, but what can you do?

  Miriam and Ira are taking us in to see Davy Joe as soon as Ira can get away from the garage. You know how Isaac hates driving in Boston. By the way, we’re having the bris here next Thursday afternoon, so maybe you and George might like to come if you have nothing else to do.

  Your sister, Bayla

  Letter from Miss Mabel Kelling to Mrs. Apollonia Kelling:

  Dear Appie,

  There was no need for you to squander a long-distance telephone call just to inform me that Sarah’s second husband has acquired a new income-tax deduction. At least I assume that was the message my maid took down. Zeriah is tolerably efficient in some ways, but stenography is not what I pay her for.

  Where on earth did Sarah get such an absurd name for the child? There hasn’t been a David nor a Josiah in the family during its entire history, to my knowledge. At least she had sense enough to insert a Kelling in the proper place so that the child can drop the Bittersohn as he will surely wish to. I hope she remembered to change her will before she went into labor, just in case, but anything so sensible probably never entered her head. We must be thankful she pulled through all right; it would have been unthinkable for those in-laws of hers to get their hands on Walter Kelling’s money.

  Your aff. cousin, Mabel

  Letter from Jacob Bittersohn, Esq., to Max Bittersohn:

  Dear Nephew,

  Mazel tov! Would you believe your father tracked me all the way to my hotel in Chicago at one o’clock in the morning your time? He said he had to phone himself because your mother was too excited to talk. That I believe! I swear to God, Max, he was crying. So was I. A grandson to carry on the family name, Isaac and I were both afraid we’d never live to see. Giving him the grandfathers’ names was another mitzvah we didn’t expect, and you needn’t tell me who thought of it. That Sarah of yours is a jewel above rubies. She openeth her mouth with wisdom and in her tongue is the law of kindness.