It was one of the ones supplied by the caterers, with the initials of the bride and groom inside a tasteful heart-shaped scroll. He was about to discard it when he realized there was writing on it.
Theonia's elegant flowing penmanship was distorted by haste and, he deduced, strong emotion. The pencil had dug holes in the thin paper.
“Max, be careful. Something's on the boil. I don't know exactly what, but its out of the past and connected with Caroline Kelling. Do be careful, Max; very, very careful. It's you who've become the target, not Sarah; but keep her away from it if you can. You and I must talk, when I have something to give you.”
She'd already given him more than he wanted. He remembered the night, not too many years ago, when Theonia had examined the dregs of her tea and, without a word, hurled one of Sarah's precious blue-and-white China export cups into the fireplace. She'd had one of her flashes, evil directed against their circle, and had taken that means of turning it back on the ill-wisher.
If you believed in that sort of thing, you could say her trick had worked. The ill-wishers had lost, the Bittersohn Agency had chalked up another success. You could also say that quick thinking, fast action, and good luck had solved the case and brought the perpetrators to a well-deserved end.
Max didn't believe in that sort of thing. He'd never have hurt Theonia's feelings by scoffing at her, but it didn't require extrasensory perception to sense danger when the agency was working on a case. People who steal expensive art objects resent being asked to return them, and they are inclined to think ill of the inconsiderate individuals who want to put them in jail.
That was the logical way to look at it, and Max Bittersohn was a logical man. Theonia's flashes were few and far between, though. Most of the time she was as cynical and skeptical as any woman he'd ever known. And how by all the blue-bottomed apes in hell had she come up with the name of Caroline Kelling, just before that demonic old woman's ruby parure had appeared out of thin air?
Could she have seen the necklace during the brief span of time when it was in the library? That was possible, he supposed, but even if she had, would she have recognized it as part of the Kelling parure? Like all the other members of the group, she had heard of it, but she would have no reason to study the painted and photographed images intensively enough to identify it. There had to be some logical explanation, but he was damned if he could think, of one.
He didn't wonder how she had slipped the note into his pocket without his noticing. Theonia's white-gloved hands had been fluttering like the doves to which her enamored husband often compared them; she'd been laughing and hugging people and cheek kissing as many cousins as time allowed. She could have dipped into the pockets of every member of the infatuated audience without being caught.
A thump and a whoop from the next room informed him that Davy was awake and ready to be up and doing. He shoved the note into his pocket and went to intercept his son. A single-minded child, Davy demanded the services of his faithful camel. Max didn't think his knees could stand much more crawling, so he swung Davy onto his shoulder and went downstairs and joined the others.
A conference of some sort had been in progress, but even Jem left off grumbling out of deference to youthful ears and subjects that shouldn't be mentioned in front of children. Davy was in a rambunctious mood, so they adjourned to the lawn, where he could run around in circles that would, his elders could only hope, tire him out enough to sleep soundly that night.
The disappearance of the tent was a bitter blow. Max had to explain in detail that it hadn't belonged to them and that they'd had to give it back. It was a mercy there hadn't been any bloodstains, since Davy refused to believe the tent was all gone until after he had inspected the area foot by foot. Deprived of the tent, he then demanded another balloon and/or a visit to the Martian lady who had been in it. What with one thing and another, Max could have cheered with relief when a car zoomed up the drive and came to a sudden stop. Nobody but a teenager drove like that. He welcomed his apprentice with a fervor that made Jesse blush and beam.
“The others won't be along till later,” he explained. “Theonia said don't worry about food, she'd bring it. I didn't have anything to do, so I figured I might as well come on over. Hi, Dave. How are you doing, tiger?”
“He's running poor old daddy tiger ragged,” said Sarah, joining them. “Jesse, you're a sight for sore eyes and a blessing to sore shins. Can you entertain the baby tiger for a while?”
“Keep him moving,” Max advised. “But don't let him out of arm's reach.”
“Sure. Has something happened?”
“Well, yes. We'll talk about it later.” Sarah took her sagging spouse by the arm. “Come and rest, darling. What about a cup of tea?”
Tea was the last beverage he wanted just then, with Theonia's warning fresh in his mind. “I don't want you running around waiting on me, schatzele. Can I do anything for you? Cook, dust, rub your feet?”
He dropped gratefully into one of the pretty old wicker lawn chairs he and Sarah had picked up at a local auction. Mr. Lomax had applied a coat of fresh white paint, and Miriam had made chintz-covered cushions for the seats and back.
“There's more than enough food, especially if Theonia is bringing her usual bounty,” Sarah answered. “Mrs. Blufert made potato salad, bless her heart.”
“Who gives a damn about potato salad?” Jem demanded. “How's the gin holding out?”
“There's plenty, but you can't have any more until the sun is over the yardarm,” his niece said severely.
“It's already over the yardarm in California.”
“No, it isn't. You've got it backward.”
“The Canary Islands?”
“You aren't in the Canary Islands.”
The Kellings could keep this up for hours. Max turned to Egbert. “No word about the car?”
“One could not reasonably expect results so soon, Mr. Max. They said they'd do the usual thing. I don't know exactly what that means, but your Sergeant Jofferty seems a most competent individual. He did ask me to pass on a message. To quote him exactly, it was What the hell next?'”
“I wish I knew.” Max stretched his aching legs and forced himself to loosen up. Davy and Jesse were playing catch. Since Davy's catching and throwing skills were about on a par with each other, both parties spent most of the time running after the ball.
“I've been wondering about that smoke bomb,” Egbert said. “Could it have been set off in order to facilitate the theft of the vehicle?”
“Driving an unfamiliar vehicle through a cloud of blinding black smoke wouldn't be my idea of fun. He certainly didn't come down the driveway. I followed it back to the house, and I think I'd have noticed if a car the size of Jem's had passed by or over me.”
Egbert was not to be moved by sarcasm. “What about that track down the hill and through the pasture?”
“Even harder to negotiate in total darkness. I suppose I could have a look, though it's unlikely he'd have left tracks. It hasn't rained all week.”
He made no move to do so, though. Sarah and Jem had finished thrashing out the ramifications of time zones and their effect on the consumption of martinis. She looked tired. Small wonder, Max thought. Conversations with Jem had that effect on him, too. Sarah was used to her relatives, but she'd had altogether too many people around for too long. He took her hand.
“Want to go down and walk on the beach for a few minutes? The rest of the gang won't be here for almost an hour.”
Sarah's feeble objections were overruled by Jem, who wasn't such a bad old goat after all, Max thought. He'd seen that Sarah needed a respite. “The food is ready, you said so yourself. If anything else needs to be done, Egbert will do it.”
“With pleasure” said the gentleman's gentleman.
Down under the cliff the wind was brisk, blowing straight across the Atlantic. It blew fresh color into Sarah's cheeks. She let out a little sigh. “I'm so glad you thought of this, darling. It's so lovely and peaceful here.
Nobody but us. Even the tide's gone out. That was one of Alexander's little jokes. Oh, Max, really I hadn't…”
“Hadn't what?”
“Hadn't thought much about him since Davy was born. I feel guilty about that. Alexander was such a good man, at least he tried to be. But it was awfully hard, with Aunt Caroline demanding his full attention every minute of the day and often half the night. He didn't have time to pay much attention to me after we were married.”
Max had his own opinions about that and a lot of other things about Alexander Kelling, but he wouldn't dream of expressing them.
“You were very young,” he said gently.
“I was only eighteen when Alexander and I got married. Alexander was forty-one. We were fifth cousins once removed, or something along that line. Nobody found the discrepancy in our ages anything special; it was just a matter of keeping the money in the family. Alexander and I stood up in front of the fireplace in what had been my parents' front parlor. The minister showed up, and half a dozen or so of the relatives. The minister said what he had to say and left. I made a pot of tea and set out a plate of cookies. The relatives ate the cookies, and then they left. Nobody kissed the bride, not even Alexander. That was not the Kelling way.”
Sarah hadn't meant to sound sarcastic. She didn't know why she was dragging up that old stuff after such a wonderful day. Perhaps Max knew better than she. He encouraged her to keep talking.
“What happened to your parents' house?”
“It was sold furnished without my being asked what I might like to keep. That would have meant next to nothing because the house to which I was going must not be cluttered up with objects that poor brave blind Aunt Caroline wasn't familiar with and might stumble over. So I moved in with her and Alexander and started wearing my mother's clothes.”
“Why, in God's name?”
“Because Aunt Bodie, I believe it was, took it upon herself to gather up the clothes I'd worn before the wedding and send all but the underwear to the Goodwill. I was a married woman now and mustn't dress like a child anymore. Unfortunately, she didn't offer to buy me anything more appropriate. Neither did Alexander; I didn't know why and thought it would be rude to ask. I did know that Father had left me some money in his will. He'd never mentioned how much, but I wasn't supposed to get any of it until I was twenty-seven. I wasn't trained for anything except what my governesses had taught me about art, poetry, and local history and what the cook we used to have showed me about cooking and housekeeping. So I did the best I could with what I'd learned at my father's house, tried to make over Mother's hand-me-downs so they wouldn't look quite so frumpy, and hoped for something good to happen.”
Sarah heaved another, deeper sigh. “Max, dear, I'm sorry I've been boring you like this. I've probably told you most of it before, though I've tried not to.”
“So what if you did? How many times have you listened to my uncle Jake's courtroom yarns? Sit down and rest your feet. This looks like a fairly comfortable rock.”
“How did you know? This is my old wishing rock. Alexander and I used to sit on it for hours, looking out to sea while he told me stories about the mermaids who rode the waves on their thoroughbred dolphins. I made believe I could see them with their golden hair streaming out behind them and their silvery fishtails slapping the water.”
Sarah's voice was shaky now. Max put his arm around her and felt her quivering; he didn't think it was from the chill that was coming up with the night mist.
“What's the matter, fischele? Can't find your dolphin?”
She turned into his arms and hid her face against his shoulder. “I did find it. I don't want to lose it.”
Being compared to a dolphin wasn't one of the most graceful accolades Max Bittersohn had ever received, but he wouldn't have traded this one for the Nobel Prize, the Congressional Medal of Honor, or the plaudits of all the crowned heads of Europe.
“Fat chance,” he said tenderly, holding her close.
Sarah raised a flushed, tearstained face. “Aren't we ever going to be rid of them? I want to lay Alexander to rest, as a gentle memory, but she won't let me! That sounds demented, doesn't it?”
“If you're referring to your ex-mother-in-law, I'm not sure it does.”
“I'm being silly. I don't really believe in evil spirits or curses, but if anybody could make a deal with the devil, it was Aunt Caroline. She murdered her husband and my father, robbed me of Alexander's love and most of the money I should have inherited—not that I cared about that!—and she'd have disposed of me just as coolly if it had suited her purposes. Now that—that damned necklace has turned up. It's as if she won't let go, as if I have to go on fighting her. Well, she's not going to win this time!”
“That's my girl. Want to go back now? It's getting cold out here.”
“And our valiant allies will be arriving soon.” Sarah was herself again. “Thanks, darling,”
“What for?”
“For letting me get it out of my system. I hadn't realized how badly those memories rankled. But if it hadn't been for Aunt Caroline, I'd never have met you, or Mariposa and Charles and Theonia.”
“Quite the little optimist, aren't you?”
“Just call me Candide.” She gave him a watery smile.
“Among other things. There's something I have to tell you, süssele.”
10
Theonia was resplendent in a black velvet gown she'd found in Filene's Basement, shortened to tea length, and trimmed with yards of jet-beaded lace looted from an otherwise moth-eaten robe de chambre she and Sarah had discovered during one of their forays into Emma Kelling's attic, Keilings never threw anything away, and Emma's attic was one of her sources for costuming her light opera group, but she had good-naturedly agreed that the garment in question was too far gone to serve even the duchess of Plaza Toro. With a black lace mantilla draped over her raven hair, Theonia was the spitting image of a Venetian noblewoman, and her husband, Brooks, could have stood in for the duke.
Like the great Savoyards who had played the part, Brooks was a trim, sprightly man only five and a half feet tall, with the bright eyes of a chipmunk and the inquiring mind of an investigative reporter. A man of many talents, he was particularly authoritative on the subject of the crested grebe. His birding interests had thus far been of limited use in his new profession of right-hand man to a pursuer of art thieves, but his other talents had made him invaluable to Max.
In deference to Theonia and because she too understood the effect of clothes on female spirits, Sarah had found time to change into a caftan Max had brought back on one of his foraging trips from a souk in Cairo or Damascus, or it might have been Beirut. She'd got accustomed to the comfort and elegance of caftans while she was pregnant with Davy, and although her wardrobe might have seemed rather outre for a Boston-born and -bred lady, in fact it was nothing of the sort. Some of Sarah's Boston-born ancestresses had probably been wearing caftans and djellabas and perhaps even saris in the privacy of their boudoirs ever since the days of the clipper ships. The long, loose robes would have been just the ticket to wrap a lady's feet in while she was relishing the latest of Ralph Waldo Emerson's delightful essays or teaching herself Hebrew so that, when the time came for her to do so, she could meet and talk with her Maker in his native tongue.
After wrapping the rainbow folds around her own feet, Sarah curled up on the sofa and waited for Max to begin the meeting. They were there, her valiant allies and dear friends. Brooks sat next to his wife, holding her hand as was his constant habit. Uncle Jem had his feet up and a jug of his special martinis at his elbow and Egbert hovering beside him. Jesse was looking a little frazzled. No wonder, Sarah thought. She'd read somewhere about a professional football player who had followed his three-year-old son around to see which of them would collapse first. The three-year-old had won by half a day. Jesse's sacrifice had not been in vain. Davy had succumbed shortly after dinner and was now tucked in his bed with his alligator.
The only missing members of
the firm were Charles C. Charles, Sarah's erstwhile butler, and his whatever-they-were-calling-it-these-days Mariposa, who were in Miami making tactful inquiries into the present ownership of a sixteenth-century Madonna and Child that had once graced a church in Mexico City. Sarah wasn't about to suggest that they be recalled. The agency that provided all of them with income had to continue its normal routine. She missed them, though. She even missed her cousin Dolph, who was in Denmark or possibly Sweden with his wife, Mary, the former bag lady.
“Do you suppose Dolph would know something about the parure?” she asked. “I wouldn't want him and Mary to cut their trip short, but we could telephone them.”
“I've been piously thanking God the old goat isn't here,” her uncle Jem said. “What could he do except bellow and snort and paw the ground?”
Brooks shook his head disapprovingly. “You're confusing your zoological references, Jem.”
“No, I'm not. Bull in a china shop, that's Dolph. Anyhow, he doesn't know any more than I do about the Kelling family treasures, such as they are. The long past history of the rubies isn's as relevant as what happened to them after they were sold. Right, Max?”
“I'm working on that,” Max informed them. “Pepe hasn't called back, has he? I told him to try the office and the house if he couldn't reach me here.”
“He hadn't called by the time we left,” Brooks answered. “There must be something we can do from this end. You've no idea how the jewels got into the library?”
“Somebody put them there,” Max said. “It wasn't one of us. Nobody was unwrapping parcels the day of the wedding, there wasn't time. I would swear the necklace wasn't on the table when I entered the library. It was there when I got ready to leave.”
“You didn't see the person who left it?” Brooks asked Egbert.
Jem's henchman shook his head regretfully. “No well-bred individual would deliver a last-minute wedding present in such a surreptitious manner. I would certainly have noticed an action so out of the ordinary and drawn it to Mr. Max's attention.”
The Balloon Man Page 8
