And they did. Though the sign was not lighted by day, it was large enough to dominate the landscape for some distance. Max was too fascinated by this touching display of loyalty to a vanished past to object when Jem directed him to pull off the highway. McGillicuddy must be a displaced and homesick Canadian, he decided as Egbert got out of the car and went into the bar. Jem regaled his chauffeur with the first two verses of the ditty in question—“In days of yore, from Britain's shore, Wolfe the gallant hero came”—until Egbert emerged with a large plastic cup.
It was the first time Max had come across martinis to go. He had no objection. Drinking them kept Jem from singing. There were, he suspected, quite a number of verses to “The Maple Leaf Forever.”
The Warty Pickles factory was not a pretty sight. In Max's critical opinion few factories were, but most of the newer establishments had paid lip service to the idea of landscaping, at least in front of the main office. There were no flower beds or swatches of close-cropped grass here, no pole flying a representation of the company logo, not even a pink flamingo. The building itself was faced with aged aluminum siding. The vehicles in the adjoining parking lot weren't antique or vintage, they were just old—except for the glistening stretch limousine in front of the main door, It was a particularly grisly shade of green. Pickle green.
Max pulled up behind it and helped his passengers out, He persuaded Jem to leave the plastic cup in the car. The lobby was as grimy and dispiriting as the outside of the building. There was an armed security guard and a much mascaraed blond receptionist. Both were chewing gum, or possibly tobacco. No wonder old Warty spent as little time as possible here, Max thought. As he'd explained to Jem and Egbert between McGillicuddy's and their destination, he had had the dickens of a time tracking the man down and bullying him into making an appointment.
He had to show the guard his driver's license before the receptionist would announce him.
“Tell him Mr. Kelling and his assistant are with me.” Max said. He didn't like the look in the security guard's squinty eyes or the way he fondled the worn leather holster at his hip. If he'd been told to admit only the Mr. Bittersohn who had made the appointment, he might try to stop Jem, and then all hell would break loose.
After a mumbled discussion the receptionist jerked her thumb toward a door behind the desk without interrupting the even cadence of her chewing. Before they reached it the door was thrown open and there was the pickle king in person.
Max had never seen a man who looked so alarmingly like the product he manufactured. The Irish tweed suit, in an unfortunate blend of emerald, yellow, and forest green, cast a chartreuse glow on his sallow face. It molded a shape that swelled out at the chest and finally tapered down somewhere around knee level. He was bald. Well, of course, Max thought insanely, who ever saw a pickle with hair on top? There were warts.
The entrepreneur looked them over. His pinched smile faded. “You aren't Percival Kelling.”
“Who said I was?” Jem snarled. He pushed past the pickle king and settled his plump haunches in the most comfortable chair. It happened to be the one behind the desk. “Come in, come in. Sit down. We haven't got all day. Mr. Bittersohn is a busy man.”
“We won't take much of your time,” Max said, watching Jem hoist his feet onto the desk and wondering if this was going a little too far, even for Jeremy Kelling. Maybe not. It seemed to be working. Pilcher sank into one of the hard chairs reserved for visitors, winced, shifted positions, and stared at his visitors.
“What do you want?”
“To get out of this filthy place as soon as I can,” said Jem.
Pilcher pulled a handkerchief—green, Max was sorry to see—from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “So do I. I'm flying to Bermuda in a couple of hours. I thought you were Percival. Been thinking of transferring some of my accounts to his firm. But you're not him.” He transferred the stare to Max. “You're the one wanted to see me. I know who you are. And that uncle of yours, the lawyer, he's another do-gooder bleeding heart liberal nosey parker. You said something about grand theft and possible prosecution. You can't prove a damn thing.”
“I have only one question,” Max said. He leaned forward and fixed Pilcher with a stern, accusing gaze. “What did you give your daughter for a wedding present?”
He thought for a minute the man was going to strangle. The pickle king sputtered and stammered and dribbled.
“Just answer the question,” Max said.
“What kind of game is this? Oh, well, then, I'll play a few hands. What did I give, uh, Tracy? Enough of my best pickles to supply her and what's-his-name for years, that's what! Fifty cases of assorted delicacies. Bread and butter, kosher dills, spears, slices … Are you laughing?”
“I'm not sure,” Max admitted. Now that the subject had been raised, he thought he remembered seeing Jed Lomax supervise the removal of multiple cartons from a delivery van. They hadn't been among the wedding gifts. Lomax had probably assumed, as had Max, that the undistinguished brown cardboard boxes had nothing to do with the wedding. “That's all? Nothing else?”
“Why should I have?”
“I can't stand this dribbling cad any longer,” Jem announced. He managed to get his feet onto the floor and stood up. “Let's go before I throw up.”
Jem insisted he needed another slug of gin, or possibly three, to get the taste of Warty out of his mouth. Max was in complete sympathy. After the medication had been supplied, they headed for home.
Having seen the paternal parent in person, Max was even more astonished at the miracle of his newly acquired niece. Heredity, he mused, was a funny thing. Perhaps Tracy was a throwback to some remote ancestor, or perhaps she'd been switched in her cradle by the fairies. That made better sense. She was a dainty little thing. One could only pity the poor elf that got a true offspring of Pilcher and Jeanne in exchange.
He didn't doubt that the old man had spoken the truth when he'd denied giving his daughter anything more munificent than a lifetime supply of poorly preserved cucumbers. Lying was probably a habit of his, but why should he lie about that? Unless the necklace was hot, and he wanted to get it off his hands. That didn't make sense, though. Tracy was painfully honest (another quality she hadn't inherited), and she'd be as confused and worried about the origin of the necklace as the rest of them were. She'd report it, refuse to accept it, and/or try to figure out where it had come from. Supposing the damned thing had been reported stolen, Daddy would be an obvious suspect. There were easier and safer and more remunerative ways of disposing of stolen property. Even more to the point was Jem's cynical and doubtless accurate appraisal of Warty's character. His daughter was the last person to whom he'd give rubies.
13
Sarah met them at the front door. “Well, did you kiddies have a nice outing? I expected you back hours ago. I suppose Jem talked you into feeding the frogs in the Frog Pond and shucking a bag of peanuts for the squirrels on the Common.”
Max gave her a quick but comprehensive kiss. “Sorry we took so long, but we had to go back for Jem's swim fins and Egbert's rubber ducky.”
“How far did you get before you missed them?”
“Quite a way. I wanted to keep going, but then Jem started to fuss and Egbert was pouting about his duck, so what could I do? Then there was the corpse to be disposed of.”
Sarah gasped. “Another one?”
“No, by a strange coincidence it was the same one. The one I found under the library desk, to be precise. What with one thing and another, it's been quite a day.”
“Would you care for some tea or coffee and a sandwich to tide you over for another hour or so? That's how long it will take to get dinner on the table, since I didn't know when to expect you.”
“All right,” said Max. “Don't rub it in. I know I should have phoned, but things just kept happening. Lieutenant Kilkallen sends you his regards, by the way.”
“Do I know him? Oh yes, I remember now. A pleasant-looking man with an old-fashioned air of courtesy
that even a crook couldn't help admiring. I trust Louie was properly appreciative? It was Louie you meant, wasn't it?”
“No, he wasn't, and yes, it was. It's too long to tell now,” Max said as the thunder of little feet heralded the arrival of his son. How a person that size could make as much noise as a two-hundred-pound man, he would never understand. Davy launched himself at his father's knees, and Max caught him and swung him up onto his shoulder. “Hi there, tiger. What are we having for dinner?”
“How about chocolate-covered pretzels with martinis for a chaser?” Jem suggested.
Davy chortled, and his mother said lightly, “I'm afraid we're out of chocolate-covered pretzels. Unless you brought some home?”
“Unfortunately, no,” said Max. “One of the Common squirrels grabbed the bag and ran off with it. You know what rapacious creatures they are; they'll lick anything up to twice their size and brag about it afterward.”
Davy didn't always understand all the words his parents used, but he liked to listen to them talk silly, as he put it, and, as his mother put it, the exercise might stretch his vocabulary, Seeing him grin, Sarah played up nobly. “Really, Max, I don't think that's very nice of them. There they are, right out in front of the State House, wolfing down everything they can get their paws on and not even saying thank you. Uncle Jem, can't you get up a little class on the care and feeding of unprincipled squirrels? You'd have to learn a fair amount of rodent-speak, of course; but think of the difference you could make in their socially stunted lives, And yours as well, I'm sure, Egbert. Maybe you could get those squirrels their own peanut cooker and teach them how to use it.”
Davy let out a whoop of laughter, “Peanut cooker!”
“Excellent idea,” his father agreed, “Okay, kid, let's get the bags upstairs. Same rooms, Sarah?”
“Unless the gentlemen in question object. You know we always give Egbert the room nearest the stairs because he's an early riser like me. Uncle Jem can snooze all day tomorrow if he wants to, although I'm sure Davy is looking forward to singing all two hundred verses of ‘Old Jem Kelling Had a Farm.’ And Egbert can do exactly as he pleases.”
“Just so you won't keep me out of the kitchen much longer, Mrs. Sarah. You're a better cook than I am, but you know how it is; it's fun to cook in a different place for a change. Sort of like a vacation.”
“If that's what you want, that's what you shall have. Everything's set for tonight. There's a little nip in the air, and I thought you might be getting tired of wedding leftovers, so I made a pot roast with carrots and potatoes and so on. I still have to add the potatoes and the so on, so if you really insist on helping, you might fix a tray of cheese and crackers and mix Mr. Jem's martinis. Max, would you like a drink?”
“Please.” Max had started up the stairs, suitcases in hand. Davy followed him, clutching Jem's shaving kit. Jem had already retreated to the sitting room in order to snatch a brief snooze before the refreshments arrived.
Davy was allowed to sit up a little later than his usual bedtime so he could have some time with his father and his adored visitors. Sarah and Max were accustomed to squeezing in grown-up talk in between responding to Davy's remarks. By the time supper had been served and eaten, Sarah had reported the news of the day. Most of the wedding presents had been repacked, moved to the carriage house, and tucked into corners where they wouldn't be in the way of the newlyweds. Nothing new had turned up, except, if he could believe it, fifty cases of—
“I know about them,” Max said. “I called on the sender this afternoon. If you'd met him, you'd have no trouble believing it.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Keep your comments to yourself, Jem, they wouldn't be fit for juvenile ears. He denied the other thing, and I believed him.”
The next exchange was delayed by Davy's request for a definition of juvenile, and the indignant rebuttal that followed. When Davy had been distracted by a serving of frozen yogurt, his mother went on to the next subject.
“Brooks called. He thinks he may be on to something, but he won't know for certain till Jesse reports in tomorrow. Charles telephoned from Miami; they located the statue at an auction house and are taking the necessary steps to retrieve it. Calpurnia Zickery dropped in—”
Davy's golden head had been drooping over his dessert. It lifted alertly at the name. “The Martian lady,” he explained. “She says I can ride in her balloon”
“Great,” Max said, thinking that it would be a winter day in the infernal regions before he let his son into any vehicle, much less a balloon, with one of the Zickerys. “What did she want, Sarah?”
“She wanted to apologize for the television crew.”
“What television crew?” Max demanded.
“They arrived not long after you left. Some enterprising local journalist heard about the body under the balloon, and passed the word. The story does have its intriguing aspects,” Sarah admitted fairly. “Mr. Lomax ran them off before they could lay siege to the house, so they went to interview the Zickerys. That's why Calpurnia popped in, to say she was sorry they had caused such a stir and hope we hadn't been inconvenienced.”
“The major inconvenience was their popping in or onto the tent,” Max said. “Does this mean we're going to be on the six o'clock news?”
“I hope not. Maybe there'll be an even more intriguing disaster elsewhere and we'll be bumped, or whatever the phrase may be. I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for Calpurnia, Max. She said they were planning to repair the old place; she sounded quite excited about it. I think the poor thing is lonely.”
“You feel sorry for everybody,” Max said affectionately. “I hope for your sake she doesn't become a nuisance.”
“If she does, I'll introduce her to the old yacht club crowd. It would serve all of them right.”
Sarah had no fond memories of the yacht club, where, as a young bride, she had spent most of her time sitting in a corner, refusing martinis and fending off the attentions of the drunker male members. That wouldn't have happened if Alexander had stayed at her side like a devoted spouse, but Aunt Caroline's needs always came before Sarah's. After Alexander's death some of the yacht club crew had taken notice of his widow—Bradley Rovedock and his millions, Miffy Tergoyne and her diamonds, Alice Beaxitt and her corrosive tongue, the Larringtons—all of the people whom Sarah had known so long, had liked so little, had been so happy to break away from. They'd tried to keep her on their list not because they liked her, but because they were too hidebound to let go of anybody whom they and their forebears had become used to. There weren't many of the old crowd left, thank goodness, and she wasn't even going to feel guilty about that uncharitable thought.
Observing that Davy was about to fall asleep in his yogurt, she turned her thoughts to happier channels. She graciously allowed Max to do bedtime duty that evening, since he'd been gone most of the day.
Davy revived, as small boys, do when bedtime is imminent, but once he'd been bathed and brushed and encased in a manly set of pajamas covered with pictures of jungle animals, he snuggled under the covers and was asleep before Max had finished the first page of The Little Engine that Could. Max lingered for a bit, smoothing the blankets and listening to his son's quiet breathing.
He was thinking about the Zickerys. Something about that pair bothered him. Callie and Allie. They seemed harmless enough and no more peculiar than many of Sarah's other acquaintances, but he'd just as soon not have much to do with them. He remembered Alister saying he didn't like children.
They really couldn't be called neighbors, not in the generally accepted meaning of the word. Sarah had inherited thirty-five acres of prime seaside property from her first husband. She'd done the sensible thing, as Alexander Kelling would have wanted her to, and sold off five acres at the farthest end of the property. The money had enabled her and Max to build exactly the house they'd wanted, at a price they couldn't have afforded otherwise; but they had kept the other thirty acres despite the persistent offers of realtors hoping to deve
lop the land.
The Zickery place was about the same size as the Kelling land. Max assumed real estate dealers must have scouted that property, too, but it was on the inland side without a clear view of the ocean and so second-best in the eyes of prospective buyers. Was that why it hadn't sold to developers? Maybe the Zickerys had an exaggerated idea of its value, as people often did, and were holding out for a high price. Maybe they just didn't give a hoot. They certainly had taken no interest in the old place for years. The old house was so obscured now by overgrown shrubs and weeds that it couldn't be seen from the road, but it must be getting rattier and rattier. Max had begun to wonder how soon it would be before some philanthropic soul would pause to light a cigarette and forget to blow out the match before tossing it into the dry grass along the roadside.
And now the Zickerys, two of them, at least, had come back. Nostalgia, fond memories of the good old days when they had ridden rented horses along carefully marked bridle paths, got out the croquet set, and put up the wickets for a real ding-dong battle? There must be money available; getting the ramshackle old house back into livable shape would cost a bundle. And hot-air balloons didn't come cheap, did they? Maybe the estate had been tied up in litigation all these years; maybe the other heirs had died and left Allie and Callie in uncontested ownership of the estate, with a large enough inheritance to restore it.
And why did he, Max Bittersohn, give a damn? He tucked the blankets around Davy's shoulders, patted the tumbled fair curls, and went downstairs.
The others had watched the news and were pleased to report an absence of the news they didn't want to hear. Jem had given Sarah a pungent description of their visit to the pickle king, which finished that subject to everyone's satisfaction. He and Sarah were sitting side by side on the sofa, looking at old photographs.
Aunt Appie Kelling had salvaged several old photograph albums from the wreckage of the Kelling place when it was being leveled to make way for the Kelling-Bittersohn house. She'd passed them along to Sarah, but only on loan. Various members of the family had voiced their intentions of writing a Kelling family history; nobody had got very far with the project except Sarah's own father. Jem would have been the logical person to take up the job, but he much preferred looking at the photos of himself as a dashing young blade in plus fours or the white ducks and polo shirt worn on Saturday evenings at the yacht club dances. Another favorite occupation was sneering at the photographic images of his friends and close relatives. Somehow Max was not surprised to hear them talking about the Zickerys.
The Balloon Man Page 11
