The Odd Job

by Charlotte MacLeod

“Has Max called yet?”

  “The mahster checked in at precisely two twenty-three pip emma. Negotiations appear to be proceeding, though less rapidly than he’d hoped because everybody keeps wandering off and taking siestas on horseback. He left a number for you to call back, not that he holds out much hope of your getting through to him any time in the immediate future. He says nobody down there seems to know what immediate means, and they’re none too clear on future, but you know the mahster’s penchant for hyperbole. Would you wish me to leave the car where it is, or take it over to the garridge?”

  “Good question. Let’s think about it.”

  Sarah rushed into the house and made a beeline for the telephone. Charles refrained from offering to dial for her and went off to find a suitable vase, vahse, or vawse, as the mood might seize him. Having played so many butlers, valets, and even an occasional housemaid in his sporadic acting career, he’d had a fair amount of training at arranging flowers; he would do full justice to Anne’s handsome offering. It was a pity, Sarah thought as she started to dial, that the family wouldn’t be around to admire the result.

  She picked her way through the intricacies of international dialing, waited in fidgets until somebody said something in Spanish, and made the mistake of asking for Mr. Bittersohn. If she’d said Señor Max, she’d have saved herself some grief. Eventually, however, she managed to sort out her husband’s voice from a wild twanging noise that she took to be technical problems on the line.

  “Max, is that you? We have a dreadfully noisy connection.”

  “Sorry, querida, it’s the best I can do. For some unfathomable reason, every telephone in the area’s gone on the fritz except this one, which is in the only bar for fifty miles or so. Ay, compadres, quieto! Shut up! My esposa’s on the teléfono.”

  “Whom are you shouting at?” demanded the esposa.

  “Twenty drunken guitar players who want to serenade you. They’ve played ‘La Paloma’ for two hours straight while I’ve been sitting here waiting for your call. What the hell kept you?”

  “Idiocy. I made the mistake of letting Anne and Percy drag me off to luncheon with the new head of trustees at the Wilkins.”

  “Did you tell him about the Watteaus?”

  “I never got the chance,” Sarah confessed. “Max! Have you got them?”

  “Sí, señora. At least I think I have. There are still certain formalities to be gone through, if you get my drift. What’s the guy like? Note that I take it for granted he’s a him. It comes of hanging out with all these macho vaqueros.”

  “Oh, then you and Mr. Turbot will have something in common. He raises polled Herefords.”

  “You mean cows that vote?”

  “I don’t suppose they do, but I shouldn’t be surprised if they could. They’re too pedigreed for words. Darling, is your leg giving you trouble? You’re not trying to ride the llamas or anything silly, are you?”

  “No, querida, I’m saving myself for you. What’s happening back there? Where’s Davy? Can you put him on?”

  “No, I can’t. He’s at the lake with Miriam and Ira. We have a bit of a situation here.”

  “What kind of situation? Is Davy all right?”

  “Yes, dear, he’s fine. It’s just that Brooks and Theonia have gone off in your car with Jesse as you knew they were planning to do. Which was fine too. But then Mrs. Blufert came down with some kind of bug, so she couldn’t come. Friday night Mariposa got word that her great-aunt—the nice one with the twenty-seven goats—was either dying or already dead. So Mariposa had to fly down to Puerto Rico yesterday morning and I’ve no idea when she’ll be back. But Charles is here and Anne’s going to help Mr. Lomax plant chrysanthemums around the driveway at home, so we’ll muddle through. But I do miss you, darling.”

  “You damned well better. Look, if I don’t get things wrapped up here within the next couple of days, I’ll just say the hell with it and come home to help out. Okay, kätzele?”

  “Of course it’s not okay. You can’t back away so long as there’s a chance of getting what you went for. Trust me, Max. I can cope.”

  Chapter 4

  BRAVE WORDS, BUT SARAH didn’t for one moment suppose that Max was any more thrilled to hear them than she’d been to utter them. While she was trying to think of a more appropriate good-bye, the line went into a frenzy of sputters and died. She put down the handpiece and stood there wondering until Charles came back with his floral offering.

  “That’s lovely, Charles. It didn’t take you long.”

  “Piece of cake. Mrs. Percy had already stripped the stems so that the water wouldn’t get fouled by dead leaves. All I had to do was pop the flahs in the vawse and fluff them out a wee bit. I’ll set them in the bay window, shall I?”

  “Why not on the coffee table?”

  “Because Mrs. Tawne is coming to tea.”

  “Charles, you beast! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was going to, but you didn’t give me a chance.”

  “I don’t suppose I did, now that you mention it. Did Dolores say what time she was coming?”

  There wouldn’t have been any point in telling Dolores Tawne not to come. It was typical of her to invite herself, set her own time, and arrive spang on the dot, expecting to find the tea tray set out and the kettle at the boil. Somehow or other, by telepathy or smoke signals, she must have got wind of Sarah’s visit to the Turbots; she’d be itching to air her own views on the new chairman.

  Sarah could understand that. She wouldn’t have minded airing a few of her own views if she hadn’t learned early on that great dustups from little tongue-slips grew. “Five o’clock, as usual, right? Do we have anything to feed her?”

  “No fear. As soon as she’d called, I nipped down to the corner and bought a package of those squishy-wishy ooey-gooeys she likes. We also have cheese and crackers in good supply and I can whop together a plate of tuna-fish sandwiches to fill in the chinks. Crusts off, right?”

  “Crusts definitely off. You’d better light a fire, Charles, so that the room will be warm when Mrs. Tawne gets here.”

  Not that it would matter to Dolores, she was about as close to a fire-breathing dragon as a human could get; but Sarah herself was feeling a nip in the air now that the sun had gone around. She remembered a cardigan that she’d left in the downstairs bedroom closet along with a few other garments, and was glad.

  “I’m going across the hall and write some letters. Keep an eye on the clock for me.”

  “Your wish is my command. Shall I thump or just bellow?”

  “Whichever you think the script calls for. I’ll see you in a while, then.”

  Back in the boardinghouse days, Sarah had turned her drawing room into a downstairs bedroom for an elderly tenant. After Brooks and Theonia took over and the boardinghouse became again a private dwelling, there’d been talk of turning it back to its original state, but nothing had been done. Elderly visiting relatives liked not having to climb two or three flights of stairs to find a place to sleep. The room had been particularly useful after Max had suffered some cracked ribs and a badly smashed leg this past April, spent far too long in Massachusetts General Hospital, and been released in late May on condition that he stay in town and report for therapy on a regular basis.

  Having to miss the whole summer at Ireson’s Landing had been a disappointment, but ferrying Max back and forth would have been far harder on both patient and family. He, Sarah, and Davy had all settled in with Brooks and Theonia; life on Tulip Street* had proved to be more interesting than they’d expected. Seeing Max progress from walker to crutches to cane and finally to his own two feet with no help needed would have been worth any sacrifice to Sarah.

  During those early weeks when Max had needed to rest much of the time, Sarah had brought a small but sturdy table into the bedroom and appointed herself his secretary, writing letters and taking notes from his dictation. Being able to maintain an active role in his far-flung business even when he could barely wiggle his toes wa
s probably the best therapy Max could have had. Knowing herself to be part of the healing process had helped Sarah to keep up her own spirits as well as her husband’s.

  Sitting here now, doing a few of the odd jobs that she’d promised to take care of in his absence, Sarah didn’t feel so far away from Max. Concentrating on the work, she quite forgot until Charles thumped at the door to announce that Dolores Tawne would be arriving in exactly ten minutes. She flung off the cardigan, put the blue silk jacket back on, tidied her hair, freshened her lipstick, and sailed out to greet her guest.

  Sarah needn’t have rushed. Five o’clock came, Dolores did not. The time passed. By half past five, Sarah and Charles were staring at each other with a wild surmise.

  “You’re quite sure she said five o’clock, Charles?”

  “Quite sure, moddom. I wrote down the time on the pad before I sent out to get the squdgy-wudgies. We Admirable Crichtons do not make mistakes.”

  “But Dolores is never late, not by a minute. You don’t suppose …”

  “I never suppose, it’s unbecoming to my station in life. May I suggest a tuna-fish sandwich to calm your nerves?”

  “Oh, Charles, quit acting. Is that the phone?”

  Sarah beat Charles to it. “Hello. Dolores?”

  “Oh, M-Mrs. K-K—have I the r-r-r-ight n-n-n—?”

  “Mr. Melanson! I haven’t spoken to you in ages.”

  “But you recogn-n—” overwhelmed by the incredible honor of hearing his voice remembered, the timid soul faltered into total incoherence.

  “For Christ’s sake, Milky! Give me that phone.”

  Sarah was good at voices; Vieuxchamp’s combination of whine and bluster was as easy to spot as poor Joseph Melanson’s stammer. Philip Vieuxchamp would not have been her choice to fill old Mr. Fitzroy’s place as head of security. He had been Dolores Tawne’s, however, because he made a good appearance in his dark-green uniform and was lazy enough not to resent her taking over and running the museum her way. He and Melanson held the longest tenure among the guards, Melanson was by far the more conscientious but he couldn’t have said “boo” to a peacock, much less function in a position of authority.

  There was nothing shy about Vieuxchamp, he was bellowing into the phone. “Where’s Brooks?”

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah replied somewhat crisply, “he’s not here.”

  “Then find him! I’ve got to talk to Brooks.”

  “I told you he’s not here. We’re expecting Dolores Tawne to tea, can’t she—”

  “No, she can’t!” His bluster had become a shriek. “Jesus, isn’t there anybody I can talk to?”

  “Mr. Vieuxchamp, stop that screaming. I’m Sarah Kelling Bittersohn. You know me. What’s keeping Dolores? Where is she?”

  “She’s sprawled out flat on her face in that big clump of green stuff next to the pink stuff in the courtyard. We can’t wake her up.”

  “How long has she been lying there?”

  “How the hell do I know? That new head of trustees was on my case Thursday about not letting the staff run up overtime, so I let them all go but Milky and me. We were locking up; Milky’s the one who found her.”

  So it was all Milky’s fault. Sarah was ready to do some screaming of her own. “Mr. Vieuxchamp, are you trying to tell me that Dolores is dead?”

  “How do I know? I’m no doctor.”

  “Then get one. Dial nine-one-one immediately. Tell them you need a police ambulance at the Wilkins right away. Don’t try to move her until it comes.”

  “I can’t call the police!”

  “You have to. It’s the law.”

  “Then can’t you call them?”

  “No, I can’t. Listen to me, Mr. Vieuxchamp. You’re the one who’s supposed to be taking Mr. Fitzroy’s place. Can you imagine him trying to wiggle out of making a simple telephone call?”

  “Aw, hell! Why do women always have to complicate everything?”

  He slammed down the phone. Sarah picked up one of Charles’s carefully decrusted tuna-fish sandwiches and bit into it, there was no sense in wasting them. It tasted good, she took another. She was about to suggest that Charles make them that pot of tea they still hadn’t had when the telephone rang again. Again, it was Vieuxchamp.

  “Okay, Miz Kelling, they’re here. They say she’s dead. A stroke or something, they don’t know. What do I do now?”

  “Call Mr. Turbot. Did you get his home telephone number while you were talking with him on Thursday?”

  “Dolores did, I guess. She always takes care of stuff like that.” His voice dropped, it must have hit him that Dolores might no longer be around to take care of stuff like that. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to—”

  “I don’t suppose so either, Mr. Vieuxchamp. All I know, and you’d better write this down before you forget it, is that his full name is Elwyn Fleesom Turbot and he lives on a cattle farm in Cowley.”

  “Where’s Cowley?”

  “Somewhere near Foxford is the best I can tell you. Call Information, the operator should know. If that doesn’t work, ask a policeman.”

  That was mean, but Vieuxchamp deserved it. Sarah drank her tea when it came, without a qualm, wondering what would happen to the Wilkins next. Dolores Tawne had been grudgingly respected, sometimes feared, by no means well-loved by the rest of the staff. As long as Mr. Fitzroy remained in charge, he had courteously but firmly kept Dolores in her place, or thought he had. Since his retirement almost a year ago, there had been much talk but no action with regard to a new director. During the interim, Dolores Tawne had maneuvered Vieuxchamp into Mr. Fitzroy’s place, then proceeded to make that place considerably less than more, constantly undercutting his already tenuous hold. By the time of Turbot’s appointment, she had been pretty much running the show to suit herself.

  The truth of the matter was that Dolores had been a better man than the lot of them, though naturally none of the guards would have admitted it, except perhaps Melanson. That Dolores Agnew Tawne should die just as the new chairman of trustees was in the process of taking over did strike Sarah as being almost too much of a coincidence.

  Now that Turbot had appeared on the scene, change would be inevitable. He clearly meant to take an active role in the running of the museum, he’d insist on knowing exactly where its funds came from and where the money went. Somebody might still have had sound reason to worry about what information Dolores might let fall into Mr. Turbot’s ears.

  Dolores had had her virtues and her limitations. She’d been a more than capable painter without a glimmer of creativity. She’d been a zealous, competent worker, ready to take on any job that came to hand, never once stopping to consider toward what end that job might be leading. Even a cataclysmic shock that she’d suffered seven years ago didn’t appear to have sharpened her sense of awareness; she’d been just as pigheaded as usual when Sarah had last met with her a month or so ago. Was it so impossible that what had been done before might have been done again; that somebody else—most likely one of Dolores’s co-workers, since she’d been so single-mindedly involved with the Wilkins—was taking advantage of her blind spot to cash in on her abilities?

  Now here had come a new broom intent on a clean sweep. Somebody as big and bristly as Elwyn Turbot might have looked like vengeance to a man—it would have to be a man because Dolores was the only woman aside from Madam Wilkins herself who’d ever been allowed an active role in the palazzo’s workings—who was running a little business on the side at the museum’s expense.

  After years of somnolence on the board of trustees, that visit of Turbot’s on Thursday must have been a rude awakening. Sarah could envision him barging around from floor to floor and guard to guard, barking out orders right and left, letting everybody know who was going to be boss even if he couldn’t distinguish a Rembrandt from a Rubens or a Manet from a Monet. Dolores Tawne, who had been an undisputed asset to the Wilkins on Thursday morning, could have become a dangerous liability by closing time that same day. Too dangerou
s, perhaps, to be let live until Mr. Turbot came again.

  This was all conjecture, of course. Dolores could have fallen dead from a sudden heart attack, or choked to death on a cough drop. Sarah looked at the few tuna-fish sandwiches that were still on the tray and shrugged.

  “Charles, do please take away those ghastly squoodgy-woodgies, or whatever you call them. Poor Dolores, one always got the impression that she’d go on forever. I hope somebody knows who her relatives are, assuming that she had any left after her brother died. Brooks might know; I wish we knew how to get hold of him.”

  Not that it made any difference, Sarah supposed. Some long-lost nephew or cousin, or even the husband whom Dolores had never talked about and her co-workers thought must be long dead was bound to show up and claim the body, along with anything of value that was to be got from the studio in which Dolores had lived and done her unlikely homework for so many years. There’d be some money put by, not a great deal but enough to pay for a decent burial.

  In this respect, if in no other, Dolores would have looked ahead; she was that sort of woman. With Jimmy gone, the odds were that she’d leave whatever there was to the Wilkins, along with a handsomely calligraphed epitaph extolling the artistry of Dolores Agnew Tawne and the years of dedicated service she’d given to the museum. She’d have left a note with it giving precise instructions as to where on the courtyard wall a bronze plaque was to be fastened; she might even have had the plaque all engraved and ready to be hung once the date of her passing had been inserted.

  What a crazy thing to be thinking. No, it wasn’t crazy at all, it was what Dolores would have wanted and what she’d have made sure she got if she hadn’t died so abruptly. If such a plaque either existed or was mentioned in her will, would anybody care enough to put it up? Sarah would, Max would, Brooks Kelling would if they were given the chance; but none of them was officially a member of the Wilkins staff. Even Jimmy Agnew would have carried more weight if he’d been still above ground.

  Jimmy had been around the museum almost as long as his sister. He’d managed to hold his job ostensibly because Dolores had covered up his alcohol-inspired absences. In fact, as it later transpired, Jimmy had been kept on the payroll as messenger for a former bigwig who was now living in restricted quarters at the public expense. Nobody had blamed Jimmy for what he’d done, nobody had ever expected much of him in the first place. His co-workers had tolerated him well enough, partly because he was a likable chap in his way, and partly because they’d pitied him for having a sister like Dolores.