The Odd Job

by Charlotte MacLeod

  When he’d got run over, the other guards had been mildly regretful to see him go. A few had voiced their puzzlement as to how the accident happened. The day had been fine, the pavement not a bit slippery, the traffic no heavier and Jimmy no drunker than usual. He’d used that same crossing day after day for years and years because his favorite pub was across from the museum’s back entrance. But dead he’d been, and nothing to be done but attend the obsequies and then gather at the bar to hoist one for Jimmy.

  Sarah and Brooks had attended the funeral out of courtesy to Dolores. She had not appeared to be overwhelmed with grief. Once Jimmy was safely tucked away, she’d accepted Sarah’s invitation and come back to Tulip Street for tea and sympathy. With a glass of sherry under her belt, Dolores had as much as admitted that she was well rid of her brother. He’d been getting more cocky, harder to manage. Could that mean that Jimmy Agnew had taken on a second job running errands on the q.t. for some other member of the museum’s staff?

  More guesswork. Sarah poured out tea for Charles while he laid another log on the fire, and motioned for him to finish the sandwiches. When the tuna-fish was gone, they ate cheese and crackers with a couple of Early Transparent apples that Sarah had picked from one of the trees at Ireson’s Landing. When the food was all gone and the teapot empty, Charles went into the dining room and came back with the brandy decanter and two glasses.

  “To Dolores, moddom?”

  “To Dolores, Charles.”

  Sarah took a ritual sip, wondering whether anybody else anywhere was sorry that Dolores Tawne was dead. Vieuxchamp hadn’t sounded at all bereft, his grief would be for himself and the extra work he’d have to do without Dolores around to do it for him. Turbot would be on Vieuxchamp’s neck, no doubt, once he noticed that the museum was not being properly kept up, which it certainly wouldn’t be unless somebody new was hired to take Dolores’s place. The trustees would have their hands full trying to find a replacement who could function capably as a curator, housekeeper, assistant gardener, and peacock doctor, and was willing to work for a relative pittance.

  And what about Max? Sarah wondered, down in Argentina at his own expense, exercising his training and diplomatic skills to get back another of the Wilkins’s looted treasures with nobody left on the staff who cared enough to rejoice in its recovery or could distinguish the original from the copy.

  Other museums had fund-raising societies formed for their benefit by interested patrons. There had never been a Friends of the Wilkins. Even if the trustees had sanctioned it, Dolores Tawne would have thrown a wet blanket over any such amateurish nonsense in her domain. Maybe Lala Turbot would get interested, at least it would be a change from looking at livestock. Whatever happened, Sarah was well aware that, after the way she’d spoken her mind to Elwyn Turbot, the Bittersohn Detective Agency would be finished with the Wilkins Museum once the Watteaus had been delivered and the new chairman of trustees had tried unsuccessfully to gyp Max out of his fee. It was the end of an era. She raised her glass again.

  “Bottoms up, Charles. This one’s to us.”

  * The Resurrection Man

  Chapter 5

  SARAH WENT TO BED early but didn’t get much sleep. She kept waking up and trying to remember all the things that needed to be done now that the usual support group had—temporarily, she hoped—dwindled away to Charles and herself. Mostly what came to her mind, however, was Dolores Tawne as Sarah had known her, the living image of a teakettle coming up to the boil, clumping around in sensible thick-soled tan walking shoes, her sensible beige gabardine shirtwaist covered by a smock that had seen far too many wash days and been patched under the armpits at least once too often; radiating a sort of ferocious warmth when things were going her way, turning up the heat to full blast when anybody tried to cross her.

  In her own way, Dolores had been a personage. It was hard to think of her as she must be now, lying stiff and still in a drawer at the morgue with a cardboard tag tied to her bare big toe. She’d have loathed being seen naked. Whoever was doing the autopsy had better watch his or her step; even from beyond the veil, Dolores might arise long enough to pick a bone or two. What a blessing it was, finding something to smile about, here alone in the dark. Sarah sent a wave of comradely farewell into the blackness, trusting that it would find its way to the right place, and dropped at last into a sound sleep.

  At Ireson’s Landing, the only night noises would be those of wind and water and occasional local fauna out on the hunt. Summer in the city, though, had re-immunized her even to police and fire sirens; Sarah didn’t wake up until almost half past seven. By the time she’d showered and rummaged something halfway wearable out of the closet, she could hear Charles astir in the kitchen. She hoped to goodness he wasn’t thinking of some essay into haute cuisine such as eggs Benedict; toast and coffee were about the limit of his culinary powers.

  Fortunately, he’d only got so far as to be holding a box of pancake mix at arm’s length, trying to read the directions on the box without his glasses on, when Sarah entered the kitchen.

  “Don’t go to all that bother for me, Charles. Is there any bread in the house, or did you use it up on the sandwiches yesterday?”

  “Yes, I did, but there’s one of Mrs. Brooks’s coffee cakes in the fridge. She left two, but the other one sort of melted away.”

  “They do, don’t they. Why don’t you bring what’s left and pour us some coffee?”

  Not that Sarah couldn’t have poured her own coffee, but Charles did burn to be useful and it was generally safer to draw the boundaries while yet there was time. Charles might be a little tired of coffee cake by now, but that was just too bad. She’d better check the larder and make sure there was enough for them to eat during the next few days. Charles could do what shopping was needed down on Charles Street, it always gave the self-appointed butler a proprietorial thrill of satisfaction, and the exercise would do him good. He’d pass the time of day with some of his numerous cronies, then spend the afternoon doing some of the chores that Mariposa would have nagged him about before she left.

  Sarah’s own plans were, first, to phone Miriam and find out whether Davy was homesick or enjoying the lake, then either go to pick him up or else stroll across Boston Common to the office, check the mail and the answering machine, and put in some work on the books while there was nobody around to interrupt her. She had appointed herself to the job shortly after she and Max were married. During the years with Alexander, she’d become quite capable at handling correspondence and keeping books for various charitable organizations in which her blind, deaf, keen-minded, and keener-tongued mother-in-law had been involved. After her remarriage, she’d turned her experience to advantage. Keeping the accurate records that Max hadn’t had time to maintain had become a major contribution to the smooth operation—relatively smooth, anyway, some of the time—of the Bittersohn Detective Agency.

  They’d talked of hiring a bookkeeper; instead, Cousin Brooks, who could do anything, had set up a computer system and taught Sarah to use it. He himself didn’t mind putting in some time at the console when he had the chance, which wasn’t often because Brooks could always find some new challenge to his ingenuity. Sarah did wish he and Theonia would get in touch, but they probably wouldn’t. Charles had got the impression that they planned to remain incommunicado for much of their time away; they hadn’t told him why and he didn’t think it was a butler’s place to ask.

  That was all right. Brooks and Theonia must know what they were about and Jesse was proving to be almost too resourceful. They’d break their silence when they felt the urge or the advisability. It was unlikely, Sarah thought, that they’d be needing any help from the home front, but somebody ought to be at hand to take their call if it came. At least she could do that much.

  She spent a little time with Charles over the shopping list, then phoned the Rivkins at the lake and heard just about what she’d expected. Davy was down by the lake with Ira. He’d eaten up every bite of his breakfast and taken
a piece of bread out to feed the minnows. He was wearing Ira’s old straw hat and one of Mike’s T-shirts to keep from getting sunburned. They were going to have a cookout on the beach at suppertime and surely Sarah wouldn’t mind if they kept Davy with them till Max got back, so that she could get her work done.

  What could a mother say? That she’d talked with Max, who’d sounded hale and hopeful but there’d been trouble with the telephone so she couldn’t tell when he’d be back. That Mr. Lomax and Cousin Anne were minding the house at Ireson’s Landing. That Anne could phone Mrs. Blufert and tell her to stay home and nurse her bug now that Davy was with Miriam and Ira. Yes, Charles would be here to make sure that Sarah didn’t get kidnapped or burglarized. She wasted no breath on describing her visit to the Turbots’ and said nothing about Dolores Tawne’s sudden demise. She entreated Miriam to give Davy an extra kiss and hug from his mother. She began to feel too bereft, rang off and got down to business.

  “Be sure to pick up a Globe while you’re out, Charles. There might be something in the obituaries about Dolores.”

  “Yes, moddom.”

  Getting away from the house was always the hardest part. Sarah donned a light raincoat over the too-summery outfit that she’d elected to wear because the blue silk was too dressy for the office and there wasn’t much else in the closet to choose from. Once on her way, she enjoyed her walk to the Windy Corner, which was no more than agreeably breezy this morning, pushed through the door into the lobby, and checked in at the reception desk. The receptionist knew her, of course.

  “Well, Mrs. Bittersohn, we haven’t seen you around here much lately.”

  “No, I’ve been staying at home, catching up on things. The office won’t be open today. I’m just here to work on the books and don’t want to be interrupted, so please don’t send anybody up unless I scream for help.”

  They both found this notion mildly amusing. Sarah took the elevator up to her floor, unlocked the office door with Brooks’s magic key which only worked if one recited the proper mantra, went in, and took off her raincoat. There was nothing impressive about the Bittersohn Detective Agency’s headquarters except the gold-leaf lettering on the door. The old flat-topped oak desk and creaky swivel chair that Max had inherited from some previous tenant took up too much of the meager floor space. An impressive array of file cabinets along one wall and a couple of straight-backed, slimly padded chairs that didn’t encourage droppers-in to stay and chat once their business was done were the only other furnishings, unless one counted a few shelves that held office supplies and some pegs that Brooks had screwed to the wall because there was not room enough for a coat rack. Sarah hung her raincoat on one of the pegs and got down to business.

  A fair amount of mail had been poked through the slot since Brooks was last in the office. Sarah picked the envelopes up off the dingy green-linoleum-covered floor and dumped them on the desk before she checked the answering machine. There were only a few messages on the tape, none that sounded important or urgent, the usual one or two from persons who were either mentally deranged or trying to be funny. Sarah jotted down those names and numbers that might be worth following up and turned to the mail.

  Once the junk had been weeded out, she found her task rewarding in every sense of the word. There were no fewer than five checks, two of them for large sums that were long overdue, two that were almost equally impressive, and one that verged on munificence. She’d drop them in at the bank when she went out for lunch. This would not be a late meal or a meager one; it was high time she got some real food into her for a change. She’d done too much snacking since Max left. Charles’s tuna-fish sandwiches hadn’t been particularly filling. As for that Sunday luncheon at the Turbots’, the best she could say was that the food had been no worse than what she’d have got at Cousin Mabel’s. She hadn’t spoken to Mabel in ages. How nice.

  The immediate tasks done, Sarah opened a ledger and got down to what she’d come for. This was work that many would call boring. So would she, perhaps, if she weren’t doing it for Max and Davy and the rest of the crew. She gave her small pile of checks a satisfied nod and went on with the next piece of business. There was the job book to be brought up-to-date, summarizing how many hours had been spent on a specific assignment, how much the operatives’ expenses had come to, all the picky details that the IRS could be so stuffy about if they weren’t properly documented.

  Sarah’s particular care and pride were the oversized notebooks that described, often with carefully detailed sketches from her own pen, the wide variety of precious objects that Max and his cohorts had either recovered or were still looking for: their age, their provenance, their appraised values, their full descriptions; all valuable working data and possible reference for other investigations. Since these notebooks were Sarah’s special province, and since there would have been no room for more than one or two at a time in the office or in any of the small rooms at Tulip Street, they were generally kept at Ireson’s Landing as part of a reference library that occupied a good-sized room of its own and might require another if Sarah kept on as she was doing.

  After having pored through shelves upon shelves of art books at the Boston Public Library and a great many more at the Museum of Fine Arts, she’d developed a sure sense of what would be useful and begun prowling the bookstores. Sarah’s private library was proving to be of immense value to the agency, not to mention the insurance companies that were Max’s steadiest clients. To her personally it meant being able to spend more time at home with her child and her beautiful house while still pulling her oar in the agency boat.

  However, the computer, the job book, the mail, all the bits and pieces that needed to be dealt with on a daily basis, and too often were not, had to be kept at the office. Theonia could have been helpful here if figures were tea leaves and cabinets contained only tarot cards. As it was, her notions of office procedures were so esoteric that she had to be enjoined from taking on any task except making coffee and cooing into the telephone when a potential client who sounded like real money happened to call. When she began to coo like a Zenaida asiatica, or white-winged dove, even her husband was quite willing to step aside and let her do what she did best; invariably to the ultimate satisfaction of all concerned except any misguided miscreant who mistook her for a pushover.

  By noontime Sarah felt she’d earned that ample luncheon. She put on her raincoat, tucked the checks and the deposit slip in her handbag, and made sure she had her keys. The door would lock behind her, but Brooks’s magic key must still be turned to wind up the spell or it wouldn’t work next time around. The women’s washroom was less intricate to get at, one simply walked down the corridor and opened the door with the key supplied to tenants by the management.

  Sarah had the washroom to herself, it looked as if there’d been nobody here except the cleaners. This was as it should have been. A large firm that needed more space had petitioned to have the entire floor put at its disposal. Other firms had agreed to take new space on other floors, all but the Bittersohn Detective Agency. Max had been offered various inducements, such as a snappy paint job and a more up-to-date entrance, but he’d turned them all down. He was quite content to be an anachronism; he’d been around so many Kellings by now that he was beginning to think like one; he’d stood his ground and won his point. Sarah was proud of Max for maintaining the family tradition, but she did find it a bit spooky being all alone on the floor. She was glad when the elevator came up empty and took her down alone; she went over to the bank and made her deposit, then headed for a restaurant where she and her co-workers were well-known.

  “All by yourself today, Mrs. Bittersohn?” The head waiter in person was ushering her to the coziest table, presenting her menu with a bow and a red rose out of the splendiferous arrangement in the reception area. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”

  Sarah was not about to broadcast the fact that she was alone in the office. “Oh, they’re galloping off in all directions as usual. Somebody may come in late
r on, but I’m hungry now. How are your scallops today?”

  She called them scollops, as any true-born New Englander would have sense enough to do. On being assured that the succulent bivalves were A-One and thoroughly guaranteed, she ordered them simply broiled, with coleslaw on the side and a pot of tea. She didn’t have to specify which kind of tea, the waiter already knew. He brought brown bread instead of white and offered neither milk nor lemon with the tea because Mrs. Bittersohn was not one for extraneous fripperies. He disappeared to consult with the chef, returned with her scallops done exactly as she liked them, and paused to watch with quasi-paternal pride as she sampled one and found it good.

  Sarah could have done with less solicitude. Fortunately the restaurant was filling up and the waiter had to get on with distributing his smiles and his menus. She finished her excellent meal at a leisurely pace, signed the check, picked up her rose, and debated taking a short stroll before going back to work. Once outside, however, she changed her mind. The sky had turned sullen and the wind was picking up; it would make more sense to put in another hour or two at the books and walk back to Tulip Street before the storm broke. If she overstayed and got wet it wouldn’t matter; she had a comfortable robe and slippers to change into.

  Dinner wasn’t going to be anything special, Charles was no chef and Sarah didn’t feel like cooking. They’d broil the steak that she’d told Charles to buy, grill mushrooms and tomato halves along with it, and skip dessert. Afterward, Charles could slip downstairs to his own quarters, watch something or other on television, and wonder when Mariposa was coming back. Sarah was not a fan of the tube, she’d sit in the library and read or listen to a concert on one of Boston’s excellent classical music stations.