Sarah poured her second cup of tea and braced herself for the long haul, but it wasn’t so bad. Drummond’s report had been concise and accurate. There was little she could add and less to amend, except when she offered to read Dolores’s account of her involvement with the Wicked Widows. Harris seemed not to find it relevant.
“Okay, Mrs. Bittersohn, I don’t think we need to spend much time on that angle. Anything else you want to talk about? You have no idea where Mrs. Tawne got all those fancy stickpins?”
“Would you settle for a wild guess?”
“I’ll take whatever I can get.”
“All right, then. As you of course know, Dolores Tawne made perfect copies of the more important paintings in the Wilkins Collection. She thought she was doing them as a way of preserving the originals, in fact they were being used to cover up a long run of piracy during which the originals were sold for large sums, though probably less than they’d have brought on the open market. Since the looting was uncovered and the originals gradually being returned to the museum, Dolores had been getting her copies back with no strings attached. She’d had a terribly raw deal, you know, and this was the least she deserved.”
“So she’d been selling her copies, is that it?”
“She or somebody, I assume. When Officer Drummond and I went to her studio yesterday, I noticed that she’d hung a few of her copies, but those were only a small fraction of the ones she’d got back. I looked for the rest, but found only some old canvases that had been given a fresh ground but hadn’t been painted over.”
“Indicating that Mrs. Tawne was planning to paint some more fakes?”
“She wouldn’t have called them that. Dolores was remarkably gifted in her way, you know. Anyway, it did cross my mind just before you called that she may have been taken in by another snake-oil salesman who offered to market her work for her. Otherwise I can’t see where she’d been putting the copies that my husband had returned to her as soon as he’d got the originals back at the museum.”
“But where do the stickpins come in?”
“Right where they are. Unless I’m sadly mistaken, they’re stolen property that somebody had to find a safe hiding place for in a hurry. My guess is that they might have been offered ostensibly as surety for the paintings that her new agent was planning to market, along with others that she hadn’t yet got around to doing. When I visited her studio yesterday, it looked to me as if she’d been getting set to start working there again, which she hadn’t done since the grand fiasco seven years ago.”
The letter that Dolores had left in the LaVerne box was still on the bedside table. Sarah picked it up and read a snatch or two to Harris. “That’s the sort of person she was, you see. She’d believe almost anything, provided it put her in a good light.”
“Assuming you’re somewhere near the mark, Mrs. Bittersohn, would you have any idea who this new partner of hers might be?”
“No, not a glimmer. Which is particularly frustrating because she’d been planning to come here for tea Sunday at five; she might actually have been on her way out of the museum when she got stabbed.”
“How long before that had you invited her?”
“I didn’t invite her at all, she’d simply phoned and told Charles she was coming. She’d do that; I shouldn’t be surprised if she’d intended to tell me all about her wonderful new agent.”
“Let’s just hope she didn’t tell him about you,” Harris grunted. “You’re the sole executrix, right?”
“Yes.”
“Which means nobody except yourself can open that box with the stickpins in it, right?”
“Oh, my God! I hadn’t thought of that. You don’t suppose Dolores’s death had anything to do with my almost getting killed yesterday?”
“Never happened before, did it?”
“Not with a car. But even if they had succeeded in squashing me, they still wouldn’t have been able to open the box. Would they?”
“Might take a little organizing, but there’s always a missing heir available if you know where to look. Not to spoil your breakfast, Mrs. Bittersohn, but you might be well advised to join your husband in Argentina.”
“He’s probably on the way home by now. Anyway, a person with a list of relatives as long as mine can always find a hole to hide in.”
There was a pause so long that Sarah thought she’d been cut off. “Are you still there, Lieutenant Harris?”
“Uh—yes.”
“Then I just want to say that some thought should be given to Dolores’s involvement with the Wicked Widows. I know it’s been a long time, but the fact that she was still paying the rent on that LaVerne box suggests that she must have kept up some kind of connection with whichever of the troupe is left.”
“So?”
“So I want to know what became of them. My uncle Jeremy Kelling is staying here with me just now. He’s told me about a performance where the Widows did something abominable to one of the spectators, then melted quietly away while Uncle Jem and the friend he was with were yelling for the police and trying to force their way through the crowd. And surely you must know about the seven women all in black who murdered four policemen with their hatpins in the van that was supposed to be taking them to jail. That case has never been solved, has it?”
“Not to my knowledge. It doesn’t get talked about around the station. I guess we cops don’t like to advertise our failures any more than the rest of the world. Then what’s the bottom line, Mrs. Bittersohn?”
“Pins, I suppose. You saw the way Dolores Tawne was killed; doesn’t it suggest to you that at least one of the Wicked Widows is still alive and up to her old tricks? Or his. They might have been men in drag, for all I know. I brought one of the photographs from the LaVerne box back with me yesterday; it shows the seven Widows with black gloves clear up to their armpits, long fitted gowns with fishtails, those Mona Lisa masks that Dolores made for them, the widows’ veils, the cartwheel hats. There was really nothing exposed but the bosoms, which could easily have been false.”
“I know,” said Harris. “Did you see those clippings in Mrs. Tawne’s bottom drawer?”
“Yes, and I’d meant to go back for them after Officer Drummond and I had eaten our lunch, but you know what happened. I doubt if they can tell us as much as Uncle Jem can, anyway. I do wish, and this probably sounds crazy, that we could somehow find out whether there are still any LaVonne LaVernes around the Boston area. I have a hunch that we’d have more luck chasing down their death certificates. There were six hatpins in the LaVerne box and that seventh one you’re holding at the station is in bad condition, as you know. I shouldn’t be surprised if the wickedest of the Wicked Widows had used hers to kill the other six before she got around to Dolores Tawne.”
“For God’s sake! Why would she have done a thing like that?”
“Either to save her own skin or because she thought it would be fun to bury all her sister Widows under the same alias. She’d have to be totally insane, of course. Anyway, one has to start somewhere, and so far those pins are the best lead, as far as I can see. You understand that I’m interested on purely selfish grounds. Somebody is out to kill me and I don’t want to be killed.”
“But why pick you as a target?”
“I can only assume that it has something to do with Dolores Tawne’s murder and possibly with my having lunch on Sunday with the Wilkins’s new chairman of trustees. It was after I’d left the Turbots with my cousins and stopped at their house to pick up my own car that those two cutups in the gray Toyota began harassing me. They could have followed me from the Turbots’, though I can’t think why. When I got to Tulip Street, Charles told me Dolores had invited herself to tea, but she never turned up and we learned that she was dead. Whether she was killed to keep us from getting together sounds awfully far-fetched, but by now I’m prepared to believe just about anything.”
What was she spinning out this conversation for? Here it was, the jumping-off place. “And now I’m going to ring
off and disappear. Either Charles, Uncle Jem, or his man Egbert will be here to take messages. One way or another, I’ll keep in touch. Au revoir, Lieutenant.”
“Just a second, Mrs. Bittersohn. There was a late bulletin on the car that tried to run you down. It was registered in the name of Dolores Agnew Tawne at the Fenway Studio Building on Ipswich Street.”
“But that’s absurd! Dolores never owned a car, she couldn’t even drive. At least she said she couldn’t, apparently I didn’t know her at all. And now I’m responsible as executrix for the car that almost killed me, is that it?”
“No, that’s one worry you can forget about. The car was found wrecked and set on fire in a South Boston parking lot at two twenty-four this morning. Au revoir, Mrs. Bittersohn.”
Chapter 17
“I’M SORRY THAT CALL took so long,” Sarah half-apologized as she cracked open the two eggs that Charles had, after all, boiled for her. She was still in her robe because she didn’t know yet what to do about a disguise; but otherwise ready for action and hungry for her breakfast. “Toast, please, Uncle Jem. You’d better take Dolores Tawne’s will to Mr. Redfern at ten o’clock sharp. That’s when he usually gets to his office. Make it plain that you’re a very busy man. You can’t stay to chat with Miss Tremblay, you must have the will submitted for probate as soon as possible. Don’t forget to take the will with you, by the way. Charles, make sure he puts it in his inside pocket.”
“Yes, moddom,” replied the admirable Charles.
“Bah, humbug,” snarled Jeremy Kelling. “When did I ever forget anything?”
“No comment,” said Sarah. “If either Miss Tremblay or Mr. Redfern happens to bring up that obituary notice, just say you have an urgent appointment with some bigwig or other so you’ve got to rush off, which you then proceed to do. Have you got all that?”
“If you mean, ‘Do you understand what I am trying to say only I’m talking garbled English?’ the answer is in the affirmative,” Jem replied nastily. “Then I nip down to the stock exchange and corner the market in black-crepe armbands, right?”
“What a delightful idea, Uncle Jem! Save a band for me because one never knows, does one? Now, Charles, how are you going to make me unrecognizable? Is there anything in the house that we can use?”
“Good question. Do you have a definite self-image in mind or shall we just wing it?”
“Well, let’s see. I’m bound to look like a Kelling no matter what you do, so how about something along the lines of Great-Aunt Matilda? Since I’m limping anyway, I can use that gold-handled blackthorn cane she used to carry when her arthritis got bad.”
“The one that unscrews to hold a tot of brandy in the handle?”
“Why not? One never knows. As for clothes, that dark-gray flannel suit I just bought might do if we can antique it a little.”
“Piece of cake. We dust the top-floor bedrooms with the jacket, roll the skirt up in a ball, and let Mr. Jem sit on it for a while.”
“Yes, that would help. And I could wear those awful gray lisle stockings like the ones Great-Aunt Matilda wore, if we could find any. Do you think it would be tacky to sprinkle my hair with flour to make it look gray?”
“Very. You’d look like a case of galloping dandruff.”
“Well, I’ve got to do something. I do wish I could borrow that Queen Mary toque of Aunt Bodie’s.”
Charles was aghast. “Nobody in the world but Mrs. Boadicea Kelling could ever get away with a hat like that one. We can do better.”
“How, for instance?”
“The way will be shown. Have you any really beat-up old walking shoes? Or, better still, a pair of dirty sneakers with a hole in the toe?”
“Yes, Charles, as a matter of fact I do. I keep them in the trunk of my car in case Davy and I take a notion to walk out on the mudflats or into the woods. I think I washed off the leaf mold the last time I used them, but I’m not sure.”
“No matter. I can pick up some of that whitener stuff if they’re too ooky. But we probably won’t need it. Are we taking your car?”
“I’m wondering about that. Ira’s lining up a car for me but I don’t want him driving to Boston in it.”
“Then why don’t I get the sneakers out of your trunk and work a deal with a friend of mine who owns a 1975 Dodge sport coupe with racing stripes. You can be the little old lady who only drove it to church on Sundays. Now you’ve hurt your knee and can’t drive yourself, so I’m doing a good deed and taking you to stay with relatives. Okay, moddom?”
“Magnificent. Then why don’t you nip down to Charles Street and see what you can find at the thrift shop? They know you’re an actor, don’t they?”
“They do, they’re greatly impressed by me. Let’s see, we mustn’t do you as a freak. The object is to turn you into one of those elderly persons whom one sees but does not notice. It bodes fair to be an interesting challenge.”
“Just so you don’t get so caught up in your art that you forget what it’s for,” Sarah reminded him. “As a suggestion, you might look for a tired-looking silk blouse in some fairly revolting color, a hat with a brim that I can pull down to shade my face, and a pair of sunglasses. Perhaps a bar pin or an imitation cameo brooch, something old enough to be called a collectible. You’ll know. Will you be able to give me some wrinkles?”
“No problem. Then I’ll be off. Hasta la vista. Hey! Why can’t you just dress in some of Mariposa’s clothes and speak Spanish?”
“Because, Charles, in the first place Mariposa’s clothes wouldn’t fit me. In the second, I can’t speak Spanish any better than you can, and in the third I just don’t have what it takes to be Mariposa. I’m fairly sure I can act the part of an elderly woman from Beacon Hill and that’s as far as I’m prepared to go. Here, take fifty dollars in case you find something. Now scoot, I’ll clear up the breakfast dishes while I’m waiting for you to come back.”
Charles whizzed off, Sarah turned to Jem, who was sitting dutifully on her new flannel suit. “Oh dear, I’ve just had an awful thought. What am I to do about Anne? I suppose I’ll just have to stop at Ireson’s Landing and tell her.”
“Tell her what?” Jem squirmed around a little on his flannel perch to accelerate the process of antiquing, since he would soon have to go home to Pinckney Street for the clean white shirt and suitably mournful tie that Egbert had damned well better have ready for Jem’s in-and-out visit to Redfern’s office. Having dutifully dropped off the original Tawne will and avoided having to make up any lies with regard to his niece’s alleged demise, assuming that either Miss Tremblay or Redfern had seen and deciphered the false obituary, he would then come back to Tulip Street to be the firm hand at the helm and make sure there was enough gin aboard to weather the storm.
In the meantime, Egbert would be sorting out some clothes of Jem’s to bring to Tulip Street and gearing up to pitch in wherever he was most needed. All this organizing was not helping Sarah decide what to do about Cousin Anne and the chrysanthemums. Jem’s too-pertinent question was still unanswered; it would be most improper for Sarah to leave Anne and Mr. Lomax hanging.
“I’ve just got to tell her that I’m alive and trying to stay that way. I realize it’s putting a burden on you all, having to make ambiguous noises as to whether or not people should send condolences, but I do hope we can keep it in the family. Anne will have to tell Percy, of course, but Percy adores being inscrutable, so those two at least shouldn’t present any problem. I just hope this situation won’t drag on, I’d hate for Max to come home and find himself bombarded with questions about my funeral. Anyway, you’d better go do what you have to and I’ll hide under the bed until you get back here.”
If Jem thought she was being funny, he was dead wrong. Sarah tried to work off her nerves on the house, which had got decidedly scruffy under bachelor management. She’d made an impression of sorts on the downstairs and was wondering what to do about beds when Egbert arrived with a packed suitcase in his left hand and a couple of Jem’s suits in a plastic
cleaning bag over the right arm. He deposited his cargo in the downstairs bedroom that Jem was using and gently but firmly took charge of the housekeeping. Sarah was beginning to feel redundant when Charles dashed back from the thrift shop, lugging a recycled paper bag of the large size.
“By George, we’ve got it! How’s this for class?”
He delved into the bagful and hauled out a dejected, high-necked silk blouse in a blotchy pattern that wavered between blueberry and pomegranate, a few unlovely trinkets, two pairs of gray lisle stockings still hermetically sealed inside a brittle cellophane wrapping that must have lain for too many years in somebody’s grandmother’s bureau drawer, the sunglasses that Sarah had stipulated, and a faded purple felt hat that clashed just enough with the dyspeptic blouse to set one’s teeth on edge.
“Magnificent, Charles, you couldn’t have done better. But what about my hair? Weren’t you planning to go to Fuzzleys’?”
“No, I’ve had an epiphany. Remember that long gray beard I wore as Noah in that ‘Back to the Ark’ skit at the Children’s Theater? All we need to do is—hang on, I’ll show you.”
Charles adored beards with a passion. He bounded up from his basement lair carrying a wild mass of gray false hair, turned it upside down, fitted it around Sarah’s face, anchored it there with a stretchy black bandeau—probably a pair of Mariposa’s bikini panties, Sarah thought hysterically—and stood back to appraise the result.
“Not bad. Now do we cut or do we pug?”
“Oh, dear! I hate to spoil Noah’s beard.”
“Fear not, milady. No sacrifice is too great.”
“If you say so, then. I vote for cutting, mainly because I don’t have the right kind of hairpins to pug with. You’d better spread some newspapers under my chair before you begin snipping, Egbert just finished mopping the floor.”
Presumably all the wearables at the thrift shop had been cleaned before they were put out for sale, Sarah was in no position to quibble. She excused herself long enough to put on the dejected blouse and the skirt that Jem had so kindly antiqued, then came back to take the chair under which Charles had spread yesterday’s newspaper as directed.
The Odd Job Page 17
