“Double lucky,” Pee Wee said jauntily. “We could of ridden in two different things but we liked the lumberman best.”
“You don’t say? What was your other offer?”
“Mr. Walters. He had his Ford, but he was heading the other way.”
“He said he didn’t mind turning around though,” Joey said. “He’s all right. You got to give him his due, he was willing to turn around. He even knew a short cut, he said. And we got in and were all ready to start when our own lumberman came along. And he was going in the right direction. So we got out.”
Mark took the flowers from both pairs of hands. “Do something about your faces and general appearance, will you? Then have your lunch. I’ll take charge of these. And if you have any trouble about putting them where they belong, I’ll take charge of that too.”
“That’s just what Mr. Walters said,” crowed Joey. “He said he could arrange it.”
“I hope you thanked him properly. How was he?”
“He said he wasn’t very well. His hands shook. I asked him why, and he said his heart was heavy. Do your hands shake when your heart is—”
He pushed them into the cottage and slammed the door. Then he went to get his lunch.
Beacham didn’t see the flowers until several hours later. They stood in twin buckets on the cottage porch. Pee Wee and Joey had been argued into naps, but Mark was lounging in the swing. Beacham crossed the lawn and mounted the steps.
“What’s this?” he asked. He kicked at the buckets. “And this?” Beside each bucket was a small roll of absorbent cotton, a sheet of brown paper, and a ball of twine.
“That?” Mark got up and walked over. “That’s the result of a morning’s hot work in the fields, four miles there and back.” He didn’t mention the lift. “The stems are to be wrapped in wet cotton first and paper second. Then they’ll keep fresh, we hope, and look pretty when they reach their destination.”
“What are you talking about? What destination?”
Mark told him. “New York. Baggage car. Just like a song.”
“Whose idea was that?” Beacham bent down, and one dripping bunch had already left the bucket when Mark’s voice stopped it in mid-air.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said pleasantly. “The idea was Joey’s. She and Pee Wee wore themselves out getting that stuff. She was afraid to tell you so I said I would.”
“Afraid? Afraid of her own father?”
“Why not? You expressed yourself pretty strongly. But she feels just as strongly the other way. Do you mind telling me something? Was there anything in those funeral instructions about omitting flowers, or is that your own idea?”
“It’s mine.” Beacham’s defiance was loud but unconvincing.
“Then if I were you I’d forget it. I’d let these tributes go with Cassie all the way. You might even help tie them up.” He waited.
Beacham gave in gracefully. “I guess you’re right,” he said with engaging frankness. “But not this junk. If Joey wants flowers I’ll get her something decent in town. I’ll get orchids. I can’t be seen with these things. I’d look like a fool.”
“Think so? That’s a matter of taste. I know that if I were standing on a city street, or in a railroad station or anywhere else, and saw a coffin covered with two bunches of wild flowers with their stems wrapped up in wet brown paper, I’d say to myself—there goes somebody who rated.”
Beacham returned the flowers to the bucket. “Right,” he said thoughtfully. He started to go indoors.
“Wait,” Mark said. “You’re leaving New York tomorrow night, arriving here Sunday morning?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. Why?”
“I thought you might be interested in my plans for the time you’re away. Wilcox will be here with me both nights. And I want you to tell Joey to stay on the premises. Orders. I’ve already told her, but I want it to come from you too. Make it clear. I simply can’t take the responsibility while you’re gone.”
Beacham looked alarmed. “But what in the world could happen to Joey? Everybody loves that kid!”
“That’s what they said about Miss Cassidy. Everybody loved her. . . . Joey makes friends too easily, that’s all.”
The long afternoon droned its way to six o’clock. Mark drove Beacham down to Bear River and saw him take the branch train to Baldwin. Beacham had done a complete about face; he wore dark clothes and black tie and gloves, and his expression was correct.
Mark stood on the platform and watched while Mary Cassidy, sealed first in mahogany and silver and then in pine, was gently lifted into the baggage car. The tiger lilies and the Queen Anne’s lace dripped disconsolately over the plain wooden box. But they were holding up, he noted with satisfaction; they were doing a good job. He’d tell Joey.
CHAPTER NINE
S ATURDAY morning followed a night of such manifest calm that neither Mark nor Perley had been able to sleep a wink. The Mountain House guests had conducted themselves like orphans on the night before Christmas. No opportunity for courtesy had been neglected, and the offers of flasks, bottles, poker games, sandwiches, coffee, and a nice walk in the moonlight (Cora Sheffield), had been made in person. A steady procession of white-flanneled and finger-waved Magi had trooped one by one to the Beacham cottage, bearing gifts and looking nervous. They’d trooped back, still bearing them and looking worse.
“No favors,” Mark had warned Perley.
“I know,” Perley had agreed. “It’s just like the night Amos and I were here. And you know what happened then.”
“Sure. But nobody’s going to stay me with apples and then swipe a gun.”
One offer had been accepted. When Mark admitted that he hadn’t been read aloud to since Peter Rabbit, which was too young for him now, he was immediately promoted to and entertained by a battered copy of The Peterkin Papers. Outside the circle of lamplight, Perley had armed himself with a diffident expression that didn’t match the hand inconspicuously cupped behind his ear.
At ten, Joey had gone to bed. Roberta had followed at eleven. The Pecks’ light was on until two and Franny Peck’s laughter came through the night. Cora Sheffield and Kirby had joined the poker game.
And now it was Saturday morning, clear and hot.
Mark and Perley breakfasted early and returned to the cottage. On a card table set up on the porch, they laid out their papers and notebooks and checked and rechecked.
“Give me all of that stuff you gave me last night,” Mark said.
“Again?”
“Yes. I want it in the book, not in my head. Down in black and white. Get on with it. Walters.”
“Don’t you ever do anything like that to me again! Walters! His Rhode Island church was ready to throw me to the lions. They finally put me on to a banker who passes the plate on Sundays. That’s one place where I’ll never be able to borrow money. Well, Walters never married, never had any female relations except his mother and grandmother, who brought him up and died when he was sixteen. He was a poor boy, educated by church people, and has led a clean life.”
Mark wrote it down in his own style of pot hook. “Maybe his mother and grandmother were too good? Maybe he didn’t want to be a preacher? Maybe he took up preaching only because he thought he had to? Maybe—”
“None of that, now! Forget him. He’s never been away from whatever church he was appointed to. Never took a vacation. Never been what you’d call sick.”
“Ever been to New York?”
“Once.” Perley looked startled. “But that was strictly business. He had a small church in Brooklyn one summer when he was young. Substituting for the regular pastor.”
“All right. But only for the moment. Let’s freshen up with Mabel.”
“There’s nothing on Mabel that a good walloping won’t cure. I gave it to her, verbally or orally. Which is it, verbally or orally?”
“This is no time for self-improvement. What did you find out?”
“She’s never been anywhere except on all-day picnics. I a
sked her what she’d done with her evenings since last Friday. She told me.” Perley wiped his brow. “Her father went to school with me, too,” he said faintly.
Mark averted his face. “Go on. Mrs. Briggs.”
Perley straightened up with relief. “Now there’s a woman! She tried to talk my head off, but I didn’t let her. When I got through she was eating out of my hand. It seems that Mrs. Briggs did go away from home when she was a girl. She went into domestic service in Boston and didn’t want anybody to know. She gave out that she was studying stenography. Stayed away two years, came back for a visit with a lot of fancy clothes, and caught Briggs. She had tears in her eyes when she told me. I think she’s all right.”
“Do you? That’s fine. How about Briggs himself? Aside from his summer bush-jumping.”
“He’s been going to New York for twenty years or more, ever since he started with the railroad. He says he went because he could ride on passes. Never stayed more than one night and slept in a Y. The sweat was running down him like a river when I finished. He says he never even went to a burlesque show. I didn’t ask him that. He told me; he kept telling me every five minutes. . . . It must have been a hot one.”
Mark was silent.
Perley waited. “Moresby’s next,” he said finally. “Don’t you want Moresby? I had trouble there, being as she’s in the family.”
“O.K. Moresby.”
“Nothing on her. Nothing on him. She went to summer school at Columbia University in New York City. One summer only. Roomed with two girls, and they were never out of each other’s sight the whole time. Scared of everything, she said. Moresby is a local boy too. Never went anywhere. He owns that feed store in town. . . . What are you looking at?”
Mark was watching the hotel. A group of golfers had collected on the steps and they were parting to let George and old man Sutton through. The old man was moving briskly, for him. He brushed George’s hand aside and walked down the steps alone. Nick followed with pillows and Roberta followed Nick. Behind them, absently and firmly loitering, came Beulah.
“I’m not looking at anything,” Mark said. “I’m thinking. Why wouldn’t some of these people hold out on you?”
“No sir! They told me the truth. I knew I wouldn’t find anything. I only did it to please you.”
“That was the wrong approach,” Mark said absently. “You had yourself sold on innocence before you started.”
Perley drooped.
“Never mind,” Mark said. “Did Pansy actually send Floyd out to her mother’s?”
“She did! I’m real provoked about that. Never said a word to me, just went ahead and did it. She says somebody else is going to get killed before this is over, and it won’t be a Wilcox. She’ll turn that boy soft!”
“I doubt it. Now listen. I’ve got a nice little job for you this afternoon. I want you to go home and get yourself up as a patron of the arts.”
Perley’s thin eyebrows went up in horror. “That concert! You want me to go to that concert! I can’t do it! I never have!” He keened softly into his cupped hands and then suddenly raised his head. A new thought had struck him visibly, and it looked strong enough to close the argument. “I haven’t been invited,” he said triumphantly.
“You mean Miss Beacham hasn’t asked you for a bus ride. That’s not necessary. The music is free. You’ll drive yourself over and sit as close to the Mountain House contingent as possible. That’s all you have to do, sit and watch. And don’t get too wrapped up in Poet and Peasant or gems from The Prince of Pilsen. . . . I want a beer.”
“No!”
“To everything? Listen Perley, this is a must.” Mark was firm. “I’m staying here because I’ve got some ransacking to do. This is my first real chance to get into Beacham’s room, and a few others. You watch those people and phone me the instant anybody leaves the party. Bittner’s man will partially check, but I can’t rely or confide too much there.”
“Who’s going?” Perley was licked.
“The hostess, the three Pecks, Nick, Cora, Kirby, and probably Joey. I haven’t made up my mind about Joey. She talks too much. The Haskells are going too. I don’t know why they were asked, unless Roberta wants to fill up the seats. Mrs. H. can easily use two. Old Sutton and Miss Rayner declined with thanks, the first because he hates music, the second because she doesn’t like to be jounced. George stays home with the old man. I have been pointedly overlooked, and if you hear something cracking it’s not my heart but my patience.”
“Wasn’t Miss Pond invited?” Perley was scandalized.
“No. I don’t know what happened there. At the moment Beulah rates with Roberta like a leper.” He looked annoyed. “But she won’t be wasted. She’s been dogging Miss Rayner’s footsteps at my suggestion and has almost managed to get herself a bid to go buggy riding. She loves a gentle horse, she said. I heard her.”
“I think you’re going to search Miss Rayner’s room,” Perley said with frank disapproval. “I don’t like that. I don’t think it’s nice.”
Mark drummed the table. “Why not? She was one of our casualties.” He looked absently over Perley’s head and his eyes traveled over the bright green grass and down the dusty road.
Perley knew it was time to stop talking for a while. He took out his old pipe and smoked quietly, waiting for the sign to begin again. It came when Mark lighted a cigarette and swore at the match. “Mark?” He had to say it a second time. “Mark, what are you thinking about?”
“Tomorrow,” Mark said.
“Then you have got hold of something. You don’t have to tell me what it is. I’m not asking any questions. I’m willing to take your orders when the time comes.”
Mark returned his gaze to the distance. “Thanks.”
“You haven’t been fooling me any with your smooth talk,” Perley said contentedly. “No siree. But why are you letting Beacham run around New York alone?”
“He’s not alone. He won’t be, even for a minute. There’ll be guests at Cassie’s funeral in spite of his convictions, and they’ll wear striped pants and look like morticians.” He made a sound in his throat, a sudden, ugly sound that Perley had never heard before. “I’m not satisfied! I don’t like what I’m thinking!”
“No?” Perley dismissed this with quiet assurance. “You’re all right.”
“No I’m not. I came back from New York with three cases that could fit the situation here and I haven’t been able to discard one of them. All three still hold water. Look.” He flipped the pages of his notebook. “Read those three names and tell me if they mean anything to you. Then forget them.”
Perley read with a finger on the page. “No,” he said regretfully. “I never heard of any of them. They’re forgotten already.” He returned the book.
“You see? Time’s going by and every minute counts. As far as I can see, the trail’s getting cold, but at the same time I can feel somebody breathing a nasty hot breath down my back. I’m being laughed at.”
“You know that isn’t so. About the trail getting cold, I mean. Trouble with you is, you don’t like the way it’s leading.”
Mark gave him a long, sour look. “You’re getting too clever,” he said. “How would you like to make the pinch yourself? It’s your job anyway. I’ll run the last act through to the curtain and you can step in and say, ‘Boo!’”
Perley looked unhappy. He didn’t know it, but his lips were desperately framing his tag line. “When are you planning to—start?”
“Tomorrow night I’m giving a little evening party. Here. About nine o’clock. Or rather, Beacham’s giving it. Beacham’s paying for a lot of things he didn’t order. We’ll have refreshments, and the guests will be chosen from all of the so-called walks of life. Their emotions will be so divided that they won’t be able to eat, and that will knock the experiment into a very expensive cocked hat.”
“Do you know what you’re talking about? I don’t.”
“It’s simple. I’m asking a few friends in for conversation and light
viands, with a background of soft music played on Roberta’s portable victrola. I’m calling it a farewell party on account of my imminent retirement in the role of a failure. They’ll come on the run.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“These will. I’m inviting them this afternoon, by phone and note, politely, like a little gentleman. Like this. ‘I want to show my appreciation before I leave because you’ve been so sweet to me.’ Slightly modified in the case of Mrs. Briggs. Perley, did you ever eat a truffle?”
“I hope not. What is it?”
“To the uninitiated, something that got in by mistake. But a lot of people like them and would pay a fat sum to get hold of a tin. And—catch number one—some people don’t like them at all. The latter take one nibble, break out in a rash and swell up something lovely. Catch number two—one of Mary Cassidy’s heavy black underscorings warned about truffles. In the personal peculiarity department.”
Perley’s eyes showed his distrust of the whole thing. “A person that’s made sick by food don’t eat it,” he said flatly. “He says no, thank you, I like it fine, but it don’t like me.”
“If our pal says that, then I’m temporarily stopped. But I don’t think he will. The very sight of that practically extinct food will put him on his guard, and a man on his guard makes small, crazy mistakes. He overdoes. This one will know I’m at least partially wise, and he may eat to spite me. Then he’ll step out of the room and put his finger down his throat. Behind a locked door. That’s when I follow and kick the door down.”
“Suppose it’s a lady?”
“I still kick the door down.”
“And I still think it won’t work. Maybe five or six of those people won’t like the stuff. Maybe they never saw it before and won’t take a chance. It’s no sign people are mental when they don’t eat things. I’m that way myself about fresh pineapple. Hives.”
“Serve fresh pineapple at home?”
“Sure. I just give it the go-by.”
“Pretty common this time of year, isn’t it? Only costs about thirty-five cents. But if you knew it was imported from France and was almost non-existent, to say nothing of costing a pretty pile, what would you think if Pansy suddenly popped one on the table, right under your nose?”
Time to Die Page 22
