Terrible Tide

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Good night,” was about all Holly could manage. What jolly sport she was going to have steering him away from the fakes. Geoffrey mightn’t know much more about antiques than he did about photography, but he’d surely smell a rat if too many pieces kept turning up in a perfectly preserved state. If only she’d paid more attention to Fan’s scrapbook, so she’d know what to stay clear of!

  Why did Fan keep such a damning record, anyway? Surely its very existence must prove she at least was innocent. Roger, too, because he knew all about the scrapbook.

  No, that didn’t follow. Judging from the way she went around ripping other people’s property apart in broad daylight, Fan must think she could bulldoze her way through life, doing whatever she pleased and never getting caught. As for Roger, he was fanatical enough about his work to want its records preserved no matter how risky they might be.

  One thing sure, Holly had better stop trying to clean up Cliff House. That film of dust over everything here might be all that stood between her and the county jail. What she ought to do was walk straight out this door and keep going.

  And how far would she get, half crippled and almost broke? What would she live on? How would she manage without her luggage? And how soon would she be extradited back to Jugtown as an accessory to grand larceny? As it was, she’d have a lovely time trying to convince a jury she’d come here just to get away from Howe Hill. Running away would amount to a confession of guilt.

  Holly slumped back to the kitchen and dropped into a battered chair that smelt of Bert Walker. She was wondering whether the relief of warming her sore feet would be worth the effort of opening the oven door when Annie bustled into the room.

  “Land alive, dearie, you look like the skin of a nightmare dragged over a gatepost. Doesn’t that Professor Cawne know enough not to work a person half to death when she’s just out of the hospital? Lean back and rest yourself. I’ll pour you a nice cup of tea.”

  She filled two time-crazed ironstone mugs, topped them up with milk, and passed one to Holly. “There you go, dearie. That’s the stuff to put hair on your chest.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder if it did.” Annie’s tea was a potent brew. Nevertheless, the hot drink did make Holly feel a little better.

  Annie dragged another chair close to the stove, fetched her own mug, and settled herself cozily. “There now. It’s a Godsend having you for company, dearie. You can’t imagine how dismal it’s been these past few years with never a soul to talk to but Bert Walker for a little while in the evenings and Earl Stoodley when he takes a mind to poke his nose in, not that Earl’s any treat. Anyway, a woman needs another woman. More tea?”

  “No thanks, that was fine.”

  Holly had to smile back at the dumpy old woman in the worn-out housedress. Annie was in this mess as deep as she. Naturally people would think she’d been taking bribes to overlook what was happening, for all her wild talk about footsteps in the night and doors that wouldn’t open. How could you run out on somebody so decent and loving, who thought you were a Godsend? Holly gave Annie’s wrinkled hand a pat, hauled herself out of the chair by brute force, and went to soak away some of her anxiety in that marvelous zinc bathtub.

  Bert was in the rocking chair when she got back downstairs. “Sam dropped me off,” he explained. “Said he’d be back about ha’past seven to pick me up. He’s gettin’ awful considerate all of a sudden.”

  “Nice for you.” Trying to ignore his trollish leer, Holly went to inspect the larder. Tired as she was, she’d rather cook than face another of Annie’s suppers.

  With supplies so limited, she couldn’t vary the menu to any extent, but Bert and Annie probably weren’t much for gourmet cooking anyway. She made gravy from bouillon cubes, threw in whatever she could find by way of seasoning, and heated slices of weary leftover beef in the savory sauce. She got a crispy brown crust on the fried potatoes and opened a tin of stewed tomatoes as an antidote to this surfeit of carbohydrates. She thought of hot biscuits but couldn’t bear the thought of baking them in such close proximity to Bert’s reeking socks. Canned plums and the tag-end of Annie’s molasses cake would have to do for dessert.

  While things were cooking, Holly nipped outside and picked a few scrawny chrysanthemums from what must once have been a perennial border. Cliff House ought to have formal Victorian flower beds with gorgeous clashes of red and yellow blooms. There should be boxwood and yews clipped into fantastical shapes like chessmen and sitting ducks.

  Why couldn’t she have thought of aardvarks or zebras or anything but ducks? Now that telltale bloodstain was back in her mind. Now she, like Annie, had a specter to haunt her. What a shame she didn’t dare explain to the housekeeper, “That’s no ghost you hear. It’s just crooks sneaking the Parlett heirlooms out of the house and bringing in copies.” If Annie knew that, she’d be laying for them with the dust mop!

  Returning to the kitchen with her skimpy bouquet, Holly caught Annie sidling toward the whiskey bottle, empty glass in hand.

  “I thought I might just get myself another little sip, dearie. These raw nights do get into a body’s old bones.”

  Maybe that was why the thieves were so cocky about coming here. Annie did like her nip before supper, and gossip might have spread that Mrs. Parlett’s housekeeper reeled to bed dead drunk every night. Fan might have heard some such tale during those early visits to the Women’s Circle, and it would be like Fan to act without bothering to find out the tale wasn’t true.

  Self-sacrificing types like Fan were dangerous. They’d justify anything by insisting they were doing it for unselfish reasons. It struck Holly that her brother might be afraid of his wife, and that he might have reason to be. Though she ought to have been hungry after her strenuous day and unpalatable lunch, she sat down with little appetite.

  “My stars, this is a real company meal.” Annie unrolled her napkin with a giggle of pure delight. “Flowers on the table and everything. I declare, Bert, I never did see anything to beat this little girl of ours.”

  The handyman speared a slice of bread with his fork and swabbed it around in the gravy on the platter. “Cripes, I ain’t et like this since I was cookee to Lem Halleck at a loggin’ camp on the Mirimachi. Mean old brute to work for, but hand ’im a skillet an’ a rind o’ moldy bacon an’ he could turn out a feast fit for the gods.”

  He was off on one of his yarns, talking and chewing at the same time with equal gusto. Annie nibbled and nodded and sipped her tea like a real lady of the manor. They were having such a lovely time that Holly could feel her own spirits lifting. With a decent meal under her belt, things didn’t look so black. By the time Annie and Bert had settled for their postprandial naps and Sam Neill came tapping at the windowpane, Holly was able to go out to him with a halfway cheerful greeting.

  “Hi. If you’re looking for your uncle, you’ll have to wait a while. He and Annie are having their bye-byes.”

  Neill grinned. “Sleeping it off, eh? They do take their tea pretty strong, I understand.”

  “Who told you Annie drinks?” Holly snapped out the question so fiercely that Sam gaped at her.

  “Bert, I suppose,” he replied “Why?”

  “I just hate having people think she’s a lush. She isn’t.”

  “If you say so.”

  Neill turned and began scrambling down the steep hillside, taking it for granted Holly was coming, too. She thought she wouldn’t, then she did. Soon, though, she had to call a halt.

  “Are we supposed to be taking a quiet stroll?”

  The woodcarver paused, his red hair throwing out glints from the lowering sun. “What’s the matter? Am I going too fast for you?”

  “I have this bad cut on my leg.”

  “Holly, I’m sorry.” He came back to give her a helping hand. “I keep forgetting you’d been hurt. Why didn’t you remind me sooner?”

  “I should have thought my face would be reminder enough.”

  Her answer appeared to puzzle Sam Neill for a moment “Oh,” he sai
d at last “You mean those scars on your cheeks? When I look at you, I don’t see them.”

  If this was a line, it was a beauty. Holly almost started to cry.

  “Sam, you can’t mean that.”

  “I suppose what I meant was that I never pay much attention to surface blemishes. You know how it is when you get your hands on a likely hunk of wood. No, I don’t suppose you do. Anyway, you don’t bother about a few scratches on the bark. You’re wondering what’s inside.”

  Holly swallowed hard. “Thanks, Sam. That’s what I’ve been hoping somebody would say ever since they took the bandages off. The only other person who claimed he didn’t notice was Geoffrey Cawne, but that’s because he’s too nearsighted.”

  That so? What else has he been telling you?” Neill took her arm with a funny, possessive gesture. “I think it’ll be easier on your leg if we go on down to the ledge rather than try scrambling back up the hill. The tide’s on its way out so we’ll be safe enough for a while.”

  “If you say so. I didn’t know there was a ledge.”

  “You can’t see it unless you go to the edge of the cliff and look over, which I don’t recommend. It’s about a twenty-foot drop most of the way, but there is one path that’s not too tough, or didn’t use to be. I haven’t used it since I was a kid.”

  He was going slowly, supporting her as best he could, picking steps she could take without too much strain. “The rock broadens out almost like a natural road all the way around the point, and slopes up to make a ramp of sorts at each end. You can drive a car along it if you don’t care what happens to your springs. The ledge is flattish and firm to walk on, and if you can’t go the distance, we’ll find you a soft rock to rest yourself on while I bring the wagon down to get you.”

  “I’ll be all right if we just take it easy. I have to be careful not to take too long a step, that’s all.”

  “We’ll watch it.”

  Sam Neill didn’t say any more. Holly was glad enough to be quiet. In the hospital ward she’d never got a moment’s peace that wasn’t bought with Seconal. At Howe Hill Fan had chattered nonstop. Out here Annie Blodgett was almost as vocal though easier on the nerves.

  Geoffrey Cawne was another sociable type. All day long he’d kept up a running commentary. At first she’d been amused, but after that terrible discovery of the stain in the Bible box she’d found his banter hard to take. Her brother was the sole person Holly’d been with for weeks who didn’t want to chat but being with Roger was total noncommunication.

  This was a different kind of not talking. It was good to be here with blue serenity above, blue turbulence below, and somebody watching her step for her. She didn’t speak again until she felt like it.

  “Bay of Fundy. That means Baie des Fonds, Bay of Deeps, doesn’t it?”

  “Some say so,” Sam replied. “The early explorers called it La Baie Française. In case you didn’t know, the Sieur de Monts charted this coast back in 1604. That was before your famous Pilgrim Fathers even started wondering where to buy their seasickness pills.”

  “They weren’t my Pilgrim Fathers. At least I don’t think they were. My parents never had time to talk about their ancestors with Roger and me.” Or anything else of any importance. “Oh look! There goes a lobsterman out to set his traps.”

  Sam laughed. “Guess again. That’s Ellis Parlett. Can’t you see what he’s got in his dory?”

  “It’s so far away.” Holly squinted, trying to focus her eyes on the dark oblong that was dragging down the bow of the open rowboat. “All it reminds me of is the chest of drawers in Annie’s bedroom.”

  “Got it first try. Mahogany veneer, circa 1880. Duck behind this rock and make believe we’re part of the landscape. If Ellis spots us he’ll pretend he’s just out for a row.”

  “But why? What’s he up to?”

  “Watch,” Sam repeated.

  The gangly youth in the boat shipped his oars, picked his way forward, and bent over the dresser. As her eyes adjusted to the distance, Holly could see he had with him a length of rope. Something was tied to the end. It looked like a plastic bleach-water jug, and probably was. Lots of lobstermen used them for buoys. Why was Ellis making such a mystery over nothing?

  Chapter 11

  SLOWLY AND CAREFULLY, ELLIS Parlett eased the chest of drawers over the dory’s gunwale, using one of his oar handles as a lever. It sank with hardly a ripple, leaving the white jug bobbing on the surface. Then he clambered back to the rowing thwart and headed for shore.

  “Why did he do that?” Holly whispered. “Why didn’t the dresser float? And if he wanted to get rid of it, why did he mark the spot where it sank?”

  “First,” said Sam, “the dresser didn’t float because he filled the drawers with rocks. Second, he’s not getting rid of it. He’s going to soak it till the veneer peels off. Then he’ll haul it up, take it home, and drill some nice, artistic wormholes in the pine boards the veneer was stuck to, give it a few belts with a bicycle chain to antique it some more, sand it down, give it a coat of wax, and then some lucky tourist is going to pick up a nice old pine dresser at a big, fat bargain.”

  “Sam, you’re kidding! Does Claudine know what Ellis is up to?”

  Holly was watching Sam’s face carefully when she mentioned Claudine, but he only looked amused.

  “That kind of amateurish faking couldn’t fool anybody who doesn’t want to be fooled. You can tell Victorian furniture was machine-made if you take the time to examine it properly. Even if he cuts it down, the proportions will be different from an early piece. I don’t condone fraud, but the plain fact is that anybody who buys one of Ellis’s fakes may be getting a more solid piece of furniture than if he’d bought the genuine article. It’s all horsefeathers about every colonial farmer’s being a master craftsman, you know. Most of the stuff they knocked together was so crude it fell apart pretty fast. That’s why there’s not all that much of it left. Personally, I’d take Victorian any day.”

  “So would I,” Holly agreed. “I love the stuff. I thought it was just because I’m a clod. By the way,” she might as well take the bull by the horns, “what about my brother’s work? Do you think there’s any possible chance somebody might sometime try to pass off one of his pieces as a genuine antique?”

  “Since you ask, I’d say there’s every chance in the world,” Neill told her frankly.

  “But would it work? Is Roger good enough to fool an expert?”

  “I’d say he’s absolutely first class. As to fooling an expert, I just don’t know. To begin with, a person might wonder if he started running across a lot of duplicates. The furniture Roger copies is apt to be one of a kind. It would be unusual for a cabinetmaker to fashion two pieces identically alike, unless they were meant to be used as a pair. Then there’s the finish, a certain patina that comes with age. Aside from any distressing—accidental chips, dents, and scratches—you’d normally find a certain amount of crazing or cracking on a varnished or lacquered piece. There’d be some dulling of the surface no matter how well the piece was preserved. I suppose a spectroscopic analysis could be done, if you wanted to get that picky.”

  “But how many collectors take their spectroscopes to the antique shop? If you use old wood—” Holly stopped abruptly, and Sam knew why.

  “That would help to make his work more convincing. Also, Roger doesn’t deliberately fake up his finishes, but he does use the original formulae. That could make analysis tricky, especially after some time had elapsed. As to aging a piece enough to fool the average buyer—”

  “Whack it with a bicycle chain and stick it under the downspout. I get it. I’m surprised you were willing to involve yourself with such a shady enterprise.”

  “You’ve got a tongue on you, young woman. I’m not accusing your brother of anything. You asked me a question and I answered it.”

  “I know. It’s just that—Roger and Fan are such fools!”

  That wasn’t what she’d meant to say, and Neill knew it.

  �
�Let’s say they’re so busy doing their thing that they’ve never taken time to think of the possible consequences.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if they did. Roger would take it as a matter of course if somebody mistook him for Samuel McIntire, and Fan would start wondering how to get a cut of the profits. You must think I’m rotten, talking this way.”

  “No, Holly, I think you’re worried. Why? Has something happened?”

  What could she say? “Watching Ellis out there started me wondering, that’s all. I suppose I’m disenchanted, if that doesn’t sound too arty. This Howe Hill idea seemed so clean and free and innocent when I heard about it back in New York. Then I arrive to find Roger the same cold fish he always was and Fan out vandalizing the neighborhood to give her baby what he wants and—and—people pulling dirty tricks and—oh, I don’t want it!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks, Sam. Maybe I’m just depressed because I’m not healing fast enough. Maybe it’s from being out here in that filthy old house with Mrs. Parlett dying and the vultures circling around her. One vulture, anyway. Would you believe Earl Stoodley practically told me in so many words not to bother doing anything that might help to keep her alive? He’s positively slavering to get his pudgy paws on Cliff House.”

  “Stoodley’s enough to depress anybody,” Sam agreed. “His trouble is that he’d like to be a bigger frog than this little puddle can hold.”

  “Then why doesn’t he take a running jump for himself and go find a bigger puddle?”

  “He knows he hasn’t got what it takes to make it anywhere else. Earl’s smarter than he looks.”

  “He’d almost have to be, wouldn’t he?”

  Sam Neill smiled but did not reply. He was half-lifting her down the last tricky bit to the ledge. When Holly stood on firm ground again, she felt awed. Here, only a few hundred yards from Cliff House, she was in a landscape from Mars.