Terrible Tide

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “How come Claudine agreed?”

  “She was none too willing, I can tell you. Claude and Alice had always dinned it into her and Ellis that their father ought to be Uncle Jonathan’s rightful heir. After he was drowned, Alice claimed it was the awful way he’d been treated by his so-called father that drove him to it. Ellis was too little to take it in, I expect, but Claudine took every word for gospel. I suppose they had to have some reason to hold their heads up.

  “Anyway, when it came to being a trustee, Claudine got up on her high horse and said she’d do her duty but she’d never set foot on the property till her family got what they were morally entitled to. So that’s why Professor Cawne isn’t going to get Claudine Parlett out here this morning or any other morning.”

  “And she’s still nursing her sick mother?”

  “No, she isn’t.” Annie pushed back her chair and got rheumatically to her feet.

  “Why? What happened to Alice?”

  “What generally happens? The way I feel this morning, I shouldn’t wonder if it happened to me before long. You wouldn’t care to give me a hand upstairs, I don’t suppose? Mrs. Parlett’s mattress hasn’t been turned in a dog’s age. I thought maybe the two of us could lift her into a chair long enough to redd the place up a little.”

  “Is she heavy to lift?”

  “I don’t suppose she weighs eighty pounds. She used to be a fine figure of a woman, but you’d never know it to see her now.”

  Chapter 16

  NO, HOLLY THOUGHT A few minutes later, you’d never know it.

  Mrs. Parlett lay curled up like a dead caterpillar, yellow claws hooking out from the sleeves of a beautiful peach-colored silk nightgown.

  “Mathilde had a dozen of those nightgowns,” said Annie. “Said she bought ’em to keep Jonathan’s mind off other women. Aunt Maude would have bitten out her tongue sooner than say a thing like that.”

  “I can see why he married Mathilde,” Holly replied drily.

  “Aunt Maude was a good woman, dearie, but I have to admit Mathilde was a lot more fun to live with. She’d be singing and laughing and running out to pick flowers—now, where did I put those pillow cases?”

  “Right there on the night stand. You don’t want them yet, do you? I thought we were going to get her up and strip the bed.”

  “Oh my, yes. I tell you, my head’s going. All right, dearie, but we’d better wrap her up well. One good chill could carry her off, not that it wouldn’t be a blessing, but still—”

  Annie fussed over her patient. She must truly have loved Mathilde, Holly thought, but reason told her there was more to be preserved here than Mrs. Parlett’s tenuous hold on life. Cliff House was Annie’s home, too. What would become of her when Mrs. Parlett died?

  And how could this ancient puppet go on breathing much longer? Holly held her own breath as they lifted the fragile body in its cocoon of velvet comforters and laid it on the brocaded chaise longue. Mathilde must have loved to lie here and watch the clouds flying by outside. Could she see them now? The eyes were half open. They didn’t seem to be focusing on anything, but Holly made sure Mathilde’s head was turned toward the window, just in case.

  She seemed no worse for having been moved. After they’d done the bed, Holly suggested, “Annie, why don’t we take Mrs. Parlett into your room and give this one a good airing? It’s awfully stuffy.”

  It was worse than stuffy. Though Annie had done her best, there was a pervading odor of body wastes and general mustiness. Annie thought it over.

  “I don’t know why we couldn’t. There’s an old wheel chair in the back bedroom. We could move her in that, easy as pie. I’ll get it.”

  Annie came back pushing a golden oak contraption with huge wire wheels. They squeaked dreadfully on their rusted axles. Holly found some expensive face cream on Mathilde’s dresser that had gone rancid in the jar and lathered the joints until the wheels turned smoothly. Then it was no job at all to shift the flaccid body.

  While Annie fussed over Mrs. Parlett and made helpful suggestions about a nice cup of tea, Holly vacuumed, dusted, scrubbed, even took the heavy blue velvet draperies out to the clothesline and whacked out clouds of dust with a wire beater. Then she carried them back upstairs and rehung them over windows that had got their first washing in years. By the time they got Mrs. Parlett back into bed, the room was cheery, the air was pure, and the unhealed cut on Holly’s thigh was oozing ominously.

  “You did too much, dearie,” Annie clucked. “You’d better go straight to your own bed.”

  “I want a bath first.”

  Holly got cleaned up, found a roll of gauze and some sterile pads, and rebandaged her cut, praying it wasn’t going to need more stitches. She should have known better than to do so much. Anyway, Mathilde Parlett should rest more comfortably tonight, whether she knew it or not.

  Knowing that if she didn’t go down to supper Annie would insist on struggling up to her with a tray, Holly put on her housecoat and limped to the kitchen. Bert was ensconced in his chair by the stove. He leered when he caught sight of the elegant robe.

  “’Fraid you got yourself gussied up for nothin’ tonight, sis. Sam took his mother down to Saint John. She started havin’ pains, so they’re goin’ to operate soon’s they get the knife sharpened.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. I’m so sorry.”

  “So’s your brother. He’s chewin’ nails an’ spittin’ tacks ’cause Sam didn’t show up today. That Mrs. Brown’s been writin’ letters again.”

  “I’m curious about Mrs. Brown. Have you ever met her, Bert?”

  “Not to say met her. I seen her once when she come to the shop. Brassy hair an’ paint on ’er face an’ dressed like ’er own granddaughter. She had on bright green stockin’s over the knobbiest pair o’ legs I ever did see. Tough as a boiled owl, like all them New York women.”

  “I’m a New York woman.”

  “Aw, you don’t count. Wouldn’t want to pour out a little snort for a poor old man, would you? I’m all in but the toenails, an’ they’re rattlin’.”

  “So am I.”

  Nevertheless, Holly fixed Bert’s drink. She felt a tiny bit better for knowing there actually was a Mrs. Brown, even if she couldn’t see how Mrs. Brown might fit into the strange and ugly picture that was developing.

  That leg was really giving her a hard time. It was as well Sam wouldn’t be coming tonight. She was in no shape for another of his quiet strolls. What would they do when it got too cold to be out? Sit in his wagon, maybe.

  No they wouldn’t. As soon as his mother got better, Sam Neill would be off on another job somewhere. And where would Holly Howe be?

  Chapter 17

  BY MORNING, HOLLY WAS in bad shape. A hot redness was spreading from the cut toward her groin. If she didn’t get an antibiotic soon, they’d need a new hired girl at Cliff House.

  She dressed carefully, knowing she wouldn’t be able to manage a second trip upstairs. By gritting her teeth and holding tight to the stair rail, she made it down to the kitchen. As usual, Annie was already there.

  “Annie,” she said, “I’ve got to see a doctor right away.”

  “Dearie, what’s wrong? Are you in pain? Is it your leg?”

  “Yes. How do I reach him? Should I phone for an appointment?”

  “Far’s I know, you just go to his office and sit there till he calls you in. That’s how it always used to be. Bert can drive you down. He’ll be along sooner or later to bring the groceries. Claudine usually calls about now to see what I need.”

  As if on cue, the telephone rang. Holly cried, “I’ll get it,” but for once Annie was the nimbler of the two. Holly had to listen in agony while Annie prattled on about tea and flour and what a grand job her new helper was doing. At last she literally couldn’t stand it any longer, and took the receiver from Annie’s hand.

  “Claudine, this is Holly Howe. I have to see the doctor as soon as possible. My leg is bothering me badly. I think I can get my sister-in-law to pi
ck me up, but how do I reach—oh, would you? That would be wonderful. No, I understand. I won’t. Thank you so much.”

  She hung up. “Claudine said Dr. Walker has office hours from nine to twelve on Saturdays. She’s going to let him know I’m coming. Now please God Fan can come right away. Oh, and we’re not to let Fan inside the house, so get ready to stand guard with the broomstick.”

  “Cat’s foot! A lovely woman like her.”

  Annie had never laid eyes on Fan, but she was ready to endow her with all the virtues for Holly’s sake. Holly wasn’t. Fan found her ready and waiting on the front porch when she drove up in answer to Holly’s call, about half an hour later.

  Holly limped to meet her. “Hi, Fan. Thanks for coming to the rescue.”

  “You know me, everybody’s errand girl.” Fan was obviously none too pleased at not getting a peek into Cliff House. “How’s it going?”

  “Not bad, aside from this blasted leg. Annie’s a dear and Mrs. Parlett’s no bother. The house is a mess. Now I know what you must have gone through when you first came to Howe Hill.”

  That turned the trick, as she’d known it would. Fan launched into a tale of her own tribulations that lasted until they got down to the doctor’s. Holly’d heard all about it before, but she didn’t mind listening again. Fan deserved some reward for being so helpful.

  “Thanks, Fan,” she said as she eased her sore leg down to the sidewalk. “You’re sweet to do this for me.”

  “What about afterward? Shall I pick you up?”

  “I’m supposed to check in with Claudine. She does the shopping for Cliff House on Saturdays and either Bert or Earl Stoodley delivers, so I expect I’ll get sent up with the groceries.”

  Fan scowled. “I was hoping we’d have a chance to visit. I miss you, Holly. Roger’s always so absorbed in his work. And as for that new helper, forget it. I might get a good morning out of Neill, but that’s about it. You’re not missing anything There, believe me. By the way, how’s it coming with Geoff Cawne? Has he called you yet?”

  “He came up on Thursday and spent the whole day taking photographs. He was coming again yesterday, but Earl Stoodley wasn’t around.”

  “What’s Earl Stoodley got to do with his coming?”

  “Earl’s the bodyguard. There are some real antiques mixed in with the junk. If anything turns up missing when they settle the estate, Geoffrey doesn’t want to be accused of having pinched it.”

  “If the place is in such a mess, how would they know?”

  “They’d know. Everything’s been inventoried and the lawyers have the list. Earl says they’ve listed everything from the mice in the pantry to the spiders in the attic.”

  Let Fan think that over. Holly turned toward the doctor’s office.

  “Thanks for the ride. I’ll phone if Claudine says I can have some time to drop in at Howe Hill. If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know I’ve gone back to Cliff House.”

  “Call me anyway. I want to know what the doctor says.”

  In a surprising burst of sisterly affection, Fan touched her chapped lips to Holly’s scarred cheek before she started the old truck again and clattered off.

  Dr. Walker’s house was the second neatest on Queen Street. Its shingles were stained a rich tobacco-spit brown, its trim freshly picked out in green enamel. Dr. Walker himself looked like a clean and shaven twin to Bert, and must be a relative. He was no bumpkin; his diploma was from McGill, his manner competent and assured. He wasted no time on small talk, but got Holly up on the examining table, poked and prodded, asked, “Does it hurt when I press here?” and seemed quite pleased when she said it did. He asked what medication she’d been on, jabbed an enormous needleful of something into her thigh, wrote a prescription in a totally illegible hand like a real New York doctor, and indicated Holly’s visit was at an end.

  She wasn’t ready to leave, however. “Dr. Walker,” she began, “Claudine may have mentioned I’m working out at Cliff House.”

  “Don’t overdo. Stay off that leg as much as you can.

  “Thanks, but what I wanted to ask you was, can’t anything be done for Mrs. Parlett?”

  “I can’t tell you. I haven’t seen her for several years.”

  “I know, that’s what worries me. It doesn’t seem right. Annie Blodgett’s the kindest person imaginable, but she’s not a trained nurse and I don’t think it’s fair for her to have the whole responsibility.”

  Dr. Walker moved her toward the door. “Miss Howe,” he said, “the last time I saw Mrs. Parlett was over five years ago. I gave an opinion then that she’d be dead very soon, perhaps in a matter of days. Immediately after that, I went abroad for a year. When I came back, I was astounded to hear Mrs. Parlett was still alive. I’ve never been asked to visit her since I got back, and I see no need to. Annie must be handling the case better than I could, trained or not. If that leg hasn’t begun to clear up by Wednesday, you’d better come to the office again. Evening hours are seven to nine.”

  So that was that and here she was, out on the sidewalk with a prescription in her hand and a flea in her ear. Holly walked over to the drugstore and treated herself to coffee and green apple pie at the soda fountain while she waited for the druggist to find his eyeglasses, count out pills into a nice old-fashioned cardboard pillbox the size of a postage stamp, and peck out a label on a typewriter the local antique dealers must be itching to get their hands on.

  Now she’d better go report to Claudine. What else was there to do? Holly shoved her pills into the oversized model’s handbag she still didn’t feel dressed for the street without, and went over to the antique shop.

  Chapter 18

  CLAUDINE MUST STILL BE shopping. This had to be Ellis minding the shop. He didn’t look a bit like his chic, dark-haired sister, though he was rather attractive in a weedy, Bambi-eyed sort of way. Maybe he was a throwback to Myrtle the naughty housemaid.

  He must be at least twenty, but had the softness of youth on him. In spite of fuzzy brown sideburns and jeans amateurishly studded with shiny chrome rivets, Ellis gave the impression that he’d either freeze in terror or leap for the old briar patch if she made a wrong move. Holly closed the door gently and spoke as if she were addressing a wounded sparrow.

  “Good morning, I’m Holly Howe. Your sister is expecting me.”

  Ellis gargled something that could have been, “She said to wait,” and made a furtive gesture toward a splat-backed chair. Holly took it gladly and perched her sore leg on a nearby milk can.

  “You don’t mind, do you? Dr. Walker told me to keep it up.”

  Her reluctant host didn’t seem to care what she did so long as she didn’t expect him to get too close. To calm his jumpiness, Holly started explaining about her accident and its consequences. Ellis at last ventured on an anecdote of his own, about one time when he’d been out in the boat and got a fishhook stuck in his hand.

  Like most shy people, Ellis was unstoppable once he’d got started. Before long he’d told Holly far more about that fishhook than she cared to know. She gave up listening, just smiled and nodded and let her eyes roam around the shop.

  It wasn’t hard to pick out samples of Ellis’s handiwork now that she knew what to look for. The proportions were wrong, and evidently the manufacturers hadn’t always been choosy about the quality of pine that underlay their veneers. Ellis had filled in the cracks and knotholes with a whitish substance that reminded Holly of trodden chewing gum on a wet sidewalk.

  There was a kind of terrifying innocence about these faked-up pieces. Maybe Ellis didn’t let his conscience realize he was being a swindler, any more than the wreckers of early days thought of themselves as murderers when they lit beacon fires to lure ships on the reefs so they could plunder the cargoes. They’d been concentrating on their own need to survive.

  And what about herself? How often had she posed for advertisements with atmosphere-polluting aerosol bombs or plastic gadgets that would serve no useful purpose and clutter up the planet forevermore; and
thought only of how glad she was to get the work? At least she wouldn’t be exposed to that sort of temptation any more. There was something to be said for being hideous.

  But she wasn’t hideous. From where she sat, Holly could catch her reflection in a walnut-framed mirror. The scars on her cheeks had faded to straight lines. The pucker at the corner of her left eye was hardly noticeable. She could even pretend it added a whimsical quirk to her glance. The air up here was giving her complexion more color and sparkle than she’d been able to get with cosmetics in New York.

  Her hair, now that it wasn’t constantly getting bleached or streaked or dyed to suit some art director’s whim, was settling down to a pleasant tawny brown that exactly matched the silk scarf she’d tied high around her neck to hide the gouge under her left ear. She was feeling a little better about herself when Geoffrey Cawne strolled in off the street.

  It must have taken him all this time to work up nerve enough to tackle Claudine. They’d barely exchanged hello’s when the trustee herself came into the shop, pushing a wire shopping cart. Holly’s newly boosted ego took a sudden dip. Why hadn’t she noticed before that Claudine Parlett was an absolute knockout?

  Maybe it was because today those frozen features had thawed. Claudine’s cheeks were flushed, her gray-brown eyes alight, her lips voluptuous, coral-tinted curves. The few silver highlights in her straight black hair could have been put there deliberately for a touch of sophisticated chic.

  She’d played up the gray cleverly with silver jewelry set in turquoise. There were flecks of turquoise in her heather-gray skirt and jersey. She’d have turned heads on Fifth Avenue. If Sam Neill wasn’t romancing Claudine Parlett, then much as Holly hated to admit it, he was missing something pretty special.