“He’d appeared occasionally in minor roles,” Sarah amplified.
“Was he well-liked among the cast? You don’t know if there’s been any ill feeling because he got the part somebody else wanted, or anything like that?”
“Sergeant Formsby, this isn’t grand opera. If they’d run into somebody else who wanted to look old and ugly and mumble a line or two here and there, I’m sure both Charlie and my aunt would have been quite willing to let him. As to fighting, there simply hadn’t been time, assuming my aunt would have stood for it. Charlie’d been laid up with gout, you know, ever since the first couple of rehearsals and everybody was relieved that he was well enough to show up yesterday. Rather than wanting to do him in, I should say every member of the cast was praying he’d be able to hang together until after the performance.”
“But you can’t say for sure.”
“No, I can’t,” Sarah had to admit. “I’ve only been out here since Monday and I’ve been busy with the scenery, so I haven’t had much time to socialize with the players. I’d met some of them casually over the years, and others, especially the younger ones, not at all. I’m only giving you my impression for what it’s worth.”
“Well, I’ve known Charlie Daventer all my life, more or less,” Frederick insisted, “and I’m fairly sure I’d know if he had a running feud on with anybody. Charlie and I didn’t exactly sit in each other’s pocket, but we’ve seen a fair amount of each other off and on, especially since he’d been laid up. I’d walk over to bring him his paper, pick up his mail, or just sit and yarn with him as old gaffers are far too prone to do.”
“How did you get into the apartment tonight, Mr. Kelling?”
“Charlie’d given me a door key so I could come and go without his having to get out of bed and answer the door.”
“That so? You don’t know if he gave keys to any of his other friends?”
“Emma Kelling has one. So does Jack Tippleton, and I believe Ridpath Wale.”
“What about Sebastian Frostedd?” Sarah prompted.
Frederick Kelling drew himself up to his full five feet six inches and gave her a schoolmasterish look. “I am quite sure Sebastian Frostedd does not have a key.”
“These men you mentioned, they’re all members of the cast?” Formsby asked.
“They are. They are also personal friends of long standing. To the best of my knowledge, they and Emma are the only people other than myself who were recently given keys. The cleaning woman may have had one. You’d know that better than I, since you’ve already talked to her. The only other possibility I can think of is the visiting nurse from whom he’d been getting daily attention. I don’t know her name, I never met her. I tried to time my own visits so that Charlie would be alone when I came. He may even have had a different person every day. I don’t know how these things work.”
“I can check it out with the Visiting Nurses’ Association.”
Sergeant Formsby wrote himself a note. He had a blue-covered memo book with a spiral binding, Sarah noticed. Just like Aunt Emma’s. She wondered if he kept the used ones in his wife’s cedar chest.
He was hesitating, his pencil still touching the blue-lined paper. “Miss Mabel Kelling doesn’t have a key, then?”
“Good God, no! Not unless she bullied it out of somebody else,” Frederick amended, “which she’s quite capable of doing. Come on, Sarah. Let’s go find out.”
“Cousin Frederick, we are not going to call on Cousin Mabel at this hour of the night. I’m dead on my feet, I still have to get you home, and get back myself before Aunt Emma wakes up and has a fit, if she hasn’t had one already. Good night, Sergeant Formsby. If you need us again, you know where to find us.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Bittersohn. Oh hey, your husband doesn’t happen to be the Max Bittersohn who cracked the Wilkins case?”
“Yes, he is. Do you know him?”
Formsby warmed up, as people were apt to do when they found out she was connected with Max. “We’ve met. He doesn’t happen to be with you in Pleasaunce, by any chance?”
“I wish he were. He might be back soon. In the meantime, though, I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with my cousin and me.”
“Well, you two are doing okay so far. Ever work with your husband on a case, Mrs. Bittersohn?”
“How do you think I met him in the first place? As a matter of fact, we work together quite a lot. I’m pretty good at the bits and pieces. And may I point out that in this instance, Frederick and I are more likely to make headway on gathering information than you are. We can be nosing around among Mr. Daventer’s personal acquaintances while you take care of the visiting nurse, the house-cleaner, and the neighbors. I’ll be greatly surprised if this turns out to have been an outside job.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It’s most apt to be our nearer and dearer who do us in, isn’t it? By the way, did you find Mr. Daventer’s own door key?”
“The cleaner found it on the dresser with his other personal effects. With so many copies floating around, though, I don’t suppose it would be hard for somebody to get hold of one long enough to have it duplicated.”
“Assuming it was necessary,” said Sarah. “Nobody’d take the risk, I shouldn’t think, unless he had some pressing reason to get at Charlie. Or unless he was absolutely bats, of course. Even then he’d have had to be connected with Charlie in one way or another, shouldn’t you think? One doesn’t go around pinching keys on the off chance he’ll find a door they fit, does one?”
“Who knows? Okay, Mrs. Bittersohn. See what you and Mr. Kelling can come up with, and we’ll take it from there.”
“We expect a favor in return, Sergeant Formsby.”
“What’s that?”
“No leaks to the press until after the show. As it is now, Frederick and I can grill the cast for all they’re worth. If it gets around that you’re investigating Charlie Daventer’s death as a possible murder, they’ll realize they’re all potential suspects and haul in their horns, and we shan’t get a yip out of anybody.”
“Wouldn’t you think they’d be willing to cooperate with the police like law-abiding citizens?”
Frederick Kelling emitted one of his more formidable snorts. “If you believe that, Sergeant Formsby, you’re far too naive to be a detective. To begin with, as Sarah mentioned earlier, most of that crowd have known each other since Hector was a pup. Half of them are related in one way or another, and they’d all close ranks on general principles.”
“Is that your only reason, Mr. Kelling? It wouldn’t be the unfavorable publicity you’re worried about, by any chance?”
“That’s part of it, certainly,” Sarah took it upon herself to answer. “All right, Sergeant, we’ll come clean.”
“Sarah,” Frederick protested. “You told me yourself Emma doesn’t want anybody to know.”
“One doesn’t hold out on the police, Frederick,” Sarah replied primly, even though she was about to. “The thing of it is, Sergeant Formsby, this is going to be Emma Kelling’s last performance. She realizes her age has finally caught up with her, and she wants to go out in a blaze of glory before her audience catches on. That’s in strictest confidence and if you breathe one word to a soul, I’ll go straight back to Boston and let you stew in your own juice. And I’ll take Cousin Frederick with me.”
Sergeant Formsby smiled. “Okay, Mrs. Bittersohn. Your aunt’s done enough for this town, I guess she’s entitled to a little consideration. You understand I can’t hold up the investigation, though.”
“We’re not asking you to. We’ve already said we’ll do everything we can to help. We’ll even tackle Cousin Mabel for you,” Sarah added recklessly.
“Now wait a minute,” Frederick gulped.
“I will not wait. You were all for it a moment ago. Frederick, you needn’t think you’re going to weasel out on me now that you’ve got me into this. Anyway, I’ve been here all week and haven’t so much as called her up yet, so I suppose I might as well t
ry to get some good out of a visit if there’s any to be got. You’ll have to come with me and help me interrupt. You know one person alone can’t possibly stem the flow once she gets wound up.”
“Confound it, why did I have to remember that chamber pot? All right, Sarah, but on your own head be it.”
Muttering angrily, Frederick followed Sarah out to her car. She delivered him to his meager dwelling, sat outside with the car lights on till she’d seen him safely inside, then drove herself back to Aunt Emma’s.
She was ready with a glib, “Sorry to be so late. I stayed at Frederick’s and we got to talking,” but she didn’t have to say it. With or without the inducement of Slepe-o-tite, everybody seemed to be asleep.
A hot shower would have been welcome after so long and messy a day, but Sarah didn’t want to risk waking her aunt by running the water. She washed as quietly as she could, hauled her weary bones into bed, and started counting sheep. Worn out as she was, she had to prod upward of two thousand reluctant ovines over the pasture fence before her nerves quit jangling and let her drop off to sleep.
Chapter 9
GIVEN HER CHOICE, SARAH would have stayed in bed half the morning, but that happy fate was not for her. Soaring above her tribulations, Emma Kelling was projecting her still-powerful contralto like a call to arms as she sailed out of her bedroom.
“Wild with adoration! Mad with fascination! To indulge my lamentation no occasion do I miss. Good morning, Heatherstone. Isn’t that lazy niece of mine up yet? We’ll soon fix that.”
In self-defense Sarah shouted back, “I’m up.” She might as well be. Otherwise, Aunt Emma would be serenading her with Uncle Bed’s tuba.
At least she got her shower, or rather a hot wallow in the tub, taking a long time at it to soak out the leftover fatigue, giving herself a shampoo as part of the bargain. When she couldn’t decently stall any longer, she used her aunt’s hand dryer on her light brown hair, put on a denim skirt and a blue jersey, and went down.
“I thought I’d better do my hair while I had the chance.” She kissed her aunt, who was already putting quince jam on a hot biscuit, and took her place. “Scrambled eggs and biscuits, please, Heatherstone. What’s on the agenda for today, Aunt Emma?”
“First, we must get all those baskets and the costumes over to the auditorium. That’s going to take us a few trips, I expect. Oh, and the makeup. You’ll be running that department.”
“Me? Aunt Emma, I can’t possibly. I don’t know the first thing about stage makeup.”
“Nonsense. If you can paint scenery, you can surely paint a face. Think how much less area you’ll have to cover. Anyway, some of us will want to do our own, I expect. I always do, myself. You’ll get mostly the chorus, and you don’t have to be quite so fussy with them. They’re always hopping around with their mouths open, so the audience never gets a good look at them anyway.”
Sarah gave up and ate her grapefruit. There was no earthly sense in arguing back once Aunt Emma had delivered a ukase. Oh well, she’d never painted scenery before, either, and that hadn’t gone so badly.
“How do you propose to cart all that stuff, Aunt Emma?” she asked with a thought to her and Max’s own lush upholstery. “You don’t want to mess up the Buick.”
“Heaven forfend! Heatherstone would resign on the spot. More coffee?” Without waiting for an answer, Emma Kelling refilled Sarah’s cup from the wantonly begarlanded Bavarian pot she liked to see on her breakfast table. “Guy Mannering’s supposed to be borrowing a station wagon. He has access to a wide variety of vehicles, it appears.”
“I hope he doesn’t steal them to fit the occasion,” Sarah remarked, grinding fresh pepper over her scrambled eggs. “When’s he due to arrive?”
“Any minute now, I should think.”
Emma chatted on about their, or more specifically her, program for the day while Sarah went on with her breakfast. The costumes were being verbally pressed when the doorbell rang.
“That will be Guy now,” said Emma. “Ask him if he’d care to join us for coffee, Heatherstone.”
But it was not Guy. The man came back with a long, white florist’s box.
“For you, Mrs. Kelling.”
What fun. I adore getting flowers. Oh, Sarah, I wonder if these could be from Charlie? He always used to, you know. He might have ordered them before he—”
Emma’s voice broke a little, and she became extremely busy opening the box. It turned out to be full of gaudy orange and yellow gladioli. She looked relieved.
“Not from Charlie, surely. He always sent roses. Pink ones, you know. Red wouldn’t have been proper, to a married woman. Now who can it be?”
She took the card out of its little envelope, glanced at the words written on it, and let it drop back among the flowers. “Heatherstone, take these things and toss them on the compost heap.”
“Aunt Emma, what’s the matter?” Sarah cried. “You’re white as a ghost.”
Mrs. Kelling picked up the note again and handed it over to Sarah. There again was the inexpert calligraphy. All it read was, “Have you got the money ready?”
“What money are they talking about?” she demanded.
Sarah had to tell. “Five thousand dollars. I found another note pinned to the screen on the library window yesterday afternoon. You were in the midst of rehearsing and I didn’t want to upset you.”
Her aunt’s lips tightened. “Sarah Kelling, if there is one thing on this earth I positively cannot stand, it’s having my feelings spared. Where is that note now?”
“They stole it back.”
Sarah had to explain her sorry little adventure in the potting shed. Emma was, as she might have expected, only mildly aghast.
“Well, you seem to have managed better than I should have. I’d never in the world have been able to squeeze myself through those stupid little windows, and one must feel unbearably ridiculous hanging halfway out, screaming like a banshee. On second thought, Heatherstone, there’s no sense in letting those perfectly good gladioli go to waste. Pop them in water till we’re ready to leave. We can use them for the baskets in the foyer, the ones people will be dropping their candy wrappers and cigarette butts into.”
She touched her napkin to her lips and laid it beside her empty plate. “I do hope we haven’t made the mistake of cutting those daffodils a day too early so they’ll be starting to wilt tomorrow. The problem is, we have the senior citizens and the children from Fred’s school coming to the dress rehearsal and I don’t see why they shouldn’t have the good of them as much as anybody else. Heatherstone, don’t forget to put in one of those big tin pitchers. We’ll want it to soak the Oasis after we finish the baskets. If you’re quite sure you don’t want another biscuit, Sarah, you may as well start carrying down those spectres’ shrouds from your bedroom.”
By the time Sarah was back downstairs with her first ghostly armload, Guy Mannering had arrived with a station wagon belonging, he said, to his father, the English horn. Sarah took careful note of his expression as she handed him the pail of gladioli to be put in the back with the baskets. He didn’t look anything but pleased to be of service. If she ever found the time, she’d have to get him aside and pump him about what he’d been doing last night, and with whom. Right now, according to Emma’s blue notebook, she must load her own car with as many costumes as she could pack in without squashing and follow Guy over to the auditorium. Then she was to come back and get some more.
And forth she went and back she came, feeling like Noah’s dove, and forth and back and forth again, sometimes passing Guy and exchanging honks en route. This was not the ideal way to conduct an interrogation. As the morning wore on, Sarah pretty much forgot what she’d been going to ask him, anyway. By the time she’d got her last and final load to the auditorium, an astonishing number of helpers had manifested themselves. Sarah couldn’t tell whether so many hands were making light work or merely creating a state of worse confusion, but Aunt Emma was looking pleased in a frazzled sort of way, so sh
e supposed it must be all right.
And things were visibly getting done. The programs were delivered and unpacked, the costumes shaken out and hung up in the dressing rooms. Lady Sangazure’s bustle was parked in a safe corner where nobody could trip over it and squash it, a lopsided derrière being no part of Emma Kelling’s game plan.
The makeup table was set up backstage with its pots and tubes and jars and brushes and sticks of greasepaint and a whole snowstorm of cotton balls, plus a wastebasket to chuck them into when they’d served their manifold purposes. Sarah herself thought of the wastebasket, and received loud accolades for her sagacity as an organizer. She forgot her stage fright over the makeup and found herself handling the sticks of greasepaint with cocky anticipation. She’d finished Sir Marmaduke’s mansion; surely she’d have no trouble with Cousin Frederick’s face, especially since she didn’t have to do anything except make him look more like what he already was.
Oh dear, why did she have to think of Cousin Frederick? Now she remembered she’d intended to get Guy Mannering off by himself and grill him. No chance of that now. Guy was up to his ears and a good way beyond in scenery, and Aunt Emma was at her elbow, reminding her it was high time they started putting the flowers into the baskets.
So it was. Somehow or other, lunchtime had passed and the afternoon was half shot. After a flurry of strained politeness over whether they should fix all the baskets together then lug them to their assigned places, or lug first and fix later, Sarah and a few others set to work amicably enough, hauling wet stems out of clammy buckets and poking them in among the prickly foliage she’d got so sick and tired of yesterday.
The varicolored flowers, even the extortionists’ gladioli, did make a tremendous difference. By the time they were down to empty buckets and scraps of leftover vegetable matter, the house was looking as festive as the stage. All was prepared for sealing and for signing, for the rollicking bun and the gay Sally Lunn, and for the Sorcerer’s too-potent potion.
The Plain Old Man Page 9
