by Joan Hess
“He was furious with Dorrie. The argument at dinner, the scene in her room a few days ago, the way he glowered at her—it all frightened me. I arranged to meet him later that night. He said that Dorrie had understood Essie’s mutterings, that she would eventually put the words together and betray him to the authorities. I couldn’t let him do something to Dorrie, Theo. He had to be stopped.”
“I should say so,” Dorrie contributed in a righteous voice.
Miriam continued to look at Theo. “It had to be a knife, so that God would understand why I had to do it. The kibbutz could never withstand the disgrace; the tourists would never come, the factory orders would dribble off, and finally the desert would reclaim the land. My husband sacrificed his life for it, and I couldn’t let it return to wilderness. With no one to tend it, the grave would be covered with sand and weeds …”
“Not to mention other potential sacrifices,” Dorrie muttered, but no one seemed to hear her.
Miriam took a deep breath and let it slide out between her lips. The half-smile was forever gone, along with the flecks of gold in her warm brown eyes and the husky amusement in her voice. All were gray, flat, as lifeless as the Dead Sea.
“You caused a widow’s heart to sing for joy, Theo Bloomer of Connecticut,” she whispered as the officers gently took her arms and helped her to her feet.
“It was my honor,” Theo answered with a grave bow. Then she was gone.
26
Theo buckled his seatbelt and tried to make himself comfortable between a gentleman with the girth of a Sumo wrestler and a child whose hands, face, clothing, and sharp little elbows were all covered with the remains of sticky red candy. Five hundred seats ahead of him Dorrie and Judith were sipping champagne and happily groaning about the new fall colors. There had been only two seats available in the first-class section.
“Please give your attention to the cabin attendant who will now demonstrate the safety features of our aircraft,” a crackling voice commanded. The child began to whimper and complain of a tummyache. Despite the well-lit “No Smoking” sign, the wrestler lit a cigar. The seat in front of Theo tilted back far enough to endanger his nose.
“Looking forward to the movie, Bloom?”
Theo laughed. “Sitermann, you are a truly devious spy. Can’t our government afford first-class tickets?”
“I thought we might play some penny-a-point gin rummy. Hell, we’ve got twelve hours of togetherness; maybe I’ll win enough to buy a new hatband. By the way, did you hear about Sarah Nava and the Swiss banker?”
“I hope they’ll be very happy together. The note enclosed with the cashier’s check sounded quite optimistic.”
“And they won’t have to pinch centimes on a banker’s salary. Neither will you, with that scroll worth millions—unless you were fool enough to give it back?”
“What do they teach in spy school these days? Of course, I gave it back, Sitermann,” Theo said, somewhat offended. “The kibbutz has already approached the university in Tel Aviv about accepting it, in exchange for a hefty contract to provide housing, meals, supplies, and labor for the dig, which will probably last for ten or twenty years. With all that anticipated income, someone found it prudent to assign Yussef to the back room of the turkey house.”
“The archaeologists can swim in the Dead Sea every evening. I hope it does more for sore backs than it does for goddamn lumbago. Hey, Bloom, did you visit Miriam in jail before you left?”
Theo shook his head.
Like a weathervane in a hurricane, the stewardess began swiveling in all directions to point at what the crackle insisted were emergency exits, sources of oxygen, and personal flotation devices. The child, retching happily, grabbed at the paper bag in front of seat, and the cigar smoker began to cough through his pale blue miasma. The crackle grew louder and more strident. With obvious reluctance, the airplane shuddered into life and began to roll around the runways in search of a vacant strip.
Theo closed his eyes and forced himself to think about his night-blooming cereus on the kitchen window sill. Maybe, if environmental stimuli had been delicately balanced, if Nadine hadn’t forgotten to water it, if red spider mites hadn’t chewed the leaves, if it hadn’t already bloomed and withered in lonely splendor, then maybe he would be there for a glimpse of the blossom. He certainly hoped so. It would be nice. Very nice indeed.
Pookie stared at the bud. “That looks exactly like a nasty green wart on a witch’s chin; I am tempted to pinch it off. When is this idiotic thing supposed to bloom?”
“I really couldn’t say,” Nadine snorted, tapping a tattoo on the counter with the house key. “If you prefer, we can stand here all afternoon and hold our breaths—or we can go on to the club and play bridge until I have to leave for the airport. Theo has a rare talent for selecting the most incredibly inconvenient times.”
The door slammed as they left. If a plant could look relieved, the cereus certainly would have as it returned to the business of preparing to bloom.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Theo Bloomer Mysteries
Chapter One
“Theo? I do hope I’m not interrupting, but I simply must discuss a rather minor situation that has arisen. Minor, but, well, slightly major.”
Theodore Bloomer stared at the telephone receiver in his hand, perplexed by his sister’s wheedling tone. It was unlike her to even consider the possibility she might be interrupting him, which might imply his time was of more value than hers. Unthinkable.
“I was in the greenhouse, checking on seedlings,” he admitted cautiously. “The tomato hybrids seem to be coming along nicely.”
“Really? Charles, Dorrie, and I do so enjoy your little offerings each summer. But I have a problem, Theo, and I must resolve it briskly. I have a bridge game at the club, and Pookie’s picking me up in less than five minutes. Do you have any vital social engagements next week?”
“The horticulturists’ club is planning a tour of the local azalea gardens,” Theo said, still eyeing the receiver uneasily. “I had considered the wisdom of repotting several of my—”
“Well, that much is settled. I fear I must ask a small favor.” Nadine Caldicott took a deep breath to recover from what must have been a painful sentence. “The whole thing is quite my fault; I accept full blame for it. But you know how very headstrong Dorrie can be, a trait I often suspect might have been inspired, if not blatantly encouraged, by her doting Uncle Theo.”
“This involves Dorrie? What has she done now?”
“She and a group of her friends have arranged for a villa in Jamaica for their spring break next week. There will be Dorrie, her fiancé, Biff, a friend of his named Beachy or Sandy or something like that, those adorable red-haired Ellison twins, and one of Dorrie’s suitemates from Wellesley. Let me think … Biff’s at Amherst, the Whitcombe boy’s at Annapolis, Mary Margaret Ellison is with Dorrie and the Bigelow girl, and her brother is between schools at the moment, I believe. You may have met some of them at the house; they’re forever hanging around the pool when they’re not at the club. They absolutely romp through the wine cellar, which drives Charles crazy.”
“I can imagine,” Theo said. “I’m sure Dorrie and her friends will have a lovely time in Jamaica. However, I hear water running in the greenhouse, and I’d better check on it. If you’ll excuse—”
“All of them come from very good families, of course, and the villa is fabulous, simply fabulous. Four bedrooms, fully staffed, private pool, view of the Caribbean. It’s going to be a delightful little vacation. Doesn’t it sound delightful, Theo?”
“Delightful,” Theo echoed obediently. “But I fail to understand how it involves me, Nadine, and I’m afraid I must hang up now. I must have left the hose running in the greenhouse, and—”
“I need you to chaperone them.”
“Out of the question. The last time I accompanied Dorrie, I was blown down a mountainside by Israeli terrorists. It was most distressing, and I have no intention of—”
“It was quite good of you, Theo. Have I ever properly thanked you for retrieving Dorrie from that dreadful communist cell?”
“No, nor have you allowed me to complete one sentence without—”
“Oh, dear, Pookie’s honking in the driveway and she is utterly impossible if she’s kept waiting. I’ll have Dorrie call with the travel information. I shall insist on paying for your expenses, although I might point out that you’ll be having a lovely vacation while the rest of us are literally sloshing through Connecticut slush.”
“I am not going to chaperone Dorrie and her—”
A dial tone buzzed in Theo’s ear. Sighing, he replaced the receiver and returned to his greenhouse, where the hose had flooded the concrete floor. He moved several clay pots out of the water, picked up a trowel, then put it down with another sigh. His sister, Nadine, was a force that required more resistance than he could usually produce. She had teethed on the Junior League, then moved through charitable fund-raisers to the fully ripened post of president of the Hospital Auxiliary. She had not done so by evincing weakness. On the contrary, had she been the Titanic (not an improbable analogy), the Atlantic would have been dotted with crushed ice.
Theo was still puttering in the greenhouse when the telephone once again disturbed him. He went into the kitchen to wipe his hands on a dish towel, then warily picked up the receiver. “This is Theo Bloomer.”
“I’m so glad I caught you, Uncle Theo. I absolutely have to go to the library and do a midterm paper; I’ve put it off for months now, and all of a sudden it’s due tomorrow. It’s as if Simmons gave us all this time to perspire over it, knowing perfectly well we’d have to stay up all night to get it finished. C’est-a-dire, having it dangle over my head has made my life a living hell.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Theo said mildly.
“Thank you,” Dorrie said, graciously accepting the perceived sympathy. “Did Mother call you about Jamaica?”
“It’s out of the question, Dorrie. I am sixty-one years old, and far too old to spend a week on a Caribbean beach with a group of college students. I have appointments next week, and some very time-consuming chores in the greenhouse to prepare for the planting season. I’m sure you and your friends can find another chaperone for your trip.”
“But we can’t. Mother agreed to go along, but then she realized that a year ago she had promised Pookie they would play in the women’s pairs in the Greater Connecticut Bridge Tournament that very same week. We’d already mailed in the nonrefundable deposit at that point.”
“There are several of you going,” Theo pointed out, “and surely one of the other parents could accompany the group.”
“Not one of them. We’ve absolutely pleaded with them, but they’re all being totally beastly about it. But it’s all right, Uncle Theo. We’ll forfeit the deposit—which rivals certain Third World countries’ gross national products, I might add. I’ll just spend the week studying in my dorm room. With everyone else off on meaningful trips, the building will be a dark, dusty, creepy old mausoleum, and I can work on a term paper or something equally thrilling. Perhaps I’ll try a strawberry rinse on my hair, or a new shade of fingernail polish …” Several delicate sniffles ensued as she envisioned the scene.
Theo was not impressed. “Come now, you don’t have to spend your vacation in the dorm. You can stay at home, and spend the time with your friends.”
“If the trip collapses, I won’t have any friends. I realize it’s my senior year and my last spring break ever, but I truly don’t mind that it will be the most wretched week of my entire life. Please don’t waste a single second worrying about me, Uncle Theo.”
“Why don’t you go without a chaperone, my dear? After all, you’re all college seniors and quite capable of taking care of yourselves. You’ll have a much better time without a gray-haired nursemaid to remind you to eat your vegetables and—”
“This is hardly the sixties. We have standards now, and it simply wouldn’t look right for a group of very attractive singles to stay in a villa in a foreign country without a proper chaperone. It could lead to all sorts of tacky gossip at the club. Biff’s grandmother would be so appalled she might change her mind—and her will—and let his younger sister get her pudgy little hands on the Hartley sterling collection, which was probably made by Paul Revere or someone like that.”
“Then hire someone to accompany you.”
“We need a proper chaperone, not a Kelly Girl.” A paper rustled, and a sly note crept into her voice. “There are more than three thousand varieties of flowering plants in Jamaica, and eight hundred of them are found nowhere else in the world.”
“Dorrie, as much as I would like to chaperone you and your friends, I cannot leave during the spring planting season. I’m testing a new tomato hybrid that is purported to be blight-resistant, and it’s almost time to put in snap beans and peas.”
“Two hundred species of wild orchids. Sixty of bromeliads, and five hundred fifty of ferns.”
“Two hundred species of wild orchids?” Theo heard himself saying, despite his better sense.
“Yep. You can do almost thirty a day, Uncle Theo. I’ll personally go to the botanical gardens with you and make appreciative little noises over each and every blossom, even if it means sacrificing peak tanning hours on the beach.”
She continued to extol the botanical treasures found exclusively in Jamaica as Theo gazed through the glass doors at his greenhouse. Even if deprived of water for a week, he suspected his tomato seedlings were made of sterner stuff than he. Then again, very few species were Caldicott-resistant. Science was not yet that advanced.
Sangster International Airport was crowded with tourists, porters, businessmen clad in lightweight suits, and small children darting about like water skimmers. Weary parents pleaded without success as the omnipresent public address system crackled without clarity. It was, Theo decided, precisely like every other international airport he’d been in, despite the proximity of romantic Montego Bay. The humidity, noise, litter, flies, and grime were not romantic.
The crowd milled around him as he stopped for a moment to slip off his jacket and carefully fold it over his arm. No one gave a second glance to the tall, balding man with the neatly trimmed beard and bright blue eyes behind thick bifocals. Had anyone bothered to study him, he would have been categorized and dismissed as the essence of mildness, a genteel retiree, perhaps inclined to bore listeners with a harmless hobby or two. Cats, African violets, model trains. Certainly nothing too eccentric, exotic, or expensive. Theo had discovered many years ago that his nondescript demeanor served him well, and he took pains not to contradict the image.
His niece and namesake, Theodora Bloomer Caldicott, was hardly nondescript. She was a tall, graceful girl, equipped with wholesome preppie enthusiasm and a goodly dose of Connecticut snobbery. Her long blond hair usually bounced around her, but today it was up in a ponytail as a concession to the heat. Theo watched her fondly as she strolled through the airport. Caldicotts looked neither left nor right, nor at the floor, where one might inadvertently see something rude. They looked straight ahead, ever mindful of pasture. The less fortunate were expected to move out of the way. For some inexplicable reason, they did.
Dorrie stopped abruptly and clapped her hands. “Isn’t that quaint?” she demanded of no one in particular. “A little band of local musicians playing island music! It is so completely cute I cannot believe it. Give them a dollar, Biff.”
Biff (a.k.a. Bedford James Hartley II, reputed to be Dorrie’s fiancé) smiled indulgently. “Now, Dorrikin, we don’t want to disrupt the island economy by passing out American dollars to every native who can pound some obscure instrument or dresses in polyester print.”
“But they’re playing calypso, just like Harry Belafonte. I think it’s absolutely quaint, and I think we should encourage them to maintain their traditions. It’s terribly important in a depressed economy for the natives to have a continuity with their heritage. It helps them ke
ep their minds off poverty and things like that.”
A blond-haired boy retraced his steps to join them. “Don’t be an ugly American, big guy,” he said to Biff, punching him in the arm. “Give them some change and let’s find our luggage. I’m ready to do some beach and brewskis.”
Alexander “Sandy” Whitcombe was Biff’s oldest and dearest friend, Theo had learned on the flight, although somewhat of a pariah since he attended the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis rather than one of the more traditional ivy-coated schools. Dorrie had mentioned that said midshipman’s father was some species of admiral and very adamant about family traditions, and that personally she found uniforms appealing. Well, not on doormen, of course, and only if they were dress whites and not khaki, which was primitive, especially if one were to perspire. Not that she meant chinos, obviously, since they were de rigueur in the summer. Or unless one was doing Kenya, in which case one simply had to wear those darling safari outfits from Banana Republic, complete with pith helmets, no matter what havoc they wrought on one’s hair.
It had been a long flight. Dorrie had insisted on sitting with her darling Uncle Theo to keep him company since he was being such a super good sport to come with them. The fact that Biff had sat with another of the girls had warranted not a few catty comments interspersed in the nonstop chatter. A very long flight, indeed.
Even before boarding the plane (weeks ago?), Theo had noted that Sandy’s hair was more closely cropped than the norm, and his posture reminiscent of the military, which was hardly surprising. His freckles were neatly aligned. Biff, on the other hand, had aristocratically elegant features, stylishly shaggy dark hair, and the slouch that seemed to accompany the burden of old money. However, they were dressed identically, from their sock-less loafers through their madras shorts to the discreet little alligators on their knit shirts. The uniform to end all uniforms.
