Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
They probably weren't, Rudyard Kipling notwithstanding. A smoke bomb, a balloon, a ruby parure, and a corpse couldn't be dismissed
with poetry. Thank goodness those inappropriate distractions had waited until after the ceremony had been fittingly concluded
and the bride and groom had left on their honeymoon. Weddings were a strain on everyone, especially the bride; Tracy and Mike
deserved their time alone. They wouldn't have to find out what had happened until they returned, braced and ready for the
hazards of matrimony. Being related, even distantly, to the Kellings was a hazard Tracy probably hadn't counted on, but it
couldn't be helped. Maybe, Sarah thought hopefully,
they could clear up the whole business before the newlyweds got back.
First, though, there was breakfast to be considered. Sarah decided she'd make popovers and take out some of the applesauce
she and Mrs. Blufert had made from the fruit of their own trees. Mrs. Blufert would be along soon, with her crew, to help
trundle the wedding gifts over to the carriage house. Mr. Lomax, their tried-and-true handyman, who had been at Iresons Landing
since before Sarah was born, would also be on hand. He'd have a fit when he saw what trucks and tents and feet had done to
his beautifully tended lawn, but that couldn't be helped, either.
She had mixed the popovers and put the pans in the oven before anyone else appeared. It was the faithful Egbert, as she might
have expected.
“Mr. Max is still in bed, and Davy is with him,” he reported. “From the sounds they are making I deduce that a game of some
strenuous nature is in progress.”
“I hope poor Max isn't having to be a camel again. He really did get a nasty crack on the shins.”
“The game appears to have something to do with alligators. What can I do to assist you, Mrs. Sarah?”
“Not a thing. You're a guest, remember? When do you suppose Uncle Jem will be down?”
“Pretty soon now, I should think,” Egbert replied. “Would you like me to go and see?”
“That might be helpful. If you're still planning to drive
into town, you ought to make an early start. Early for Uncle Jem, that is.”
The popovers were out of the oven and smelling wonderful. Sarah made a pot of tea, sat down at the kitchen table, and ate
one of the popovers. She ate another and was debating the pros and cons of a third, wondering why she was still hungry, until
it dawned on her that she'd had very little to eat for the past two days. Not because there hadn't been food enough to go
around, heaven forfend, but because she'd been too busy making sure everybody else got plenty to remember that she had a stomach,
too. She'd just about decided to eat a third popover when Max came down, impeccably attired in London-tailored suit and Italian
silk tie.
“Hi, süssele. Want some help here?”
“No thanks. I can feed myself now that I'm a grown-up lady. My, aren't you handsome this morning. Why the fancy duds? Egbert
is a bit of snob about attire, but he doesn't expect you to get all dressed up just to drive him to town.”
“I thought I'd pay a call on a pickle baron while I'm in Boston. Since I don't know what pickle barons wear, it seemed safer
to err on the side of propriety. Are those popovers to eat or to look at?”
“Whichever you prefer, my lord. Here they are, still warm from the oven. You'd better take some before Uncle Jem comes along
and eats them all up. Is it Tracy's father you mean to visit?”
“How many pickle barons do we number among our acquaintances?”
Max finished his popover and reached for a second. “It's unlikely that he sent the necklace to Tracy, but we ought to make
sure before we go running off in all directions.”
“Unlikely to the point of impossible,” Sarah said with a sniff “From what IVe heard about him, he's a horrible man. I suppose
you re right about checking, but why waste time going to see him instead of telephoning?”
“I can't give him the third degree over the phone.” Max's evil leer would have been more impressive if there hadn't been a
smudge of applesauce on his chin.
“You tough private eyes know your business best, I suppose. More applesauce?”
“By all means. Our own apples, right?”
“Right. What have you done with our son?”
“He's out on the deck, pulling his alligator around. He's crazy about that thing. When I went in last night, he had it in
bed with him, tied to the bedpost so that it wouldn't bite anybody. Ah, here comes the man of the hour. Sit down, Uncle Jem.
Would you care for a popover?”
“Oh, you know me, I'm easy to please. Just poke the dish this way and pass me the butter, not forgetting the apricot jam and
the guava jelly. Are those going to be enough popovers?”
“If not, I can bake some more,” Sarah assured him. “Did you sleep well last night?”
“Of course I did. I always do. My snores are as the snores of ten because my heart is pure. Or somebody else's
heart. Ah, yes. Whatever became of Natalie? Dear old Natalie. I wonder who's kissing her now.”
Sarah decided not to ask who Natalie was; or had been. “I don't want to rush you, Uncle Jem, but Max wants to leave sometime
today. Could you possibly bring yourself to get dressed, or are you planning to travel in your bunny suit?”
The one-piece flannel garment, in a touching shade of pink, set off Jem's rosy face and white hair, but he did not appreciate
the comparison. “What a vulgar thing to say! I'll have you know this is an exact copy of the siren suit Winston Churchill
wore during World War Two. The word ‘siren’ referred not to bewitching nymphs partially covered with scales, but to the sirens
that warned of an air raid. The garments, as you see, were warm, easily assumed, and modest.”
“Churchill's was pink?” Max inquired.
“I don't believe so, sir,” Egbert replied seriously. “But the pink fabric was on sale, you see, and Mr. Jem's tailor made
up several of them at a quite reasonable price.”
“This is a ridiculous conversation,” Jem said. “Naturally I have no intention of appearing in public in my night-clothes.
I'll get dressed as soon as I've had another popover. Are you coming with us, Sarah?”
“No, there's too much to do here. I have to keep tally of the wedding gifts as they get taken out to the carriage house.”
“Now?” Jem snarled. “Didn't anybody have sense
enough to start a tally just as soon as the first wedding present reared its ugly head?That's how its done. You just take
them in order and make sure the names and addresses are firmly attached to the gift: list. Otherwise you might as well go
stick your head in a revolving door and brave the consequences.”
“I know how it's done, and I did start a tally,” Sarah informed him. “But toward the end so many things came in all at once,
and there were three of us working on the list, Tracy and Miriam and me, so it's possible a few gifts were overlooked. I want
to double-check and tell Mrs. Blufert where to put the boxes.”
Jem reached for the last popover. Max looked ostentatiously at his watch.
“It's not necessary for you to come along, Mr. Jem,” Egbert said. “I can pack for you.”
“Nonsense,” Jem mumbled. “Won't take me ten minutes. Any more applesauce?”
Max pushed his chair back. Hurrying Jem was an exercise in futility; the more you tried to hurry him, the slower he got. “I
hear Lomax's truck. I want to have a word with him before we go. Take your time, Jem.”
Jed Lomax stood by the drive, looking disconsolately out across the once pristine sweep of lawn. He didn't remove his dirty
old swordfishermans cap when Max joined him; he'd known Isaac Bittersohns boy since he was no bigger than a mackerel and had
watched his career with interest. A sad disappointment to his maw, young Max had
been, chasing crooks instead of studying to be a rich foot doctor. He'd turned out pretty good, though, and he'd sure done
wonders for poor young Mrs. Alex that was, Mrs. Bittersohn that she was now. Lomax had been tickled pink when they got married
and decided to stay on at the old Kelling place, with him to look after it like he'd done for years.
“Sure made a mess, didn't they?” the handyman said morosely.
“Weddings are like that,” Max agreed. They exchanged man-to-man nods. “I appreciate you coming today.”
“Ayup, I figured you'd be needin me to get the place redded up some, so I just come along in the truck, bein' careful not
to drive into them chrysanthemum beds. Looks like they're the only thing that wasn't tore up. Damn shame; get a place lookin'
just so an' see what happens.”
“It wasn't so much the wedding as the balloon,” Max said.
“Balloon?” Lomax gave him a questioning look.
“Some rather strange things have been happening here the last couple of days. Have you heard anything about them?”
He felt pretty sure Lomax had, but his native reticence wouldn't let him admit it. “Can't say as I have. What kind o' things?”
“Well, I guess the burglar was the first. I found him in the library under the desk, wrapped up in a plastic trash bag. Thought
for a minute he was dead, but when I started
to drag the bag out he came alive, and when I asked him what the hell he was doing there he caught me a wallop across the
shins with a plank or something and made his getaway while I was rolling around on the floor”
“Caught you on that bad leg?”
Max appreciated the excuse. “He didn't do any real damage, but it hurt like the devil. By the time I got around to looking
for him he'd disappeared.”
“The library was where you had all those fancy wedding presents. Anything missing?”
“No. Maybe I showed up before he had a chance to steal anything.” Max decided not to mention the jewels. Not that he didn't
trust the old boy, but it was unlikely he could contribute anything useful.
“So then what?” Lomax demanded.
“Well, then we had a smoke bomb, one of those things that are set off when directors are making a war movie or the army's
training rookie troops for the real thing, God help us. I'd gone for a stroll, down to the end of the drive, when all of a
sudden everything went black, coal black, like the inside of a mine. It was the damnedest feeling. I didn't dare move for
fear I might walk in front of a car or run into a tree trunk.”
“I did hear somethin about that,” Lomax conceded. “Damn fool stunt, somebody could've been hurt. Any idea who did it?”
“No.”
Lomax scratched his head. “Pure meanness an deviltry. Sounds like the kind o' thing a Zickery might do”
“You knew the Zickerys?” He must have, Max realized. He was almost as old as Jem, and he'd lived in Ireson's Landing all his
life.
“Used to see 'em at the store. They didn't have much to say to the likes of us. Crazy as bedbugs, all of 'em. One female used
to walk around town in a one-piece bathing suit.” Lomax permitted himself a slight smile. “She didn't show much, I guess,
compared'to what you see on the beaches these days, but back then it was a pretty startling sight. I hear a couple of 'em's
turned up again.”
“In the balloon,” Max agreed. “One of those big hot-air balloons, like the ones they have at carnivals. Luckily it didn't
come crashing down on the caterer's tent until after most of the guests had left”
“Sounds like the sort of damn fool thing they'd do. Been nobody over there for years, but I did hear as how somebody's fixing
the old house up.”
It hadn't occurred to Max to suspect the Zickerys of setting off a smoke bomb. There was no proof that they had, except for
Lomax's memories of a bunch of bad hats who ought by now to be past childish pranks. The more he heard about the Zickerys,
the less keen he was on having them as neighbors.
“I don't suppose we can suspect them of hiding a corpse under the wedding tent,” Max admitted. “That happened yesterday—finding
the body, I mean. The poor devil was
apparently one of the crew that put up the tents, but that's all anybody knows about him. That's all, except for Mr. Jem Kelling's
car being stolen.”
“All?” Lomax permitted himself a tight-lipped grimace that was his version of a smile. “Sounds like a cartload of trouble
to me.”
“Nothing's happened today,” Max said optimistically. “Not so far. I promised to drive Sarah's uncle Jem and his man, Egbert,
to Boston so they can get into their apartment and bring back enough clothes to last the week. They claim they want to stay
here and help out.”
“That ought to be int'restin'.”
“I expect they'll manage well enough. Sarah needs somebody around to watch Davy and tell him wild stories about the Wild West.
Jem means West Roxbury, of course. He doesn't know the difference between a cowboy and a cow-bird, but Egbert has sense enough
for the pair of them. Whether any of them will last out the week remains to be seen. There's Jem, I'd better get him in the
car before he thinks of something else he wants to do first. Keep an eye on things for me, will you, Jed?”
With Jed Lomax and Mrs. Blufert and her crew on hand, Max wasn't too worried about leaving Sarah and Davy. Anyhow, hadn't
Theonia insisted the danger was directed at him?
Jem was pleased as punch to be chauffeured by somebody who wasn't afraid to drive over thirty miles per hour. Since Max had
better sense than to waste time making obscene
gestures at drivers who cut him off, tailgated, and committed other sins against common sense and safety on the road, Jem
did it for him. In between shouting complicated invective out the window, he remarked, “This is a pleasant change. There's
nothing like a whiff of carbon monoxide every so often. You haven't visited our little pied-à-terre for some time, Max; you'll
be surprised at the changes Egbert and I have been making”
Max smiled and forbore to comment. The changes would consist mainly in finding a handier place to stash the extra gin bottles
in an already overstuffed apartment. Jem had staked out his little claim on a half mile or so of Beacon Hill pavement many
years ago; he was not likely to make any significant changes now. Whether he'd have the fortitude to last out a whole week
of absence from dear old Pinckney Street didn't really matter; he thought he was helping, and if push came to shove, Sarah
could find a way to cope with him. Max only hoped she wouldn't have to. She'd had to do too much coping already in her relatively
short life. Max intended to make sure that her life became a long one, because what would be the use of living if Sarah wasn't
with him all the way?