Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
Observing that Davy was about to fall asleep in his yogurt,
she turned her thoughts to happier channels. She graciously allowed Max to do bedtime duty that evening, since he'd been gone
most of the day.
Davy revived, as small boys, do when bedtime is imminent, but once he'd been bathed and brushed and encased in a manly set
of pajamas covered with pictures of jungle animals, he snuggled under the covers and was asleep before Max had finished the
first page of
The Little Engine that Could.
Max lingered for a bit, smoothing the blankets and listening to his son's quiet breathing.
He was thinking about the Zickerys. Something about that pair bothered him. Callie and Allie. They seemed harmless enough
and no more peculiar than many of Sarah's other acquaintances, but he'd just as soon not have much to do with them. He remembered
Alister saying he didn't like children.
They really couldn't be called neighbors, not in the generally accepted meaning of the word. Sarah had inherited thirty-five
acres of prime seaside property from her first husband. She'd done the sensible thing, as Alexander Kelling would have wanted
her to, and sold off five acres at the farthest end of the property. The money had enabled her and Max to build exactly the
house they'd wanted, at a price they couldn't have afforded otherwise; but they had kept the other thirty acres despite the
persistent offers of realtors hoping to develop the land.
The Zickery place was about the same size as the Kelling land. Max assumed real estate dealers must have scouted
that property, too, but it was on the inland side without a clear view of the ocean and so second-best in the eyes of prospective
buyers. Was that why it hadn't sold to developers? Maybe the Zickerys had an exaggerated idea of its value, as people often
did, and were holding out for a high price. Maybe they just didn't give a hoot. They certainly had taken no interest in the
old place for years. The old house was so obscured now by overgrown shrubs and weeds that it couldn't be seen from the road,
but it must be getting rattier and rattier. Max had begun to wonder how soon it would be before some philanthropic soul would
pause to light a cigarette and forget to blow out the match before tossing it into the dry grass along the roadside.
And now the Zickerys, two of them, at least, had come back. Nostalgia, fond memories of the good old days when they had ridden
rented horses along carefully marked bridle paths, got out the croquet set, and put up the wickets for a real ding-dong battle?
There must be money available; getting the ramshackle old house back into livable shape would cost a bundle. And hot-air balloons
didn't come cheap, did they? Maybe the estate had been tied up in litigation all these years; maybe the other heirs had died
and left Allie and Callie in uncontested ownership of the estate, with a large enough inheritance to restore it.
And why did he, Max Bittersohn, give a damn? He tucked the blankets around Davy's shoulders, patted the tumbled fair curls,
and went downstairs.
The others had watched the news and were pleased to
report an absence of the news they didn't want to hear. Jem had given Sarah a pungent description of their visit to the pickle
king, which finished that subject to everyone's satisfaction. He and Sarah were sitting side by side on the sofa, looking
at old photographs.
Aunt Appie Kelling had salvaged several old photograph albums from the wreckage of the Kelling place when it was being leveled
to make way for the Kelling-Bittersohn house. She'd passed them along to Sarah, but only on loan. Various members of the family
had voiced their intentions of writing a Kelling family history; nobody had got very far with the project except Sarah's own
father. Jem would have been the logical person to take up the job, but he much preferred looking at the photos of himself
as a dashing young blade in plus fours or the white ducks and polo shirt worn on Saturday evenings at the yacht club dances.
Another favorite occupation was sneering at the photographic images of his friends and close relatives. Somehow Max was not
surprised to hear them talking about the Zickerys.
Alone or in couples, even whole septs, members of the Zickery clan had drawn away to revel in pastures new; to opulent suburbs,
to in-town apartments that would receive a new cachet as condominiums. With air travel so fast and so convenient, provided
the plane didn't fall apart in the air, they could always fly back to Ireson's Landing for a brief visit with those relatives
who'd preferred to stay.
“Finally the last of them vamoosed,” Jem said. “Once in a blue moon somebody would pull up in a car to walk the
boundaries and put up a fresh flock of ‘No Trespassing’ signs, then drive away and not be seen again until the next blue moon
or reasonable facsimile. Didn't you ever see them, Sarah? You and Alexander used to come here a lot.”
“We never went that way. There were those ‘No Trespassing’ signs, after all, and why push through all the brush and brambles
when the beach walk was so much nicer? Not that we had much time for walks together.”
“Not with Caroline demanding every spare instant of Alex's time and energy,” Jeremy Kelling said with a snort.
“There's something about that place that gives me the creeps,” Sarah admitted. “When I used to stay at Ireson's Landing as
a child, I got so many warnings about staying away from the Zickery place that I developed something pretty close to a phobia
about it. I'm sure the grown-ups' warnings were about real hazards like poison ivy and rotted well heads, but I took them
all very seriously. To tell you the truth, I'm still scared to death of that house. I wouldn't go there alone if you gave
me the whole thirty acres with a clear title. And that's going some for a Kelling.”
“Can't say I blame you.” Jem closed the album he had been holding and reached for another. “Most of the photos are upside-down
or sideways. Just like Appie. She hasn't labeled them, either. Who's this?”
Sarah leaned forward and looked at the photograph. “You'd be more likely to recognize him than I, Uncle Jem. That raccoon
coat was surely in fashion during your younger days, and isn't that a Packard he's leaning against?”
“Yes, by Jove, now I've got him! It's the coat. How we used to rag old Alister about that rug.”
“That's Alister?” Sarah couldn't believe it. The features under the natty cap were blurry and the photo had faded, but the
young Allie was certainly more amiable looking than the present-day version. “Why did you rag him about the coat? They were
hot stuff back then, weren't they?”
“Oh, yes. Had one myself. Whatever happened to that raccoon coat, Egbert?”
Egbert stifled a yawn. “Mrs. Emma Kelling borrowed it, Mr. Jem, don't you remember? For one of her theatrical performances,
before she began specializing in Gilbert and Sullivan.
Charlie's Aunt
was the play in question, I believe.”
“The coat's probably still in her attic,” Max said, knowing the Kelling reluctance to dispose of any garment until it had
literally fallen to pieces.
“Damn, I had forgotten. Must remember to ask Emma to give it back. Plenty of good wear still in that coat. Not like Alister's.
He claimed he'd trapped and skinned the raccoons himself, and the damned coat sure looked like it.”
“That's disgusting,” Sarah said. “Was he the kind of boy who'd do something like that?”
“No, not really. Alister Zickery was always bragging about what a macho fellow he was—we didn't use that word back then, of
course—but he was a wimp at heart. He'd pick a fight with some other boy, but once he'd got the fight all set up, he'd back
off and leave it for some other boy to take the pounding. The more I remember that young
blister, as Alister was then, the less I'd have to do with him now. I hope my innate tendency toward unbridled geniality didn't
come over me at the wrong moment. Was I too cordial?”
“That's not how I'd describe it,” Max said. “Are you two looking for something in particular in those albums, or are you just
killing time?”
“I thought we might find a photograph that shows the rubies,” Sarah said. “It's been so long since I saw them, or even a picture
of them, that I'd forgotten exactly what they looked like.”
“I haven't,” Max said grimly.
“No, darling, I don't suppose you could, after examining the copies and the photographs as closely as you must have done.
I suppose I was hoping against hope that it was some other ruby parure, though goodness knows there can't have been many like
it. No one would wear such things nowadays, they're too ostentatious.”
“You might not, but you have excellent taste,” her husband remarked. “Some women would love to flash that ensemble. I haven't
had a chance to check the voice mail; maybe Pepe has finally got around to reporting in.”
Not only were there telephones of every possible color and type around the house, they were equipped with all the gadgets
that might be useful to a man of Max's profession. He turned on the speakerphone so the others could listen.
The first message of interest was from Brooks. Thus far he had had no success in tracing the background of the unlucky
Joe Macbeth. “It must be an alias,” Brooks said. “We've run the usual name checks, with the usual agencies; you may be surprised
to hear that we located a dozen individuals named Joseph Macbeth. All of them are accounted for, however, alive or dead. Sorry
to have so little to report, Max, but such inquiries take time, as you know. The police got his fingerprints, and we'll start
on that tomorrow.”
“Damn,” Max muttered.
“Why damn?” Jem asked. “Even if he doesn't have a criminal record, he was old enough to have served in some war or other,
so his fingerprints must be on file somewhere.”
“Yes, but that sort of search takes a long time. Oh, well, it's probably a long shot. Poor old alias Macbeth may have been
killed because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Let's see what Pepe has to contribute.”
Pepe hadn't much to contribute. The astute lady from Amsterdam had left no direct descendants. Her entire estate had been
sold to benefit several lucky charities, including the World Bureau of Art Theft and Forgery, which Max considered a rather
nice touch. Her jewels had been handled by a well-known international auction house in Zurich. Pepe had obtained a copy of
the catalog, which included a breathtaking range of expensive geegaws. Conspicuous by its absence was the ruby parure.
“It is therefore to be presumed,
mon cher
Max, that the parure was disposed of by some other means, possibly a secret trust. I will endeavor to ascertain more, but
you know,
my old hat, how these lawyers are. Inform me, if you will, whether bribery or breaking into their offices is to be preferred.”
“He thinks he's a comedian,” Max muttered, switching off the machine.
“Breaking and entering would be my advice,” Jem said. “It costs too much to bribe a lawyer. What a pity my old pal Wouter
Tolbathy is singing with the celestial choir. He'd invent some ingenious method of befuddling the legal beagles.”
“Such as shooting them with a tranquilizer gun,” Max said, remembering some of Wouter Tolbathy's stunts. The tranquilizer
gun had been designed for the purpose of shooting at a fuchsia-turquoise-and-chartreuse-colored hippo, also constructed by
Wouter, which would begin to snore if it was hit in the proper place. Fearing Jem was about to launch into additional reminiscences
about the late lamented prankster, he said quickly, “Isn't it time you and Egbert were in bed?”
Jem tossed aside the album and hoisted himself to his feet. “Time for a final nightcap, you mean. Come along, Egbert, old
cabbage. You can brew up some of that tea that's supposed to be good for what ails you, and I'll have a martini straight up.”
“Just make sure you're still straight up when you tackle the stairs,” said Sarah. “We don't want any more broken legs around
here.”
Her uncle's response was a hearty, “Bah, humbug,” anticipating
the season by several months but perfectly in character.
The telephone rang. Max had left the speaker on; Brooks's precise Andover accents came through clear as a bell. “If you're
there, Max and/or Sarah, turn on the ten o'clock news. There's just been a teaser, as I believe it is termed, for a story
that may interest you. I'll ring off now so you can give it your full attention,”
“Do you suppose Callie and Allie inflated the balloon for the benefit of the television viewing audience?” Max asked.
“Thanks to Mr. Lomax, they didn't do any filming here,” Sarah said. “They had to get footage of something, and you must admit
the balloon makes a pretty picture.”
“Can't say the same for the Zickery twins.”
The swelling, gaily colored shape of the balloon did make an attractive image. Then the camera closed in on the proud owners,
standing beside it. Alister was wearing his aeronaut outfit complete with helmet, but Calpurnia had chosen to charm the viewing
audience in a purple sweatsuit that did not flatter her lined face. She was all smiles, however, rambling on about how happy
she and her brother were to return to their roots and how much they regretted having dropped in uninvited on a family celebration.
As for the body under the tent, she had no idea how it had got there or who it was. The police had confirmed that the balloon
baloon
could not have caused the fatal injuries and that the corpse had been put under the tent at a later time. Alister confined
his agreement to vigorous nods and an occasional stretch of the lips.
Callie hadn't hinted by so much as a raised eyebrow that her dear neighbors the Bittersohns must have had a hand in the murder.
The commentator was also careful to avoid any statement that might leave the station open to a lawsuit, but innuendos fell
hot and heavy. There were references to earlier murders in which various Kellings and Bittersohns had been involved, lurid
descriptions of the agency's more unusual cases, and clips from past broadcasts showing, among other victims, an infuriated
Jeremy Kelling brandishing a stick at a reporter who had attempted to interview him about the death of his old friend Wouter
Tolbathy.