The Recycled Citizen (13 page)

“What was that?” Max asked her.

“Something dire, I’m sure. Aunt Appie has everything organized and written down.”

“Has what organized?”

“We may never know. She’s mislaid the paper. However, that won’t stop her from nipping at our heels until we do it. I assume it’s something to do with the SCRC. Oh, Max, you don’t suppose she’s calling about Theonia? Maybe she did spot her after all, and thinks she’s gone batty and we’re all going to have to be very, very kind and take turns reading to her from the works of William Cullen Bryant.”

“Why William Cullen Bryant?”

“Because that’s what they read to Great-aunt Perseverance after she started imagining she was Yvette Guilbert.”

Max looked interested. “Did it help any?”

“I don’t suppose so. Bryant wrote ‘Thanatopsis’ when he was only eighteen, as you may remember, and he appears to have spent the rest of his life exploring the ramifications. I remember Great-aunt Perseverance’s sister Letitia coming to read Bryant to my mother. That was after Mother got so sick she couldn’t get out of bed to hide in the bathroom.”

“Was that your mother’s customary practice?”

“Only when Great-aunt Letitia called. She was in her eighties by then. She wore black skirts down to her ankles and so much jet on her bosom that she clattered every time she moved. She managed to get through ‘No Man Knoweth His Sepulchre’ and ‘Blessed Are They That Mourn.’ Halfway through ‘Hymn to Death,’ though, Mother pulled herself together. ‘Sarah,’ she said, ‘bring me a Manhattan cocktail and fix Aunt Letitia a dose of Epsom salts. She appears to be suffering a bilious attack.’”

Sarah laughed. “That’s one of the fondest memories I have of Mother. She died three days later. Great-aunt Letitia lasted another ten years. She gave a little party for me and Alexander after we got married. I was still in mourning for my father, so we couldn’t have had any big splash even if we’d wanted one. But anyway, Great-aunt Letitia recited Bryant’s ‘The Death of the Flowers,’ which is about a young girl fading away with the violets. I was still only eighteen, you know, and people did wonder.”

“I can see why they might.” Her husband didn’t seem to think it was funny.

“Cousin Mabel came right out and told me Letitia was giving me a hint to do the same because she’d always wanted Alexander for her own daughter. He and Xanthia were a lot closer in age than he and I, I have to admit. Xanthia was about fifty-five by then, and totally devoted to rock climbing. She fell off a precipice in the Andes under mysterious circumstances not long afterward. Uncle Jem wanted to read “The Murdered Traveler’ at the memorial service, but they wouldn’t let him. Here, darling, there’s just half a spoonful of beef left.”

“You have it. You’re eating for two. Am I supposed to set fire to the pears?”

“No, I thought we’d eat them in a state of nature.”

“Us or the pears?”

“Don’t be coarse. You might help me clear the table.”

They finished their meal, then Sarah bowed to the inevitable and put the telephone receiver back on the hook. She was looking up Apollonia Kelling’s number when her aunt beat her to the dial.

“Sarah, I’ve been trying and trying to get you. Is something wrong with the line?”

“Not now,” said Sarah, “only I mustn’t tie it up because Max is expecting a man from Marseilles to call. What’s on your mind, Aunt Appie?”

“I simply thought if we all put our shoulders to the wheel and pitched right in—one day a week isn’t too much, surely?”

“For what?”

“To work at the center, dear.”

“Why us? Dolph and Mary have it all beautifully organized so that the members take turns and get special treats for helping. Outsiders would be dreadfully in the way.”

“Oh no, dear. Osmond Loveday says what they need over there is a refining influence.”

“Well, he couldn’t be more wrong. What they need is a chance to retain their self-respect by doing things for themselves and each other, and that’s what Dolph and Mary are giving them. If Osmond Loveday wants a bunch of rich do-gooders flapping around him, he’d better find himself a different job. Sooner or later Dolph’s going to realize Osmond’s worse than useless at the SCRC and chuck him out.”

“Sarah, that is hardly a charitable remark. Osmond Loveday is a truly dedicated man.”

“Dedicated to buttering up people with money and nicking them for all he can get,” Sarah retorted. “Has he started hinting to you about a truly meaningful donation yet?”

“He did touch on the sad fact that so few patrons have come forward,” Appie admitted.

“I’m sure he did. He didn’t happen to say that’s because Dolph and Mary have never asked for patronage. So far they haven’t needed it. The center pretty much supports itself through the sale of salvage and the members’ volunteer services, and that’s the way they want it.”

“Sarah dear, I’m afraid we’re straying from the point. Shall I put you down for Thursday or Friday?”

“Neither. I’m already out straight on the auction and Dolph wants me to help on the publicity drive for the new housing facility. Max says that’s enough.”

In fact, Max had said no such thing, but Appie had been bullied by Uncle Samuel for forty-three years and took it for granted all wives were willing doormats. “Oh well, if Max feels—”

“He certainly does. Aunt Appie, I was going to call you myself. What’s Tigger’s real name?”

“Tigger? What an odd digression, dear. Whatever made you think of Tigger?”

“Wasn’t it she who roped you into this nonsense about volunteering at the SCRC?”

“One would hardly say ‘roped in,’ dear. Tigger did happen to drop by yesterday at teatime and mention she’d spent the day there in good works. You cannot imagine how happy that made your old auntie. I’ve tried so hard to steer the poor lamb in constructive directions. I enrolled her in a number of worthwhile courses: Appreciation of Gregorian Chant, Balinese Tie-dyeing, History of New England Theology with special reference to Cotton Mather—I felt so sure Cotton Mather would catch her interest, but she gave me one of her looks and that was the end of that. I had to take the courses myself in order not to waste the money, and I must say Cotton Mather wasn’t quite what I’d—however. So when Tigger came to me last evening and told me she’d volunteered at the center, it was a vindication of my fondest hopes. You do see why we must all rush to support her in her well-doing. Are you quite sure about Friday?”

“I’m quite sure you ought to find out whether well-doing is what Tigger’s really up to before you leap in with both feet,” Sarah retorted. “You still haven’t told me her name, and I have a perfectly sound reason for asking. How she got to the center yesterday is that she followed me when I went to get the mailing list for the auction. I tried to introduce her to Mr. Loveday; then realized I didn’t know what to call her. When I said so, she hadn’t the grace to tell me. I don’t want to be put in that silly position again.”

“Tigger’s shy, you know,” Appie apologized.

“She was brassy enough about forcing herself on me when I tried to shake her off. Aunt Appie, please quit dodging the question. What is Tigger’s name?”

“Oh dear, I can’t seem to—something A. A. Milne-ish, I’m sure. Hence the Tigger, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. Is it actually Milne?”

“Not that, but something.”

“Pooh? Eeyore?”

“Dearie, that’s hardly kind. I’ll think of it. Just let me get the rusty old thinking machine cranked up.”

Appie’s cranking brought no spark. “Never mind,” Sarah said at last. “I’ll call Lionel’s place. Surely Vare will know.”

“Oh my dear, you mustn’t ask Vare. Lionel has forbidden her ever to mention that name again under his roof. He’s growing more like his dear old dad every day. It quite wrings my heart.”

Sarah could see why it might. There were curmudgeons enough in the Kelling family, but Uncle Samuel had been the acknowledged king of snap and snarl. Lionel would never be the grouch his father was, there was too much of the wimp in him; but why shatter Aunt Appie’s fond illusions?

In the end she had to settle for, “Just be patient, dear. It will come to me,” and a promise to let Appie know if she had to reschedule her hours at the SCRC. She might have known enough to say yes in the first place and then wipe it out of her mind, since Appie would have forgotten, too, in a day or so.

“She really is the most exasperating woman,” Sarah fussed when she at last managed to get off the phone. “The awful part is that she means so well. Now where did I put that blouse I was going to mend?”

She settled herself under the lamp and searched through her sewing box for the right shade of thread. “You know, Max,” she remarked as she compared the spools, “it’s odd they chose purple. That’s the most deceptive color there is. Under artificial light you often can’t tell it from brown.”

“Good point, kid. Maybe they had the purple cans and figured they had to get the good out of them.”

“A while back you were telling Theonia they had them printed up specially because price is no object with drug smugglers.”

“So I’m willing to consider both sides of the question. Sarah, I have no idea why they picked purple, unless purple is a color less used for soft drink cans than other colors, which it may or may not be, or because purple is less conspicuous than orange or because somebody just happens to like purple. What’s important, as you’ve pointed out, is that choosing purple for their signal color has in fact tended to limit the time span during which they can safely make their drops and pickups.”

“Maybe they started in June or July and didn’t realize what was going to happen when the evenings began getting shorter,” said Sarah. “I don’t suppose narcotics dealers are much in tune with nature. Oh dear, there’s the door bell. See who it is, would you, darling?”

Max went to the speaking tube. “Who is it?”

“Your trusted lieutenant,” came the squawky reply.

“Advance and give the password.” Max pushed the release button for the vestibule door. “It’s Brooks, thirsting for adventure.”

“For goodness’ sake, hasn’t he had enough to last him for one day? Brooks, why aren’t you home rubbing Theonia’s feet?”

“She’s soaking them in bubble bath.” Brooks was frisky as a chipmunk, notwithstanding the hours he’d put in. “Max, I’ve been thinking.”

“Congratulations. About the color purple looking brown under artificial light, right?”

“Ah, you’ve been thinking too.”

“Actually Sarah was thinking. We take turns.”

“Then you’ve also thought of the ramifications?”

“Sarah’s in charge of ramifications.”

“Including Chet Arthur’s demise?” Brooks insisted.

“No, demises are my department,” said Max. “It would seem Chet Arthur must have been killed a good while before he was found, otherwise that splash of purple paint on his bag wouldn’t have shown up much against the brown paper, and whoever killed him wouldn’t have known whom to mug. This of course is assuming he was killed for the heroin, but if he wasn’t, his death and particularly the shining of the body makes no sense.”

“I’m quite ready to go along with your assumptions. The autumnal equinox was just this past week, on September twenty-first, so sunset the night he was killed was shortly before six o’clock standard time. Allowing an hour for daylight savings, that means he couldn’t have been killed much later than seven, yet it was a quarter to eleven when Dolph got the call that the body had been found. I’d guess close to dusk, myself. It could have been a serious problem, hiding the body for any great length of time.”

“Unless he was killed in a deserted warehouse or a secret cellar,” Max suggested.

“Or a cavern measureless to man,” Sarah put in. She’d ducked into the bedroom and emerged in a warm caftan of a shade between rose and apricot that Theonia had picked up on one of her lingerie raids to Filene’s Basement. “Though I don’t suppose there are many caverns around here, unless you count the underground garage at Boston Common. That would be a good place, actually. Whoever did it could stick him in a car, cover him up with something, and just leave him there till it was late enough to take him over to Marlborough Street and dump him.”

“What would Chet have been doing in the underground garage?” asked Brooks.

“Using the men’s room?”

“How would the person who was supposed to collect the drugs know he was there?”

“They’d either have followed him in or lured him in,” said Max. “No doubt it’s also occurred to you, Brooks, that these drop-and-scoop operations are well orchestrated. Considering how carefully the first part of the transfer was supervised this afternoon, I expect we’ll find the rest of it is too. To begin with, that guy in the purple suit must have known that woman in the purple sweater was on her way to the right spot.”

“More than that, he knew there would in fact be a woman in a purple sweater,” Brooks added.

“He knew there’d be somebody in a purple something, anyway. That means he was working with somebody who’d had the SCRC under close surveillance, who knew where that woman was likely to go and when she’d be likely to get there. They must have been in contact by telephone or walkie-talkie.”

“Or telepathy,” said Brooks. “You do see, Max, that the dispatcher is most apt to be someone connected with the center itself.”

“It wouldn’t have to be someone who’s always there, though, would it?” said Sarah. “I don’t suppose they keep dropping those cans all day.”

“Oh no,” said Max. “Nothing like it. They couldn’t pull this stunt too often without somebody getting wise. Besides, there’s so much profit in heroin they wouldn’t have to.”

“We can find out easily enough,” said Brooks, “just by watching to see how many people leave the center wearing purple.”

“Right,” said Max. “You might disguise yourself as a hydrant, stand on the sidewalk and count them as they go by.”

“Unsubtle, my boy. I suppose your idea is to go straight for the rat i’ the arras.”

“Annie,” said Sarah, not happily.

“Ah yes,” said Brooks. “The non-topless ex-waitress from the Broken Zipper with the sticky fingers.”

“That was only Theonia’s impression,” Sarah reminded him even as she herself was recalling how deftly Annie had swiped all the sugar yesterday at the restaurant. “I shouldn’t have mentioned her. The name simply popped into my head.”