The Gladstone Bag (23 page)

“However,” Tweeters went on in defense of his sex, “the male does a perfectly splendid job as a provider. The chick gets stuffed full as a tick twice every day. Of fish, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Emma agreed. “How nice for the chick. Does the mother get any, or does she have to catch her own?”

“As a matter of fact, the female puffin takes an equal role in both the fishing and the feeding,” Tweeters confessed. He ate some salmon roe in a rather self-conscious manner, then brightened again. “Did you know that puffins’ beaks shed their bright colors during the postnuptial molt?”

“That’s so apt to be the case once the honeymoon’s over, isn’t it?” Emma answered with a sad, sweet smile.

“Ah, but puffins are able to brighten up their beaks again as soon as the next mating season rolls around.”

Tweeters was well into his double martini now, and his own beak was glowing like a good deed in a naughty world. Emma began to wonder where this conversation might be leading. Tweeters must have decided he was skating too close to the bounds of decorum, though, for he zoomed off on a different tack.

“Puffins don’t shuffle along on their tarsi the way other alcids do, you know. They tiptoe around like peg-legged sailors on a toot.”

He whirred up from the sofa and began prancing around the hearthrug, imitating the puffin’s rolling walk till he’d sent both Emma and Theonia into convulsions. Joris Groot had been making desultory conversation with Theonia as he sketched her in semisilhouette against the firelight. He shrugged, flipped the page, and began caricaturing Tweeters as a puffin with, of course, special attention to the feet. Emma supposed Groot was having a good time in his quiet way, but she did wish he’d take himself elsewhere for a while. She wanted to talk to Tweeters about what she suspected he’d really been doing all day. She did think of asking him to show her the inner workings of the seaplane, but he’d got started on the peculiar nesting habits of Kittlitz’s Murrelet and she wasn’t sure it would be either polite or prudent to make any such suggestion.

From the Alcidae it was only a short hop to the skuas and jaegers, of which Tweeters had many a scandalous tale to relate. By his account, skuas were perfectly dreadful birds, feeding their young on other birds’ nestlings and sometimes even serving up their first-hatched chick to their second. Cousin Mabel would get on well with the skuas, Emma was thinking, when Count Radunov showed up in his navy blue blazer and she realized with a jolt that it was already six o’clock.

Joris Groot folded his drawing pad, put the cap on his black pen and said he guessed he’d better go get washed up for dinner. Tweeters, who’d settled himself back on the sofa next to Emma, got up again and observed with obvious reluctance that he ought to head back home to Boston. Radunov, who’d been eyeing the lack of any noticeable gap between Tweeters and Emma in much the same way as Emma’s father would have done fifty years ago, made it perfectly clear without actually saying so that he couldn’t agree more.

Even poised for flight, Tweeters was still loath to depart. Theonia took the situation firmly in hand. “I’ll walk down to the plane with you, Tweeters. I believe I may have left my gloves on the seat this morning.”

“I don’t recall your wearing gloves,” Tweeters was tactless enough to reply.

“But of course I wasn’t wearing my gloves. If I’d had them on, how could I have left them behind?” Theonia pointed out with some acerbity.

Tweeters was gentleman enough to acknowledge the soundness of her reasoning. “Ah, true. Very true. Come along, then, a-hunting we shall go. Emma, would you care to join in pursuit of the wayward gloves?”

At Tweeter’s offhand use of the name Emma, Count Radunov nearly lost his aplomb. Emma herself thought it a trifle hard on the count; though Tweeters, as a close friend of the Beacon Hill Kellings, was certainly not committing a breach of etiquette in addressing another Kelling by her first name now that they’d been introduced. At least she could turn down Tweeters’s invitation, in fact she’d have been rude to accept.

“I’m sorry,” she told her new acquaintance, “but I can’t leave my house guests. Perhaps you’ll be flying up this way another time?”

“Tomorrow, for instance?”

“Why, yes, I suppose so, if it works into your schedule.” She hadn’t bargained for quite so enthusiastic a response. “I may be tied up with some domestic problems we’re having”—that was putting it mildly enough—“but I’m sure Theonia would enjoy showing you around the island. You may find Pocapuk a disappointment, though. We have no puffins.”

“Puffins aren’t everything,” he told her in a fine burst of renunciation. “There’s hang gliding, for instance. You’d be a natural for hang gliding, Emma.”

“How kind of you to say so. We must discuss it another time.”

“There’s also skydiving and hot-air ballooning,” Tweeters boomed, as Theonia dragged him practically by brute force out the door.

“Actually, I shouldn’t mind a bit discussing hot-air balloons,” Emma remarked to Radunov once the birdman had finally flown. “I’ve always had a hankering to go up in one.”

Count Radunov was taking a dim view. “Mrs. Kelling, you would not enjoy riding in a hot-air balloon. They offer a particularly depressing combination of total boredom, physical discomfort, frightening bursts of noise and flame, and constant peril of life and limb. Believe me, I know.”

“Oh well.” Emma was feeling a certain degree of buoyancy, balloon or no balloon. “There’s always hang gliding. What can I get you to drink? We seem to be without our usual bartender; I expect Vincent is still searching the island. Did Mr. Sendick catch up with him, do you know?”

Count Radunov did not know. He also didn’t know why Vincent should be searching the island, or said he didn’t. It occurred to Emma that he hadn’t been present on the beach while she was making her report to Wont’s crew. She told him now. Radunov was appalled, or said he was.

“And how is the child feeling now?”

“She was doing quite well an hour or so ago when Bubbles brought in the hors d’oeuvres,” Emma replied. “Speaking of which, will you have some?”

He glanced at the coffee table and shrugged. Emma saw why.

“Oh dear, Tweeters has finished off most of the cheese and all the caviar. It was only the red kind,” she half-apologized. “I’ll see what else Bubbles can bring us. Things are really in something of a shambles tonight. Perhaps I ought to—oh, Bernice, there you are. Have you any good news about Sandy?”

“She says she’s okay,” the girl replied. “She wants to get up and watch ‘Dr. Who,’ but her father says she can’t. And Bubbles says do you need any more ice or anything?”

“Tell him yes and ask if there are any more appetizers. Count Radunov hasn’t had any, and the others will be along any minute, I expect. Where’s Sandy’s father? Is he still outdoors?”

“Nope. I mean no, Mrs. Kelling. He’s talking on the phone and he sounds mad as heck. Want me to tell him you want him after he hangs up?”

“Just tell him I’d like to hear whatever news he has, but that if he has more important matters on hand we can manage the drinks and dinner without him. Can you remember all that?”

“I guess so. And more ice, right?”

Bernice took the ravaged serving plates from the coffee table and ran off. She was still wearing her green Smurf shirt and probably wouldn’t have time to change. What difference did it make? Between doing two girls’ work and playing nurse to Sandy, the poor child had been run ragged all day; one couldn’t expect miracles. Emma took the drink Radunov had refreshed for her and went back to her nest on the sofa. Radunov cast a quizzical look at the empty space beside her. She smiled up at him.

“Put on another log, will you, then come and sit here where you can enjoy the fire. I suppose you’re wondering why we’ve been lying about the telephone?”

“Not lying, surely?
Equivocating
would be a kinder word.” He placed the log in exactly the right spot, then took advantage of Emma’s invitation. “As to why, might it perhaps have been in the interest of preventing the guests from running up outrageous long-distance telephone bills?”

“How perspicacious of you. Vincent says there’s been trouble in the past about excessive phone bills, and this is his way of making sure it doesn’t happen again. I think we may as well stick with our equivocation for as long as we can manage, if you’ll be kind enough to overlook Bernice’s little slip of the tongue.”

“I am capable of developing instant deafness in whichever ear better suits your convenience. So Groot is changing his shirt, Sendick is combing the wilderness, and Mrs. Brooks is saying good-bye to the whooping crane.”

Emma couldn’t help laughing. “I’d have said the great blue heron.”

“Heron by all means, if you prefer. Ornithology is one field in which I claim no expertise. Then that leaves only our doughty man of letters and his—how would you describe Miss Quainley? She’s a bit on the thin side to be a lovebird.”

“Shame on you!” Emma tried not to smile, but the effort was too great. “I have no idea what to call Miss Quainley. Secretary bird, perhaps. She was functioning as Dr. Wont’s amanuensis this afternoon; or appeared to be. I believe they’ve decided to call off the treasure hunt and base their story on how the expedition was hoodooed by the ghosts of the Spanish sailors, by the way. Dr. Wont’s clamoring to leave the island. I told him I didn’t think the police would let him go, but perhaps he and Miss Quainley have decided to paddle ashore on that so-called raft Mr. Groot and Mr. Sendick have been working on. I can’t think why else they’re not here.”

“D
ID YOU GET TWEETERS
off all right?”

That was an inane question, but Emma could hardly come straight out and ask Theonia whether she’d handed over the orange juice and the films from the Dick Tracy camera.

Theonia gave her a smile and a nod. “Oh yes, Tweeters is well taken care of. Didn’t you hear him buzzing the house as he took off? He wanted to fly low enough to waggle his wings bye-bye, but I managed to persuade him you wouldn’t be looking out the window. He’ll be back tomorrow, I shouldn’t wonder. You know how ornithologists are; once they find an intriguing new species, they can’t wait to study it from every angle. Brooks is the same way about the pied grebes,”

“Have you thought of suing them for alienation of affections? And can we get you a fresh drink?”

“Perhaps just a spot of sherry.”

“Dry or sweet?” asked Count Radunov, somewhat reluctantly getting up off the sofa.

“Dry, by all means. I’m quite—” Theonia stopped. Vincent was standing in the doorway looking like the wrath of God.

“What is it, Vincent?” Emma asked him, struggling to keep her voice low and controlled.

“Murder!” he blurted. “The bugger was hit from behind, just like my Sandy, an’ either shoved off the cliff or thrown off by the scruff o’ the neck an’ the seat o’ the pants, they can’t tell which. There’s some funny rips in ’is clothes. He was unconscious when he hit an’ smothered from landin’ on ’is face in the mud. Tide must o’ been out, which puts it somewheres before three o’clock this mornin’. Maybe a little later but not much. God A’mighty! Of all things to happen here.”

“You’ve made sure there’re no strangers around, haven’t you?”

“Hell, yes. We’ve looked under every rock on Pocapuk. No sign o’ nobody nor nothin’ nowheres. I don’t know what to do.”

“Have you been in touch with the county sheriff’s office?”

“Franklin has. They’ll be here when they git here’s the best he could tell me. They got some goddamn high mucky-muck from the gov’ment in the county an’ another riot goin’ full-blast at the toothpick factory. Too much happenin’ an’ not enough men to handle it, as usual. Everybody’s crazy these days.”

“Vincent,” said Emma, “sit down before you fall down. Count Radunov, pour him some brandy.”

“He’d prefer scotch, I believe,” said Theonia. “Here, I’ll do it. Try this, Vincent.”

He took the glass and returned her a wry smile. “What are you, another one o’ them mind readers?”

“Certainly. One thing that’s worrying you now is whether to report to Mrs. Sabine tonight or wait till you have a solution to offer her. I’d say wait. This isn’t going to take much longer. Another day, perhaps. Go ahead, drink it.”

Vincent swallowed a big gulp of the whiskey she’d poured. “Brr! That ought to straighten me out. What makes you so sure?”

“Trust me, Vincent. Mrs. Kelling can tell you I’m seldom wrong. Here, have some of this cheese. I’ll bet you haven’t bothered to eat all day.”

“What was I s’posed to do? Sit stuffin’ my face while one o’ my kids was riskin’ his neck draggin’ a corpse out o’ the water an’ another one damn near a corpse herself? If I ever get my hands on the bugger that—” He drained off the whiskey and hurled the empty glass straight at the back of the fireplace. It crashed in splinters behind the logs. Vincent stared into the flames, appalled by what he’d done.

“My God,” he half-whispered. “Them tumblers was thirty years old an’ this is the first one that ever got broke. I dunno what’s got into me.”

“You were having a perfectly normal reaction to the stress you’ve been under,” Emma told him, “and that glassware was never anything special in the first place. Don’t give it another thought, Vincent. What did your brother have to say about Sandy’s condition? Bernice told us she’s champing at the bit to get out of bed and watch television.”

“Ayuh, but she ain’t goin’ to, not tonight. Franklin said to give ’er a decent supper. If she keeps it down, he thinks likely she’ll be all right. Franklin says it must o’ been that glue she gaums up ’er hair with that saved ’er from worse than what she got. An’ here I been yellin’ at ’er to quit usin’ the stuff.”

Vincent grabbed hold of the chair arms and yanked himself to his feet. “I better go see what’s happenin’ out back.”

“Poor man,” Theonia remarked when he was safely out of the room, “what a hideous spot for him to be in. Well, Emma, what do you suppose has happened to the rest of your house party?”

“Count Radunov and I were just wondering that ourselves. Maybe they’re all packing to go home.”

Emma found the notion rather comforting, but she might have known it wasn’t happening. She was just getting nicely settled to finish her sherry in peace and quiet when Black John Sendick bounced in, full of beans and covered with scratches from blackberry vines. He looked reasonably trim in a buttoned-up blue denim jacket, but Emma suspected a dirty sweatshirt underneath.