The Odd Job (6 page)

This was all conjecture, of course. Dolores could have fallen dead from a sudden heart attack, or choked to death on a cough drop. Sarah looked at the few tuna-fish sandwiches that were still on the tray and shrugged.

“Charles, do please take away those ghastly squoodgy-woodgies, or whatever you call them. Poor Dolores, one always got the impression that she’d go on forever. I hope somebody knows who her relatives are, assuming that she had any left after her brother died. Brooks might know; I wish we knew how to get hold of him.”

Not that it made any difference, Sarah supposed. Some long-lost nephew or cousin, or even the husband whom Dolores had never talked about and her co-workers thought must be long dead was bound to show up and claim the body, along with anything of value that was to be got from the studio in which Dolores had lived and done her unlikely homework for so many years. There’d be some money put by, not a great deal but enough to pay for a decent burial.

In this respect, if in no other, Dolores would have looked ahead; she was that sort of woman. With Jimmy gone, the odds were that she’d leave whatever there was to the Wilkins, along with a handsomely calligraphed epitaph extolling the artistry of Dolores Agnew Tawne and the years of dedicated service she’d given to the museum. She’d have left a note with it giving precise instructions as to where on the courtyard wall a bronze plaque was to be fastened; she might even have had the plaque all engraved and ready to be hung once the date of her passing had been inserted.

What a crazy thing to be thinking. No, it wasn’t crazy at all, it was what Dolores would have wanted and what she’d have made sure she got if she hadn’t died so abruptly. If such a plaque either existed or was mentioned in her will, would anybody care enough to put it up? Sarah would, Max would, Brooks Kelling would if they were given the chance; but none of them was officially a member of the Wilkins staff. Even Jimmy Agnew would have carried more weight if he’d been still above ground.

Jimmy had been around the museum almost as long as his sister. He’d managed to hold his job ostensibly because Dolores had covered up his alcohol-inspired absences. In fact, as it later transpired, Jimmy had been kept on the payroll as messenger for a former bigwig who was now living in restricted quarters at the public expense. Nobody had blamed Jimmy for what he’d done, nobody had ever expected much of him in the first place. His co-workers had tolerated him well enough, partly because he was a likable chap in his way, and partly because they’d pitied him for having a sister like Dolores.

When he’d got run over, the other guards had been mildly regretful to see him go. A few had voiced their puzzlement as to how the accident happened. The day had been fine, the pavement not a bit slippery, the traffic no heavier and Jimmy no drunker than usual. He’d used that same crossing day after day for years and years because his favorite pub was across from the museum’s back entrance. But dead he’d been, and nothing to be done but attend the obsequies and then gather at the bar to hoist one for Jimmy.

Sarah and Brooks had attended the funeral out of courtesy to Dolores. She had not appeared to be overwhelmed with grief. Once Jimmy was safely tucked away, she’d accepted Sarah’s invitation and come back to Tulip Street for tea and sympathy. With a glass of sherry under her belt, Dolores had as much as admitted that she was well rid of her brother. He’d been getting more cocky, harder to manage. Could that mean that Jimmy Agnew had taken on a second job running errands on the q.t. for some other member of the museum’s staff?

More guesswork. Sarah poured out tea for Charles while he laid another log on the fire, and motioned for him to finish the sandwiches. When the tuna-fish was gone, they ate cheese and crackers with a couple of Early Transparent apples that Sarah had picked from one of the trees at Ireson’s Landing. When the food was all gone and the teapot empty, Charles went into the dining room and came back with the brandy decanter and two glasses.

“To Dolores, moddom?”

“To Dolores, Charles.”

Sarah took a ritual sip, wondering whether anybody else anywhere was sorry that Dolores Tawne was dead. Vieuxchamp hadn’t sounded at all bereft, his grief would be for himself and the extra work he’d have to do without Dolores around to do it for him. Turbot would be on Vieuxchamp’s neck, no doubt, once he noticed that the museum was not being properly kept up, which it certainly wouldn’t be unless somebody new was hired to take Dolores’s place. The trustees would have their hands full trying to find a replacement who could function capably as a curator, housekeeper, assistant gardener, and peacock doctor, and was willing to work for a relative pittance.

And what about Max? Sarah wondered, down in Argentina at his own expense, exercising his training and diplomatic skills to get back another of the Wilkins’s looted treasures with nobody left on the staff who cared enough to rejoice in its recovery or could distinguish the original from the copy.

Other museums had fund-raising societies formed for their benefit by interested patrons. There had never been a Friends of the Wilkins. Even if the trustees had sanctioned it, Dolores Tawne would have thrown a wet blanket over any such amateurish nonsense in her domain. Maybe Lala Turbot would get interested, at least it would be a change from looking at livestock. Whatever happened, Sarah was well aware that, after the way she’d spoken her mind to Elwyn Turbot, the Bittersohn Detective Agency would be finished with the Wilkins Museum once the Watteaus had been delivered and the new chairman of trustees had tried unsuccessfully to gyp Max out of his fee. It was the end of an era. She raised her glass again.

“Bottoms up, Charles. This one’s to us.”

*
The Resurrection Man

S
ARAH WENT TO BED
early but didn’t get much sleep. She kept waking up and trying to remember all the things that needed to be done now that the usual support group had—temporarily, she hoped—dwindled away to Charles and herself. Mostly what came to her mind, however, was Dolores Tawne as Sarah had known her, the living image of a teakettle coming up to the boil, clumping around in sensible thick-soled tan walking shoes, her sensible beige gabardine shirtwaist covered by a smock that had seen far too many wash days and been patched under the armpits at least once too often; radiating a sort of ferocious warmth when things were going her way, turning up the heat to full blast when anybody tried to cross her.

In her own way, Dolores had been a personage. It was hard to think of her as she must be now, lying stiff and still in a drawer at the morgue with a cardboard tag tied to her bare big toe. She’d have loathed being seen naked. Whoever was doing the autopsy had better watch his or her step; even from beyond the veil, Dolores might arise long enough to pick a bone or two. What a blessing it was, finding something to smile about, here alone in the dark. Sarah sent a wave of comradely farewell into the blackness, trusting that it would find its way to the right place, and dropped at last into a sound sleep.

At Ireson’s Landing, the only night noises would be those of wind and water and occasional local fauna out on the hunt. Summer in the city, though, had re-immunized her even to police and fire sirens; Sarah didn’t wake up until almost half past seven. By the time she’d showered and rummaged something halfway wearable out of the closet, she could hear Charles astir in the kitchen. She hoped to goodness he wasn’t thinking of some essay into haute cuisine such as eggs Benedict; toast and coffee were about the limit of his culinary powers.

Fortunately, he’d only got so far as to be holding a box of pancake mix at arm’s length, trying to read the directions on the box without his glasses on, when Sarah entered the kitchen.

“Don’t go to all that bother for me, Charles. Is there any bread in the house, or did you use it up on the sandwiches yesterday?”

“Yes, I did, but there’s one of Mrs. Brooks’s coffee cakes in the fridge. She left two, but the other one sort of melted away.”

“They do, don’t they. Why don’t you bring what’s left and pour us some coffee?”

Not that Sarah couldn’t have poured her own coffee, but Charles did burn to be useful and it was generally safer to draw the boundaries while yet there was time. Charles might be a little tired of coffee cake by now, but that was just too bad. She’d better check the larder and make sure there was enough for them to eat during the next few days. Charles could do what shopping was needed down on Charles Street, it always gave the self-appointed butler a proprietorial thrill of satisfaction, and the exercise would do him good. He’d pass the time of day with some of his numerous cronies, then spend the afternoon doing some of the chores that Mariposa would have nagged him about before she left.

Sarah’s own plans were, first, to phone Miriam and find out whether Davy was homesick or enjoying the lake, then either go to pick him up or else stroll across Boston Common to the office, check the mail and the answering machine, and put in some work on the books while there was nobody around to interrupt her. She had appointed herself to the job shortly after she and Max were married. During the years with Alexander, she’d become quite capable at handling correspondence and keeping books for various charitable organizations in which her blind, deaf, keen-minded, and keener-tongued mother-in-law had been involved. After her remarriage, she’d turned her experience to advantage. Keeping the accurate records that Max hadn’t had time to maintain had become a major contribution to the smooth operation—relatively smooth, anyway, some of the time—of the Bittersohn Detective Agency.

They’d talked of hiring a bookkeeper; instead, Cousin Brooks, who could do anything, had set up a computer system and taught Sarah to use it. He himself didn’t mind putting in some time at the console when he had the chance, which wasn’t often because Brooks could always find some new challenge to his ingenuity. Sarah did wish he and Theonia would get in touch, but they probably wouldn’t. Charles had got the impression that they planned to remain incommunicado for much of their time away; they hadn’t told him why and he didn’t think it was a butler’s place to ask.

That was all right. Brooks and Theonia must know what they were about and Jesse was proving to be almost too resourceful. They’d break their silence when they felt the urge or the advisability. It was unlikely, Sarah thought, that they’d be needing any help from the home front, but somebody ought to be at hand to take their call if it came. At least she could do that much.

She spent a little time with Charles over the shopping list, then phoned the Rivkins at the lake and heard just about what she’d expected. Davy was down by the lake with Ira. He’d eaten up every bite of his breakfast and taken a piece of bread out to feed the minnows. He was wearing Ira’s old straw hat and one of Mike’s T-shirts to keep from getting sunburned. They were going to have a cookout on the beach at suppertime and surely Sarah wouldn’t mind if they kept Davy with them till Max got back, so that she could get her work done.

What could a mother say? That she’d talked with Max, who’d sounded hale and hopeful but there’d been trouble with the telephone so she couldn’t tell when he’d be back. That Mr. Lomax and Cousin Anne were minding the house at Ireson’s Landing. That Anne could phone Mrs. Blufert and tell her to stay home and nurse her bug now that Davy was with Miriam and Ira. Yes, Charles would be here to make sure that Sarah didn’t get kidnapped or burglarized. She wasted no breath on describing her visit to the Turbots’ and said nothing about Dolores Tawne’s sudden demise. She entreated Miriam to give Davy an extra kiss and hug from his mother. She began to feel too bereft, rang off and got down to business.

“Be sure to pick up a
Globe
while you’re out, Charles. There might be something in the obituaries about Dolores.”

“Yes, moddom.”

Getting away from the house was always the hardest part. Sarah donned a light raincoat over the too-summery outfit that she’d elected to wear because the blue silk was too dressy for the office and there wasn’t much else in the closet to choose from. Once on her way, she enjoyed her walk to the Windy Corner, which was no more than agreeably breezy this morning, pushed through the door into the lobby, and checked in at the reception desk. The receptionist knew her, of course.

“Well, Mrs. Bittersohn, we haven’t seen you around here much lately.”

“No, I’ve been staying at home, catching up on things. The office won’t be open today. I’m just here to work on the books and don’t want to be interrupted, so please don’t send anybody up unless I scream for help.”

They both found this notion mildly amusing. Sarah took the elevator up to her floor, unlocked the office door with Brooks’s magic key which only worked if one recited the proper mantra, went in, and took off her raincoat. There was nothing impressive about the Bittersohn Detective Agency’s headquarters except the gold-leaf lettering on the door. The old flat-topped oak desk and creaky swivel chair that Max had inherited from some previous tenant took up too much of the meager floor space. An impressive array of file cabinets along one wall and a couple of straight-backed, slimly padded chairs that didn’t encourage droppers-in to stay and chat once their business was done were the only other furnishings, unless one counted a few shelves that held office supplies and some pegs that Brooks had screwed to the wall because there was not room enough for a coat rack. Sarah hung her raincoat on one of the pegs and got down to business.

A fair amount of mail had been poked through the slot since Brooks was last in the office. Sarah picked the envelopes up off the dingy green-linoleum-covered floor and dumped them on the desk before she checked the answering machine. There were only a few messages on the tape, none that sounded important or urgent, the usual one or two from persons who were either mentally deranged or trying to be funny. Sarah jotted down those names and numbers that might be worth following up and turned to the mail.

Once the junk had been weeded out, she found her task rewarding in every sense of the word. There were no fewer than five checks, two of them for large sums that were long overdue, two that were almost equally impressive, and one that verged on munificence. She’d drop them in at the bank when she went out for lunch. This would not be a late meal or a meager one; it was high time she got some real food into her for a change. She’d done too much snacking since Max left. Charles’s tuna-fish sandwiches hadn’t been particularly filling. As for that Sunday luncheon at the Turbots’, the best she could say was that the food had been no worse than what she’d have got at Cousin Mabel’s. She hadn’t spoken to Mabel in ages. How nice.