The Withdrawing Room (8 page)

“Maybe we’d better find out where this Hartler was when Quiffen got the push,” said Bittersohn, only half joking.

Sarah laid down her fork. “You certainly know how to brighten one’s day, don’t you? It can’t possibly have been Mr. Hartler. He wouldn’t have been able to climb down the stairs, for one thing, and he’s much too old.”

“How old?”

“Older than Mr. Quiffen, anyway, from the look of him, and a good deal frailer. He walks with a cane. Mr. Quiffen was stout and strutting and had this Horatius-at-the-bridge way of planting his feet. It must have taken a fairly hefty push to knock him flat. Still, I suppose one shouldn’t take anything for granted.”

“Well, don’t worry till you know you have something to worry about. I know somebody who’s been involved in the palace restoration. He’s out of town just now, but I’ll have a talk with him as soon as we can connect, and see what he knows about Hartler. In the meantime, you might as well go ahead with whatever plans you want to make. No doubt Hartler will be panting on your doorstep pretty soon anyway. He reads the papers, too, I expect. You don’t happen to own any of those royal treasures yourself, by chance?”

“Which Mr. Hartler wants to steal as soon as he moves in? I wish I did. I’d sell them like a shot. We did have a gorgeous peacock feather fan with the Hawaiian coat of arms on a silver plaque in the center, but when the Iolani Palace people started canvassing Boston families for donations, Alexander thought we ought to give it to them, so we did. I don’t suppose the fan was worth much compared to most of the other things. King Kalakaua is supposed to have spent a hundred thousand dollars on furnishings alone, and of course that was an enormous sum in those days. Then there was all that royal family jewelry that had been handed down from one generation to another, and a staggering amount of other stuff.”

“I know, and much of it auctioned off for peanuts after the revolution,” said Bittersohn.

“Yes, and all us Yankee horse traders right in there bidding our heads off,” Sarah added. “I shouldn’t be surprised if some of the Kelling jewels came from there, but we’ll never know now. At least I have Granny Kay’s bluebird, thanks to you.”

She touched the exquisite enameled brooch with the ruby eye and the one magnificent baroque pearl dangling from its beak that was all Bittersohn had managed to salvage for her out of the once-fabulous collection.

“And I do have a photograph of the fan. Alexander took it before we sent the fan off, because he thought we should keep some sort of record in the family. I can show you that if you like. Or are you like my Uncle Jem? He says he only likes pictures of fans if they have fan dancers behind them. Mr. Bittersohn, what am I going to do about Miss Mary Smith?”

“The best thing you can do for that woman is to stay as far away from her as possible and concentrate on running your boardinghouse. Officially, you know nothing about Mr. Quiffen’s death except what everybody else knows. He was just somebody who rented a room from you and met with an unfortunate accident. You take it for granted you’re entitled to rent the room again as soon as his things have been removed. How far in advance did he pay his rent?”

“Only through the end of this week.”

“Then there’s your answer, right? Tell this Mr. Hartler he can move in Monday, or whatever day is convenient for you. The longer the room stands empty, the more likely he is to have found another place and the Hartler time you may have filling it. By the way, you still haven’t told me who’s living in the basement. You’ve got those two rooms down there as I recall, plus the little one with the furnace and laundry business. Does the maid have one and the butler the other, or what?”

“At the moment, it’s a case of ‘or what,’” Sarah told him. “Mariposa and Charles share the old kitchen, which is the larger and looks out on the little back yard where they plan to make a garden next spring if we’re all still here. I hope to rent the front room that used to be Edith’s bedroom as soon as I can get it fixed up, but I’m in a quandary as to who’d take it. I don’t much want students because as you must have gathered, this whole enterprise is based on snob appeal. I took a chance on Jennifer LaValliere because she has family nearby and if they heard of any goings-on they’d ship her back to her parents in a hurry and she knows it. But if I got the sort who smoked pot and played disco records and whatnot, they’d blow the scene, as Charles might say in an unguarded moment. I’ve got to have somebody who’s willing to go along with the stately home act, yet not mind having to use the cellar stairs and share a bath with a couple who are just good friends.”

“Them wedding bells shall not ring out, eh?”

“Not according to Mariposa. She appears perfectly happy as she is. Anyway, she’s not quite sure about her last two divorces. She’s been getting them through some mail-order operation in Uruguay and it does sound a bit chancy, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know that I’d say chancy.” Bittersohn was eyeing the last mushroom on his plate. “It’s a shame I have no snob appeal.”

“Oh, but you have tons!” gasped Sarah. “Mr. Bittersohn, you—you wouldn’t possibly consider—oh, dear, I know you already have a place and I’m being—pretend you didn’t hear me. I’ll get the dessert. Do you care for cheese with your apple pie?”

“Cheese costs money, doesn’t it? You know, if you happened to be considering me as a prospective tenant, you could deduct the cost of this meal as a business expense.”

“How could I ever think of you as a business expense? But as a tenant—Mr. Bittersohn, are you serious?”

“You need a tenant who’s trained to keep a straight face under any and all conditions, right? And I need a place to hang out when I’m in town, don’t I?”

“But you already have one.”

“Wrong. I’ve had one. They’re turning the building into condominiums and I either have to buy a scroungy apartment I have no desire whatever to own or get out by the first of the month. You wouldn’t want to see me sitting in the middle of Bowdoin Street with all my worldly goods, namely two suitcases and a genuine hand-carved teak-wood back-scratcher presented as a token of esteem by a grateful client, would you?”

“Of course not, but—I can’t believe it!”

“So call up the real estate agents. I’ll give you their number. They’d sell you my place this minute, if you don’t mind paying an arm and a leg for two crummy rooms overlooking several acres of pigeon droppings. I may be homeless by the time I get back there, for all I know. Mrs. Kelling, I don’t smoke, I don’t shine my shoes on the bedspread because my mother brought me up right, I don’t own any disco records and wouldn’t play them if I did. I pay my rent a month in advance because I never know when or for how long I’ll be called out of town, and whatever you charge couldn’t be any worse than I’m getting stuck for now. I’d need to install a private phone, which of course I’d pay for myself. I sometimes have slightly weird visitors at odd hours, but I could make them come and go by the alley door in order not to tarnish your image. I’d as soon be in the basement because I’d probably feel more at home with the hired help than the paying guests. Do we have a deal or don’t we?”

Sarah hesitated, then laughed. “Go give those sharks your notice and pack your back-scratcher. Your room will be ready for you by Monday morning.”

I
T TOOK A GOOD
deal of doing, but by Monday morning, fresh white paint was dry on the walls of what had been part of Edith’s lair for so many grievance-filled years. The room looked twice as big and bright as it ever had before. Sarah and Mr. Lomax had brought in the best of what they could glean from the now-depleted house at Ireson’s Landing: a pine chest, a comfortable armchair and hassock, a couple of lamps, a sturdy table and ladderback chair that she hoped would be an adequate substitute for a desk. Mr. Bittersohn must have to do some kind of paperwork in that strange profession of his.

She’d splurged on a new mattress and box spring, got Mr. Lomax to screw wooden legs into the frame, then sat down at the old Singer and run up some bright red print pillow covers to make the bed look more like a studio couch and brighten the faded blue denim spread. She’d made little curtains to match the pillows, and put pots of nephthytis and sansevieria on the high, narrow, sidewalk-level windowsills, knowing nothing less hardy would survive there. Charles gave the worn old brick floor a good scrubbing and waxing, and Mariposa laundered the least faded rag rugs Sarah could find at Ireson’s. By the time Sarah had everything in order, her two helpers were insisting this was the best-looking room in the house and they ought to charge more rent.

“Mr. Bittersohn is a very distinguished man in his profession,” she replied primly. “We could hardly expect him to live in a dump.”

“Classy guy, eh?”

“Very classy, but not a bit stuffy. You’ll like having him here.”

“You like him yourself?” Mariposa asked a shade too innocently.

“He saved my life not long ago, among other things. I owe him a debt of gratitude.”

“We still collect the rent, though, don’t we?” Mariposa took the family finances much to heart.

“Certainly we do. I’m not that grateful.”

In fact, she was. However, Sarah had known by instinct that Mr. Bittersohn would have been horrified if she’d so much as hinted at his getting the place for nothing, though she knew people with far greater pretensions to gentility who’d have leaped at the chance. She’d compromised by naming a lower price than she’d meant to charge. Mr. Bittersohn had insisted it ought to be much higher, and named his own. At last they’d split the difference and come up with what Uncle Jem had set as a reasonable rate in the first place. Sarah had broken down and told him so, whereupon they’d laughed and parted with mutual satisfaction.

At least Sarah hoped the satisfaction was mutual. On her side there could be no question. The more she watched Professor Ormsby wolfing his food and listened to Mr. Porter-Smith enumerate the mountains he had climbed, the more impatient she became to have Mr. Bittersohn at her dinner table.

As for Mr. Hartler, he’d been on the doorstep with an armload of belongings almost before Sarah had got around to telling him he could come. Getting his room ready had been no problem. Mr. Quiffen had barely lived in it long enough to track up the rug. The heirs had been only too happy to remove the dead man’s personal effects.

Anora had approved Sarah’s taking quick action. So had George, once his wife had managed to prod him awake long enough to get official consent for the clearing-out of Mr. Quiffen’s possessions. Even Dolph showed a grudging admiration of his young cousin’s acumen in not being done out of a week’s rent for which she might otherwise have to sue the Metropolitan Boston Transit Authority. Dolph had already been considering legal action on the grounds that Quiffen would have wanted it that way.

Doubtless Dolph was right. Barnwell Augustus Quiffen had been an incredibly cantankerous, vindictive old man. The problem would be not to find out who’d had a serious grudge against him, but to sort out one from the many. Sarah had learned a hard lesson about meddling in situations she wasn’t equipped to handle, though. She put Mr. Quiffen as far out of her mind as she could, and concentrated on the tasks that lay at hand.

With not one but two new lodgers to welcome, Monday night’s dinner had to be a gala occasion. It certainly was. Mrs. Sorpende wore her emerald green aigrette. Miss LaValliere, having evidently realized her jersey stovepipe wasn’t going to get her anywhere, blossomed out in a confection of pink ruffles that blended charmingly with Mr. Porter-Smith’s wine-colored dress suit, enhanced tonight by an extra-narrow bow tie and an extra wide cummerbund in a swashbuckling blue-and-burgundy plaid.

Mr. Hartler bustled in all smiles and enthusiasm, wearing the ancient and baggy black tie that was evening uniform among men of his generation and background. He’d hardly been introduced to the company when he made a beeline for Mrs. Sorpende’s aigrette and proceeded to enthrall the lady under it with a description of the blue velvet gown trimmed with peacock feathers that Queen Kapiolani had commissioned from B. Altman’s for her state visit to Queen Victoria. Professor Ormsby stood silently by wearing a black turtleneck instead of a brown one as his concession to the festivities, either lost in altitudinous abstrusions or wondering how Mrs. Sorpende would look in blue velvet and peacock feathers.

Charles was almost ready to announce dinner and Mr. Bittersohn had not yet appeared in the library. Sarah was wondering nervously whether he was going to show up when she heard Jennifer LaValliere breathe, “Oh, wow!”

As far as Sarah could recall, Max Bittersohn was dressed exactly as he had been the night Harry Lackridge introduced them, in a dark gray worsted suit, a plain white shirt, and a heavy silk four-in-hand tie of sober pattern. He wore no ornament of any kind, not even cuff links or a tie clasp, and he made everybody else in the room look like the leftovers from a rather tacky masquerade party.

It had been the same that time at the Lackridges: Harry in his silly old maroon velvet smoking jacket so disturbingly like Mr. Porter-Smith’s getup, Bob Dee wearing a turtleneck jersey and sports jacket, Alexander with his aged dress suit that, like Mr. Hartler, he was determined to get the good out of. For a moment she could see nothing but a blur of tears.

However, landladies do not break down in front of their paying guests. In a moment, Sarah was collectedly performing introductions and Miss LaValliere was gurgling fab, or neat, or whatever the catchword of the moment happened to be. Mrs. Sorpende, though gracious as ever, was less effusive. In fact Sarah had an odd feeling the woman might even feel a trifle wary, though she couldn’t for the life of her understand why.

To be sure, Mrs. Sorpende was much the elder of the two. Bittersohn couldn’t be more than ten years older than Sarah herself, while Mrs. Sorpende must be a well-preserved fifty-five or more and Sarah, though she had no cash to spare, would have been willing to place a small wager on the “more.” Did Mrs. Sorpende think Bittersohn too attractive a man for a young widow to take into her home? Was she afraid he might seduce Miss LaValliere, or vice versa?