The Gladstone Bag (16 page)

“Why shouldn’t she be?” said Max. “I should think spells might rank as a natural occupational hazard of her profession. Cousin Theonia will know, we’ll check it out with her. Now what about Radunov? He doesn’t by any chance wear a monocle and carry a long cigarette holder?”

“No, but he rather looks as if he’d like to. The monocle, at any rate. I’m sure he wouldn’t stoop to the cigarette holder. He is a bit on the dapper side, I grant you, but it’s the right kind of dapper. Do you follow me?”

“At a short distance, yes. And you say Radunov knows me?”

“He certainly gave every indication of knowing you when I happened to mention your name, and he didn’t sound any too pleased about it. He was quite enthusiastic about Sarah, though. He said he’d met her at an embassy party in Washington and she was the best-dressed woman there.”

“Then he’s either nearsighted or full of hot air,” said Sarah. “The name doesn’t ring a bell with me offhand. Can you describe him a little more closely?”

Emma did her best. Sarah was still in the dark, but Max wasn’t. “I think I know the guy,” he snarled. “Tell him Bittersohn says to keep his hands to himself.”

“Max! Count Radunov is barely an acquaintance; I shall tell him no such thing. What do you mean, keep his hands to himself? Adelaide has nothing of real value out here, of course, but there are some nice bits of silver and a few rather good Orientals. He’s not a petty thief, is he?”

“Oh, there’s nothing petty about Radunov. Okay, Emma. You need a secret agent, we’ll send you one. What’s the layout there?”

Houses were easier to describe than people. Emma went quickly through the salient features, alluding to the wall safe in guarded terms as “a closet built like yours.” Max seemed satisfied.

“Good. In the morning, have those kids make up the bed in Mrs. Sabine’s room and set an extra place for lunch. Now go to bed yourself and don’t worry about a thing.”

He waited till Emma had hung up before adding, “We’ll do the worrying for you. Damn it, Sarah, why can’t your relatives stay out of trouble?”

T
HE STORM HAD BLOWN
itself out. Emma woke to bright sunlight, a sparkling sea, though by no means a calm one, and a feeling of immense relief. By noontime she’d have a helper. Max hadn’t told her who he’d be or how he’d arrive; no doubt it was a matter of whom they could get and how they could manage at such short notice; but Emma didn’t care. She’d soon have someone on the premises whom she knew she could trust, and she’d be rid of that ghastly necklace. All she needed now was to get it ready to hand over in some appropriate disguise.

The only thing she could think of on such short notice was to choose an empty jewelry box roughly the size and shape of a book, lay the necklace inside well muffled in facial tissues, stuff it inside a padded bag she’d brought along to return a library book she’d borrowed and hadn’t yet finished reading, and address the bag to Sarah. A couple of letters she’d written were lying around waiting to be sent off; she could pass them along with the package. She was wondering whether she ought to write another note or two when Sandy blew in with her tea.

“Bernice wanted to bring up your tray, but I said she could have a turn tomorrow. Want me to get you a shawl or something, Mrs. Kelling? How about if I turn up the heat?”

“Just hand me that mohair throw off the chaise, dear. The air is a bit nippy, but isn’t it lovely! Tell Bernice I have a special job for you both this morning. I want you to strip one of the beds in Mrs. Sabine’s room and make it up fresh. Clear all the brushes and things off the dresser and put them very carefully in one of the drawers. We’re going to have another guest and there’s nowhere else to put anyone. You might also air the room and pick a few roses for the night table, the way you did for me. Run along and start my tub while I drink my tea.” Emma wasn’t about to let Sandy get in a question for which she had no answer.

“Then you can lay out my green skirt and blouse and tidy my room before you begin on Mrs. Sabine’s. I’m not sure how soon it will be needed and we want to be ready. I’ll explain to your father when I go down.”

“Okay, Mrs. Kelling, if you say so. Bernice is going to be scared stiff if she has to serve breakfast all by herself.”

“There’s not that much to do. Bubbles can help her. I’ll help her myself, if necessary.” Or one of the cottagers could and serve them right. This was surely not the way things had always been done, but Emma was past caring. “Now, fetch me my robe and slippers, like a good girl. Has your uncle been here yet?”

“Nope. Ches and Wal were here about an hour ago. Wal says something happened to Uncle Lowell’s boat, and they don’t know how long it’ll take him to get it fixed. Pop’s madder’n a hornet. I guess Uncle Lowell’s none too pleased, either. This the blouse you want, Mrs. Kelling?”

“No, dear, the cotton one with the leaf pattern. How’s my bath coming?”

One way and another, she managed to get downstairs before Sandy could satisfy her curiosity. Vincent was not in the kitchen; Bubbles said he was outdoors checking for storm damage. Emma was relieved at that, she’d as soon not tell him about the extra guest until she knew who that guest was to be. Bubbles wasn’t at all perturbed by the news, and even Bernice didn’t appear cowed by the thought of having to manage without Sandy. Emma told them how nice it was to have such a competent staff and went into the dining room to pour herself another cup of tea and wait for the cottagers to appear.

Again, Black John was first on the scene. No bare legs today; he had on baggy red running pants with his Tycho Brahe sweatshirt. The noted astronomer’s copper nose was displayed to fullest advantage on so manly a chest; Sendick did seem awfully athletic for a writer, Emma thought. He’d skipped his morning swim because the undertow was still pretty fierce, he told her, but he’d had a great run clear around the island. Vincent was out with the two young guys, cutting up some fallen trees. They said the guy who was supposed to come for the body had got his boat busted in the storm; did Mrs. Kelling know that?

Emma replied that she’d heard something to that effect and could she pour Mr. Sendick some coffee?

Mr. Sendick said he thought he’d have milk, thanks, and could Mrs. Kelling please not call him Mr. Sendick? It made him feel too serious, and he was already sort of down about that poor stiff out in the barn. What did Mrs. Kelling think?

Mrs. Kelling thought she’d prefer to talk about something else at the breakfast table. Conversation rather languished after that until Joris Groot showed up, closely followed, to Emma’s surprise, by Count Radunov in flannel slacks and a bulky Aran fisherman’s sweater. Groot had stopped by Alding Fath’s cottage and peeked through the window. She’d looked to be asleep, so he hadn’t knocked. Radunov had in fact knocked, or so he said, but had got no answer. He hadn’t tried her door because it didn’t seem quite the thing. Emma said she’d go herself in a little while and hoped everyone had slept well.

They got through breakfast on polite generalities. Everard Wont slouched in at about a quarter past nine, reasonably kempt but not in the mood for chat. Lisbet Quainley showed up ten minutes later, just under the wire. She’d stopped to see Alding Fath, she explained by way of apology. Alding had been drowsy and still feeling poorly, so Lisbet had come away.

Emma decided it was time she, too, went away. She ought to go out to Alding Fath; she’d better go up and see what the girls were making of Adelaide’s bedroom. But then she heard the sound of a motorboat above the waves and decided she’d stroll out to the dock first. This might be, and she fervently hoped it was, Brother Lowell in his mended boat coming to get the stranger.

Vincent was on the pier now, nailing down a board that had worked loose. Suddenly he laid down his hammer and jumped in surprise, as well he might. The motorboat Emma had expected was actually a seaplane, bobbing around now on the choppy water and taxiing up to dock. As Emma hustled down to meet it, clutching the package she’d slipped into the capacious pocket of her full skirt, she saw a door open and a line thrown to Vincent.

The plane was made fast to the pier. A portable gangplank was poked out; a passenger stepped on it and reached for Vincent’s extended hand.

This was a woman, tall and queenly, clad in a figured black-and-white dress with a white jacket. Her black straw boater hat had a crimson scarf tied around it with the ends blowing jauntily out behind. Only one middle-aged woman of Emma’s acquaintance, other than Emma herself, could look so magnificently poised climbing out of a dinky little plane in a choppy sea.

“Cousin Theonia!” Emma fairly flew the length of the pier. “How dear of you to come!”

And how right for her to be here. Why on earth hadn’t Emma thought of Theonia in the first place? Mrs. Brooks Kelling had worked with her husband as well as Max and Sarah on several cases requiring her unusual areas of expertise. She was bright, resourceful, and a great deal tougher than she looked. And who else would be able to deal with Alding Fath on her own plane? The daughter of a beautiful young gypsy and a cultural anthropologist who’d got a little too zealous in his fieldwork, Theonia had learned all the angles of the fortune-telling trade before she was into Her teens.

The two women hugged and rubbed cheeks with that exquisite balance of sincere affection and respect for each other’s maquillage that is so endearing to watch and so pleasant to experience. Vincent gazed upon them goggle-eyed. This was obviously not how it had always been done. Emma took pity on him.

“Mrs. Brooks Kelling, you must meet Vincent, the real master of Pocapuk. Mrs. Brooks will be spending a few days with us, Vincent; we talked on the phone last evening. However did you get here so quickly, Theonia?”

“I happened to remember that Brooks’s friend Tweeters Arbuthnot was flying Maineward today to take a puffin count, so I rang him up and hitched a ride. My husband is also an ornithologist, Vincent, though he hasn’t become seriously involved with puffins. Right now he’s up to his ears in grebes. I spoke with dear Adelaide, by the way, Emma. She’s feeling a wee bit stronger and sends her love. I’m to give her particular regards to Vincent,” Theonia added, with a smile that rocked the lord of the isle back on his L. L. Bean heels.

“And I must give mine to Tweeters,” said Emma. “I haven’t seen him since that day he took us to visit the kittiwakes.”

Before Vincent could come out of the daze that was any male’s inevitable reaction to meeting Theonia for the first time, Emma nipped over the gangplank and into the seaplane; greeted the pilot like a long-lost friend, notwithstanding the fact that she’d never laid eyes on him in her life; thrust her package into his hand; babbled an inanity or two about puffins; and ran back to play hostess.

“Vincent’s daughter has your room all ready, Theonia. Don’t tell me that’s all the luggage you’ve brought, just one little case?”

“This is all Tweeters would let me bring. He’s got the plane crammed full of herring for the puffins. Since you and I are about the same size, I have every intention of raiding your wardrobe without scruple to supply my deficiencies. You’re looking marvelous, Emma. Island life must be agreeing with you. No, really, Vincent, you mustn’t let me take you from your work. If you could just help Mr. Arbuthnot get away from the dock without denting his pontoons? Tweet-tweet, Tweeters! Toss the puffins a herring for me.”

With cooings and waves of a plump and shapely hand, Theonia got herself and Emma away from the men and up to the house. Sandy was on the doorstep hopping with impatience to unpack the unexpected guest’s bag and see what she had.

“Oh, wow! Two Mrs. Kellings. Now Bernice and I won’t have to fight about who gets to take up the morning tea. Let me take your bag, Mrs. Kelling. Where’s the rest of your stuff? Is Daddy going to bring it?”

“Mrs. Brooks had to come off in a hurry so she’s going to share with me,” said Emma. “And you’d better remember to call her Mrs. Brooks so you won’t be forever getting us mixed up. Has breakfast been cleared away yet?”

“Nope. Miss Quainley and Mr. Wont are still in there pigging out. You want some breakfast, Mrs. Brooks? I can bring it to you on a tray. Bubbles won’t mind making fresh coffee; he does it all the time for Pop. My father hates warmed-over coffee.”

“Thank you, Sandy, I’ll have coffee in my room. Black, please, with no sugar.” Theonia was always dieting, up to a point. “And a muffin or something of that sort if you have one. With just a smidgen of jam.”

“Sure, you bet. Bubbles makes great muffins, if those guys haven’t scoffed them all up. Boy, can they eat! Want me to take your bag up first?”

“We’ll manage,” said Emma. “Run along, Sandy.”

Theonia was trying not to laugh. “So that’s your upper-parlor housemaid. What a darling.”

“Isn’t she though. There are two of them, as you may have gathered. Sandy brought a friend along. Bernice is a trifle shy as yet, but I’m afraid she’ll soon get over that. Vincent also has a young son working here. The mother’s away on a field trip for the summer. She’s an archaeologist, he tells me.”

“An interesting family,” Theonia cooed. “Is that all the staff? Who’s this Bubbles?”

“He’s the cook. Ryan’s his last name; I don’t know the first. Everyone calls him Bubbles. You’ll see why. He told me he’s a registered nurse by profession and works at a hospice during the winter. He comes out here in the summertime because he gets depressed at all his patients’ dying, which sounds plausible enough. All I know for sure is that he’s always cheerful when I’ve seen him, speaks with a rather engaging lisp, and cooks divinely. Bubbles is more or less taking care of Mrs. Fath, who’s one of the reasons I’m so glad you’re here. Did Max fill you in?”

“Mostly on what’s been happening to you personally. I must say you’ve been having a time of it, my dear. I didn’t want him to tell me too much about the cottagers, as you call them, because I think one’s own first impressions can be helpful. How are you enjoying the house, Emma?”

“I was about to ask you the same question. My personal feeling is that it’s absolutely perfect and if I were given carte blanche, I’d burn it down.”