The Gladstone Bag (3 page)

“Yes, I have.”

Juggling the two bags and fishing out her money at the same time was awkward. Emma gave him a larger tip than she ought to have, rather than go to the extra bother of coping with change. The driver’s eyes narrowed; he took the money without comment and pulled away.

Passengers were hurrying onto the ferryboat, so Emma hurried, too. That clasp giving way was a nuisance because now the bag wouldn’t stay shut. She noticed a few interested glances being cast at the glints and sparkles that showed through the gap between the handles. Surely nobody could be fooled by such blatant fakes. Nevertheless, she took off the blue Liberty-silk print scarf she was wearing with her raw-linen Pallas knit suit and tucked it into the gap so that the bag’s contents wouldn’t show. “Better safe than sorry” was an axiom Emma didn’t pay much attention to as a rule, but there was no sense in letting a possible annoying incident mar the beginning of her new adventure.

The ferryboat reminded her of the old
Uncateena
which she, Bed, and the children had taken out of Woods Hole years ago. It had a cabin deck with space outside to walk or sit on, an upper deck where she certainly didn’t intend to go and be blown to bits, and a big door in the hull where cars and cargo could be driven straight inside. Cars were still being taken aboard, so she needn’t have been in such a rush.

The cars wouldn’t be for Pocapuk; the island wasn’t big enough to accommodate them. The Sabines had used a pony cart when Emma and Bed visited them. Nowadays they relied on an electric golf cart, Adelaide had told her, to haul luggage, supplies, and passengers up from the dock.

Pocapuk would be the last stop on the ferry’s run, and that only by special previous arrangement. Emma would probably have the deck to herself by then, unless some of the other guests happened to be making this run, too. She’d know when the time came. She chose a deck chair on what she hoped would be the shady side once they got out on the water, parked her two bags underneath, made sure the creamy broad-brimmed panama hat that had served her faithfully for many summers was securely anchored with hatpins fore and aft, and settled herself to enjoy the trip.

Sitting here, Emma had a clear though unexciting view of the dock and the parking lot. The taxi she’d come in was drawn up beside the ticket office; she supposed another boat must be due in soon and the driver hoped to pick up a fare back to the airport. Right now he was standing outside his cab, chinning with a man in a peaked cap, who broke off now and then to wave his arms at the milling cars, with no satisfactory result that Emma could see.

Perhaps they were rehashing the story of the Pocapuk treasure. It was certainly an interesting one, though a bit disconcerting to a newly appointed temporary chatelaine. What if the artists and the writers got wind of the tale and began digging up Adelaide’s flower beds?

Why should they do any such thing? Surely none of their predecessors ever had, or the Sabines would have stopped letting them come. The story must be apocryphal anyway. Emma knew her Edward Rowe Snow; there were lurid yarns of pirate gold and guardian ghosts linked to islands all along the jagged North Atlantic coast. Adelaide hadn’t told her because she didn’t consider an imaginary treasure worth talking about. Or because she assumed Emma had already heard the legend; or because she’d simply forgotten. Adelaide’s memory was none too reliable these days.

Anyway, there’d been too many other things to talk about and not much time to cover them in, considering how many other irons Emma had had to fish out of the fire before she could get away. The benefit had done well enough to ease Ladderman Bechley’s family over the initial hump and show them the town was behind them. The bank had been gracious about refinancing their mortgage at an easier rate once Emma, Cousin Frederick, and Cousin Mabel, its largest depositors, had leaned on the manager just a little. Mabel was not the most forthcoming of the Kellings as a rule, but she never minded being asked to make herself obnoxious in a good cause. Some of the local merchants had come forward with generous gift certificates. Emma herself had quietly added a thousand dollars to the receipts from the benefit, Frederick another thousand. Cousin Mabel had contributed a few caustic comments, which were the most anybody had expected.

The ferryboat had steam up now; the whistle was screaming, the gangplank being taken inside. The big doors in the hull were closed and locked, the deckhands were casting off the enormous hawsers from the bollards, the propellers were beginning to churn the water. Back by the ticket office, Emma’s erstwhile taxi driver was still doing his Ancient Mariner routine with the man in the peaked cap. Maybe he felt he’d already earned his day’s wages, Emma thought. She’d been stupid to give him such an outrageous tip.

Oh dear, he’d spotted her. He was shouting in the other man’s ear, pointing up to her. Or was he pointing to the Gladstone bag she was using as a footstool? It was foolish, of course, but Emma did find herself wishing that clasp hadn’t given way while he was holding the bag.

The ferry pulled away from the pier, chugged out into the harbor. This was the sort of day to which James Russell Lowell had given such favorable mention in
The Vision of Sir Launfal,
Emma thought.

This was also the first chance she’d had in quite some time to sit still and do absolutely nothing. She’d driven all the way to Boston last night with her son, seeing the Heatherstones off on their overseas flight. She’d got up early this morning to do her last-minute fussing around, eat the enormous farewell breakfast her grandchildren had prepared for her, and be driven to Springfield Airport by her daughter-in-law and the dog. Neither of them had yodeled once; even so, Emma realized now, she was worn to a frazzle.

The monotonous chug of the ferry’s engine, the slap-slap-slap of the waves against its hull were loud but somehow lulling. She’d chosen her seat well: not too much sun, not too much breeze, nobody sitting too close. The deck chair was more comfortable than she’d expected it to be. She had a longish ride ahead of her and some trepidation as to what she might find at the end of it. The sensible thing right now might be to shut her eyes and try for a short nap.

But Emma didn’t want to fall asleep; people always looked so silly sprawled in deck chairs with their heads bobbing around. Maybe some coffee would help. She got up and went into the cabin, where there was a refreshment stand of sorts.

As she might have expected, the place was crammed. Passengers mobbed the counter or tried to fight their way out with precariously balanced trays of soft drinks and hot dogs. Emma managed to escape with only minor joggling and one jab in the ribs so painful that she turned her head to stare the jabber down, but failed to determine which of the crowd it could have been.

Emma carried her coffee back to her chair and took a trial sip. Thinking it couldn’t possibly taste so awful as she thought, she took another. She’d been right the first time. Nevertheless, she managed to gulp down about half the cupful, then set the rest under her chair and tried to focus her attention on the paperback novel she’d brought along.

The coffee wasn’t doing a bit of good. The paperback slipped from her hand. Emma didn’t bother to pick it up.

S
HE WAS SPRAWLED ALL
over the chair. Her skirt was up to her knees; her head was splitting. She had a perfectly hideous taste in her mouth. Furious with herself, Emma sat up, straightened her skirt, and took inventory. Her tote bag was there, thank goodness, tucked down beside her in the chair where she’d had sense enough to put it. Her money, her checkbook, her credit cards, her gold pen, and the blue notebook in which she’d listed all the things she needed to remember about the Sabine place were safe inside. Her wig, her spare undies, her photograph of Beddoes Kelling sitting in his hose cart were present and accounted for. She took out her compact and prepared for the worst.

She looked like the wrath of God. Her face was flushed, her hat askew. There was something awfully peculiar about her eyes; the pupils were shrunk to almost nothing. That couldn’t be from the sun; she’d had them shut for heaven knew how long and now her side of the deck was completely in the shade.

How could she have let herself drop off like that? What on earth had been in that coffee? She glanced down for the plastic cup she’d parked under her chair. The cup was gone, and so was the Gladstone bag.

Was it possible she’d been doped? Emma was not given to melodrama offstage, but her niece Sarah Bittersohn was married to a detective and often got involved in more bizarre situations than this. In fact, Sarah and Emma together had been drugged and robbed once before. Yes, it was possible; why else would the cup have been removed along with the bag? Drugs must be available on the ferry, people carried things like Dramamine and Valium when they traveled. Even aspirin might have worked. Tired as she’d been, it wouldn’t have taken much to put her under.

They must have made at least one stop while she was unconscious; Emma saw distinctly fewer passengers now than when they’d set out. The Gladstone bag had gone ashore with one of the debarkers. Or had it? One glance inside would have destroyed the thief’s illusions; he might have ditched his disappointing loot somewhere on the ferry. She got up, slung her tote bag over her shoulder, and began to prowl.

The fairy jewels were no great loss, the battered old Gladstone bag was certainly nothing to grieve for, but robbery was an affront. Emma Kelling did not accept affronts meekly.

Such personnel as she could find were no help at all; they merely pointed to the posted reminders that passengers were responsible for their own luggage. One young fellow did go so far as to say he’d keep an eye out, but he didn’t sound as if he meant it. Emma went on combing the decks.

Naturally she saw nothing of an old black satchel. The ferry, she learned, had made not one but two stops while she lay in her unbecoming stupor. When she made her way down into the hull, which looked like a grotto for trolls and stank abominably of exhaust fumes, she saw only three cars left. There was also a skidful of grocery staples ticketed for Pocapuk, she was relieved to notice. Vincent must be on the job.

The single deckhand down here was either more lonely or more bored than those above; he listened sympathetically to Emma’s plaint. No, he hadn’t noticed anybody going off with an old, black leather satchel. No, none of the passengers had come below to stow an extra piece of luggage into one of the cars, but he’d help her search if she liked. Everybody’s keys had to be left with the cars in case some had to be moved before the owners could get to them.

Emma felt rude and foolish peering into people’s trunks and piled-up back seats, and of course it was a total waste of time. She tipped her helper a modest three dollars, not wanting to make the same mistake as she had with the cabdriver, and went back to the cabin deck hoping she hadn’t erred on the side of being stingy.

It was almost half-past two by now. She still didn’t feel particularly hungry after that gargantuan breakfast but supposed she ought to eat something. By now they were in sight of their next-to-final stop and the snack bar had nothing left to offer except one discouraged-looking doughnut that had been fried in rancid fat and dipped in some sticky substance alleged to have been honey. Emma took the doughnut on the premise that something was better than nothing. One bite convinced her she’d been wrong again. She dumped the revolting pastry into the trash bin and went back outside.

They were coming into a dock. Since she’d missed both previous landings, Emma felt duty-bound to stand at the rail and oversee this one like a proper tourist. There was the off-chance she’d actually spot one of the passengers walking off the ferry with her Gladstone bag in hand. And what would she do if she did? Leap over the rail shrieking, “Stop, thief”? Despite her propensity for hurling herself into firemen’s nets and her many triumphs with the Pirates of Pleasaunce, Emma was no exhibitionist. Now that she faced the issue, she couldn’t visualize herself doing anything at all.

As it happened, there was nothing for her to do. The dozen or so people getting off were juggling luggage of every sort but the one she was looking for. It did occur to her that a small satchel could easily have been concealed in one of those big duffel bags or some hiker’s mammoth bedroll, but what if it had? There was no way she could stand at the end of the gangplank like a customs inspector, demanding that every piece be opened and searched. She’d just have to bite the bullet and go shopping in the fall for another set of court jewels.

Perhaps it was all for the best. Those old bits and pieces were really dreadfully tacky. There was no guarantee her attempts to restore them would have worked. Whoever had got hold of that junk was due for a sad disappointment and serve him or her right. Unless perhaps he, too, had a production of
Iolanthe
to mount; Emma could even have sympathized with such a motive for piracy. She knew only too well how the job of assembling props could drive a little theater group to desperation.

She must not let herself be sidetracked by any such unlikely conjecture. It wasn’t a frantic prop man, it was some sleazy opportunist who’d overheard the wild tale that stupid cabdriver had been spinning on the dock and seen his chance to score off a batty old woman who didn’t know any better than to carry a bagful of diamonds around with her. She ought to have shown the cabbie what useless junk it really was, instead of taking it for granted he’d have sense enough to believe her. She herself was the stupid one.

Facing up to her blunder did nothing whatsoever to lighten Emma’s spirits. Now was the time when she’d planned to check the ferry for possible fellow passengers to Pocapuk. It wasn’t like her not to follow through on a plan; nevertheless, she plunked herself down in a sheltered corner behind a big wooden chest with
LIFE PRESERVERS
stenciled on the front and settled grimly to wait out the last lap of the run. It wasn’t two minutes before she was accosted by a tallish, elderly man who didn’t look particularly distinguished but somehow was.