Family Vault (22 page)

S
ARAH HAD BEEN SUSTAINING
herself with the expectation that once the funeral was over everybody would go away, but it wasn’t that simple. Old friends had to be asked back for a final glass of sherry, relatives fortified with cold beef and salad for their homeward journeys, luggage collected, rides arranged, parting speeches listened to, Cousin Mabel dissuaded from staying on a few days to be a prop and mainstay.

When the rest had cleared out, the Lackridges and Edgar Merton were still to be got rid of. The three of them haunted the library where they had spent so much time with Caroline and Alexander, looking as bereft as they must be feeling. Overnight Edgar had turned from middle-aged to old, his cameo features pinched and bleached, his small frame shortened by a stoop. Harry, in contrast, was redder and thicker, his waistline bloated, his high-bridged nose flushed with emotion and liquor. With loose skin hanging in wattles below his insignificant chin and that potbelly swelling out above those overly long, spindly legs, he looked like a plucked turkey. Sarah knew how they felt, but she did wish they’d go away. At last, when she’d all but fallen asleep in her chair, they did. Even then remained Edith and her litany of woes. At the old retainer, Sarah drew the line.

“You’re absolutely right, Edith,” she said. “This place will never be the same again. Nor do I intend to keep it up one day longer than I have to, so there’s no earthly reason why you should feel duty-bound to stay on. As you know, Mr. Alexander has been paying Social Security for you, and don’t try to make me believe you’re not old enough to collect. I don’t know whether he’s made any provision for you in his will, but I’ll see that you get a reasonable pension, although candidly I don’t know what you’ve ever done to deserve it. With that and what you’ve managed to salt away over the years, you should be able to live very comfortably, and you might as well start thinking right now about where you want to go.”

“I knew this would happen,” cried the maid. “Before they’re cold in their graves, you’re throwing me out in the street”

“Edith, you can’t have it both ways,” Sarah said wearily. “Just now you were moaning that you couldn’t bear to stay, now you’re throwing a snit because I’m taking you at your word. I know these past days have been hard on you, but they’ve been no picnic for me, either. I’m going upstairs, and you may do as you please.”

What Edith chose to do was flounce down to the basement, pack everything she’d accumulated over the years into two enormous suitcases, a vast number of cardboard cartons and shopping bags and a nice old steamer trunk that had belonged to Sarah’s grandmother, to which she had no right whatsoever. She then called her nephew from Malden to come and get her with his pickup truck and sat down to compose a letter to Sarah, stating in haughty detail where to send the pension checks.

Sarah stayed upstairs till all was over. She’d meant to go straight to bed, but there was no sense in that. Edith would be sure to leave lights blazing and doors unlocked. It would be quite in character for her to march up and deliver a valedictory blast, dragging her nephew along by way of audience. If that happened, Sarah didn’t want to be caught in her nightgown.

She puttered around the bedrooms, stripping off used linen and making the beds up fresh, though she couldn’t think who was ever going to sleep in them again. What she’d told Edith was true, she knew now. She was definitely going to move out as soon as Mr. Redfern would let her put the white elephant on the market.

Sarah was immensely relieved when the loaded pickup truck drove away with no disagreeable final scene. Then she realized that for the first time in her life, she was all alone in the house. And what if she was? Plenty of women lived alone. She went downstairs and started checking doors and windows, making sure everything was secure.

The basement, she found, had been stripped to the walls. Edith had taken everything but the vast iron cookstove. Perhaps the old retainer honestly believed the furniture was hers, she’d lived with it so long. More likely, she’d succumbed to the urge to grab what she could while she had the chance. Sarah didn’t care, the stuff couldn’t have been worth much anyway.

But what about Edith herself? Wasn’t it stupid to let her go without at least making an effort to question her? Sarah was too tired to care any more about things that had happened in the past. The only death she could think about was Alexander’s, and there was just no way Edith could have tampered with the Milburn. She’d been here in Boston, soaking her corns and drinking port.

Or had she? They’d never called the house until some hours after the so-called accident. For all Sarah knew, Edith could have been anywhere in the meantime, perhaps visiting that nephew in Malden, the one who’d just left here in a truck that had “TV Repair” painted on the sides. A man who could cope with modern electronic devices must know all sorts of clever ways to short-circuit the simplest kind of electric motor.

Would any nephew, however devoted, do such a thing to oblige his dear old auntie? He might, if he thought Auntie was down for something handsome in her supposedly rich employers’ wills.

Sarah’s insides growled and she laughed with relief. Thank God for bodies! There was nothing like a clamorous stomach to quiet an anxious mind. Although she’d bought and cooked and served enormous quantities of food during the past couple of days, she couldn’t recall having eaten much of anything herself. Part of this appalling hollowness she felt might be plain, old-fashioned hunger.

Edith had scooped out most of the leftovers as part of her loot, but Sarah managed to find some cold meat and a little salad. She made herself a pot of tea and ate at the kitchen table, not bothering to set a proper place. She was rinsing her cup under the tap when the telephone rang. Sighing, she picked up the extension phone and was surprised to hear the voice of Max Bittersohn.

“I thought you’d like to know my brother-in-law checked out your car and could find nothing wrong. Mike’s going to bring it in to Boston tomorrow morning, if that’s okay with you.”

Sarah was a little taken aback. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Bittersohn, I’d forgotten about the car. I ought to have got in touch with your people myself, but it’s been absolutely wild around here. Yes, if you’re sure he’d be safe, I’d love to have your nephew drive it in. Where should I meet him? As for the bill—”

“Forget it. They didn’t do anything, just looked. And Mike may never get another chance to drive a Studebaker.”

“I ought to see that he does, after this. Really, you and your family are being much too kind to a—I was going to say a stranger, but we can’t be that now, can we?”

“How about ‘colleague’? That’s a fancy word I’ve always wanted to have applied to myself. Seen Lackridge, by the way?”

“Heavens, yes. He and Leila have been sticking like flies on honey. I just got rid of them a little while ago.”

Sarah realized what she was saying. “Please forget that. It’s only that I’ve been deluged with visitors, and it’s been such a chore trying to look after them.”

“What about your maid?”

“What, indeed? I don’t have her any more.”

“Why not?”

“We never had got along, and finally things came to a boil. I knew I’d have to do something about her sooner or later, though I must admit it came a bit sooner than I’d planned.”

“When did she leave?”

“About half an hour ago.”

“Then who’s with you?” Bittersohn asked sharply.

“Nobody.”

“You can’t stay there alone.”

“Why not? Don’t you believe in liberated womanhood?” Sarah asked with a bravado she didn’t feel.

“Look, Mrs. Kelling, this is no time to be a heroine. You’ve been through one hell of an experience, and you’re not used to being by yourself in a big house. If you can’t find somebody to come in, you’d better clear out of there. Go to a hotel or something.”

“But I’d still be alone there, and it would cost a fortune. You’re sweet to be concerned, Mr. Bittersohn, but I’ll be fine, truly I will.”

“Then at least do me a favor and write down this telephone number. Do you have a phone by your bed?”

“No, I wish I did. We just have the two on the first floor.”

She thought he swore, but what came through was, “Got a pencil?”

“Yes, right here.”

He gave her the number, slowly and distinctly, then made her read it back to him to make sure she’d got it right.

“Okay. Now, no matter what time it is, call me for any reason at all—if you’re scared, if you think you hear mice in the cellar, if you can’t sleep and want to talk, if you need eggs for breakfast. I’m not far from you, and I can be there in a few minutes. I’d come now, but you’d probably be better pleased if I didn’t.”

“I was planning to go to bed soon,” Sarah admitted.

“You don’t take sleeping pills?”

“No, nothing like that. I don’t have any and wouldn’t use them if I did.”

“Good. Take a couple of aspirin if you need something to calm you down. They’re about as effective and a damn sight safer. Could you make up a bed downstairs, near the phone?”

“I expect so. A cousin of my father’s slept on the library couch last night, as a matter of fact, although I’m afraid he didn’t find it very comfortable.”

“There are things more uncomfortable than a bumpy sofa.”

“Mr. Bittersohn, are you by any chance trying to frighten me?”

“I’m trying to keep you from being frightened if I can,” he said. “If I’ve picked the wrong way to go about it, I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t be. I do appreciate your concern, and I’ll certainly take advantage of your extremely kind offer if I have any occasion to call. Thank you again for taking care of the car.”

Sarah put the phone back on its holder and sat looking at the number she’d written down, memorizing the digits without quite meaning to. Either Mr. Bittersohn was simply one of the sweetest men she’d ever met, or else he knew something he wasn’t telling. Would it be safe to phone him if she needed to, or would she be letting herself in for more trouble?

In any event, his urging her to sleep closer to a telephone made sense. She was not about to torture her exhausted body on that lumpy old couch, but she might at least move to Aunt Caroline’s room instead of cloistering herself on the third floor. Then she wouldn’t be constantly reminded that Alexander was no longer up there with her. She was getting so that she could think of him without starting to cry, which was a help. What she ought to do right now was start clearing out Aunt Caroline’s closets and drawers, and moving her own things downstairs.

The work was therapeutic though wearisome. Sarah lugged armloads of clothes down to the laundry room where they could be sorted out and got rid of, to charities or relatives. Caroline Kelling had never thrown anything away. Sarah found evening gowns that must have been part of her trousseau, bought, no doubt, to set off the Kelling jewels. They might fetch a tidy sum at the Bargain Box even now. She herself wanted none of the things, lovely as they were. How could she ever wear them, knowing what had happened to the man who paid for them?

Sarah went on with her search. She rooted through drawers crammed with embroidered crepe-de-chine night-gowns, with lace-trimmed chemises and step-ins from the flapper era, with real silk stockings that had seams up their backs. She unearthed a mauve satin lingerie case containing some astonishing black panties and, to her ineffable relief, the neatly tagged key to the safe-deposit box.

By ten o’clock, Sarah couldn’t have lifted another handkerchief. She found geranium-scented bath salts in the bathroom that was so much more luxurious than the one she’d shared with Alexander, and used them lavishly. After a hot soak, she felt drowsy enough to crawl into Aunt Caroline’s massive bed and hope for sleep. It came.

Shortly before three o’clock, Sarah was awake again. She didn’t know what had roused her, all she knew was that suddenly she was sitting up straight, straining her eyes and ears into the silent dark. For a moment it seemed impossible that she would ever move again, then she persuaded her hand muscles to reach out and switch on a light.

It was cold, astonishingly cold. She hadn’t opened the window when she had gone to bed—there was never any dearth of fresh air in this drafty old house. Yet she could feel a blast coming from somewhere.

Either burglars or a broken sash cord, she thought. More likely a sash cord. She was used to such mishaps. Boston was always damp, with the harbor in front and the river alongside. Cords rotted, releasing iron sash weights. Plate-glass windows with their heavy wooden frames fell with a crash, losing their panes as often as not. She’d better go stick something over it before she froze to death.

Sarah’s bathrobe was still upstairs, so she wrapped Aunt Caroline’s velvet-covered down comforter around her, shoved her feet into a pair of furtrimmed satin mules she found, and padded out into the hall. Soot-laden wind was swirling down from the third floor.

It was coming from Alexander’s room, and that was odd. The last sash cord that had let go was also in his room, also in the middle of the night, and he’d replaced both cords forthwith to make sure he didn’t get another such rude awakening. That was only a few months ago. How could it happen again so soon?

She switched on the light. It was not one window, it was both, wide open from the top, their white curtains whipping out like dancing ghosts. More incredibly, the bed Sarah had made up fresh a few hours before was in total disarray, sheets and blankets dragged off on the floor as though a sleeper had waked feeling suffocated, flung off his bedding, and rushed to let in the night air.

In spite of her down comforter, Sarah began to shiver. It’s only a burglar, she kept telling herself, only a plain flesh-and-blood burglar. And she must be out of her mind, standing here waiting to be pounced on. She slammed Alexander’s door shut on the eerie scene, made a mad scramble for Aunt Caroline’s room, and locked herself in. If he wanted the silver, let him take it and go in peace.

But if someone had come to steal the tea service, what was he doing on the third floor, tearing the beds apart? How did he get there? She’d locked everything tight, she knew she had. After that phone call from Mr. Bittersohn, she’d even gone up to the attic and checked the skylight, in case anybody might take a notion to break in from the roof.