The Balloon Man (6 page)

Jem smacked his lips and finished his martini. Sarah smiled at him. A two-piece bathing suit had not been then what it was
today, if indeed todays was anything at all. Zenobia's had probably been a sturdy all-wool chemise that hugged the body tightly
and snapped between the legs with strong grippers. Over this went an all-wool skirt secured with an inchwide belt of strong
white webbing and a businesslike clasp. But back then the older ladies who haunted the beach with their parasols and pairs
of binoculars with which to keep their eagle eyes on the nubile females and dashing young males would have been scandalized
by Zenobia's shocking display of uncovered flesh.

Max was unmoved by Jem's lascivious memories. An
ear-splipping yawn lengthened his ruggedly handsome face, and Sarah said tenderly, “Darling, hadn't you better get to bed?”

“I wish I could,” Max said. “I wish you could, too. I was tempted to wait till morning before breaking the news, but it looks
as if tomorrow will be another busy day. Don't look so scared, süssele, it isn't that kind of bad news, nobody's been hurt
or threatened.”

After tucking Davy into bed, he had removed the velvet cases from the safe in his and Sarah's room and brought them downstairs,
covering the case with copies of
Brides' Bulletin
so he could keep a weather eye on them without the others noticing their presence until he was ready to introduce the subject.
Might as well let Sarah relax and Jem get well oiled before he stirred things up again.

His forlorn hope that Sarah would be able to explain the presence of the parure faded as soon as he uncovered the cases. Her
look of mild surprise made it obvious she didn't recognize them. No reason why she should; she had never seen the actual jewels,
only the painted or photographed images. He opened the case that held the necklace. Rubies and gold caught the light in a
blinding glitter, and Sarah gasped.

“Max! Is it… It can't be. But it is. Isn't it?”

“Damn right it is,” said Jeremy Kelling, squinting my-opically at the extravagant object. “Good work, Max. I take it these
other boxes contain the rest of the parure.
How did you manage to track it down, and whom did you hire to steal it back?”

“I appreciate your commendation, Jem, but I don't deserve it. The damned thing turned up this afternoon, on a table in the
library among the wedding gifts. It hadn't been there an hour earlier, and there was no name on the card under it. So it didn't
arrive by the usual channels?”

Sarah had got her breath back. “Good heavens, no. Do you suppose I'd have calmly added it to the collection and not bothered
to mention it to you? I don't believe it! Unless—unless this is one of the copies. Maybe it's someone's idea of a joke.”

“Certain members of your family, my dearest, have peculiar notions of what is and is not humorous, but even a copy would cost
more than a Kelling would be willing to lay out for a practical joke. And this is not a copy. It's the original.”

Nobody asked if he was sure. Max didn't make mistakes about such things. He went on to explain anyhow. “The copies were so
good, they'd have passed even a close inspection. The gems weren't glass, they were modern synthetics, indistinguishable from
the real thing except under a fluoroscope; the gold was genuine eighteen karat, but it was only a thin layer, electroplated
onto silver. I took the liberty of scraping away some gold from the inside of one of the links. It's solid all right.”

Sarah lifted the necklace from its bed of velvet and held it up.

“You could fool me,” Jem grunted. “Who made the copies?”

“I never tracked the guy down. Wish I had, he's probably pulled a few other elegant swindles since. But back then I didn't
have the time or the manpower for the job. You remember how Mrs. Kelling's lover operated; he sold the original, had it appraised
and authenticated, and then substituted a copy, not once but several times. Some of the victims found out they'd been taken
and, being no better than they should be, staged a robbery and put in a claim for reimbursement with their insurance companies.
That's how I got into the act.”

“Some woman in Amsterdam managed to hang on to the original/” Sarah murmured. “Isn't that what you told me? Then how did it
get here?”

“Damned if I know. What's so embarrassing is that Max Bittersohn, great detective, must have been in the room when the unknown
donor put it onto the table among the brussels sprouts forks and the snail holders.”

“Who else was there?”

“Who wasn't? Everybody and his sisters and his cousins and his aunts wanted to check out the wedding gifts. Some of them I
knew, most of them I'd never seen before. There were waiters and a couple of guys delivering parcels, and God knows who else.
And Egbert, part of the time. Hey, Egbert, did you notice anything unusual?”

The only reply from the faithful retainer was a gentle
snore. Worn out by well-doing and Old Blatherskite, Egbert had dropped off some time back.

“Don't wake him,” Sarah said sympathetically.

“I'll ask him in the morning” Max agreed. “Though I doubt if he saw the perp. The place was a madhouse. Our best bet is to
start at the other end of the trail, in Amsterdam. Tomorrow.” He was watching his wife. “Try it on, why don't you?”

Sarah dropped the necklace as if it had burned her. “I couldn't. It's not mine, I don't want it.”

Max hadn't even got to the part of the story about Louie the Locksmith, but he decided he'd better save that. Sarah looked
as if she'd had all she could take for one day.

“Would you care for some chamomile tea to help you sleep, Uncle Jem?” she asked.

“I do wish you wouldn't confront me with obscenities while I'm pondering, Sarah. Or was that a tactful hint? I guess I can
ponder just as well in bed. Give Egbert a shake, will you? If he sleeps in that chair all night he won't be able to get out
of it without a chiropodist.”

Sarah obliged, and she and Egbert yawned in unison. “Would you mind locking up, Max? I'm awfully tired.”

“Your wish is my command, angela mia. I'll be along as soon as I've made the rounds. Need any help wrestling Jem up the stairs,
Egbert?”

“Thanks, Mr. Max, but I can manage him well enough. Those martial arts exercises I've been working on lately seem to be helping
quite a lot. If you're sure there's nothing
you want me for, then, I'll go on up. Good night, Mrs. Sarah”

“Good night, Egbert. Sleep well, and don't worry about breakfast. I thought we'd have scrambled eggs with some of those muffins
and Danish pastries left over from the wedding. Maybe when you get back to town tomorrow you could stop by the Senior Citizens'
Recycling Center and give them the rest of the leftovers. If you wouldn't mind, that is.”

“I don't mind,” said Jem, who hadn't been asked. “So long as I don't have to see Dolph. He and Mary are still in Denmark,
aren't they?”

“Yes, they wanted to get some tips on running an up-to-date recycling center and on various schemes for senior citizens' activities.
The Scandinavian countries excel at that sort of thing. I hope they're also having a restful holiday; they deserve it. They've
done a wonderful job with the SCRC.”

“Mary has, you mean,” Jem grunted. “Marrying her was the only smart thing that great tub of lard did in his whole life.”

“Take him away, Egbert,” Max said wearily, and assisted in the operation. He then ordered his wife to bed. When he joined
her, after double-checking the locks on doors and windows and returning the necklace to the safe, she was sound asleep. He
was pretty tired himself, but he lay awake for some time.

He was remembering his and Sarah's wedding. It had
taken place on a lovely day in June when the rickety old Ireson's Landing house was still standing but slated for demolition
as soon as they could get the wreckers in. Sarah's cousin Dolph Kelling had given the bride away because he'd have raised
four kinds of hell if Sarah hadn't let him. Max's nephew, Mike, then a freshman at college, had elected himself Max's best
man for much the same reason as Dolph's. Cousin Theonia, by then Mrs. Brooks Kelling, had baked the wedding cake. Miriam Rivkin
had baked the knishes. Few of the Kellings had ever tasted a knish before, but they'd been quite ready to eat as many of the
bite-size delicacies as they could get. Sarah's devoted henchpersons, Mariposa and Charles, had stage-managed the nuptials
in their usual efficient style.

Nobody had got killed or hurt or drunk beyond reasonable limits. No Kelling had wantonly picked a fight with any other Kelling.
The sun had set in a blaze of glory, and the moon had climbed up out of the ocean as he and Sarah watched from the headland.
It was a hard fight, Mom, but I won, Max had thought, taking a firm grip on his wife.

Now he wondered if he would ever succeed in laying the ghosts of Sarah's past. Just when he thought they were gone they rose
up from their graves to haunt her. It wasn't nice to hate a dead man, but this wasn't the first time he had cursed the memory
of Sarah's handsome, spineless, elderly husband. Alexander had loved her devotedly and had tried his best to protect her from
his murderous mother,
but he hadn't had the guts to cut the apron strings and face the consequences, unpleasant though those consequences would
have been. The train of disaster Caroline Kelling had set in motion was still on track.

“Where is that damned kid?” Max growled, slamming the phone down.

Sarah refilled his cup and pushed it toward him. “That's not a nice way to refer to your only son. He's outside with Egbert,
watching the removal of the balloon and hoping the Martians will come back.”

Max gave her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, kätzele. You know I wasn't talking about Davy.”

“Are you apologizing? What a pity. I was hoping we could have a knock-down fight and then make up.”

“I'd be willing to skip the first part.”

Sarah slid away from his outstretched hand. “Stop that, you sex maniac. The scrambled eggs will burn, and if I don't get those
muffins out of the oven within the next sixty seconds, they'll be leathery.”

“You made muffins, after all that schlemozle yesterday? What a woman!”

She didn't look haunted this morning. Her soft brown hair was tied back with a pink ribbon that matched the rose-and-pink
print of the caftan he had brought her from Cairo. “So what kid were you damning?” she asked, taking a pan of muffins out
of the oven.

“Jesse. He was supposed to report to me yesterday”

Sarah popped the muffins into a napkin-lined basket, spooned eggs onto two plates, and joined Max at the table. “We'd better
eat while things are relatively calm. As a matter of fact, Jesse telephoned last night.”

“What? Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because you knocked me head over hocks with that tasteless bauble, that's why,” his wife said spiritedly. “What's Jesse supposed
to be doing, tracing the parure?”

“Not exactly.” Max finished his first muffin and reached for a second. He wasn't strong enough to begin the unbelievable saga
of Louie the Locksmith. “Anybody else call?”

“I told you about Miriam and the newlyweds. The only other call was from Theonia. It was rather odd, actually. She said she
had to talk to you, and when I told her you were putting the alligator to bed she sort of mumbled at me and then Brooks said
something I couldn't make out, and Theonia said it probably wasn't important, and that she'd see us soon.”

Coming from Theonia, that was odd. She was now a Kelling by virtue of marriage to Sarah's cousin Brooks, but all she knew
about her own family tree was that she'd been born under one. Her young, terribly frightened mother had
given birth to a girl child half Gypsy and half a legacy from an equally frightened young anthropology student who'd got too
involved with his homework. Where that had been, and where the young man had gone to, she'd never known and preferred not
to guess.

Nowadays Theonia was the very model of an upper-crust Beacon Hill matron; but she could switch in a wink to a shuffling old
woman wearing holey sneakers and carrying a worn-out shopping bag crammed with salvage out of the city's trash bins. Or she
might be an ageless beauty wrapped in an aura of mystery and a gown that whispered knowingly of Paris but was in fact a negligee
she'd garnished with sumptuous lace from a pair of the late Caroline Kelling's pure silk crepe de chine step-ins, circa 1928.
She made her own clothes from outdated garments she picked up at sales, turned them into haute couture, and left professional
designers sobbing in their Campari. Her most successful coup had been Brooks Kelling, who had worked his own special magic
on his chosen lady with the mating call of the ruffed grouse and a plain gold wedding band.

Had Theonia seen something or heard something that had aroused her suspicions? Max tried to remember where she had been during
the festivities and drew a complete blank. He had caught glimpses of her and Brooks from time to time, during the dancing,
and among the people scampering out from under the descending balloon. The last time he'd seen her she'd been standing out
in front of the house, waiting for Brooks to bring the old Cadillac
around. Brooks and Theonia had picked up Anora Protheroe's stepson, George, and a couple of George's assistants from his atelier
in the Back Bay and were heading out to Anora's cluttered ark at Chestnut Hill for one of her little teas.

If Theonia or Brooks had observed anything of importance, she would have said so. Or would she? It might have been impossible
to find a chance to speak in private. He hoped this wasn't one of the occasions when Theo-nia's Gypsy half took over. She'd
been reading tea leaves in a run-down café when she moved into the boarding-house Sarah had started after her husband's death.
Like most of the men who were privileged to behold her voluptuous contours, Brooks had fallen in love at first sight and wooed
her with birdcalls and avian courting rituals. It had been a while since Theonia had had one of her visions. Max didn't believe
in them. But she'd been uncannily accurate a couple of times.