The Odd Job (11 page)

Having allowed herself the luxury of an extra few minutes’ chat, Sarah told Miriam that she’d better get dressed and go see what Mr. Redfern had to say, not that it would be anything she’d want to hear. She promised further bulletins when there was anything to report, called Miriam an angel, which was not so far from the truth, and went to do what must be done.

The blue silk jacket that she’d worn to the Turbots’ would not be inappropriate for a visit to a lawyer who still wore starched collars and a pearl stickpin in his tie and kept a filled inkwell on his desk. Even though she’d gained control of the trust fund her father had left her and was married to a man who would have been only too willing to give her the moon if they’d had any place to put it, Sarah could still take pleasure in the fact that she would never again have to face persnickety old Mr. Redfern wearing one of her late mother’s hand-me-downs. She added her late mother’s modest but genuine string of antique India pearls, borrowed a mohair stole of Theonia’s, for last night’s rainstorm had brought a fallish nip to the air today, and left Charles to carry on as best he might.

The lawyer’s office was over in the financial district, just a pleasant morning walk for a healthy young woman who’d grown up threading her way among the winding streets that were supposed to have been laid out by early settlers’ cows meandering down to enjoy a communal graze. Punctuality being the courtesy of kings and Kellings—some of them, anyway—Sarah got to her appointment right on the dot of half-past ten. Nothing in the Redfern offices had changed since her last visit some time ago. Nothing had ever changed; Sarah got the feeling that nothing here ever would change. Miss Tremblay, who had greeted at least three generations of Kellings at various times, rose from the straight-backed swivel chair behind her unpretentious desk and gave Sarah her ritual greeting: a token nod, a fleeting smile, and a reasonably cordial “Good morning, Mrs. Bittersohn.”

This being Tuesday, Miss Tremblay was wearing a dark-brown dress. Had it been Monday, her dress would have been plum-colored. Wednesday’s color was navy blue, Thursday’s hunter green, and Friday’s slate gray. All the dresses were cut by Miss Tremblay herself from the same simple pattern; none of them ever showed a wrinkle, much less a spot. Each had its special hand-crocheted lace collar: mauve for Monday, beige for Tuesday, sky-blue for Wednesday, leaf-green for Thursday, and silver-gray for Friday. What she wore on the weekends none of the Kellings had ever discovered.

Invariably, the collar would be fastened by a really good antique gold bar pin set with seed pearls and three sapphires of small size but fine quality that must be a family heirloom. Her salt-and-pepper hair was worn in a bun at the back of her neck, held in place by four tortoiseshell hairpins and a next-to-invisible hairnet. She smelled, only faintly, of violet talcum powder. Her shoes were laced-up black oxfords with one-inch heels. Her stockings were a darkish taupe that was neither sheer nor opaque. They gave the impression that she must have bought a job lot of them sometime in the dim past and was still trying to use them up, as why should she not? Miss Tremblay had achieved a style that was right for her and saw no reason to change it. Sarah found her wholly admirable.

The office protocol was familiar. Sarah smiled, not too broadly, and refrained from offering a handshake. “Good morning, Miss Tremblay. It’s nice to see the sun after that downpour last night.”

“Yes, that was quite something. But at least the rain washed some of the dirt and trash off the sidewalks. I believe Mr. Redfern is ready for you, Mrs. Bittersohn. Just let me make sure he’s not on the phone.”

This was part of the ritual. As always, Miss Tremblay stepped noiselessly across the dark-green heavy-duty indoor-outdoor carpeting and opened the inner office door exactly eight inches. “Mrs. Bittersohn is here, Mr. Redfern.”

“Ah, good, right on time. Thank you, Miss Tremblay. Please show her in.”

As always, Miss Tremblay opened the door wider and stepped back. As always, Sarah found Mr. Redfern making a fussy gesture with a sheaf of papers; she’d often wondered whether he kept that same sheaf handy as yet another part of the ritual. As always, he laid them down with exaggerated care on his immaculate green desk blotter and half-rose to shake hands across his desk rather than waste his valuable time walking around it.

Not that she cared a fiddle or a fig, but it did occur to Sarah that Mr. Redfern would have walked around if his visitor had been Cousin Dolph or Uncle Jem. And this notwithstanding Jeremy Kelling’s having committed the fiscal sin of dipping into his capital and Adolphus Kelling’s squandering the better part of his late uncle Frederick Kelling’s enormous fortune remodeling an old factory on prime waterfront land into a far too lavishly appointed communal residence for indigent senior citizens.

However egregious their follies, Mr. Redfern would continue to hold the family in high esteem. A Kelling was, after all, a Kelling; and most of them, even scatty Appollonia, still had sense enough to keep their legal affairs in his capable, conservative hands. The truly horrific way in which the late Caroline Kelling had mishandled her dead husband’s estate had caused Mr. Redfern extreme perturbation, as well it might; but his darkest day of all had dawned when young Sarah Kelling Kelling married out of the family and out of her caste and turned over the major portion of her legal business to her second husband’s uncle, Attorney Jacob Bittersohn.

Sarah had, however, left the Tulip Street property in Redfern’s hands, so he could hardly be too cavalier in his greeting. As always, he ran through a litany of inquiries as to the well-being of various Kelling connections—but not a word about the Bittersohns—before he clasped his hands, as always, over his gold tie clip in the shape of Justitia’s scales and got down to business.

“Now then, Sarah.”

Mr. Redfern had been calling the late Walter Kelling’s only child by her first name ever since she’d first appeared at his office in white knee socks and black patent Mary Janes. Sarah would no more have expected him to drop the habit at this late date than she would have ventured to call him James. He cleared his throat, as always, and switched smoothly from old family friend to trusted member of the Massachusetts Bar.

“We seem to have a somewhat distressing circumstance on our hands, Sarah. As you may recall, about six years ago, if memory serves me, you recommended me to Mrs. Dolores Tawne, a member of the staff at the Wilkins Museum, who wanted a will drawn up. This was a small matter. I drew up the will in accordance with her wishes and, quite frankly, gave neither the client nor the will any further thought until about six o’clock yesterday evening, when I received a telephone call from the Boston Police Department.”

Mr. Redfern rather went in for dramatic pauses, but Sarah was in no mood for histrionics. “Yes, I know,” she said. “Two of the museum guards called me at half past five. She’d been found dead in the garden and they didn’t know what to do. I told them to call the police and the head of trustees; evidently they did.”

“Er—yes. Her body had, I was told, been taken to the city morgue in accordance with usual procedure. Her handbag had been opened at the scene of her demise by the officer in charge, in order to discover her place of residence and inform her family, if any. They had thus far been unable to locate a next of kin and were looking for an executor. Fortunately I was able to give them your name and your Tulip Street address.”

“But why me?”

The lawyer went so far as to raise an eyebrow. “Because you are the executrix, of course. Sarah, is it possible that Mrs. Tawne failed to get your permission before she so named you in her will?”

“Oh yes, quite possible. Dolores was like that. I don’t know why she didn’t pick on Cousin Brooks, she’d known him longer than she did me.” But that was before he’d married the beauteous Theonia. Oh, well. Sarah had been getting stuck with odd jobs ever since she was twelve years old, why make a fuss over this one? Somebody had to do it and really, who else was there?

“All right, Mr. Redfern,” she said. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Ar-hunh.” True to form, Mr. Redfern, having cleared his throat, would now take out his handkerchief and use it to polish the lenses of his eyeglasses. As always, he didn’t speak again until the glasses were safely and spotlessly perched again on his sharp little beak of a nose, the handkerchief refolded and tucked just so into his breast pocket, and the fingers of both hands tented together over the tiny effigy of Justice on his tie clip.

“In principle, Sarah, what the executor—or, as in your case, the executrix—must first do is to procure a signed court order making him or her—in this case, you—responsible for the deceased’s estate and everything pertaining to it.”

Oh dear. “And how do I get the court order?”

“In point of fact, you already have it, thanks to the—ah—diligence of some early-rising underling from the offices of Mr. Elwyn Fleesom Turbot, who brought it here to me immediately after having procured it from the court officer. If you’ll just sign this receipt for the record …”

In for a penny, in for a headache. Sarah took out the elegant gold pen with a small ruby on the tip that Max had given her to add a touch of glamour to her ledger-keeping and appended her signature. Mr. Redfern nodded his approval.

“That’s it, Sarah. You are now officially in full charge of the Tawne estate, for whatever it may be worth. There will be certain formalities, such as advertising for possible heirs, which I am quite ready to perform as lawyer for the estate, under your direction and with your consent. Do I have your permission to do so?”

“Yes, please.” Sarah hoped there’d be money enough to pay for Redfern’s services but the odds were that she herself would wind up footing the bill. Well, as Max’s mother was given to saying, what could you do? “Just tell me where to start.”

“Ah, yes. Your most immediate duty should be to make a judgment with regard to the—er—remains and to arrange the funeral, should you deem it appropriate to hold one. Any costs incurred in cremation or interment may be billed to the estate, unless you decide to pay them yourself and claim reimbursement after the will has been duly proved and whatever funds there are made available for distribution. I might just mention that there is no need to tie up your own money; funeral directors are quite accustomed to extending credit.”

“For how long?”

Redfern shrugged. “For as long as it takes, is the best answer I can give you. Usually about a year. This brings us to your next most immediate duty, which is to secure the original will. Since Mrs. Tawne elected to keep it in her own hands, leaving only a copy in our files, I assume the original will turn up either among her papers or in her savings deposit box, if she has one. Once you’ve located the will, all you need to do is bring it to me and I’ll initiate the process of probate. We may assume that the judge of the probate court will declare the will to be legal and reasonable, since I can think of no reason why it should not be so found. This takes about a month, usually, after which the process of probate can begin. Probate entails settling all outstanding debts and liens against the estate, such as income tax and so forth. I did not get the impression that Mrs. Tawne’s estate would be either large or complicated, but one never knows.”

“That’s true enough,” said Sarah. “Now I suppose the next thing is for me to go to the police station and collect Dolores’s keys. May I use your phone to call and see if they’re available?”

“They are.” Mr. Redfern shuffled a few more papers in a haphazard way. “Lieutenant Harris left a message on our machine to the effect that the keys to Mrs. Tawne’s—er—studio would be made available to you at the station on presentation of your court order. In fact, there’s no way he could keep you out,” the lawyer added a bit spitefully. “He added that Mrs. Tawne’s handbag and her set of keys to the museum are being kept as evidence, though he didn’t say to what. He also left her address. It’s—”

“In the Fenway Studio Building on Ipswich Street,” Sarah finished for him. “I’ve been there a few times. I’d better get over to the station, then.”

“Now, Sarah, there’s no need for you to rush off. Perhaps you might care for a cup of coffee, I’m sure Miss Tremblay would be glad to—”

Sarah didn’t think Miss Tremblay would be at all pleased to have her morning’s routine disturbed by a cup of coffee; she wondered whether the lawyer’s offer had been prompted by solicitude for her delicate sensibilities or by plain, old-fashioned snoopiness. “Mr. Redfern,” she said, “you’re not by any chance trying to spare my fragile feminine feelings? I was the first to suspect that Dolores Tawne was murdered by having an old-fashioned hatpin shoved into her spinal cord. In fact, I’m the one who turned over the hatpin to Lieutenant Harris and suggested having the medical examiner look for a pinhole wound at the nape of her neck.”

“Really, Sarah!” The old lawyer’s neck was as red as a turkey cock’s wattle. “I must say I—God in heaven, what would your father have thought?”

“I can’t imagine what my father would have thought, Mr. Redfern, but you may rest assured that he wouldn’t have been thinking about me. Now is there anything else I ought to know before I leave? What about money to pay the light bill and so forth? May I draw on Dolores’s bank account?”

Redfern took a few deep breaths and got back on familiar ground. “You would be best advised to have the bank transfer any checking or savings accounts to your own name as trustee for the estate of Dolores Tawne. Do you know where Mrs. Tawne did her banking?”

“I think it’s the High Street Bank, but I’m not sure,” Sarah answered. “Dolores was more what might be called a business acquaintance than a close friend. Brooks knew her best. He used to work with her off and on at the museum. They socialized to some extent, but were never on intimate terms as far as I know. Dolores never seemed to me to be the sort of person who needed close relationships, she was too self-sufficient.”

“Too full of herself” would have been a more accurate description but Sarah could never have said so, at least not to stuffy old Mr. Redfern. “I’d better be getting along. Thank you for letting me take up so much of your time.”