The Withdrawing Room (20 page)

“What for? He’s already got a tooth, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, lots of them, but he broke one off playing soccer and he thinks it’s hampering his stage career so he wants to get it capped. Mariposa and I keep telling him it looks—what’s that ridiculous word—macho, because we’re scared to death he may be right. If he gets a good role, we’re up the creek, but of course I can’t deliberately stand in his way.”

“So you plan to face the screaming mob alone tomorrow?”

“Actually I was planning to see if I could borrow Egbert from Uncle Jem.”

“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Sorpende to pitch in? She likes to be helpful, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, but she’s got a job already.”

“Doing what?”

“Telling fortunes in a
soi-disant
gypsy tearoom. And if you ever breathe a word about that to one living soul, I’ll put my own personal hex on you, and if you think I don’t mean it, go ask Miss Hartler. I’ve really been treating her miserably today and I suppose I ought to hate myself for it, but, honestly! Asking thousands and thousands of people to my house without so much as breathing a hint to me first, and then throwing a kitten fit because I told her she’d have to let us use the drawing room.”

“Did she, now?”

“She certainly did! And she was going on about fancy sandwiches and little frosted cakes as if—Oh, don’t mind me! They’ll get cheap sherry and crackers out of a box and if they don’t like it that’s just too bad.”

“Maybe nobody will come.”

“You know better than that. They’ll flock in droves because he got his poor old face bashed in. People are such ghouls! And I’ll be rushing back and forth trying to wash enough glasses and make sure nobody puts lighted cigarettes down on the furniture, and you simply have no idea what it’s going to be like. Consider yourself lucky that you won’t have to find out.”

“Mrs. Kelling, do you think I’d fink out on a pal in a crunch? Sorry, I forgot this is going to be an upper-crust brawl. I will abide by thy right side and keep the bridge with thee, or at least I’ll send a trusted member of my investigative staff to keep an eagle eye on the furniture.”

Bittersohn dried a final saucer and hung the damp towel neatly on the rack, as Alexander might have done. “Now, if we’re quite through here I’ll just step down the hall and see if Miss Hartler would like some help juggling the Iolani Palace around. I assume the tumult and the shouting have temporarily died?”

“Oh yes, they cleared out as soon as they saw I really meant tea. It would be awfully nice of you to help Miss Hartler, if she’ll let you. I offered and she did a Sarah Bernhardt about handling dear Wump’s precious relics, but perhaps she’ll be more receptive with you.”

“Why should she be?”

“Elderly maiden ladies are apt to be more gracious with kind young men, aren’t they? Besides, she started grilling me about my tenants yesterday, and I explained that your people are neighbors of ours at Ireson’s Landing, and that your mother doesn’t call but you yourself aren’t a bit snobbish. Could you try to combine a pose imperious with a demeanor nobly bland?”

“You can bet I shan’t be too deucedly condescending to that old bat, anyway.” And with that gracious promise, Bittersohn was gone.

I
N LESS THAN THREE
minutes, Bittersohn was back in the kitchen. “Miss Hartler does not require any help, thank you. She wonders if it would be too much of an imposition to remind Mrs. Kelling that she was promised a tray in her room before she goes to fulfill her sad duty. A glass of cranberry juice and a poached egg on toast will do nicely. It will be unnecessary for your butler to call a cab as dear Marguerite has kindly offered to send the limousine. She would find it a great comfort if any of dear William’s former housemates would care to pay a brief visit to the undertaker’s this evening although she realizes that is rather too much to hope for since, as dear Mrs. Kelling took the trouble to point out, we knew him for so short a time. I expect that means show up or else, eh?”

“It means do as you please, as far as I’m concerned,” Sarah replied. “I’ll go myself, of course, and I daresay Mrs. Sorpende won’t mind going with me. And it wouldn’t kill Jennifer LaValliere to put in an appearance because Miss Hartler knows her grandmother, who’ll no doubt be there, too. And if she goes, Mr. Porter-Smith might tag along for the ride. I’m sure Professor Ormsby won’t. I rather doubt if he ever happened to notice Mr. Hartler’s existence, much less his demise.”

“Ormsby does tend to have a single-track mind,” Bittersohn agreed. “Or would you call it double-track? Sorry, that was rude and uncouth. Do you mean that’s what she does for a living? Read tea leaves, I mean.”

“I don’t know whether she earns a living by it, but that’s what she was doing this morning, and that’s what she’s been doing for some while, according to what Miss Smith told me. We had a little tête-à-tête over one of the trash cans on the Common.”

Sarah gave him a brief rundown of her morning’s adventure and its strange outcome. “Would you have believed such a thing possible?”

“No. I naturally assumed she modeled corsets for stylish stouts,” Bittersohn replied. “It doesn’t make sense. She’s intelligent, good-looking, well dressed. Nice appearance, anyway. Has a pleasant personality and talks like a duchess. Surely a woman like Mrs. Sorpende could find a better job than that, unless she’s just doing it for kicks.”

“She can’t be. She’s desperately hard-up. At least Mariposa thinks she is, and Mariposa’s an expert on poverty. And a teashop wouldn’t pay much, would it? Besides, it was so—so out of character for her to be there. I’d begun to think she and I were getting to be perhaps not quite friends, but certainly something in that general direction. And now I realize I don’t know her at all. Excuse me, I have to get at the toaster.”

Sarah fussed over the tray she was preparing for Miss Hartler. “Mr. Bittersohn, do you think I did the right thing in telling her she oughtn’t to move out while the police are hunting for whoever killed Mr. Hartler? You see, I can’t help wondering.”

She told him what she’d been thinking about Mrs. Sorpende and Dolph. “That’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I’d have been doing her a terrible injustice if I’d asked her to move, wouldn’t I?”

“Not only her. What about Ormsby? You want a blighted romance on your hands on top of everything else? All I can say is, you did just about what I’d have done, Mrs. Kelling, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Oh, it does! Would you hand me that tiniest frying pan? Murders come and murders go, but trays go on forever, it seems. What on earth is keeping Mariposa? She ought to be setting the table by now.”

As Sarah was lifting Miss Hartler’s poached egg out of the frying pan, Mariposa rushed up the back stairs, wearing a brand-new uniform of royal purple with fuchsia trimmings.

“Sorry I’m late, but I went shopping. How does this grab you?” Hands on hips, she twirled in a very good imitation of a professional model. “Charles said I better get something less jazzy than that orange job I been wearing, because we’ve got to act dignified at a time like this. I blew thirty bucks of the tooth money.”

“It was worth every nickel,” Bittersohn assured her solemnly. “Don’t you think so, Mrs. Kelling?”

“I only wish you’d been here this afternoon to serve tea to my aunt-in-law and her friends,” said Sarah. “You’d have knocked them dead.”

“Invite ‘em back,” said Mariposa.

“I would if I thought it would really work. Here, you can take Miss Hartler’s tray to her instead. She’ll be impressed, I’m sure.”

“Though I hope not favorably,” Sarah added after Mariposa had got through the swinging door. “Oh, dear, I do wish I didn’t have to go through this business tonight. The mere thought of it makes me sick to my stomach.”

“I tell you what,” said Bittersohn, “after we finish eating, I’ll bring my car around and drive you over, along with anybody else who wants to go.”

“That’s awfully kind, but why should you get stuck with a miserable evening? I could get the Studebaker.”

“Mrs. Kelling, you wouldn’t take that precious antique out in the cold night air? It might catch cold in its plugs. Besides, I think my brother-in-law has a customer for you, so you’d better not risk scraping a fender.”

“Has he really? How much did he say—”

Bittersohn named a figure and Sarah gasped.

“As much as that? But this person’s never even seen the car.”

“Actually, I believe he did go over it when they had it at the station last month. He was ready to make an offer then, but Ira and Mike didn’t think you’d want to hear about it. This is a serious collector, and he knows what a 1950 Starlite Coupe in top condition should be worth. Ira says it’s a fair price. You might get more if you held off, but since you’re planning to take the car off the road pretty soon anyway there doesn’t seem to be a great deal of point in letting a bona fide buyer slip out of your hands.”

“No, I don’t suppose there are all that many, are there? And I’d have to pay storage. I’d never dare leave the Studebaker out at Ireson’s after what happened to the Milburn.”

Bittersohn studied her face. “You’d rather refuse, wouldn’t you?”

“Naturally I would, but I’m not stupid enough to do it. Please tell your brother-in-law that I shall be happy to accept whatever offer he thinks reasonable, and that I shall expect him to deduct the usual agent’s fee with my sincere thanks.”

“Ira wouldn’t take a fee from you.”

“Why not? Most other people would, like a shot, if they ever got a chance. I must say your family isn’t much like mine. You’re tremendously kind to take so much trouble over my affairs, and I’d be delighted to ride with you this, evening if you’re sure you want to go.”

“I want to go. I’m studying the tribal customs of the Wasps. Miss Hartler will be there before us, I gather.”

“Oh yes, ages before. She did suggest omitting our little happy hour and having dinner early so that we could all go together, but I did not take kindly to the suggestion. You know, I think that’s what’s been giving me fits about the Hartlers. Poor old William was sweet in his way, but he was so utterly wrapped up in his own quirks and quiddities that he couldn’t imagine everyone else might not want to share his enthusiasms. The sister’s just like him, only without charm. At least Mr. Quiffen was willing to loathe you on your individual merits. Now do me one more favor, since you’re in such a generous mood, and go nobble Mr. Porter-Smith and Mrs. Sorpende as they come in. Tell them I shan’t be dressing for dinner tonight since I and anybody else who wants to will be going over to the undertaker’s, and there won’t be time to change.”

“It’s not the done thing to show up in your cummerbund?”

“Nor your rhinestone tiara with the green chicken feathers. Mariposa’s new uniform has no doubt strained Miss Hartler’s nerves to the breaking point already. I have enough ado to cope with my own hysterics, let alone hers as well. If we can just get through tomorrow!”

“We shall overcome.”

Bittersohn vanished. Mariposa reappeared. Charles burst forth in white-gloved effulgence to escort Miss Hartler out to the waiting limousine. Sarah cooked like mad, then whisked off her apron and dashed to the library to dispense sherry and small talk.

She was at least as nervous at having to face Mrs. Sorpende after that bizarre encounter in the teashop as the fortuneteller herself must be about what sort of reception she’d get tonight. Mrs. Sorpende was no coward, though. She was already in the library when Sarah entered. Sarah solved the problem in the only way she knew, by tackling it head-on.

“Oh, Mrs. Sorpende, I’m so glad of the chance to have a word with you. It looks as if this may turn into a rather sticky evening. Miss Hartler is expecting us all to troop over in a body to pay our respects to her brother’s remains, and I’m sure not everyone will want to go. Is there any hope of your helping me carry the torch? Mr. Bittersohn has offered to drive us there and back.”

“How kind of him,” Mrs. Sorpende replied warily. “Will it be just the three of us?”

She knows Mr. Bittersohn’s a detective, Sarah thought. She told me so. She thinks he and I plan to get her alone somewhere and give her the third degree. Oh, God, do I have another Aunt Caroline on my hands?

“I hope not,” she said aloud. “I’m particularly determined to push Jennifer LaValliere into going if I can. Her people were acquainted with the Hartlers when they lived in Boston, and it wouldn’t hurt her to show a little character for once, do you think?”

“Why not? She’s already shown just about everything else she owns,” the woman answered with a flash of her usual calm amusement. “I’ve reached an age where I can’t boast of any special rapport with the modern generation, but I’ll certainly do what I can to persuade her if you want me to. And Mr. Porter-Smith is an amiable young man, I’m sure he’d be willing. If you care for a professional character reading on Professor Ormsby, however, I’d advise you not to waste your breath.”

“That strikes me as very sound advice,” said Sarah, laughing with relief that the tension was broken. “Let me give you some sherry.”

One by one the others trickled in. Professor Ormsby, a male chauvinist to his boot heels, showed obvious distress at seeing Mrs. Sorpende in her high-necked daytime frock. Mr. Porter-Smith was naturally chagrined at having to keep on his mundane business suit. Miss LaValliere pouted when Sarah made the observation that her grandmother would be expecting to see her at the funeral parlor, but brightened when she found out she’d get to ride in Mr. Bittersohn’s car.

On the whole, they got through dinner comfortably enough. Professor Ormsby managed to content himself with noting how trimly Mrs. Sorpende’s black dress accented the Rubenesque contours of her well-girdled figure. Jennifer LaValliere had the supreme and astounding tact to say to Mr. Porter-Smith, “Why, Gene, I didn’t realize what broad shoulders you have.” By the time they drank their coffee, the atmosphere was quite agreeable.

Then Mr. Bittersohn vanished to get the car. Sarah went through the routine of asking who wanted to go to the undertaker’s. Professor Ormsby, in accordance with predictions, grunted and went upstairs. The rest got into their wraps and waited for Mr. Bittersohn out on the steps, since picking up passengers on Tulip Street invariably led to honking horns and bellowed insults from cars blocked in their efforts to get down the narrow, twisting lane.