Family Vault (20 page)

“Hello, is Sergeant Jofferty there, please?”

“No, ma’am, he’s gone off duty. Can somebody else help you?”

“I hope so. This is Mrs. Alexander Kelling speaking. You—my husband—”

“Yes, Mrs. Kelling. We were just talking about the accident, as a matter of fact. Are you still at Ireson’s Landing?”

“No, I’m on my way back to Boston. I’ve stopped at the gas station. Sergeant Jofferty asked me what I wanted you people to do about salvaging the Milburn and I said not to bother, but now I’m wondering if it’s too late to change my mind.”

“Gosh, Mrs. Kelling, I’m afraid so, unless we manage to pick up something on the beach. We sent a couple of scuba divers down for the—when it happened—but they got banged around on the rocks so badly that they did what they had to and quit. We’ll have somebody go down with a searchlight at low tide, and have a look around, but I can’t honestly say there’s much hope. The car pretty well disintegrated when it hit.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Sarah, “but I was hoping we could rescue the motor. I’ve been racking my brain about what went wrong, and all I can think of is that the dynamic brake resistor must have burned out You see, it was a direct current series motor, like a trolley car, and—”

She must have sounded as if she were babbling. The policeman cut in.

“Yes, we know, Mrs. Kelling. We thought of the dynamic brake relay, too. That’s the most logical explanation.”

“Yes, but I want you to find it and see why it didn’t work.”

“With a car that age, anything could happen.”

“The Milburn was in absolutely topnotch condition. There’s no earthly reason why the dynamic brake relay should have failed unless somebody tampered with it.”

“I see. Well, we’ll do our best, and let you know if we come up with anything. Take it easy, Mrs. Kelling.”

And that was that. He didn’t believe her. He thought he was dealing with a hysterical widow, which he was. Sarah fished out her other dime and used it to put in a collect call to Edith. As she’d feared, the old retainer had already got news of the wreck and was in a taking because she hadn’t been properly informed beforehand.

“You might at least have let me know. I almost had a heart attack, seeing it on the television like that.”

“This is the first chance I’ve had to get to a telephone,” Sarah replied as patiently as she could. “The one at the house is shut off for the winter, as you must have realized. Do try to calm yourself, Edith. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I suppose people have been calling.”

“Phone’s been ringing every two minutes, everybody wanting to know where you are. I told ’em I didn’t know because I hadn’t heard from you.”

“That was rather unnecessary, wasn’t it? You knew perfectly well where I must be. Is anybody with you?”

“Mr. Jem,” the maid admitted grudgingly. “He heard it on the news, too. Been here since half-past six, drinking up Mr. Alex’s scotch. He’s in there talking to some reporters now.”

“Oh, good heavens! Well, tell him to hold the fort. I’ll see you in half an hour or so.”

Sarah hadn’t thought of the newspapers, but since the Kellings had already made the front pages once this week, it would be too much to hope they wouldn’t pick up this new calamity. Uncle Jem could no doubt handle them a great deal more capably than she.

She was taking out her wallet to pay for the gas when another car, far newer and more sumptuous than hers, drove up to the pumps. The attendant deserted her abruptly.

“Hey, Max, how’s it going? Been over to the house?”

“Where else? You’re supposed to stop for a bread on your way home if Eddie’s still open. Go finish with your customer. Good Lord, is that you, Mrs. Kelling?”

“Mr. Bittersohn! Then you—belong around here?”

“Not really. I’m an immigrant from Saugus. This is my nephew, Mike Rivkin, whose old man owns the station and had the good taste to marry my sister.” He got out of his car and came over to her. “I heard about the accident. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t—” Sarah stopped abruptly. She’d been about to say, “It wasn’t an accident.” Why should she tell secrets to this man just because his nephew pumped her gas, and why would he believe her when the police didn’t?

Bittersohn was looking at her keenly. “Are you sure you feel up to driving?”

“I have to get back.”

“That wasn’t my question. Look, Mrs. Kelling, I’m on my way to Boston, too. Why don’t you ride with me and let my nephew bring your car into town tomorrow morning? He goes to Boston University.”

“Thank you, I’d like to.”

Sarah was about to hand over the car keys when a disagreeable thought struck her. “Perhaps I’d better not. It mightn’t be safe.”

“Mike’s a perfectly capable driver.”

“I’m sure he is, but I’m afraid there may be something wrong with the car.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I don’t know. That’s the awful part. I don’t know!”

Bittersohn took her by the arm and shook her a little. “Give Mike your keys and registration. He won’t drive your car till his father’s mechanic has given it a thorough checking. If it’s not safe for him, it’s sure as hell not safe for you. Come on.”

Sarah was all to pieces now. She let Bittersohn lead her to his elegant automobile and collapsed in a huddle on the gorgeous leather seat. He reached across her to the glove compartment, fumbled for a mangled box of tissues, and dropped it in her lap. Then he switched on the ignition and nosed out into the traffic. They drove for quite a distance before Sarah was able to say anything.

At last she managed, “You’re being very kind, the way my husband used to be. Alexander was the kindest man who ever lived.”

Once she’d got started, she found it natural to go on talking, about the times when Alexander would take her out walking on Sunday afternoons, the times they sneaked over to Bailey’s for a strictly forbidden sundae with nuts and marshmallow and hot fudge sauce spilling over the sides of the dish and down on the little silver plate, the times innumerable they rode the swanboats and fed the greedy mallards that could pedal as fast as the boatman.

It was good to remember those happy times, a relief to share them with somebody so they wouldn’t be lost and forgotten if anything happened to her. She cried most of the way but it was quiet crying, gentle tears that slid unnoticed down her cheeks and gave her ease. By the time they got on Storrow Drive, she felt spent but calmed—no longer torn to pieces with anguish for what she had lost, but filled with gratitude for the love she had known.

“I’ll drop you at your house if you’ll tell me how to get there. These one-way streets have me buffaloed.”

That was almost the first thing Bittersohn had said, except a word now and then to show he was listening. Sarah responded thankfully.

“I don’t wonder you’re confused. They wait till everybody gets the directions memorized, then turn all the arrows around.”

She explained how he could best thread the maze. “I do hope it’s not too much out of your way, and I do apologize for being such dreary company, but it was—I can’t tell you.” She laughed a little. “That sounds pretty silly, when I’ve been telling you my life’s history.”

“Not the whole of it, I expect.” Bittersohn opened the car door and helped her out as if she’d been an old woman. “Take it easy here. I can’t understand why you people on the Hill don’t make the city do something about these treacherous brick sidewalks.”

“You’re talking sacrilege,” she told him. “Oh, dear, I hope I didn’t leave my door key with your nephew.”

“Isn’t anybody in the house?”

“My uncle, I believe, and Edith, our maid. Aunt Caroline had to have someone around to do her hair and all that. You must be sick of hearing about our domestic concerns. Ah, here’s my key. Good night and—and thank you. About those drawings, I don’t—”

If Sarah had been in any condition to observe, she’d have seen an odd expression flicker across Bittersohn’s face.

“I’m afraid I still have some explaining to do about that project, Mrs. Kelling. Mind if I give you a ring sometime soon?”

“I wish you would. It would be a comfort.”

“Think so?”

“I hope so!” It was a strange reply to make, but Sarah had given up trying to make sense. She gave the man’s hand a squeeze, unlocked the door, and let herself in.

Jeremy Kelling was ensconced in the front hall, bellowing into the telephone, scribbling on one of Aunt Caroline’s note pads. When he saw his niece come in, he rang off abruptly and got up to greet her.

“Here you are at last. We’ve been wondering if you’d make it in one piece.”

Sarah dropped her coat and bag. “Mr. Bittersohn brought me home.”

“Who’s Mr. Bittersohn?”

“A relative of the people at the gas station. What’s happening?”

“Damned phone’s ringing off the hook. Everybody wants to know the gory details.”

“I wish I did. We’re supposed to get hold of the undertaker and tell them to contact the police at Ireson’s Landing. I don’t suppose it’s any use calling Wellingtons at this hour. It was Wellingtons we had for Daddy, and Great-uncle Frederick, wasn’t it?”

“And their father and grandfathers and one hell of a lot of other Kellings before and after and in between. They ought to give us a cut rate. It’s not all that late, I expect they’ve got somebody answering the phone. I’ll give them a ring, shall I? Sarah, you look like the wrath of God!”

“How would you expect me to look? This hasn’t been exactly a fun day, Uncle Jem. Where’s Edith?”

“Off sulking, I expect. She was doing a Sarah Bernhardt all over the house, so I told her to go soak her head.”

“Good for you. I’m going to soak mine and see if it will work any better.”

“Have some scotch. Bring me another while you’re about it.”

The phone shrilled. Sarah left her uncle to cope and went to bathe her face and comb her hair in the downstairs bathroom. She fetched her uncle’s drink, asked if he wanted anything to eat and was told he damn well did, got him a plate of sandwiches, went down to check on Edith and found her full of port and lamentations, put the old retainer to bed, and was hoping to perform the same service for herself when the Lackridges blew in.

“We bumped into each other at the airport. Both of us came rushing back when we heard the news. They had it on CBS!”

Leila was keyed up, set to take charge. Harry looked half drunk and wholly crushed. Sarah made more drinks and sandwiches, put on a pot of coffee, tried to comfort Harry while his wife wrested the telephone from Jeremy Kelling and started taking calls with crisp efficiency.

Sarah soothed her uncle’s hurt feelings, got straightened out with him about the undertaker, thanked him profusely and kissed him good night. Harry walked the old man home, detoured via the liquor store for a fresh supply of whiskey on his way back, and was soon maudlin, sobbing that he wanted to sleep in dear old Alex’s room for auld lang syne.

Sarah steered him to the third floor, changed the sheets, found clean pajamas, and left him to manage as he could. She got Aunt Caroline’s room ready for Leila; finally got the woman to stop talking and call it a night. By then it was nearly two in the morning. Sarah had expected to cry herself to sleep, but by then she was too far gone for tears.

I
T WOULD HAVE DONE
her good to sleep late, but from force of habit Sarah woke at seven, still exhausted, her head spinning with hideous recollections and thoughts of things that had to be done. The absolute number one priority was to get downstairs before Leila did, lest what might remain of Edith’s morale be shattered at the one time when she might conceivably be of some real use. What was to be done with the old retainer? Alexander ought to have made some provision for her, but how could he when he had no money?

She shelved that worry for the moment, put on an old plaid skirt and a navy blue sweater, and ran down to put on the coffeepot. It hadn’t begun to perk before the first call came in, an ancient second cousin of Aunt Caroline’s wanting to know about funeral arrangements, train schedules, and his chances of free lodging. Sarah told him the funeral notice would be in the evening papers, he’d have to call the station about trains, and she’d furnish a bed if he didn’t mind climbing three flights of stairs—knowing he’d mind a great deal.

The last thing she wanted was a houseful of relatives, but it soon became apparent that she was getting one, regardless. By the time Leila appeared clutching one of Caroline Kelling’s crepe kimonos around her bean-pole form, Sarah had a sheaf of memoranda ranging from “Sherry, cream, ham, butter, bread, lettuce” to “Check enuf toil. ppr.” and “Order wheelchair Aunt Em. flt. 426 Alleg. 3:17.”

“God, what a night!” The first of the self-invited guests slumped into a wooden chair and lit a cigarette. “Where’s Edith?”

“In bed, I suppose,” said Sarah. “I hope she’s able to function when and if she does get up. There’s an enormous lot to do.”

“Don’t let it throw you, Sarah. I’ll cope.”

“You will not!”

Sarah surprised herself by the vehemence of her refusal, but didn’t moderate her tone much. “This is my house, and I’ll manage my own affairs as I see fit.”

“How?” Mrs. Lackridge took a scornful drag at her cigarette. “You’ve never managed anything in your life.”

“Leila, you don’t know that. You’ve never cared enough about me to notice what I do. We may as well have this out right here and now. You’ve been a wonderful friend to Aunt Caroline, and, of course, Harry and Alexander were close as brothers. You’ve both been tolerating me since Alexander and I got married because you had no alternative, and I’ve felt more or less the same about you. I hope we can maintain a pleasant relationship for old times’ sake, but I have no intention of becoming involved in your affairs, and I’ll thank you to stay clear of mine. Would you like some toast and coffee?”

For a moment Leila sat stock-still, her opaque brown eyes hooded like a snake’s. Then she emitted a little snort of laughter.

“If that’s the way you want it, Sarah. No toast, just coffee. I never eat in the morning. Shall I go up and rouse the sleeping beauty, or will you allow us to occupy your premises awhile longer?”