The Odd Job (19 page)

“Is the codfish strictly germane to the subject in question?” Sarah was beginning to wish she’d never started this. “What about the Wicked Widows with the hatpins, and the incident you never will forget? Or have you forgotten?”

“Sarcasm will get you nowhere, young woman. As I was about to say when you so rudely interrupted, Wouter and I were just wandering around soaking up the ambience when suddenly, out of nowhere, these seven veiled females appeared and went into their usual snake dance, if I may call it so. Naturally people stopped to watch, most of them from respectful distances because they’d heard about the hatpins. But there was this one middle-aged chap in a yellow sweatshirt with a diplodocus on the front—at least Wouter said it was a diplodocus and that was the sort of thing Wouter would know. Where was I?”

“The chap in the sweatshirt,” Sarah suggested.

“Oh, yes. He was nothing out of the ordinary. Overweight, balding, the sort one might find holding up the far end of the bar at a pub in a run-down neighborhood. He’d obviously stoked up for the occasion and seemed to be under the misapprehension that this was some kind of outdoor striptease affair. He started yelling ‘Take it off! Take it off!’ Naturally the Widows didn’t pay any attention. So what did this deluded dipsomaniac do but rush up and grab the hindmost of them by her fishtail.”

Jem coughed. “Good Gad, I’ve run out of juice. Rescue me, please, Charles.”

“Coming right up, Your Dryness.”

Mindful of Sarah’s disapproving eye, however, Charles gave the guest more coffee instead of gin. Too wound up in his narrative to notice, Jem drank it down and went on.

“That was something to see, I can tell you. Up went seven pairs of arms in unison, covered by slinky black gloves all the way to their armpits. Out came seven long hatpins. I wondered at the time why those enormous hats didn’t fall off, but they didn’t.”

“They’d have had special combs sewn to the insides of the hats that they could slide into their hair as anchors,” Sarah interjected. “Go on, Uncle Jem. What happened next?”

“Plenty. Before you could say, ‘Scat,’ they’d formed a circle with that poor fathead of a drunk in the middle. Each of the Widows was holding her hatpin waist-high, pointed straight at their victim. We could see the sun glinting on the sharp points and we knew the Widows weren’t just playing games. So far, they’d been moving slowly and sinuously as usual; now they started to pick up the pace, gliding in a spiral pattern, edging closer with each round.

“The chap in the center didn’t know what to do. He kept spinning around like a teetotum, looking for a way to dodge past those sharp points, but there wasn’t one. By that time the circle was pretty tight, it was hard to see around the hats. The women were all facing inward and creeping toward him, an inch at a time, until they were close enough to touch him with the points of their pins. They began picking at that yellow sweatshirt, he must have been feeling those wicked points. He yelped a few times, poor devil, then started to bawl like a baby and did what babies do.”

“You mean he—how awful!” Sarah cried. “And you just stood there and let them stick him?”

“We were all mesmerized, I think. Nobody moved. Then it dawned on me that I was standing passively watching a fellow human being tortured. I looked at Wouter, Wouter looked at me, we both started yelling ‘Help! Police!’ and fighting our way toward the circle. That broke the spell, so to speak. A few others took up the cry, a policeman broke through the mob blowing his whistle, then another. By the time Wouter and I were close enough to do anything, there was only that poor devil huddled on the ground with a few small bloodstains on his diplodocus. Whether he’d dropped dead of a heart attack, fainted from terror, or just felt too ashamed to face the crowd, I never found out.”

“What happened to the Wicked Widows?”

“They were nowhere to be seen, they’d simply melted away. God knows how they managed it in those skintight gowns and cartwheel hats. So Wouter looked at me and I looked at Wouter and we went somewhere and had a couple of martinis to take the taste away. And that’s the best I can tell you. It does strike me that there was one more really egregious episode after that, then they disappeared from the scene. They must have realized they’d gone too far.”

“I should think they might,” said Sarah. “And nobody ever found out who they were or what became of them? Charles, you know all the theatrical gossip around Boston. Have you ever heard of the Wicked Widows?”

“I’m inclined to doubt, moddom, that the persons in question ever had anything to do with the theater. From what Mr. Jem’s been telling us, they sound more like a bunch of well-heeled amateurs. You know what I mean, the kind who prance in the chorus line at some society benefit, develop a taste for the limelight, and get the bright idea of taking their show on the road. Comes of having too much money and too little to do, generally; but this lot must have been something else. I could ask around, if you like.”

Jem shook his head. “I shouldn’t, Charles, if I were you. As it happens, I have the misfortune to be slightly acquainted with that Turbot blister who’s wangled himself onto the board at the Wilkins under the delusion that he’ll make himself somewhat more socially acceptable, which is absurd. He’d already tried to bull his way into the Comrades of the Convivial Codfish, you know. Or perhaps you didn’t; but, needless to say, he had no more chance of joining our august assemblage than I have of becoming a Camp Fire girl. Anyway, here he is, with his foot barely inside the door and a respected member of his staff lying murdered among the peacocks. Naturally he’s going to hush things up as best he can, and God help anybody who doesn’t go along with him. Don’t you agree, Sarah?”

“I certainly do. Furthermore, he’s going to start badgering me about Dolores’s will as soon as he twigs on that I’m her executrix, and I’m not going to tell him till Max gets home because I don’t like him.”

“Isn’t Redfern supposed to take care of all that nonsense?” Jeremy Kelling, noting that his martini glass was still dry and nobody appeared disposed to refill it, bowed to the inevitable. “Well, I expect I ought to be wending my way. You don’t have to come with me, Charles.”

Charles knew an injured tone when he heard one. What could he say? “It will be an honor and a privilege to escort you to your domicile, Mr. Jem. Will Egbert be there by the time you arrive?”

“No, confound it, he won’t. Didn’t I tell you that the scurvy knave’s deserted me for Guinevere? She’s bought a greenhouse somewhere in the wilderness where she raises deadly nightshade and poisonous mushrooms.”

“How long does Egbert plan to stay away, Mr. Jem?”

“That will depend on whether she feeds him on something out of the greenhouse, I expect. One can only hope for the best and get braced for the worst. Have you ever thought of changing your employer, Charles?”

“Never, Mr. Jem. Rather than leave you to pine alone and desolate, however, may I so embolden myself as to suggest that you spend the night here? If it’s okay with the moddom, that is.”

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Sarah agreed. “You can borrow Brooks’s spare razor and one of his nightshirts, Uncle Jem. Since you hate climbing stairs, I’ll move to the second floor and you can have what used to be the drawing room. Tomorrow, if you decide you want to stay here until Egbert gets back, Charles can help you collect some of your own things and bring them over. I doubt if any of the clan will be back here before the end of the week, so there’s plenty of room. You might even be of some help.”

“Naturally I’d pull my own weight. When did I ever not?”

“Good question. Find him what he needs, Charles, since this was your bright idea. I’m going to take my belongings upstairs. You won’t forget about my new skirt?”

“It’s all sponged, I’ll press it first thing tomorrow morning. When is your appointment with Mr. Redfern?”

“I’m not even sure I have one. My thought was simply to pop in and leave Dolores Tawne’s will with Miss Tremblay if Mr. Redfern’s too busy to see me. Then I need to talk with Wasserman’s about what to do with Dolores. It’s in her will that she wants to be cremated, which will make things simpler.”

Thanks to Cousin Anne, Sarah thought she wouldn’t go into that. “You might like to come with me, Uncle Jem. It would make Miss Tremblay’s day, you know she adores you.”

“As why wouldn’t she? Off to bed with you, then. Charles and I have matters of moment to discuss.”

“I’m sure you do. Don’t let him keep you up all night, Charles.”

Sarah didn’t wait to hear her uncle’s diatribe on nagging women. She collected what she’d need from the bedroom she’d slept in last night, debated with herself whether to be a good hostess and do something about the bed linen or leave it to Charles, and started upstairs with her armload.

She was almost to the top when it occurred to her that, between her own near miss from being run over, Jem’s hair-raising story about the Wicked Widows, and the experiment with Brooks’s projector, she still hadn’t got around to examining that envelope she’d taken from the LaVerne box. Sarah finished her climb, tossed the few necessities that she’d brought upstairs on the bed that had been hers for a while between husbands and was now shared by Brooks and Theonia, and prodded herself into going back downstairs for the letter. She’d left it on the lamp table next to where she’d been sitting, Charles hadn’t tidied it away. She picked up the envelope and put it in the pocket of her robe.

“Sorry to interrupt. I’ve been meaning all evening to read what’s in here and forgot to take it up with me.”

“That must be because you don’t really want to know what’s in it,” said Charles. “The subconscious mind knows your inner feelings better than the conscious does, you know.”

“How clever of it. You could be right, Charles. I just hope there won’t be another horror story in this; I seem to be in trouble enough with my subconscious mind already.”

She went back upstairs, performed her ablutions as she’d been taught by her first governess, and settled herself in the big double bed, which the late Caroline Kelling had equipped sumptuously with embroidered pillows and satin comforters. Theonia was too thrifty to waste such lovely stuff and too much the grande dame not to revel in it; Brooks was too fond of his wife to balk at her small enjoyments.

This was no night for a down comforter, but it was chilly enough to make a light blanket feel good. Sarah snuggled into a nest of pillows and pulled warm merino wool up around her before she took out what was in the envelope. It turned out to be just four sheets, handwritten on ordinary white paper. This writing was unmistakably Dolores Tawne’s, essentially commonplace but meticulously formed and given force by an aggressive forward slant and some sharp angles among the connectives. Dolores seemed not to have been writing to anybody in particular; there was no salutation or word of introduction.

I don’t know why I am writing this, I just feel as if I ought to say something to explain my own part in what has been happening, which I performed in perfect innocence and good faith. I did not know what LaVonne LaVerne, as she called herself on the telephone, was driving at when she told me about the Wicked Widows. I got the impression that it was something to do with waltzing. I thought that making seven authentic Mona Lisa masks was a wonderful idea and right up my alley even though I had never made a mask before. But I knew I could do it and welcomed the chance. I agreed to handle the whole job by myself and never breathe a word of it to anybody, which I would do and have done because I do not ever betray a confidence no matter what, as I told her flat out.

I told her it would be expensive and would take a little time but she said that was all right because she and her friends had to rehearse, so she would send me $500 in cash as a down payment to show that they were able to pay for the materials and were serious about the masks, and another $500 when I sent them the first completed mask and it was exactly what they wanted, which it was, and $2000 more when they got the other six, also in cash, which sounded very good to me at the time, and I have to say they lived up to their bargain and paid right on the dot which is more than I can say for some of the clients I have done portraits of.

I was never trained in sculpture but I went ahead and modeled the face in clay from a photograph of the original painting, making it a little bit bigger than the real Mona Lisa as she didn’t have much of a chin and I thought I should allow for some leeway because faces vary so much and it came out very well if I do say so. Once the clay model was dry enough I coated it with Vaseline and made a plaster mold. I had never made a mold before; it came out very well also. After that I had no trouble making the masks from the mold and painting them all exactly like the photograph. I doubt if any other portrait artist could have done the job so well if at all and so did my mysterious patron. My orders were to destroy the clay model and the plaster mold, which I did after the masks were all paid for.

I cannot help wondering what will become of the masks. I suspect they may already have been destroyed although it would be a terrible shame after all the work I put in. But there is no way I would ever dare to claim them back even if I got the chance which is very unlikely.

It was part of the agreement from the beginning that I would never go to any of their performances in order to protect my anonymity as well as theirs or to mention them in any way to anybody. I have stuck to my bargain faithfully although I could not avoid hearing about them sometimes because the Wicked Widows were literally the talk of the town for quite a while. I was surprised to hear somebody say that they were really men instead of women which was why they wore heavy veils and false bosoms but I refused to believe it on principle although I may be wrong as I never saw them and am probably safer that I did not.

The only name I ever heard was LaVonne LaVerne which was what the one who spoke to me on the phone used when she called me about the masks but according to the news that was the name all seven of them gave when the police were fighting with the reporters to get them arrested properly. I could not believe my eyes when I turned on the news and saw them being hustled into the police wagon or whatever they call it now. That was the only time I ever got any kind of a look at them and it was disappointing because I could not see the masks at all but only the veils and those fishtail skirts from behind.

It was even worse on the late news after the police wagon had been found over in Franklin Park behind the aviary with three dead policemen in the back and a fourth, the driver, dead at the wheel without any sign of what killed them and the Wicked Widows all disappeared. There is a major hunt out and warrants for their arrest on a charge of homicide but I doubt if any of them will be caught because nobody saw their faces except maybe the policemen before they died and nobody knew them by any name except LaVonne LaVerne which they either stole from somebody else or made up for reasons of their own. I have sometimes wondered if the one who talked to me on the phone and sent the money might kill the others if they try to break the vow of secrecy because she struck me as sounding rather strange. But she has played square with me and knows that I am completely honest and reliable and will never let it be known as long as I live that I had any hand in the matter.

Why I rented this box was that today out of the blue she sent me a package by UPS with six of the hatpins in it and a few photographs of her and her friends that I had never before been supposed to see but could hardly have avoided seeing them in the papers and on the television because it made such a stir as she must have realized. The photographs do not show the masks as well as I would have liked but I thought it was nice of her to think of me at such a time even though I do not hold with what happened in the police van. I think she may have meant me to get rid of the hatpins but I was not sure and had no way of asking so I thought a safe deposit box would be the best way in case she wants them back sometime. The reason I think she might want to use her own hatpin again if somebody gets out of line is that there were only six in the package she sent. It will mean my having to pay the rent on the box but that won’t be much and she has been really nice to me in spite of what is being said these days, most of which is likely true but a promise is a promise. So I will take the box in her name and sign my own like all the rest.

LaVonne LaVerne