The Odd Job (7 page)

The immediate tasks done, Sarah opened a ledger and got down to what she’d come for. This was work that many would call boring. So would she, perhaps, if she weren’t doing it for Max and Davy and the rest of the crew. She gave her small pile of checks a satisfied nod and went on with the next piece of business. There was the job book to be brought up-to-date, summarizing how many hours had been spent on a specific assignment, how much the operatives’ expenses had come to, all the picky details that the IRS could be so stuffy about if they weren’t properly documented.

Sarah’s particular care and pride were the oversized notebooks that described, often with carefully detailed sketches from her own pen, the wide variety of precious objects that Max and his cohorts had either recovered or were still looking for: their age, their provenance, their appraised values, their full descriptions; all valuable working data and possible reference for other investigations. Since these notebooks were Sarah’s special province, and since there would have been no room for more than one or two at a time in the office or in any of the small rooms at Tulip Street, they were generally kept at Ireson’s Landing as part of a reference library that occupied a good-sized room of its own and might require another if Sarah kept on as she was doing.

After having pored through shelves upon shelves of art books at the Boston Public Library and a great many more at the Museum of Fine Arts, she’d developed a sure sense of what would be useful and begun prowling the bookstores. Sarah’s private library was proving to be of immense value to the agency, not to mention the insurance companies that were Max’s steadiest clients. To her personally it meant being able to spend more time at home with her child and her beautiful house while still pulling her oar in the agency boat.

However, the computer, the job book, the mail, all the bits and pieces that needed to be dealt with on a daily basis, and too often were not, had to be kept at the office. Theonia could have been helpful here if figures were tea leaves and cabinets contained only tarot cards. As it was, her notions of office procedures were so esoteric that she had to be enjoined from taking on any task except making coffee and cooing into the telephone when a potential client who sounded like real money happened to call. When she began to coo like a
Zenaida asiatica,
or white-winged dove, even her husband was quite willing to step aside and let her do what she did best; invariably to the ultimate satisfaction of all concerned except any misguided miscreant who mistook her for a pushover.

By noontime Sarah felt she’d earned that ample luncheon. She put on her raincoat, tucked the checks and the deposit slip in her handbag, and made sure she had her keys. The door would lock behind her, but Brooks’s magic key must still be turned to wind up the spell or it wouldn’t work next time around. The women’s washroom was less intricate to get at, one simply walked down the corridor and opened the door with the key supplied to tenants by the management.

Sarah had the washroom to herself, it looked as if there’d been nobody here except the cleaners. This was as it should have been. A large firm that needed more space had petitioned to have the entire floor put at its disposal. Other firms had agreed to take new space on other floors, all but the Bittersohn Detective Agency. Max had been offered various inducements, such as a snappy paint job and a more up-to-date entrance, but he’d turned them all down. He was quite content to be an anachronism; he’d been around so many Kellings by now that he was beginning to think like one; he’d stood his ground and won his point. Sarah was proud of Max for maintaining the family tradition, but she did find it a bit spooky being all alone on the floor. She was glad when the elevator came up empty and took her down alone; she went over to the bank and made her deposit, then headed for a restaurant where she and her co-workers were well-known.

“All by yourself today, Mrs. Bittersohn?” The head waiter in person was ushering her to the coziest table, presenting her menu with a bow and a red rose out of the splendiferous arrangement in the reception area. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”

Sarah was not about to broadcast the fact that she was alone in the office. “Oh, they’re galloping off in all directions as usual. Somebody may come in later on, but I’m hungry now. How are your scallops today?”

She called them scollops, as any true-born New Englander would have sense enough to do. On being assured that the succulent bivalves were A-One and thoroughly guaranteed, she ordered them simply broiled, with coleslaw on the side and a pot of tea. She didn’t have to specify which kind of tea, the waiter already knew. He brought brown bread instead of white and offered neither milk nor lemon with the tea because Mrs. Bittersohn was not one for extraneous fripperies. He disappeared to consult with the chef, returned with her scallops done exactly as she liked them, and paused to watch with quasi-paternal pride as she sampled one and found it good.

Sarah could have done with less solicitude. Fortunately the restaurant was filling up and the waiter had to get on with distributing his smiles and his menus. She finished her excellent meal at a leisurely pace, signed the check, picked up her rose, and debated taking a short stroll before going back to work. Once outside, however, she changed her mind. The sky had turned sullen and the wind was picking up; it would make more sense to put in another hour or two at the books and walk back to Tulip Street before the storm broke. If she overstayed and got wet it wouldn’t matter; she had a comfortable robe and slippers to change into.

Dinner wasn’t going to be anything special, Charles was no chef and Sarah didn’t feel like cooking. They’d broil the steak that she’d told Charles to buy, grill mushrooms and tomato halves along with it, and skip dessert. Afterward, Charles could slip downstairs to his own quarters, watch something or other on television, and wonder when Mariposa was coming back. Sarah was not a fan of the tube, she’d sit in the library and read or listen to a concert on one of Boston’s excellent classical music stations.

She supposed it would be only civil to give Uncle Jem a ring and let him know that she was in town for an as yet undetermined but preferably short period of time. Jeremy Kelling and his sorely tried henchman, Egbert, lived just over on Pinckney Street; they might like to come to dinner tomorrow night unless Jem had something livelier on the docket. He probably hadn’t. J. Lemuel Kelling was no longer the bon vivant he’d been during those halcyon years before a cruel bureaucracy tore down Scollay Square and rebuilt it as Government Center, though he still liked to think he was.

Before making any plans for herself, however, it occurred to Sarah that she ought to find out whether a funeral service for Dolores Tawne had been announced. Charles hadn’t left a message on the answering machine, as he probably would have if he’d found anything in the paper while Sarah was out to lunch. She’d better pick up a later edition on her way home. If all else failed, she’d have to get hold of Vieuxchamp at the museum; surely he would know by then, if anybody did.

By the time she’d battled her way back down Boylston Street to the Little Building, Sarah was glad to get inside. She never minded being blown around on the cliffs overhanging the ocean at Ireson’s Landing, but feeling somebody’s discarded hamburger wrapper trying to wrap itself around one’s ankle was a far different and wholly revolting situation. After checking her nether limbs to make sure she wasn’t bringing other people’s trash into the building, Sarah walked over to the reception desk.

“I’m back for a while. I don’t suppose anybody’s been asking for us?”

“You just missed him,” the man in charge told her. “Or her, or it. Who can tell? Anyway, a messenger. This must be for you.”

“ ‘Biterman Det. Agy.’ Close enough, I suppose. Could be someone’s idea of a joke. You didn’t tip the messenger, I hope?”

“Are you kidding? They always add it to the tab anyway. You’re not planning to stay on after five, by chance?”

“Oh, no,” Sarah assured him. “I’ll be well away before then, I don’t like the look of that sky. Thank you for taking the package.”

B
ROWN MANILA ENVELOPES DELIVERED
by anonymous messengers of indeterminate sex were no surprise at the Bittersohn Detective Agency. Neither were misspellings of Max’s family name. This could be anything from an oddment that Brooks had been trying to track down through some unchancy source for some reason that only he could have thought of to a small stolen object that an anonymous somebody had found too hot to handle.

Thus far, nobody had sent the agency a letter bomb; but it was not outside the bounds of possibility that somebody, some day, might. Sarah was not one to panic but she did experience a moment’s discomfiture. Should she open the envelope? Should she not? Should she take it to the rest room and dunk it in a basin of water? Should she just leave it on the desk with a note of gentle warning? Should she mention it to Max if by some miracle the line got repaired and he phoned again tonight? Should she drop the envelope quietly in the wastebasket and pretend it had never arrived? Should she just lay the thing on the windowsill out of the way and get on with what she’d come to do?

Slightly ashamed of her pussyfooting, Sarah pushed the envelope to the far corner of the desk, opened her job book, and picked up her pen. She was having a hard time to concentrate but plugged on anyway; she’d just about got her mind nicely set on her task when the phone rang. It was Charles, wanting her to know that he’d found nothing, about Mrs. Tawne in the morning paper and wondering if he ought to squander the price of a later edition. Sarah told him not to bother, she’d pick up one on her way home. She asked whether Mariposa had called, learned that she hadn’t, and suggested that Charles polish the silver as a nice surprise for Mariposa to find when she got back from Puerto Rico. This was almost certainly not what Charles wanted to hear, but it was the best Sarah could think of at the moment. She broke the connection and picked up her pen again.

It wasn’t working. The scallops might have been a mistake, though Sarah couldn’t think why they should have been. She wasn’t feeling sickish or sleepy or anything in particular, there was just this odd creepiness up and down her spine. Maybe it had something to do with the impending storm, more likely it was just being up here all by herself. Unless it was the ghost of Dolores Tawne trying to nag Sarah about something that hadn’t been done properly before she’d passed through the veil. Too bad Theonia wasn’t here to take the message, revenant spirits were more in her department. Sarah locked away the job book in a drawer that was labeled “Bird Sightings,” started to put on her raincoat, then hesitated.

Oh, all right! Why make something out of nothing? She picked up the still unopened envelope and gave it a gingerly prod. Whatever was inside weighed next to nothing, all she could feel was something like a knitting needle with a bump on the tip. She ripped open the envelope and burst out laughing.

Not long ago, an old friend of the family named Lydia Ouspenska had shown up at a funeral wearing a circa 1900 walking ensemble with a hobble skirt, a redingote with lapels down to her knees, and a huge cartwheel hat worn very much to one side and skewered in place with a formidable hatpin. Lydia had looked absolutely stunning. Sarah could never have worn such an outfit but Theonia had lusted after it, most particularly the hat. A talented and ingenious needlewoman like her was easily able to concoct one out of a child’s hula hoop, a yard or two of black velvet, a few more yards of white satin, and some feathers from the Wilkins’s white peacocks that Theonia had scrounged from Dolores Tawne in return for a two-pound box of homemade peanut brittle, to which Dolores had been much addicted. The hat was a smashing success, the only problem was how to keep it on.

Women before World War I had had hair, lots of hair. The beauty who could actually sit on the end of her mane was entitled to brag about it, and generally did. The one who could claim no such crowning glory might eke out her scanty tresses with pads made from her own combings and referred to for good and sufficient reason as rats. Others might sport a switch or postiche made from hair that was human but not their own. For women who couldn’t afford to be stylish, a fine head of hair might become a salable commodity, as witness Jo March’s great sacrifice in
Little Women
and the young wife in “The Gift of the Magi,” who sold her beautiful hair to buy the chain for the gold watch that her husband had pawned to buy fancy combs for his wife’s beautiful hair.

Logistically, hatpins meant to anchor so formidable a freight of frippery to coiffures of such luxuriance had to be up to the job, to be instruments of strength and endurance as well as of fashion. The end meant to show would be ornamental: a gilded butterfly, a Chinese intricacy carved out of red cinnabar, a multi-colored glass marble, a cone or sphere set all around with imitation sapphires or rubies, pretty trinkets of no great value lending their own small touch of charm to milady’s toilette.

The business end of the hatpin, on the other hand, would have been six or eight inches of tempered steel wire, stiff as a ramrod and sharpened to a point that was able to penetrate whatever elaborate concoction a milliner might dream up. It could glide through stiff fabric, through switch and rat, through whatever came in its way, emerge on the opposite side without inflicting painful wounds on a lady’s scalp, if she was careful, and send her out literally dressed to kill should the need arise. In an emergency, a few inches of needle-sharp steel vigorously applied could be an effective way to dash the hopes of a too-ardent male. Anxious mothers and saucy vaudeville performers alike were particular in reminding skittish young misses that girls who went strolling without their hatpins ran the risk of losing more than just their hats.

Theonia Kelling had a fine head of hair all her own and had never, so far as Sarah knew, been forced to resort to cold steel when it came to cooling down a man with a plan. All she needed a hatpin for was to keep her hat on. Naturally Theonia didn’t want just any old toad-stabber after all the time and trouble she’d spent creating her antique hat. The previous week, she and Lydia Ouspenska had spent most of an afternoon scouring Boston’s many antique shops and come away empty-handed.