The Plain Old Man (18 page)

Mabel wasn’t ready for Jack Tippleton, she hadn’t finished with Ridpath Wale. “How did he sprain his ankle?”

“I don’t think it’s a sprain, just a wrench. He tripped over a piece of the scenery.” That was stretching it a bit, but she certainly wasn’t about to tell Mabel about those booby-trapped steps. “And no, he had not been drinking. There wasn’t a drop of liquor anywhere.”

“Don’t be silly. Bottles hidden all over the set, no doubt, if only you’d had wits enough to see them. It does surprise me, I must say. Ridpath fancies himself such a great tennis player, one might have thought he’d be nimble enough not to go falling over his own feet. He plays all winter long at one of those indoor clubs to keep in trim, though don’t ask me what for. Those places cost a fortune in dues, but what does he care? Easy come, easy go.”

Mabel pushed out her chair and stood up. “I knew you wouldn’t want dessert so I told Zeriah not to bother fixing any. You young women are all alike, fussing over your figures when you already look like walking skeletons. Next thing you know, you’ll wind up with that anorexia nervosa which seems to be all the rage at the moment. Wasting away to a shadow. We’ll have our tea in the morning room, Zeriah.”

As Mabel led the way through her minefield of treasures, Sarah managed a glimpse at her own watch. She knew better than to trust any of Mabel’s clocks, they were even less reliable than their owner’s sources of information. One o’clock. Half an hour to go before succor arrived. She must try to think of this as an exercise in building character.

Mabel made a great deal of fuss over the tea tray. The tea wasn’t worth the effort, but it did help to wash away the fishy taste of that lone sardine.

“Now,” said Mabel when she’d got her own cup dosed with a drop of milk and five grains of sugar, “you asked me about Jack Tippleton. There’s one man I’ve always felt really sorry for.”

“You have?” Sarah almost dropped her teacup. “Why is that, Cousin Mabel?”

“Jack Tippleton was made the victim of one of the most cruel deceits I’ve ever heard of, and that’s saying something, I can tell you. It happened back in the forties. Jack had gone into the Navy straight out of college. He’d been in the ROTC, so he got made some kind of junior lieutenant right away. I don’t believe he ever saw combat duty or got a promotion, but that’s beside the point. He was still in uniform when he came home and naturally he was the debs’ delight. He had everything, you know—looks, money, and he danced the meanest tango in Pleasaunce.”

Mabel gave herself more tea, absentmindedly ignoring Sarah’s cup. “Well, this went on for quite a while. Jack went with this one and that one, but none of the girls managed to snare him. Then this little Martha Sorter blew into town, all fluffy ruffles and big brown eyes, visiting the Pences. That’s Parker Pence’s grandparents. Old Mrs. Pence and Martha’s mother had been roommates at boarding school, or something. Anyway, the mother had died and the father was having a depression. Having a woman on the side, more likely, and didn’t want his daughter underfoot. So to make a long story short, Ellen Pence sent for the girl and here she was.”

Mabel drank some of her cooling tea. “Jack Tippleton fell for Martha in a big way. So did a few others, don’t ask me why. Frederick made an awful ass of himself, as I recall, but of course no girl in her right mind was going to look at Fred if she could get Jack. Naturally the Tippletons checked out her background but they couldn’t find a thing against her. Old Philadelphia family, father’s business sound as a bell, daughter the only heiress, so they went ahead and gave their blessing.

“Sorter chartered a private train to take the Tippletons and the Pences to Philadelphia for the wedding, as I recall. Or maybe he simply sent them his private railway car. Anyway, it was quite a set out.” Mabel sniffed to show what she thought of private railway cars. “So there they were, all moonlight and roses for the next few years with the newlyweds billing and cooing and the Tippletons going around patting themselves on the back about Jack’s having made such a wonderful match. Then one fine day there’s a piece in
The Wall Street Journal
hinting that Sorter’s firm was heading for the rocks. Next thing we knew, Sorter himself was splashed all over the sidewalk in front of a New York hotel.”

“Oh, no!” Sarah gasped.

Mabel Kelling nodded in agreeable recollection. “They had to scrape him up with a shovel and bury him in a bucket. In a pauper’s grave, or he would have been if his creditors could have found a way to dig up the family plot and take that along with everything else. So there’s poor Jack, stuck with a wife who hasn’t a penny to her name. Can you imagine anything worse?”

“Yes, lots of things,” Sarah told her. Being married to Cousin Mabel, for instance, though she wasn’t reckless enough to say so. “I’ve been in a similar fix, you know, and I came out of it all right.”

“That remains to be seen. Besides, you had Walter’s money, such as it was. Martha got nothing at all except the undertaker’s bill, which Cousin Beddoes insisted on paying when the Tippletons wouldn’t touch it. Don’t ask me why he did, though it always seemed to me that second son of Martha’s favors Bed a little around the eyes. You needn’t repeat that to Emma.”

“I shouldn’t dream of it,” Sarah assured her. “Then Jenicot has older brothers. I hadn’t realized.”

“Oh yes, three of them. If it weren’t for those boys, I daresay Jack would have found some way to get out of the marriage once he realized what a terrible mistake he’d made, but he could hardly take the chance with no other grandsons in the family and his father so keen on keeping up the name. There’s nothing shaky about the Tippleton money, you know. I’m not saying Jack’s any great intellect, but you’ve got to give him credit for knowing which side his bread’s buttered on. His parents hadn’t any comeback about the marriage because it was Jack’s mother who checked out Martha’s connections and her father who ran the Dun & Bradstreet on Sorter’s finances. They were decent enough to Martha afterward, all things considered, but naturally they could never feel the same toward her again.”

Mabel waved the teapot vaguely in Sarah’s direction and set it down again. “Of course Jack didn’t, either. He’d been stepping around a little ever since her first pregnancy, but he’d been discreet about it up till then. Once the bloom was off the rose, he went ahead and did as he pleased, though he’s managed to stay out of any real scrape as far as I know.”

“And you would know,” Sarah murmured.

Mabel accepted the compliment, with a smirk. “I’m a pretty hard person to fool. But anyway, that’s how it’s gone ever since. Martha tried every trick in the book to hang on to Jack, but she didn’t get far. She’d been one of those early bloomers who lose their looks once they start having children.”

“I think she’s perfectly beautiful still.”

“Humph. What good’s your opinion going to do her? For heaven’s sake, Sarah, don’t go turning yourself into another sunshine girl like Appie. One in the family’s already more than the rest of us can stomach.”

Mabel emitted an all-purpose snort of derision for the world’s follies. “Sweetness and light didn’t help Martha any. She even went ahead and had that last child when she was old enough to know better. I suppose she thought a cute little daughter would keep Jack home nights. It might have worked, if Jenicot had been somebody else’s cute little daughter. I told Martha time and time again that she might as well quit trying because it wasn’t going to pan out no matter what she did, but I should have saved my breath. Try to be nice to a person, and what thanks do you get?”

“These things are sent to test us, Cousin Mabel.” Sarah looked at her watch again, making no bones about it this time. “Tell me about Sebastian Frostedd. Is he as black as he’s painted?”

No, it appeared he was a great deal worse. Mabel wasn’t half done mincing Sebastian to shreds when Heatherstone was at the door with a totally superfluous rug over his arm to usher Sarah to the car. On a final volley of acrimony, she ended her visit.

“E
NJOY YOUR LUNCH, SARAH?”

“About as much as I expected to.”

Sarah settled back against the gray velvet upholstery and smiled at Heatherstone’s gray broadcloth back as he steered the aging limousine homeward at a sedate thirty miles an hour. He seldom bothered to change into his livery; he’d worn his usual black box jacket to the crematorium. No doubt he’d put on the braided jacket and cap on purpose to give Cousin Mabel something else to steam about. The Heatherstones must manage to extract a good deal of fun from their job, one way and another. Maybe Zeriah did, too, though Sarah couldn’t see how.

“What’s my aunt up to now?” she asked.

“She went off by herself in the doodlebug. She wanted to check things out for tonight at the auditorium, and pick up some flowers for tomorrow at the florist’s. She doesn’t want to take any more out of the garden. It’s already looking kind of thin.”

“Why couldn’t she bring back the baskets after the show?”

“Oh, she’ll be sending those to the nursing home or somewhere. You know Mrs. Kelling. I suppose we might have brought ’em back tonight if we were having the cast party. Too bad we had to call it off, but it couldn’t be helped. Anyway, I expect most of them will be coming tomorrow. She said something about you arranging the flowers when she gets back, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all, I’d love to. Is there anything else she’d like me to do in the meantime?”

“She didn’t mention anything to me. You might as well take a little rest for yourself. You won’t get much tonight or tomorrow. We’ve already got about a hundred people coming for the memorial gathering, and I expect she’ll invite a few dozen more before the day’s out.”

“How in the world do you all three keep it up?” Sarah marveled.

“Oh, we’re used to it, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. Never a dull moment, that’s for sure. Our son’s been after us to retire and move in with him, but we tell him we’re perfectly happy with Mrs. Kelling and don’t want to quit till she kicks us out.”

“You know she’d never do that. I hope you’ll be together for a long time yet.”

This was getting sentimental. He’d be embarrassed. Sarah changed the subject.

“Heatherstone, have you been down cellar in the past couple of days?”

“Just to get wine for the table. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been thinking about Ernestina. She’d have been so awkward to take away, I’m wondering if whoever stole her might simply have hidden her someplace right in the house. Then when they’d collected the ransom money, assuming they ever get around to telling us how to pay it, they’d only have to say, ‘Go look behind the furnace,’ or wherever.”

“She’s not behind the furnace, I can tell you that. But you know, Sarah, that’s not such a dumb idea. There’s certain things Mrs. Kelling doesn’t expect Mrs. Heatherstone and me to do, and keeping track of that cellar is one of them. We generally get some college kid in once or twice a year to clean it up and straighten things out. Unless one of the family came along and started rooting around, you know how they do, I suppose you could slide the painting in underneath something else and it wouldn’t be noticed for months. I tell you what I’d do, though. I’d put Ernestina in the attic. It’s nice and dry up there and she wouldn’t be so apt to mildew.”

“That’s a thought. I’ll go up and have a look when we get back. I’m sure you and Mrs. Heatherstone are far too busy getting ready for tomorrow.”

“Well, you know how it is. Mrs. Heatherstone’s going to be baking all afternoon, which leaves me to do the silver and the rest of it. Added to which, Mrs. Kelling’s invited Mr. Frederick and the Tippletons to supper before the show and we’re trying to get everything organized so we can scoot off right after dessert. Got to be early if you want a seat down front.”

“That’s right, there aren’t any reserved seats, are there?”

“Nope, not a one. Mrs. Kelling knows her own friends would buy them up first crack off the bat, and that wouldn’t be fair to the rest. First come, first served is the way it’s always been and always will be as long as she’s running the show. Which still leaves Mrs. Heatherstone and me as free as anybody else to get down there early and grab ourselves a good spot, is how we look at it.”

“And you couldn’t be more right,” Sarah agreed. “I’m just praying everything goes without a hitch tonight. I don’t mind telling you I’ll be relieved to see Aunt Emma taking her curtain calls safe and sound.”

Even though these would be her last ones. No matter, Emma Kelling would find a new cause to hurl herself into. Provided she got the chance.

Sarah stayed in the car until Heatherstone had driven it into the carriage shed. She couldn’t see any good place to hide Ernestina here. The space was too open, and the cars were always coming and going. There’d be too many chances for the painting to be noticed, however well it was disguised.

She didn’t think much of Heatherstone’s suggestion about the attic, either, though she wouldn’t have hurt his feelings by saying so. Humping that heavy stretcher with its precious, fragile covering up two long nights of stairs, past two bedrooms whose occupants might or might not have succumbed to the drugged Slepe-o-tite, would have taken more nerve than brains. Any member of the cast must know Emma often went up there hunting for props. How could they be sure she wouldn’t develop a sudden yen for a feather boa to set off her bustle, and stumble over Ernestina in the course of the hunt?

Nevertheless, as soon as she’d changed out of her good linen suit, Sarah went up and had a look around. As expected, she found nothing that hadn’t been there a week ago except a family of newly hatched spiders whose acquaintance she didn’t much care to cultivate. Now her duty to Heatherstone was done. On to the cellar.

The cellar, she was forced to admit after over an hour’s futile tugging and pushing and crawling over the discards of the decades, was a bust. What next? Food, she decided. Cousin Mabel’s sardine hadn’t stayed with her long. She went upstairs, cleaned off the dust and cobwebs at the flower-room sink, and stepped into the kitchen.