The Plain Old Man (20 page)

More questions, fewer answers. And here came Aunt Emma with her bundles. Sarah gave it up and went to fetch in the flowers.

“We have a surprise for you, Aunt Emma.”

“A happy one, I hope. If not, don’t tell me. What is it?”

“It’s Ernestina. We’ve found her.”

“Where?”

“Under the dining-room table.”

“Impossible! How would she get there?”

Sarah gave what explanation she could. Emma Kelling shook her head. “Utterly ridiculous! How did they know I mightn’t decide to give a small formal dinner party, and want the leaves taken out?”

“Don’t ask me, but there she was.”

“Well, I must say this strikes me as a singularly ill-run operation.”

Emma’s hand strayed to the gold pencil dangling on her bosom. Sarah had a wild thought that she was about to go get one of her blue notebooks and take charge.

“We left Ernestina under the table, lying on the rug,” she told her aunt. “She was too heavy for the Heatherstones and me to put back into the frame.”

“Heavens, yes. You mustn’t dream of trying. Anyway, now that she’s down, I may as well go ahead and have her cleaned. Do let’s remember to lock the dining-room door tomorrow, though, in case somebody happens to bring a child along. That dining-room table always draws them like a magnet, I can’t think why. As a rule, of course, I let them play there all they like. There’s really nothing fragile within grabbing distance, and it keeps them out from under foot. I do hope to goodness nobody does bring a child. I don’t know about you, but I’m beginning to feel a trifle frayed about the edges. Now about those flowers, Sarah. The best thing would be to leave them conditioning in the plant room overnight and do them in the morning, if you think you can manage.”

“No problem. I shan’t have anything much else to do. Or will I?”

“I can’t think what, though no doubt something will come to me. Take them into the flower room, then. We did leave the buckets there, didn’t we?”

“I’ll go see.”

Sarah gathered up the bright sheaves, sniffing at the freesias as she went. Aunt Emma was always careful to choose cut flowers for their fragrance as well as their beauty, unlike Aunt Appie, who’d presented Sarah and Max with a basketful of Christmas greens that smelled like a courting tomcat once they were brought into a warm room.

“Don’t forget we’re having early supper tonight,” her aunt called after her. “If you’re planning to change, you’d better do it soon.”

That might be taken as a hint. Sarah quickly stripped the flowers of excess foliage, cut the stems at a slant, and plunged them into water. Then she went upstairs and put on a loose cotton gauze shift with some silver, agate, and turquoise jewelry Max had bought her off the sidewalk in Santa Fe. The costume was quite elegant enough for Emma Kelling’s table, or anybody else’s she was likely to get invited to, yet it would be practical for backstage. She was looking forward to doing the makeups again tonight.

By the time she’d fixed her hair and got back downstairs, Cousin Frederick and all three Tippletons had arrived. Jack was working his charm on Emma in an offhand way, and devoting more serious attention to his drink. Frederick was concentrating wholeheartedly on Martha. For a noncharmer, he appeared to be managing well enough. Martha looked more alive than Sarah had ever seen her before. The color in her face hadn’t been artificially induced, she was smiling at something Frederick was telling her. Those enormous dark eyes were, if not actually dancing, at least giving the impression that they wouldn’t mind trying.

Jenicot was sitting by herself on one of Emma’s brocaded satin love seats, staring at her mother as if Martha were some odd specimen that had got out of its bottle. Sarah went over and sat down beside her.

“All set for tonight, Jenicot?”

“I guess so. If I don’t forget my lines.”

“Why should you? You were fine at rehearsal last night. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Heatherstone got her candy.”

“Candy?” Jenicot’s eyes went as big as her mother’s. “What candy?”

“That box of liqueur cherries Mrs. Pence’s mother asked you and Parker to bring over. Mrs. Heatherstone hadn’t thanked Mrs. Sabine because somehow or other it got to be Sebastian Frostedd who handed them to her, and she thought they were from him.”

“Oh, that. I’d forgotten. It was so totally unimportant. Shouldn’t we be eating, so we can get to the theater on time?”

“Don’t fret, I’m sure Aunt Emma has us timed to the second.”

That was not what Sarah wanted to say. Little witch! The candy had not been totally unimportant to the person who sent it, or to the one Mrs. Sabine had wanted to have it. Jenicot Tippleton needed her ears pinned back.

Sarah did not intend to do the pinning, though, not tonight. She wasn’t about to turn anybody’s first-night jitters into a full-scale fit. She made another noncommittal remark or two, to which Jenicot responded in surly monosyllables. Then Cousin Frederick said something, and Martha Tippleton laughed out loud. It was a sound Sarah hadn’t thought she could make.

“Your mother’s in great spirits tonight,” she said to Jenicot. “I’ve never seen her looking so well.”

“She’s the most beautiful woman who ever lived.” The ferocity in Jenicot’s voice was startling. So the girl did have some feelings, after all. “Don’t you think so? Honestly, Sarah?”

That was a plea Sarah could never have refused even if she’d wanted to. “I think she’s absolutely ravishing,” she replied with perfect truth. “I was saying so to one of my cousins at lunchtime, as a matter of fact.”

“Which one?”

“Mabel.”

“Oh, her.” Jenicot went back to scowling at the hearthrug. After a while, she got around to speaking again. “The thing of it is, Mama’s—well, she wasn’t exactly a kid when I was born. My brother Marsden’s almost forty, you know.”

“Actually I didn’t. It hardly seems possible your mother could have a son that age.”

This was what Jenicot wanted to hear, but it wasn’t enough. “Your Cousin Mabel thinks Mama’s a mess. She told Mama so.”

Sarah laughed. “Heavens, you don’t care about that, do you? Mabel thinks everybody’s a mess. Have a cheese straw.”

“I know, but—” Jenicot nibbled the end off her cheese straw. “What if—you know—other people—”

Whatever Jenicot was about to confide, Sarah never got to hear. The doorbell’s wild jangling startled them all into silence, then Gillian Bruges flung herself into the room.

“Mrs. Kelling! Mrs. Kelling!”

She was screaming and sobbing, stumbling over the carpet. Heatherstone was at her heels, making agitated noises. A youngish man in a red T-shirt and some kind of uniform cap was beside him, talking fast and loud, making oversized gestures. Sarah barely had time to gasp at what a wreck Gillian looked when the uninvited arrival was hurling herself into Mrs. Kelling’s arms, burying her face on Mrs. Kelling’s shoulder.

Emma was trying to support her, fend her off, and get her to make sense, and not having much luck all around. “Gillian, what’s the matter? What happened? Were you in an accident?”

“She got mugged.”

This was the strange man speaking. He’d remembered his cap, and snatched it off. “I picked her up at the corner of Main and Temple. I’m a cabbie, in case you’re wondering. I was on my way back to the garage and I see this woman standing out in the road waving me down. She looks like she’s been hit by a truck. So I stop and ask her what’s the matter? She tells me these two guys forced her off the road, dragged her out of her car, beat her up, and took off in the car. She was pretty hysterical, like she is now. I said I better take her to the police station but she kept yelling, ‘No! No! Mrs. Kelling.’ So naturally I figured she must mean you. I hope it’s okay.”

“Oh yes, quite all right.” There was a sigh in Emma’s voice. “Hush, Gillian, you’re safe now. Get her some brandy, Heatherstone. Oh, and pay this kind man his fare.”

“Hey, that’s okay. I don’t want any money. I wouldn’t feel right.”

The man was backing toward the door, clutching his cap in front of him with both hands. “Just so I know she’s okay. You better get some ice on that eye, miss.”

In a confusion of thank yous and how dreadfuls, he was gone before Heatherstone, who’d been trying to get Gillian to sip some brandy, could see him to the door. After a few swallows of the brandy, Gillian calmed down enough to show her face. It was a mess. She must have been knocked down and had her head rubbed in the dirt. An ugly scrape disfigured her left cheek. The eye was red and puffed, swelling for a shiner. She was filthy, trembling, still half distraught.

“He should have taken her to the police station,” Cousin Frederick was insisting.

“Or the hospital,” Martha said. “Shall I call an ambulance?”

That set Gillian off again. “No, please! Let me stay here. I’ll be all right. Truly, Mrs. Kelling.”

“But we must report the theft of your car.”

“The cabbie did. He stopped a cruiser. They know already. They asked me questions. I showed them my registration.”

“Where was it?” Sarah asked her.

Gillian only stared.

“If they robbed you and took your car,” Sarah repeated slowly, “how did you still have your registration? Where was it?”

“In my purse. They didn’t take that. See?”

She showed them a little oblong of purple leather, still dangling from her shoulder by the narrowest possible strap. There was nothing much inside but a lipstick, comb, door key, and a slim card case.

“Did they take your money?”

“I didn’t have much. Just a ten-dollar bill. Maybe that’s why they hit me so hard. I—” Before anybody could grab her, Gillian slid to the floor.

Jack Tippleton wasn’t being very gallant by his damsel in distress, Sarah noted. It was Heatherstone and Cousin Frederick who got Gillian up on the sofa and Jenicot who ran for ice to put on her face. The eye was almost shut now, turning purple.

“She’ll never be able to go on,” said Martha, taking the ice bag from her daughter and laying it against Gillian’s face.

“But I’ve got to!” Gillian pushed the ice away, sat up, and flopped back. “Only my head hurts so.”

“I hope she doesn’t have a concussion,” Emma fretted. “Heatherstone, you’d better call an ambulance.”

“No, don’t,” Gillian pleaded. “I’ll be all right if you’ll just let me rest here.”

“But, Gillian, we can’t all go off and leave you alone.” Jack Tippleton had finally found his voice.

“I’ll stay with her,” Sarah volunteered.

“You can’t,” said Emma Kelling. “You’ll have to sing Constance.”

“Me? Aunt Emma, you can’t mean it.”

“Certainly I mean it. You managed nicely the other night with poor Charlie. Sarah, there is nobody else available, it’s two hours to curtain time, and I do not propose to argue the matter. Now come along to supper, everybody. Gillian, do you think you could eat something?”

“I’m afraid I’d be sick. I just want to be quiet.”

“Best thing for her,” said Frederick. “Come on, Emma, let’s put on the feed bag. Hurry up, Sarah. A full belly maketh a stiff upper lip.”

T
HE MEAL MRS. HEATHERSTONE
set out in the breakfast room was a simple one: mainly chowder, fruit, and cheese. Even that was too much for Sarah. She nibbled a pilot biscuit and took a spoonful or two of the chowder, but there was a lump in the middle of her chest the food couldn’t seem to get past. After a few tries, she gave up.

“Aunt Emma, may I be excused? If I’ve got to do Constance, I’d better take a look at my lines.”

“Of course, dear. Don’t be too long about it, though. We’ll have to leave in fifteen minutes if we’re to have time to change. And, oh dear, I’m afraid you’ll still have to help with the makeups.”

Frederick, who’d dispatched his chowder with the speed of an old bachelor used to catch-as-catch-can dining, shoved back his chair. “I’ll come with you, Sarah.”

“But don’t you want anything more to eat?” Emma asked him.

“No. Fruit makes me bilious and cheese is too binding. Come on, Sarah. Let’s run through that number where you tell me you love me madly.”

“All right, but we mustn’t disturb Gillian. Come into the dining room and shut the door.”

Once they were alone, though, Sarah didn’t begin to sing. Instead, she beckoned him over to where Lady Ernestina and her dove lay staring up at the underside of the table. “Let’s put her back the way she was,” she whispered.

“What for?” Frederick hissed back.

“I want to see whether we can manage it by ourselves.”

“Oh, I get you. Detecting. Good show.”

The two of them crawled under the table and went to work. It was surprisingly easy once they got the hang of taking one end at a time. All they had to do was raise the top of the stretcher and hook it over the handles at one end of the table, then boost the bottom and slide it into place over the other pair of handles, so in fact they never had to juggle the full weight of the painting. They had Ernestine back inside the apron in about two minutes, singing loudly all the while for the benefit of those in the breakfast room.

Then Frederick held the book for Sarah while she tried out her lines for the opener. Then they heard, “Come along, you two, we’ve no more time to waste.”

That was Emma, herding her flock together. “Now let’s see. I have the list of numbers for Gillian, and that cordless telephone Little Bed gave me for my birthday. Oh, and the aspirin and the ice bucket. For her face, you know. Poor girl, what a dreadful thing to happen just now. Sarah, you can’t possibly think this has anything to do with—you know what. Can you? I’m actually having a small qualm about whether I ought to cancel the performance,” she murmured, so softly that nobody but Sarah and Frederick could hear.

“You mustn’t do that,” Sarah told her. “We’ve already had our calamity for tonight, I think. I doubt very much that anything will go wrong at the theater.”

“I certainly hope you’re right.”

“She’d better be,” said Frederick. “I’ve personally hired two of Sergeant Formsby’s men to stand guard backstage all through the performance. If they slip up, they’ll have to whistle for their pay and I’ve told ’em so.”

“Fred, you did that for me? My dear, I’m touched.”