The Withdrawing Room (22 page)

Sarah didn’t want to dwell on such thoughts. She didn’t want to think about Miss Hartler and what was to become of the old woman, either, but she couldn’t help it. There weren’t any relatives to look after her; that was why Bumps had stuck so close to Wumps all these years. Anyway, relatives didn’t come with any guarantee. What about those two sharks who’d rushed over here as soon as they heard of Mr. Quiffen’s death? What had they ever done for old Barnwell Augustus while he was alive, except perhaps to make sure he didn’t stay that way?

Since she was making up a list of possible swindlers, why exclude either the nephew or the cousin? They both knew Mr. Hartler was going to take over the dead man’s room because she’d told them so when she was urging them to get his stuff out quickly. They’d probably had some sort of casual acquaintance with Mr. Hartler, since he seemed to know everybody, and knew what a cinch he’d be to deal with. And, as Mr. Bittersohn would probably say, would she buy a used car from either of them?

But they had Mr. Quiffen’s money now, or would have once the estate was settled. And what if one of them couldn’t wait that long? And what if one, or both, might be in for a disappointment? She’d been so busy with her own concerns, she’d never checked back with George and Anora to find out who got how much. That cantankerous man might well have left a secret will cutting them both out and turning over the lot to some casual acquaintance out of pure cussedness. Somebody like William Hartler and his Iolani Palace project, for instance.

Oh, that was absurd! Why didn’t she concentrate on the most immediate problem? Did Miss Hartler have anybody to protect her interests, or did she not? Precisely how dangerous would it be to tell her she had to move?

How many of that mob there tonight realty cared about her and how many simply felt they ought to put in an appearance? Aunt Marguerite was putting on a great show of being Joanna’s loyal friend, but Sarah knew how much that was worth. How many times had she herself entreated Aunt Marguerite to invite Aunt Caroline, her own and only sister, for a week or a few days or even overnight so that Sarah and Alexander could have a little time to themselves? How many times had Marguerite found urgent and pressing reasons why she didn’t care to be bothered?

There were lots of delightful people in Newport. Sarah had met quite a few of them at those many parties which had meant a long drive down and a long drive back and often stark boredom in between. But she’d never met anyone interesting at Aunt Marguerite’s more than once or twice. The only acquaintances who stuck were the ones like Iris Pendragon, who hadn’t the wit or the wisdom to find places in more discerning company. And William Hartler, who was quaint and fun in his way and didn’t care whom he talked to so long as he got to talk, and his sister Joanna, who went wherever Wumps went.

After all, if the Hartlers had been particularly close to anybody in Newport, they’d have been reluctant to uproot themselves at their time of life and move back to Boston. If they’d had strong ties in Boston beforehand, they’d never have gone to Newport in the first place. That disappointing trip to Rome was an example of how they operated. Miss Joanna couldn’t ever have taken the trouble to know this Dorothea, who turned out to be totally different from the classmate she’d thought she remembered. People didn’t change a great deal as they aged, they only became more like whatever they’d started out to be in the first place.

Even Alexander must always have had that boy-stood-on-the-burning-deck streak in him, or he’d have found some way to break away from Aunt Caroline. Then he and Sarah would never have married, and his young widow wouldn’t be sitting here wondering who was going to get murdered next. A footfall sounded in the hallway, and she jumped a foot.

It was Mrs. Sorpende. “I thought you might be down here, Mrs. Kelling, after I rapped at your door and got no answer. You’re waiting for Miss Hartler, I expect.”

“Yes, I felt I ought to. I don’t know why, particularly, except that she’s an old woman going through a dreadful experience, and I’ve got her on my conscience because I plan to get rid of her as fast as possible and I’m wondering what’s going to happen to her after that.”

“And what about me?”

Sarah blinked. “What do you mean?”

Mrs. Sorpende was standing square in front of her, those lovely, tapered hands twisted into an ugly, white-knuckled knot. “Please, Mrs. Kelling, don’t try to spare my feelings. Just tell me. Do I stay or go?”

All Sarah could think of to say was, “It depends.”

“On what?”

How did one answer that? On whether you happen to be the person who’s killing off my boarders? Sarah hedged as best she could.

“Mrs. Sorpende, I can’t tell you at this point because I don’t know. I started this boardinghouse thing in the hope of helping myself out of a dreadful mess, as you know. So far all it’s brought me is worse trouble. I may be able to carry on with it, or I may not. As for you personally, if you think I feel any more embarrassed by your job than I do about my Uncle Jem’s pretensions to satyriasis or my Cousin Dolph’s making a jackass of himself in public about once a week, forget it. I want Miss Hartler out because she’s even more disruptive than her brother was and harder to get along with than Mr. Quiffen. You know I like you as a boarder because I’ve already told you so. That’s as plain as I can put it.”

“That’s as plain as anyone could want it. You’re a most unusual woman, Mrs. Kelling.”

“Am I? Perhaps so. I never had a chance to be usual. I didn’t even go to school. I learned from my parents and out of books. I’ve never been anywhere except to visit among the family. My husband was also my fifth cousin once removed, whom I’d known all my life. That’s hardly a normal sort of existence, is it?”

“No, I don’t suppose it would be, from your point of view. As it happens, I myself had much the same sort of upbringing. The main difference was that you lived comfortably in a stable environment, and I slept in the corners of empty stores, in whichever city we hadn’t yet been driven out of.”

“Your people were refugees?”

“No, they were gypsies. At least my mother was. My father, as far as I know, was a college student who happened to be doing research in sociology and got more closely involved with his subject than he meant to. I haven’t the faintest idea what his name was. My mother hadn’t got around to asking when the police came and moved her family on. She didn’t even know she was pregnant until it was far too late to go back and try to find out. She was fourteen at the time, which didn’t constitute an acceptable excuse for her behavior according to our rules.”

“But she was only a child!”

“Gypsy girls aren’t children at fourteen, Mrs. Kelling. Anyway, she never got a second chance to stray. From the time I can remember, my mother was worked like a dog and watched like a hawk. She’d managed to pick up a little schooling here and there. I myself was never allowed to attend school for fear I might pick up the sorts of ideas that were supposed to have led to my mother’s downfall, but she taught me what she could.

“We read anything: scraps of newspaper we found in the gutter, billboards, cracker boxes, movie posters. One of my aunts, who was more sympathetic than the rest, used to shoplift a book for us now and then. It might be anything from
Peter Rabbit
to
How to Make Out Your Income Tax,
but we’d pore over it as if it were the world’s greatest treasure.”

“I’ve always been the same way,” said Sarah, trying to establish some sort of rapport with this haunted creature. “I even read the labels on aspirin bottles. But do go on.”

As if by some compulsion, Mrs. Sorpende kept pouring out her story. “I suppose I didn’t have as bad a life as some. Gypsies are indulgent with their children as a rule. Even I, the little bastard, was never beaten or left to go hungry. I was often cold, but that was on account of the miserable places we lived in, and I was seldom clean because there’d be no hot water or soap. But I survived, and learned to
dukker.
Tell fortunes, that is. I did it rather well, perhaps because reading gave wider scope to my powers of invention, but I was hopeless at the little tricks that tend to go with the fortunes. Consequently I never made more than the legitimate fees, and that didn’t boost my stock in the family much.

“To make a long story short, when I was about twelve or thirteen, my mother simply gave up and died. The night of the funeral, I ran away. I stole a dress off a clothesline, leaving my gypsy clothes in its place to persuade myself I wasn’t really stealing, and lied about my age and got a job in a diner washing dishes. The pay wasn’t much but the food was all right and I didn’t mind sleeping on the floor behind the counter because that was the only sort of bed I knew.

“Then the counterman got funny. I broke a plate over his head and ran off again, and lied a little harder and got myself promoted to waitressing in a greasy spoon restaurant. I was on my way up. By the end of that year, I owned a good pair of shoes, a decent dress, and even a warm winter coat. I’d learned how to sleep in a bed and eat with a knife and fork. I even knew what a napkin was for. I’d discovered the public libraries where I could get all the books I wanted without paying a cent, and I’d settled on my life’s ambition. I was going to be a lady.”

She laughed at herself. ‘That sounds absurd to you, I’m sure, but it meant everything to me. Some day I’d live in a grand house and be waited on by a maid and a butler. I’d wear a long evening gown and jewels in my hair when I came down to dinner. That was the dream I sustained myself with while I was slinging hash and dodging grabby hands and fishing nickel tips out of the cigarette ashes and gravy. Some day they wouldn’t be treating me like this. Some day they’d respect me. Some day I’d be somebody.

“Well, I shan’t bore you with my whole life’s history. I took lessons in elocution and deportment, once I’d found out what those words meant, from a drunk who’d played bit parts with Gloria Swanson and Theda Bara. That was as close as I ever got to greatness. I attracted the wrong sort of man and made a rotten marriage that lasted far too long. Now I’m back telling fortunes and clearing up dirty dishes. But I’m living in a beautiful house with a maid and a butler to wait on me, and I come sweeping down to dinner in a long evening dress with jewels in my hair. Your hard luck gave me the chance to fulfill my lifelong dream. If that’s any consolation to you, take it and welcome.”

“It is and thank you. But would you kindly tell me why, if it’s been your lifelong dream to become a fine lady with jewels in your hair, you go slopping down Tremont Street in dirty sneakers and a frowsy kerchief? Surely that’s not part of the dream, too?”

Mrs. Sorpende flushed. “No, that was an attempt to protect my position with you. Since the distance between here and the teashop is so short, I worried about being recognized. I know it’s a dreadfully tacky disguise, but it’s easy and didn’t cost me anything. My means are a good deal more than straitened, as you must realize by now. I hoped that if I could manage to keep my two identities separate, I might squeak through a few more weeks here. No doubt you find the whole performance absurd, but please try to realize that illusion has been my way of life for a very long time.”

“I do realize, but wouldn’t you like to indulge in a spot of reality for a change? I suggest you throw away those ghastly sneakers and dress as you want to. If anyone from the house should happen to find out about the tea-leaf reading, tell them it’s your hobby. If they ask whether I know, tell them yes and I may be hitting you up for a job any day now. Oh, and one other thing. Did you ever actually meet Vangie Bodkin?”

“Is that her first name? No, I’m afraid it’s just something that stuck in my head from the society pages. My required reading, you know.”

“Perhaps you should start reading the obituaries, too,” Sarah suggested gently. “It appears Mrs. Bodkin’s been dead for quite some while. I think that’s Miss Hartler’s car stopping out front now. Good night, Mrs. Sorpende.”

M
ISS HARTLER WAS IN
a state that fluctuated wildly between overwhelming gratification at the number of people who’d turned out to say good-by to dear Wumps and overwhelming grief at the thought of tomorrow’s funeral. Charles got her into the house and strong-armed her into drinking enough brandy to quiet her down so that Sarah and Mariposa could put her to bed.

“Thank heaven that’s done,” sighed the weary landlady. “Has Mr. Bittersohn come in the back way, by any chance?”

“No, madam,” said Charles. “The gentleman has not yet returned.”

‘Then we’d better leave the front hall light on and the night latch off.”

“Mr. Bittersohn will be more apt to come through the alley, madam. As you may recall, you yourself gave him a set of keys to the basement door because of his necessarily irregular hours.”

“So I did. Turn on the alleyway lamps so he won’t fall over the trash cans and scoot along to bed yourselves. He’ll show up sooner or later, no doubt.”

Mr. Bittersohn did not show up. Mariposa reported at breakfast time that his bed had not been slept in.

“Maybe he slept someplace else, huh?” she suggested with an innocent smile.

“Go take Miss Hartler her poached egg,” said Sarah crossly, “then get your mind out of the gutter and on to the dishes. If your niece’s play starts at eleven, you’d better be out of here by ten. What if the subway breaks down again?”

She still hadn’t told her faithful allies about the impending swarm, and she didn’t want to start preparations in front of Mariposa for fear the helper would insist on staying and miss her big family event. There wasn’t all that much to do, anyway. The house was clean, she had plenty of crackers and things for people to nibble on, and a whole case of sherry obtained at a substantial discount from a friend of Charles’s who was alleged to have come by the wine honestly.

Uncle Jem, Dolph, and the invaluable Egbert had all agreed to lend a hand, and she was fairly confident Mr. Bittersohn would send that staff member he’d promised even though he himself had not appeared by noontime when Miss Hartler tottered out of her room swathed in musty black and quavered, “Marguerite should be here any minute. Aren’t you ready, Sarah dear?”