The Balloon Man Read online

  “Where you've no damned business being,” Jem remarked with typical Kelling courtesy. “Gate crashing a private wedding, or maybe tent crashing is what I mean. Where's the champagne?”

  Even close up, the two tent crashers would have been hard to distinguish one from the other. They were bundled up against the chill of the upper air, in identical orange down jackets and heavy dark slacks. Heavy plastic helmets, like the ones worn by sensible motorcyclists, concealed any hair they might have possessed.

  “What champagne?” The interrupter pulled off his helmet. His graying hair was cropped short, and his voice was definitely baritone. Not that that meant anything. Max had known a number of women, several of them related to Sarah, who displayed both characteristics.

  Instead of answering, Jem peered keenly at the speaker. “You're a Zickery!”

  Max nudged his wife. “What's a Zickery?” he whispered. “Any connection with the Shriners or the Convivial Codfish?”

  “They must be members of the family that owns that ramshackle old mansion across the road,” Sarah whispered back. “No one was living there in my time, but Uncle Jem probably knew the family.”

  The Zickery stared back at Jem. “And you're a Kelling. Should have known. Asking for booze before he even says hello. Is this Ireson's Landing, then? What happened to the old yellow house?”

  “It was torn down and completely rebuilt about eight years ago by my niece Sarah Kelling and her husband, Max Bittersohn. I'm Jeremy Kelling. If you're my age, you must have been Harvard class of 1940, and gone straight from ROTC into the army with your second lieutenant's bar all shined up.”

  “Well, we do keep hearing that its a small world. I remember you, way back from when we were children, though you've changed a lot, and not for the better. You always had a peanut-butter sandwich in your hand; we assumed you must be starving over there; though you certainly never looked as though you were.”

  Jem was enjoying himself. This was more like it, someone with whom to exchange insults. “We used to feel sorry for you because you had to go all the way to the general store to get anything to eat while we had so much good food right around us. So which one of the Zickerys are you?”

  “Alister. You must have been at Harvard in my brother Emmett's time, then. I came along two years later. We ought to have a drink on that sometime. Your place, of course.”

  “Whatever happened to Emmett?”

  “Not a great deal. He's still collecting postage stamps. And making quite a good thing of them, surprisingly enough. He married one of the Tippletons; they have a philately shop in Manhattan, a country place in Sewickley, and a pied-à-terre on Nob Hill in San Francisco. They travel a lot.”

  Max was used to the Killings' habit of maundering on about old times with anyone and everyone, but this was a bit much for a man who'd seen his nephew married, been smacked on the shins by a lunatic burglar, and found a ruby necklace that had no business being where it was. He was about to intervene when the mute, unmoving figure at Alister's side broke its silence.

  “Allie. You are forgetting your manners.”

  “I'm sorry, Callie. Folks, I neglected to introduce my fellow aeronaut. My twin sister, Calpurnia Zickery.”

  Callie, or Calpurnia, as the case might be, removed her own helmet.

  Davy tugged at his father's hand. “I told you they were Martians,” he hissed.

  “Davy!” Sarah went pink with embarrassment, and Max tried to hide his smile. He knew where his intelligent son had gotten the idea, from a science-fiction television show about clones. Except for the fact that Calpurnia's hair was a little longer than Alister's, they might have been decanted from adjoining test tubes. Davy's mother restricted his television viewing to high-minded educational programs and any children's show that did not feature purple dinosaurs, but some of Davy's mother's relatives weren't so fussy. Uncle Jem had a weakness for old Star Trek shows, particularly the ones in which the female crew members sashayed around the Enterprise in sleek black tights and skirts that barely covered the essentials. Jem had been thoroughly put out when the producers of the show had yielded to the complaints of those who pointed put that this smacked not only of sexism, but of a certain lack of military discipline,

  “How do you do,” Max said. “I don't want to seem inhospitable, but we've got a wedding going on here and your balloon has just flattened the main tent. Couldn't you have set down somewhere else?”

  “Frightfully sorry,” said Alister Zickery. “We were heading for our own property, but one can't always put the thing down where one wants to. Air currents and, er, that sort of thing.” He waved rather vaguely at the balloon, which was now crumpling ponderously onto the ground. The third member of the crew, in a matching helmet and orange overalls, was directing the operation, enthusiastically assisted by some of the younger guests.

  Calpurnia had been looking fixedly at Davy. “Charming,” she murmured. “What a sweet little boy. We're going to be neighbors, sweet little boy. Will you come down and see me some time?”

  “No, you don't, Callie,” her brother exclaimed. “No children. I told you that. I won't have 'em around.”

  “That's enough of that, Allie,” his sister said sharply. “We've kept these good people too long. It's time we were getting home. Good night, all.”

  As one they nodded, wheeled, locked arms, and marched away across the lawn.

  “Where are they going?” Sarah asked.

  “The old Zickery house, I guess,” Jem said.

  “But it's a wreck! They can't stay there. Maybe we ought to—”

  “Oh, no, you don't.” Max caught his wife's hand in a fond but firm grip. “It's been a long day, süssele, and I refuse to welcome that pair to our home and hearth. If they planned to end their balloon ride hereabouts, they must have made arrangements for accommodations. You don't know that the Zickery place is uninhabitable. Maybe they've been renovating it. I've seen a few trucks heading down that overgrown drive during the past week.”

  “So have I, come to think of it,” Sarah admitted. “You're right, darling, it's been a long day, and we have other responsibilities, especially to this young man.”

  Davy knew what that meant. “Not sleepy,” he said firmly.

  5

  Except for the catering crew, who were still packing up leftover food, and hoisting tables and chairs into their trucks, everybody had gone except Jem and Egbert. Not having lived anywhere that wasn't within walking distance of Louisburg Square, Jeremy Kelling had never learned to drive a car. Egbert could drive, but like that of most senior citizens, his night vision wasn't as good as it had once been, and he preferred not to buck the city traffic after dark. The two elders had come prepared to stay overnight. In the morning Jem's faithful though frequently exasperated henchman would drive him back to the souvenir-laden flat on Pinckney Street where they had lived since before Sarah was born.

  Jem was depressed. Except for the brief, refreshingly rude interlude with an old acquaintance, and the triumph of his performance on the dance floor, he had not had a happy day. He'd found his vaunted skill as a bartender redundant among a gathering where Earl Grey tea and hazelnut coffee were favored by a long shot over the near lethal double martinis that he was used to mixing for his comrades of the Convivial Codfish.

  He had finally turned over the bartending to Egbert, who could pour a glass of Orange Crush, root beer, or Camel Cola without wincing. As for himself, he'd skulked off to gaze wistfully seaward to the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind was like a whetted knife, or might have been if the wind had been blowing harder and the knife more keenly sharpened.

  All he'd asked, after all, had been a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover and a long martini and a strong martini when the long trick was over. And what had he got? Heartburn, that was what. Little had he wotted while he'd been pigging out on far too many of those beguiling little pastries that some of the guests had called piroshki, others had called knishes, and the rest called simply yummy th
at they would all give rise in due time to pretty much the same kind of burp.

  Never let it be said, however, that Jem Kelling did not know his duty. After the multitudes had departed and the survivors had settled down in the living room, he graciously offered to mix a drink for Max. Max refused on the grounds that he had his wife, his son, and his liver to think of, but he knew how to take a hint, especially from Jem. Retiring to the kitchen where the remaining bottles and glasses had been taken, he stirred up a martini from the recipe that had been handed down from Great-Uncle Serapis Kelling, a founding father of the Comrades of the Convivial Codfish. Passing over such frivolities as a stuffed olive or a twist of lemon peel, Serapis's procedure had been and still was, even though Serapi's no longer graced the mortal scene, to lift the cork from the well-chilled vermouth bottle, wave the cork back and forth three times, slowly but not too slowly, over the well-chilled gin in the well-chilled glass, then shove the cork back into the bottle, pick up the glass, and carry on from there in the accustomed manner. It was really quite simple, once one got the hang of it. And a good thing, too, Max thought. He wasn't up to complex recipes just then. He managed to concentrate long enough to pour a glass of orange juice for his son and a slug of Old Blatherskite for Egbert, who seldom imbibed but who probably felt the need tonight. After profound cogitation he added a slug of schnapps for himself. It had been quite a day, and the worst was yet to come.

  With so many good things available all day and so many good people telling their host and hostess how good it all was, the said host and hostess had had hardly any time to get any food for themselves. Sarah insisted they must eat something, and she and Egbert put together enough of the leftovers to make a light meal. Ignoring Davy's demands for wedding cake and/or knishes, she made him a bowl of milk toast and managed to get a few bites into him before he showed signs of falling facedown into the bowl.

  “Never mind, katzele,” Max said, scooping the sleepy cherub into his arms. “You can be sure he had a good healthy lunch at Mrs. Blufert's. He's too tired to eat.”

  “Let him sleep it off,” Jem agreed. The food, or more likely the martini, had given him his second wind. “That's what I always do. Good night, Davy”

  By the time Max had exchanged Davy's once neat shirt and shorts for a pair of pajamas printed with dinosaurs and tucked him into bed with his alligator, the phone had rung several times. He joined the others in the living room, and Sarah reported on the calls. Miriam and Ira, back home in Ireson Town, nonchalantly slapping together a sumptuous gourmet dinner for some out-of-state cousins, had telephoned to ask if they hadn't changed their mind about joining the group. They hadn't, though Sarah expressed her appreciation between yawns. The newlyweds had phoned from the airport to send Sarah and Max a special message of love and gratitude for their wonderful wedding; but they'd had to hang up quickly because their flight was being called. The head caterer had stopped by to apologize for not striking the tent, which was hardly his fault since the remains of the tent were still buried under the crumpled folds of the balloon.

  “I told him it wasn't our balloon and that I hadn't the faintest idea what to do with it,” Sarah said. “What does one do with an abandoned hot-air balloon?”

  “One calls on the owners and threatens them with legal action if they don't get the damned thing off our property,” Max said. “I think it has to be folded up or rolled up, and loaded onto a truck, along with the basket.”

  “How big a truck?” Sarah demanded. “If they mess up Cousin Anne's beautiful landscaping, I'll murder them.”

  “We'll make sure they don't,” Max promised, hoping he was not speaking optimistically. “Don't worry, darling, if the Zickerys don't show up of their own accord, burbling apologies, I'll run over there and speak a kindly word.”

  “I'll go with you and speak a less than kindly word,” Jem promised. The prospect obviously pleased him. “Imagine that pair turning up after all these years.”

  “What do you know about them?” Max asked, hoping the question sounded casual. It had occurred to him, as it would to any trained searcher out of other people's treasures, that the appearance of the long-lost Zickerys might not be entirely unconnected with the other odd occurrences of the day.

  Jem settled back to enjoy his reminiscences. “There were a lot of them. They came and went all summer long, just as the Kellings did. I don't know whether they had some kind of rota or whether it was a case of first in with the most luggage. I have a dim recollection of iron cots with thin mattresses and chamber pots underneath. We had pretty much the same kind of setup on our side of the road, but we weren't quite as barbaric as the Zickerys. They were an insouciant lot, they didn't appear to worry over dirty dishes in the sink until they ran out of things to put food in.”

  “From what I've heard about Aunt Tiberia, she wouldn't have allowed that sort of thing here,” Sarah put in.

  Jem chuckled. “That's right, you never knew Aunt Tiberia Kelling; she'd been gone for quite a while before you started coming here. She drilled us all to wash whatever dishes we'd used as soon as they were empty, and not to expect anything special in the way of food. The menu was porridge in the morning and sandwiches for lunch, to be taken outdoors so that we wouldn't be scattering crumbs all over the floor if it was fine, and to be eaten in the carriage house if it rained.”

  “That must have been fun,” said Sarah doubtfully.

  “Up to a point. At suppertime we ate simple food like meat loaf and baked beans. For dessert we might get biscuits with molasses on them. They were pretty good,” Jem said, his eyes misty with memory. “We also picked berries and apples, which Aunt Tiberia made into blueberry slump or apple cobbler, whichever was appropriate. They were good, too.”

  “Did the Zickerys go berry picking with you?” Max nudged gently.

  “Oh, no. They had a car that they used to go into town for supplies. We Kellings walked, two miles there and two miles back. There wasn't much there, only a little country general store, but we could get cookies and licorice whips and bull's-eyes. I haven't tasted a bull's-eye since I was about ten years old.”

  Sarah patted his hand sympathetically. He gave her a rakish grin and reached for the cocktail shaken “Gins better.”

  “So go on,” Max said. “Did you have any special friends among the Zickerys?”

  “We Kellings didn't mingle much. There were always plenty of us around, of all ages, shapes, and descriptions; pinching the pennies, not wasting food, taking our baths in warm tidal pools because the ocean water was too cold for our tender skins and the undertow could be dangerous. On Saturday nights, we got to use well water for our baths. If it rained, we stood outdoors in our bathing suits and enjoyed the impromptu showers at no cost to us or the elements. Sometimes a Zickery or two would join in. You should have seen Zenobia in her two-piece bathing suit.”

  Jem smacked his lips and finished his martini. Sarah smiled at him. A two-piece bathing suit had not been then what it was today, if indeed todays was anything at all. Zenobia's had probably been a sturdy all-wool chemise that hugged the body tightly and snapped between the legs with strong grippers. Over this went an all-wool skirt secured with an inchwide belt of strong white webbing and a businesslike clasp. But back then the older ladies who haunted the beach with their parasols and pairs of binoculars with which to keep their eagle eyes on the nubile females and dashing young males would have been scandalized by Zenobia's shocking display of uncovered flesh.

  Max was unmoved by Jem's lascivious memories. An ear-splipping yawn lengthened his ruggedly handsome face, and Sarah said tenderly, “Darling, hadn't you better get to bed?”

  “I wish I could,” Max said. “I wish you could, too. I was tempted to wait till morning before breaking the news, but it looks as if tomorrow will be another busy day. Don't look so scared, süssele, it isn't that kind of bad news, nobody's been hurt or threatened.”

  After tucking Davy into bed, he had removed the velvet cases from the safe in his and Sarah's room a
nd brought them downstairs, covering the case with copies of Brides' Bulletin so he could keep a weather eye on them without the others noticing their presence until he was ready to introduce the subject. Might as well let Sarah relax and Jem get well oiled before he stirred things up again.

  His forlorn hope that Sarah would be able to explain the presence of the parure faded as soon as he uncovered the cases. Her look of mild surprise made it obvious she didn't recognize them. No reason why she should; she had never seen the actual jewels, only the painted or photographed images. He opened the case that held the necklace. Rubies and gold caught the light in a blinding glitter, and Sarah gasped.

  “Max! Is it… It can't be. But it is. Isn't it?”

  “Damn right it is,” said Jeremy Kelling, squinting my-opically at the extravagant object. “Good work, Max. I take it these other boxes contain the rest of the parure. How did you manage to track it down, and whom did you hire to steal it back?”

  “I appreciate your commendation, Jem, but I don't deserve it. The damned thing turned up this afternoon, on a table in the library among the wedding gifts. It hadn't been there an hour earlier, and there was no name on the card under it. So it didn't arrive by the usual channels?”

  Sarah had got her breath back. “Good heavens, no. Do you suppose I'd have calmly added it to the collection and not bothered to mention it to you? I don't believe it! Unless—unless this is one of the copies. Maybe it's someone's idea of a joke.”

  “Certain members of your family, my dearest, have peculiar notions of what is and is not humorous, but even a copy would cost more than a Kelling would be willing to lay out for a practical joke. And this is not a copy. It's the original.”

  Nobody asked if he was sure. Max didn't make mistakes about such things. He went on to explain anyhow. “The copies were so good, they'd have passed even a close inspection. The gems weren't glass, they were modern synthetics, indistinguishable from the real thing except under a fluoroscope; the gold was genuine eighteen karat, but it was only a thin layer, electroplated onto silver. I took the liberty of scraping away some gold from the inside of one of the links. It's solid all right.”