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  “I’ll be prostrated all right, before this day is over.”

  Sarah climbed the stairs one at a time with a rest in between, and picked up the last, heavy tray.

  7

  “ALEX! ALEX, WHERE ARE you? It’s almost eight o’clock.”

  Caroline Kelling’s strident call woke Sarah from the soundest sleep she’d had in ages. Eight o’clock? They never slept that late. Could her husband—she froze, recalling old Tim O’Ghee sprawled half out of that sleazy boardinghouse cot.

  But no, Alexander was getting up. She could hear a muffled groan, the squeak of bedsprings, then water running in the bathroom between their bedrooms. Sarah jumped out of bed, called down the stairs, “Edith, tell her we’ll be down in a minute,” and snatched her oldest slacks and a bedraggled jersey out of her closet.

  Mariposa would be here on the dot of nine. Three minutes later, the cleaning woman would have tied up her elaborate hairdo in a flamboyant scarf, changed from street clothes to a cotton wrapper, put on a pair of holey sneakers in place of her chic high-heeled pumps, and be making the dust fly. They could afford this paragon only once a week, and nobody, not even Mariposa, could get through the whole house in a single day, so Sarah and Edith were supposed to help.

  Sarah generally enjoyed tagging along with this human whirlwind, dusting and polishing and listening to a steady run of piquant gossip about life as it was lived at the other end of the city. Edith would spend the entire time puttering around Aunt Caroline’s bedroom and bath, and the adjoining room that Mrs. Kelling called her boudoir. Admittedly, this was no small responsibility since everything had to be kept in meticulous order, even the blind woman’s embroidery silks laid out strand by strand. It was to Edith’s credit that she never slacked her duties in this area.

  By the time they got settled around the breakfast table, Aunt Caroline was in no sweet humor.

  “I particularly wanted an early start this morning. You know it’s a two-hour drive to Marguerite’s, and she wants us there well in advance of the others so that you’ll have time to read me her latest chapter. She’s anxious to get my opinion before she goes any further.”

  “Well, that’s just too bad,” Sarah snapped. “Alexander, why don’t you tell your mother you’re not going? You know you hate these ladies’ luncheons, and that book of hers is a total farce. Why should you drive seventy-five miles and back again for the sake of hearing Aunt Marguerite spout drivel?”

  “Why not?” he said wearily.

  “Because you look like death warmed over, for one thing. Won’t you please go back to bed and stay there till you’ve got rid of whatever is ailing you?”

  His exquisite lips curved in a wry smile. “That might be rather a long stay. Don’t worry about me, Sadiebelle. Actually, I’ll be glad to get out of Boston for a few hours. I only wish you were coming, too.”

  “What I wish,” she sighed, “is that the two of us could go off by ourselves for once in our lives. Can’t your mother understand that you’re a human being instead of a seeing-eye dog?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Alexander pushed back his chair and leaned down to kiss his wife. “Don’t work too hard. You look washed-out, yourself. I’m afraid you did too much yesterday.”

  Sarah grabbed him by the necktie and pulled him closer. “Nonsense, Edith managed everything single-handed. Didn’t you notice the becoming modesty with which she was accepting all those compliments?”

  “You’re a nasty little girl, Sadiebelle.”

  He was going to kiss her again but his mother demanded, “Aren’t we ever going to get started?” and Edith came to announce that Mariposa was starting to wash dishes and weren’t they finished yet?

  “In a minute,” said Sarah. “Alexander, don’t let them wear you to shreds. Tell Aunt Marguerite your wife has turned into a shrew and will hit the ceiling if you’re not back in time to rest before dinner. And don’t think I’m joking, because I’m not. Edith, help Mrs. Kelling on with her things and go get whatever she claims she doesn’t intend to take with her because you know she’ll change her mind at the last minute and want it, after all. I’ll clear the table, unless you’d like me to get the car. Alexander?”

  “No, my dear, I’m not that far gone.”

  Parking around the Hill was impossible. They had to garage their 1950 Studebaker down on Charles Street at a rate that would have bought them a new car every few years, fees being what they were in the area. They’d have been better off not to keep a car at all and rent one when they needed to, but Aunt Caroline wouldn’t hear of giving up the vehicle she’d once been able to drive herself.

  Thanks to Alexander’s skill as a mechanic, the Studebaker continued to run like a charm and was no doubt a fairly valuable antique by now. Some day, perhaps, they’d relegate it to the shed at Ireson’s Landing with the Milburn, and get themselves something to ride in that wasn’t a collector’s item.

  Some day, maybe, Sarah would pry Alexander loose from this ruinously expensive, hard-to-maintain town house and move into a place of her own. She was sick of Beacon Hill, sick of never being able to get her hands on a little spending money, sick to death of being married to Aunt Caroline. That day, the sofa cushions got the beating of their lives.

  Work, as always, was therapy. It wasn’t until Mariposa was gone, the mops and brooms put away for another week, and Sarah soaking off the dust in a hot tub, that she had time to start worrying again. Alexander and his mother ought to be back any minute now, provided he hadn’t fallen into another of those frozen trances and cracked up the Studebaker. She ought to have left Mariposa to cope and gone with him. He wasn’t fond of driving long distances at any time, and in his present state the trip must have been sheer murder.

  She wished she hadn’t thought of that word. Ruby Redd had almost certainly been murdered, according to a story in the morning paper which Sarah had been able to wrest away before Mariposa used it to protect the newly scrubbed kitchen linoleum. The skull had been caved in at the back by a blow that was unlikely to have been accidental, especially in view of the macabre entombment. An investigation would be made, but little hope was held out for a solution.

  That meant a few perfunctory inquiries, no doubt, then one more file left to collect dust. Boston had too many fresh corpses turning up in vacant lots and alleyways for the police to spend much time on a crime that might or might not have occurred some thirty years ago.

  Sarah was absolutely convinced that Tim O’Ghee had been murdered, too, but there wasn’t even an outside chance the police would ever get to investigate that death, unless the undertaker found a bullet lodged in his heart. That wouldn’t happen. Probably no undertaker would be called in. Thanks to modern technology, bodies were a lot easier to get rid of than they used to be. Anyway, why shoot him when it would be so easy to inject poison? Even if the body were examined, one more hypodermic puncture in the flesh of someone who took insulin regularly would never be noticed.

  Again she felt a compulsion to ask herself if Alexander could have done such a thing? Physically, yes. There was an old hypodermic needle of Uncle Gilbert’s still in the house and plenty of poisons available: things like bleach and lye in the kitchen, atropine in Aunt Caroline’s eye drops, a croton growing in the drawing room bay window and heaven knew what else, plus that bag of candy he himself had bought, ready to take along and set the scene.

  Alexander had driven his mother out to Dolph’s early yesterday morning, some time before Sarah left the house. Aunt Caroline wouldn’t know if he swung around through South Boston and left her sitting in the car while he pretended to be doing some trivial errand. Finding Mrs. Wandelowski out shopping might have been a lucky accident, or else he could have phoned first pretending to be the serviceman from the gas company or something, and learned that she was about to leave the house. The lock on that ramshackle door would present no difficulty to his talented fingers. He could have been in and out before anybody in that virtually deserted neighborhood knew
he was there.

  Of course the whole notion was absurd. Alexander would have to know where the old barman lived, that Tim was diabetic, that he had a landlady who shopped over on the Avenue in the mornings.

  Perhaps he did know. Tim might have been boarding in that same house for years and years, ever since Alexander’s student days. He might have talked about his flashy landlady, might have refused to let the boys buy him drinks because of his ailment. Alexander remembered details like that.

  As Uncle Jem would say, poppycock! Alexander wouldn’t even set mousetraps. The hot water was soothing her nerves a little, even though the dumpy claw-footed tub was too short for a satisfactory loll. The one on the second floor was twice as big, but only Aunt Caroline got to use that.

  Before they married, Alexander had papered and painted the thirdfloor suite, trying to make things attractive for his young bride. However, he hadn’t been able to do much about the cracked and sagging plaster, so the paint had soon begun to flake and the paper to peel away from the walls. While she was soaking, a chip fell off the ceiling and plunked into the water beside her.

  Everything was falling apart. Sarah crawled over the high side of the tub and rubbed furiously at her body with a towel that, like everything else in this house, had seen its best days. She put on her blue cocoon because she felt cold, and was on her way down the front staircase when her husband and his mother came in.

  “Are we going out?”

  Alexander’s question was almost a groan. Sarah stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss.

  “What kind of greeting is that? Can’t I dress up for my husband if I want to? Did you have a good time at Aunt Marguerite’s?”

  “Mother enjoyed herself.”

  Most uncharacteristacally, he dropped his overcoat on a chair instead of bothering to hang it up. “Have I time for a drink before dinner?”

  “Of course. It’s only half-past six.”

  “It feels like midnight.”

  “Go flop in the library. I’ll do the drinks. Edith can look after your mother.”

  Mrs. Kelling always expected a good deal of attention after one of these all-day excursions, but her daughter-in-law was not about to give it this time. Aunt Caroline was perfectly capable of doing a great deal more for herself than she did, and it was high time they quit spoiling her rotten. Sarah hung up the overcoat, went to call the maid, then hurried back to her husband.

  Alexander was in no mood for talk. He didn’t even thank her for the stiff whiskey she brought him, or for poking up the fire that he usually attended to. Sarah stood looking at him for a moment, and decided what he needed most was a hot meal and no fussing.

  Cooking was supposed to be one of Edith’s duties, but the maid had learned several years ago that by producing thoroughly uneatable meals, she could manipulate the younger Mrs. Kelling into taking most of that work off her hands. Aunt Caroline required food that could be managed with a minimum of fuss and fumble, which meant a lot of chopping and pureeing. It was quite a while before Sarah got back to the library. Aunt Caroline was holding forth at length about her sister’s book. Her son wasn’t even pretending to pay attention. At last the blind woman became aware of his indifference.

  “Alexander, are you there?”

  Sarah picked up her mother-in-law’s hand. “Dinner in ten minutes,” she spelled out. “More sherry first?”

  “No,” snapped the older woman, trying to jerk her hand away as she always did when Sarah used hand signals to communicate with her.

  “Why doesn’t Alex answer me?”

  “Tired,” Sarah spelled out.

  “What of that? I’m tired, too. Those luncheons of Marguerite’s are always exhausting, but if I can stand them, why can’t he?”

  Sarah caught her husband’s eye. “I suppose it wouldn’t be kind of me to explain that it’s because you have to stand her at the same time. Alexander, we simply must find some kind of nurse-companion for your mother, whether we can afford one or not.”

  “Please, Sarah, not tonight.”

  Alexander Kelling took his mother’s hand and began making signals in the palm. His long, pale fingers seemed to be working automatically, with no direction from his conscious mind.

  8

  THE TROUBLE SARAH TOOK over preparing dinner might as well have been saved. Mrs. Kelling declared that Marguerite had served too much rich food as usual, and she’d just have a bowl of corn flakes. Alexander didn’t appear to notice there was food in front of him. Sarah took away his untasted plateful and fetched her Braille pad.

  “I’m sending Alexander to bed,” she put down, poking out the dots with fierce jabs of her stylus. “He is not well.”

  Mrs. Kelling ran her fingers over the tiny bumps, then passed the note over to her son. “What’s wrong with you? I thought we’d play backgammon for a while. I need to unwind after that long drive.”

  “Sarah,” Alexander sighed, “couldn’t you play with her?”

  “No, I could not! You know I detest backgammon. Your mother was out to the Lackridges’ night before last, she went to Dolph’s and the funeral yesterday and had the whole family here afterward. She’s been away all day today. She’s got an armload of Braille books you lugged home from the library that she hasn’t even had time to open. You’re going to bed and she can entertain herself for a change.”

  She picked up the pad again and punched savagely, “Suggest you read…A. going to bed now.”

  Caroline flicked her fingers over the message, slapped the paper down on the table, reached for her cane, and stalked from the room. Alexander started to get up, but Sarah grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t you dare! She’s a lot better able to take care of herself than you are. Give her a minute to settle, then you march yourself upstairs.”

  Her husband gave her a ghastly attempt at a smile, and did as he was told. She tucked him up with a hot water bottle and an extra blanket, dosed him with aspirin and kissed him good night.

  “Don’t get up in the morning unless you truly feel better.”

  She knew she was whistling in the dark. They were committed to tea at the Protheroes’, and feisty old Anora was capable of coming to fetch them bodily if they didn’t arrive on schedule. That should be no great strain on him, though. She could do the driving herself, and Leila would probably be there to handle Aunt Caroline.

  After she’d got her husband settled, Sarah fiddled around downstairs for a while, putting away the uneaten food, doing the dishes while Edith loafed down in the basement before her everlasting television, and tidying the already neat kitchen. She went back to the drawing room and played softly on the rosewood Bechstein for a while, but the antique piano was out of tune and so was she. She didn’t feel like drawing or reading or doing the crossword puzzle. She didn’t feel like much of anything. At last, for want of a better idea, Sarah went up to her room although it was still far short of her normal bedtime.

  Aspirin and exhaustion had done good work for Alexander. He was sound asleep, breathing deeply and regularly. In the exquisite boudoir below, his mother was no doubt embroidering French knots on the draperies. That did seem an odd way to relieve frustration, but perhaps Aunt Caroline enjoyed the nubbly texture that the heavy draperies had taken on as a result of her labors over the years. Anyway, she kept on working French knots and would do so, no doubt, until the curtains fell apart. What difference did it make, so long as the strange occupation kept her from pestering Alexander?

  Sarah thought of washing her hair, but feared the running water might wake her husband. She fussed with her nails, straightened her dresser drawers, and finally started on her closet, which was a mistake. Stuck away on the shelf, where she’d thrust it while she was rushing to get ready for the Lackridges’ dinner, was the brick she’d lugged home from the cemetery. Dolph thought she’d got rid of it. Why in heaven’s name had she not done so?

  She turned the small, heavy block over in her hands. Was it really identical with those in the wall at Ireson’s Landing? Ho
w could she be so positive on the strength of memory and a black-and-white photograph? She might be giving herself nightmares over nothing. Mightn’t she?

  The little sketch was still in her bag, she got it out and studied it. She ought to go down and compare her drawing to the photograph in the hall, but somehow she didn’t dare. What if Edith caught her?

  Well, what if she did? Could nobody else ever hit by coincidence on the same pattern Aunt Caroline and Alexander had worked out? There couldn’t be all that many different ways to lay bricks. Could there?

  What was the sense of standing here asking herself questions? There was one way to find out, and she’d never find a better opportunity than now, with her husband asleep, Aunt Caroline sulking, and Edith thinking the household was bedded down for the night. Sarah packed the brick and the sketch back into her shoulder bag, tiptoed into Alexander’s room and took the car keys that were lying on his dresser, and picked her way down the back stairs. A hooded storm coat she’d had since she was fifteen hung on a hook in the entryway. She bundled herself into it and let herself out into the alley.

  This was no night to be going anywhere. The rain that had begun to spit about the time Alexander and his mother got home was turning into a steady downpour. The Studebaker’s tires had barely squeaked through the state inspection in October, the gas tank might be close to empty, and she had three dollars and twenty-seven cents in her pocketbook. What difference did that make? This was something that had to be done. She pulled her hood over her forehead and slogged down the hill.

  The attendant, who knew the Kellings well, was surprised to see her. “Not taking the old girl out in this weather, are you? Sure she can stand the strain?”

  “I’m more concerned about the young one,” Sarah tried to joke back. “A little family emergency has come up, and Mr. Kelling isn’t feeling well.”