The Balloon Man Read online

  “There's one obvious suspect,” Jesse said. “The old geezer that laid Uncle Max flat”

  “That doesn't make sense,” Sarah objected. “If he was dressed like a waiter, he could have been in the library without being noticed, but why would he hang around after he'd done the job?”

  “Especially in a trash bag,” Max said sourly. “Forget it, Jesse. He sure as hell wasn't hiding under the desk when I locked up the room. I couldn't have missed the smell of Gorgonzola”

  “Maybe he changed his mind,” Jesse insisted. “And came back later. You said one of the windows had been jimmied.”

  “Not jimmied, unlocked. It was a neat job,” Max admitted. “But any trained locksmith could have done it. I could have myself.”

  “Of course you could, darling,” Sarah said soothingly. Max was still smarting over his defeat. A change of subject was called for.

  “That seems to be another dead end,” she said. “What about the body under the tent?”

  “Joe Macbeth.”

  “An alias?” Brooks asked.

  “Why should it be? There must be other people named Macbeth besides Shakespeare's character. According to his boss Joe was a harmless guy whose only irritating characteristic was a tendency to quote Scripture rather too frequently. He didn't drink, smoke, or swear, at least not on the job”

  “What was the cause of death?” Theonia asked quietly.

  “A sensible question, for once. To put it in nontechnical terms, the back of his head was bashed in. That proves it wasn't an accident. The basket of the balloon couldn't have hit him fore and aft. Anyhow, held been dead for hours before he was put under the tent.”

  “The smoke bomb,” Sarah exclaimed.

  Max smiled at her. “I think you've got it, darling. A bunch of outraged orangutans could have been cruising around without being seen in that black fog. The tent crew was actually on its way here when the bomb was set off If the murderer hoped to blame Macbeth's demise on the balloon, he'd have to stow the body away before the tent was removed”

  “He'd have to be awfully stupid to think he could get away with that,” Sarah objected.

  “Unlike the inventions of ingenious writers of mystery fiction, most murderers are stupid, schatzele.”

  “It would behoove us, I believe,” Brooks said in his precise Andover-Harvard accents, “to find out more about Mr. Macbeth. Presumably he took his departure with the rest of the crew, after the tent had been erected. Did he return later, in a less distinctive ensemble? And if so, why? If you like, I will begin investigations along that line first thing in the morning.”

  “The police may be doing the same thing,” Max said. “Or they may not. Go ahead, Brooks, but check with Jofferty so you wont be duplicating your efforts.”

  “Certainly.” Brooks made a neat notation in his little black book.

  “How about me?” Jesse asked, stifling a yawn.

  “Go home and go to bed,” his employer said. “Modern youth is a degenerate breed. Look at you, completely wiped out by a three-year-old.”

  “You'd better have some coffee first,” Sarah said. “Or maybe you should stay here tonight, Jesse. I don't want you falling asleep behind the wheel.”

  “I haven't got any pajamas or a change of clothes,” Jesse objected.

  “Let's not start that again,” Max said.

  “He'll be all right,” Brooks assured Sarah. “You underestimate the energy level of his age group. If you don't need Jesse, Max, he can do some of the legwork for me.”

  Max nodded. “You'll be in the office most of the day?…Good. I'll probably drop by around noon. Egbert will expire of embarrassment if Jem has to wear the same outfit any longer, so I'll drive them to Pinckney Street tomorrow morning. They can pick up what they need or think they need, and then I'll bring them back here, if they want to come.”

  Jem had dropped off into one of his little naps, but he heard that. “Damned right we're coming back,” he said indignantly. “You think we'd leave you unprotected? Now then, what were we talking about?”

  “I think we've covered most of it,” Sarah said, smiling affectionately at him. “Would anyone like coffee? Or a cup of tea?”

  She looked at Theonia. The queenly matron adjusted her mantilla. “Max told you?”

  “Shouldn't I have? Damn it, we're conversing in questions again,” Max exclaimed.

  “He didn't tell me,” Jem remarked. “What's all this, then?”

  “I'll get the coffee,” Sarah said, and fled to the kitchen. She'd started the machine and put the kettle on, in case someone preferred tea, when Brooks joined her.

  “Can I help?”

  “You can put the cups and saucers on that tray, and get the cream out of the fridge, if you will, please. And do we want the teapot?”

  Brooks nodded gravely. “She'll try again if you want her to. I'm sorry if this has upset you, Sarah. Perhaps Max shouldn't have told you.”

  Sarah's hands were steady as she removed the teapot from the shelf and began spooning tea into it. “Of course he should have. I'm a big girl now, Brooks.”

  When the tea had steeped and the coffee had been poured into the Royal Prussian pot that had been in the family since Sarah's grandmother's time, she and Brooks carried the trays in. Max had told the others about Theonia's warning, and they were discussing it with varying degrees of skepticism.

  “It's a pity your sources aren't more definite,” Jem said. “Is that all you got?”

  Theonia inclined her queenly head. “That's how it works, when it does work, which isn't often,” she said calmly. “When I was doing my readings at that grubby little café, I got to be quite good at the standard gimmick. It's a combination of simple psychology and observation. The way people dress is indicative of the kinds of lives they lead and the social class to which they belong. There are other obvious clues such as a wedding ring, or even the indentation left by a ring, supposing the client is canny enough to remove it beforehand. You start talking more or less at random, throwing out tentative suggestions, and you watch the clients reactions. If you're good enough at muscle reading, a slight twitch of the lips or widening of the eyes can tell you whether you're on the right track. Its like that game children play, when they direct a searcher by telling him he's warmer or colder.”

  Jem said admiringly, “So that's how it's done. You mean when that psychic told me I'd had a hundred mistresses—”

  “She was lying in her teeth,” Max muttered.

  “She was telling you what you wanted to hear,” Theonia corrected. “I'll wager she started with ten and worked her way up till you stopped shaking your head.”

  “I didn't…Well,” Jem admitted sheepishly, “maybe I did. I got kind of emotionally involved, you see. No, thanks, Sarah, I don't want any damned coffee, don't you know caffeine is unhealthy?”

  “Unlike gin,” said Max.

  “My flashes, as I call them, are completely different,” Theonia went on. “You remember the night I smashed one of your best teacups, Sarah dear. On that occasion it was Max who asked me to read the tea leaves; I knew he wasn't really serious, and I certainly didn't anticipate what happened. I didn't expect it this time, either. After the wedding I decided I'd had enough champagne and went to the caterer's tent for a cup of tea. I just happened to glance into my cup, and—well, there it was. Not since that other evening have I had such a strong sense of impending evil.”

  She took the cup Sarah handed her and let out a musical, genteel peal of laughter. “Oh, dear, Sarah, not your Haviland! Are you sure you want to risk it?”

  “You can smash the entire set if you think it will do any good,” Sarah said. “The last time you sensed danger directed against our circle. This time there was more, wasn't there? Its Max who's in danger.”

  “I'm afraid so.” Theonia finished her tea more quickly than she would have done under normal circumstances and stared down at the dregs.

  Under normal circumstances Max would have scoffed, at least to himself. But
there was no getting around the fact that Theonia had seen danger coming from the past, specifically from the long-dead Caroline Kelling. She had written the note before he had told anyone, even Sarah, about the necklace. He hadn't bothered to ask Theonia whether she had happened to see it in the library. Self-deception wasn't one of Theonias failings, and anyhow, he'd have seen her if she had dropped in to view the wedding gifts. Theonia stood out in any crowd.

  Somehow he wasn't surprised when Theonia handed the empty teacup to Sarah. “Do you want to smash it, or shall I?”

  11

  Everything seemed unlikely this morning, Sarah thought. Could it be that the tumult and,the shouting had really died; that on dune and headland had sunk the fire; and that all the pomps of yesterday were now one with Nineveh and Tyre?

  They probably weren't, Rudyard Kipling notwithstanding. A smoke bomb, a balloon, a ruby parure, and a corpse couldn't be dismissed with poetry. Thank goodness those inappropriate distractions had waited until after the ceremony had been fittingly concluded and the bride and groom had left on their honeymoon. Weddings were a strain on everyone, especially the bride; Tracy and Mike deserved their time alone. They wouldn't have to find out what had happened until they returned, braced and ready for the hazards of matrimony. Being related, even distantly, to the Kellings was a hazard Tracy probably hadn't counted on, but it couldn't be helped. Maybe, Sarah thought hopefully, they could clear up the whole business before the newlyweds got back.

  First, though, there was breakfast to be considered. Sarah decided she'd make popovers and take out some of the applesauce she and Mrs. Blufert had made from the fruit of their own trees. Mrs. Blufert would be along soon, with her crew, to help trundle the wedding gifts over to the carriage house. Mr. Lomax, their tried-and-true handyman, who had been at Iresons Landing since before Sarah was born, would also be on hand. He'd have a fit when he saw what trucks and tents and feet had done to his beautifully tended lawn, but that couldn't be helped, either.

  She had mixed the popovers and put the pans in the oven before anyone else appeared. It was the faithful Egbert, as she might have expected.

  “Mr. Max is still in bed, and Davy is with him,” he reported. “From the sounds they are making I deduce that a game of some strenuous nature is in progress.”

  “I hope poor Max isn't having to be a camel again. He really did get a nasty crack on the shins.”

  “The game appears to have something to do with alligators. What can I do to assist you, Mrs. Sarah?”

  “Not a thing. You're a guest, remember? When do you suppose Uncle Jem will be down?”

  “Pretty soon now, I should think,” Egbert replied. “Would you like me to go and see?”

  “That might be helpful. If you're still planning to drive into town, you ought to make an early start. Early for Uncle Jem, that is.”

  The popovers were out of the oven and smelling wonderful. Sarah made a pot of tea, sat down at the kitchen table, and ate one of the popovers. She ate another and was debating the pros and cons of a third, wondering why she was still hungry, until it dawned on her that she'd had very little to eat for the past two days. Not because there hadn't been food enough to go around, heaven forfend, but because she'd been too busy making sure everybody else got plenty to remember that she had a stomach, too. She'd just about decided to eat a third popover when Max came down, impeccably attired in London-tailored suit and Italian silk tie.

  “Hi, süssele. Want some help here?”

  “No thanks. I can feed myself now that I'm a grown-up lady. My, aren't you handsome this morning. Why the fancy duds? Egbert is a bit of snob about attire, but he doesn't expect you to get all dressed up just to drive him to town.”

  “I thought I'd pay a call on a pickle baron while I'm in Boston. Since I don't know what pickle barons wear, it seemed safer to err on the side of propriety. Are those popovers to eat or to look at?”

  “Whichever you prefer, my lord. Here they are, still warm from the oven. You'd better take some before Uncle Jem comes along and eats them all up. Is it Tracy's father you mean to visit?”

  “How many pickle barons do we number among our acquaintances?” Max finished his popover and reached for a second. “It's unlikely that he sent the necklace to Tracy, but we ought to make sure before we go running off in all directions.”

  “Unlikely to the point of impossible,” Sarah said with a sniff “From what IVe heard about him, he's a horrible man. I suppose you re right about checking, but why waste time going to see him instead of telephoning?”

  “I can't give him the third degree over the phone.” Max's evil leer would have been more impressive if there hadn't been a smudge of applesauce on his chin.

  “You tough private eyes know your business best, I suppose. More applesauce?”

  “By all means. Our own apples, right?”

  “Right. What have you done with our son?”

  “He's out on the deck, pulling his alligator around. He's crazy about that thing. When I went in last night, he had it in bed with him, tied to the bedpost so that it wouldn't bite anybody. Ah, here comes the man of the hour. Sit down, Uncle Jem. Would you care for a popover?”

  “Oh, you know me, I'm easy to please. Just poke the dish this way and pass me the butter, not forgetting the apricot jam and the guava jelly. Are those going to be enough popovers?”

  “If not, I can bake some more,” Sarah assured him. “Did you sleep well last night?”

  “Of course I did. I always do. My snores are as the snores of ten because my heart is pure. Or somebody else's heart. Ah, yes. Whatever became of Natalie? Dear old Natalie. I wonder who's kissing her now.”

  Sarah decided not to ask who Natalie was; or had been. “I don't want to rush you, Uncle Jem, but Max wants to leave sometime today. Could you possibly bring yourself to get dressed, or are you planning to travel in your bunny suit?”

  The one-piece flannel garment, in a touching shade of pink, set off Jem's rosy face and white hair, but he did not appreciate the comparison. “What a vulgar thing to say! I'll have you know this is an exact copy of the siren suit Winston Churchill wore during World War Two. The word ‘siren’ referred not to bewitching nymphs partially covered with scales, but to the sirens that warned of an air raid. The garments, as you see, were warm, easily assumed, and modest.”

  “Churchill's was pink?” Max inquired.

  “I don't believe so, sir,” Egbert replied seriously. “But the pink fabric was on sale, you see, and Mr. Jem's tailor made up several of them at a quite reasonable price.”

  “This is a ridiculous conversation,” Jem said. “Naturally I have no intention of appearing in public in my night-clothes. I'll get dressed as soon as I've had another popover. Are you coming with us, Sarah?”

  “No, there's too much to do here. I have to keep tally of the wedding gifts as they get taken out to the carriage house.”

  “Now?” Jem snarled. “Didn't anybody have sense enough to start a tally just as soon as the first wedding present reared its ugly head?That's how its done. You just take them in order and make sure the names and addresses are firmly attached to the gift: list. Otherwise you might as well go stick your head in a revolving door and brave the consequences.”

  “I know how it's done, and I did start a tally,” Sarah informed him. “But toward the end so many things came in all at once, and there were three of us working on the list, Tracy and Miriam and me, so it's possible a few gifts were overlooked. I want to double-check and tell Mrs. Blufert where to put the boxes.”

  Jem reached for the last popover. Max looked ostentatiously at his watch.

  “It's not necessary for you to come along, Mr. Jem,” Egbert said. “I can pack for you.”

  “Nonsense,” Jem mumbled. “Won't take me ten minutes. Any more applesauce?”

  Max pushed his chair back. Hurrying Jem was an exercise in futility; the more you tried to hurry him, the slower he got. “I hear Lomax's truck. I want to have a word with him before we go.
Take your time, Jem.”

  Jed Lomax stood by the drive, looking disconsolately out across the once pristine sweep of lawn. He didn't remove his dirty old swordfishermans cap when Max joined him; he'd known Isaac Bittersohns boy since he was no bigger than a mackerel and had watched his career with interest. A sad disappointment to his maw, young Max had been, chasing crooks instead of studying to be a rich foot doctor. He'd turned out pretty good, though, and he'd sure done wonders for poor young Mrs. Alex that was, Mrs. Bittersohn that she was now. Lomax had been tickled pink when they got married and decided to stay on at the old Kelling place, with him to look after it like he'd done for years.

  “Sure made a mess, didn't they?” the handyman said morosely.

  “Weddings are like that,” Max agreed. They exchanged man-to-man nods. “I appreciate you coming today.”

  “Ayup, I figured you'd be needin me to get the place redded up some, so I just come along in the truck, bein' careful not to drive into them chrysanthemum beds. Looks like they're the only thing that wasn't tore up. Damn shame; get a place lookin' just so an' see what happens.”

  “It wasn't so much the wedding as the balloon,” Max said.

  “Balloon?” Lomax gave him a questioning look.

  “Some rather strange things have been happening here the last couple of days. Have you heard anything about them?”

  He felt pretty sure Lomax had, but his native reticence wouldn't let him admit it. “Can't say as I have. What kind o' things?”

  “Well, I guess the burglar was the first. I found him in the library under the desk, wrapped up in a plastic trash bag. Thought for a minute he was dead, but when I started to drag the bag out he came alive, and when I asked him what the hell he was doing there he caught me a wallop across the shins with a plank or something and made his getaway while I was rolling around on the floor”

  “Caught you on that bad leg?”

  Max appreciated the excuse. “He didn't do any real damage, but it hurt like the devil. By the time I got around to looking for him he'd disappeared.”