Terrible Tide (16 page)

“Yes, dearie.” The voice was a mere thread of sound. The gray head lolled back on the pillow.

“Oh my God,” Holly thought, “she’s dead.” She actually fetched a mirror and held it to Annie’s mouth to convince herself Annie was still breathing.

Now she couldn’t fool around any longer. At least she could call Claudine. Since it was Claudine who’d sent up the rum, she didn’t pussyfoot about what was wrong with Annie, and Claudine was every bit as upset as she should have been.

“Poor Annie, she has so few pleasures. I ought to have known better, with that old souse Bert egging her on. No, please don’t call the doctor. If Annie’s no better in the morning I’ll get someone to bring her down here. Now that you’ve managed to get something into her, though, I expect she’ll be all right. How are you managing with Mrs. Parlett?”

“Oh, she’s an old sweetie,” Holly said. “That’s like taking care of a baby who never cries. I’m growing fond of her.”

“Are you really, Holly? That’s—I’m glad. Call me again if you’re worried. Any time, night or day.”

Holly could swear Claudine was crying when she hung up, but she had no time to wonder why. There was still Mrs. Parlett’s supper to take up, and loud clanking from the drive told her Bert Walker was arriving. She hobbled out to meet him.

“Oh Bert, I’m so glad to see you. I hope you’re not expecting a proper Sunday meal, though. You’ll be lucky to get another can of beans tonight.”

“I’ve et worse. What’s the matter? Where’s Annie?”

“Still in bed. She’s been sick as a dog all day. I’m worried about her, Bert.”

“Did you call Ben?”

“Dr. Walker? She wouldn’t let me.”

“Stands to reason. She wouldn’t want him to know what made ’er sick.” The prunelike face split in an evil grin.

“That’s not funny,” Holly snapped. “Honestly, Bert, a little while ago I thought she was dead.”

“Hell’s bells, you couldn’t kill Annie Blodgett with a shotgun. She’s tough, like me.” Nevertheless Bert began to look worried. “No foolin’, Holly, is she that bad off?”

“I wouldn’t have believed a person could get that sick from a few drinks of rum and water. She didn’t eat something that could have given her food poisoning?”

“Far’s I know, she only et what we did. Didn’t bother you none, did it?”

“No, I was all right as far as that went. How about you?”

“My guts was kind o’ queasy this mornin’ an’ my eyeballs felt as if somebody was tryin’ to gouge ’em out with a dirty fingernail, but that went away once I’d swilled down a bucket or two o’ black coffee.”

He ruminated awhile, working his stubbled jaws back and forth. “Know what I think? I seen this same thing happen once up in the Yukon. A Mountie’d trailed a crazy trapper single-handed in the dead o’ winter an’ brought ’im out by dogsled to a minin’ camp where he found everybody down with some pestilence or other, me included. Cripes, I was never so sick in my life. The Mountie was wore out hisself by then, but he nursed the whole bunch till a few of us was well enough to take care o’ the rest. Then him an’ me set out for Stillwater to turn over the prisoner an’ get help for the camp. I never seen a man so tuckered out as that Mountie, but he hung to it till we got there. Once he’d made ’is report, he folded up like a wet dishrag. They had to tilt up his head an’ spoon hot brandy into ’im to get his eyes open. He wasn’t sick, only plumb used up.”

“You could be right,” said Holly. “Annie’s been here alone far too long. I’ve had one day of it and I’m beat to the socks already.” She sank into a chair and propped her sore leg up on the oven ledge. “How long did it take the Mountie to recover?”

“I don’t know. I went back with the rescue team to show ’em the trail. Cripes, what a trip that was!”

Bert launched into another of his interminable reminiscences. Holly let him talk, knowing it didn’t matter whether she listened. Bert was telling the story to himself, reminding himself that he’d once been as strong as the best, pulling a man’s weight in a world not made for weaklings. It was the strong who survived. Annie was tough. She’d make it. Feeling a little better, Holly got up to fix supper.

Bert broke off his tale to remark, “Annie always offers me a hair of the dog before we eat.”

“I didn’t think you’d want one, after last night.”

“Hell, that was last night.”

“Then do me a favor and stay away from the rum, I don’t even want to smell it. There’s about one good belt left in the whiskey bottle.”

Bert grumbled, but he condescended to accept the glass Holly gave him. “I s’pose I’ll have to bring up another jar tomorrow if you’re goin’ to be so blamed stingy with Claudine’s.”

“I’m not being stingy, I just don’t want another living corpse on my hands. I’ll pay for your jar if it makes you any happier.”

“’Twon’t hurt my feelin’s none.” He took a swig. “Ah, that’s the stuff for what ails you. Why don’t you take a little nip to Annie?”

“Because I don’t want to kill her, that’s why. Haul up your chair.”

Baked beans on toast with a few fried eggs and a handful of store cookies, washed down with every drop he could wring from the whiskey bottle and a quart or so of strong tea satisfied Bert nicely. He scorned Holly’s offer of salad.

“That stuff’s for rabbits. Gimme a few more beans if you got ’em handy.”

“I don’t know where you put it all,” Holly marveled.

The hired man had no more spare flesh on his bones than a picked crow, yet he ate enough to satisfy three ordinary appetites. Now that Holly’s yoghurt and carrot stick days were over, she wasn’t doing so badly at the table herself. It was a long jump from Seventh Avenue to Parlett’s Point. Who’d have thought she’d ever wind up sitting around a well-scrubbed oilcloth with a totally unscrubbed old reprobate, wondering if she had strength enough left to put that last load of wet sheets through the wringer?

To heck with the sheets. There were still some clean ones upstairs even though she’d had to remake both her patients’ beds twice so far. She went up to check on Annie, carrying a cup of tea with her. Remembering Bert’s tale of the Mountie, she simply tilted the housekeeper’s head up and put the cup to her lips.

“Drink it or I’ll pour it down your neck.”

Annie began to swallow. Holly made her empty the cup, then went back to Bert.

“I got a whole cup of tea into her,” she told him with satisfaction. “She’s still pretty feeble, but her color’s better than it was.”

“Glad to hear it,” he grunted. “She’ll be back on ’er feet in a day or two.”

“I hope my feet last that long.”

Holly sat down again. Bert, in one of his unexpected bursts of gallantry, went and got some extra cushions so she could rest in comfort.

“Thanks, Bert, that does feel better. I took some aspirin while I was upstairs. Maybe that’ll quiet this thing down for a while.”

“Women are always dosin’ themselves,” he snorted. “Only one medicine ever done me any good.”

“Bert, if you’re angling for another drink, forget it. I won’t have you passing out on me again tonight. Say something bright and witty.”

“You tryin’ to make fun o’ me?”

“I shouldn’t dream of it,” Holly assured him. “All right, if you won’t be funny, let’s talk shop. How’s it going at Howe Hill?”

“’Bout the same as usual.”

“Don’t be ornery. Tell me things.”

“What sort o’ things?”

“Well, for instance, how do they handle the shipping?”

“Him an’ me crates it up, then she takes it down to Saint John.”

“You mean to say Fan delivers the furniture all by herself?”

“Not to say delivers it. As I understand it, she takes the crates to a shippin’ warehouse an’ they handle it from there.”

“I see,” said Holly with a sinking heart. “What warehouse?”

“Don’t ask me. ’Tain’t none o’ my business. That Miz Brown makes all the arrangements, sends ’em the customs’ forms an’ whatnot. Miz Howe, she does all the paperwork an’ Roger makes the crates hisself. Spends as much time on the crates as he does on the furniture, a’most. Way he fits ’em an’ pads ’em, you’d think he was cratin’ a baby.”

“I suppose in a sense his creations are his children,” said Holly. “I’ve never thought of them that way before. To be honest with you, I’ve seldom thought about my brother at all, until lately.”

There’s times I don’t think much of ’im, myself, if you want the honest truth. Any man that would let ’is wife go off alone in the dead o’ night drivin’ that wreck of a truck an’ sleepin’ alongside the road—”

“Bert, is that really what Fan does?”

“Yep. She gets Roger’s supper, then sets the table for his breakfast, an’ starts off all sole alone in the dark. She drives till she gets too sleepy to go any farther, then she pulls off somewheres an’ grabs forty winks, goes on an’ gets to the warehouse soon as it opens, about ha’past seven in the mornin’. The men there unload for her, then she gets reckless an’ selfish an’ splurges on a cup o’ coffee. After that she heads for home worryin’ for fear she won’t be there in time to get Roger’s dinner an’ he might have to spread hisself a piece o’ bread an’ butter.”

Bert spat into the stove. Holly asked no more questions. She’d already learned more than she wanted to know. Once Roger’s work was out of the shop, Fan was free to take it anywhere she chose. She could simply pretend to start for Saint John, drive out here under cover of darkness, break into Cliff House as she’d broken into so many others, and switch the reproduction for the original.

Opening the crate and switching Roger’s nameplate wouldn’t take long. Small pieces like the Bible box and the piecrust tables would be easy for her to manage alone. Fan wouldn’t have to risk that perilous road along the ledge, just park within walking distance and carry the furniture back and forth. It was only big pieces like that Sheraton highboy Roger and Sam were now working on that would have to be hauled over the cliff. For that she’d need help, but there must be at least one other person involved in this racket anyway. Fan simply didn’t have what it took to manage a swindle of such magnitude on her own.

Getting the stolen merchandise through customs would be no great problem. The original could be passed off as an authentic Roger Howe reproduction, with its little brass name-plate attached and all its papers filled out in good order. Was Fan really doing this, and did Roger know? His sending her off alone at night in a broken-down truck didn’t mean anything. He’d send her across the Grand Canyon on a tightrope if he happened to want a box of nails from the other side.

“You asleep?”

Holly jumped. She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts, she’d forgotten Bert was there. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “That aspirin must be putting me to sleep.”

“Time I went along, then.” He got up and headed for the door. “Guess I’ll turn in early myself. It’s lonesome down there with nobody home. By the way, Sam called from Saint John. Says his mother’s doin’ fine, an’ he’ll be back tomorrow.”

“That’s nice,” said Holly.

But how did Bert know Sam really had called from Saint John? Or rather, how long had Sam been there? If Fan could make the trip overnight in that rattletrap of hers, Sam’s shiny new wagon ought to do it in half the time. Remembering that man who’d come so close to stepping on her in the yard last night, Holly had an uneasy feeling she’d better not make the mistake of trusting Sam Neill too far.

D
R. WALKER’S MEDICINE MUST
be working. Despite her hectic day, Holly slept well and woke on Monday with her leg less inflamed. She treated herself to a therapeutic dunk in her beloved zinc tub, then went to check on her patients.

“Hi, Annie. How are you feeling?”

“Hello, dearie.” That seemed to be as far as Annie cared to go at the moment. Holly left her to feed Mrs. Parlett. When she got back half an hour later, Annie hadn’t stirred.

“Would you like me to help you to the bathroom?” she asked.

“No, dearie.”

“How about sitting on the pot?”

“Yes, dearie.”

Sighing as if she begrudged the effort, Annie let Holly help her up on the awkward substitute for the bedpan they didn’t have. The procedure was tiring for both of them, but only Annie got to flop back on her bed afterward. Holly had to pick up her armload of dirty sheets and go down to the washing machine.

That tended to, she fixed another tray of tea and porridge. Maybe it was bad psychology to offer Annie the same invalid fare as Mrs. Parlett’s, but what else could she do? She took up the tray, propped Annie’s head with pillows, and began spooning gruel into her mouth. At this, Annie did rouse herself a bit.

“I’m not that far gone, dearie.”

“Then prove it. Let’s see you empty this bowl.”

Annie managed one or two mouthfuls, then let the spoon drop. “Too much work,” she muttered.

“Then you’ve got to let me feed you. Open up.” This time, Holly had a little better success. Annie swallowed another spoonful of porridge and drank most of the tea before she turned her head away.

“All right, you’ve been a good girl. Now I’m going to wash your face and hands and let you get back to sleep.”

After she’d got Annie tidied, Holly went downstairs and fried herself a couple of eggs. She was eating when the phone rang. It was Fan.

“Bert tells me you’ve got trouble out there. Anything I can do?”

“Thanks, Fan, but we seem to be under control now. Annie’s better.”

“How about you? All that running up and down stairs can’t be doing your leg much good.”

“It isn’t bothering me, thank goodness. Dr. Walker must know his stuff.”

“Well that’s a relief. Let me know if you need to see him again.”

“I will. You’re sweet to be thinking of me.” Holly hung up, wondering. Why had Fan never once mentioned those trips to Saint John? She talked freely enough about everything else that concerned her.

Or did she? A constant flow of words could be a form of noncommunication. By never letting anybody else get a word in, Fan made it impossible to have a real person-to-person exchange. What was it Fan wanted to hide? That she was a swindler, or the tool of one?

Why not think about something easier? For instance, how did the thief get in and out of the house? Earl Stoodley had seen to it there were plenty of locks, and Annie was careful about them, especially since she’d started hearing those noises in the night. Keys alone wouldn’t help; there were chains and bolts to be unfastened and refastened afterward, or Annie would surely have noticed. There simply had to be an easy way. Holly put the breakfast dishes to soak, and started hunting.