Terrible Tide (2 page)

Mrs. Brown, according to what Holly had been able to gather from Fan, was an interior decorator who specialized in doing period rooms for the rich and the even richer. Since fine antiques were becoming so scarce, Mrs. Brown sometimes had to resort to reproductions.

Naturally, such clients as hers would never be satisfied with ordinary commercial copies. Even the wealthiest and fussiest, however, couldn’t cock a nostril at an expertly handcrafted replica of an authentic museum piece, made with eighteenth-century tools and techniques, using the same well-seasoned woods and even the same smelly glues that might have been found in the workshops of Samuel McIntire or Duncan Phyfe.

Roger had become one of Mrs. Brown’s trade secrets. She’d promised to give him all the work he could handle, provided he stopped running ads so that her competitors wouldn’t know where she was getting her fabulous reproductions. So far, she’d kept her word. For over a year now, Roger had been supplied with orders, including sketches, detailed explanations, and exact descriptions of what Mrs. Brown wanted, at such a rate that he was always behind schedule.

Because of his time-consuming methods and his fanatical insistence on absolute fidelity to every detail, Roger had lagged to a point where he’d been forced to get help with some of the less-exacting work. He was paying Bert Walker on a day-to-day basis out of the American cash with which Mrs. Brown always settled her sizable bills. At first Holly thought this was just sloppy business practice. Now that she knew where Roger got his lumber, she thought perhaps there was more to it than sloppiness.

Fan must be bursting to show Roger the magnificent slabs of solid walnut they’d ripped off, but she wouldn’t remove the tarpaulin while Bert was still around. He’d be too apt to recognize whose parlor the paneling had come from. Holly would have liked to keep the handyman chatting awhile, just to get back at Fan for making her help, but she was in no shape for conversation. Moving stiffly because her leg was hurting so much, she started toward the house.

“I’m going to lie down for a while.”

“Oh?” Roger was cool and courteous as always. “I thought you might enjoy helping Fan fix dinner.”

“I can manage by myself,” snapped his wife. “I always do, don’t I?”

“Stop it!”

The resentment that had been boiling up ever since Holly’d got here finally spilled over. “Listen to me, both of you. When I wrote about coming up here, I explained that I’d been badly injured and needed to rest. You told me to come ahead and take it easy, but from the minute I got here, you’ve been running me like a pack horse. If I’d known what you had in mind, I’d have gone someplace where I’d at least get paid for doing it instead of slaving my guts out and paying board on top of it, in a house that’s as much mine as yours. All right, Fan. Now that you’ve tried to land me back in the hospital and set me up for a charge of breaking and entering, what’s next on the agenda? Do I peel the potatoes or rob the town bank?”

Roger and Fan were both making shushing gestures, rolling their eyes at Bert, who was enjoying the scene hugely. Roger started a speech about giving his sister a richer experience of life in Jugtown. Fan fussed around being solicitous and placatory. Bert said the only thing that made sense.

“They need a hired girl out at Cliff House.”

All three quit squabbling and said, “What?” in unison.

“Mrs. Parlett’s still hangin’ on out there by the toenails. Claudine was on to me about ’er Saturday when I went to pick up the groceries for Annie, askin’ if I knew anybody willin’ to help out.”

“Doing what?”

The handyman had begun fiddling with his braces buckles, embarrassed for some reason. “Help Annie shove a little gruel into ’er three times a day an’ change ’er nightgown, I s’pose. She can’t do a hand’s turn for herself, poor soul.”

“Why? Does she have some awful disease?”

“Yep. I got it, too. Old age.”

Bert didn’t haul off the joke with his usual gusto. What was he so fidgety about all of a sudden?

“Who’s Annie?” Holly prodded. “Her daughter?”

“Nope. I guess likely you’d call ’er the housekeeper. Annie’s been at Cliff House long as I can remember.”

“Then Annie must be an old woman, too. Is that why Claudine wants more help out there?”

“That’s it.” Bert welcomed the explanation like a long-lost brother. “Claudine don’t think them two ought to be out there by their lonesomes, not now.”

“How much does the job pay?”

“Claudine didn’t say. Not much, most likely. You’d get your board an’ keep.”

“I’ll take it.” Anything was better than helping Fan tear Jugtown apart. “What do I do, just barge in and start changing nightgowns?”

Bert seemed to be experiencing a strange mixture of relief and alarm. “You better talk to Claudine first. Her an’ Ellis are the next o’ kin, not that blood’s any thicker’n water in that fam’ly. Anyway, Mrs. Parlett’s only their great-aunt by marriage, though it wouldn’t cut much ice either way, I don’t s’pose. Yep, you talk to Claudine. I got to get home to my supper. You want me in the mornin’, Roger?”

“As early as possible, please. I’ve had another letter from Mrs. Brown about that Sheraton highboy, and I haven’t even finished the piecrust tables yet. Fan, I wish you would kindly try to make Mrs. Brown understand I am not a furniture factory.”

“Roger, we mustn’t antagonize her.”

“I have no wish to antagonize her. I merely want her to understand that I am not a machine. The carving on that highboy alone will take a week, perhaps longer.”

“Can’t Bert help you with it?”

“Bert is not a master woodcarver.”

“Jack of all trades an’ master o’ none, that’s me,” said the ancient. “I never carved nothin’ fancier than a half-moon in the door of a backhouse. You want fancy carvin’, you talk to my nephew.”

“Then talk to him, Roger!”

Holly heard in Fan’s cry the same end-of-the-rope despair that had set off her own outburst. Roger, for a wonder, must have caught it, too. At any rate, he didn’t brush off Bert’s suggestion with his usual silent disdain of the idea that anybody else could come up to his standards.

“What sort of carving does this nephew do, Bert?”

“Started out makin’ signs, an’ quarterboards for yachts. Then it got so they was sendin’ for him all over Canada. If somebody wants a special job, like the linenfold panelin’ for that big estate in Toronto, Sam goes an’ does it. Carved statues for a cathedral in Quebec; all sorts o’ stuff. He’s been commissioned to do some work in Ottawa before the next Royal visit if this dratted gov’ment quits horsin’ around an’ votes the money.”

“There, Roger,” said Holly. “If he’s good enough for Queen Elizabeth, he ought to be able to satisfy Mrs. Brown.”

“Perhaps. He first has to satisfy me. I’m willing to talk to your nephew, Bert. I suppose he’s off on some affair of state at the moment?”

Bert either didn’t notice Roger’s sarcasm or didn’t think it worth bothering about. “Nope. Matter of fact, Sam came home last night. Goin’ to stick around till his mother gets out o’ the hospital. Lorraine’s goin’ to Saint John for some operation. Don’t ask me what, eh. I never pay no attention to women’s ailments. Sam might be as well pleased to while away the time helpin’ you out ’stead o’ settin’ around doin’ nothin’.”

Bert clambered into a pickup truck even more decrepit than the Howes and clattered off down the rutted lane. Roger stepped back inside the workshop. Fan and Holly went over to the house.

“Holly, you go and rest,” said Fan. “I don’t need help. Roger was just being overprotective of me. He still thinks I’m his sweet little girl bride.”

She emitted a deprecating whinny, trying to make the fantasy sound halfway plausible. Poor Fan! Holly couldn’t help showing some compassion.

“Not many men have wives like you, Fan. I can see how devoted Roger is.”

She didn’t have to say what Roger was devoted to. Fan was happy enough with the remark as it stood. Deciding she’d done her good deed for the day, Holly limped off to clean up and snatch a little rest.

T
HE HOWES WERE VERY
polite to each other at dinner. Roger and Fan made mild attempts to persuade Holly she shouldn’t take the job at Cliff House. They talked about Holly’s own welfare. What they meant was that Roger didn’t like the idea of his sister’s working as a domestic in Jugtown, and Fan didn’t want to lose Holly’s weekly board money.

Holly wasn’t fooled by Roger’s harping on her being company for Fan, either. Without her around, he wouldn’t have the relief of being spared some of Fan’s incessant bidding for notice. It must have been tough on both husband and wife these past three years, stuck here alone together, each wanting what the other wouldn’t give.

For a wonder, Fan didn’t say a word about having seen Claudine Parlett in the woods with a man. Could she possibly suspect the man had been Roger? Of course not, how could she? Roger would never do anything so human. Anyway, how could he have got so far from the shop and beaten them back to it? The only transportation at Howe Hill was the truck Fan had been driving.

Still, Roger did have a tweed cap and a plaid shirt, and the man had been tall. Tallish, anyway. Who cared? Holly went to bed as soon as the dishes were done. By morning, Fan and Roger had talked themselves into thinking they could make the Jugtowners believe Holly only wanted the job at Cliff House to keep her from being too bored while she convalesced. Fan was all ready to drive her downtown for the interview with Claudine.

“I suppose you know where to go,” Holly remarked as they turned into Queen Street.

“Oh sure, it’s right here on the main drag. Claudine turned her folks’ house into an antique shop. I guess I told you that yesterday. She and her brother live upstairs.”

“Maybe it was the brother we saw her with yesterday.”

“Not on your life. Ellis is one of those gangly teenage types, all hands and feet with hair straggling down over his neck.”

“Anyway, they keep the place looking nice,” Holly said to change the subject. There were boxes of marigolds and trailing vinca below the many-paned bow window. Inside was a charming display of bone china.

“That’s Claudine’s doing. Ellis spends his time scavenging for junk he can fix up and palm off on the tourists. They do all right, one way and another. I couldn’t say how well, of course. Claudine’s close-mouthed about her affairs in more ways than one.”

Holly didn’t want to hear any more about that. She let herself down from the van and entered the showroom, Fan chugging at her heels. They found Claudine selling a luster pitcher to a customer, figuring with a pencil on a paper bag.

“With the exchange, that comes to forty-eight dollars and thirty-two cents in American money.”

The prosperous-looking woman who wanted the pitcher fished an ostrich skin wallet out of her suede handbag and started counting out money. “Twenty, forty, five, six, seven, eight. And three dimes. I don’t seem to have any—wait a second, I always have pennies at the bottom of my bag. No, I’m afraid I don’t. Exactly two cents short.”

She laughed gaily, confidently, expecting to be told, “Forget it.” Instead, Claudine picked up the pitcher and set it back on the shelf. The customer turned red, scooped the money into her purse, wheeled furiously, and stalked out of the shop. Claudine turned to Fan, her face a polite blank.

“Fan Howe. You’re quite a stranger.”

Fan, still goggle-eyed at the way Claudine had thrown away a fifty-dollar sale for two lousy cents, giggled self-consciously. “I know. Somehow, I never find the time to get to meetings.”

Claudine gave that remark the silent contempt it deserved. She just stood there. Fan wasted no more breath on small talk.

“This is my sister-in-law, Holly Howe, who’s staying with us. Bert Walker says you need somebody to help out at Cliff House, and Holly thought it might be a way to pass the time.”

Claudine raised one well-shaped eyebrow. She’d be quite good-looking, Holly thought, if she ever cracked a smile.

“News does get around, doesn’t it? Have you any nursing experience, Miss Howe?”

“None whatever.” Holly could be brusque, too. “But I’ve just spent a month in the hospital, as you may have guessed from my scars, and I know the routines. I can’t do heavy work yet, but I can cook and keep house after a fashion, and you don’t need a nursing degree to empty a bedpan. Your aunt isn’t really sick, is she? Bert gave us to understand she’s just old and incapable.”

“And so’s the woman who’s supposed to take care of her,” Fan put in with her usual tact.

At that, Claudine’s poker-face softened. “Annie Blodgett’s an angel straight out of heaven. I don’t know what I’d ever do without her.”

“I’m not trying to steal anybody’s job,” Holly began.

Claudine wasn’t listening. Like the rest of them, she had something to get off her chest.

“Poor Annie. Cliff House is the only home she’s known since she was a little girl. She took care of Cousin Edith and Great-aunt Maude and Great-uncle Jonathan and Great-aunt Mathilde, and now she needs somebody to look after her. If Earl Stoodley had his way, she’d be out in the road and my great-aunt in a nursing home, but I won’t stand for that and he knows it. I’m as much a trustee as he is, and I’ll fight him as long as there’s a breath left in me. But something’s got to be done. God knows what might happen out there, one lying helpless and the other not much better. It’s terrible for me, not being able to go and see for myself how things stand.”

But why shouldn’t Claudine go if she wanted to? Fan had driven out around Parlett’s Point once so that Holly could see Cliff House, which was the best Jugtown could offer as a sightseeing tour. As Holly recalled, the big Victorian gothic house was only a few miles out of town. If Claudine could prowl the hinterlands with her boyfriend, why couldn’t she walk that comparatively short distance along a good, paved road?

“Well, I can’t let things run on any longer,” Claudine was saying. “You may as we’ll give it a try. Keep her clean and fed. That’s all anybody can do for her now.”

Claudine’s voice wavered on those last few words. Holly thought she was actually going to break down, but she didn’t.