The Balloon Man (14 page)

The Warty Pickles factory was not a pretty sight. In Max's critical opinion few factories were, but most of the newer establishments
had paid lip service to the idea of landscaping, at least in front of the main office. There were no flower beds or swatches
of close-cropped grass here, no pole flying a representation of the company logo, not even a pink flamingo. The building itself
was faced with aged aluminum siding. The vehicles in the adjoining parking lot weren't antique or vintage, they were just
old—except for the glistening stretch limousine in front of the main door, It was a particularly grisly shade of green. Pickle
green.

Max pulled up behind it and helped his passengers out, He persuaded Jem to leave the plastic cup in the car. The lobby was
as grimy and dispiriting as the outside of the building. There was an armed security guard and a much mascaraed blond receptionist.
Both were chewing gum, or possibly tobacco. No wonder old Warty spent as little time as possible here, Max thought. As he'd
explained to Jem and Egbert between McGillicuddy's and their destination, he had had the dickens of a time tracking the man
down and bullying him into making an appointment.

He had to show the guard his driver's license before the receptionist would announce him.

“Tell him Mr. Kelling and his assistant are with me.” Max said. He didn't like the look in the security guard's squinty eyes
or the way he fondled the worn leather holster
at his hip. If he'd been told to admit only the Mr. Bittersohn who had made the appointment, he might try to stop Jem, and
then all hell would break loose.

After a mumbled discussion the receptionist jerked her thumb toward a door behind the desk without interrupting the even cadence
of her chewing. Before they reached it the door was thrown open and there was the pickle king in person.

Max had never seen a man who looked so alarmingly like the product he manufactured. The Irish tweed suit, in an unfortunate
blend of emerald, yellow, and forest green, cast a chartreuse glow on his sallow face. It molded a shape that swelled out
at the chest and finally tapered down somewhere around knee level. He was bald. Well, of course, Max thought insanely, who
ever saw a pickle with hair on top? There were warts.

The entrepreneur looked them over. His pinched smile faded. “You aren't Percival Kelling.”

“Who said I was?” Jem snarled. He pushed past the pickle king and settled his plump haunches in the most comfortable chair.
It happened to be the one behind the desk. “Come in, come in. Sit down. We haven't got all day. Mr. Bittersohn is a busy man.”

“We won't take much of your time,” Max said, watching Jem hoist his feet onto the desk and wondering if this was going a little
too far, even for Jeremy Kelling. Maybe not. It seemed to be working. Pilcher sank into one of the hard
chairs reserved for visitors, winced, shifted positions, and stared at his visitors.

“What do you want?”

“To get out of this filthy place as soon as I can,” said Jem.

Pilcher pulled a handkerchief—green, Max was sorry to see—from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “So do I. I'm flying to
Bermuda in a couple of hours. I thought you were Percival. Been thinking of transferring some of my accounts to his firm.
But you're not him.” He transferred the stare to Max. “You're the one wanted to see me. I know who you are. And that uncle
of yours, the lawyer, he's another do-gooder bleeding heart liberal nosey parker. You said something about grand theft and
possible prosecution. You can't prove a damn thing.”

“I have only one question,” Max said. He leaned forward and fixed Pilcher with a stern, accusing gaze. “What did you give
your daughter for a wedding present?”

He thought for a minute the man was going to strangle. The pickle king sputtered and stammered and dribbled.

“Just answer the question,” Max said.

“What kind of game is this? Oh, well, then, I'll play a few hands. What did I give, uh, Tracy? Enough of my best pickles to
supply her and what's-his-name for years, that's what! Fifty cases of assorted delicacies. Bread and butter, kosher dills,
spears, slices … Are you laughing?”

“I'm not sure,” Max admitted. Now that the subject had been raised, he thought he remembered seeing Jed Lomax
supervise the removal of multiple cartons from a delivery van. They hadn't been among the wedding gifts. Lomax had probably
assumed, as had Max, that the undistinguished brown cardboard boxes had nothing to do with the wedding. “That's all? Nothing
else?”

“Why should I have?”

“I can't stand this dribbling cad any longer,” Jem announced. He managed to get his feet onto the floor and stood up. “Let's
go before I throw up.”

Jem insisted he needed another slug of gin, or possibly three, to get the taste of Warty out of his mouth. Max was in complete
sympathy. After the medication had been supplied, they headed for home.

Having seen the paternal parent in person, Max was even more astonished at the miracle of his newly acquired niece. Heredity,
he mused, was a funny thing. Perhaps Tracy was a throwback to some remote ancestor, or perhaps she'd been switched in her
cradle by the fairies. That made better sense. She was a dainty little thing. One could only pity the poor elf that got a
true offspring of Pilcher and Jeanne in exchange.

He didn't doubt that the old man had spoken the truth when he'd denied giving his daughter anything more munificent than a
lifetime supply of poorly preserved cucumbers. Lying was probably a habit of his, but why should he lie about that? Unless
the necklace was hot, and he wanted to get it off his hands. That didn't make sense, though. Tracy was painfully honest (another
quality she hadn't inherited),
and she'd be as confused and worried about the origin of the necklace as the rest of them were. She'd report it, refuse to
accept it, and/or try to figure out where it had come from. Supposing the damned thing had been reported stolen, Daddy would
be an obvious suspect. There were easier and safer and more remunerative ways of disposing of stolen property. Even more to
the point was Jem's cynical and doubtless accurate appraisal of Warty's character. His daughter was the last person to whom
he'd give rubies.

Sarah met them at the front door. “Well, did you kiddies have a nice outing? I expected you back hours ago. I suppose Jem
talked you into feeding the frogs in the Frog Pond and shucking a bag of peanuts for the squirrels on the Common.”

Max gave her a quick but comprehensive kiss. “Sorry we took so long, but we had to go back for Jem's swim fins and Egbert's
rubber ducky.”

“How far did you get before you missed them?”

“Quite a way. I wanted to keep going, but then Jem started to fuss and Egbert was pouting about his duck, so what could I
do? Then there was the corpse to be disposed of.”

Sarah gasped. “Another one?”

“No, by a strange coincidence it was the same one. The one I found under the library desk, to be precise. What with one thing
and another, it's been quite a day.”

“Would you care for some tea or coffee and a sandwich to tide you over for another hour or so? That's how long it will take
to get dinner on the table, since I didn't know when to expect you.”

“All right,” said Max. “Don't rub it in. I know I should have phoned, but things just kept happening. Lieutenant Kilkallen
sends you his regards, by the way.”

“Do I know him? Oh yes, I remember now. A pleasant-looking man with an old-fashioned air of courtesy that even a crook couldn't
help admiring. I trust Louie was properly appreciative? It was Louie you meant, wasn't it?”

“No, he wasn't, and yes, it was. It's too long to tell now,” Max said as the thunder of little feet heralded the arrival of
his son. How a person that size could make as much noise as a two-hundred-pound man, he would never understand. Davy launched
himself at his father's knees, and Max caught him and swung him up onto his shoulder. “Hi there, tiger. What are we having
for dinner?”

“How about chocolate-covered pretzels with martinis for a chaser?” Jem suggested.

Davy chortled, and his mother said lightly, “I'm afraid we're out of chocolate-covered pretzels. Unless you brought some home?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Max. “One of the Common squirrels grabbed the bag and ran off with it. You know what rapacious creatures
they are; they'll lick anything up to twice their size and brag about it afterward.”

Davy didn't always understand all the words his parents
used, but he liked to listen to them talk silly, as he put it, and, as his mother put it, the exercise might stretch his vocabulary,
Seeing him grin, Sarah played up nobly. “Really, Max, I don't think that's very nice of them. There they are, right out in
front of the State House, wolfing down everything they can get their paws on and not even saying thank you. Uncle Jem, can't
you get up a little class on the care and feeding of unprincipled squirrels? You'd have to learn a fair amount of rodent-speak,
of course; but think of the difference you could make in their socially stunted lives, And yours as well, I'm sure, Egbert.
Maybe you could get those squirrels their own peanut cooker and teach them how to use it.”

Davy let out a whoop of laughter, “Peanut cooker!”

“Excellent idea,” his father agreed, “Okay, kid, let's get the bags upstairs. Same rooms, Sarah?”

“Unless the gentlemen in question object. You know we always give Egbert the room nearest the stairs because he's an early
riser like me. Uncle Jem can snooze all day tomorrow if he wants to, although I'm sure Davy is looking forward to singing
all two hundred verses of ‘Old Jem Kelling Had a Farm.’ And Egbert can do exactly as he pleases.”

“Just so you won't keep me out of the kitchen much longer, Mrs. Sarah. You're a better cook than I am, but you know how it
is; it's fun to cook in a different place for a change. Sort of like a vacation.”

“If that's what you want, that's what you shall have. Everything's set for tonight. There's a little nip in the air,
and I thought you might be getting tired of wedding leftovers, so I made a pot roast with carrots and potatoes and so on.
I still have to add the potatoes and the so on, so if you really insist on helping, you might fix a tray of cheese and crackers
and mix Mr. Jem's martinis. Max, would you like a drink?”

“Please.” Max had started up the stairs, suitcases in hand. Davy followed him, clutching Jem's shaving kit. Jem had already
retreated to the sitting room in order to snatch a brief snooze before the refreshments arrived.

Davy was allowed to sit up a little later than his usual bedtime so he could have some time with his father and his adored
visitors. Sarah and Max were accustomed to squeezing in grown-up talk in between responding to Davy's remarks. By the time
supper had been served and eaten, Sarah had reported the news of the day. Most of the wedding presents had been repacked,
moved to the carriage house, and tucked into corners where they wouldn't be in the way of the newlyweds. Nothing new had turned
up, except, if he could believe it, fifty cases of—

“I know about them,” Max said. “I called on the sender this afternoon. If you'd met him, you'd have no trouble believing it.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Keep your comments to yourself, Jem, they wouldn't be fit for juvenile ears. He denied the other thing, and I believed
him.”

The next exchange was delayed by Davy's request for a
definition of juvenile, and the indignant rebuttal that followed. When Davy had been distracted by a serving of frozen yogurt,
his mother went on to the next subject.

“Brooks called. He thinks he may be on to something, but he won't know for certain till Jesse reports in tomorrow. Charles
telephoned from Miami; they located the statue at an auction house and are taking the necessary steps to retrieve it. Calpurnia
Zickery dropped in—”

Davy's golden head had been drooping over his dessert. It lifted alertly at the name. “The Martian lady,” he explained. “She
says I can ride in her balloon”

“Great,” Max said, thinking that it would be a winter day in the infernal regions before he let his son into any vehicle,
much less a balloon, with one of the Zickerys. “What did she want, Sarah?”

“She wanted to apologize for the television crew.”

“What television crew?” Max demanded.

“They arrived not long after you left. Some enterprising local journalist heard about the body under the balloon, and passed
the word. The story does have its intriguing aspects,” Sarah admitted fairly. “Mr. Lomax ran them off before they could lay
siege to the house, so they went to interview the Zickerys. That's why Calpurnia popped in, to say she was sorry they had
caused such a stir and hope we hadn't been inconvenienced.”

“The major inconvenience was their popping in or onto the tent,” Max said. “Does this mean we're going to be on the six o'clock
news?”

“I hope not. Maybe there'll be an even more intriguing disaster elsewhere and we'll be bumped, or whatever the phrase may
be. I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for Calpurnia, Max. She said they were planning to repair the old place; she sounded
quite excited about it. I think the poor thing is lonely.”

“You feel sorry for everybody,” Max said affectionately. “I hope for your sake she doesn't become a nuisance.”

“If she does, I'll introduce her to the old yacht club crowd. It would serve all of them right.”

Sarah had no fond memories of the yacht club, where, as a young bride, she had spent most of her time sitting in a corner,
refusing martinis and fending off the attentions of the drunker male members. That wouldn't have happened if Alexander had
stayed at her side like a devoted spouse, but Aunt Caroline's needs always came before Sarah's. After Alexander's death some
of the yacht club crew had taken notice of his widow—Bradley Rovedock and his millions, Miffy Tergoyne and her diamonds, Alice
Beaxitt and her corrosive tongue, the Larringtons—all of the people whom Sarah had known so long, had liked so little, had
been so happy to break away from. They'd tried to keep her on their list not because they liked her, but because they were
too hidebound to let go of anybody whom they and their forebears had become used to. There weren't many of the old crowd left,
thank goodness, and she wasn't even going to feel guilty about that uncharitable thought.