The Balloon Man (2 page)

“You do have the damnedest relatives,” Max remarked.

“They've been damnably useful to you, you ungrateful brute,” Sarah said spiritedly. “Where would your detective agency be
without Cousin Brooks and his Theonia, not to mention my who knows how many times removed cousin Jesse?”

“The ex-delinquent,” Max agreed with a grin. “All right, my love, I'll give you Cousin Brooks and the beauteous Theonia and
even Jesse. But your uncle Jem is another kettle of chowder. What wild scheme has he got in mind this time?”

“He claims he's going to bartend in his fancy vest and red satin arm garters, but Egbert says he isn't, not in front of Mother
Bittersohn.”

“Let's hope the faithful factotum can control him, then. I sure as hell can't.” Max yelped and ducked away from the window.
“Here comes a carload of revelers already. What the hell time is it? Did our clocks stop and I'm late before I start?”

“Of course not, silly. It's Cousin Anne with the bouquets and buttonholes. She promised to bring the flowers over early. Oh,
they're beautiful!” Sarah sighed as she watched Anne unload the flowers. The large and intricately intermarried Kelling clan
could be a nuisance at times, but its members boasted a diversity of talents. Percy Kelling, Anne's husband, was the dullest
of dull sticks, according to Uncle Jem, but even Jem admitted that dullness wasn't necessarily a handicap to a first-class
CPA. Sarah had had very little to do with Percy's wife, Anne, until Anne had called her and Max in to recover a treasured
family painting that featured an oversize parrot and its owner. Since then Anne had attached herself to Sarah like a clinging
vine of the Convolvulaceae family and had applied her horticultural talents to the improvement of the Bittersohn acres. What
Anne could do with a sack of manure and a few flats of annuals was little short of miraculous, and her flower arrangements
were works of art.

By the time Max emerged properly dressed in the light-gray suit and the gray-and-white tie that Mike and Tracy had decided
would be just the ticket for an outdoor wedding on a lovely September day, a sort of organized pande-monium had set in. Mindful
of Sarah's list, Max ate a quick breakfast, collected Davy and a few changes of clothing, and drove to Mrs. Blufert's, where
he gave each of the three children a wiggly wooden alligator with little green wheels for feet and a red mouth that opened
and shut most fearsomely when a child hauled it around on a string.

Max stayed to show the children how to run an alligator race. After he came in a poor fourth, he went home to tell his father,
who had made the alligators, what a great time the children were having with their new toys and reported back to his calm
and collected wife.

How Sarah had contrived a perfect day for Mike's wedding was a puzzlement to everybody but Max. He'd known from the start
that it wouldn't dare to rain with his wife bossing the show. The temperature was exactly seventy degrees Fahrenheit and would
not go much higher or lower until sundown. Every now and then a puff of white cloud wafted across the bright blue sky like
a giant blob of whipped cream on its way to frost a celestial wedding cake. Far overhead, the sun beamed down upon the enchanted
place that Cousin Anne and Mr. Lomax, the gardener, had created out of an ugly, water-worn hillside, a few truck-loads of
fish offal, and heaven only knew how many chrysanthemums, each single plant carefully selected, color-coordinated, and set
into the fishgut-enriched soil by Anne Kelling's expert hands.

Following his wife's instructions, Max went to the library, where the wedding gifts were on display. Early-arriving guests
were trickling into the room, most of them just looking, a few trying to peek at the donors' names and addresses, which had
been written on plain white cards and stuck facedown under the gifts. Miriam and Sarah had tried to keep a running list of
who'd sent what; it hadn't been easy. Parcels were still coming through the mail, by UPS, by
Federal Express, by personal visits from friends, neighbors, relatives on the Rivkin side, on the Bittersohn side, from classmates
of Mike's and Tracy's, from people whose names hardly anybody could recall having heard before, even from a few Kellings who
had the good sense to appreciate Max and his family.

The best of the presents weren't on display. Ira had already presented his son and future daughter-in-law with a meticulously
restored 1956 Ford Thunderbird. Miriam's gift to the bride was a complete set of the finest cookware, along with a file of
her own tried and tested recipes and a promise of cooking lessons as soon as Tracy had mastered the art of turning on the
stove. Best of all was a joint gift; to the newlyweds, the one building on the old Kelling summer place that had been worth
saving.

For months now, a crew headed by the elder Bittersohns and financed by Sarah and Max had been remodeling the former carriage
house. The ground floor had been divided in two: half for the Thunderbird, the other half insulated, paneled, and heated as
a studio for Tracy, who was already gaining some notice as a potter. Upstairs, a pleasant bedroom and sitting room would catch
the sunrises and sunsets over the ocean. There were also a small but functional bathroom, an office for Mike, and a kitchen
just about big enough to hold Miriam's cookware and the cook. What with the largesse already heaped upon them and the gifts
not yet unwrapped, the newlyweds were starting to wonder
whether they should build an ell on the carriage house or open a general store.

Max examined the display with a considering, expert's eye and decided to ignore his wife's suggestion that he check the list
she and Miriam had begun as soon as the gifts began to arrive. She'd just said that to keep him out of mischief. Anyhow, he
didn't know where she'd put the damned list. Besides, it was impossible to do the job under these conditions, with people
coming and going and wanting to talk and getting in the way. The pace was picking up. More guests were coming, more food being
delivered, more people wanting to see the presents. Where, he wondered, had all this stuff come from? The glittering array
covered the desk, the library table, and the other tables that had been brought in from various rooms and draped decorously
in white linen. Six coffeemakers, four blenders, several other gadgets whose functions he was afraid to speculate about, vessels
of silver, crystal, china, pottery, plastic, feathers … Max did a double take. They were feathers, dry, molting, faded feathers,
covering a bowl the size of a washbasin. Its original function was questionable, its present utility nil. That had to have
come from the Kelling side. The Kellings never threw anything away. Maybe this was one of Aunt Appie's family treasures.

Tearing his incredulous eyes away from the object, Max was pleased to see Egbert, Uncle Jem's aged and invaluable valet de
chambre, companion, and all-round good egg. They exchanged greetings that were, at least on Max's part,
heartfelt. The room was too crowded. People were getting fingerprints on the silver, and jostling the tables, and picking
up those handy white cards and probably not putting them back with the right gifts. Egbert was up to the job. Max watched
admiringly as Egbert moved from one group to another, murmuring hints about coffee and pastries on the deck and suggesting
guests might care to stroll down to the carriage house for a look at the Thunderbird, the studio, and the upstairs living
quarters, giving special attention to the curtains and pillow tops, all embroidered by Mrs. Bittersohn Senior using motifs
taken from Tracy's prize-winning pottery, which could already be seen in some of the more prestigious decorating shops.

Finally the place began to clear out, and Max, who had decided to concentrate on looking elegant and debonair, relaxed. People
were drifting toward the big tent, where the bridal couple would stand to take their vows. Egbert tactfully urged the last
of the viewers away, leaving Max alone in the library. Max glanced at his watch. He'd better get out there and make like a
host until the ushers had got everybody seated. He cast a final glance over the wedding gifts, and froze.

“My God! Where did this come from?”

Max knew he ought to be out in the tent by now, but he remained stock still, staring in disbelief at the wealth of gold and
rubies that nestled snugly on the worn velvet of a rubbed leather jewel case.

Max had authenticated many jewels in his career, but he had a particularly intimate acquaintance with this necklace. He'd
seen it in Brussels, Amsterdam, Rio, Dallas, Rome, and Hong Kong—and in the portraits and photographs of three successive
Kelling wives who had been privileged to flaunt their husbands' wealth and dignity by wearing the Kelling rubies. Sarah's
former mother-in-law, Caroline Kelling, had been the last to wear the opulent parure, before she had ruthlessly and efficiently
looted her only son of valuables that were rightfully his. She had handed over the Kelling jewels, including the rubies, to
her lover, who had sold them and kept the money for himself.

Sarah had known about the Kelling parure even before she'd married Alexander, but she'd never seen it, although the pieces
should all have been hers for her lifetime. Caroline Kelling had ruled her son with an iron hand and hadn't even bothered
to swathe it in a velvet glove. Though blind and deaf, she'd run the old house on Tulip Street to suit herself and treated
her young daughter-in-law like a servant. Max would never forget the day Sarah had opened the safe-deposit box that ought
to have contained the Kelling jewels, part of her inheritance from her dead husband, and had found it filled with bricks.
He hadn't been surprised, but poor Sarah had fainted dead away. Small wonder, after losing her husband and learning from him,
before he died, that his mother had killed several people, including Sarah's father.

Max closed his eyes, rubbed them, and opened them again. He hadn't been hallucinating. The necklace was still there. Or was
it one of the copies of the necklace Caroline Kelling's lover, Harry Lackridge, had pawned off onto unsuspecting buyers in
Brussels, Rio, Dallas, Rome, and Hong Kong, before a suspicious-minded lady in Amsterdam had pulled a reverse swindle and
kept not just the necklace, but the rest of the parure—bracelets, clips, chains, tiara, a lavaliere, even a matching opera
glass?

The rest of the parure. It wasn't until that thought entered his dead brain that Max saw the other velvet cases, modestly
concealed under the large open case that displayed the necklace. It took only a few moments to confirm
his hunch. The other pieces were there, too, even the opera glass. Glancing uneasily over his shoulder, he closed the cases
and refastened them, sliding each small hook into its corresponding socket with fingers that were not as steady as they might
have been.

Could this be one of the copies Lackridge had had made in order to swindle purchasers? Somehow Max didn't think so. The astute
lady in Amsterdam was dead; she had passed on earlier that year. Maybe her heirs had sold the rubies, and they had come into
the hands of one of Tracy's friends or relations. Her father had enough money to buy all the rubies he wanted; he was CEO
of Warty Pickles Inc., and his products could be found on the shelves of every grocery store in the country. Max turned over
the white card on which the donor's name and address were supposed to be printed. Both sides were blank.

The violin, the cello, the oboe, and the flute burst forth in beautiful unison. The bridal procession must be almost ready
to process. Max couldn't see his mother, but he could feel her sending some pretty vibrant thought waves. He himself was slated
not to join in the procession down the improvised aisle, but to lurk at the back of the big tent and make sure that everything
was moving along in strict accordance with Miriam's ironclad schedule.

What the hell was he going to do with the rubbed velvet cases and their unbelievable contents? They couldn't be left out on
the table. In Max's opinion the parure was a particularly repellent example of Victorian tastelessness, but
the gold was eighteen karat and the rubies were very large and of the finest color, and there were a lot of both rubies and
gold. What about the safe in an upstairs wall of their bedroom? Max dismissed the idea. The bridesmaids had been using that
room as a dressing room all day. It was fifty to one that some frantic young bridesmaid was in there now, pinning up a broken
strap or doing whatever excitable females did to make themselves beautiful. He reached up and hid the boxes behind a Morocco-bound
set of Thackeray on the top shelf of one of the bookcases, made sure the library windows were locked as tight as he could
get them, and double-locked the only door to the room before he put the only key into his breast pocket. This was the best
he could do on such short notice; it would have to be enough for now.

The music that had been no more than a pleasant background noise began to swell and soar, gathering families and friends together
in one joyful mass. Ushers were finding seats for the laggards, clearing the center aisle once most of the well-wishers were
in their places, and going back to escort those who merited special notice.

Max took up his position at the back of the tent, trying to look as if he'd been there for hours. He was in time to see the
bride's mother led to her place. Jeanne brightened up as soon as she noticed what a handsome young fellow Mike's best friend
and head usher happened to be.

Next came Mother and Father Bittersohn, she in light blue silk, wearing a lovely corsage created especially for her
by Cousin Anne and the sort of hat that Queen Elizabeth II might have chosen if she'd had Miriam handy to make it for her.
The patriarch entered correct on all counts in his light gray suit and tie, his boutonniere, his tallis, and a handsome new
yarmulke embroidered by his gifted wife.

Miriam Rivkin's sewing machine had been busy ever since Mike and Tracy had finally made up their minds to a family wedding
with at least some of the trimmings. She'd created Tracy's gown of ivory lace over taffeta, the maid of honors in pale yellow,
arid the four bridesmaids' in shades from gold to russet. Just as she'd thought she was finished sewing the last dress, Miriam
had happened to spy a wonderful silk print splashed with subtly defined chrysanthemums. She'd sat up all that night at the
machine; now she swished down the aisle, looking absolutely gorgeous, as she could when she chose. And now entered the bridesmaids,
all in taffeta with matching chrysanthemum bouquets that ranged from russet to amber to brighter gold to the maid of honor's
sunshine yellow. Finally, here came the bride, a princess straight out of a fairy tale in creamy satin frothed with lace and
veiled in tulle. Even in high-heeled satin pumps and a coronet of charming little button chrysanthemums interspersed with
sprays of the traditional orange blossoms, Tracy barely came up to her prospective father-in-law's shoulder. She kept glancing
up to make sure Ira was really and truly there. He glanced back, proud as any father could be to show off his beautiful daughter,
even though
Tracy would still technically be on loan until she and Mike had pledged their vows.