The Balloon Man (4 page)

“Not one of the Warty Pickles Pilchers?”

“Yes. Her father is the CEO of the company. Do you know them?” Percy had Max's full attention now.

“The old man's not one of my clients,” Percy said, his tone suggesting he wasn't sorry. “I know of him, of course. Everyone
has heard of old Warty Pilcher. Not here, is he? I thought not. Probably off at some ungodly expensive Shangri-la with his
fifth or sixth or seventh incipient disappointment in the matrimonial line.”

He dismissed the Pilchers with an aristocratic Kelling sniff. “I must say, Max, you've done a good job here.”

Max started. “What?”

“With the property, I mean. I and some of the others were distressed when you tore the old house down, but I must admit it
was a monstrosity, with a total lack of creature comforts such as stoves that warmed, plumbing that worked, and roofing that
didn't leak through in fifty different places.”

“I'm glad you approve,” Max said.

“Mmm, yes. In fact, the only thing going for the place was the view.”

“That's still here.” It was, and it was magnificent, miles of ocean beating off the cliff and chasing itself back to Portugal.
The new house that Sarah and Max had planned between them was as different from the old wreck as was possible, modern and
convenient and beautifully designed. Some of the Kellings, including Percy, had raised Cain when the old house was demolished,
even though it was none of their business, but that was the Kellings for you.
Max hadn't regretted their decision, and he hoped Sarah hadn't. Not only was the old house inconvenient, it held memories
he wanted his wife to forget. Memories of her unhappy marriage to her fond, handsome, elderly cousin, memories of the vicious
old woman who had owned the ruby parure.

Max groaned. How had the damned rubies got there, and why, and by whom, and what the hell was it all about? How would Sarah
take the news that they had reappeared? How much longer was this wonderful wedding going to go on?

Max Bittersohn could hardly believe what he was seeing. Jeremy Kelling, beau ideal of Beacon Hill and environs, had shown
up around noontime, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, complete in his role as a turn-of-the-century bartender, with a black leather
bow tie, a waistcoat that could be heard all the way to Pride's Crossing, and red satin garters holding up his shirtsleeves
to keep them free of the donnybrook that he claimed he was expecting to referee as the day waned and the pace picked up and
the wedding guests got down to the serious business of imbibing. He'd even tried on a walrus mustache; it made him look like
a genuine walrus, so he'd settled for being his own curmudgeonly self.

But where did the bartender belong? Certainly not stuck behind a makeshift bar over which he'd had to keep shoving abominations
such as white wine and some kind of fruit punch that must be seething with vitamins and contained not one single drop of anything
even mildly alcoholic.
Whatever had happened to the youth of today? Didn't anybody get bombed anymore?

“Damn it all, Max,” snarled the toast of the swan boats, continuing his plaint, “look at that crowd. About as inspirational
as a dead codfish. Don't try to tell me the old order isn't changing; and not for the better, if you want my opinion.”

Max didn't want Jem's opinion, but he could hardly say so. “Jeremy” Kelling, former Exalted Chowderhead of the Comrades of
the Convivial Codfish, was one of Sarah's favorite relatives. Max was rather fond of him, too, and he wouldn't have hurt the
old coot's feelings for worlds. Jem was complaining for the fun of it, and also because he was so used to his own coterie
of eccentric old coots and grousing antagonists that he didn't know how to act in a situation as normal as this. The Kellings
were for once in the minority; it was the Bittersohns and the Rivkins who were adding a strong dash of unforced gaiety to
the scene. So far, nobody except a few of the old Kelling-related diehards had asked for anything decent and sustaining like
double martinis or whiskey sours or even a good dry sherry. Tea and coffee, of all things, were in high favor.

Jem looked as if he wanted to sneak off somewhere and have a good cry. Was J. Lemuel Kelling about to go the way of bathtub
gin and the Black Bottom? He was feeling glum as a Grinch and wondering how soon he could get out of here when the bride herself,
responding to her uncle Max's
gesture, dragged Jem out on the dance floor and taught him how to dance the Pussycat Prowl.

At least he thought she'd taught him. Tracy herself was not so sure. Anyway, she'd made Jem a happy man, and what were bruised
toes and an occasional stumble between relatives?

With the chairs and tables pushed back against the tent walls, there was plenty of room for dancing. Noticing that Max was
looking a bit frazzled, Sarah had slipped off by herself to collect Davy from Mrs. Blufert. She and her son were now out on
the floor with Tracy and Mike, learning the Pussycat Prowl under Uncle Jem's unneeded and not very reliable tutelage. Max
was still trying to be genial while feeling as though platoons of small furry animals were marching up and down his spine,
all of them with cold, damp, smelly little pink feet. He couldn't see Jesse anywhere. The guests were scattering all over
the place, joining in the dancing, watching from the sidelines, moving out to the decks to gaze at the view, chatting with
friends, nibbling, and sipping. Max couldn't stand it any longer. He headed for the house.

The library door was still locked. As soon as he unlocked it he was surrounded by people who claimed they had missed seeing
the wedding gifts before the service or wanted to make sure their own offerings had been delivered intact, on time, and ready
to be displayed in suitably prominent settings. He couldn't think of a reasonable excuse for keeping them out, so he switched
on a couple of overhead
spotlights so that those present could all get a good look at the plethora of largesse that was heaped around them; then he
stood there, trying not to look suspicious.

Had the necklace come from Tracy's father, a belated gesture of goodwill, a sudden resurgence of conscience? A man who had
a nickname like Warty didn't sound as if he had a conscience. And if he did have one, why hadn't he taken credit for the munificent,
if inconvenient, gift? If the necklace had been sent or delivered through one of the legitimate channels, old Warty's name
would be on that white card. Max had seen enough of Tracy during the past months to realize that she was as sensible as she
was talented. She'd been sandwiching handwritten thank-you notes between her potting wheel and her kiln, taking care to list
each gift as it came and not getting a single name or address wrong, and when she wasn't able to keep up with the deluge,
Sarah and Miriam had helped her. Tracy hadn't seemed to expect much from her family. She'd been mildly gratified when her
mother had evinced an interest in attending the wedding, and not surprised when the ex—Mrs. Pilcher, after a brief interest
in knishes, had switched her attention to the best man.

The poor kid was probably used to being a memorandum on some secretary's desk calendar, Max thought. Well, she had a family
of her own now. Mike loved her, Miriam loved her, Ira loved her, the elder Bittersohns doted on her, Sarah and Max had welcomed
her, and Davy had promised to let her play with the alligator that Grandfather Bittersohn
had carved for him, if she was careful not to let it bite her. She'd taken the whole family to her heart just as they had
taken her to theirs. How could two such selfish people as Warty and Mrs. Warty have produced a child like Tracy? The more
he thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed that the CEO of Warty Pickles had come through with a suitable acknowledgment
of his daughter's nuptial day.

Eventually he got the belated sight-seers out of the room, checked to make sure there were no occupied trash bags under the
desk and the tables, and locked the door again. By this time, the morning wedding had burgeoned into a day-long festival,
but Max was relieved to see that the guests were beginning to wear out. They had seen all they wanted to see, eaten all they
cared to eat or dared to drink, danced and made merry until their feet gave out; now they were only waiting for the bride
and groom, in traveling clothes, to come out of their carriage house and be pelted with kisses and flowers and handfuls of
rice. This done, they collected their boxes of wedding cake, each with a chrysanthemum tucked in under its russet satin bow,
and began to take their leave. Some had trains or planes to catch or long distances to drive or pets to feed or plants to
water or a strong desire to go home and flop on the living room couch. Max wouldn't have minded doing a little flopping himself,
but he had a feeling it would be a while before he could.

For one thing, there was Davy, fresh as a daisy after his nap, flushed with triumph after his performance on the
dance floor, and demanding attention from the cruel parent who had callously abandoned him that morning. He'd had a wonderful
time with his favorite baby-sitter and her kids and their alligators, but daddies had to be kept in their places. Tugging
at Max's hand, he tried to pull him onto the makeshift dance floor.

Max smiled fondly but wanly at the little face looking up at him from around the level of his aching knee. If there was anything
he didn't feel like doing just then, it was the Pussycat Prowl. Looking around in the hope of rescue, he caught sight of an
object he prayed would provide a distraction.

“Look, Davy. There, up in the sky.”

Davy gasped. “It's a flying saucer! Martians, Daddy!”

It did have an otherworldly look, gliding serenely across the sky, its swelling shape striped in colors that matched the sunset.
Max hated to destroy his son's innocent fantasy, but the stern duty of a parent demanded he speak the truth.

“I'm afraid it's not a flying saucer. It's a hot-air balloon, with Earthlings instead of Martians.”

Davy obviously didn't believe him. He began jumping up and down, waving his arms. “Martians! Martians!”

“Does he know what Martians are?” inquired Sarah, who had come to join her two best beloveds.

Max put his arm around her. “He can't know what they are, because they aren't. Haven't you explained the basic facts of astronomy
to him? What kind of mother are you?”

“I was raised to believe that imparting basic facts is a father's responsibility. How do balloonists manage to fly those things,
do you know?”

“Vaguely. I believe the air is heated by propane gas. They warm it up or let it cool off, depending on whether they're interested
in going up or coming down. It's a bit late to be horsing around in a basket at this time of night, in my opinion.”

“It's so pretty, though. Nice of the Martians to arrange this. A lovely finale to a perfect day. I wonder where they're planning
to land.”

Max didn't know where they had planned to land or whether hot-air balloons could be set down on a precise spot, but he was
beginning to suspect he knew where the thing was going to land. It was almost directly overhead now, and so low he could see
the faces of the people looking down from the basket. He caught his son in one arm and his wife in the other and headed south
as fast as he could move. The remaining guests, who had been gawking appreciatively at the balloon, were a little slower to
react, possibly because they were weighted down by wedding cake and Theonia's superb chocolate desserts, but they too dispersed,
squawking and screaming as the big wicker basket dropped with a majestic thump smack on top of the wedding tent.

Clutching his hostages to fortune, Max turned to survey the damage and let out a breath of relief when he saw no arms, legs,
or other human parts protruding from under
the basket. Everyone had been outside, having a last fling at the dessert table or the bar or drifting toward the field where
their cars were parked.

Davy was shouting with delight and trying to pull away from his father so he could be among the first to greet the visitors
from outer space. Some of the younger guests had already converged on the balloon. Obeying the vigorous gestures of a person
whose head was encased in a green plastic helmet, the volunteers grasped the ropes he tossed out and held the basket steady
while two other people, male or female—there was no way to label either by the garments they wore—clambered down a rope ladder
they'd hung over the side of the basket.

“It would be only civil to greet them and congratulate them on a safe landing, I suppose,” Sarah murmured.

“If we're the first, we re entitled to the champagne.”

“What champagne?”

“Isn't that what they do? I read it somewhere.” Max rubbed his forehead with one hand while keeping the other firmly on his
son. Even to a man who spends his time pursuing art thieves across five continents, the situation was a little confusing.
“They present a bottle of champagne to the astonished farmer or house owner on whose property they end up.”

“If they're handing out alcoholic beverages, I'd better get to them before Uncle Jem.”

Sarah knew her uncle well. She reached the aeronauts only a few seconds before Jem trotted up, still resplendent
in crimson arm garters. Max arrived on the scene in time to hear his wife's courteous welcoming speech interrupted by one
of the newcomers.

“Mind telling us where we are?”

“Where you've no damned business being,” Jem remarked with typical Kelling courtesy. “Gate crashing a private wedding, or
maybe tent crashing is what I mean. Where's the champagne?”

Even close up, the two tent crashers would have been hard to distinguish one from the other. They were bundled up against
the chill of the upper air, in identical orange down jackets and heavy dark slacks. Heavy plastic helmets, like the ones worn
by sensible motorcyclists, concealed any hair they might have possessed.

“What champagne?” The interrupter pulled off his helmet. His graying hair was cropped short, and his voice was definitely
baritone. Not that that meant anything. Max had known a number of women, several of them related to Sarah, who displayed both
characteristics.