sounded at all bereft, his grief would be for himself and the extra work he’d have to do without Dolores around to do it for him. Turbot would be on Vieuxchamp’s neck, no doubt, once he noticed that the museum was not being properly kept up, which it certainly wouldn’t be unless somebody new was hired to take Dolores’s place. The trustees would have their hands full trying to find a replacement who could function capably as a curator, housekeeper, assistant gardener, and peacock doctor, and was willing to work for a relative pittance.
And what about Max? Sarah wondered, down in Argentina at his own expense, exercising his training and diplomatic skills to get back another of the Wilkins’s looted treasures with nobody left on the staff who cared enough to rejoice in its recovery or could distinguish the original from the copy.
Other museums had fund-raising societies formed for their benefit by interested patrons. There had never been a Friends of the Wilkins. Even if the trustees had sanctioned it, Dolores Tawne would have thrown a wet blanket over any such amateurish nonsense in her domain. Maybe Lala Turbot would get interested, at least it would be a change from looking at livestock. Whatever happened, Sarah was well aware that, after the way she’d spoken her mind to Elwyn Turbot, the Bittersohn Detective Agency would be finished with the Wilkins Museum once the Watteaus had been delivered and the new chairman of trustees had tried unsuccessfully to gyp Max out of his fee. It was the end of an era. She raised her glass again.
“Bottoms up, Charles. This one’s to us.”
* The Resurrection Man
Chapter 5
S ARAH WENT TO BED early but didn’t get much sleep. She kept waking up and trying to remember all the things that needed to be done now that the usual support group had—temporarily, she hoped—dwindled away to Charles and herself. Mostly what came to her mind, however, was Dolores Tawne as Sarah had known her, the living image of a teakettle coming up to the boil, clumping around in sensible thick-soled tan walking shoes, her sensible beige gabardine shirtwaist covered by a smock that had seen far too many wash days and been patched under the armpits at least once too often; radiating a sort of ferocious warmth when things were going her way, turning up the heat to full blast when anybody tried to cross her.
In her own way, Dolores had been a personage. It was hard to think of her as she must be now, lying stiff and still in a drawer at the morgue with a cardboard tag tied to her bare big toe. She’d have loathed being seen naked. Whoever was doing the autopsy had better watch his or her step; even from beyond the veil, Dolores might arise long enough to pick a bone or two. What a blessing it was, finding something to smile about, here alone in the dark. Sarah sent a wave of comradely farewell into the blackness, trusting that it would find its way to the right place, and dropped at last into a sound sleep.
At Ireson’s Landing, the only night noises would be those of wind and water and occasional local fauna out on the hunt. Summer in the city, though, had re-immunized her even to police and fire sirens; Sarah didn’t wake up until almost half past seven. By the time she’d showered and rummaged something halfway wearable out of the closet, she could hear Charles astir in the kitchen. She hoped to goodness he wasn’t thinking of some essay into haute cuisine such as eggs Benedict; toast and coffee were about the limit of his culinary powers.
Fortunately, he’d only got so far as to be holding a box of pancake mix at arm’s length, trying to read the directions on the box without his glasses on, when Sarah entered the kitchen.
“Don’t go to all that bother for me, Charles. Is there any bread in the house, or did you use it up on the sandwiches yesterday?”
“Yes, I did, but there’s one of Mrs. Brooks’s coffee cakes in the fridge. She left two, but the other one sort of melted
And what about Max? Sarah wondered, down in Argentina at his own expense, exercising his training and diplomatic skills to get back another of the Wilkins’s looted treasures with nobody left on the staff who cared enough to rejoice in its recovery or could distinguish the original from the copy.
Other museums had fund-raising societies formed for their benefit by interested patrons. There had never been a Friends of the Wilkins. Even if the trustees had sanctioned it, Dolores Tawne would have thrown a wet blanket over any such amateurish nonsense in her domain. Maybe Lala Turbot would get interested, at least it would be a change from looking at livestock. Whatever happened, Sarah was well aware that, after the way she’d spoken her mind to Elwyn Turbot, the Bittersohn Detective Agency would be finished with the Wilkins Museum once the Watteaus had been delivered and the new chairman of trustees had tried unsuccessfully to gyp Max out of his fee. It was the end of an era. She raised her glass again.
“Bottoms up, Charles. This one’s to us.”
* The Resurrection Man
Chapter 5
S ARAH WENT TO BED early but didn’t get much sleep. She kept waking up and trying to remember all the things that needed to be done now that the usual support group had—temporarily, she hoped—dwindled away to Charles and herself. Mostly what came to her mind, however, was Dolores Tawne as Sarah had known her, the living image of a teakettle coming up to the boil, clumping around in sensible thick-soled tan walking shoes, her sensible beige gabardine shirtwaist covered by a smock that had seen far too many wash days and been patched under the armpits at least once too often; radiating a sort of ferocious warmth when things were going her way, turning up the heat to full blast when anybody tried to cross her.
In her own way, Dolores had been a personage. It was hard to think of her as she must be now, lying stiff and still in a drawer at the morgue with a cardboard tag tied to her bare big toe. She’d have loathed being seen naked. Whoever was doing the autopsy had better watch his or her step; even from beyond the veil, Dolores might arise long enough to pick a bone or two. What a blessing it was, finding something to smile about, here alone in the dark. Sarah sent a wave of comradely farewell into the blackness, trusting that it would find its way to the right place, and dropped at last into a sound sleep.
At Ireson’s Landing, the only night noises would be those of wind and water and occasional local fauna out on the hunt. Summer in the city, though, had re-immunized her even to police and fire sirens; Sarah didn’t wake up until almost half past seven. By the time she’d showered and rummaged something halfway wearable out of the closet, she could hear Charles astir in the kitchen. She hoped to goodness he wasn’t thinking of some essay into haute cuisine such as eggs Benedict; toast and coffee were about the limit of his culinary powers.
Fortunately, he’d only got so far as to be holding a box of pancake mix at arm’s length, trying to read the directions on the box without his glasses on, when Sarah entered the kitchen.
“Don’t go to all that bother for me, Charles. Is there any bread in the house, or did you use it up on the sandwiches yesterday?”
“Yes, I did, but there’s one of Mrs. Brooks’s coffee cakes in the fridge. She left two, but the other one sort of melted
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