The Prodigal Son(80)
“That’s an over-simplification, Jim. Why are you so afraid of the world’s judgements all of a sudden? I would have said you and I are veterans of what the world can do,” Millie said stiffly. “I can’t stop you regarding Davina as an oracle, but don’t let her move into my space. I won’t stomach Davina Tunbull in my space.”
He looked stunned. “Are you jealous?”
“No. Just on my guard. Strange things are happening, and don’t tell me you’re not on your guard.”
His desire to change the subject was transparent; he laughed, then said, “What are we going to do for furniture? Is the new place already furnished?”
“No, it’s too up-market for that,” said Millie, obliging him. “Mom and Dad have donated a few pieces, so have the Ceruttis, Silvestris and the half of East Holloman that’s related to me.” Her eyes and voice grew suddenly sharp. “And don’t poker up, Jim! It is not charity. Later on we’ll be buying our own furniture, then we’ll return what was loaned. That’s all it is — a loan. A loan! Okay?”
That was a tone he understood: don’t mess with Millie! So he nodded. “Okay by me, sweetheart. When do we move?”
“Tomorrow.” The blue of her eyes, so pure and seemingly unmarred by life, spat sudden fire. “This is my last night on State Street, and never again. Hear me, Jim? Never again!”
Edith Tinkerman was packing too, though not with such triumphant finality. Probate took time — she would ask Dean Wainfleet if he knew anyone could speed it up a little — so the house could not be sold. However, the Dean had put her in touch with a law firm that had freed up some of Tom’s staggering savings, so she wasn’t worried where the next meal was coming from.
In her opinion the police had been very kind — really, really considerate. They had been obliged to search the house, especially Tom’s study, but they had put everything back where it belonged. Anne and Catherine, who watched TV a lot, had thought they would create a terrible mess because the TV cops did. Well that was the difference between reality and what Tom had called the “boob tube”. Would a Delia Carstairs permit her colleagues to make a mess? The Holloman police were civilized.
Too civilized, as it turned out. Edith had forgotten to tell them about Tom’s secret drawer, and the cops hadn’t inspected that section of wall because it was covered by an ugly old Russian madonna and child Tom seemed to think far better than an Andrew Wyeth, and he was the best American painter living. In Edith’s view, a thousand years of age couldn’t turn bad art into good.
Now she stood, dismayed, in her husband’s study and debated what she ought to do. Look first, she decided, went to the really ugly painting, and lifted it down. The wall behind was just wall save for a thin crack that outlined a shallow drawer whose handle was the picture hook. Understanding that the icon was worth more than the whole house, Carmine and Abe hadn’t touched it, reasoning that nor would Thomas Tinkerman.
The drawer was where Tom always kept work in progress. It wasn’t necessary to hide his efforts, he knew that well, but something in his constricted being took pleasure in pretending that his efforts were important enough to require hiding, if only from fellow scholars. Hence the drawer.
Edith pulled it out to find it stuffed quite full of loose sheets of paper, on top of which was a letter Tom himself had written using his gold Parker fountain pen. It was signed, therefore ready to be sent — why hadn’t he sent it? she wondered, gazing at its addressee. Probably something to do with the papers.
Police forgotten, she moved to the phone on Tom’s desk, and for the first time in her life sat in Tom’s beautiful leather chair. Best call the addressee and find out what to do next.
She picked up the receiver and dialed — no push-buttons for Thomas Tarleton Tinkerman!
One of Uda’s tiny hands reached for one of the baby’s tiny hands and their fingers clung while he gurgled gleefully.
“Alexis is the most beautiful baby I have ever seen,” Uda said huskily.
Black mop of unkinked hair glistening in the light, the baby’s head came forward; up went the green eyes to his mother’s face. Her heart caved in, it was all she could do not to squeeze him to death. So much love! Whoever could have guessed the ecstasy of motherhood without experiencing it? I have killed to save myself and Uda, Davina thought, but only when nothing else would answer. Whereas I would kill for Alexis if anyone looked sideways at him.
“I have decided not to go ahead with my plans for Chez at this time,” she said to Uda, but not in English.