nightstand and one of those high-backed wooden chairs with a coat hanger on top. There was a huge armoire; Emma supposed that was to compensate for inadequate closet space. There was a writing desk, and no puny one, either. There were a vanity table with a triple mirror, a cheval glass, a chiffonier, a semainier, assorted dressers, a slipper chair, an armchair, a spring rocker covered in faded tapestry, a television set in a walnut cabinet dating from the late fifties, if Emma was any judge. This must have been the Sabines’ escape hatch when their never-ending duties as host and hostess got too overwhelming for them.
The safe was inside a small closet next to one of the beds. To Emma’s relief, there was a bare bulb in the closet ceiling, with a long cord hanging from it. They’d left the light on to keep down the mildew, she surmised; dampness and mold were the penalties of living so close to the water. She let herself inside, closed the door, took down a woolen bathrobe that felt as if the moths had been at it—one of the late George Sabine’s, probably, left hanging there partly for sentimental reasons—and found the knot in the cedar paneling exactly where Adelaide had said she would. She pushed.
A very neat job; her own carpenter couldn’t have done better. Where no crack in the paneling had been visible, a tiny door flipped open. A small wall safe was revealed. Emma dialed the combination Adelaide had given her, opened the inner door, laid the necklace inside on top of some yellowed papers, which she naturally did not read, and closed the safe. She hung the bathrobe back on the hook over the knot and shut up the closet with a feeling of great relief.
Tomorrow she’d get in touch with Sarah’s husband. One of Max Bittersohn’s specialties was the discreet tracking down of stolen jewels; he’d know how to cope. For tonight, she’d done what she could. The sensible thing now would be to push that outrageous necklace to the back of her mind and try to get some sleep.
TEN
T HIS WAS A HEAVENLY room to wake up in. Emma lay watching the sunbeams dance across the old-fashioned lilac plissé blanket cover, pleased that her bed was so comfortable, that she wasn’t feeling exhausted any longer, that the wood thrushes were in good voice, that from somewhere down below, a faint whiff of brewing coffee was being wafted up to her. She slid out of bed, put on her robe, for the sea breeze through the open windows had a morning nip to it, and went to the bathroom.
Now, back to bed or up and at it? Emma was debating the issue with one slipper on and one off when she heard a knock at her door. She put on the other slipper and called out, “Come in.”
It was Sandy, bless the child, with a tray. “I heard the john flush, so I knew you must be up. Bubbles made the tea, and I picked the rose. There was a bug in it, but I chased him out. Go ahead and sniff if you want.”
“How lovely. Thank you, Sandy.”
The rose was a fluffy little pink one, the sort one always saw blooming in great clusters around old houses near the seashore at this time of year. Sandy had sorted out the prettiest, Emma supposed, and found that tiny silver vase for it somewhere in Adelaide’s cupboards. So many charming things around here for the heirs to squabble over when the end came. Marcia wasn’t the squabbling kind, but Emma wasn’t so sure about those two sisters-in-law of hers. Perhaps Adelaide would have left lists of who was to get what, or perhaps she didn’t care by now. Emma poured from the graceful silver pot into the dainty china cup and sipped. Perfect tea, of course. How could it be otherwise?
Sandy showed no disposition to leave. Emma didn’t mind. “What sort of day are we going to have?” she asked the child.
“Mixed, I guess. The weather’s okay, but Dad’s blowing up a storm.”
“Oh dear. What about?”
“You know the guy Ted found down at the point? He’s gone.”
“Sandy, no! I thought your father had
The safe was inside a small closet next to one of the beds. To Emma’s relief, there was a bare bulb in the closet ceiling, with a long cord hanging from it. They’d left the light on to keep down the mildew, she surmised; dampness and mold were the penalties of living so close to the water. She let herself inside, closed the door, took down a woolen bathrobe that felt as if the moths had been at it—one of the late George Sabine’s, probably, left hanging there partly for sentimental reasons—and found the knot in the cedar paneling exactly where Adelaide had said she would. She pushed.
A very neat job; her own carpenter couldn’t have done better. Where no crack in the paneling had been visible, a tiny door flipped open. A small wall safe was revealed. Emma dialed the combination Adelaide had given her, opened the inner door, laid the necklace inside on top of some yellowed papers, which she naturally did not read, and closed the safe. She hung the bathrobe back on the hook over the knot and shut up the closet with a feeling of great relief.
Tomorrow she’d get in touch with Sarah’s husband. One of Max Bittersohn’s specialties was the discreet tracking down of stolen jewels; he’d know how to cope. For tonight, she’d done what she could. The sensible thing now would be to push that outrageous necklace to the back of her mind and try to get some sleep.
TEN
T HIS WAS A HEAVENLY room to wake up in. Emma lay watching the sunbeams dance across the old-fashioned lilac plissé blanket cover, pleased that her bed was so comfortable, that she wasn’t feeling exhausted any longer, that the wood thrushes were in good voice, that from somewhere down below, a faint whiff of brewing coffee was being wafted up to her. She slid out of bed, put on her robe, for the sea breeze through the open windows had a morning nip to it, and went to the bathroom.
Now, back to bed or up and at it? Emma was debating the issue with one slipper on and one off when she heard a knock at her door. She put on the other slipper and called out, “Come in.”
It was Sandy, bless the child, with a tray. “I heard the john flush, so I knew you must be up. Bubbles made the tea, and I picked the rose. There was a bug in it, but I chased him out. Go ahead and sniff if you want.”
“How lovely. Thank you, Sandy.”
The rose was a fluffy little pink one, the sort one always saw blooming in great clusters around old houses near the seashore at this time of year. Sandy had sorted out the prettiest, Emma supposed, and found that tiny silver vase for it somewhere in Adelaide’s cupboards. So many charming things around here for the heirs to squabble over when the end came. Marcia wasn’t the squabbling kind, but Emma wasn’t so sure about those two sisters-in-law of hers. Perhaps Adelaide would have left lists of who was to get what, or perhaps she didn’t care by now. Emma poured from the graceful silver pot into the dainty china cup and sipped. Perfect tea, of course. How could it be otherwise?
Sandy showed no disposition to leave. Emma didn’t mind. “What sort of day are we going to have?” she asked the child.
“Mixed, I guess. The weather’s okay, but Dad’s blowing up a storm.”
“Oh dear. What about?”
“You know the guy Ted found down at the point? He’s gone.”
“Sandy, no! I thought your father had
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