Mystery

“Oh, it’s so pretty,” Sarah said, a second before Tom could say the same thing. Threadbare but clean patterned rugs covered the floor, and every inch of the walls had been decorated with framed pictures of every kind—portraits and landscapes, photographs of children and animals and couples and houses. After a second, Tom saw that most of them had been clipped from magazines. Hattie had also framed postcards, newspaper articles, letters, hand-printed poems, and pages from books. She had brought the bent-back chairs and her table to a high shine which was increased by her brass lamps. Her bed was a burnished walnut platform softened by many pillows covered in fabrics; her table looked as though George Washington might have owned it. In one corner a huge birdcage held a stuffed hawk. The whole effect was of profusion and abundance. A dented kettle painted fire-engine red steamed on the gas hob beside the small white refrigerator against the back wall, covered like the others with photographs in frames. Tom saw Martin Luther King, John Kennedy, Malcolm X, Paul Robeson, Duke Ellington, and a self-portrait in a golden robe of Rembrandt that gazed out with the wisest and most disconcerting expression Tom had ever seen on any face.

“I do my best,” Hattie said. “I live next to the biggest furniture store in all Mill Walk, and I’m a little bit handy, you know. Seems like rich people would rather throw things away than give ’em away, lots of times. I even know the houses a lot of my things came from.”

“You got all this from the dump?” Sarah asked.

“You pick and choose, and you scrub and polish. People around here know I’m fond of pictures, and they bring me frames and such, when they find ’em.” The kettle began to whistle. “I was making a cup of tea for Boney, but he wouldn’t stay—just wanted to throw a scare into Hattie, was all he wanted. You two won’t be in such a rush, will you?”

“We’d love some tea, Hattie,” Tom said.

She poured the boiling water into a teapot and covered it. She brought three unmatched mugs from a little yellow cupboard to the table, a pint of milk, and sugar in a silver bowl. Then she sat beside them and began talking to Sarah about the original owners of some of her things while they waited for the tea to steep.

The big birdcage had been Arthur Thielman’s—or rather, Mrs. Arthur Thielman’s, the first

Mrs. Arthur Thielman, and so had her brass lamps; some shoes and hats and other clothes had also been Mrs. Thielman’s, for after her death her husband had thrown out everything that had been hers. Her little old-fashioned desk where she kept her papers and the old leather couch had come from a famous gentleman named Lamont von Heilitz, who had got rid of nearly half his furniture when he had done something—Hattie didn’t know what—to his house. And the big gilded frame around that picture of Mr. Rembrandt—

“Mr. von Heilitz? Famous?” Sarah said, as if the name had just caught up with her. “He must be the most useless man ever born! He never even comes out of his house, he never sees anyone—how could he be famous?”

“You’re too young to know about him,” Hattie said. “I think our tea’s ready by now.” She began to pour for them. “And he comes out of his house now and again, I know—because he comes to see me.”

“He comes to see you?” Tom asked, now as surprised as Sarah.

“Some old patients come around now and again,” she said, smiling at him. “Mr. von Heilitz, he brought me some of his parents’ things himself, instead of tossing them on the dump and making me drag them home. He might look like an old fool to you, but to me he looks like that picture of Mr. Rembrandt up on my wall.” She sipped her tea. “Came to visit you too, didn’t he? Back when you got hurt.”

“But why was he famous?” Sarah asked.

“Everybody knew about the Shadow once,” Hattie said. “Used to be the most famous man on Mill Walk. I think he was the greatest detective in the world—like someone you could read about in a book. He made a lot of people uncomfortable, he did—they had too many secrets, and they were afraid he’d know all about them. He still makes ’em uncomfortable. I think a lot of folks on this island would be happier if he passed real soon.”

Sarah turned a reflective glance on Tom, and he said, “Hattie, did Dr. Milton come here to warn you off talking to me?”

“Let me ask you something. Are you making ready to sue Shady Mount? And do you want Nancy Vetiver to help you do it?”

“Is that what he said?”

“Because you had to have that second operation—they made a mess of the first one, you know. Tom ain’t that stupid, I said. If you could be sued on this island, it would have happened a long time ago. But if you want to, Tom, you go ahead—you might not be able to win, but you could smear him a little.”

“Dr. Milton?” asked Sarah.

“Hattie once told me I ought to take my fork and stab him in his fat fish-colored hand.”