Even my skill was challenged by these fowl. Fortunately the larder was not bare of herbs, in fact, the inventory was extraordinary. The inequalities included five half-used boxes of paprika, nine thyme, three rosemary, but no marjoram. Lots of oregano but no basil. Still I had enough of the right things. It looked to me as if the summer renters had always brought their own spices and then left them behind in the hectic windup of seasonal withdrawal.
I made a cake, reveling in the unusual amount of honest-to-gosh butter. As I slid the cake pans into the oven, I realized there was no heat gauge. The oversupply of wood I had petulantly rammed in had burned off and the oven innards did not seem overhot on my skin. If Grandma could do it, I could!
The cake rose and rose, unevenly to be sure, but it was a home-baked product and they could like it or lump it. I heard stamping on the back porch and when I peered out of the crystal-clear window, the major glanced at me questioningly. When I smiled, he pointed to the woodbox. I shook my head. He loaded up and I heard him crashing back in again, slamming the door to his study. Then the kitchen door opened.
“Have you hey, what happened to the kitchen?” he asked, coming all the way in and looking around with a pleased smile.
“Where’s your white glove?”
His grin broadened. “No need. I appreciate this, I really do. I’ve been trying to get a woman out here but no luck.”
He opened a cabinet and peered in. He whistled, his fingers absently stroking the now greaseless wood.
I held the coffeepot aloft suggestively. Just then he spotted the cake cooling on the table. There was a curious look on his face as he reached mechanically for a cup.
“Maybe I’m glad you’re not James Carlysle,” he said, looking down at me as I poured his coffee. A shadow of an odd expression flitted across his face.
“Oh, I’ve been promoted to human status?” I asked.
He lifted his mug in a toast. The lid of the Dutch kettle rattled, drawing his eyes from mine to the stove. He took a deep sniff.
“That mouth-watering aroma cannot possibly come from those desiccated carcasses in the hall?” he inquired.
I shrugged nonchalantly. “Naturally. Even retreads from the last war cannot daunt Chef Murdock.”
He winced. “I know what you mean. And, at that, the farmer assured me it was a favor from one vet to another.”
“Favors like that you don’t need! Particularly in wartime.”
He tilted the lid, breathing deeply.
“Ambrosial! You put my efforts to shame.”
“You’ve merely lacked the touch of a woman about the house.”
He straightened quickly, his face cold.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” he said in a flat voice and turning on his heel went directly back to his study.
I stared after him, curiously sensitive to his rebuff. He hadn’t mentioned a wife and he wore no ring. If he were married, it wouldn’t have bothered him that I was unchaperoned. Surely he’d want his wife with him right now or maybe he wouldn’t with his face like that. No, I couldn’t buy that theory. You don’t marry a guy just for his good looks. Can that, too, Carla. You know damned well some girls have married guys for the set of their shoulders in a military tunic.
I iced the cake unenthusiastically, the edge of my pleasure blunted by the incident. I regarded the respectable product of my labors with a jaundiced eye and put it on the sideboard. I tasted the stew and salted it again. After I had peeled carrots and potatoes and added them, I set the table for dinner.
The kitchen clock said six although it felt earlier. Because, I supposed, the day had begun late. I peeked out into the hall and noticed my other bag. The side pocket of the B-29 canvas bulged with the box of Dad’s personal effects. That reminded me that the key to the footlocker was at hand and the footlocker above my head in the back room.
Well, I might as well clean up that detail. If the inventory of my father’s effects was going to reduce me to tears, at least there were sympathetic shoulders at hand. And I might just find out what it was the major thought I’d find in that locker.
By the time I had wrestled the bomber bag up the stairs, the chill of the house had taken away the heat of my desire to circumvent the major. I really didn’t want to look through that locker. For that matter, I hadn’t even looked very carefully past the first layer of the box. The sight of Dad’s West Point ring, tied to the end of the liberty scarf he’d bought me in England, had been too much for me. I had shoved the V-mail letters and the photo case that formed the first layer over the scarf and closed the box. I hadn’t been able to open it up again.
Irresolute, I stared at the door to the back room. The stamp albums must be in the footlocker; the box was too small for them. And the stamps were valuable. I wasn’t the philatelist my father had been but I’d learned enough about stamps so that I wouldn’t be cheated much if I were forced to sell the collection. Stamps didn’t depreciate and if diamonds were a girl’s best friends, stamps were a man’s or a refugee’s. He’d mentioned picking up some surcharged Polish stamps and three French Colonial oddities in Paris the one time he’d had leave there. I’d better ask the major if the stamps oughtn’t to be evaluated. Wartime or not, there were certain formalities for a hero’s heir.
Come to think of it, Dad had mentioned that this De-Lord had been with him on that Parisian foray. Dad’s opinion of DeLord had been favorable and Dad was an infallible judge of men. Why were the major and Turtle contemptuous of the lieutenant? Of course, if the man were so ill advised as to consort with Warren, I could understand their dislike. But, if Dad had liked DeLord, why was De-Lord cozying up to Warren? Oh, it made no sense. Irritated by my indecision, I kicked the bomber bag against the wall. It could stay there. It was too cold to go through Dad’s things. Even basically impersonal things such as stamps. I turned on my heel and went to my own room.
I knocked. I banged. I pounded. Well, Turtle always could sleep up a storm when he put his mind to it. I opened the door, closing it quickly because the room was warmer by noticeable degrees than the hall.
Turtle was snortingly asleep, a quilt half covering his husky frame. He was lying on his back, his head to one side, one hand across his chest, the other tucked under the pillow. Never a lovely sight, with his broken thick nose, the heavy undershot jaw, the pitted scarred face with its shadow of new beard growth, he made Lon Chancy look like Robert Taylor by comparison. With the familiarity of our friendship, I marched up to the bed and shook him by the shoulder. The next thing I knew, a Luger was pressed to my temple and a beefy hand was tight on my throat.
“For Pete’s sweet suffering sake,” I managed to say in a normal voice although I was never more startled in my life. Had I struggled or screamed, I think I might have been killed.
“Chrissake, Carla,” Turtle exploded in an angry roar of relief, “never do that to a combat fighter. I’d’ve blown your brains out. Chrisssst!” and he snapped the safety on and flopped back onto the bed, as shaken as I by the incident.
I sat down limply on the foot of the bed, rubbing my throat.