Previously Loved Treasures (Serendipity #2)(58)

As she and Rose washed and dried the breakfast dishes, they talked of the morning’s events. “Do you think I’m right or wrong about Max?” Caroline asked.

Rose hesitated for a long minute then said, “I don’t doubt he’s a man capable of lies and God knows what else, but I can’t say if this particular lie belongs to him.”

Later that afternoon Caroline approached Wilbur with the same question. “I’m not willing to accuse a man without cause. But I could have sworn I saw a look of guilt on his face.”

“A man like Max probably has a lot of sin in his soul, but I doubt that stealing my watch is one of those sins.” Wilbur explained that while Max might have had motive, he hadn’t had the opportunity.

“The truth might be,” Wilbur said sadly, “I’m getting older and more forgetful. Chances are I’ve misplaced it, and sooner or later I’ll come across it the way I did last time.”

Knowing the truth of the replacement watch, Caroline heaved a great sigh and said she certainly hoped so.

~

For several days the residents looked for Wilbur’s watch, and at some point Rose suggested perhaps a search of every room would be beneficial. Max enjoyed the day-to-day misery of the watch’s disappearance and agreed. “What harm would it do,” he said, confident in the knowledge that the tick of the timepiece was muffled in three layers of socks and stuffed between the bed frame and box spring where no one would possibly think to look. In a strange and perhaps slightly deranged way, he enjoyed playing this game of cat and mouse. It made him feel smarter and stronger than the others. He was the game master. They were the pawns to be sacrificed, lambs led to slaughter.

Once he found he could roam the house in the wee hours of morning with no one being the wiser, Max launched a series of nightly raids. At about nine o’clock he’d set the stage with several yawns, the kind that catches hold of others and has them following suit. Not small stifled yawns hidden in back of a cupped hand; they were big, wide open, and with arms outstretched. It was both obvious and intentional. By the time Max announced he was ready to retire, most everyone else was also.

Harriet, Laricka, Louie, and even the doc were no problem; two or three well-orchestrated yawns and they toddled off to bed. Rose was less suggestible, but she went to bed when the child went to bed and never opened the door before morning.

Caroline could have been a problem, but now that she’d gone back to working on her novel she hibernated in the attic loft all evening. A glow of light was visible beneath her door, but she was oblivious to anything happening downstairs. Max could have stumbled over a hassock or banged against the wall, and she wouldn’t have heard it.

The only real problem was Wilbur—suspicious, eagle-eyed Wilbur, generally the last one to bed.

Once he closed the door to his room, Max stretched himself across the bed and waited until he heard the thump of Wilbur falling onto the mattress. Sometimes it was ten or fifteen minutes, other times it was hours, but he remained patient and after the thump he continued to wait until the chorus of muffled snores began.

Certain he could roam without interruption, Max pocketed loose change left lying on the countertop or the end table. He rummaged through the drawers of the dining room buffet and took several pieces of silver from the cupboard. He was clever enough to focus on the seldomly-used things, things that wouldn’t be noticed when they went missing. When Thanksgiving rolled around Caroline might go in search of the silver turkey platter, but by then it would be too late. On a night when he could find nothing else of worth, he pocketed a still-in-the-box set of tiny salt dishes rimmed with gold.

All of the thefts went unnoticed.

When Caroline counted the blessings of Ida’s love she never thought to do an inventory of the household goods, so when the silver serving spoons and salt dishes went missing she was none the wiser.





The Storyteller





In the days following the Maggie Sue sighting, the Sweetwater house settled into a time of quiet calm. The disappearance of Wilbur’s watch remained a mystery, but other than that there were few disturbances. Max continued his nightly raids but the things he took were not readily missed, and the thefts went undetected.

Feeling smug and self-satisfied with his endeavors, Max took on the appearance of a changed man. He came to dinner every night and was reasonably cordial to everyone including know-it-all Louie and little Sara, even though the child’s constant chattering at times grated on his nerves. When that happened, he would close his ears to her voice and concentrate on what bounty the nightly raid would bring; once he’d pictured the gleam of a silver spoon or the jangle of loose coins, he could smile and nod as if he were listening.

The evening Louie announced he had finished building Sara’s playhouse, Max even offered a burst of applause. The corners of his mouth curled at the edges, but it was only because he remembered Louie’s smashed thumb.

The new Max was not just tolerable but at times could seem charming. It was only a few days before Harriet regained her interest and suggested he stop in some evening for a nightcap. Of course after Maggie Sue Max saw Harriet as a poor substitute, but he nonetheless returned her smile and gave a sly wink.

The only resident not fooled by Max’s new persona was Wilbur. After so many years of living, he knew lions did not suddenly become vegetarians. Max was a killer at heart. He wasn’t one who’d willingly give up ownership of what he believed to be his. Nor was he likely to let go of the hatred he had for Ida’s granddaughter.