Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
“M’yes, that’s something to think about, but how would you then explain his getting stabbed in the neck?”
“That does seem to be carrying a joke too far, I grant you. Unless he thought it was going to be a joke and whoever pulled him up really meant all the time to kill him. I don’t know, Peter, I’m simply no good at riddles. Perhaps I’ll feel sharper in the morning. Shall we have the good fortune to see you here tomorrow?”
“Yes, I think so. I have classes all morning and a student conference at half-past four, but I expect I could run out for a while after lunch. If the woods dry out and he’s not too tied up, I might bring Professor Ames with me. He had some thoughts about a new timber plantation.”
“Excellent! I’ve been wondering about that myself. Bring him anyway. If it’s too wet in the woods, we can at least have a good chin-wag about the possibilities. Good night, Peter. I do appreciate your concern, you know.”
“Even though you wish we’d all quit clucking over you and let you get some sleep. Good night, Winifred.”
Peter himself went to bed expecting a clear day after the storm. During the night, though, a fresh batch of clouds rolled in. By morning, the sky was again completely overcast and the weather man was talking ominously of more rain. His students were as glum as the sky. He snapped them out of their sulks fast enough; Peter was no Captain Bligh, but somehow or other nobody tried any malingering in Professor Shandy’s classes.
Even so, by noontime he was glad to get away from the classroom. He escaped to the faculty dining room, sat down with Tim and Dan Stott, and ordered the Monday special, whatever that might be, with pie to follow. The student waiter didn’t have to be told what kind, pie at this time of year meant apple unless otherwise specified. Peter never did figure out precisely what the Monday special consisted of, but it didn’t taste too bad.
Helen wasn’t coming to the dining room today, she was lunching with her friend Grace Porble, the librarian’s wife. Tim couldn’t go to the station because one of his students had brought in a fascinating glob of mud which they and a privileged few others were going to analyze together. Dan was tied up in a seminar on advanced swine management out at the college pigpens.
“Then I’ll go by myself,” said Peter.
“Spoken in the staunchly resolute manner of The Little Red Hen.” Dan Stott frequently read stories with animals in them to his grandchildren, of whom he had, at current count, twenty-three, and one great-grandchild on the way. “Bon voyage, old friend.”
On his way to the car, Peter detoured past the police station. Fred Ottermole was there, sharing a ham on rye with his friend Edmund.
“Hey, Edmund, take it easy with that ham. I’ve got a mouth on me, too, you know. Hi, Professor. Jeez, I wish Edmund liked mustard. About the car, I got the guys from the state police over and we combed it for clues but didn’t find anything except that black notebook you already know about, so I had Budge take it back to the Happy Wayfarer. I figured they’d be sticking us with a bill if we’d kept it any longer. Did you ever find out what those chicken tracks in the notebook are supposed to mean?”
“More or less.”
Peter gave the chief a rundown on the chicken tracks, left him puzzling over the explanation, picked up his car, and headed for the field station. He found Winifred Binks in a full-fledged snit, which was most unlike her.
“I don’t know what’s got into everybody today,” she was fuming. “I called Mr. Sopwith a while back about those Lackovites shares I want to get rid of. He claimed the market was off, whatever that may mean, and he didn’t think it wise to sell them today. So I got in touch with President Svenson. He said the market isn’t off and Sopwith was talking through his hat. So I called Mr. Sopwith back and told him so and he was really quite unpleasant. I had to get a bit sharp with him.”
“Good for you,” said Peter. “What about Golden Apples?”
“That’s another thing. Mr. Debenham was supposed to get in touch with the Compotes first thing this morning and arrange a meeting. I hadn’t heard from him by about eleven o’clock, so I phoned to see what was happening. He told me he’d called Golden Apples as I asked him to, but the Compotes weren’t available at the time. He’d left a message, but they still hadn’t returned his call. So I gave them a ring myself and they haven’t returned mine, either. And Viola’s acting like a scared rabbit and Knapweed’s having a fit of the sulks and I’m about ready to move back to my lair in the woods. I’m going to call those Compote people again, right this minute. Will you excuse me?”
“Go ahead.”
Peter knew better than to offer to make the call for her; Winifred could handle her own affairs. It was interesting to watch her in action.
“Hello,” she was saying, “this is Winifred Binks. I wish to speak to either Mr. or Mrs. Compote at once. Could you explain why they are not returning my earlier calls? They’ve been out in the factory? Is there no way for you to communicate with the factory? Then I suggest you go into the factory and find them. Have one or the other call me back as quickly as possible on a matter of utmost importance. You do have my number; I gave it to you earlier.”
Nevertheless, Winifred gave it again. She was too much of a lady to slam down the phone, but it was a near miss.
“Peter, I cannot understand those Compotes. One might think they were trying to avoid me, but why should they? Unless they’re in the midst of some major catastrophe over there, yesterday’s rain having got into their soybeans or something. But why wouldn’t that snippy minx have had sense enough to tell me so?”
“Because she does not in fact have sense enough, is the obvious answer.”
“Then I shall make sure they get rid of her and find somebody who does. If they haven’t called me back by the end of the day, I shall ask Knapweed to drive me to the factory in person. I gather it’s too far to bicycle. Viola, get Mr. Sopwith on the phone, please, and find out what’s happening to those Lackovites shares. I do not wish to speak to him myself, I merely want him to stir his stumps and do as he’s told.”
Viola reported that Mr. Sopwith was on another call and would call her back when he was free. Winifred took several deep breaths, and the fire in her eyes died down to a glow. “I see Timothy Ames didn’t come with you, Peter. This, it appears, is not my day. Precisely what was it he wanted to talk to me about?”
In sober fact, Tim hadn’t expressed any immediate yearning to talk with Winifred, but Peter didn’t think that was the time to say so. He was well enough pleased to switch the conversation to white ash trees, and she was clearly relieved to engage in a topic that wasn’t concerned with finance. Even she admitted it was too soggy underfoot to go looking for possible planting sites, so she got out a large-scale topographical map of the Binks estate that Winifred’s grandfather had commissioned once when he was seriously considering the possibility of organizing llama caravans as a substitute for school buses, and they spent an agreeable hour or so poring over it.
Winifred knew every inch of the ground and virtually everything that was growing on it, she was able to give a tree-by-tree report. As to what should be left alone and what should be rooted out in the interests of a higher good, she was willing to defer to experts, or so she claimed.
“Needless to say, Peter, we also have to consider what’s best for the wildflowers and decide what endangered species might successfully be introduced. Furthermore, I think something might be done about inducing the indigenous raspberries and blackberries to produce more abundantly without turning them from wild to tame. Am I over-hopeful in surmising that Dr. Svenson’s daughter and her husband might be of assistance to us in this area?”
“Not at all. Birgit and Hjalmar are itching to get involved with the station, though I don’t suppose there’s a great deal they’ll be able to do this late in the year. What do you think, Calthrop?”
“The Rosaceae aren’t my field,” growled the botanist.
“What’s eating him today?” Viola wondered.
“Never mind what’s eating him,” snapped Winifred. “What’s eating Mr. Sopwith? You said he was going to get back to us.”
“I know. Maybe he’s waiting for the New York Stock Exchange to close.” “Or for the Tokyo Exchange to open. I myself am thoroughly fed up with waiting. Try him again.”
Viola tried him again. Mr. Sopwith had just stepped out of the office.
“Then get me Mr. Debenham. I want to find out how one goes about firing one’s trust officer.”
Mr. Debenham was with a client and would call her back as soon as he was free. Peter glanced at the clock and decided he’d better not wait for the explosion.
“I’ll—er—leave you to it, Winifred. I have a student conference to get back for. Call me at home anytime after six o’clock if anything comes up that you want to talk about.”
“Thank you, Peter. I expect I shall do so, if only to vent my spleen against the banking and legal professions, not to mention the Compotes. I cannot imagine what’s eating those people.”
“Er—you don’t suppose the Compotes are ducking you because they’re afraid you may be calling about something they don’t want to hear?”
“How can I reassure them if they won’t talk to me?”
“You do have a point there.”
Peter glanced from the sullen Knapweed, huddled over the table mounting dried bedstraw, to the twittering Viola at her desk. She’d thrown him one terrified ghost of a smile when he’d come in, then stayed cowering behind her word processor, poking at its keys in a flurried, furtive way as though she feared they might poke her back.
“Tell you what, Winifred,” he said, “if you haven’t heard from the Compotes by the end of the day, let me know. I’ll pick you up in the morning and take you there myself.”
“Oh Peter, that’s too much to ask. Your classes—”
“Lab sessions. My teaching fellow can handle them, she’ll welcome the experience. If they do call, let’s go anyway. Tell them you’ll be there by half-past ten. I’ll pick you up here at nine, that should give us enough time. The Golden Apples plant is in Briscoe, about twenty miles below Clavaton; I’ve checked the distance on my road map.”
“That’s extremely kind of you, Peter, but are you sure President Svenson won’t mind your taking the time?”
“Why should he? This is college business, in a manner of speaking. See you in the morning.”
Peter made it back to Balaclava with ten minutes to spare, got rid of his car, hoofed it up to the campus, hauled a few students over the coals, and then went home.
There’d be no tête-à-tête dinner at home tonight. Helen was guest speaker at the Clavaton Historical Society, she wouldn’t be back home till ten or so. Peter weighed the possibility of scrambling himself some eggs, then decided he’d flake out awhile before toddling up to the faculty dining room. He’d fed Jane, mixed himself a light Scotch and water, and settled himself with the evening newspaper when Dr. Svenson blew in looking for a progress report.
“What’s up, Shandy?”
“The state police are trying to get some kind of line on Emmerick, there’s no news on Fanshaw, and Goodheart’s taking my classes in the morning. I’m driving Winifred Binks to Golden Apples.”
“Why?”
“Because that appears to be the only way she’ll ever get to talk with the Compotes. They’re not answering her phone calls, or hadn’t by the time I left there a couple of hours ago. And Sopwith’s been giving her a hard time over those Lackovites shares she told him to unload. I gather you’ve talked to her about that.”
“Ungh. Up two points, God knows why. Perfect time to sell. Damn fool, she ought to sack him.”
“She was about to do so when I left. I don’t think we need worry too much about Winifred’s ability to handle her affairs. I’ve never seen her angry before, it’s an impressive spectacle. Can I fix you a drink?”
“Why not? Couldn’t get one at home, Sieglinde locked up the liquor. Says I’m too fat.”
“Nonsense, it’s solid muscle. Scotch?”
“Fine.”
By the time Peter got back from the kitchen with another drink and a plate of bread and cheese, Svenson had picked up Jane and the paper, put on his reading glasses, and settled himself in Peter’s chair.
“By George, President, I ought to sue you for alienation of affections.”
“Bigger lap.”
Svenson might be rough on people at times, but he was always gentle with animals. He ran one enormous finger delicately down the black stripe between Jane’s dainty ears, then picked up the cheese knife and whacked himself off a hunk. It was excellent cheddar, a product of the college’s dairy management department. “Sieglinde says I can’t have any,” he mumbled through a mouthful.
“One might make an observation about the mouse playing while the cat’s away, but it seems inappropriate in your case. What are you doing for supper?”
“Hoping to bum a meal off you. Where’s Helen?”
“Being a celebrity. I was planning to eat at the faculty dining room. Where are your daughters?”
“Gone to Birgit’s. Pick up their mother. I wanted to go too, damn it! Couldn’t spare the time. Uneasy lies the head that wears the propeller beanie.”
“Gad, that takes me back! I got sent to the principal’s office once in sixth grade for wearing mine to class. Nowadays teachers are grateful if their kids show up wearing anything at all.”
Svenson hacked himself another wedge of cheese. “Lot of sense in dress codes. Kept the kids reminded of where they were, and what they were there for. World’s going to hell in a handcart, Shandy. Young ones get preached at about drugs, sit watching television commercials. Grown-ups bellyache about tension headaches, fallen arches, whatever. Swallow some damned pill or other, and whoops-a-daisy. Ought to hang the manufacturers and the advertisers up by their thumbs. Goddamn Lackovites! Had Yoad’s classes run some chemical analyses today. Only thing their stuff’s good for is to give you cancer of the colon. Want some cheese, Yane?”
“She’s had her supper,” said Peter. “Which brings up the question of ours. Shall we go, or would you like another drink first?”
“I’d like it. Sieglinde wouldn’t. Better go.”
But Svenson didn’t budge, nor did he demur when Peter took his glass back to the kitchen for a refill.