The Grub-And-Stakers Quilt a Bee (11 page)

Well, holler out and tell her to leave the weeding for another day.

She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s giving a tea. No, just the trustees.

You, me, Hazel, Therese, and Arethusa. And Mrs. Fairfield, of course. Should I whomp up a batch of-oh, they have? Yes, naturally they would.”

She turned to Osbert. “Zilla says everybody’s been bringing cakes and things. What, Zilla? No, the tea was Arethusa’s idea and I must say I think it’s a good thing to do. No, of course Mrs. Fairfield isn’t prostrated. She was over at the museum throwing her weight around all morning, and now she’s at the parsonage eating shrimp wiggle. Look, here’s the drill. When she gets back to Minerva’s, make her lie down for a while. Then you and Minerva escort her to the funeral parlor. Visiting hours are two to four, then seven to nine. Get her back to the house as soon after four as you can make it. Some of us will be over there early to fix the tea. Right. Over and out.”

She hung up. “There, that’s settled. Now I’ll give Hazel and Therese a buzz.”

“Just a second, darling,” said Osbert. “I’ve been thinking. Dave Munson said he saw that woman in the purple dress sometime during the middle of the afternoon, didn’t he? Three o’clock or thereabout.”

‘Tes, I think so.”

“And what time was it when you and Mrs. Fairfield came downstairs?”

“Around a quarter to five, I know the Munson boys were gone by then. Darling, I see what you’re getting at. If that woman wasn’t messing around down cellar all that time in her good dress, what the heck was she doing?”

She and Osbert stared at each other for a moment, then Osbert said, “I think I’ll step around to the station.”

“Yes, why don’t you? See if Mrs. Mac Vicar’s come up with any word on the dress.”

Dittany suspected the solution to that particular enigma lay in the end-of-summer markdowns. She herself hadn’t been around to the sales. She’d been too busy at the museum, and she had a closetful of gorgeous new clothes anyway, now that Osbert had found something to spend his money on. But it simply wasn’t possible none of her friends had seized the chance to pick up a bargain or two. Even the home sewers would have joined in the hunt, because they’d all been too busy running up school clothes for their kids or curtains for the museum to make anything new for themselves. In truth, Dittany would have gone herself, sudden affluence or no, if she’d had the time. There was still the thrill of the chase. She gave a moment’s wistful thought to clearances of yesteryear, then got at the dishes.

These done, she began wiping around with a sponge. Next thing Dittany knew, she was housecleaning full tilt. Theoretically, Mrs.

Poppy now came every week instead of only twice a month as in the pre-Osbert period. What it boiled down to, however, was that Mrs. Poppy thought up twice as many reasons why she couldn’t come at all. So things did tend to pile up. Dittany refused to admit to herself that Mrs. Fairfield’s snide crack had been the propellant for this burst of domesticity, but she knew such fits didn’t take her often and it was well to make the best of them when they came.

Besides, cleaning was good therapy. By the time she wrung out her mop and hopped into the shower, Dittany found herself positively looking forward to the lemon squares, macaroons, and brandy snaps at Minerva’s. She put on a lovely sheer black crepe frock she’d bought in Ottawa on her honeymoon, added a black cartwheel hat and a pair of white shortie gloves circa 1955 that her mother had left behind when she’d embraced Bert and the life of a fashion eyewear salesman, and went downstairs.

Osbert was just back from his visit to Sergeant MacVicar. “Darling,”

he exclaimed, “you look just like a kdy going to a tea party.”

“That was the effect I aimed to convey. How did you make out with the sergeant?”

“We nipped over to interview the Munson boys. Dave’s willing to swear it was no later than half past three when he saw that woman. He was watching the time because they had to pick up their brother in Scottsbeck.”

“I remember. But that means she’d been hanging around a whole hour and more when Mrs. Fairfield saw her. Unless she went out and came in again. Did you see Petsy?”

“Ray did. She told him a woman in a purple dress had stopped there for dinner about half past one and dawdled quite a while over her meal. It looks as if the woman must have wandered over to the museum afterward to kill time and just stayed.”

“But whatever for? There’s not that much to see, and nowhere to sit down if she wanted to rest. And if she went to the inn, she couldn’t have been any of our crowd, so she wouldn’t even have known there was all that flea market stuff in the cellar.”

“I know, darling. So that leaves us with only one other possibility, wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course! She must have been talking with Mr. Fairfield.”

“That’s what Sergeant MacVicar and I think. Not that it means anything, necessarily, provided she left the museum before Mrs.

Fairfield did. Since she was seen at the rear of the house both times, that probably means she’d left her car in the parking lot at the inn and cut through the hedge to the back door instead of going around by the sidewalk. Lots of people do.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Dittany snarled. “We’ve put in three new privet bushes so far, and every one of them’s been trampled down before we could put the shovel away. Next time we’re going to plant poison ivy. But, darling, if this woman went into the dining room at half past one and wasn’t seen presumably entering the museum till half past three, that must have been one heck of a big dinner she ate. What time did she leave the inn, did they tell you?”

“They couldn’t say. The noontime help were going off and the suppertime crew coming on. This time of year they’re all parttime workers and don’t know what they’re doing anyway, as far as I can make out. As to the parking lot, cars are always coming and going. Nobody knows which is a worker’s and which is a guest’s.

Sergeant Mac Vicar’s questioning everybody he can get hold of, but so far he hasn’t had any luck finding out what kind of car the woman was driving, assuming she came in a car at all.”

“But surely he was able to get some kind of description of the woman herself.”

“Oh yes. She was middle-aged, whatever that’s supposed to mean these days, medium height, medium build, had a scarf over her head so you couldn’t tell what color her hair was, and kept her sunglasses on so you couldn’t tell what color her eyes were. She seemed pleasant enough but didn’t say much except to give her order. She had steak Diane, whatever the heck that is, cooked medium rare. She didn’t mind waiting for it because she had a book to read. It was a real book with a cover on it, not a paperback, and looked dull.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why, darling. I’m only quoting. To continue my report, she ordered half a bottle of an unassuming Bordeaux, drank some of it while she was waiting and the rest with her dinner. She skipped the string beans but,ate the potato, had Roquefort dressing on her salad, coffee instead of tea, and trifle with extra cream. She left the exact amount of her bill plus a twodollar tip which is a darn sight more than most of them leave, according to Petsy.”

“Aha, so you did get to talk with Petsy.”

“Sweetie pie, I couldn’t help it. She galloped over and hailed me like a long-lost cousin. Anyway, Sergeant MacVicar was right there. Can you picture me attempting any moral turpitude with him looking on? Not that I would anyway. Look, darling, shouldn’t you be getting on to your tea?”

“Trying to get rid of me, eh? What are you planning to do while I’m gone?”

“I have to round up those yaks. It’ll take me a while. They’ve escaped the rustlers and fled into the mountains, where they’re mingling with the bighorn sheep to throw their perfidious pursuers off the scent. Yaks are crafty critters, you know.”

“I didn’t, actually. Okay, you crafty critter, I’ll leave you to the yaks.”

Dittany set off, keeping a firm grip on her hat brim. It wasn’t far to Minerva’s because nowhere was far from anywhere in Lobelia Falls. She was rather sorry about that, since she was not averse to flaunting her new outfit before those of her neighbors who might be whiling away a lazy August afternoon by sitting quietly in their own living rooms with their eyes glued to the slits in their drawn lace curtains. No doubt some of the elder ones would recognize the hat, but Dittany didn’t care. It would show she still clung to her roots.

When she got to Minerva’s, she found the rest of the party already assembled. Minerva had set her tea table out under the big oak in the back yard. Mrs. Fairfield was occupying a Victorian spring rocker that had obviously been dragged outdoors for the express purpose of letting Mrs. Fairfield sit in it. She’d put on one of those dark nylon jersey wash-and-wear dresses with matching jacket that are touted as being right for any occasion and changed her sneakers for sensible low-heeled pumps. Her usually bare legs were for once encased in darkish nylons-she’d had to get Mrs.

Oakes to help her put them on, she told the company, because stockings were the hardest thing to manage with her cast. Peregrine had been wont to help her before-she made genteel play with a fresh white handkerchief.

Altogether, Mrs. Fairfield looked exactly the way the grieving widow of a museum curator ought to look and was conducting herself with exactly the proper degree of mournful decorum. Arethusa was keeping a stern eye on her though, Dittany noticed, just in case.

Dittany herself found Mrs. Fairfield a more touching sight than she’d expected to. After having greeted Minerva with a courteous, “I’m sorry to be the last one. Osbert was having trouble with some yaks,” she went over to the guest of honor and made her manners just as though there had been no earlier stiflEhess between them.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Fairfield. I’m so glad you felt up to joining us. Did you get some rest after your luncheon?”

“Yes I did, thank you. Everyone is being very kind.”

Mrs. Fairfield gave her a resigned little smile and took the merest possible nibble from the edge of a macaroon. Dittany herself had worked up quite an appetite with all the mopping and swabbing.

She collected her own tea and a representative assortment of goodies, and found herself a seat beside Hazel Munson.

“How’s it going?” Hazel asked sotto voce. “Have they found out anything yet?”

“It looks as if Mr. Fairfield may have had a lady caller shortly before he died,” Dittany murmured back.

“Who was she?”

“Nobody knows. She had dinner at the inn, then came in the back way, or so we assume. Your Dave caught a glimpse of her about half past three, and Mrs. Fairfield saw her when we came down from the attic a little after four-thirty. Neither of them saw her face though, just the back of her dress. Purple with turquoise and chartreuse doodads. The only reason we can think of for her having stayed all that time is that she must have been talking to Mr. Fairfield, and we don’t know whether or not she actually left the museum before he died.”

Hazel finished her scone and began work on a ladyfinger. “You’ll never get me to believe that weedy little runt was involved in a crime possionnel.”

“Shh!” Dittany hissed from under cover of her hat brim. “Don’t make me laugh. Minerva’s feelings would be hurt. Ill talk to you later.”

They straightened their faces and joined in the general effort to keep the conversation genteel and noncontroversial. That was no small job. Even the weather was a touchy subject in a group devoted on the one hand to gardening and on the other to archery.

Fine for the butts meant dry for the dahlias, and as soon as one remarked on the former, somebody else was sure to riposte with the latter. However, the situation didn’t get out of hand until Zilla Trott remarked, “That roofer sure picked a fine time to come after his gear, eh.”

“Oh?” said Therese Boulanger in what she meant to be a tone of gentle admonition.

It took more than a little gentility to stop Zilla. “Yep. Caroline Pitz told me she saw his truck stop by the museum yesterday just at suppertime. She’d stepped out into the front yard for a handful of lettuce and there he was, bold as Billy.”

“I cannot for the life of me imagine why Caroline chooses to grow her lettuce in the front yard,” Therese rejoined in a desperate attempt to divert the flow of conversation.

She might as well have tried to stem Niagara with a teaspoon.

Even Mrs. Fairfield was exclaiming, “He was?”

Zilla nodded, the afternoon sun picking out burnished highlights on the bridge of her nose. “So Caroline told me. I’ve never known her to be wrong about anything but wheat germ and politics.”

“Where does Mrs. Pitz live?” Mrs. Fairfield was demanding.

“Directly across the street from the museum.”

“And this was at what time?” She was forgetting to sound bereft.

“Quarter past six, somewhere around there. She said they were just about to sit down. Men’s practice night, you know.”

Mrs. Fairfield waved the men’s practice night aside with an impatient gesture. “And what was the roofer doing there? You must realize how important this is, Mrs. Trott.”

“Why, I-oh, for Pete’s sake! I don’t know what’d got into me today. Brains addled with the heat, I suppose. I’m sorry, Mrs.

Fairfield. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“On the contrary, I’m only sorry you didn’t tell me sooner.

Sergeant Mac Vicar must know this, at once.”

Zilla looked somewhat taken aback. “I wish there were more to tell. Caroline said she couldn’t linger because she had supper on the stove. She’d have liked to make sure he got his stuff out. It’s been such a pain in the neck, you know, those big ropes dangling down in everybody’s way all this time. They make me think I’m being sent to the gallows. That roofer’s name should be Ellis*

instead of Brown.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Mrs. Fairfield, “his name is not Brown.

It’s Churtle. And he didn’t take his ropes last night but came back for them this morning. I know because I went over there myself this morning. To be near Peregrine, I suppose.” Remembering her assigned role, she raised the white handkerchief to her eyes again, evoking sympathetic murmurs from Minerva, Zilla, Therese, and Hazel, but not from Arethusa or Dittany.