The Grub-And-Stakers Quilt a Bee (17 page)

On the other hand, Churtle may be innocent as a newborn lamb and we have still to search elsewhere for our malefactor. Unless in fact we have already caught her.”

“But if Miss Paffnagel’s guilty, why did she come back for the funeral?” said Dittany.

“She may be studying burial rites,” Osbert suggested.

Sergeant MacVicar gave them both another of his tolerant smiles. “Miss Paffnagel is a learned woman. Let us assume for the purpose of discussion that she told the truth about not knowing Peregrine Fairfield had settled in Lobelia Falls, and that her choice of a caravansary was indeed serendipitous. Evidence to support this assumption might include her appearing at the inn in conspicuous clothing and lingering over her meal. She then went to the museum in broad daylight, a natural enough action for one of her profession to take, and let herself be seen by both Dave Munson and Mrs. Fairfield.”

“But neither of them saw her face,” Dittany pointed out.

“Miss Paffnagel was not to know that. She could not but have known there were workmen around the place, and she herself states she was told Mrs. Fairfield was also on the premises. She claims she left to avoid a meeting with Mrs. Fairfield, but she would have to reckon with the possibility that Mrs. Fairfield was also aware of her presence and endeavoring to stay out of her way.”

“Because Miss Pafihagel locked her in the loo at the retirement party,” said Dittany.

“A cogent reason, to be sure.”

“I see what you’re getting at,” said Osbert. “It does look as if Miss Paflhagel came upon Mr. Fairfield by accident, as she claims.

That doesn’t mean she couldn’t have killed him, but it does explain why she came back. She’d learned from the news broadcast that she must have been among the last to see him alive and that the police would be looking for her in any case. Innocent or guilty, the smartest move she could make would be to show up voluntarily and brazen it out.”

“But why would she have killed Mr. Fairfield, darling?” asked his wife. “It could hardly have been on account of any dark secret from their past, I shouldn’t think. If it was, she’d have done better to bump him off at the retirement party and get it over with.”

“Maybe I’m being fanciful, eh, but I wonder if it could have had anything to do with that letter he showed her. Suppose for once in his life he’d actually happened on something big, and she saw her chance to grab it away from him?”

“Then why did she mention the letter to us?”

“More bluff, possibly. You know what Fred Churtle said last night about old Perry always being about to make some big discovery and always being disappointed in the end. Miss Paflhagel said the same thing just now, so it looks as if Mr. Fairfield’s treasure hunts were kind of a standing joke with everybody who knew him.

That means he must have gone around shooting his mouth off about them to anybody who’d listen, instead of keeping quiet till he’d got what he was looking for, not that he ever did. She’d be forced to act on the assumption that Perry had already spread the word, and try to make us believe he was only chasing another wild goose.”

“Now, Dittany, you see why I have entrusted Miss Paffnagel to you and Deputy Monk,” said Sergeant Mac Vicar. “I will leave you, in your guidman’s parlance, to ride herd on her until we learn whether we have any grounds to institute sterner measures.”

The sergeant made a soldierly figure as he marched smartly away in the blue uniform Mrs. MacVicar kept spruce and pressed for him, but Dittany viewed his tall, straight rear elevation with no favor.

“This is a fine kettle of fish!”

“Darling, you’re not sorry I let him deputize me again, are you?” Osbert inquired somewhat ruefully.

“Of course not, darling.” Dittany gave him a kiss to prove it.

“You know perfectly well he’d have brought her here anyway.

Remember how it was before we got married: Hazel Munson keeping those forty heads of lettuce in the bathtub, Ellie Despard filling the dining room with gold paper butterflies, and one who shall be nameless trying to rip out the pantry.”

“Not to mention those trash cans full of broken beer bottles in the cellar,” Osbert agreed.

“Exactly. This house was officially designated the town dump long before you ever showed up. Besides, if we’ve got to have murders around, it’s better to be in on the action than diddling around the sidelines waiting for somebody else to tell us what’s happening. Are you going to detect something this afternoon, dear, or do you have to get back to the yaks? Because I’d better take the truck and go grocery shopping or we shan’t have anything to feed Miss Paffhagel.”

Osbert said he thought he’d finish rounding up the yaks, so Dittany drove over to Scottsbeck by herself and stocked up on food, adding a ten-kilo sack of sugar in case they got stuck with Miss Paffnagel for the rest of the week. As she was trundling her laden shopping cart back to the truck, a large man with shiny black hair stepped in her way.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Monk. Doing your shopping?”

Now was the time for a devastatingly cutting reply. Dittany gulped and wished she could think of one. She would, no doubt, in a few hours. At the moment, she could only stand goggling at Andrew McNaster and utter an inane, “Yes.”

“Got to keep’em eating, eh?”

McNaster wasn’t so hot on repartee, either. Dittany responded wittily, “That’s right.”

“Come over here often?”

What the heck did he think he was driving at? Of course she came over here often. Where else was she supposed to buy the family grub, now that Pop Gubbins had rented the general store to Charlene’s Chic Coiffures, picked up his jug and his musical saw, and gone on tour with a country music band? She said so.

McNaster responded with what must surely be a hypocritical nod.

“That’s right, you don’t have a convenience store in Lobelia Falls these days, do you? We’ll have to see what we can do about that. Can’t have you drive all the way to Scottsbeck every time you need a package of frozen meatballs, eh.”

“I don’t buy frozen meatballs,” Dittany told him with what dignity she could muster.

“I wish I didn’t have to.”

Dittany was so startled by the agony in Andrew McNaster’s voice that she forgot to be uncivil. “I thought you ate at the inn.”

“Well, sure I do, only sometimes I just don’t feel like it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we serve great food over there. Real haute cuisine. Little paper petticoats on the lamb chops and everything.

Say, how come I never see you in there?”

“Perhaps because I never go.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing. Say, how about me standing you a meal on the house some night? You and your aunt.”

“She’s not my aunt. She’s my husband’s aunt.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Funny, she doesn’t look like anybody’s aunt. I mean, not like what you’d think somebody’s aunt would look like, if you get what I mean.”

Dittany had to concede that she got what he meant. It was true, Arethusa Monk did not look like an aunt. Arethusa looked like a Gainsborough portrait of Mrs. Sarah Siddons in her celebrated role as Lady Macbeth. However, it was not seemly to be standing around a supermarket parking lot discussing her aunt-in-law’s looks with a man who until recently had been their joint sworn enemy and probably still was, if the truth were known. What the heck was he up to?

Well, if he wanted conversation, she might as well give him some. “I understand your plumber’s been hauled off to the steel chateau.”

“Oh, Cedric Fawcett? Yeah, Ceddie gets a bit hot under the collar now and then. Funny, isn’t it, when he’s so quiet most of time. That’s how it is with people, I guess. Who’s to say what wild passions may be seething and fermenting beneath the mildest exterior? How about me buying you a cup of tea at the Cozy Corner?”

Had Dittany Henbit Monk been Eliza Doolittle, she would probably have retorted, “Not bloody likely!” Especially after all that seething and fermenting. Was it possible-no, it couldn’t be possible.

But it might be possible, and Dittany wasn’t going to run any risk of finding out. She said she had to get home with the groceries because they had a house guest and her husband would be worried.

“Gee, that’s right,” said McNaster in a tone of deep contrition.

“His aunt might be worrying, too. Can’t let that happen, can we?

Here, let me lift the bags for you.”

After that, there wasn’t much Dittany could say except, “Thank you.” She said it and left as quickly as she could manage among the welter of shopping carts, baby carriages, and drivers who couldn’t make up their minds whether they were coming or going. When she sneaked a look in the rearview mirror, she saw Andrew McNaster standing next to his baby-blue Lincoln, gazing after the pickup truck with an expression on his face she could only describe as enigmatical.

At least that was how she described it when she got home and told Osbert about this strange encounter. His reaction was adverse.

“Enigmatical, eh? The lowdown sidewinder! Darling, I don’t think I care for having large, handsome older men with less than dubious reputations giving you enigmatical looks in parking lots.”

“I wasn’t all that ecstatic about it myself, darling.”

“And trying to lure you into dens of vice.”

“The Cozy Corner Tea Shop isn’t exactly a den of vice, darling.”

Now that it was too late, Dittany was wondering if perhaps she should have accepted. “If I’d gone, I might have been able to find out what he’s up to.”

“Huh, and have him slip knockout drops in your Lapsang souchong and shanghai you. Dittany, promise me faithfully you won’t try any more detecting on your own. At least not with Andy McNasty. I couldn’t stand to have you abducted.”

“Don’t worry, darling, I’d hate it myself. Samantha Burberry says there’s absolutely nothing more horrible than being tied up in a filthy cellar and not being able to get to the bathroom.”

“It’s even worse if the cellar’s got fleas in it.” That was the cheery boom of Miss Hunding Paflhagel, bouncing downstairs fresh and raring to go after her nap in the spare bedroom. “Happened to me once in Cuzco, I never did figure out why. My abductors set me free after a while and we all went out to a cafe for a tequila. Me scratching my head off, of course, but so were they.

Speaking of which, how about stepping over to the inn? I’d like to buy you folks a drink.”

“We don’t patronize the inn,” Osbert told her stiffly.

“Oh, sorry. Religion?”

“No, McNaster.” The word came savagely grated through his teeth.

“Who’s McNaster?”

“The ornery cayuse who owns it. He just tried to seduce my wife at the supermarket.”

“Do tell,” said Miss Paffhagel. “Then where do we go for a drink?”

“There’s beer in the fridge,” Dittany told her, “and whiskey in the pantry next to the cookie jar. The wine’s down cellar on the shelf with the green tomato relish and I think that funny-tasting liqueur Bert brought on his last visit’s on the dining room buffet behind the cruet. Bert’s my stepfather. He travels in fashion eyewear.”

“How chic. Do I help myself or wait to be served?”

“Whichever you prefer. Osbert makes lovely marmalade oldfashioneds.”

“I think I’ll settle for a cold beer. Unless you happen to have any chicha co-pah or pulchu in the house?”

“Sorry. I could step next door and borrow a cupful of Jane Binkle’s homemade damson gin, if you like.”

“Thanks, beer will be fine. You folks going to join me?”

Since it was, after all, their beer, they thought they might as well. Dittany was getting out some tumblers when the phone rang. Arethusa was on the line.

“That’s odd,” said Osbert. “What’s she calling for? Usually she just barges in.”

This time, to their astonishment, Arethusa wanted them to go to her house. “Pour I’amour de Dieu,” she entreated, “come and have supper with us.”

“Whom were you planning to have cook it?” Dittany asked warily.

“Cease the snide innuendo, chit. It’s all cooked. Don’t expect anything fancy, just potage au cresson, coulibiac de saumon en croute, and a modest vacherin aux framboises for dessert.”

“Well, I suppose we could eat a sandwich before we come. But, Arethusa, we have a house guest, too. She’s the lady with the purple dress.”

“Then tell her to put it on and buzz along. The more the merrier.

Which is to say, the less otherwise, si tu comprends.”

“I comprend. All right, we’ll be along. When do you want us?”

“Maintenant. Toute de suite. Vitesse, vitesse. Je suis au bout de ma rope.”

There was a click, then silence. Dittany hung up, too.

“Arethusa’s invited us all to supper.”

“What?” cried Osbert. “Is she hallucinating?”

“No, but she’s talking a lot of French. I think it’s because she can’t stand any more of-er-that is, she has the Fairfield’s nephew and his wife staying with her, you know, and she -orthought it would be nice to-er-“

“In other words, she’s trying to-er-“

Osbert couldn’t manage to come straight out in front of Miss Paffnagel and say Jehosaphat and Berthilde must be driving his aunt nuts and Arethusa was attempting to ease her burden by inflicting her uninvited house guests on them and their uninvited house guest.

Well, why not? Miss PafiEhagel could entertain the Fairfields with tales of her adventures among the artifacts with their late uncle, while he and Dittany snuck off to the hammock on the back porch and caught up on their experience-sharing and Aunt Arethusa did the dishes. Besides, Arethusa was a first-class cook when driven to it. There were worse ways of beguiling an evening, and Arethusa would certainly see to it that Dittany and Osbert experienced one of these in the near future if they failed to rally now in her hour of need. Accordingly, they went; although not until after Miss Paffnagel had drunk her beer and eaten a peppermint.

As it turned out, the peppermint was superfluous. Over at Arethusa’s, they were well into the aperitifs, sitting in the big, cool living room with the curtains drawn against the late afternoon sun.

Jehosaphat Fairfield, a small man who looked in the dim light almost frighteningly like his late uncle, was in fact having a Molson’s.