by Alisa Craig
Olson emitted a snort of laughter, then glanced into the office and looked embarrassed.
“Furthermore,” Janet went on, “I was there and saw the jar she’d eaten from, after Marion Emery and Dr. Druffitt took it out of her fridge. It was one of her own preserving jars and a mate to this one. I couldn’t be mistaken about that, because she’d had them for sixty years or more, and they haven’t been on the market in ages. There probably aren’t any others like them in the whole province.”
“Did you see any of the beans that were left in it?”
“No, I didn’t. Dr. Druffitt wrapped it in a cup towel and put it into his bag. That’s why I came down to talk to him today. I meant to show him the one I’d found and ask if the beans were cut like these, because if they were, it’s dollars to doughnuts somebody put them there on purpose to kill her.”
The marshal took the jar out of her hand and stared into its murky depths. At last he shook his head. “I dunno, Janet. Sounds crazy to me.”
“Of course it’s crazy, Fred. Whoever claimed murder was sane? All the same it was murder, just as if somebody’d held a loaded gun to her head and pulled the trigger. And furthermore, you’ve got another one on your hands right in that office, and you know it as well as I do. And I’m very much afraid it’s because of me and this jar that Dr. Druffitt was killed.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Because Dot Fewter was with me when I found the jar and fool-like, I showed it to her instead of keeping my mouth shut. Then I called up Mrs. Druffitt to see if the doctor was going to be in, and she asked me point-blank if I was in pain because of course she knew I’d had that operation for my appendix down in Saint John, so I had to say no, I was all right but I wanted to ask the doctor about something I’d found in the cellar. Lord knows how many people were on the party line, and you can be darn sure Dot Fewter was burning up the wires to her mother the minute my back was turned. You know what that pair are like. Annabelle calls them the Maritime Network.”
“Well Janet—”
“And you can’t deny it’s a bit too much of a coincidence, his turning up dead when I walk in here with this jar in my hand. You know as well as I do that he couldn’t possibly have got that sort of injury by hitting the desk. It’s my guess that somebody came at him from behind with something round and heavy, like the handle of that big brass poker right over there by the fireplace. They knocked him down, then dragged the body over by the desk and rumpled the rug under his feet to make it look as if he’d slipped.”
“Aw Janet,” an uneasy grin crept over Olson’s face. “You been travelin’ with the wrong kind o’ crowd down there in Saint John, eh?”
If he’d wanted to get under her skin, he couldn’t have picked a more successful way. Janet slammed the jar back into the bag and marched for the door. “Have it your own way, Fred. I’ve said my piece.”
“Now, wait a minute. Don’t go flyin’ off the handle. Gimme time to think, can’t you? S’posin’ I did pick up that there telephone right this minute an’ call the Mounties. What am I s’posed to tell ‘em? At least we might as well wait an’ hear what the doctor has to say.”
Janet sniffed. “That old dodo? If he’s still able to talk, he’ll tell you whatever he thinks you want to hear. The only thing he ever knew how to treat was hypochondria. Couldn’t you find a doctor who’s halfway competent? Isn’t there a provincial coroner or somebody?”
“Janet, how about if you simmer down an’ use your head for somethin’ besides a hatrack? You know damn well what’s goin’ to happen if I go stirrin’ up a stink an’ it turns out to be nothin’ but your imagination. Maybe you don’t give a hoot because you got a job back in Saint John, but what about me an’ Bert?”
“Oh Fred, I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Living away from a small town, she’d forgotten what a deadly weapon gossip could be.
“Well, you better think of it,” said the marshal. “Don’t think I’m backin’ down on this thing because I’m not. That jar of beans is evidence. That dent in Hank’s skull is evidence. But they don’t add up to a tinker’s damn till we get a little more to go on. Look, Janet, me an’ Hank Druffitt was babies together. If somebody killed him like you said, I want the bugger caught a damn sight worse than you do. But I can’t go ahead an’ start draggin’ in outsiders till I’m pretty damn sure I got a reason to. I got a wife an’ kids to think of, an’ so does your brother.”
Fred was talking sense, she had to admit. If he were to get the Mounties up here on Janet Wadman’s say-so, all Pitcherville would be in an uproar. If they found nothing, Elizabeth Druffitt would work up her pals at the Tuesday Club to hound the marshal out of office for spreading scandal about her family. Olson would never get another car to fix. He’d have to move away somewhere and start over. Fred was too old a man for that. And Bert Wadman wouldn’t be any too popular, either.
“I’ll tell you what,” the marshal went on, “you leave that jar with me. I’ll go through Hank’s files an’ see if I can’t put my hand on that report about Mrs. Treadway, eh? Then I’ll send this jar to the same place. If they tell me it’s spoiled like the first one, an’ if the doctor thinks there’s somethin’ funny about that hole in Hank’s head like you say, I’ll have some justification for gettin’ ‘em in here.”
The Royal Canadian Mounted Police would come if Fred asked them, no doubt about that. Any local law-enforcement official had a right to call on them for help with a problem that was beyond his resources to solve. But to have the Mounties in would be to acknowledge publicly that something was very wrong indeed, and the righteous folk of Pitcherville would envision the finger of scorn and derision being pointed at their village from Saint Stephen to Dalhousie. They wouldn’t like that one bit, and they’d like it a great deal less if the whole case fizzled out and left nothing but a mighty stink behind. Much as Janet hated to admit it, Fred Olson was showing more common sense than she had, up to now.
CHAPTER 4
Breaking the news to the doctor’s widow was less of an ordeal than Janet had anticipated. Mrs. Druffitt only said, “Oh Janet!” in a shocked whisper, then sank back in a chair and shut her eyes. At once the other ladies clustered around and Janet edged toward the door. Except for Mrs. Potts, who naturally took a professional interest in the details of the demise, nobody even noticed her leaving.
It was a relief to get into the car. She only wished she could get away from her thoughts so easily. She’d been a fool not to consider the consequences before she came charging down here with that jar of string beans. If it hadn’t been for her interference, Henry Druffitt might still be alive.
And if it hadn’t been for somebody else’s interference, Agatha Treadway might also be alive. What was a person supposed to do?
One thing she probably ought to have done was track down Gilly Bascom and tell her about her father before she got the news third- or fourthhand from old Ma Fewter or somebody. Janet would have gone back and done it if not for that sneaking suspicion about Gilly’s maybe knowing already.
It would have been so easy. There were two doors to the doctor’s office: one from the waiting room and the other from the back hallway. The windows weren’t far from the ground, and Mrs. Druffitt had let the hedges grow up high to keep the riffraff from peeking in. Moving the body around that polished floor couldn’t have been any great job. That had been a clever blow, though, or else a lucky one, not to draw any blood and leave stains in the wrong place.
By the time Janet got home she was shivering. She made herself a cup of tea, but it didn’t seem to help. When Bert came in from the barn, he immediately said, “What’s the matter, Jen? You look like the skin of a nightmare dragged over a gatepost.”
“I had sort of a bad experience this afternoon.” She might as well tell him before somebody else did. “I went down to see Dr. Druffitt and found him dead in his office.”
“For God’s sake! What happened?”
“It appeared he’d slipped on one of those dinky
little mats Mrs. Druffitt keeps strewn around, and cracked his skull on the edge of the desk.”
She wasn’t lying. That was how it had appeared.
“Can you beat that? Cripes, that’s enough to take a rise out of anybody.”
Bert shook his head. He had brown hair like hers, only less fine in texture and less apt to crimp up in the damp. The family resemblance was obvious although Bert was so much the elder, a full head taller, and at least fifty pounds heavier. They made an attractive pair. Annabelle always claimed she’d married Bert for his looks instead of his money, and Bert always said it was a darn good thing she had, though in fact the farm was doing pretty well thanks to his hard work and expert management. It would be a crime to cause him any more grief than he’d had already.
He reached into the cupboard for the rum bottle. Bert was no great drinker, but this one tot before supper was a ritual. As he went to get a tumbler, he stopped short.
“Say, what were you doing down to Druffitt’s, anyway? That operation isn’t giving you any trouble, is it?”
“Oh no.” She had her lie all thought up. “It’s just that I’m supposed to have somebody take a look at the scar and make sure it’s all right. I know darn well it’s healing fine, so I thought he’d do as well as anybody. You’d better go wash up if you intend to. Supper’s almost ready.”
“Okay. Give me five minutes. Oh hi, Sam. Come on in.”
The hired man had manifested himself in the kitchen door way without sign or sound, as was his wont. Automatically Bert poured another tot, and Janet began to set another place. Sam took the rum but shook his head at the food.
“Don’t bother for me, I ain’t got time. Ben Potts needs me to lend a hand down at the funeral parlor. She wants Hank laid out there.”
Bert looked surprised. “Not in his own parlor? It’s not like Elizabeth Druffitt to go against custom.”
Neddick looked around, as if for a place to spit, couldn’t find one, and politely refrained. “Guess the bitch don’t want nobody wearin’ out ‘er carpets.”
Even though Sam Neddick punctiliously did chores for the Druffitt household every week, there was open enmity between him and the mistress. Sam claimed Elizabeth owed him back wages for some extra work he’d done; she vowed she wouldn’t pay because he’d never finished it to suit her. The incident had occurred before Janet left for business college, but the grudge was good as new on both sides.
“Understand it was you that found ‘im, Janet.”
“Yes, I did.” She turned to the stove and became very busy prodding the potatoes.
“Let her alone, Sam. She’s none too happy about it, as who would be?” said Bert.
Neddick set down his empty glass. He knew Bert wouldn’t offer him another, and clearly Janet wasn’t going to gratify his curiosity. “Well, I better be goin’. You want me tomorrow, Bert?”
“If you can spare the time. We’ve got to fix those rotten fenceposts in the upper pasture before we can put the cows to graze there.”
Sam Neddick’s shrug might have meant anything or nothing. “By the way, Bert, Fred Olson wants all the Owls down to the meetin’ room tonight. Hank being’ a Past Grand Supreme Regent, we got to march in solemn procession behind the casket. Fred says we better practice so’s we don’t go makin’ damn jackasses of ourselves in church.”
“Oh gosh, Bert,” said Janet, “I took your Owl tunic over to the dry cleaner’s last week. Annabelle told me to. She said you’d spilled something down the front at the Dominion Day parade. Beer, most likely. I’ll have to drive over tomorrow and pick it up.”
Her brother was none too pleased. “Why couldn’t you wash it yourself?”
“And have those darn fool chicken feathers molting all over the gizzard of Annabelle’s’ new washing machine?”
“You could have done it in the sink.”
“And clogged the drain.”
Sam knew the Wadmans never had really exciting arguments; they were too good-natured a family. He eased himself out without waiting to hear who won. Bert went to wash and change for the meeting. Janet began banging the pots and pans around, furious at Fred Olson. Here he was with a murderer running loose, and all the fool could think of was putting on a show at the current victim’s funeral.
Bert, scrubbed and handsome in a clean flannel shirt and fresh chino pants, was taking his place at the table when somebody knocked timidly at the back door. Janet made a face.
“There’s our star boarder again. I might have known.” She raised her voice. “Come in, Marion. We’re just sitting down.”
A smaller voice replied, “It isn’t Marion.”
Janet went over and opened the door. “Why, Gilly Bascom! I thought you’d be at your mother’s.”
“I’ve been.” The unexpected visitor slumped into the wooden chair Bert pulled out for her. “I’ve been listening to my dear mother moan about being a poor, lone widow till I couldn’t endure another minute of it. If she’d said, ‘You know it was your dear, dead father’s wish’ one more time, I’d have hauled off and belted her one across the mouth. Mama doesn’t give two hoots, really. She’d never even notice Papa’s gone if he hadn’t given her another excuse to get at me about moving back with her.”
Gilly’s birdclaw hand clutched at a fold of the clean tablecloth. “I wouldn’t go back there if she dragged me feet first. Before I’d let my kid grow up under the same roof with her, I’d kill myself and him, too!”
Bert picked up the rum bottle again and splashed some into the fresh tumbler Janet quickly held out to him. “Here, take a swig of this. Good for what ails you.”
He had to help her get the glass up to her mouth. She shuddered and coughed as she gulped down the spirit. “Ugh! Thanks, Bert. I’m okay.”
She certainly didn’t look it. Janet eyed her old schoolmate worriedly, wondering not for the first time how the imposing Mrs. Druffitt had ever hatched out a lone chick as forlorn as this one.
Gilly was about half her mother’s size, with her father’s washed-out coloring and small features framed in a frizz of bleached hair that showed an inch or so of mouse color at the roots. A ring of eaten-off lipstick outlined a soft, weak mouth. The huge gray eyes that should have been her real beauty were so plastered with makeup they looked like two burnt holes in a blanket. She had on a black pullover of sleazy nylon jersey and runover high-heeled shoes, white with dust from the road. She might have been a ten-year-old dressed up in her mother’s old clothes, instead of the mother of a ten-year-old son.
She might also be a murderess. Nevertheless, the sight of her made Janet’s heart ache. “Here, Gilly, I’ll fix you a plate. What you need is a hot meal under your belt.”
“Thanks, Janet, but I couldn’t, honest. I’ve got to get back before Mama sends a posse after me. What I came for was to ask you and Bert a favor.”
“Of course, Gilly. Anything we can do.”
“I was wondering if you’d let me bring Bobby up here till after the funeral. I’d like to keep him out of the hullabaloo as much as I can. Maybe,” she sniffled a bit, “he can feed the hens or something.”
“Sure thing,” said Bert a shade too heartily. “Glad to have him. We’ll bed him down in the boys’ room and he can play with their trains and stuff. He’ll like that, I bet. You come, too, if you want.”
“Don’t I ever! But I wouldn’t dare leave my own place. Schnitzi’s expecting her pups any time now and I’ve got to be right there when it happens in case anything goes wrong. If I lose that litter, I’m done. Every nickel I could scrape together is tied up in those pups.”
She tried to laugh. “Papa used to slip me a few bucks now and then when he happened to hold a winning hand for a change, but of course I couldn’t expect a poor, lone widow to support two establishments on her few remaining pennies.”
Gilly hauled herself out of the chair. “Well, I’d better get cracking. Mama wants me to go over to the funeral parlor in a while and help her heckle Ben Potts.”
“I’m g
oing down to the Owls later,” Bert offered. “I’d be glad to stop by your place after the rehearsal and bring Bobby back here, eh?”
“That’s sweet of you, Bert, but I’d sort of like to keep him with me tonight. I thought I’d feed him and get him straight to bed before I go over to Ben’s. It’ll be early for Bobby, but he’s worn out. It’s tough enough on him losing his grandfather all of a sudden without having to put up with Mama slobbering over him, too.”
The Wadmans walked Gilly out to the worn-out Ford Dr. Druffitt had passed on to her ages ago, and watched her off down the road.
“Damned shame it couldn’t have been Elizabeth instead of Henry,” Bert grunted. Back in the kitchen, he headed for the rum again. “After that little episode, I don’t know but what I could use another snort. What about you, Jen?”
“That’s not such a bad idea. Oh blast! I forgot to turn off the oven. That meatloaf must be like shoe leather.”
Janet was sipping at her drink and dishing up the meal when they had yet a third visitor. This time it really was Marion.
“I was wondering if you could spare a pinch of tea. Oh haven’t you eaten yet? I thought you’d be finished long ago.”
Janet shrugged and began filling the plate she’d meant for Gilly. Bert fixed another tumbler of rum and water without bothering to ask Marion if she wanted it.
“Wasn’t that Gilly I saw driving away just now?” The question was purely rhetorical. Marion knew the Wadmans knew she’d been peeking around the curtains over at the Mansion, waiting for Gilly to leave because she didn’t quite have the brass to come barging in while her cousin’s daughter was still present.
“She came to ask if we’d take Bobby till after the funeral,” said Janet. “He’ll be here in the morning,” she added firmly.
“Now that her old man’s gone, I suppose Gilly figured she had to find somebody else she could sponge on fast,” said their uninvited guest, holding out her quickly-emptied glass for a refill. “Henry can’t have had much to leave her, between the way his practice has been going downhill and his delusions that he knew how to play poker, and you can bet she won’t get a cent out of Elizabeth unless she toes the mark. It’s high time that little doll-baby learned the facts of life. She’s been spoiled rotten since the day she was born.”