Something in the Water

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Nice guy.”

  “You can say that again. Incidentally, Guthrie mentioned later that Flodge had won a number of pie-eating contests at the county fairs. That’s hardly the sort of hobby one associates with a master criminal, I shouldn’t think. Flodge might have been playing Russian roulette with a cyanide pill, but he didn’t show any sign of it that I could see.”

  “That’s interesting.” The detective’s observation was blurred by a yawn of impressive proportions, Peter knew just how he felt.

  “Look, Detective Drake, I’m sorry I seem to have blown your case for suicide, but I’m in about the same shape as you are and my wife’s been traveling since before dawn. I’ve got to get her to bed.”

  “I told Mrs. Shandy she was free to go upstairs if she wanted,” Drake retorted in a put-upon tone.

  “She wouldn’t have felt right leaving Mrs. Bright without some moral support. And you know as well as I do that Mrs. Bright isn’t going to call it quits until the last gun’s fired and the smoke cleared away.”

  “No, I suppose not. Poor woman, it’s a hell of a fix for her to be in, not that I’m supposed to feel sorry for the suspects, but even a cop can’t help it sometimes. Do you have any plans made for tomorrow?”

  “I promised I’d take my wife to Michele Cluny’s weaving shop in the morning and we’re invited to tea with Fred Wye and his wife later on. We’re also hoping to see Miss Rondel sometime during the day, but we can adjust our visit so it won’t conflict with yours.”

  “You’re all heart, Professor. See you in the morning, maybe.”

  Chapter 20

  EVERYTHING MUST HAVE BEEN running late at the inn the next morning. Peter and Helen both woke early, as was their custom, both pretended they hadn’t so as not to disturb the other and drifted back into a series of catnaps until it got to be ridiculous. They didn’t get down to the dining room until after nine o’clock, they were surprised when Elva Bright herself came to take their orders. She was wearing her professional innkeeper’s smile but it looked a bit frazzled around the edges.

  “Morning, folks. I guess you managed to get some sleep. My helper, Gladys, is the cook today in case you’re wondering what I’m doing on this side of the door.”

  “What happened to your pretty granddaughter?” Helen asked.

  “Jeanine went back to Portland yesterday afternoon. Her parents came and picked her up, which was a relief to me as things turned out. I’m just sorry Thurzella didn’t go with her, it would have saved my other son-in-law a trip. Bob and Michele thought Thurzella ought to be out of the way till this latest mess gets settled, for which I certainly can’t blame them. I’d go myself if I could. But that’s no skin off your noses. Can I interest you in buckwheat cakes with my special blueberry syrup? It’s just blueberries stewed with a slice of lemon and a dash of cinnamon. If you want it sweet, you can add a little maple syrup.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Peter. “What about you, Helen?”

  “Oh, my. Are they big pancakes or little ones?”

  “That’s up to you. We flop ‘em any size you want ‘em.” This must have been a standard quip, the smile that went with it was turned on automatically and shut off just as fast.

  “Two small ones, then, with orange juice and coffee, please.”

  “And sausages? We grind our own sausage meat.”

  “Just one, then. You’re a hard woman to resist, Mrs. Bright. Peter, while we’re waiting for our pancakes, don’t you think we ought to give Miss Rondel a ring? She must be waiting to hear from us.”

  “Good thinking. I’ll go. Biggish pancakes for me, Mrs. Bright, and sausage by all means. Don’t worry, Helen, we’ll work it off climbing that precipice she calls her driveway.”

  On her way to the kitchen, Mrs. Bright hesitated. “I’d better warn you, Professor, that you’re apt to get waylaid in the lobby. We’ve had a slew of reporters here this morning, as I suppose we should have expected. They began coming about six o’clock. I wasn’t even dressed, I had to open the front window and holler down that they’d have to wait and they needn’t expect free breakfasts. Then I phoned over to Gladys. She came right away, bless her heart. We did give them coffee once Gladys had it made, but I was darned if I’d let them pester me with a lot of fool questions. Luckily, Claridge heard the commotion and got himself up. He’s been a real help, I have to give him credit for the way he took over with the reporters. I expect he’s still at it out there. The Lord only knows what he’s telling them by now, but I’m long past caring.”

  There were still a few people, all strangers, all from the media, sitting around the dining-room tables. Some were eating breakfasts that Mrs. Bright was going to make them pay for, the rest were just drinking her free coffee. Peter found himself thinking that the dining room seemed empty without the Wye brothers.

  Withington was in his glory, however, sitting in one of the wicker chairs. A small table was drawn up to it with a tray holding the remains of breakfast. A young woman sat next to him with a notebook on her lap, while a photographer poked a camera at his face. He was making great play with an early-morning newspaper, calling attention to a headline that proclaimed NEW EPIDEMIC HITS FORMER PESTHOUSE, TWO DEAD IN ONE WEEK. That should be great for business, Peter thought cynically.

  The uniformed guard at the front door was refusing to let anybody in without a police badge or a press card, the gawkers on the sidewalk were having plenty to say about that. Elva Bright’s business had been saved the first time by Lucivee Flodge’s unexpected histrionics, she would hardly strike it lucky twice in a row, not with Lucivee herself the second victim. Two macabre deaths so close together would be enough to put even the most dedicated patrons off their feed.

  By a mixture of stealth and luck, Peter managed to slip across the lobby and into the phone booth without getting nabbed by either the reporter or the photographer. Miss Rondel had indeed been waiting for Professor Shandy’s call and sounded a tad acerbic about his having left it so late. Peter apologized, giving as his excuse the fact that he and Helen hadn’t got to bed until the small hours. Perhaps Miss Rondel was not aware that Jasper Flodge’s widow had been killed last night just outside the inn,

  She took the news with relative calm. “Oh dear, what a time poor Elva’s having. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. That silly, silly woman! Some people simply will not learn. Would you please tell Elva for me that I’ll do what I can? Where is Thurzella?”

  “In Portland, staying with her cousin. Her father drove her down last night.”

  “Bob Cluny is a sensible man. An adolescent girl does not need to have her mind cluttered with horrors. Neither do the rest of us, I suppose, but at least we’re more inured to them. Were you and Mrs. Shandy still planning to come over here today?”

  “If you’re willing to have us.”

  “Oh yes, it’s all arranged. I’ve obtained verbal permission from the artist to proceed with the transaction. I believe there ought to be a bill of sale, or something of the sort, shouldn’t there? I can ask Michele, she knows what to do. She hasn’t gone to Portland too, has she?”

  “Mrs. Bright didn’t say so. I have the impression that the family are trying to play things down as far as possible. I was planning to take my wife to the weaving shop this morning. It hadn’t occurred to me that Mrs. Cluny might not be open for business.”

  “I doubt whether it’s occurred to Michele either,” Miss Rondel replied rather dryly. “She knows better than to attach undue importance to an occurrence that, while of course regrettable, involves the Bright family only coincidentally.”

  That was stretching coincidence pretty far, Peter thought, but he wasn’t about to argue the matter with Miss Rondel. “What time would you like us to come?” seemed the most sensible thing to say at this point.

  “Would noontime be convenient for you? I thought I might offer you a light lunch, if you think Mrs. Shandy would be agreeable?”

  “I’m sure she will, and so am I. I might mention that Mr
s. Bright’s helper is just now cooking breakfast for us, so please don’t go to the bother of preparing a big meal.”

  “I never prepare big meals. Do give my love to Michele when you see her. Tell her I have that last lot of stoles ready whenever she wants to pick them up. Until noontime, then.”

  Miss Rondel hung up without wasting time on good-byes. Peter reconnoitered from inside the phone booth and saw to his horror that Withington was pointing him out to the photographer. There was nothing for it but to look preoccupied and keep walking once he’d left the booth.

  It didn’t work out that simply, of course. The photographer was right there when Peter stepped out, with the camera lens about ten inches from his nose and the reporter shrilling rapid-fire questions into his ear. Peter had been through this sort of hectoring too many times before. He knew better than to employ strong-arm tactics, or even to show annoyance. The only thing to do was to lose neither his temper nor his impetus.

  “Sorry, miss, I’m just here about the lupines. Mr. Withington knows all about everything, he can fill you in far better than I. My wife and my breakfast are waiting for me in the dining room, so you’ll have to excuse me.”

  The officer on duty was understanding about letting Peter inside and keeping the others out. Mrs. Bright must have been peeking through the kitchen door. As soon as she spied him coming, she was there with the buckwheat cakes; small ones for Helen, big ones for him as ordered, with a pitcherful of dark-purple syrup and a refill of coffee for both.

  “This looks great, but we probably shouldn’t have ordered it,” Peter remarked as he sat down. “Miss Rondel’s invited us to lunch.”

  The innkeeper’s lips twitched. “Don’t worry. Miss Fran’s not one to go in for heavy meals. You’ll be lucky to get a dandelion salad and a glass of water. Speaking of which, could I prevail on you to have her refill my jugs for me, Professor? If it’s not too much trouble?”

  “No trouble at all, Mrs. Bright. We had some of her water yesterday. I was telling Helen on the way back about the hidden spring Miss Rondel has on her property. Too bad you couldn’t have the water piped down here to the inn, Mrs. Bright.”

  “Huh. Don’t talk to me about that, Professor, and for goodness’ sake don’t so much as breathe a word of it to Miss Fran. One of the good things about Jasper Flodge being taken is that he won’t be pestering her any longer about selling out to him.”

  “Good Lord! Why would she want to do that?”

  “That’s just the point, she wouldn’t. But he’d got this great bee in his bonnet about tearing down the old farmhouse and building a big resort at Rondel’s Head. What they call a health spa. Of course that would have meant us townfolks losing our spring to a pack of strangers, but that wouldn’t have cut any ice with Jasper. It’s an awful thing to have known somebody your whole life long and tried to make allowances, and then to hear all this awful talk coming out and have to face the fact that he was plain rotten clear through and never been anything else. But you don’t want to hear all this. I’d better get back to the kitchen and help Gladys get ready for the dinner crowd, if there’s going to be any. Will you two be eating here tonight?”

  “My vote is yes,” said Helen. “I’m going to be ready for an early bedtime, but right now I’m itching to get to your daughter’s shop. Peter tells me it’s full of wonderful things.”

  “That reminds me,” said Peter. “I’m supposed to let Mrs. Cluny know that Miss Rondel has a bunch of stoles ready for her to pick up. I didn’t offer to bring the stoles back because I didn’t know what—er—arrangements they have between them.”

  “No reason why you should,” Mrs. Bright replied. “Anyway, Michele would rather go herself. She loves to sit down with Miss Fran and talk weaving, always has. Ever since she was old enough to ride up there on her bicycle, she’d be at Miss Fran’s every chance she got, pouring herself a drink of water out of that old yellow pitcher. Some think the benefit was in the pitcher, which would surely have been one big joke on Jasper Flodge if he’d ever got what he was after, but—” She caught herself in mid-sentence. “Look at me, jabbering away like a flock of sparrows when there’s a day’s work to be done. You sure I can’t get you anything else?”

  “Not a thing,” said Helen. “That was a lovely breakfast, now we’d better go brush our teeth before we leave. Do you remember Mrs. Goose and the Black Cat from Green Street when they ate the blueberry slump?”

  Helen had a knack for striking a chord. For a moment, Mrs. Bright’s face lived up to her name. “Oh, my, yes. My husband used to read Mrs. Goose to our girls when they were little, first in English, then in French. They were crazy about Madame l’Oie. Thanks to him, they’re both completely bilingual. And they’ve passed it on to their children, I’m happy to say. I was never much of a hand at French myself, but Jean-Luc and I understood each other well enough. No, Professor, put that money away. This meal’s with the compliments of the house. You folks have a nice day and I’ll see you when you get here.”

  “Fairly spoken and thank you very much,” Peter replied. “I hope it’s safe by now to wish you a good day too. It’s high time you had one.”

  “Hope’s about all I have to fall back on right now, it seems. Why such things have to happen is beyond me, but maybe we’ll understand it better by-and-by, as the old hymn says. My aunt Verbena used to play that on the melodeon for us every time we went there to visit. She had a voice like a train whistle, but she loved to sing and we never tried to stop her. Not that we’d have been able to anyway. Aunt Verbena wasn’t one to give up without a fight.”

  “And neither are you,” said Helen. “We’ll see you tonight, then.”

  The media people had all cleared out by now. Withington sat alone in the lobby waiting patiently as a blue heron for the next poor fish to come within reach of his beak. The Shandys could not be uncivil enough to pass him by without a few minutes’ chat and a little greasing of the ego about how deftly he’d handled the briefing session. They then pleaded blue teeth and urgent business elsewhere and got away from him without much trouble. When they came down again, brushed and flossed and ready to smile, Withington appeared to be asleep in his chair. They didn’t wake him up to say good-bye.

  When Peter and Helen walked into Michele’s shop, they found the master weaver busy with a customer. She gave them the ritual nod and smile and left them to poke among the racks. Helen wished no greater bliss, she lost little time in picking out a handsome tie for Peter, a set of place mats for the Stotts, and a wondrous garment that was either a jacket, a waistcoat, or something in the nature of what Peter’s grandmother would have called a wrapper for Catriona. These were only the tip of the iceberg. As the pile on the counter rose ever higher and Michele Cluny’s smile grew broader, Peter’s patience began to decline.

  “What in Sam Hill are you planning to do with all that stuff?”

  “I’m doing our Christmas shopping, dear. Do you think your niece Alice would like this angora scarf? It’s lovely and soft, but angora fuzz does tend to come off on things.”

  “With six Chihuahuas in the house, Alice can use a little extra fuzz,” said Peter. “Go ahead and buy the scarf. Aren’t you going to get anything for yourself?”

  “Need you ask? Hold my handbag for me, will you? I’m going to try on this heavenly suit. I’ve never seen such exquisite blending in a heather mixture. Did you do this, Mrs. Cluny?”

  “Miss Fran wove the fabric, I made the suit. If this one doesn’t fit, I could make another to your measurements. Unless you see something else that you’d like better.”

  There was nothing that Helen liked better, the suit fit slick as a whistle, obviously it had been meant for her and nobody else. Far was it from Peter Shandy to come between his wife and her credit card, he even suggested she take the handsome scarf and hat that went with the suit. Those could be her presents for next Groundhog Day.

  “How very thoughtful of you, dear. They’ll be just perfect to wear to the bonfire. Groundhog Day is a maj
or event at Balaclava,” Helen explained to Michele Cluny, who was looking a trifle nonplussed, as vendors were wont to do when the Shandys got thoroughly involved in one of their fortunately infrequent shopping sprees.

  For some reason, the word “groundhog” joggled Peter’s memory. “I’m supposed to tell you, Mrs. Cluny, that Miss Rondel has some stoles ready for you to pick up at your convenience. Helen and I are lunching with her and she’s asked us to arrive around noontime. So I’d suggest, my love, that we settle up here and get cracking because it’s already half past eleven.”

  Chapter 21

  “IT’S A GOOD THING you didn’t get carried away in there,” Peter remarked as he moved his hard-won lupine seed to the farthest reach of the car’s trunk to make room for Helen’s deluge of parcels. “By the time we get the paintings in with all this other stuff, we’re going to have quite a cargo aboard.”

  “Don’t worry, dear. Practically everything I bought is squashable except my suit, and we can lay that on top after the paintings are in. Michele Cluny certainly knows how to charge, but this suit’s worth every penny. It’s the sort of thing a person can wear forever and never get tired of.”

  Helen would probably do just that, she didn’t even consider a garment properly broken in until she’d had two or three years’ wear out of it. At the moment, though, her mind was not running on clothes.

  “Peter, what do you suppose Mrs. Bright meant this morning about the benefit being in the pitcher?”

  “I was wondering when you’d get around to asking me that. How old would you say Mrs. Bright is?”

  “I really don’t know. If I hadn’t seen her daughter just now, I’d have said Mrs. Bright couldn’t be more than forty. If I didn’t know Thurzella, I’d swear Mrs. Cluny was about twenty-three. Do they marry straight out of eighth grade around here, or what?”