“By George, you’re right! Architrave’s old man was married twice, and the second wife was a sister of Minerva Oakes’s mother. Good Lord, I never thought. That makes Minerva John’s step niece or something, doesn’t it? I wonder why neither of them ever mentioned the connection?”
“Who’d want to be connected with a juggins like John Architrave? Anyway, I believe he took a dim view of his father’s remarrying, and an even dimmer one when his half sister disgraced the family as she did. I suppose Minerva’s folks were none too happy either, if it comes to that. But anyway, if John died intestate, doesn’t that make Minerva the next of kin?”
“Not if the half sister married and had children. Or if she’s still alive herself, for that matter. She could be. She must have been at least ten years younger than John.”
“Women who run off with hardware clerks come to sticky ends,” said Jane sententiously. “Not that I’m wishing her any hard luck, but wouldn’t it be lovely if Minerva came in for John’s money? She’s had a hard row to hoe all these years with her husband dying young and those four boys to raise by herself, and now the grandchildren to help educate. She can’t have a cent to bless herself with. Any woman who has to let out her best bedroom to strangers isn’t doing it for the sake of having company in the house, no matter how brave a face she puts on. You see more of Minerva than we do, Dittany. You wouldn’t happen to know if she keeps in touch with any of her mother’s folks?”
Dittany shook her head. “I remember being down at Mr. Gumpert’s a while before Christmas. Minerva was there picking out cards and she was moaning a bit about how she needed fewer each year because so many of the old folks were dying off. I’m quite sure there’s only her Aunt Nellie left down in Oshawa, and that’s on her father’s side, so Aunt Nellie wouldn’t count. But would Mr. Architrave have had any great fortune to leave?”
“Oh, I don’t suppose you’d call it a fortune,” said Henry Binkle, “but he must have got something from his folks, with both his brothers gone and the sister flown the coop. And he made a week’s pay out of the Water Department all these years and John was never one to chuck the dollars around, eh? Then there’s the house, which must be worth something at today’s prices. I don’t suppose many people would care to live right there next to the inn but it’s in the area that’s zoned for business.”
“Uh-huh, and it’s not going to surprise me one particle when Andy McNasty presents himself as the long-lost heir.” Dittany set down her empty glass. “And if nobody swallows that yarn he’ll think of another, you mark my words. Well, I must say this has been an interesting discussion. And you won’t mind my keeping Ethel with me?”
“Heavens, no!” Jane assured her. “Unless you’d rather come over and sleep in our spare room.”
“If I did, half the town would probably follow me over. What with the park and the election and Samantha’s anniversary party, it’s wall-to-wall pandemonium at my place. Oh, and while I think of it, could you bake something for the sale on Saturday if Therese Boulanger hasn’t already asked you?”
“I’ll be glad to. And I expect Henry wouldn’t mind keeping the books on what you’re going to raise. You’ll have to keep careful track of the cash or the McNaster-Wallaby crowd will be trying to run you in for embezzling, like as not. Henry’s awfully good at figures.”
Mr. Binkle murmured something into the back of his wife’s neck and she turned a patriotic scarlet. “Henry Binkle, I don’t know what’s got into you tonight! Go work some of it off carrying Ethel’s food out to the car for Dittany.”
“Want the doghouse, too?” Mr. Binkle offered gallantly, but Dittany told him she thought she could do without it. She was a little preoccupied as she avoided Ethel’s frenzied whooflings and tail thumpings and filled a huge plastic bowl her mother had once been unlucky enough to win at a euchre party with some of the Binkle dog food.
It would indeed be nice if Minerva Oakes turned out to be an heiress. Dittany only wished she could feel a totally unalloyed joy at the possibility. Maybe she could if she’d never seen that sweet little elderly lady skewer a squirrel at a hundred paces, and if that sweet little elderly lady were less familiar with the Enchanted Mountain and less fit to spring up and down its precipitous slopes and if that sweet little elderly lady weren’t so hard up for cash and didn’t have all those grandchildren to educate and hadn’t regarded John Architrave as such a blot on the local landscape.
Then there was the lifelong friend of that sweet little elderly lady, an even better shot, an even more agile mountaineer, and a person with somewhat primordial ideas about what you did with a bow and arrow when you ran across somebody whose guts you hated and who owned something your best buddy stood in crucial need of and wasn’t likely to get unless you pushed matters along a bit. Zilla Trott had offered her services as head rubber-out of blots on the landscape should the need arise and maybe she’d been joking and maybe she hadn’t. Zilla wasn’t much given to levity as a rule.
“Oh, knock it off, you halfwit,” Dittany told herself crossly. “That’s what comes of hanging around Arethusa Monk.” She was hungry, that was the matter with her. She’d stinted herself at lunchtime in order to make sure the loaves and fishes stretched to feed the rest, and Jane hadn’t thought to offer anything with the drinks because the Binkles weren’t much for snacking and they’d all had more important matters on their minds. She hacked an end off the remaining scrag of cheese to gnaw on while she threw together an omelet and had just got the eggs out when the phone began its jangling.
The caller was Samantha, complaining that she’d been trying to get hold of Dittany for hours to say that the interview had gone without a hitch and that she’d thought of a few more points Dittany might use in the speech.
“What speech?” Dittany mumbled through her cheese.
“The speech you promised to write me for Candidates’ Night, of course. And I’ve got to have it right away because once Father and Mother Burberry arrive I shan’t have a minute to memorize it.”
“Hold on a second.” Sighing, Dittany snatched another bite of cheese and went to fetch a pad and pencil. Fifteen minutes and three pages of notes later Samantha hung up and Dittany began to make herself a salad. Then Ellie Despard was on the line wondering if she had any glue because they’d need it tomorrow for the centerpieces and Ellie hadn’t remembered to buy any and she’d have to whiz straight along to the house as soon as she’d dropped Petey off because tomorrow was Alison’s half day, which she’d completely forgotten until this very minute.
Dittany couldn’t recall whether Alison was Ellie’s daughter or her baby sitter, and wondered with a sinking feeling in her stomach what Ellie had meant by that plural pronoun in talking of the centerpieces, but she said she had some glue, hung up, and began bolting her greens like a rabbit for fear the phone would interrupt her again as of course it did.
Therese was anxious to know whether Dittany had thought to take those sheets off the clothesline and if they were too dry to iron would she please dampen them just a bit but not too much because Therese and Hazel hadn’t been fussy about following the directions on the dye box since it was just for the one occasion and they were so rushed but naturally they didn’t want the tablecloths coming out all spotty and was the sewing room ready and could Dittany set up the ironing board and did she think she could persuade Ellie to whip out a few posters for the bake sale at the bandstand Saturday rain or shine from ten till two?
Dittany stuffed the last crumb of cheese into her mouth and went to get the sheets.
Chapter 12
AS SHE WAS STRUGGLING back to the house with her chilly, clammy armload of washing, Dittany heard that all too familiar peal. Mrs. Poppy had recovered her voice. She’d been trying to reach Miss Henbit most of the day but first Miss Henbit’s line had been busy, then Miss Henbit hadn’t been at home, then Miss Henbit’s line had been busy again, and then Mrs. Poppy had had to wait until Mr. Poppy stepped out to the archery club for his evening practice because M
r. Poppy was in a very funny mood these days. Mrs. Poppy expressed the wish that she’d stayed single like some other people who could come and go as they pleased with never a worry in the world and no snide remarks thrown at them.
Dittany sighed, though not into the telephone because she didn’t want to hurt Mrs. Poppy’s feelings, and pawed across the table for her salad bowl.
The general thrust of the call was that Mrs. Poppy just couldn’t thank Miss Henbit enough for pitching in last night, though Mrs. Poppy was clearly determined to give it the old school try. Dittany chewed lettuce as quietly as she could and made deprecating murmurs while Mrs. Poppy went on not thanking her enough. “And it was just like you, not wanting me to tell Mrs. Duckes, and she’s going to send you a thank-you card as soon as she can hobble down to buy one.”
“She needn’t bother,” Dittany groaned through her lettuce. “Truly, Mrs. Poppy, I wish you hadn’t told her.”
“There now, isn’t that you all over, Miss Henbit, doing good by stealth as the Bible says. Don’t you worry a bit, I told Mrs. Duckes you didn’t want it spread around because it might hurt your business and then where’d I be? I tried to make Mr. Poppy see that but a person might as well talk to the lamppost. I swear men never listen to one solitary word a woman says and I don’t blame those women down in the States for holding conventions though I wouldn’t dare say so in front of my husband because that would be the one time in his life he’d be listening.”
“No doubt,” said Dittany, wishing she could reach the teakettle.
“So I told Mrs. Duckes not to breathe a word to a soul and I’m sure she won’t.”
Dittany found herself unable to share Mrs. Poppy’s confidence. “I hope you’ve made other arrangements for tonight, because I really—”
“Now isn’t that just like you to offer, but it’s all taken care of, thanks. Mrs. Duckes’s sister came up on the bus from Toronto. Not that I’d mind myself if I felt more like myself, if you get me, but as I always say, what’s a family for? Speaking of which, I’m afraid I won’t get round to you at all this week, Miss Henbit. Mr. Poppy’s put his foot down, see, and there’s Janet’s dress I said I’d help her finish and—”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Poppy.” Dittany didn’t care to hear about Janet’s dress. “Now you mustn’t say another word or you might lose your voice again.” As if a person could be that lucky.
By now Dittany was so full of cheese and lettuce that the idea of an omelet had palled. She made the tea she so desperately craved and ate the tail end of a fruitcake she’d been saving for an emergency, because if she wasn’t having one now, when would she?
“Hah!” whispered the voice of reason. “If you think this is an emergency, wait till Mrs. Duckes’s sister tells McNaster who that allegedly deaf woman was who did his office last night.” The woman must be there now, emptying the wastebaskets, swishing the mop around, and no doubt getting the third degree. If she had any sense she’d tell the simple truth: that she was from out of town and didn’t know the woman who’d gone before her.
If Dittany herself had shown a grain of intelligence she’d have lied to Mrs. Poppy and claimed she’d got somebody else to take her place. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Should McNaster come banging at her door thirsting for blood, she might pretend her aunt from Ottawa had been here with a maid who spoke only Dukhobor and it was the maid who—no, that wouldn’t work. She’d spoken to McNaster in English. Anyway, did she look like the sort to have an aunt with a maid from Ottawa? No, she looked like the type to go out and empty trash, especially since she was actually wearing the same holey sneakers she’d had on last night. They’d been the first things to hand, or rather to foot, when she got dressed and she’d never thought to change them.
Dittany snatched off the sneakers and flung them into the wastebasket where they should have gone ages ago. She rushed upstairs, suddenly desperate to change her appearance. What she really wanted was to take a long, hot bath, put on her favorite nightgown and go to bed; but she still had Samantha’s speech to write. She compromised with a quick shower, put on a lovely lounging robe her mother had sent from Vancouver, encased her patricianly slim but plebeianly aching feet in brown kid slippers, and went back down to her office.
She didn’t really expect the covetous contractor to come sneaking around her house, at least not in person and not when the neighborhood was still astir. Nevertheless she called Ethel in and made sure all the shades were drawn and herself out of firing range from any window before she sat down at her typewriter.
Once she got started, the speech wasn’t hard to write. Samantha had outlined her arguments; all Dittany had to do was put them into logical order and coherent English. Long practice with Arethusa Monk’s garbled prose made this a cinch. Her main problem was remembering not to inject an occasional “forsooth” or “egad.”
Dittany finished a rough draft, retyped it with corrections, sat back and read her effort over, and found it good. If Samantha thought otherwise she could jolly well rewrite the speech to suit herself. Pleased with this much progress, Dittany then started extracting a few trenchant passages for the flier she and Ellie would prepare in the morning. She was absorbed in her work when she began to hear a ringing in her ears. Naturally she thought of the telephone, then realized it was the doorbell.
Was this the moment of truth? Dittany’s heart plummeted past the zipper in her housecoat, straight to her brown kid slippers. Then she reflected that it might only be Hazel with a load of casserole dishes, and the Henbit fighting spirit rose again. Clutching Ethel by the collar, she went and peeked around the edge of the door.
The Lord be praised, it was casseroles! However, the arms that juggled the slippery load of Pyrex were not Hazel’s but a man’s and the face that peered nervously over this stack of imminent chaos was Benjamin Frankland’s; ergo, the casseroles had to be Minerva Oakes’s and she’d better let him in before he dropped the lot.
Dittany wasn’t altogether sure whether she willed or nilled, but Ethel was delighted. Perhaps she remembered that romp on the Enchanted Mountain. Anyway, she thought this would be the perfect time for another. Dittany and Frankland spent an interesting few minutes juggling Pyrex. After that any sort of formal reception was out of the question so they sat down around the kitchen table and began eating Fig Newtons.
“So,” said Frankland, stirring rather a lot of sugar into the mug of tea Dittany had given him, “you’re a bunch of busy ladies.”
“What makes you say that?” Dittany replied cagily.
“Well, I’m none too clear on the details. I don’t know if you’ve noticed that habit Mrs. Oakes has of starting sentences and not finishing them?”
No, Dittany had never noticed, Minerva was not one to leave anything unfinished, especially a sentence. She must be trying her best to be discreet but not succeeding any too well or she wouldn’t be starting sentences in the first place. That led to uneasy speculation as to precisely how many things Minerva might have to be discreet about. Dittany bit angrily into her Fig Newton. She was not about to reveal her thoughts about Minerva Oakes to any strange boarder just because he happened to have good teeth and strong-looking hands and an agreeable way of making himself at home without any fuss.
“Anyway,” Frankland went on, “from what I can gather, your club is engineering a fiftieth anniversary party for one of your members who’s running for town council in order to make the ecology safe for the Plantain-Leaved Pussytoes.”
“That’s the general thrust,” Dittany admitted, “except that it’s her in-laws’ anniversary and she’s running for Development Commission.”
“Say, this isn’t by any chance on account of me, is it? I mean, because Mr. Architrave sent me up there with that backhoe?”
“Oh, don’t think we’re blaming you,” Dittany assured him since after all he was her guest and moreover hadn’t asked her to write a speech or iron any sheets. “Actually what you did turned out to be a community service, in a sense. You see,
we’d always tended to take it for granted that nobody would go messing around with the Enchanted Mountain. When you started to dig up the Spotted Pipsissewa we realized something had better be done to prevent any further outrage against our natural resources.”
“What about the outrage against yourself? I don’t know about you, but I still get the willies every time I think of that arrow whistling past our ears.”
“Oh, that,” said Dittany absently. “I daresay I should, too, if I’d had time to think about it. How are you getting on down at the job?”
“Well, we did think of lowering the water level to half staff as a token of respect for Mr. Architrave,” Frankland replied, studying his hostess in some wonderment, “but nobody seemed quite sure if that was the right thing to do under the circumstances, so we’re just muddling along until somebody gets around to telling us who’s in charge. Sergeant MacVicar was in asking questions this morning. No flies on him, eh? I asked if he was going to turn the case over to the Mounties and he told me he’d been in touch with them as soon as he got back to the station yesterday. He’s had them checking cars for a hunter with black-banded arrows in his possession, but I could tell he wasn’t holding out any expectations. Unless the guy was too drunk to know what he was doing, he’d either ditch them or burn them, and if he’d been all that soused he’d either have crashed his car or been picked up for reckless driving.”
“Then Sergeant MacVicar is convinced it was an out-of-town hunter?”
Franklin shrugged. “That was my impression. I could be wrong, of course. You know him better than I, Dittany. You don’t mind if I call you Dittany? I mean, being shot at together constitutes an introduction of sorts, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose you might say so.” In spite of her mental perturbation Dittany was forced to smile. There were several things going through her mind at that moment, one being the fact that some neighbor or other must even now be wondering, Lobelia Falls being the kind of place it was, why Mr. Frankland was taking so long to deliver those utensils to Miss Henbit and whether he intended to make an honest woman of her after the casseroles were in the oven. She was rather glad he was with her, but she rather wished he’d go away.
The Grub-And-Stakers Move a Mountain Page 10