The Grub-and-Stakers Quilt a Bee

by Charlotte MacLeod

  Osbert was just back from his visit to Sergeant MacVicar. “Darling,” he exclaimed, “you look just like a lady 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 part-time 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 MacVicar’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 two-dollar 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 stiffness 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 passionnel.”

  “Shh!” Dittany hissed from under cover of her hat brim. “Don’t make me laugh. Minerva’s feelings would be hurt. I’ll 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 MacVicar 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.

  “Sorry,” she said with a pathetic sniffle. “As I was saying, and Mrs. Monk will bear me out because she was there with me, this alleged Brown came back and I recognized him as a person my husband had known years ago, before we were married. Without wanting to blacken anybody’s name, I’ll only say I personally didn’t shed any tears when we lost sight of him. That was thirty-eight years ago, now that I’ve had a chance to think back and figure it out, so you can imagine what a jolt it gave me to see him there today. Mrs. Oakes, do you suppose I could have a spot more tea?”

  “Of course.” Minerva leaped for her cup, then started passing cakes and cookies and crumpets in a veritable whirlwind of hospitality. “Do try one of these hot milk sponge cakes, Mrs. Fairfield. You’ve got to keep up your strength.”

  “I suppose I must.” Mrs. Fairfield nerved herself to consume the dainty, then took another in an offhand sort of way as if she didn’t want herself to know she was doing it. “It does seem odd Frederick Churtle happened to show up at the museum just when Peregrine—but we mustn’t jump to conclusions, must we? I suppose what happened was that Frederick simply found the door locked and went away.”

  “But the door wasn’t locked,” Minerva reminded her. “Don’t you remember? We turned the knob and went right on in.”

  Mrs. Fairfield stared at her for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. We did, didn’t we? Peregrine would have locked up, of course, when he left. But he—he never left. If you’ll all excuse me, I think I’d like to go back upstairs for a while.”

  This time, even Dittany couldn’t begrudge a sympathetic murmur. Arethusa merely helped herself to the last cream cake.

  Minerva wiped her eyes on her napkin. “Poor soul, what must it be like for her, here among strangers without even a bed to call her own?”

  “Yes, well, that brings us to the next order of business,” Arethusa replied with her mouth full. “What are we going to do about her?”

  “Do about her?” Therese Boulanger gasped. “Arethusa, how can you bring that up at a time like this?”

  “Because, ecod, it’s later than you think. Ask Dittany.”

  “Whatever it is, we can’t discuss it now with poor Mr. Fairfield barely settled into his coffin and the upstairs windows wide open,” snapped Minerva. “Here, Dittany, try a piece of Hazel’s spice cake.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take it to eat on the way.”

  “With your white gloves on?” snickered Zilla. “What’s the all-fired rush?”

  “I have to find Sergeant MacVicar and tell him what Caroline Pitz said about Fred Churtle.”

  “Can’t Caroline tell him herself?”

  “Come to think of it, I shouldn’t wonder if she already has.” Dittany picked up her fork and began to deal with the spice cake in a more seemly manner. “I’d better tell him anyway, though, just in case.”

  “You’re awfully thick with the MacVicars all of a sudden, aren’t you? I heard the four of you went over to Scottsbeck last night for a Welsh rabbit.”

  “The Welsh rabbit was incidental What we really went for was to grill Cedric Fawcett, the plumber who was fiddling around with the museum sink yesterday. At least Sergeant MacVicar and Osbert tried to, only Fawcett didn’t say much except about wanting another beer. Mrs. MacVicar and I just rode along with them for the heck of it. Osbert’s deputizing again, you know.”

  “Deputizing? Whatever for?” Hazel demanded. “We don’t have to call out the guard just because somebody had the rotten luck to fall out an attic window, do we?”

  “Go take a close look at those attic windows, then ask me again.”

  “Dittany!” Therese uttered the name in a sort of ladylike yelp. “You’re not implying there was some kind of hanky-panky about Mr. Fairfield’s accident?”

  Dittany pulled her chair closer and lowered her voice. “Keep this under your hats, girls, but—”

  * Ellis was the traditional nom de noose of Canada’s official hangmen. Capital punishment was abolished December 29, 1967.

  CHAPTER 12

  “MY STARS AND GARTERS!” said Minerva Oakes.

  It was clear she’d voiced the consensus of the gathering.

  “So you see why I have to make sure Sergeant MacVicar knows Fred Churtle was there last night?” Dittany finished when she could get a word in edgewise.

  “Well, of course,” cried Hazel. “This Churtle probably came by to hit Mr. Fairfield up for another five thousand dollars and tossed him off the roof in a fit of pique when he wouldn’t come across.”

  “A fine way to treat an old pal you haven’t seen for thirty-eight years,” Zilla snorted.

  “Now, let’s not go jumping to conclusions,” said Therese. “A person’s innocent till he’s proven guilty, you know.”

  “Huh! Not if certain people around here whose names I don’t have to tell you get wind of the story, which you can darn well bet they will if they haven’t already. Churtle’s going to be damned regardless, unless Sergeant MacVicar can prove it was somebody else. You go ahead, Dittany. I’ll talk to you later.”

  That was a needless remark of Zilla’s. They all would. And so would those members of the club who didn’t get invited to Minerva’s, and a few more people besides. Dittany put down her fork and picked up her handbag.

  “Thanks for the lovely tea, Minerva. I expect I’ll see you later on at the funeral
parlor.”

  Little did she know how wrong her expectation would prove to be. Events began taking a new turn as soon as she got to the police station. There, whom should she find but her own beloved Osbert, deputizing for all he was worth.

  “Hello, darling,” he said. “I’m holding the fort. Ormerod Burleson’s still away on holiday, Mrs. MacVicar’s at the sales, the sergeant’s off trying to trace that woman in the purple dress, and Bob and Ray have been called out to arrest Cedric Fawcett.”

  “Not our plumber? What did he do?”

  He assaulted Andy McNasty with a snake.

  “A rattlesnake?”

  “No, one of those squiggly things they poke down drains. He wrapped it around Andy’s neck, then he squished a plunger down on top of Andy’s head. He was threatening to twist Andy’s ears off with a wrench when Andy’s secretary laid him out with a bottle of Dr. Brown’s Celery Tonic and called the police.”

  “That beer-swilling slug? Are you sure you’ve got the right Fawcett?”

  “I know, darling, I couldn’t believe it, either. But it turns out Cedric has quite a reputation for coming to a slow boil, then wading in with whatever he can lay his hands on. His brothers have had to buy him off a few other times, according to Ray, but this time I guess Andy’s determined to press charges. Bob says he didn’t mind the snake so much, but he looked upon the plunger as an unpardonable affront.”

  “One can see why. Not that I have any particular tendresse for Andy McNasty, and not that there weren’t a few times back there last March when I could cheerfully have whammed him one myself. But, darling, if Cedric Fawcett’s such a wild man, don’t you think he might possibly—”

  “Yes, darling, I do think he might possibly, and so does Sergeant MacVicar, especially since Fawcett and Mr. Fairfield appear to have been alone together in the museum after Mrs. Fairfield left. The hitch is, you can’t haul a possibly into court on a murder charge. Unless Fawcett breaks down and confesses, we have nothing whatever to show he had any hand, or plunger, as the case may have been, in Mr. Fairfield’s death. We’re hoping this woman in the purple dress may be able to cast some light on the matter, assuming she ever turns up. It’s not like tracking yaks, you know,” Osbert explained earnestly. “All she has to do is change her dress, and she becomes the Invisible Woman. She could be anywhere by now. Well, maybe not anywhere, but someplace we’d never think to look. I mean, what if that was a rented car she was driving, and she simply dumped it at the nearest airport and got on a plane?”