“Yes, dear, if we must. What did you do with the quilt pieces?”
“Wrapped them up in Gramp’s old doughboy tunic and locked them in the cedar chest with the slop jar from the night stand on top. If anybody tries to open the chest, at least we’ll hear the crash.”
“Good thinking. Come on, then. Maybe the lemonade will damp down my inner fires.”
“Not for long, I hope.”
They took the plate and pitcher and went to sit out on the porch like a proper old married couple. Jane and Henry Binkle sauntered over to share their genteel refreshment and chat about books. After a while, the Binkles drifted back home and the bats started coming out. Along about the seventh bat, Hunding Paffnagel showed up.
“Have a nice time?” Dittany asked her sociably.
“To the besht of my recollection, yesh,” Miss Paffnagel replied. “Been shampling the native beverages. Dandelion wine and camomile tea. Intereshting combination.”
“Was that by any chance Zilla Trott’s dandelion wine you were drinking?”
“No, it was mine,” Hunding responded, being extremely careful with her sibilants but not quite careful enough. “She sherved it to me. In a glash. They don’t sheem to ushe botas around theshe partsh. You know, thoshe wineshkinsh with the nozzlesh that you shquirt into your moush.”
“Oh, yesh,” said Osbert. “I tried it once. The wine went into my left ear and I kept hearing gurgling noises for about a week. Have some lemonade?”
“No thanksh. I’m alwaysh careful not to mix my drinksh. Perhapsh I should have refushed the camomile tea. It sheemsh to be affecting my shenshe of balanshe.”
“Perhaps you ought to go straight up to bed,” Dittany suggested in rather a forceful tone. “You’ve had a long day.”
“Have I? Then perhapsh you’re right. Whish way ish the shtaircashe?”
“I’ll show you.”
Osbert took Miss Paffnagel’s arm and led her up to her room, Dittany tagging along in case of emergencies. Minerva should have known better than to let Miss Paffnagel drink Zilla’s dandelion wine on top of rum and grapefruit juice. Zilla could get more kick out of a dandelion than anybody else in the history of Lobelia Falls. Grandsire Coskoff said so, and it was generally conceded that he ought to know if anybody did.
Anyway, the wine’s effect on Hunding Paffnagel appeared to be mostly soporific. She went to sleep and stayed asleep. They knew, because her steady, resonant snores echoed through the house all night long like the rhythmical beat of a ceremonial drum on the purple peak of Popocatepetl. Dittany and Osbert didn’t mind so much because they were used to Ethel, but they did think it a bit much when half past eleven rolled around the next morning and Miss Paffnagel was still snoring.
“Darn it,” said Osbert, ripping a sheet out of his typewriter and wadding it up in disgust, “isn’t she ever going to wake up? She makes more noise than a herd of yaks.”
“Do you want me to go and try to rouse her?” Dittany asked him.
“No, let sleeping Paffnagels lie. At least this way we don’t have to keep an eye on her.”
“I wonder if the Fairfields got off all right,” Dittany mused. “They were pretty rory-eyed themselves by the time we finished supper, especially Jehosaphat. Honestly, I do think Minerva might have known better. What would you like for lunch? We could take it out on the table in the back yard.”
“Her bedroom’s right above.”
“I know, but the noise might be sort of dissipated by the fresh air.”
“There’s plenty of fresh air in the house, and I can’t say I notice it helping any.”
“Then why don’t we drop in on Arethusa and see if she has any of that coulibiac left over?”
Dittany spoke too late. Arethusa was already heaving into view, a green silk caftan billowing behind her like a spinnaker in reverse and a good many strings of Venetian glass beads tinkling pleasantly around her neck. She looked a trifle wan, but that might have been the reflected green of the caftan. Her lustrous dark eyes were sparkling, and there was excitement in the flare of her patrician nostrils.
“I’ve had a visitation,” she announced.
“We know,” said Dittany. “Did you get rid of them on schedule?”
“What? Oh, the Fairfields. Yes, they dragged themselves off about half an hour ago. That was shortly after I’d put the 1812 Overture on the stereo and turned it up full blast when it got to the part where the cannons are shot off.”
“Darn, why didn’t we think of that? How about lending us the record? We may need it if Hunding Paffnagel doesn’t wake up pretty soon.”
“Oh, let her alone. She’s probably dreaming about obsidian knives and steaming entrails.” Arethusa flopped into her usual chair and arranged her shimmering draperies about her. “What’s for lunch?”
“Good question. Chicken salad sandwiches, I guess.”
“Uninspired but acceptable. Leave the pickle out of mine.”
“What for? Don’t tell me you’re dieting.”
“Why should I? I never gain an ounce. You know that.” She took a plum out of the dish on the table and bit into it. “It’s just that pickles strike one as being somewhat unspiritual.”
“I suppose they are, now that you mention it,” Dittany conceded. “What difference should that make? To the pure, all things are pure.”
“How beautifully true.” Arethusa waved what was left of the plum in a graceful parabola. “One does have to be mindful of these things, though, when one moves on the higher planes.”
“Tell you what, Arethusa, I’ll just set the pickles on the table and you can take them or leave them as the spirit moves you. What’s all this about the higher planes?”
“I told you. I’ve had a visitation. From a spirit.”
“What’s all this about spirits?” said Osbert. “Would that be as in spiritus frumenti? Miss Paffnagel’s was brought on by mixing Zilla Trott’s dandelion wine with that rum and grapefruit juice you gave her.”
“I wish I’d let your parents name you Ralph,” Arethusa retorted viciously.
“Careful,” Dittany warned. “You’re sliding off your plane. Do try to be a trifle less enigmatic about this visitation, Arethusa. Do you mean you’ve seen a spook?”
“Don’t be crass. It was no spook. It was a being.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“One is either attuned to these things or one is not.”
“Oh, yeah? Was it a he-being or a she-being?”
“How do I know? Anyway, what difference does it make? They don’t go in for that sort of thing on the higher levels.”
“That’s what you say,” said her nephew. “All right then, could you give us a general idea of what this being looked like? Did it appear in human form?”
“Of course. Don’t they always? It’s part of their mystique.”
“Well, was its mystique tall or short? Fat or skinny? Did it have clothes on, or was its androgyny open to view?”
“Osbert, you are disgusting. It was,” Arethusa hesitated, “majestic, that’s the word. Tall and of imposing build. The face was serene.”
“You actually saw the face?”
“Not precisely, but one could feel the serenity. At least, I could. You wouldn’t have, because you’re a clod. It, or he, or she was clad in what appeared to be a simple garment of some soft, drapey material. Like this.” She gazed down complacently at her sea-green caftan.
“Aha, that accounts for the getup. You’re impersonating a higher being. Why don’t you try Calamity Jane? That would be more in character.”
“Darling, let Arethusa go on about the visitation,” said Dittany, not so much to pour oil on the waters as because she was beginning to see something, too. “What did it do?”
“Just stood there sending out emanations,” said Arethusa. “To raise the vibrations, you know.”
Hunding Paffnagel chose that moment to emit a particularly reverberative snort with a hideous gurgle at the end. They all glanced upward.
“So that’s what the racket’s all about,” Osbert remarked. “We thought she was sleeping it off, but she’s merely raising the vibrations.”
“Sounds to me as if she’s choking to death,” said Dittany. “I’d better go see.”
She ran upstairs, to find Perry Fairfield’s erstwhile colleague sitting on the edge of the bed clutching the sides of her head.
“What’s the matter, Miss Paffnagel? Don’t you feel well?”
“I am dying, Egypt, dying. Ebbs the crimson lifetide fast. If I weren’t of so abstemious a habit, I’d swear I had the father and mother of all hangovers. I haven’t felt like this since that night in Cotopaxi when—excuse me.”
Miss Paffnagel made a beeline for the bathroom. Dittany decided the best thing for a hostess to do at a time like this was to go away. She went back downstairs and reported her finding.
“She says she’s dying, Egypt, dying. It must have been the camomile tea. What sort of shape were the Fairfields in this morning?”
“In a word, dire. Berthilde appeared to think it was all my fault. She kept asking me what I’d put in that potage au cresson. Idiotic woman! At any rate, I didn’t have to cook breakfast for them. Let’s get back to my visitation.”
“Yes, let’s,” said Dittany. “What happened when you saw it? Weren’t you scared stiff?”
“Moi?” Play the poltroon? Jamais de la vie! I merely gathered the draperies of my couch about me and cried, ‘Speak!’ I think I said ‘Speak.’ On the other hand, in the confusion of the moment, I may have said, ‘Aroint.’”
“Well, which did it do while you were hiding under the bedclothes? Speak or aroint?”
“I was not hiding under the bedclothes. I was merely straightening my nightgown in order to appear before it in a more seemly guise. In point of fact, by the time I looked up again, it was gone. But ne’er shall I forget the exaltation of that moment. You wouldn’t happen to have the address of the Psychical Research Society handy?”
“Not just at the moment. Arethusa, have you thought of counting the—”
“What Dittany means is, had you ever counted on seeing an apparition?” Osbert interrupted in an unusually loud pitch. “That must have been quite an experience, Aunt Arethusa. Don’t you think so, too, Dittany? Wasn’t it quite an experience for my aunt to have seen an apparition in her own lovely home where she has spent so many happy and productive years and will, God willing, spend so many more?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, it certainly must have been quite an experience,” Dittany babbled, aghast to realize how close she’d come to suggesting Arethusa go back and inventory the teaspoons. “I believe apparitions are experienced mostly by very spiritually inclined people, such as those who spend a lot of time meditating lofty thoughts in their own lovely homes, where there are a lot of Grade A vibrations floating around and bouncing off the woodwork. Look, why don’t I see about those chicken salad sandwiches? Maybe you should lay off the pickles, though, Arethusa. Just in case, you know. Osbert, why don’t you holler up the stairs and ask Hunding if she’d like a drink of plain soda water?”
“Let her alone,” said Arethusa. “You’d only set her off again. I’ll send her mental healing.”
“That’s very nice of you, Aunt Arethusa,” said Osbert. “About this visitation. You didn’t hear it making noises of any kind?”
“Higher beings don’t go around falling over the furniture, you know,” his aunt replied frostily.
“Some of them do, I believe. Poltergeists, for instance. They chuck plates at people.”
“And ring bells and blow trumpets,” Dittany added. “Mama and Bert went to a séance once and they said there were bells jangling and horns tooting all over the place. They said it sounded like New Year’s Eve at the Owls’ Club. Think hard, Arethusa. Can’t you remember even the tiniest little sound?”
Thus prompted, Arethusa said, well, she’d heard that loose board in the upstairs hallway squeak. She’d thought at the time it must have been one of the Fairfields getting up to go to the bathroom, but come to think of it, they’d both been snoring like pigs so perhaps it was the exalted visitor, after all.
“Sending you a message of reassurance and affirmation, I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Dittany.
“Just to let you know it was thinking of you,” Osbert added. “As a friend, of course.”
“How sweet of it.” Arethusa’s vast, unfathomable dark eyes grew moist with unshed tears. “I must go tell Reverend Pennyfeather.”
Her nephew shook his head. “I shouldn’t if I were you, Aunt Arethusa. The clergy tend to be somewhat narrow-minded about this sort of thing, you know. I realize we’ve had our little differences from time to time, but I’d really hate to watch you get burned at the stake as a heretic.”
“Darling, I rather doubt whether Reverend Pennyfeather would go quite that far,” Dittany objected. “I expect he’d settle for denouncing her from the pulpit. Of course I don’t suppose that would be any too pleasant, either, with the whole congregation pointing the finger of scorn and opprobrium at one who has hitherto been admired and respected throughout the length and breadth of Lobelia Falls. Why don’t you eat your lunch and think it over, Arethusa?”
“Oh, all right, if you say so. At least now I know what Joan of Arc went through.”
CHAPTER 20
ARETHUSA WAS HALFWAY THROUGH her second sandwich and casting wistful eyes at the pickle jar when Hunding Paffnagel staggered down to the kitchen, clutching a red nylon jersey bathrobe about her and looking like something left over from a brisk session at the sacrificial altar.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any black coffee, Mrs. Monk?”
“Coming right up. Take a chair.”
“Next to all that food? Ugh!”
Hunding went over to the walnut rocker Gram Henbit had set next to the black iron stove when she’d come to the house as a bride, and plunked herself down like a sack of scratch feed. “God, why did I drink that camomile tea?”
“You’ll know better next time. Here, try this.”
Dittany put a full mug into the palsied hand Miss Paffnagel had stretched out in mute appeal. Arethusa leaned over and whispered to Osbert.
“I don’t think I’d better tell her about my visitation.”
“Perish the thought,” he replied earnestly. “Her vibrations are in no shape to cope with the higher level. Well, I must get back to work. You, too, eh?”
“Not now. I think I’d better go see what’s happening at the museum, if anything. Are you coming, Dittany?”
“Why not? You’ll be all right, won’t you, Miss Paffnagel?”
“Some day, perhaps. Whatever happened to Berthilde and Jehosaphat?”
“They left,” Arethusa told her.
“God, what fortitude. I think perhaps I’ll go back to bed for a while.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” said Dittany. “Osbert will be downstairs if you need anything. I’ll be back in a while.”
She put the last cup in the dishwasher, set the pickles in the refrigerator, and announced she was ready to travel. Arethusa rearranged her silken robes, untangled her strings of beads, and said, “So am I. Wherefore lookst thou so glum, prithee?”
“I’m just wondering if we’re having a visitation over there.”
They were. They’d no sooner set foot in the Architrave’s door than those bright pink gums were flashing at them.
“Ah, there you are. I’d been wondering whether anybody was going to show up today. The plumber hasn’t come.”
Arethusa turned to Dittany. “Henchperson, why hasn’t the plumber come?”
“Because he’s in jail.”
“Ah.”
“Then have you ladies given any further thought as to how I’m going to get my sink fixed?” demanded Mrs. Fairfield.
“Not I,” said Arethusa.
“Miss Monk, I hate to complain, but really, how do you expect me to get anything accomplished around here unless I get a little cooperation from the
trustees?”
“We don’t.”
That stopped her, but only for a moment. The gums flashed again. “I don’t believe I quite understand. What do you mean, you don’t?”
“I mean,” Arethusa replied, speaking slowly and enunciating with all her might and main, “We don’t. Do not. Have not. Shall not. Our expectations with regard to your performance are nil.”
“Oh.”
Mrs. Fairfield stood absolutely still for perhaps half a second, then shook her head and essayed a pathetic attempt at another smile, with hardly a vestige of gum showing. “I see. You think I ought to be in a darkened room with a smelling bottle and a cologne-soaked handkerchief, sobbing my poor, tired eyes out. I know you mean to be kind, Miss Monk, but that’s not what Peregrine would have wanted.”
“No?”
“Not at all. Carry on, Evangeline, that’s what he’d have said to me. I can almost hear him now. We were always such close partners, you know. Side by side through thick and thin, through joy and sorrow, sickness and health, till death—but I mustn’t dwell on my personal tragedy when there’s so much to be done, must I?”
“Why not, in sooth?”
“Miss Monk, I thought I’d just got through explaining.”
“So did I. It appears we have some kind of communication gap here.”
“Then perhaps we ought to change the subject and see if we can do better,” said Mrs. Fairfield with a jarring laugh. “You may be pleased to know I’ve just finished authenticating those seventeenth-century Dutch brass candle sconces Mrs. Burberry’s mother-in-law sent us.”
“How remarkable. What did you authenticate them as?”
“Seventeenth-century Dutch, of course.”
“Vraiment?” And had you some particular reason for doing so?”
“Certainly. Reference books, my personal expertise.”
“Along with the letter from the elder Mrs. Burberry’s cousin Georgina which she’d enclosed with them when she wished them off on Mrs. Burberry, perchance?”
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