"Not dead," said Andrew in relief.
Manuel stared down at the man in astonishment. Pointing a grease-stained finger at him he said, "Damned if he's not the man who was always hanging around my garage looking for you, Andrew."
Andrew said in protest, "He can't be."
"He certainly is."
Tarragon gasped, "Then he's the man who broke into—" At a warning glance from Manuel she said weakly, "—who wanted his raincoat."
A shaken Mr. Crumbull said accusingly, "He reeks of liquor, smell him. Although I'm relieved he's not dead," he added piously. "But if you'd seen him thrown out of the car—!"
Manuel, kneeling beside the man, was running his hands over his body, searching for broken bones. They watched as he cautiously lifted one arm and then the other, examined his wrists, legs, and ankles, and gently lifted his head slightly from the ground. Sitting back on his heels he said, "Beats all he's alive. You say he was thrown out of a car?"
"Black Chevrolet," said Mr. Crumbull.
Andrew said, "It's a miracle he's alive."
"The liquor's the miracle," said Manuel. "He's so full of it he just rolled with the punches, probably didn't feel a thing, relaxed as a baby." He addressed the man sternly. "Can you sit up?"
The man's eyes opened again and fastened on Manuel without expression; he frowned, considering the suggestion, struggled to raise himself, immediately clutched his head, groaned, and fell back in a faint.
Manuel nodded. "Hangover or concussion, he's gone unconscious on us. Let's see if we can find out who he is." Manuel's hands slid into the man's pockets and out again, and he shook his head. "They stripped the guy clean." His eyes narrowing with thought he stood up and regarded the man with a frown. "The way I see it—if he was thrown out of a car with murderous intent, then he's supposed to be dead."
"He certainly should be," said Mr. Crumbull testily. "They kicked him out, I saw it. And the car must have been going fifty miles an hour."
Manuel looked at Mr. Crumbull measuringly. "You sure they didn't see you? I'd appreciate knowing just where you were when that car passed."
Mr. Crumbull obliged. "Sitting on the ground back there, my back against a tree while I jotted down notes." He pointed. "I was figuring out how many Swiss chalets would fit into what I'd seen so far."
"Swiss chalets, eh?" said Manuel, and gave Tarragon an interested glance. "Well, I think if you know what's good for you, then you'll not mention what you've seen here while you were planning all those Swiss chalets. A lot healthier for you."
"Oh my God," said Mr. Crumbull, "am I going to have to go to court to be a witness to this?"
"For the moment, no," said Manuel. "This man is dead. Somebody wanted him dead, they tossed him out of a car and he's dead. You get my point?"
"Not—not quite," stammered Mr. Crumbull. "That is, you don't mean—?"
"I mean," said Manuel patiently, "if you talk about this to anybody—and I mean anybody—the news could get back to the guys who threw this man out of the car, and they'd learn our friend is not dead. And you could be next."
"Oh my God."
"But if you can keep your mouth shut—"
"Oh I can, I will."
Manuel nodded. "If you can do that then you can go, but first give me your name, address, and phone number so I can find you again if needed."
With a trembling hand Mr. Crumbull presented his business card to Manuel, turned and stumbled away through the underbrush; they were silent until the last of his footsteps died away.
Andrew said, "What are you thinking?"
"Yes," said Tarragon, "and did you have to scare the poor man like that?"
"Yes, if this is as important as I think. Anyway, no need for Mr. Crumbull to be a witness," Manuel said. "We got one right here, and since I can't find any bones broken I say hide him."
"Hide him!" gasped Tarragon.
Manuel nodded. "For a day at least. I got a plan—one I think Artemus would agree to. This man stays dead until he can explain those keys to Artemus that you found in his coat, and tell us, and the state police, who threw him out of the car. In a word, testify to certain matters Artemus suspects. '
"Like what?"asked Tarragon.
"Like maybe that million-dollar robbery three weeks ago at the Pittsville Bank and Trust. . . Artemus and the state police are sure those keys must belong to a safe deposit box."
Andrew said eagerly, "He was in Connecticut, just over the border, when I took his raincoat by mistake."
"There you are . ., out of state. Figures. Smart, too. Stash the million in a legal safe deposit box until the hunt cools down." Turning to Tarragon he said, "I say we hide him for tonight until he can talk. Really hide him, he's got value. You ever met Bill Watson?"
Tarragon frowned. "He's one of the summer people, isn't he?"
Manuel nodded. "Also a doctor. He just might come and look over this chap if we keep him close by. Bill owes me a favor."
"Close by?" said Tarragon.
Manuel grinned. "You got a parlor free, I seem to remember. Or the cellar? Maybe even the attic?"
Tarragon looked doubtful.
"Look," Manuel said, "no sense driving him over the bumps on Thale Road, just in case there's a concussion, and if we go up the highway somebody might see him. We can carry him to Thale's Folly through the woods, me and Andrew here. Keep him safe. We don't want him killed again, you know."
"True," said Tarragon. "Okay, let's go."
Manuel brought from his overalls pocket a wrinkled garage receipt, scribbled a few words on it, and handed it to Andrew with his car keys. "Stick this on my windshield, will you? It tells Artemus where to find me, then move my truck down the road apiece, just in case."
"In case what?"
"In case his friends drive back to make sure he's really dead. No point in leaving X marks the spot."
When this had been done, Manuel slung the victim over his broad shoulders and they made their way slowly back through the woods to the house, Andrew clearing the lower branches of sumac to make way for him.
Miss L'Hommedieu, still seated on the side porch, watched their approach with interest, mildly startled to see Manuel and even more startled when she noted the burden he carried. Graciously she rose to open the screen door for them.
"Drinking again, is he?" she said, and Andrew remembered they'd left her to look for Mr. Branowski.
Manuel headed for the kitchen table and deposited their mystery man among the remains of their breakfast.
Miss L'Hommedieu, following them, said indignantly, "That's not Mr. Branowski, you've got the wrong man!"
"This one's your burglar," Manuel said, and sat down to catch his breath.
"He was thrown out of a car," Tarragon told her eagerly. "The real estate man, Mr. Crumbull, actually saw it happen."
Andrew, vigorously nodding his head, added, "And Manuel wants him hidden so they won't know he's still alive."
"Doesn't look alive," said Miss L’Hommedieu, and with a sharp glance at Manuel, "Will someone get Manuel a drink of water before the poor man expires?" While this was being accomplished she continued her inspection of the man. "Has a weak chin," she announced, "and a broken nose, too. Just the sort of man they'd throw out of a car. Bungled the job, didn't he? Where do you plan to put him?"
"Cellar?" suggested Manuel.
"Nothing in the cellar to lay him on," said Miss L’Hommedieu. "Try the sofa in the parlor, nobody goes there, but open the windows, he smells to high heaven of whiskey."
The sliding doors to the parlor were opened. The room was stifling, and smelled of moth balls; there was a Persian rug on the floor and a mantel displaying a collection of china angels, but no chair looked comfortable, and after one glance at the sofa, with its ornately carved arms and brocade, they placed the man on the floor. Andrew found a cushion to put under his head, and struggled to open two stubborn windows.
They left him, closing the parlor doors carefully behind them until Artemus could join them.
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He arrived ten minutes later. "Same man is he?" was his first question.
"Same man."
Artemus nodded. "That does it—has to be a local job or they'd have been a hell of a lot more imaginative about where to dump him. They needed woods? No woods in Pittsville . . . Tottsville has woods? They brought him to Tottsville."
"Who did?"
"He'll tell us," Artemus said, nodding at the man on the floor. "I've got my own suspicions, but suspicions don't count in a courtroom. Dear God but he reeks."
"It's my opinion," said Manuel, "they not only filled his in-sides with whiskey but poured it over him. It's thanks to what was inside him he landed like a cat."
"Which may occur to them, too," mused Artemus, frowning. "I've got a friend on the Pittsville Gazette, Tom Bower. I might just ask him to put a line or two in the newspaper tomorrow reporting an unidentified dead man found in these woods. That should reassure his killers."
This was agreed upon. "But don't leave those windows open," Artemus counseled. "If your unexpected guest sobers up during the night he's likely to climb right through them and get away. I'll be back first thing in the morning to take a statement from him; he should be alert by then."
The windows were closed and locked, and their mystery man was left to regain his sobriety among the china angels. Artemus and Manuel drove away, and Miss L’Hommedieu, Tarragon, and Andrew were left to await the return of Gussie and Leo from Pittsville.
9
Sage is singularly good for the head and brain, it quickeneth the senses and memory, strengtheneth the sinews, restoreth health to those that have the palsy and taketh away shakey trembling of the members.
—John Gerard, The Herball, 1597
"It's no use," said Gussie, sinking into a chair on their return at half-past eleven. She looked alarmingly hot, discouraged, and very tired.
Leo patted her on the shoulder and said, "Now, now, Gussie," and sat down, too.
Tarragon, her eyes wide with concern, said, "What's wrong? What happened, Gussie? Did you like Mr. Margus? Is the will legal?"
Andrew was so shocked by Gussie's appearance that without thinking about it he lit the kerosene stove, put water on to boil, and measured spoonfuls of rosemary into the teapot, completely unaware that he'd never even approached the stove before. "What is it?" he asked.
"Money," growled Leo.
"Money?" echoed Tarragon.
"You'll need cups, " Miss L'Hommedieu reminded Andrew sternly.
Gussie nodded. "Money. Mr. Margus made calls about the taxes—eight hundred dollars a year Andrew's father paid— which comes to four thousand dollars for five years and will have to be repaid him, and it's going to take weeks for probate—whatever that is—and although Mr. Margus said he'd charge very little for his services—he was very kind—he charges by the hour, and it's obvious he'll have quite a lot of legal work, what with untangling things and filing the will, and—"
"—and we don't have the money," Leo finished for her.
"He said," continued Gussie, looking dispirited, "that we could sell most of the land and keep the house. The house and maybe an acre or two, meaning we'd not have to move, but. . ." Her voice trailed away forlornly.
Swiss chalets, thought Andrew. No pond, no Magic Vale, no pentacles on a stone bench in the woods, the trees cut down, the road paved. Noise. People. Cars. No meadow of blueberries—and the birds? He felt sickened by the thought.
The water was boiling, and Tarragon rose to finish what he'd begun, her face clouded. Andrew said fiercely, "We've got to start digging, that's all. Her will insists there's money somewhere, we've got to start digging."
No one appeared to hear him. "How about a metal detector?" he said, struck by the thought. "We could surely find one somewhere. They detect metal, and gold is metal."
Miss L’Hommedieu was wiser than he: she simply changed the subject. "I think you should know," she announced, "that we harbor a fugitive in the parlor. One might say that astonishing events have occurred while you were gone."
"Events?" said Gussie blankly.
"Fugitive!" exclaimed Leo, eyes brightening.
Miss L’Hommedieu nodded. "A fugitive from the law, as well as from a vicious gang who wanted him dead. It seems he was thrown out of a car bathed in whiskey—"
"Wow," murmured Leo happily.
"—and until he becomes conscious and talks, and until Artemus decides what to do with him, we are hiding him."
"But—who is he?" faltered Gussie.
"He's our burglar," explained Tarragon. "You can open the parlor door and look at him but he's still unconscious."
"Well, that gives us something else to think about," Leo pointed out in relief. "Eh, Gussie?" with a worried glance at her.
Tarragon rose from her chair to say, "I'm going to go out and look for Mr. Branowski again."
"And I," said Andrew thoughtfully, "am going to go and see my mother."
"Sweet," said Miss L’Hommedieu approvingly, and turned her attention to comforting Gussie.
He and Tarragon parted at Manuel's garage, where she planned to interrogate him as to where Mr. Branowski might be found. Andrew, however, turned to the right and strolled down the road past Rest-A-Wile and Sunset Roost until he reached the track that led up a graveled path to Bide-A-Wee.
A far cry from Manhattan, he thought, viewing the small cottage with interest: weathered gray shingles, shutters painted white, but—and he smiled—a flaming-red door. He knocked vigorously, hoped that she was at home, and was surprised by his delight when the door opened.
'Andrew," she murmured, "come in. Just back from a painting job. Give me a minute with turpentine and a rag and I'll be with you."
"I want to talk to you," he said. "Need to." "Good. " She pointed to a tiny kitchen. "There's iced tea in the refrigerator, you can pour us two glasses."
But Andrew was staring at the living room, which was outrageously colorful: a purple ceiling with three fake white beams; a peacock chair painted orange, a barrel chair painted yellow, a fireplace with a woodstove in front of it whose pipe went up the chimney; a tubular metal structure in one corner, filled with skeins of bright wool; a sagging couch and a table, next to the window overlooking the lake, on which she apparently drew her sweater designs.
"Awesome," he said, looking around him. "Really wild." She emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a rag, and seeing that he'd not approached the refrigerator she went back and returned with two glasses of iced tea. "No more Bloomingdale's," she said with a smile. "Garage sales, flea markets, and thrift shops. Have a seat, Andrew."
He said, "Gussie and Leo saw the lawyer this morning—" She nodded. "I saw them waiting for the bus." "—and came home terribly discouraged. There are lawyer fees, probate fees, inheritance taxes, my father to repay, and little hope of finding Miss Thale's money. The lawyer's suggested a solution. He pointed out they could sell twenty-two or twenty-three acres and still keep the house."
"Yes," said his mother, watching him with interest.
"What I want to know," he said, "is do you think they'd accept that and stay? I mean, it will probably break their hearts to lose so much, but would they stay? Without the woods and the pond and Gussie's altar, and hedged in by Swiss chalets? If, of course, they can sell most of the land. I have to know what you think."
"Yes, I see that," she said, amused. "Won't you sit down?"
He sat down. "I'm sitting. What's your opinion?"
"My opinion," she said, "is that Gussie, Leo and Miss L'Hommedieu know a great deal about compromise, Andrew, far more than you or I have known. Where would they go? Of course they'd stay. Is that all you came to ask?"
He suddenly relaxed and grinned. "Of course not. Among other things, would you happen to know where a metal detector could be found?"
"Hmmm," she murmured. "Brown's Rent-A-Tool would probably have one. But there's more on your mind than that, isn't there?" When he nodded sheepishly she smiled. "I thought so."
"You
've become psychic," he told her, and proceeded to explain exactly what was on his mind. In detail.
When he had finished, she glanced at her watch and said, "It's twelve-thirty, and there's a bus into Pittsville in fifteen minutes, we can just make it if we hurry. I'll go with you, you'd never find the place. Have you money with you?"
"I didn't expect—" He took out his wallet and examined its contents. "Only seven dollars and my credit card, but I can hurry back to the house and get my checkbook and—"
"And miss the bus?" his mother said, smiling. "Credit cards are beloved by all these days, and I can—what is the word— give you countenance?"
Having promised secrecy about their mysterious man in the parlor he said, "They might wonder why I've disappeared."
"With all they have to worry about? Nonsense," she told him. "Let's go. We'll have to run, too, it grows late."
When Andrew returned to Thale's Folly he found they had delayed dinner for him, and he was touched by their waiting. Gussie, looking less tired now, gave him an appreciative glance. "I see you had a really good visit with your mother."
"Oh a very good one," he said, which was certainly true. "Actually we took the bus into town. I've rented a metal detector, it's outside on the porch." It had been the least of his errands, but he did not feel it time to mention the more important one.
"Metal detector!" gasped Leo. 'Andrew, you really think—?"
"Why not? They use it on beaches to find coins that were lost and buried in the sand. We can try it out tonight before it gets dark."
Gussie, suddenly radiant, said, "We might begin on the big field by the side porch, don't you think?"
"We can put stakes in the ground at each end," Tarragon said eagerly. "Six or seven inches apart so we can move in straight lines and not repeat ourselves. Andrew, how clever of you!"
He tried to look appropriately modest, but considering the crises of varying degrees they'd been plunged into over the past twenty-four hours, he changed the subject by asking what had happened while he was away.
"You missed the doctor," Gussie said dryly. "Manuel smuggled him in with the greatest secrecy. You'd have thought hundreds of people were watching."
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