by Craig Rice
“Oh. Oh, yes. Dinah, listen.” April moistened her lips. “This afternoon—”
“Well,” Marian Carstairs’ voice said warmly from the doorway. “You’ve got dinner all started! I didn’t know it was so late.”
She still had on her working slacks, her hair was slightly mussed, and there was a smudge on her forehead.
Dinah poked a fork into the potatoes. “Everything’s practically done. How’s the turkey?”
“Turkey?” Marian Carstairs’ face turned white, then red. “I—it’s in the icebox. I meant to start roasting it about two o’clock. Then I was thinking of something else. I guess it’s too late now.”
They all looked at the kitchen clock. Quarter to six.
“That’s all right,” Dinah said cheerfully. “There’s three cans of sardines in the cupboard, and we’re all crazy about sardines.” She began buttering the potatoes.
“Tomorrow,” Marian said. She looked apologetic and miserable. “It’s just that I was busy. I love to cook.”
“You’re the best cook ever,” Archie said.
“Mother,” April said solemnly, “you ought to get married again. Then you could cook all you wanted to.”
“Married!” Marian blushed becomingly. “Who’d ever want to marry me?”
The doorbell rang. Marian Carstairs fled up the stairway. Halfway up she called, “Dinah, you go. I’ll be right down.”
She came down in five minutes. She had on the blue house coat, and a fresh make-up job. Her hair was beautifully arranged, and at the last minute she’d tucked one of the pink roses in it.
April whistled and said, “Neat job!”
“Who?” Marian said, looking toward the living room.
“It was just the newspaper boy,” Dinah said. “I paid him. You owe me twenty-two cents.” She spread the paper out on the table.
“Oh,” Marian Carstairs said. Then, very casually, “Anything new on the Sanford murder?”
“For gosh sakes!” Dinah said. “Hey, April.”
“Let me see,” Archie said, shoving under Dinah’s arm.
The four of them crowded around to look.
The words and phrases of the front-page story swam before April’s startled eyes. Exclusive story. Rupert van Deusen. Reliable witness whose name cannot be revealed. For a minute she wondered if she was going to faint, No, it was probably just a hangover from the malts.
“Mrs. Sanford!” Marian gasped. “I can’t believe it.” Then, “Funny. Rupert van Deusen. That name sounds, awfully familiar to me. Wonder where I could have met him.”
“I betcha the cops will find him easily, with a name like that,” Archie said confidently.
“April,” Dinah said, slowly. “We were right. She was a blackmailer.”
But when April was finally able to speak, all she could say was, “Excuse me. I think the carrots are burning.”
Chapter Seven
“The kids can bring the food,” Dinah said. “We’ll buy the cokes.” She began thumbing through the phone book.
“With what?” April demanded. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve got twenty cents, and I owe Kitty fifteen.”
Dinah scowled. “I’ve already borrowed next week’s allowance from Mother.”
“As a matter of fact,” April said, “Mother ought to buy the cokes. After all, we’re doing all this for her, aren’t we?”
“We’re doing it for us too,” Dinah said. “For the whole family.” She thought for a minute. “Maybe Luke would trust us. How many cokes do we need?”
“I doubt it,” April said. “And we need—well—twelve kids, not including us—say, about thirty cokes. That’s a dollar and a half, not including the bottle deposit. And then, there’s the Mob.”
“Oh, gosh,” Dinah said. “I don’t know what to do. I hate to ask Mother, after she’s been so nice about letting us have the party. A dollar and a half. And then there’s the Mob. There’ll be about ten of them, at least, and they’ll want two cokes a piece. And we’d better have a few spares. Say, twenty-five altogether. That’s another dollar and a quarter. Altogether, it would be two dollars and seventy-five cents. I don’t think Luke would trust us for that. Besides, I owe him a quarter already.”
April sighed, and sat thinking for a minute. “I guess we’ll have to borrow it from Archie. He’s got it. He always has money.” She added, “Archie’s a miser.”
Archie came racing down the hall in pursuit of Jenkins, the cat, who’d run off with a leftover sardine. He pulled up short at the sound of his name and decided to let Jenkins have the sardine. “Hey!” he demanded. “What’sa miser?”
Dinah said, “A miser is a rich man, and don’t bother us.”
April pinched Dinah and said, fast, “A miser is a rich man who is, also, smart and good-looking and fast on his feet and able to lick practically anybody. Like Superman.”
“Gosh!” Archie said. “Am I a miser?”
“Darned right you are,” April said.
Dinah said, “Sit down, Archie. We want to talk to you.”
“I want to talk to you,” April said, pinching Dinah again. “Listen, Archie. We’re not sure you ought to invite the Mob to the party.”
“Aw,” Archie said. “Please.”
“Well,” April said, “you see—it’s this way—”
Five minutes later, after considerable dickering, a settlement had been reached. A short-term loan of two dollars and seventy-five cents. Archie to have sole rights to all bottle-deposit money not only for the party bottles, but also for a period of seven days. Also, permission to bring the Mob.
Dinah counted the money. Five quarters, eleven dimes, six nickels, and ten pennies. She scooped it into her purse and said, “Well, that’s that. Now I’ll call up the kids.”
“I’m going to ask Joe and Wendy and Lew and Jim and Bunny,” April announced.
“Bunny,” Dinah said scornfully. “That sad case!” She frowned again. “I’ll ask Eddie. He can come with Mag. And Willy.”
“Willy’s a wolf,” April said.
“Him?” Dinah said, sniffing. “Are you kidding? He’s just a goon that has to be wised up. Anyway, he and Joella are lovelucent, and we’ve got to have Joella.”
“Why?” April demanded. “She’s such a shot bag.”
“Listen,” Dinah said. “The kids are going to want to dance. And Joella’s the only one we can borrow a lot of phonograph records from.” She began counting on her fingers, two at a time. “Eddie and Mag. Willy and Joella.”
“Don’t forget your O-and-O,” April said.
“Well, naturally,” Dinah said. “Eddie-and-Mag, Willy-and-Joella, and, Pete and Dinah.” She looked critically at her sister. “I notice you always invite all the guys that like you, and some dopey girls that nobody likes.”
“I’m not a dupe,” April said coldly, “and I’m nobody’s little mouse. I don’t ask for competition.”
“Me,” said Dinah, “I believe in free enterprise.” She reached for the phone.
“And don’t call Pete first,” April said. “Or by the time you get around to calling anybody else, they’ll all be asleep.”
It was two hours later when the last call was made. There had, in the meantime, been a lot of phoning back and forth, and weighty discussions between calls. “Well, Mag, you phone Eddie, and then phone me back.” “If Joe’s mother won’t let him go out tomorrow night, how about asking Russell?” “Look. Wendy, it’s a treasure hunt. Wear your old clothes.” Archie tied up the phone for thirty minutes, calling the Mob. By that time Joe had called up to say he could come, but in the meantime, Russell had been invited. That brought up the problem of finding a girl for Russell. Then Lew called to say he couldn’t come, and the problem was solved. “Bunny, most of the kids are bringing hamburgers, why don’t you bring a bag of cookies?” “Joella, could you and Willy carry over some phonograph records?”
Finally it was all arranged. Even the call to Pete had been made, beginning with “Hello Pete, this is Dinah. List
en. You know we are going bowling tomorrow night. Well, look—” April timed the call at exactly twenty-two minutes.
Dinah yawned. “I don’t know about you, but I want a piece of cake.”
“Me too,” April said. “Where’s Archie?”
He was lying in the middle of the living-room floor, flat on his stomach, deep in the latest issue of New Comics. He shook his head and said, “I already hadda piece-a cake.”
The kitchen was warm and pleasantly odorous. Dinah got out the cake Mother had baked the day before, three layers, with double-thick maple-fudge frosting. April inspected Jenkins the cat, and Henderson, the turtle, both full of food and comfortably asleep in their respective quarters. Dinah started to cut a generous hunk of cake and then paused, sniffing. “Something’s cooking.” She looked around. “April, did you leave the oven on?”
“I did not,” April said instantly and defensively.
“Well, somebody did,” Dinah said. “And it wasn’t me.”
Before anything more could be said, Marian came into the kitchen. “Does it need basting?” she asked brightly. She had on her old red corduroy slacks, the ones with the acid stains, dating from an experiment she and Archie had carried on with a toy chemistry set. Her tired face was a trifle dirty and innocent of make-up. Her back hair was coming down. Her fingertips were blue-black from carbon paper. “Always hungry,” she commented, looking at the hunk of cake. “You’re going to end up a big fat slob. I don’t suppose it occurred to either of you lazy bums to look at the turkey.”
“What turkey?” April demanded.
Marian Carstairs opened the oven door and pulled out the roaster. “I meant to tell you,” she said. “I guess I forgot.” She took off the lid. The turkey was brown and crisp. It smelled wonderful. “I thought I’d better cook it tonight,” she said, “in case I was busy tomorrow.”
April and Dinah glanced at each other. Mother happened to catch the glance. “And,” she added acidly, “I’ll moider the first one of you who says I’d probably forget it tomorrow.” She shook the cooking fork at them threateningly. “I am not absent-minded,” she informed them. “It’s simply that I have a lot of assorted things on my mind. Including you.” She put down the cooking fork. “And that reminds me. About this party tomorrow night—”
April and Dinah felt a momentary chill. Could Mother have changed her mind? And, after all that telephoning?
“You said the kids would bring the food,” Mother said. “But you’d better get in some cokes. And candy and peanuts and stuff” She fumbled through the pockets of her working slacks, fished out a batch of notes, four safety pins, a crumpled and empty cigarette package, six match folders, a grocer’s bill, a handful of buttons, a letter from April’s math teacher, a box of paper clips, and, finally, three wrinkled one-dollar bills. “There. Will that be enough?”
Dinah gulped. She said, “But, gosh, Mother.” April gulped and said, “Honest, we can manage without it.”
“G’wan,” Mother said. She stuffed the bills into the pocket of Dinah’s sweater. “It’s my treat.” She poked the fork experimentally in the turkey. “It’s done,” she announced, turning off the oven.
It was done, and a masterpiece. Mother gazed at it proudly, April wistfully. Dinah put the hunk of cake back on the plate. “I don’t really want it, after all,” she murmured.
Mother sighed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have roasted it tonight. It won’t be half as good when it’s cold.”
Archie came tearing in from the living room. “Hey! Whadda I smell?”
Jenkins, the cat, looked up from his sleeping place and said, faintly and sadly, “Mew?”
“Shut up, you liar,” Mother said to Jenkins. “You’re not hungry.”
“But we are,” Dinah said.
“Well,” Mother said, slowly and thoughtfully, “one sandwich—”
There was instantaneous activity in the kitchen. Dinah got the bread, April got the butter, and Mother got the carving knife. Archie brought in milk from the icebox. Jenkins asked for (and got) a piece of crisp turkey skin. “Buttermilk for me,” Mother said. “One buttermilk,” Dinah called. “One buttermilk,” April echoed. “One buttermilk coming up,” Archie caroled, heading for the icebox. Mother, cutting thick slices of turkey meat, began to sing, happily, and badly offkey.
O they gave him his orders, at Monroe Virginia, Saying, Pete, you’re way behind time,
The three young Carstairs chimed in, even more offkey.
This is not eighty-four, this is old ninety-seven—
Jenkins howled in protest. Henderson crawled as far into his shell as he could get.
“Oh, Mother,” Dinah said, “remember how you used to sing Archie to sleep with that?”
“I used to sing you to sleep with it, too,” Mother said. “And April. After all, darn it, it’s the only song I know.” She began stuffing the fat slices of turkey between slices of bread, and went on singing.
So he turned around to his fat and greasy fireman, Said, shovel in a little more coal,
She paused and pointed the butter knife at Archie. “Bet you ten cents you don’t know the next two lines.”
“Betcha I do,” Archie said, “but show me the ten cents first.”
Mother put down the butter knife and began fumbling through her pockets.
“That’s all right, Mother,” Dinah said. “We understand.” She fished a dime out of her pocket and handed it to Mother.
Archie drew a long breath, put down the buttermilk bottle, and warbled:
And when we hit that big black mount’in You jus’ watch ole ninety-seven roll.
“There, I did it. Gimme the dime.”
“Catch,” Mother said. She smeared the dime with kitchen soap and tossed it into the air. It stuck to the ceiling. Archie said, “Oh, foo!”
“Just wait,” Dinah said. “It’ll come down.”
April said, “Does anybody know the verse that has the line:
And they found him in the wreck, with his hand upon the throttle”
“Oh, sure,” Archie said scornfully. “It begins:
O they came downhill making ninety miles an hour.”
“Sixty miles an hour,” Dinah said.
“Ninety.”
“Sixty.”
“Aw, listen—”
“Shut up,” Marian Carstairs said amiably, putting the plate of sandwiches on the table. “And it isn’t came downhill; it’s came downgrade.” She turned to put on the coffee, singing loud:
O they came downgrade making ninety miles a minute, The whistle blew with a scream,
And they found him in the wreck with his hand upon the throttle.
“Not ninety miles a minute,” Archie protested. “Ninety miles an hour.”
“Sixty,” Dinah said.
Two sandwiches apiece, a quart of milk, and four verses later they’d agreed on the words, and Dinah had brought the maple cake out again. Archie took one huge bite, said, “Yipes!” and kissed Mother on the nose, leaving a slight smudge of maple frosting. Then he said, “Well, anyway, I betcha I know the whole last verse, all the way through.” He sang through a mouthful of cake.
So, ladies, you must take warning—
April and Dinah chimed in, after the first two notes, so did Mother.
From this time on and learn, Never speak harsh words—
There was a sharp official-sounding knock at the back door.
To your true lovin’ husband—
The knock came again, louder.
“Never mind,” Marian said. “I’ll go.” She rose and went to the door, while the young Carstairs finished the last line.
He may leave you and never return.
“Quiet,” Dinah whispered. The kitchen became instantly silent, and the three young Carstairs turned to stare at the door.
It was Police Lieutenant Bill Smith, accompanied by a uniformed cop.
The three young Carstairs were speechless, first with stunned surprise, then with despair. They looked at Bill Smith, han
dsome, immaculate, almost dapper. They looked at Mother, at the acid-stained, old red corduroy slacks, the carbon-paper stains on her fingers, the unwashed and unmade-up face. All her back hair had come loose by this time and was collapsing on her neck. The smudge of maple frosting was still on her nose.
“Pardon my coming to the back door,” Bill Smith said. “But I saw a light here. Have you been troubled by prowlers?”
“Prowlers?” Mother said coldly. “Not until just now.”
April caught the look on Dinah’s face and whispered, “Never mind. We didn’t really want Mother to marry a policeman, anyway.”
Bill Smith stiffened. “I’m sorry to be bothering you,” he said. “A Mrs. Harris down the street reports that someone has been stealing food from her back porch. And a Mrs.—” He paused and looked at the uniformed cop.
“Cherington,” the cop supplied.
“A Mrs. Cherington reports that someone slept last night in her chickenhouse. Evidently there is a prowler in the neighborhood.”
Marian Carstairs felt a sudden panic. “I thought you were in the Homicide division,” she said.
“I am,” Bill Smith said. “That’s why I’m interested in these reports.”
“Well, I—” Marian paused. She ought to give what information she could. The haggard, unshaven, terror-stricken face she’d seen only that morning. The hoarse whisper, For the love of heaven, don’t call the police. She couldn’t do it, because, honestly, she didn’t believe Wallie Sanford had murdered his wife.
“Yes?” Bill Smith said.
“I—” she smiled wanly and tried ineffectually to pin up the back hair. “I’m so sorry. But I can’t help you. We haven’t had any prowlers. And I’m sure anyone hiding in the neighborhood would have come here first, because our icebox is on the back porch, and there isn’t any lock.” She gave up fiddling with the back hair, but the smile grew more cordial. “Don’t you think, Lieutenant, that women like Mrs. Harris and Mrs. Cherington are inclined to be a trifle hysterical, when there’s been a crime committed in the neighborhood?”