Wrack and Rune

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Of course,” Helen concluded with some embarrassment, “their sentimental value to you and your family—”

  “Hell,” Henny interrupted, “you can’t eat sentiment.”

  Shandy nodded. “Damn right, Horsefall. I knew you’d say that. Find somebody with more money than brains and unload a bunch of the stuff. Use the cash to build on a wing. Let Eddie and Ralph draw straws to see who gets which rooms, and Bob’s your uncle. Sell a few more things and get yourselves a pair of good workhorses and some decent livestock, with no offense to Bessie. Clear the squirrel briers out of that lower field and put it to corn for the stock. Plant a big truck garden. By the time your antiques give out, this place will be entirely self-sufficient and the hell with everybody.”

  “Time the antiques give out I’ll o’ guv out myself, most likely.” Henny didn’t sound as if he meant it. All of a sudden he was twenty years younger and ready to outlive Aunt Hilda’s mark. “Would you two ladies happen to know how a person might go about peddlin’ antiques without gettin’ skint?”

  “Mrs. Shandy and I will be glad to take upon ourselves the task,” Sieglinde promised, her fjord-blue eyes gleaming at the prospect as what right-thinking college president’s wife’s eyes wouldn’t, and Helen agreeing for all she was worth as any right-thinking assistant for the Buggins Collection naturally would.

  “I don’t want to put you to a lot o’ bother,” the old man demurred. “It’s just that I got a hunch Nutie the Cutie ain’t—Christ on a crutch, Professor, you don’t s’pose he is?”

  “Out to get his pudgy mitts on your ancestral pie cupboard? Horsefall, I’ve already supposed so many things about that louse I’m quite prepared to suppose a few more. Do you think you could pry your aunt away from Dr. Svenson long enough for me to have a little talk with her?”

  “Please do,” said Sieglinde, “and while you talk with her, I shall have a few words with Uncle Sven. In the meantime, Mr. Horsefall, perhaps you would take Mrs. Shandy upstairs and let her get some idea of what is in the bedrooms?”

  “What’s in |the bedrooms is prob’ly Aunt Hilda an’ Uncle Sven,” Henny snickered. “They seem to be takin’ to each other real good.”

  He caught a frosty dart from Sieglinde’s eye and muttered, “Maybe ‘good’ ain’t the word you had in mind. I’ll go find ’er. Aunt Hilda! Aunt Hilda, Professor Shandy wants to talk to you.”

  Sieglinde and Helen followed him down the hall. Shandy waited in the kitchen until Miss Horsefall came rattling her starched apron at him, every hair in place and every button done up. She was too old a bird to be caught twice.

  “You lookin’ for me, Professor?”

  “Yes. I was wondering if you knew anything about Belial Buggins?”

  She snorted. “I dern well ought to. He was my own gran’father, or so I always suspected. Anyways, I can remember settin’ on ’is lap an’ playin’ with ’is gold watch an’ chain when I was ’bout knee-high to a grasshopper. He’d be recitin’ po’try an’ tellin’ stories an’ laughin’ fit to bust a gut when my mother fussed at ’im about me bein’ too young to hear them kind o’ things.”

  “What things were these, Miss Horsefall?”

  “Hell, how’m I s’posed to remember? That was a hundred years ago. I just remember him settin’ me up on ’is knee an’ givin’ me that watch to play with ’cause he said pretty girls was always partial to gold, which is true enough though dern little of it ever come my way, I can tell you.”

  “Er—perhaps your luck’s due for a change.”

  “Then it better change damn soon.”

  There was no way to answer that. Shandy only said, “What happened to Belial’s gold watch when he died?”

  “I s’pose some o’ the Bugginses got it. Not that there was many Bugginses left by then, leastways not around Balaclava County. Ol’ Balaclava Buggins, he’d spent all ’is money startin’ that college you work at, an’ most of ’is kinfolks had took off one place or another ’cause they was so provoked with ’im for layin’ it out on foolishness like education when he might o’ left it to them instead. Belial was a son o’ Balaclava’s brother Bartleby, him an’ his brother Bedivere. That branch o’ the Bugginses always did have a queer streak in ’em about books and po’try an’ suchlike. As I recall, Bedivere even married a schoolteacher. They never had no kids that I know of, leastways none that lived to grow up. S’pose she’d had enough o’ brats by the time she managed to get ’erself hitched. An’ the ones Belial fathered, their mothers wasn’t admittin’ to.”

  “Belial never married?”

  “Never had to. Oh, he was a fine-lookin’ man! Whiskers down to ’is middle an’ a black broadcloth frock coat. Got killed in a train wreck the year I started grade school. Only time I ever seen my mother cry. I cried, too, ’cause I knew I’d never get to play with that gold watch again.”

  “M’well, these things are sent to test us, Miss Horsefall. Then you have no idea what became of Belial’s—er-—effects?”

  “Cripes, we back to effects again? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  Miss Hilda smoothed her apron and searched her memory. “I s’pose Bedivere would o’ got ’is books an’ stuff, an’ the rest would o’ went to that Mrs. Lomax who kept house for ’im. Did a few other things for ’im, too, from what I heard, but that’s neither here nor there. She was some kind o’ connection o’ Jolene’s father by marriage. Don’t ask me what. I never could keep track o’ them Lomaxes. Widow woman. Seems to me ’er first name was Effie.”

  “Thank you, Miss Horsefall. I can easily find out all I need to know about the Lomaxes. May I use your telephone? I—er—believe Mrs. Svenson was wishing to have a word with you when it’s—er—convenient.”

  “Now’s as convenient a time as any, I s’pose. Phone’s right at your elbow there on that little shelf.”

  She rattled her apron again and left him to it. As Shandy was dialing a well-known number he heard a joyous cry of “Tootsie!” With Sieglinde around to chaperone, Uncle Sven would have to curb his ardors. It was unlikely, however, that she’d insist on a long engagement.

  His authority on the Lomax history was at home and in good voice. She answered promptly.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Lomax. I hope I haven’t—oh, you weren’t. He isn’t? Perhaps he’s just not hungry. This warm weather, you know. Puts them off their feed. Are his pads damp? Ah, then he’s sweating. No, perfectly normal. Cats sweat through the soles of their feet. You didn’t? Yes, that’s the advantage of higher education. Fan him a bit and let him sleep. He’ll be peckish enough by morning, I shouldn’t wonder. Actually what I called about is to ask whether you happen to know what became of certain properties that were left by Belial Buggins to his housekeeper, a Mrs. Effie Lomax, sometime before the turn of the century.”

  Shandy waited patiently, knowing it was useless to do anything else, while Mrs. Lomax raced up and down the many branches of the family tree. At last she located the late Mrs. Effie.

  “Born Effie Fescue, was she? You surprise me. I hadn’t realized the Fescues were such an old family in these parts. Oh, they’re not? Only since the Civil War? No, the exact date isn’t important. Don’t bother looking it up. It was really the Buggins property I—did she? That was—oh, I see. Yes, bad practice not making a—I should imagine there—yes, of course an auction. Only thing to do under the—you were? What an interesting coincidence. And what did you—really? Yes, one can always use another umbrella stand. And would you happen to remember who—”

  Ridiculous question. Certainly Mrs. Lomax remembered who’d bought what at the auction held after the niece to whom the late Effie Fescue Lomax had willed her own Buggins Collection died intestate and unwed. Shandy nodded from time to time as she went down the list. All at once he stopped her.

  “What? You’re quite sure? Yes, of course you are. I—er—hadn’t realized he was—er—among us at that time. Tell me, Mrs. Lomax, did the late Jim Fescue know the late Mrs. Effie Lomax at all? She’d have b
een an elderly lady when he was a kid, I suppose. Oh, did they? And she’d have told him stories about her life with Belial Buggins? No, I don’t expect she would, but there must have been other—so I understand. Yes, quite a card. Chatty old lady, was she? No, you wouldn’t, but no doubt your Aunt Aggie—ah, yes. Thank you, Mrs. Lomax, you’re a veritable compendium of useful information. No, I shouldn’t worry. I’m sure he’ll be—yes, I’ll give Jane his regards and I’m sure she—er—reciprocates. Good night.”

  It had been a long call, but well worth the time. Now he knew. His only problem was to prove it. He stuck his head in the parlor where the rest were now all gathered, and spoke to his wife.

  “Helen, I’m going out for a while. Can you get home if I—”

  “Of course, Peter. Shh!”

  Sieglinde was talking of smorgasbord. Shandy tiptoed away. Who could compete with a herring?

  The night was black and sticky as the inside of a tar pot now. No wonder Mrs. Lomax’s overstuffed feline was sweating through the soles of his feet. Maybe Jane’s tiny pink pads were moist, too. He wished passionately that he were back in the small brick house on the Crescent with Helen in his arms and Jane prowling across their backs wondering why kittens didn’t get invited to join this interesting game. He wished to God he’d done what he should have done earlier, asked what he ought to have asked, seen what was under his nose, instead of risking lives to oblige a murdering devil who didn’t mind maiming or slaughtering whoever came handiest.

  He shouldn’t be risking his own life, if it came to that, now that he had a wife and a cat to care for. But how was a person supposed to protect himself against someone who attacked with such crazy weapons in such unpredictable ways? Was it any more risky to be inside the lion’s cage than out of it, once the bars were down?

  He was dealing with a totally ruthless person here, somebody who evidently went beyond a lack of regard for human life, somebody who didn’t even seem to know what humanity was. Somebody who could set the stage for a quick, expert murder by means of a stolen helmet, a damaged headlight, and a puddle of oil on a dark road, and never stop to realize that a sensible, quick-eyed young woman might lend the intended victim her hard hat. Somebody who knew how to rig an explosion in a manure pile that an old man might be working near but couldn’t visualize a young boy using his own body as a protective shield.

  Shandy thought of Spurge Lumpkin with his face burned off by the seething quicklime he hadn’t had sense enough to stay away from, of old Henny Horsefall mourning his hired hand, of Miss Hilda’s face as she’d watched Nute Lumpkin carry away Spurge’s collection of old tobacco boxes. He thought of Fergy in his circus clown’s getup of bushy orange hair and yellow-checked suit, taking the morning off from his work and his nice little lady from Florida to attend the funeral of the mentally retarded man who’d helped him unload his truck and drunk his beer and talked his ear off because what the hell, Spurge was human, too.

  Fergy’s was the place to start. Shandy just hoped to God he hadn’t left it too late.

  Chapter 22

  SHANDY WAS ALMOST DOWN to the end of Henny Horsefall’s driveway when he met a stray menhir. At second glance, the huge, craggy object proved to be Thorkjeld Svenson, standing alone in the dark.

  “The heart bowed down by weight of woe,” Shandy remarked, not that he was feeling all that flippant. “What’s the matter, President? You look like a leftover from Mount Rushmore.”

  “Shut up,” said the great man. “I am suffering, damn it. Where are you off to now?”

  “To get killed, I think.”

  Shandy explained why. Svenson brightened up as much as one who had just lost an Orm might reasonably be expected to, said, “Arrgh,” and fell into step with him. They hadn’t gone much farther before they encountered eight large dogs with their tongues hanging out.

  “Are they rabid?” the president inquired politely of the young chap who had them in tow.

  “No, just sweating.” Shandy recognized the voice as that of Lewis’s buddy Swope. These must be his sled dogs.

  “I thought dogs sweated through the soles of their feet,” Svenson replied, patting all eight at once.

  “That’s cats,” said Shandy. “You brought your team, I see, Swope.”

  “Yeah, and now the police say they don’t need ’em.”

  “Good, because we do. Can you get them turned around and headed the other way?”

  “Sure. Come on, guys.”

  Young Swope made a few noises and the eight malemutes wheeled as one.

  “I sort of like the tongues,” said young Lewis, who proved to be among those present, also. “Makes ’em look ferocious.”

  “So it does.” Shandy was feeling considerably less queasy about this expedition than he had a few minutes ago. “I feel like Peter and the Wolves. This way, gentlemen. And ladies, should there happen to be any on the team.”

  “Where are we going?” Lewis asked.

  “We’re going hunting for the person who blew up your geese and tried to kill your friend’s cousin.”

  “Hey, right on!”

  “You’d better understand, Lewis, that this is serious, dangerous business. Spurge Lumpkin was deliberately and cleverly murdered. Cronkite Swope would be dead now if it weren’t for that young woman’s lending him her hard hat after his helmet was stolen and his headlight tampered with.”

  “I didn’t know that!” cried the cousin.

  “You know it now, so keep your heads, both of you, and don’t do anything stupid. Essentially what we’re trying to do is stir up enough evidence to make a case with. What you may possibly see or overhear is more important than what you do. Swope, take four of your dogs and move around to the far side of the Bargain Barn as quietly as you can. Go in from the rear so you won’t be spotted, and keep the dogs quiet if you can. Lewis, take the other four if you’re sure you can handle them, and stay on this side. The dogs are to protect us all as much as anything else. If you see someone trying to escape and you can interfere successfully without getting hurt, do so. If I call for help, bring the dogs and come around to the front. If you’re threatened with a weapon of any sort, get out of the way. We’ll let the police handle any rough stuff.”

  Thorkjeld Svenson’s only reply was an amused snort.

  “Don’t get your hopes up, President,” Shandy told him. “Our bird may not be anywhere near here.”

  “What happens if we draw a blank?” Lewis wanted to know.

  “We hunt some more. Got the dogs sorted out? Then start moving, you two. Come on, President, we go in from the front. Quit gritting your teeth and try to look amiable and nonchalant.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Because I say so, dammit.”

  Surprisingly, Svenson accepted Shandy’s edict, though his version of amiable nonchalance would have been pretty ferocious by any standard but his own. The pair of them sauntered up to the open barn, passing a battered sedan that was parked out front. Its inside was crammed with paintpots, pieces of lumber, and tools of various descriptions. Its outside appeared to be an old shade of brown. Or was it something else? Shandy turned his flashlight on the car and decided it might well be purple, that trickiest of all colors under incandescent light. His heart catapulted into his throat. He muttered to Svenson, “We’re in business,” and went in.

  It was past Fergy’s closing time now. The man who’d driven up in Loretta Fescue’s cast-off purple car was clearly no customer but a visitor. He was a thinnish, youngish fellow with black hair falling coarse and unwashed over a gaunt, high-cheekboned face that could have stood a shave. A couple of his teeth were broken. The lips that didn’t hide them were rather too full and slack, though curved now in a smile of mild amusement, perhaps because his right hand was curved lovingly around a large economy-size can of beer. So this was Fesky, and what happened now?

  Fergy wasn’t in sight at the moment. His drinking buddy was being entertained by Millicent Peavey. She paused to greet Shandy with cries of de
light and act properly flustered at getting to meet Thorkjeld Svenson. Then she took up her tale again.

  “Isn’t that the craziest thing you ever heard of? Oh, I was just telling Fesky here. Would you believe, Professor Shandy, somebody came in here and stole the little whatsit out of a pair of those porcelain doorknobs over there? I mean, Fergy would have sold the whole thing for a dollar, knobs and all, but this wise guy had to unscrew the knobs and leave them right there on the table, and walk off with the dingus that held them together. Honest, the things you run into!”

  “You sure it was there in the first place?” Fesky drawled. “How’d you ever remember one piece from another in this junk heap?”

  “Listen, mister, if you’d done as much waitressing as I have, you’d notice things all right. Try leaving a spoon off the table, or like if you give somebody a water glass with a crack in it, you get a squawk from the customer and a look from the boss and an extra trip back and forth with your corns killing you every step. Who needs the aggravation? So you learn to notice, see? And I darn well noticed there were six of those doorknob sets earlier because I dusted them, see. Professor Shandy saw me dusting around here. Didn’t you, Professor?”

  “I believe I did, now that you mention it. And you say one is gone now?”

  “I say nothing of the sort. I say the knobs are there but the middle part isn’t. There’s five whole sets and one pair of loose knobs. Go look for yourself, right over there.”

  Millicent was a little bit drunk, Shandy could see, but he had no inclination to doubt she knew whereof she spoke. He walked over to the table she was pointing at, picked up one of the knobs so enigmatically freed from its shank, studied it for a second, then took out the short piece of rod Roy had found after the explosion, and screwed the knob to its threaded end. It was, as he’d expected, a perfect fit.

  Millicent Peavey screamed. “Why, for Pete’s sake! I saw what you did. Don’t think I don’t notice things. You took that thing right out of your own pocket. Aren’t you the little kidder, though. Trying to play a joke on li’l ol’ Millie.”