The Grub-And-Stakers Quilt a Bee (7 page)

“What about the people where he used to work?” she asked.

“I called my husband’s former secretary as soon as I got here. I didn’t like to keep putting long-distance phone calls on Mrs.

Oakes’s bill. I don’t suppose any of them will come to the funeral, but I daresay they’ll send a nice floral tribute.”

She tapped the end of the gold pen against her front teeth, scanning her notes. “Now, Mrs. Monk, if you’re looking for something to do, you might try making those dining room chairs presentable.

I want that room set up as soon as possible so I can start thinking about the upstairs. Wash them down with mild soap and water, being careful not to soak the wood. You’d better do it outdoors. They must be thoroughly dry before you start rubbing in the lemon oil. By the way, the kitchen sink still isn’t draining properly. Kindly give that plumber a ring right now.”

Bereavement or no bereavement, this was a bit much. “Can’t,”

said Dittany. “You accepted that plumber as a donation from Andrew McNaster, remember? Since we didn’t hire him, I don’t see where we have any authority to call him in.”

“Then how am I to get my sink fixed?”

“Let’s wait and see. He may be planning to come back later today.”

Dittany could have thought of other things to say, but she refrained.

Young as she was, she’d seen enough of death to know it could affect those left behind in strange ways. Maybe all this bustle and bossiness was just Mrs. Fairfield’s way of handling her grief.

Little did she know there was worse news to come about her husband’s precipitous demise.

Dittany wasn’t about to be the one to tell. She went and washed the dining room chairs.

As she was setting them out to dry, on the side porch which was screened by a high hedge, because everybody in town would naturally be assuming the museum was closed today out of respect for its late curator and would be shocked to the marrow did they but know not only a trustee but Mr. Fairfield’s very widow were here working, a van pulled into the driveway and a man got out.

He wasn’t the plumber; he was the long-lost roofer.

“Morning, ma’am. Here for my stuff.”

“You mean those ropes and buckets you left in the stairwell?”

Dittany replied. “I’m afraid you can’t have them.”

“Huh? Who says so?”

“Firstly, the board of trustees, of whom I’m one. We don’t intend to settle your bill until we’ve made positively sure that skylight isn’t going to leak again. Unless you can give us a positive ironclad guarantee, you might as well leave that stuff right where it is till after the next rain.”

“Look, lady, when I fix a skylight, it’s fixed. I want my gear.”

“That brings us to objection number two,” said Dittany, “namely and to wit, Sergeant Mac Vicar. In case you hadn’t heard, we had a sudden death here yesterday.”

“What’d that to do with me?”

“That remains to be seen,” Dittany replied darkly. “Anyway, Sergeant Mac Vicar’s in charge of the investigation, so you’d better trot yourself down to the station and get his permission before you start tampering with the evidence.”

“What’s all this?” That was Mrs. Fairfield, right on the job. “Is that the plumber you’re talking to, Mrs. Monk? Did you tell him about the-why, Frederick Churtle! After all these years. If you’ve come to borrow more money from Peregrine, I’m afraid you’ve left it a bit late.”

“Haven’t changed a bit, have you, Evangeline?” The roofer squinted up at her with what could be dimly discerned through his three-days’ growth of whiskers as an expression of deepest distaste.

“Hey, you don’t mean that was Perry who got killed yesterday?”

“It was, since you’re so kind as to inquire.”

“Ill be damned.” He took a moment to digest the news, then shook his head. “Poor old Perry. How’d it happen?”

“He went up to shut the attic windows Mrs. Monk here left open, and fell out.”

The roofer shifted his gaze yet farther upward and shook his head again. “You trying to kid me?”

Mrs. Fairfield’s not inconsiderable jaw dropped. “Frederick, whatever do you mean?”

“Gripes, Evangeline, I always knew you weren’t anyways near so smart as you took credit for, but I’d never have believed you could be that dumb. Take a look at ‘em.”

Instead of following his suggestion, Mrs. Fairfield turned to Dittany.

“Mrs. Monk, if you have any idea what Frederick Churtle is driving at, would you be kind enough to enlighten me?”

She did look thunderstruck, as well she might. Dittany tried to think of a tactful way to explain. “Well, you remember yesterday when we were up attic?”

“How could I forget? If you hadn’t chosen that particular time to go-“

Dittany’s tact began to wear thin. She fought the urge to remind Mrs. Fairfield that she had gone alone and would have been better content to remain so, and furthermore that she wasn’t the one who’d said to leave the windows open.

“Yes, well, we can’t change that now, can we? What I started to say was, don’t you recall how tiny those windows are?”

“Why no, I can’t say I do. When you say tiny-“

“I mean they’re hardly more than portholes. Come out on the lawn and see for yourself.”

Mrs. Fairfield heaved a mighty sigh, stepped down to the ground, and did as she was bidden. “Oh, dear. I do see what you mean. All right, Frederick, for once in your life, you were right and I was wrong. But if Peregrine didn’t fall out the window, then-“

The roofer snorted. “Then I guess we know now why this young woman says Sergeant Mac Vicar doesn’t want me to take my rigging down, eh?”

“Are you trying to say he fell off the roof? That’s absurd, and you should know it better than I. You know how Peregrine always was about heights, Frederick.”

“I know. Wouldn’t even climb up on a chair to change a light bulb. Puts you on land of a sticky wicket, eh, Vangie?”

Mrs. Fairfield didn’t say anything for what seemed a long time.

Then she sighed again, more heavily than before. “Yes, Frederick, it does. If Sergeant Mac Vicar is-but I mustn’t even think of that, must I? After all, you were Peregrine’s friend once.”

“Evangeline, what the bloody hell do you think you’re talking about?”

“Oh, Frederick, how can I tell? Such a dreadful, dreadful-Mrs.

Monk, do you think you could possibly find me a cup of tea?”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Dittany. “You go on into the parlor and stretch out on the chesterfield.”

“No, no. I mustn’t give in. Peregrine wouldn’t have wanted that.

I’ll just go into my office and get back to work. Frederick, if you happen to run across that plumber, I’d thank you to tell him I want him here at his earliest convenience.”

“How come his convenience instead of yours? Gettin* soft in your old age, Evangeline?”

“Frederick, this is hardly the time or the place for one of your singularly tasteless jokes. Surely you can’t object to delivering a simple message. You owe me a few favors, in case you’d forgotten.

Among other things.”

Before the roofer could reply, Mrs. Fairfield turned and stalked back inside. Dittany waited to ask the man, “If your name’s Churtle, why do you call yourself Brown?”

“I’m a remittance man. I don’t want to embarrass me dear old daddy the dock.”

“Thank you. And how come you picked today to come after your tackle, when you allegedly finished patching the skylight two weeks ago and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of you since?”

“I been busy writing my memoirs. Ta-ta, miss.”

He got into his van and chugged off. Dittany went to make Mrs.

Fairfield’s tea. As she was scalding the pot, she thought of phoning Sergeant MacVicar about this interesting new development. Then she reflected that the phone was on the desk where Mrs. Fairfield would be sitting, that she didn’t quite know what to tell, and that Sergeant MacVicar must already know the roofer had been here.

News of any sort wasn’t apt to lie around gathering dust in Lobelia Falls, and the Mac Vicars’ own grapevine was almost preternaturally efficient. She rinsed out a pink teacup with For a Loving Grandma printed on it in gold, clearly one Therese hadn’t yet got around to putting into the flea market, made the tea, and carried the tray to Mrs. Fairfield.

The widow was at the ledgers again. She took off the plasticrimmed granny glasses that had been perched halfway down her nose and let them dangle from the black cord around her neck.

“Thank you, Mrs. Monk. This will perk me up. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what a ghastly shock it was having Frederick Churtle pop up like that. It’s been thirty years or more since I hoped I’d seen the last of him. You don’t really believe what he was trying to make out, do you?”

“It’s not a question of what I believe.” Dittany was through trying to be tactful. “It’s what Sergeant MacVicar believes that matters. He’ll be hotfooting it over here, I expect, once he learns you’re up and about.”

Normally he wouldn’t have come badgering a widow quite so soon, but this one was asking for bother. Mrs. Fairfield might be wondering whether she’d have done better to stick with the cologne and the darkened bedroom. She fussed around with the milk and sugar and took a fortifying sip of her tea.

“I’m sure you’re wondering, Mrs. Monk, how my husband and I ever came to know a man like Frederick Churtle. The thing of it is, Frederick and Peregrine were boyhood chums back in their hometown and kept up their acquaintance as they grew up, even though their lives were taking very different paths.”

She had recourse to the pink teacup again, then shook her head.

“No, that won’t do. You may as well know the plain truth. My husband, who you must realize was the best-hearted man alive, allowed Frederick to impose on his good nature long after he’d outgrown the acquaintance. Not to put too fine a point on it, Frederick borrowed large sums of money from Peregrine and never paid them back.”

“Oh,” said Dittany.

“Yes, that’s how it was. I daresay we could all tell stories of false friends. Forgive me for airing my personal problems this way, Mrs.

Monk. I expect I’m distraught and simply need to talk. It absolutely knocked the stuffing out of me, having that wretched sponger poke his face around here after all these years, running me down and trying to make out Peregrine’s death was,” she swallowed more tea, “something other than what we know it was.

That’s what Frederick was getting at, wasn’t it?”

“Well,” Dittany answered cautiously, “you have to admit he was right about those attic windows. If you’d care to go up and take another look-“

“I couldn’t! Not now. I suppose I shan’t mind after a while, when duty drives me to it, but not today, please. I simply couldn’t face it.”

“That’s only natural. I should have known better.”

“I’m sure you meant well, Mrs. Monk. Do you think those dining room chairs are dry yet? We shouldn’t leave them out too long.”

There were some people it simply didn’t pay to be nice to.

Dittany bit her lip, picked up the tea tray, and stalked out of the office.

She was out on the porch sloshing lemon oil on the chairs to relieve her feelings when Sergeant Mac Vicar appeared.

“Ah, lass, there you are. Far be it from me, eh, to pass judgment on a woman’s housekeeping methods, but it strikes me you are being a trifle o’er generous with yon lemon oil. Indeed, I am somewhat astonished to find you working here at all on such a day.”

“I have my orders.” Dittany sloshed on another dollop of lemon oil to show what she thought of them. “If you’re looking for Mrs.

Fairfield, she’s in the back parlor impersonating Margaret Thatcher. Did you see Frederick Churtle?”

“Who?”

“The roofer from Scottsbeck who calls himself Brown. He was a boyhood chum of Mr. Fairfield, whose first name was Peregrine.”

“I was cognizant of the latter fact. So must you have been at the time your board of trustees hired him.”

“And woe to the day we did. I guess I knew, but I must have got him mixed up with one of Arethusa’s minor characters. Mrs. Fairfield’s is Evangeline.”

“Now, that,” said Sergeant MacVicar, “I had not known. It minds me of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s immortal line, ‘She bore to the reapers at noontide flagons of home-brewed ale.’ “

“In a pig’s eye she did,” snorted Dittany, applying such wrathful friction to her polishing cloth one might have thought her a girl guide trying to start a campfire without matches. “Evangelines don’t bear flagons. They sit on their duffs and yell for somebody else to fetch ‘em.”

“Do I detect a note of acrimony, lass? We must make allowances for circumstances.”

“I have. That’s why I’m polishing chairs instead of flouncing off in a huff. Getting back to Churtle, did you see him?”

“Ah yes, Churtle. I did not. What about him?”

“He came by a while ago for that mess of hemp spaghetti he left strung up through the stairwell. I told him he couldn’t take it away till you said he could, and he left. I supposed he was going to see you.”

“If he was, he missed me. Did you tell him why my permission was necessary?”

“I started to. Then Mrs. Fairfield came out and the two of them got into a hairtangle. It turns out he and Peregrine were kids together.”

“Indeed? And how did yon Churtle react to the news of Mr.

Fairfield’s death?”

“He told Evangeline she was bonkers to think her husband fell out the attic window.”

“Why did he mention the attic window?”

“Because that was what Mrs. Fairfield told him. She explained how I’d left them open and Mr. Fairfield had to go up and shut them.”

Sergeant Mac Vicar rubbed his chin, his fjord-blue eyes resting thoughtfully on the almost-empty lemon oil bottle. “This was before or after the alleged Brown had been identified as Churtle?”

“Oh, after. Mrs. Fairfield spotted him right away. The first thing she said was, ‘Why, Frederick Churtle.’ Then it all came out about the old pals stuff and his hitting Peregrine up for money.”

“Um ah. How much money?”

“Surely you don’t think Mrs. Fairfield would have been vulgar enough to tell me? She apologized afterward for having mentioned money at all.”