The Grub-And-Stakers Move a Mountain (17 page)

“I didn’t say I can’t stand them, Aunt Arethusa,” he mumbled.

“I said I never know what to say to them.”

“If they’re stupid, say whatever comes into your head. They won’t understand you anyway. And quit calling me Aunt Arethusa.”

“But you are my aunt,” he replied. “You’re my father’s sister.”

“Is that supposed to be my fault?”

Dittany intervened. “How’s the goat, Osbert?”

“Resting comfortably, I believe. His owner came and got him.

He’d been kidnapped. If you can kidnap a full-grown goat, that is. Kid being the-er-junior form.”

“Osbert, shut up,” said his aunt. “The word is ‘abducted.’

Well, Dittany, aren’t you going to offer us anything to eat? Or”

-she took a thoughtful pull at the burgundy she’d poured herself-“do we have to wait till you get around to inviting us?

Stap me, where are your manners lately, anyhow? You haven’t even introduced anybody. Let’s see, this is Sir Edward Frankland of course. And this, as he keeps insisting, is my nephew Osbert Monk. I presume we all know Dittany Henbit since otherwise we shouldn’t be here, should we?”

“No, Arethusa,” said the beleaguered Miss Henbit. “Pour your nephew some wine while I throw a couple more plates on the table. Sit down, Osbert. Help yourself to anything you can manage to grab.”

“But I thought-I mean, Aunt Arethusa gave me the distinct impression-“

“Oh, she knows I always keep open house. Ask anybody. As it happens I was a guest short. Ben here was supposed to bring his landlady but she decided to stay home and soak her feet. Besides, I’m glad you came because I never did get a chance to thank you properly for catching that goat before he wiped us out. And I hope you like beans and brown bread because that’s all we’ve got.”

Osbert blushed and said he liked beans and brown bread very much. Dittany embezzled a handful of Hazel’s lettuce to eke out the salad, brought up the last bottle of burgundy, put more biscuits on the plate, and collapsed into the only unoccupied chair.

Arethusa graciously poured her a drink. Ben protectively cut her some cheese. Osbert diffidently got up and stirred the beans.

Before long Dittany realized to her astonishment that she was giving a successful party.

With Arethusa around, there was never any dearth of conversation.

Tonight she even let the others get in an occasional word.

Ben told thrilling tales of life among the sump pumps. Osbert mentioned a sister who could play the musical glasses and waggle her ears in three-quarter time. Dittany described her mother and Bert tripping hand in hand down life’s broad highway, strewing high-fashion eyewear like rose petals en route. Time flitted by on winged feet. They drank gallons of tea and ate every Fig Newton in the house. Dittany was about to poll the gathering with regard to boiling another kettle when Gram Henbit’s treasured mission oak clock pulled itself together for the effort and bonged midnight.

” ‘Sblood,” cried Arethusa, “the tocsin soundeth. Come, Osbert.

Haul your dear old aunty off to beddy-byes before I turn into a pumpkin.”

“Me too,” said Ben. “I mean I’d better haul myself off. Another big day coming up, eh, Dittany?”

” ‘Big’ is a feeble, not to say paltry description. I’m down on the books to leap out of bed at the crack of dawn, defrost the casseroles, pack up the butterflies and take them over to Samantha’s, then spend a quiet hour or two moving furniture so we can start getting ready for the party.”

“Want me to lend a hand with the furniture?”

“I’m sure you’d be welcomed with open arms.”

“Whose, for instance?”

Arethusa was cocking an interested eyebrow and Dittany was wondering if a man who could speak of tearing out pantries might yet be redeemed when Ethel leaped up from under Osbert’s feet where she’d spent the evening happily cadging tidbits.

“Awoo! Awoo! Wurff! Wurff!”

“What’s the matter with her?” said Ben rather crossly.

“Perhaps she hears something outside,” Osbert ventured.

“Most likely a skunk,” Dittany sighed. “Ben, don’t let her-“

Too late. The door was open and Ethel was off.

“What’s that light up on Lookout Point? Somebody must be having a-” Dittany didn’t wait to finish, but grabbed her storm coat and followed Ethel. Ben did a startled double-take and followed Dittany. Osbert passed them both, traveling at a little less than the speed of light. Arethusa flung her cape about her, shouted, “Yoicks, away!” and ran a creditable fourth.

Dittany still wasn’t quite sure why she was running, but she now knew Ethel did indeed have a strain of bloodhound in her.

What other breed could sustain such a peculiar, mournful baying or provoke so many neighbors into flinging open their windows and yelling, “For God’s sake, shut that thing up!”?

Heeding no irate outcry, Ethel forged on. She must also be part greyhound, or possibly whippet. Osbert stayed well up with her. Dittany, already exhausted, began to fade in the stretch. Ben fell back to keep her company.

“What’s happening?” she panted.

“Shh! Listen.”

Glad of any excuse to catch her breath and ease the stitch in her side, Dittany shushed and listened. From above came sounds of breaking glass and uncouth ribaldry, then a triumphant “Awoo!” a burst of rude Anglo-Saxon immediately translated into French to meet Canadian regulations on bilingualism, and the sound of a motor being gunned for all it was worth.

“Get back!”

Ben grabbed Dittany and yanked her back off the path seconds before a vehicle hurtled toward them. Ethel pelted behind in victorious pursuit with some trophy of the chase flapping around her muzzle. The driver had switched on his lights, since trying to negotiate that newly hacked roadway down the mountain would have been suicide without them. As the machine passed, Dittany could see it was a plain black van.

“I’ll bet that’s the same one they let the goat out of,” she hissed.

“Could you see who was inside?” Ben asked her.

“No, they went by too fast. Here, Ethel, let’s see what you’ve got in your mouth.” She managed to secure the object. “This feels like cloth. Come on, we’d better see what’s happened to Osbert.”

“Hold on a second. Somebody’s coming.”

Then they heard a gasp that sounded like “Gadzooks” and realized Arethusa was still among the party. The three of them stormed the summit, to find Osbert with a large flashlight surveying what appeared to be the leftovers from a Roman orgy of the post-Neronian period.

“Ods bodikins,” panted Arethusa. “How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood. This place smells like our cellar the time Dad’s home brew blew up.”

“Minerva will have a heart attack,” wailed Dittany. “How many of them were there, for goodness’ sake?”

“About sixty, from the look of all these broken bottles,” said Ben.

“I only saw three,” said Osbert. “Ethel caught one but he tore loose and got off in the van with the rest.”

“That must be how she got the cloth in her mouth. Shine your light on this, eh?” Dittany held out her find, which appeared to be a sizable portion of somebody’s rearward covering.

“Mustard yellow and catsup red with brown spots,” mused Arethusa. “Perchance the varlet runs a hamburger joint. Do we know anyone named Ronald MacDonald?”

“At least we know he’s got lousy taste and a broad beam,” said Ben.

Osbert, having glanced at the trouser seat, winced, and averted his gaze, handed his torch to Ben. He then produced a smaller but no less efficient one from his coat pocket and began an inch by-inch examination of the ground at a spot where the shards lay thickest.

“Come out of that, you ninny,” said his aunt. “You’ll cut yourself.”

“No, I shan’t. It’s surprisingly muddy here, don’t you think?

Would anyone happen to have a receptacle of any sort?”

Dittany fumbled in her pocket and brought out a crumpled paper cup she’d picked up when they were tidying after the bake sale and forgotten to throw in the trash. “Will this do?”

“Admirably.” Osbert smoothed out the cup as best he could, scooped some mud into it, and sniffed. “I think we ought to get the police up here before we disturb the evidence further.”

“Why?” said Ben.

“Because this mud reeks of beer.”

“What’s it supposed to smell like? Roses? Those are beer bottles they broke, aren’t they?”

“That’s just the point. If you were given to smashing beer bottles in a fit of drunken revelry, which I’m sure you’re not, wouldn’t you prefer to drink the beer first?”

“Well, sure. Oh, I get it.”

“Then, since you present a more formidable appearance than I, would you and Aunt Arethusa stay here with this splendid animal and guard the evidence while Dittany and I go back to her house and get some help?”

“What am I supposed to do if those rumscullions come back, forsooth?” demanded his aunt.

“Flap your cape and scream. They’ll think you’re the Wicked Witch of the North.”

“Thank you, Osbert. Remind me to cut you out of my will.”

“Yes, Aunt Arethusa. Wait, Dittany, I’ll light the way for you.”

“I’ve been up and down this path so often lately that I could walk it with my eyes shut.”

Dittany proved her point by tripping over a root. Osbert picked her up and thenceforth kept a firm grip on her coat-sleeve for which she was secretly grateful. When they got to the house, Dittany realized she hadn’t got her key with her and somebody had slammed the door shut with the catch on when they made their pell-mell exit. She was about to heave a rock through the kitchen window out of exasperation when Osbert did something with the thin blade of his jackknife and they were free to enter.

Sergeant Mac Vicar received Dittany’s frantic summons with accustomed sang-froid and told her he would proceed to the scene of the outrage as soon as he got his uniform on, and did Dittany by chance have a camera with a flash attachment? A member of his department had committed the grave error of borrowing the official photographic apparatus for other than official business over the weekend. He would be receiving the rough side of Mrs. MacVicar’s tongue when he returned the camera on Monday and considerably worse than that from Sergeant Mac Vicar in person if he forgot to do so.

“Oddly enough, I have,” said Dittany. “It’s even got film and flash bulbs in. I was planning to take pictures at the Burberrys’

party tomorrow because I knew Samantha would never think of it.”

“Excellent. And can you also furnish some large plastic bags?”

“Tons. Mama was always buying them and then not using them because they’re non-biodegradable. Anything else?”

“Sticky labels, a marking pen, empty trash cans, and a shovel.”

“Yes, Sergeant MacVicar. I’ll take them up in my own car.

There’s gas in the tank. I think.”

Sergeant MacVicar told her she was a credit to her sex and rang off. Dittany and Osbert were loading Old Faithful’s capacious trunk when Jane and Henry Binkle appeared in the driveway, both of them wearing coats and scarves over their sensible wool bathrobes.

“Dittany, is something the matter? We heard Ethel making a ghastly racket, then we saw lights up on the Enchanted Mountain.”

“We’ve had vandals. Ethel chased them off. There’s broken glass and beery mud and Sergeant MacVicar’s on his way. So are we. Oh, Jane and Henry Binkle, this is Osbert Monk. Arethusa’s up on the mountain being the Wicked Witch of the North.”

“Dittany, are you sure you haven’t been overdoing?” said Jane Binkle anxiously.

“I’m sure I have but what the heck? Want to come along and be material witnesses? Don’t trip over the shovels getting in.”

The Binkles looked at one another, then climbed in among the trash containers, the flash bulbs, the plastic bags, and Gram Henbit’s old graniteware dishpan Dittany had brought along because, as she’d remarked to Osbert, you never knew.

They’d barely got up to Lookout Point when Sergeant MacVicar pulled in behind them. He strode to the scene of the crime, surveyed the evidence, and delivered his awful verdict. “I see absolutely no excuse for this sort of thing whatever.”

He impounded Ethel’s trophy as Exhibit A, sniffed knowingly at Osbert’s paper cupful of beer-soaked mud, checked over Dittany’s camera with expert care, then glared sternly through the viewfinder and began snapping pictures of the broken bottles, the soggy ground, and the tire tracks made by the van.

“Now, Mr. Frankland, I will photograph you taking soil samples.

We will put them in these plastic bags, which we will identify in numerical sequence using the sticky labels provided by Dittany Henbit. Jane and Henry, you will please stand close to Frankland so that you can be identified as witnesses. Miss Monk, you will be so good as to join them and control that great napping cape so it doesn’t block my view.”

Ben obliged by scooping shovelfuls of the reeking earth into the plastic bags Dittany held open for him while Sergeant MacVicar took pictures from various artistic angles. “Want me to take these over to the lab at the Water Department?” he offered.

“I could run a soil analysis for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Frankland, but I deem it more advisable to take the samples to the RCMP at Scottsbeck. This must not be taken as a reflection on your ability to perform the requisite functions. It is merely correct police procedure. Also it forestalls the possibility of some miscreant’s sneaking up behind you and committing an act of aggression while your attention is focused on your work.”

“Let ‘em try,” said Frankland bravely, but he did not press the matter.

“And now that we have all the needed veridical evidence,”

said Sergeant MacVicar, “we might clean up this broken glass lest it pose a safety hazard to the workers who will no doubt be up here at first crack of dawn.”

Even Arethusa joined in the task. “If the Book-of-the-Month Club could only see me now, gadzooks,” she murmured as she sloshed a shovelful of debris into one of Dittany’s trash cans.

“I’d take your picture if Sergeant MacVicar hadn’t used up all the film,” said Dittany, “but posterity will just have to do without.

Sergeant MacVicar, what are you putting that broken glass in my car for?”