The Grub-and-Stakers Spin a Yarn (18 page)

“I see,” said Osbert, although he wasn’t at all sure he did. “And what about yesterday? Did you have your customary noontime get-together with the lower echelons?”

“We don’t think of our fellow employees as lower echelons,” VP Raisins reproved. “The way we look at it, we’re all in the mincemeat together. Right, everybody?”

This had to be Mother Matilda’s daughter, Matilda the Fourth or Fifth, depending on how you looked at her. She was a lot easier to look at than Matilda the Third; she must favor her father’s side of the McCorquindales. She had her mother’s innate sense of authority, though. With perfect grace, Daughter Matilda took the reins into her own slender hands.

“You’ve all got lots to do; why don’t you buzz along to your departments? I believe I can tell Mr. Monk what he wants to know. You needn’t stay, Mother, Mr. Throckmorton of Redundant Relishes is waiting for you to call back.”

“Thank you for reminding me, dear. I’ll be in my office if you need me for anything, Mr. Monk.”

Mother Matilda led the procession out of the conference room. The rest of the VPs followed. VP Raisins moved up to sit beside Osbert. “I didn’t want to harrow my mother’s feelings any more than I had to either, Mr. Monk. This dreadful business is wearing her down terribly. I don’t know how much longer she’ll be able to maintain her stiff upper lip.”

“What about yourself?”

“Oh, I fell apart the minute I found out Daddy’d been shot. By yesterday morning I’d finished bawling my eyes out and decided I might as well get moving, so I went down and questioned our security guard and the people over at the bank about what had happened. You’ll want to talk to them yourself, I suppose, but I can give you the gist right now if you like.”

“That would help a lot—er—should I address you as VP Raisins or Daughter Matilda?”

“You know, that’s an interesting question. VP Raisins is more businesslike, but Daughter Matilda has a nice, dynastic ring to it. Most people just call me Tilly. Anyway, here’s what happened as best I could piece it together.”

Daughter Matilda, like her mother, was wearing a black apron although the uniform beneath it was purple. She fished a hankie out of the pocket in case she felt a sniffle coming on, and began her report.

“Gerald—that’s the security guard—told me he saw Daddy drive up to the bank at two minutes before ten. Daddy stopped the car out front, but left the motor running while he ran into the bank so that he wouldn’t have to waste time starting it again. Daddy never liked to waste a second, regardless of what that old oink-oink VP Suet was intimating just now.”

“Your mother explained yesterday that your father had been out on company business,” Osbert reassured her.

“Darling Daddy. He just lived and breathed mincemeat.” Daughter Matilda sighed, then pulled herself together. “Anyway, Marie at the bank said Daddy was in his usual good spirits when he opened the box. He said good morning and she said he was running late, wasn’t he, and he said yes, he’d been over to Scottsbeck on business. All perfectly normal and natural, you see. Then he took out his card. That’s what we call them because that’s what they are, just little cards covered in plastic. I have mine with me but I’d rather not show it because I’ve got it hidden in my—my personal effects. Now that we’ve been infiltrated, we’re all so security-conscious it’s pathetic.”

“That’s okay, Daughter Matilda,” said Osbert. “Your mother explained about the cards, too. So your father obviously wasn’t expecting any trouble.”

“Not till he came out of the bank. According to Gerald, another car with two men in it had come up the street just behind Daddy’s. After he pulled up to the curb, the other car had gone on a little way, then turned back and sort of dawdled along till Daddy opened the bank door and stepped on to the sidewalk. Then the driver put on a spurt, came up to the company parking lot, and stopped directly in front of the gate so that Daddy wouldn’t be able to get in.”

“For Pete’s sake! Real gangland tactics.”

“You bet it was. Gerald was right there ready to open the gate for Daddy, so of course he yelled at the men to move on out of the way. Next thing he knew, the man in the passenger seat was poking a gun at him. So Gerald ducked back into his little sentry box and got his own gun.”

“How come?” said Osbert. “Isn’t that rather unusual? For him to have one, I mean?”

“I know. Because of the gun laws, you don’t think of Canadians having pistols, or whatever they’re called. Yes, it was unusual. In fact, Gerald had only had the gun since the previous afternoon when Daddy suddenly realized what was behind those rotten tricks Mr. Wardle had been pulling on the VPs.”

“We still don’t know for sure Mr. Wardle was pulling them,” Osbert reminded her.

“Well, of course it must have been Mr. Wardle. Nobody else is mean enough except VP Suet, and he wouldn’t have the gumption. Anyway, Daddy said we had to tighten up on security and Gerald had better have a firearm, so he went and got him one. Daddy would, you know. I don’t think Gerald had ever fired a gun in his life. Neither had Daddy, but that wouldn’t have stopped either of them from doing it if they had to. We can’t depend much on the police around here, as you may have heard.”

“I got to meet Chief Slapp yesterday.” There was no need for Osbert to say more.

“Well, then. So these two men—Gerald says they were both wearing trench coats with—”

“Their collars turned up and felt hats pulled down over their eyes,” Osbert finished for her. “So was your father. Was that unusual for him?”

“No, not specially. Daddy was an awful ham, the old darling. He’d done some acting and he loved dressing up. That George Raft outfit was one of his more conservative turns. You should have seen him in his Inverness cape and deerstalker cap. Or his tartan trews and t-t-tam o’ sh-sh-shanter.”

Daughter Matilda plied her hankie, then went bravely on with her tale. “Gerald thinks Daddy must have realized right away that the men were after him. Daddy’s mind worked like lightning, you know. Or maybe you don’t, but it did. Anyway, Daddy leaped back into his own car and was most likely going to gun the motor and rush on the same way he was heading—by this time, of course, the bad guys’ car was pointing back in the opposite direction—when a tiny tot in a fuzzy pink coat toddled out into the street with a wee doggie on a leash.”

“A wee doggie?” exclaimed Osbert.

“A little woolly white one. Like a baby lamb, Gerald says.” Daughter Matilda sniffled again. “That was Daddy’s pet name for me. When I was a wee tot myself, he’d tuck me in at night and say, ‘Now go to sheep, my little lamb.’ That was our f-favorite joke. He always said sh-sheep.”

She wiped away some more tears, took a sip of the water that still stood on the conference room table, and rushed grittily on. “So Daddy gunned the car in reverse about twenty feet, made a fast U-turn right under the bad guys’ noses, and was off down the road before they could get started. So they began shooting at him!”

“My gosh!” cried Osbert, although of course he’d seen it coming.

“Gerald says he just stood there with his mouth hanging open. Then all of a sudden he realized what was really happening and decided he’d better shoot, too. By that time, the men were starting to move. He tried to hit their tires but he didn’t know how to aim the gun right and hit the body of the car instead.”

“So that’s how they got pocked,” said Osbert. “I’d wondered.”

“Gerald says he only hit them a few times and it didn’t seem to do any good because the bad guys just kept going after Daddy. Then he couldn’t see them anymore and the gun wouldn’t fire because he’d used up all the bullets. So he called the police station, but Fridwell Slapp couldn’t seem to get it through his head what had happened. He didn’t show up till about twenty minutes later, and then he didn’t do anything except poke around and ask stupid questions. And that’s my story, Mr. Monk, for whatever it’s worth to you.”

“AND THE PARKING LOT
man couldn’t describe the two men at all?”

Dittany’s voice sounded somewhat muffled since she was speaking from the depths of Osbert’s “I’m an Old Cowhand” sweatshirt. A whole day apart had been hard on both of them. Now they were enjoying a conjugal cuddle on the kitchen couch with Ethel snoring gently at their feet, Clorinda doing something innovative to a panful of chicken and rice at the stove, and Arethusa sitting in Gram Henbit’s old rocking chair with her eyes closed.

“Nope,” said Osbert. “He said all he could see was the nozzle of that gun pointed straight at his collar button. I suppose that’s understandable.”

“Perhaps if you’d hypnotized him, he’d have remembered everything,” Clorinda suggested, “One does, I’ve been told. Couldn’t you have tried waving a pendulum in front of his nose?”

“I suppose I could have, now that you mention it,” Osbert conceded. “The possibility didn’t occur to me at the time. You weren’t really meaning to put that vanilla extract you’re holding into the chicken, were you?”

“Eh? Oh, so that’s what this is. Actually I think what I had in mind was a dash of lemon juice, only I couldn’t find a lemon so I thought perhaps lemon extract—though vanilla might be—”

“No, it mightn’t!” Arethusa’s eyes were wide open now, and brimming with horror. “Listen to me, Clorinda. Look straight into my eyes, Clorinda. Deeper, deeper. Keep looking, Clorinda. You are growing sleepy, sleepier, sleepiest. You are in my power, Clorinda. You must obey my every word. Go, Clorinda. Put that vanilla back in the pantry. This instant, Clorinda. Get with it, Clorinda.”

“With what, Arethusa? Wake up, Arethusa. Oh dear, she’s hypnotized herself. Now what shall we do?”

“Leave her alone,” said Osbert. “Maybe she’ll stay hypnotized and we’ll be able to eat a meal in peace for a change. That chicken smells great just as it is, Clorinda, don’t do another thing to it. If you burn to make yourself useful, why don’t you pour yourself a little sherry and relax for a while?”

“But Osbert, that’s not making myself useful. And I do so want to be a good mother-in-law to you.”

“On the contrary, Clorinda, relaxing is the most useful thing you can do. Once you’ve quit waving that vanilla bottle around, Dittany will stop twitching. Then I can relax, too, and you’ll have brought peace and tranquillity to our happy home. How much more useful could you get?”

“Well, of course. I hadn’t thought of it that way. Would you like me to pour you some sherry, too?”

“I would,” said Arethusa.

“Oh, goody, you’re awake!” Clorinda flew into the pantry.

“Whatever is she talking about?” said Arethusa. “Osbert, what was that balderdash you were spouting about a tiny tot with a sheep on a leash?”

“I believe what I actually referred to was a tiny tot with a small white dog that resembled a lamb. Where the sheep came in was that Daughter Matilda told me her father used to call her his little lamb and tell her to go to sheep when he tucked her in.”

“Are you sure he didn’t say ‘grow to sheep,’ meaning to hasten the process of maturing so that he wouldn’t have to bother tucking her in anymore?”

“No such thing,” Osbert replied crossly. “He was merely making a play on words to amuse his infant child. Daughter Matilda says he always said ‘sheep’ when he meant sleep.”

“As in ‘Sheepytime Gal’?” said Dittany. “Or, ‘sheep my little one, sheep my pretty one, sheep, sheep, sheep?”

“Or ‘sheep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of—’ ”

Clorinda got no further. Osbert started from the couch like a panther from a crouch, leaving Dittany agape and Ethel somewhat annoyed.

“That’s it!” he cried. “When VP Nutmeg mentioned ‘the ravell’d sleave,’ he was really talking about a sheep.”

“What sheep, forsooth?” Arethusa demanded crossly. “I grant you knitting wool comes from sheep, but purveyors thereof don’t keep sheep on their premises as a rule. You ought to know that, you’ve rustled enough of the critters in your so-called literary pursuits. First you remove the wool from the sheep by a process known, I believe, as shearing. Then you have to wash the fleece because sheep have no concept of personal hygiene, then you get a teazel and tease it.”

“I’m not sure whether the teazel comes before or after the washing,” Clorinda objected. “Though I grant you a teazel comes into the process somewhere,” she conceded, for she was really devoted to Arethusa.

“The teazel is irrelevant,” Dittany broke in. “The question before the house is, what sheep was VP Nutmeg talking about? Miss Jane may somewhat resemble a sheep, but she does not in point of fact own a sheep.”

“Oh yes, she does,” Clorinda insisted. “Miss Jane has a perfectly beautiful sheep. She made it herself.”

Osbert stared. Dittany merely nodded. “You mean like those knitted doggies and kitties she has sitting around the shop?” she asked. “But we didn’t see any sheep when we searched the place night before last.”

“Oh my!” exclaimed Clorinda. “You don’t suppose those gangsters rustled it?”

“You don’t rustle sheep,” Osbert replied somewhat crossly. “You just steal them. Miss Jane didn’t report having a sheep stolen. The alleged gangsters never entered the Yarnery, and VP Nutmeg can’t have been carrying a sheep when he came out or Sergeant MacVicar would surely have said so. Was this a tiny little sheep such as might easily have been dropped into a trench-coat pocket in passing?”

“No,” said Clorinda. “Miss Jane’s is quite a large sheep, almost the size of a real baby lamb. It’s wearing argyle plaid socks and a blue Glengarry bonnet with a bright red toorie on top.”

Osbert wrinkled his nose. “What’s a toorie?”

“It’s Scotch for a little ball of fuzz.”

“I thought they were pom-poms.”

“By pom-poms I assume you mean pompons,” said Arethusa, “unless you happen to be referring to the Maxim automatic quick-firing rifle, which is hyphenated. Or used to be. I don’t know whether they hyphenate them any more. Go look it up.”

“I have more important things to do,” snarled Osbert. “Come on, pardner, we’d better go find that sheep.”

“Who am I, Little Bo-Peep?” Dittany replied firmly. “Wherever that sheep may have strayed to, I expect it can stay there till after we’ve eaten our supper. Ready, everyone?”