The Grub-and-Stakers Spin a Yarn (24 page)

“Now you’re talking. I knew there was some reason why I married you, precious. Aside from the fact that it would have been totally impossible not to, that is. Remember that first night I got up nerve enough to kiss you in the pantry?”

“And we were engaged by the time you got your breath back, and Arethusa caught us and said we were out of our minds because we’d only known each other for about four days.”

“And I told her to stuff it,” said Osbert, “and she’s been stuffing it every since. But I don’t care, even if I do wax a tad wroth about the pickled onions now and then. If I hadn’t been visiting Aunt Arethusa, I might never have met you. I’d have become just another dried-up tumbleweed rolling around on the barren sands of time.”

“Never, darling! We’d have met somehow or other. Fate would have ordained it.”

“I don’t know, pet. Fate can be pretty screwed up sometimes.”

“Well, fate’s not going to screw us up,” Dittany insisted, “because we’re kind to aunts and animals. I do hope Ethel isn’t going to be jealous of the twins. She got into a real snit that time we baby-sat the Coskoffs’ pet hamster while they went to Vancouver for the fair.”

“Well, I didn’t think much of that hamster myself, if you want the truth,” Osbert confessed. “I thought it was somewhat wanting in the intellect. Which brings us back to Aunt Arethusa. Do you suppose she’ll stay the course without raising a howl?”

“Oh yes, I expect so, as long as the food holds out. Have you any plan afoot to trap Wardle and his accomplice?”

“All I have is an idea, and you know how it is about ideas.”

“Yes, dear. You mustn’t talk about them or you scare them away. So who’s going to handle the stakeout at Mrs. Phiffer’s? Fridwell Slapp doesn’t sound capable of staking out anything livelier than a plate of mashed potatoes, and Sergeant MacVicar has no jurisdiction in Lammergen. Does that mean you’re planning to go yourself, or shouldn’t I ask?”

“Ask as much as you like, pet. Don’t expect a coherent answer, though. As of now I’m just pinning my faith on Aunt Arethusa and that plaster duck. I have a hunch nothing’s going to happen for a while yet.”

“How long a while?” asked Dittany.

“I don’t know, dear.”

“It’s hard to get a decent hunch these days, isn’t it?” she sympathized. “Though I expect Mrs. Phiffer has a few spare ones in her attic that she’s planning to do something with one of these days.”

Thus chatting, they reached home. Ethel had gone for a stroll and Osbert and Dittany were sharing a companionable sandwich lunch when Clorinda and Margaret returned.

“No, we don’t want anything, thank you,” said Margaret. “We had coffee and mincemeat tarts at the McCorquindales’ after the funeral, but we didn’t think we ought to stay there too long. It wouldn’t have looked right.”

“Besides,” said Clorinda, “Daughter Matilda didn’t need us a bit. She was managing just fine, dropping the odd ‘forsooth’ every now and then, and bursting into tears if anybody got too nosy. Some people seem to think she’s slightly unhinged by grief and shock while others are wondering whether she may not in fact be the person she seems to be, which is precisely the effect we wanted to create. So now all we have to worry about is finding Arethusa.”

“Not to worry, Mum,” Dittany chirped. “Osbert went straight to her like a homing pigeon. We left her enjoying a comfortable repast whose menu I shan’t recite to you just now because it makes me queasy to think about. Would you believe that ornery coyote Wardle had the nerve to park her on his landlady?”

“The one with the flamingos?” Margaret MacVicar could not but smile. “How remarkably astute! Your Mrs. Phiffer sounds like exactly the sort who’d take a hostage in stride. She’s been given to understand Arethusa’s abduction is merely some kind of jolly jape, I suppose?”

“Precisely,” said Osbert, “and it’s our job to keep her thinking so until further notice. That’s why I have to talk to the chief. Is he around?”

“I couldn’t say. I haven’t been home yet. Why don’t you phone the station?”

“I’ll drop by on my way. I have to go to Scottsbeck to pick up some groceries for Mrs. Phiffer. Or somebody does,” Osbert added with a meaningful glance at his mother-in-law. “You know how Aunt Arethusa eats.”

“Eats!” exclaimed Clorinda. “I’d entirely forgotten. Arethusa’s supposed to be having dinner at the inn with Miss Jane and the twins. The Yarnspinners’ League are sponsoring a cribbage tournament there tonight. Miss Jane’s a charter member, of course, and she signed herself and the twins up. They needed a fourth, so they drafted Arethusa. If she doesn’t appear, people are going to wonder.”

“Rats!” said Osbert. “Now what are we going to do? We can’t expect Daughter Matilda to impersonate Aunt Arethusa at the cribbage tournament right after her own father’s funeral. Matilda did say she was planning to come back here tonight though, I hope?”

“Oh yes,” said Margaret. “We made sure of that. The relatives are staying another night so she still has no place to sleep at home. She’s supposed to phone you when she sees her way clear to leave her mother. Then whichever one of us is available will nip over and pick her up. Donald didn’t think Matilda ought to be driving herself even if her car was ready in time, and I quite agree. Don’t you?”

“Absolutely. But dad-rat it, this does pose a problem. How come you weren’t invited to play, Clorinda?”

“Five’s a crowd, dear. Besides, to tell you the truth, I’m growing just a wee bit fatigued with Glanville and Ranville. Furthermore, I’m not sure it’s quite the thing for a married woman to keep running around with a pair of attractive bachelor gentlemen joined at the spine. I have to admit that the more I see of the twins, the more I miss Bert. You wouldn’t mind too awfully, dears, if I were to skip off next week for a few days? Bert’s coming to Ottawa, and he’s asked me to join him there.”

“Oh no, Mum, we wouldn’t mind a bit,” cried Dittany. “Not a smidgin. Would we, Osbert?”

“Absolutely not. Stay as long as you like, Clorinda. We’ll manage. There’s nothing left here for you to knit except maybe some awnings for the kitchen windows.”

“He’s joking, Mum,” Dittany put in hastily lest her mother dash out and start measuring the windows. “But you know I have scads of friends to call on if I need them, and there’s always Mrs. Poppy.”

In fact, there was seldom Mrs. Poppy, since the lady who was engaged to clean the house twice a week managed in fact to show up about three times a month; but that was a detail they all chose to ignore.

“True enough,” said Clorinda. “And even if I did swallow my scruples and go to the tournament in Arethusa’s place, that would be almost worse than nothing because it would emphasize the fact that she hadn’t come. Then everybody would want to know why, since Arethusa never misses a cribbage tournament as well you know.”

“And seldom fails to beat the pants off everybody except Grandsire Coskoff,” Osbert added. “Dang-blang it, I never thought to see the day I’d have to admit Aunt Arethusa is indispensable. She’s got to make an appearance at the tournament. But how can she?”

“Quite simply, dear,” said Dittany. “All we need is to get hold of an experienced actress who’s a mistress of disguise, knows all Arethusa’s mannerisms, imitates her voice to perfection, and can also do a plausible imitation of Daughter Matilda if need arises.”

“In a word,” said Clorinda, “me.”

“You?” snorted Osbert. “You’re not even tall enough.”

“A bagatelle. I’ll just put on my high-heeled green snakeskin wedgies with the two-inch platform soles, the ones Aunt Daisy fell off in 1949 and twisted her knee, which is how I happened to inherit them. Aunt Daisy never liked me much. She thought I was a little smarty-pants.”

Osbert was too much of a gentleman to say he thought so too, but the snakeskin wedgies had clearly failed to convince him that Clorinda was right for the role. “You don’t have long, black hair.”

“I do so, unless somebody’s borrowed it and not brought it back. Where’s that long, black wig I wore in the Addams Family skit, Dittany?”

“On your closet shelf in one of those old hatboxes, I forget which. Try the red with the gray stripes.”

“And where’s the key to Arethusa’s house?”

“Hanging in the pantry next to the dog food.”

“Thank you, dear. I’ve found it. Margaret, would you mind going to Arethusa’s house with me for just a few minutes? I’d as soon not go in alone, and I need to pick up her floppy-legged blue satin lounging pajamas.”

“But you can’t play a cribbage tournament in green snakeskin wedgies, blue satin lounging pajamas, and a Halloween wig,” Osbert protested.

“Of course I can’t, dear,” Clorinda replied sweetly. “But I can be playing Arethusa over at Mrs. Phiffer’s while Arethusa plays cribbage at the inn.”

“Lumbering longhorns! So you can. Come on, I’ll take you over to get the pajamas myself.”

H
AVING TO TRANSFORM HERSELF
into another surrogate Daughter Matilda meant that Clorinda wouldn’t have time to shop for Mrs. Phiffer’s groceries, but Osbert didn’t mind. Before going to Scottsbeck, he spent some time in earnest confabulation with Sergeant MacVicar. By the time Osbert was ready to leave the station, the sergeant was rubbing his chin and looking even more than usually Caledonian.

“ ’Tis a long shot, Deputy Monk. A long, long shot.”

“But you think it’s worth trying?”

“Oh aye. Aye, lad, it’s worth trying. Half-past ten, you say?”

“That should be about right. You don’t have to come along with me, you know.”

“Lad, lad! Were our positions reversed, would you hang back?”

“Heck, no. Wild mustangs wouldn’t keep me away. Right then, Chief. Half-past ten on the button. Now I’ve got to shop for Auntie’s supper. Or not, as the case may be.”

Osbert bought quite a lot of food, including a jar of pickled pigs’ feet and a couple of curly cabbages that he thought might tickle Mrs. Phiffer’s fancy. While he was in the market, he picked up several jars of baby food. The twins wouldn’t be ready for strained applesauce till about March, he didn’t suppose, but one did want to be prepared.

What with one thing and another, Osbert didn’t get back to Lobelia Falls till almost three o’clock. It was time to think about driving Clorinda over to Lammergen, not that he had any great expectations about the efficacity of her disguise. He was, therefore, astonished to enter the kitchen and see Arethusa at the table drinking tea.

But wait! This could not be Arethusa. All the woman had in front of her was a cup and saucer; no cookies, no scone, not so much as a piece of cinnamon toast.

“Pretty good, Clorinda,” he applauded, “only shouldn’t you be eating something?”

“Touché,” his mother-in-law replied merrily. “Of course I should, I’ll remember next time. How do I look?”

“It’s uncanny.”

It really was. Clorinda and Arethusa didn’t look a bit alike. Somehow or other, though, the ex-Traveling Thespian had contrived with her black wig and stage makeup not so much a duplication as an effect of Arethusa. When Clorinda stood up, the floppy legs of the 1930s style pajamas fell almost to the floor, their unbroken line creating an illusion of even greater height than the extra four or five inches which the clunky green wedgies added to her small stature. The long jacket, loosely caught around the hips by a wide sash whose ends dangled down to where her knees ought to be but probably weren’t, had Joan Crawford-style shoulder pads that made her look wider than she was. But most convincing of all was the atmosphere of Arethusa-ness which Clorinda managed somehow to project.

“The real secret,” she explained, “is to
think
I’m Arethusa. To
feel
I’m Arethusa. To
be
Arethusa.”

Osbert was awed. “In short, to immolate your own personality on the altar of your art. Gosh, little did I know the sacrifices you were prepared to make. What if you can’t get back to being Clorinda?”

“Not to worry, dear boy. Once I kick off these wedgies and remove my hair, I’ll be plain old me again.”

“And I’ll be plumb glad to see you,” Osbert replied gallantly. “Now let’s put this show on the road, time’s getting short. You did remember the purple cape?”

“Dahling, I’m a trouper! How could you doubt? Bye-bye, daughter dear, I’ll see you after the final curtain.”

“Break a leg, Mum.” Dittany had done enough trouping herself to know the actor’s blessing, but thought she’d better tack on a qualification, since one never quite knew with Clorinda. “Figuratively speaking, you understand. In those clodhoppers, you might all too easily trip over a frog or a duck.”

“And muck up my act, ecod? Zounds, child, don’t you know me better than that?”

Perfectly imitating Arethusa’s walk notwithstanding the clodhoppers, Clorinda sashayed out to the entry, plucked the purple cloak off the peg on which Arethusa always parked it when she happened to remember, and swirled it over her lounging pajamas. “Shake a leg, you whey-faced churl!”

“By George, she’s got it!” cried Osbert. “You’re going to lay those flamingos in the aisles, temporary Auntie dear. This way to the coach and four.”

Osbert’s mother-in-law insisted on sitting alone in the back seat to practice her hauteur and think herself into her role. Now that she’d got Arethusa down pat, Clorinda still had to work on being Arethusa pretending to be Daughter Matilda. That was fine with Osbert as he himself had plenty to think about. One detail that didn’t much concern him was whether Mrs. Phiffer would accept yet another substitute Daughter Matilda; and indeed there was no reason why he ought to have worried. Mrs. Phiffer was absolutely delighted, and said so quite a number of times.

“I love you! Love you! Love you! Not that the real Daughter Matilda isn’t perfectly right for the part, you understand; but you’re so ineffably, subtly, kitschily
wrong
! I can’t quite put my finger on the difference, but I feel it
here.
”

She thumped herself on the bib of her orange overalls, probably inflicting some discomfort since for some reason known, Osbert supposed, to herself, Mrs. Phiffer was now carrying another from her apparently inexhaustible supply of plaster ducks.

“But you will think of me as the real Daughter Matilda?” Clorinda pleaded. “Your willingness to be deceived is essential to the thrust of the plot. We’re working up to the dénouement, you see. Everything depends on our remaining in character: you as the innocently trusting landlady, I as the loyal friend who has bravely and selflessly volunteered herself as a substitute for the beleaguered kidnappee. Think of me as a female Sydney Carton, Mrs. Phiffer. Try to bear in mind this is a far, far better thing I do.”