The Grub-and-Stakers Spin a Yarn (27 page)

“Oh, definitely,” said Mrs. Phiffer. “You do have the most fascinating subconscious, Ralph. You are Ralph today, as I recall.”

“I wish I were Ralph every day,” Osbert replied with a baleful glare at his aunt.

Arethusa got set to snarl back, but Daughter Matilda tactfully changed the subject. “What about that note Daddy was supposed to have written and didn’t?”

“The fake Wardle would have had plenty of chances to pinch a piece of your father’s paper and forge his handwriting, though not very successfully,” Osbert replied, “and it would have been a cinch for the twins to plant the note in Miss Jane’s doll when they visited the shop after they’d ditched the cars and got into their Siamese twins suit. As for those two asinine robberies, they’d have had to be the work of somebody who either knew Lobelia Falls pretty well or else knew a couple of friendly ladies who could be coaxed into telling them where they might find a jeweled dagger, or a reasonable facsimile of one, and a ream of plain white paper.”

Osbert politely refrained from catching Clorinda’s or Arethusa’s eye. “But I think the real thing that steered me on to the twins must have been that I’m writing about ostriches. You see, ostriches don’t bury their heads in the sand.”

“Egad,” yelped Arethusa, “is that what you call a thought process?”

“I believe what he means is that ostriches are smarter than people,” said Agnes, as they now knew Mrs. Phiffer to be. “I’ve suspected it for quite some time.”

“To tell you the truth, ostriches are no great brains by and large,” Osbert confessed. “All I meant was that people have been led to believe that ostriches bury their heads in the sand when they want to hide, but naturally it doesn’t work because here’s this great big body sticking out. So they never think of ostriches as being anything but visible, when the truth is that ostriches can hide easily enough by lying down on the ground and stretching their necks out flat on the ground. Or getting behind a gnu. They hang out with gnus and zebras a lot.”

“I didn’t know that,” exclaimed Agnes.

“And I didn’t want to,” Arethusa added sourly. “Get to the nub, jackanapes.”

“What I’m driving at is that everybody also knows Siamese twins are joined together, so they don’t stop to wonder whether in fact they might be able to come apart. Once you’re convinced that two people have to function as one, like Dr. Doolittle’s Pushmi-Pullyu, you automatically write off any possibility that they could turn into two separate men in trench coats holding a running shootout with a vice president of a mincemeat factory. Or one twin hauling another vice president’s pants down in his own office, if you’ll excuse the vulgarity.”

“What is there to excuse?” said Daughter Matilda. “That’s what they did, isn’t it? One of them, anyway. Which twin was Quimper Wardle?”

“Ranville appears to have been the more proficient Wardle of the two, though Sergeant MacVicar and I gathered from what we heard in their room at the inn that he and Glanville had been taking turns. As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if there were often two Wardles in the factory, so that one could be establishing an alibi while the other was manhandling a VP with felonious intent. Don’t you agree, Chief?”

“Aye,” said Sergeant MacVicar, “so the evidence would indicate. As you know, ladies, the clothing purporting to have belonged to the alleged Quimper Wardle was left in Mrs. Phiffer’s spare room at the time of the so-called suicide, but Deputy Monk and I found duplicate garments hidden in a suitcase at the inn. Along, I should say, with two trench coats and two felt hats with the brims turned down.”

“That doesn’t mean the twins were both in the factory at the same time,” Mother Matilda argued. “How could they be? Gerald the security guard keeps careful tabs on who goes in each morning.”

“And does he check them off as they leave?” Osbert asked her.

“Why should he? It stands to reason the same ones have to go out as went in.”

“Not necessarily. What if somebody hid inside till everybody else had left and the factory was locked up for the night?”

“Then the night watchman would catch him and throw him out.”

“How many night watchmen do you have?”

“One,” Mother Matilda replied with some asperity. “That’s all we’ve ever needed.”

Daughter Matilda was swifter to grasp Osbert’s point. “One’s all we’ve ever thought we needed, Mama, but it’s a big building. However dutifully he makes his rounds, a single watchman can’t be everywhere at once. And we certainly can’t expect him to check out every closet in the offices or every box and bag in the warehouse, can we? A master of disguise like those Wardle twins or whatever their name is could easily pose as a sack of raisins or a crate of apples, wouldn’t you think, Cousin Donald?”

“Oh aye,” said Sergeant MacVicar. “They’re a wily pair, no doot about that. Once one twin had gained entry in the accepted way, he could stay overnight by some ruse or guile. The second twin would arrive the following morning with nobody the wiser, and there’d be the two of them inside, you see. The first could leave at closing time and so it could go, for as long as they chose.”

“Then how would the extra twin get out?” demanded Mother Matilda.

“Easily enough,” said Osbert. “He could slide out a window on a rope, or just walk out at quitting time like the other one, if the first twin left right on the button and got out of sight fast, and the other one hung around and mixed in with the last bunch of employees to leave. They wouldn’t both need to be in the factory very often, only when they were planning to steal another piece of the mincemeat recipe.”

“Got an answer for everything, haven’t you?” Mother Matilda sounded a bit cross, and who could blame her? “One thing sure, this awful business has taught me a terrible lesson. Eternal vigilance is the price of mincemeat. I don’t suppose you’d want to consider becoming our permanent Director of In-House Security, Osbert?”

“I’m sorry, Mother Matilda, I just can’t. I’ve got this herd of ostriches to rescue from the ostrich rustlers, my stepfather-in-law’s clamoring for Clorinda to go back on the road with him, and my wife has me booked to be VP Diapers.”

“We were afraid you’d say that,” said Daughter Matilda. “I have to tell you that VP Citron’s going to take your defection pretty hard, Osbert. I do see, though, that it could never have been.”

“I’ll say it couldn’t,” said Dittany. “Well, maybe some day her prince will come. And yours too, Daughter Matilda.”

“Oh, mine’s already on the premises. VP Cinnamon has finally got up the nerve to declare himself.” Daughter Matilda smiled fondly. “I’ve known for ages that Cin was my VP Right, but he had all these high-flown notions about not wanting to be called a fortune hunter for marrying the boss’s daughter. Last night after the funeral he dropped by the house, caught me having myself another quiet bawl over dear Daddy, and—and overcame his scruples. It’ll have to be a quiet wedding, of course. Just family. Cousin Donald, you’ll have to give me away.”

“It couldn’t be a more suitable match,” said Mother Matilda. “Cin’s the man Charles always hoped would step into his shoes as VP Nutmeg when the time came. And he’s connected with the McCorquindales on his mother’s side and with Monks on his father’s. Well, we must run along now. I’ve got to make some decisions about personnel changes and call up that rotter Throckmorton at Redundant Relishes and let him know what’s going to happen if he sics any more of his thugs on me. And then I’m going to sit down in front of Charles’s and my wedding picture and have myself a good bawl. Monday we’ll get the factory back to humming. And then, Cousin Margaret, you and I will tackle the question of Granny’s cullen skink. Fun’s fun, but work’s better. All right, Osbert, if you won’t come to work for us, you may as well go round up those ostriches.”

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copyright © 1990 by Alisa Craig

cover design by Mauricio Díaz

978-1-4532-7757-7

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