The Grub-and-Stakers Spin a Yarn (5 page)

“This is my daughter, Dittany Monk, and her husband Osbert, whom you may already know as Lex Laramie.”

The two men bobbed up in perfect unison, looking at the Monks over their respective right and left shoulders. “Not the Lex Laramie who writes those fabulous Westerns?” cried the one who’d been sitting with Arethusa. “I went absolutely ape over
Mayhem at the Mangled Mesquite.
This is tremendous! Do you prefer to be called Mr. Monk or Mr. Laramie?”

“The boys around the bunkhouse mostly just call him Pard,” said Dittany. She knew how Osbert hated to be gushed over. “And you’re …”

“We’re always referred to as the Bleinkinsop twins, for obvious reasons,” said the one who happened to be facing her. “The different-colored ties are so you can tell us apart. I’m Glanville, the red.” He and his brother made a smart quarter-wheel left so that Glanville could shake hands with the Monks.

“And I’m Ranville, the green.” A further half-wheel gave Ranville a chance to shake hands, too. “But this is incredible!” he cried. “The two brightest stars in Canada’s literary firmament, at one fell swoop.”

They returned to their original position, facing the Monks again over their shoulders. “We recognized Miss Monk from her photographs, needless to say,” said Glanville.

“And simply charged up and introduced ourselves like a couple of bobby-soxers,” said Ranville.

“Miss Monk’s a smash hit back home, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you,” said Glanville.

“Everybody in London adores her madly,” said Ranville.

“Ourselves included,” said Glanville. “Hostess, can’t we do something about these tables?”

“If that one over there were pulled over here,” suggested Ranville.

“Then Mr. and Mrs. Monk could sit side by side facing us,” added Glanville.

“And we’d both be able to see them at the same time,” said Ranville.

“Sorry to put you to the bother,” said Glanville.

“But we have to consider the logistics,” said Ranville.

“We love being Siamese twins,” said Glanville.

“It’s quite fun working things out,” said Ranville.

“And one’s never at a loss for company,” said Glanville.

“Yes, we never walk alone,” said Ranville.

Dittany suspected that the quip was not new, but she laughed anyway because the twins did, and so did the rest of the party. Glanville and Ranville were not at all what she’d expected. They kept up a merry patter as Osbert and the eldest Pitz girl rearranged the seating arrangements to everybody’s satisfaction.

By now, of course, the Monk-Pusey-Bleinkinsop party were the cynosure of all eyes and nobody was trying to pretend otherwise. Glanville and Ranville, as they insisted on being called since it would have been absurd to address them as Mr. Bleinkinsop and Mr. Bleinkinsop, must surely be used to being stared at. Both Clorinda, as the former ingenue, soubrette, and even occasional tragedienne of the Traveling Thespians, and Arethusa, as the reigning queen of regency romance, were quite accustomed to public notice. Dittany hadn’t much minded playing to an audience back when she was playing tiny tot roles in her mother’s company, but in her present condition she could have done with a trifle more obscurity.

Osbert, in the strong, silent tradition of the men of the West, plumb hated the spotlight. However, there wasn’t much he could do about it now. Besides, he was too intrigued at the way Glanville and Ranville managed the amenities to feel self-conscious about his own situation. It was particularly fascinating to see them matter-of-factly get up and switch positions every so often so that Glanville got to face Clorinda and Ranville face Arethusa. The only difference this made to Osbert and Dittany was that Glanville looked at them sometimes over his right shoulder, and sometimes over his left, whereas Ranville had to turn his head sometimes left and sometimes right, depending.

As far as conversation was concerned, the twins had it pretty much their own way. Not even Clorinda, usually not the most silent member of any assemblage, managed to get more than the odd word in edgewise. Arethusa, who tended to withdraw into her own world of rakes, ruffles, and rapiers anyway, merely smiled her Lady Ermintrude smile and gazed at whichever twin happened to be her vis-à-vis at any given moment with those great, dark eyes which had been described variously as limpid pools of midnight and as fathomless depths of inscrutability. It was only a matter of moments, Dittany realized, before both twins fell in love with Arethusa.

Maybe they already had; the process didn’t usually take long. And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad after all. In their peculiar circumstances, being in love with the same woman might be a good deal less of a strain on what in this case could be referred to most accurately as the family tree. Courtship could have become a real problem if they’d fallen for two different women, especially if the women didn’t like each other. Or if Glanville didn’t take kindly to the object of Ranville’s affections. Or, of course, vice versa.

Had Clorinda still been Ditson Henbit’s widow, Dittany thought, there’d have been no problem at all. She and Arethusa would have got along just fine as wives in a singularly close-knit household. Naturally, though, no well-bred British gentleman would be so crass as to make advances to the spouse of a hotshot fashion eyewear salesman, even if Clorinda had not been so obviously and enthusiastically about to become a grandmother.

“How long are you planning to stay in Lobelia Falls?” Dittany asked the twins when she could get a word in.

“We’re not quite sure,” said Glanville.

“We want to see something of Cousin Prudence,” said Ranville.

“Since we’ve never met her before,” said Glanville.

“But Prudence appears to be a busy lady,” said Ranville.

“That shop of hers must do a whacking business,” said Glanville.

“Pru was busy as a one-armed juggler when we stopped by,” said Ranville.

“But she gave us to understand that the rush was a bit unusual,” said Glanville.

“Something about a man getting shot,” said Ranville.

“I think you mean plugged, old boy,” said Glanville.

“I stand corrected, old boy,” said Ranville. “Plugged he was. Out front, I believe.”

“Right, old boy,” said Glanville. “Cousin Pru apologized for the bloodstains on the sidewalk.”

“Quite needlessly,” said Ranville.

“We expected them,” said Glanville.

“Been disappointed if we hadn’t seen them,” said Ranville.

“Out here in the wild west,” said Glanville.

“Where men are men,” said Ranville.

“Desperadoes and shoot-outs,” said Glanville.

“All sorts of things,” said Ranville.

“Part of the scene,” said Glanville.

“Rather thrilling, actually,” said Ranville.

“Makes us feel we’ve really arrived,” said Glanville.

“Boring for you people, I suppose,” said Ranville.

“Monotonous after a while, no doubt,” said Glanville.

“Doesn’t interfere with the social life, I hope?” said Ranville.

“Lively around here, is it?” said Glanville.

“Necktie parties and all that?” said Ranville.

“Oh yes,” said Osbert. “Once a month or so we clean out the desperadoes and start over. Feel up to some dessert, darling? Or perhaps a shot of red-eye?”

“Just tea, please,” said Dittany. “Darling, I think the joint’s being raided.”

Eyes that had been riveted on the Bleinkinsop twins suddenly were turning toward the doorway. Now that the inn had turned respectable, it had become an unusual occurrence to see a uniformed policeman on the premises; but there all at once stood Officer Bob, checking out the assemblage table by table. When he spied Osbert, he made a beeline, saluting smartly as he reached his goal.

“Sorry to bother you while you’re eating your dinner, Deputy Monk, but the chief says could you report back to the station right away on a matter of urgent official business?”

“By George, Glan,” cried Ranville, “did you hear that? Lex Laramie is a man behind the badge.”

“By George, Ran, this is exciting,” cried Glanville. “Just think, our first real genuine wild west deputy!”

“And here we’ve been sitting all this time,” said Ranville.

“Not realizing,” said Glanville.

“Without the slightest inkling,” said Ranville.

“Totally unaware,” said Glanville.

“Well, folks, I’d better mosey along,” said Osbert, tossing money on the table lest the twins think he was trying to stick them with the check. “Do you want to stay and drink your tea, Dittany gal, or would you rather come with me?”

Dittany at once began struggling out of her chair. “I’ll come with you and mooch a cup from Mrs. MacVicar at the public expense. She promised to show me the latest photographs of her newest grandson. He’s got a tooth, you’ll all be thrilled to know.”

“Oh, jolly good,” said Glanville.

“Snappish little blighter, is he?” said Ranville.

“We take our excitement where we can get it around here.” Dittany was beginning to find Ranville and Glanville a trifle repetitious. “It’s been lovely meeting you, and I do hope you enjoy your stay in Lobelia Falls. We’ll be seeing you again, no doubt.”

For tea in her own parlor this afternoon if Dittany knew her mother’s penchant for hospitality, which she certainly did. Why couldn’t those two—if in fact they counted as two, as she didn’t see why they shouldn’t since they obviously were—have stayed and helped Cousin Prudence in the shop instead of stravaging around picking up acquaintances among the local celebrities? That would have given them an interesting opportunity to work out a new set of operational logistics; whereas if they were planning to hang out with Arethusa and Clorinda, anything to do with logic in any form simply wouldn’t enter in.

Dittany took Osbert’s arm and resigned herself to running the gauntlet of wondering eyes as they left the dining room. “I wonder what Sergeant MacVicar wants you for in such a hurry?”

“Either he’s got some new information on the shootout,” Osbert guessed, “or else they’re having another grand free-for-all over at the yarn shop and he needs me to answer the telephone again while he’s out quelling.”

“Mrs. MacVicar could perfectly well answer the phone,” Dittany objected. “She does it all the time.”

“Then it must be about the man who got shot.”

Greatly to their puzzlement, though, they found Sergeant MacVicar with a visitor: a tall, comfortably padded woman who seemed to exude a gentle aura of sugar and spice and everything nice. She was wearing a smart, well-cut ensemble of navy-blue piped in white but would have looked more natural, thought Dittany, in a print housedress and a checkered apron. Whoever she was, she showed unfeigned delight at seeing Osbert and Dittany, particularly Dittany.

“Well now, I call this real progressive of you, Sergeant MacVicar, having a woman on your staff, and a mother-to-be in the bargain. I’m beginning to feel better about this awful business already. Just so you don’t go getting yourself shot, dear. Goodness knows what sort of traumatic effect it would have on the baby.”

“I never get shot,” Dittany assured whomever the visitor might be. “My husband won’t let me.”

“Er—m’ph,” said Sergeant MacVicar. “Mother Matilda, allow me to present Deputy Osbert Monk and—er—Special Deputy Dittany Monk. Mother Matilda, as she prefers to be known, is—”

“Not
the
Mother Matilda,” Dittany broke in. Now, here was a real celebrity!

“Yes, dearie,” said the celebrity. “Mother Matilda’s Mincemeat, that’s me. Which is what this awful business is about, or else I wouldn’t be here taking up your time when you might be home knitting tiny garments.”

“Don’t worry about my time, Mother Matilda. I’m no earthly good at tiny garments. Besides, we already have a houseful.”

“Dittany’s a great cook, though,” said Osbert loyally.

“And I always use Mother Matilda’s Mincemeat, as did my Grandmother Henbit before me. My mother, who’s now Mrs. Pusey, still does when she gets the chance, which isn’t often these days because she and my stepfather travel in fashion eyewear.”

Mother Matilda’s strained features relaxed in a gratified smile, though only temporarily. “That’s lovely, dear. I hear the same kind of story over and over again everywhere I go. Generation after generation, and to think it’s come to this! I don’t know what dear old Granny would say if she were alive today. She was the original Mother Matilda, you know. Mother took over when Granny’s feet gave out, and now here’s me carrying on the family tradition, as will my own daughter after me, if she ever gets the chance,” Mother Matilda added dolefully. “It looks a bit iffy right now, I have to tell you. That’s what comes of letting men into the business. They always want to organize things, then you get successful and look what happens. You wouldn’t have a spare cup of tea lying around anywhere handy, Sergeant? I’ve been so kerflummoxed by this awful business that I plain forgot to eat. Haven’t had a bite since last night’s supper, if memory serves me correctly, as it generally does. What I wouldn’t give for a nice, hot bowl of Granny’s cullen skink right this minute! Nobody’s ever been able to make cullen skink the way my grandmother did.”

“Oh aye?” said Sergeant MacVicar. “Would you excuse me a wee moment, Mother Matilda?”

“Gladly, if you’re planning to put the kettle on. While you’re gone, Sergeant, I’ll just fill in your deputies here on what this awful business is all about so’s we won’t be wasting your time. What you’ve got to understand, Dittany and Osbert, is that the man who died this morning over there by the yarn shop was a hero.”

“Heavens to Betsy!” cried Dittany.

“And well you may say so,” replied Mother Matilda. “He was also, I’m both proud and sad to say, my husband. And a finer man never drew breath, if I do say so. He was vice president in charge of nutmeg.”

“Was he, indeed?”

“Yes, indeed. VP Nutmeg is the highest position in our organization, next to mine. Charles was our crown prince, as I used to call him, and a true prince he was. That was his name, Charles. Charles McCorquindale, We were distantly related, though we never managed to figure out just how. My granny was a McCorquindale before her marriage. But I’m digressing. I don’t know how familiar you two are with the mincemeat business …?”