The Grub-and-Stakers Spin a Yarn (7 page)

“How else would you have got hold of Granny’s recipe?” said Mother Matilda.

“Frankly, I’ve never had a recipe,” Mrs. Mac Vicar admitted. “I just make it the way my own grandmother did. She lived with us after Grandfather died, and did a good deal of the cooking. It seems to me I do recall her saying she’d learned from her mother-in-law, of whom she was very fond. My father was a doctor and my mother used to help him in the office quite a lot, so she was glad to let Granny take over the kitchen. Not that we didn’t have a hired girl to wash the pots and pans,” Mrs. MacVicar added, not out of vulgar ostentation, but because she knew what was expected of a doctor’s daughter and a police chief’s wife. “But how pleasant to meet you, Cousin Matilda, as I suppose I may as well call you. My own given name is Margaret.”

“That doesn’t surprise me a bit,” said Mother Matilda. “Granny’s middle name was Margaret. I declare, here I was feeling lorn and bereft, and it turns out I’m among family. You know, Margaret, I wonder whether you and I mightn’t work out a written recipe and start considering the commercial possibilities of Granny’s cullen skink? Not right now, of course. First we’ve got to get this awful business about the mincemeat recipe straightened out, then I’ve got to take a few days off so’s I can sit around and feel awful about poor Charles. I’m going to bawl like a baby once I get the chance, but first things first, as Granny used to say.”

Mother Matilda laid her serviette back on the tray and straightened her spine. “Margaret, what’s your husband’s first name?”

“It’s Donald,” Mrs. Mac Vicar replied with a slight hesitation and a sideward glance at the gentleman in question.

“Good. Now then, Cousin Donald, let’s get down to business. I might as well tell you first as last that I have no more confidence in that fatuous old hairpin who calls himself Lammergen’s police chief than I’d have in that doorpost over there. Less, in fact. The doorpost at least seems to be doing its job competently enough, which is a darn sight more than you can say about Fridwell Slapp. What I’m getting at is, I want you to be the one in charge of this awful business.”

“Umph,” Sergeant MacVicar replied, “that may not be possible, Cousin Matilda.”

“I declare, isn’t that just like a man? Always wanting to make things complicated when a relative asks a perfectly simple favor.”

“The law is the law,” Sergeant MacVicar sternly reminded his newly acquired cousin-in-law. “I can and will investigate that portion of the ootrage which has been committed within the purlieus of Lobelia Falls, but I have no jurisdiction to enter yon mincemeat factory, wherein I misdoubt will be found the most vital clues to the identities of the perpetrators.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” snapped Mother Matilda. “Sit on my hands and watch eighty-seven years’ worth of dedication to the ultimate in gourmet mincemeat production trickle away down the drain? Not to mention letting the wicked assassination of the sweetest, dearest VP Nutmeg who ever trod this earth go unavenged?”

“ ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’ ” Sergeant MacVicar reminded her.

“Aye, verily,” she shot back. “And the Lord helps those who get down to work and help themselves find out who’s helping themselves to my granny’s mincemeat recipe. For Pete’s sake, Donald, quit being so cussed Scotch and consider my position. Those crooks have already snaffled the cider, the lemon peel, the suet, the currants, and presumably the nutmeg. Mark my words, first thing you know, they’ll be after the cloves and the cinnamon. By the time they get to the raisins, I’ll be tottering on the brink of a hostile takeover.”

“Yes, but—”

Sergeant MacVicar might as well have tried to stem Victoria Falls. “And they’ll do it,” Mother Matilda rushed on, “if there’s nobody between them and me but that old poop Fridwell Slapp. Where’s your Highland clan spirit, man? How can you refuse a simple favor to your own good wife’s second cousin? Or maybe her third, but what’s the difference? Do you want to go through the rest of your life choking on every spoonful of cullen skink that crosses your lips, remembering how you betrayed the blessed memory of that saintly woman who taught Margaret’s grandmother how to make it?”

“Donald,” pleaded his wife, “surely there’s something you can do. Great-granny-in-law really must have been a lovely woman.”

Much affected by this pathetic tableau, Dittany turned to Osbert. In turn, Osbert turned to Dittany. Both of them then turned to Sergeant MacVicar. It was Osbert who spoke.

“Not to be pushy or anything, Chief, but Dittany and I are wondering whether you might consider the fact that she and I aren’t officially members of the Lobelia Falls police force. That means we’re not bound by the same regulations as you and Bob and Ray and Ormerod, so I don’t see any real reason why we couldn’t do a little nosing around over in Lammergen and report back here to you. I might get myself taken on at the mincemeat factory as an apple corer or a salt shaker or something. Dittany could bring me my dinner pail at noontime and stop to chat in a friendly way with the choppers and peelers. Nobody’s going to suspect a sweet young mother-to-be of being an infiltrator.”

“There now,” cried Mother Matilda, “that’s using your head for something besides a hat rack. The only trouble with your idea, Osbert, is that we have a cafeteria where all the employees eat. They don’t go outside at all; so there’s no way she’d get to meet any of them. It’s not that we’re mean to them, it’s on account of sanitary regulations. You have to be real fussy around food, you know. Every employee has to get washed up soon as they come in, just like hospital workers, and put on a clean uniform which doesn’t get taken off till they leave for the day.”

She turned to her cousin. “You’d like the uniforms, Margaret. The women have real pretty Mother Hubbards in different-colored ginghams depending on what department they work in: red for apples, yellow for lemon peel, purple for raisins, green for citron, and so forth. They wear elasticized mobcaps with cute little ruffles all around to cover their hair so’s it won’t get into the mincemeat. Hair in mincemeat was one thing Granny never stood for and neither will I.”

“But what about the men?” said Mrs. MacVicar.

“The men have plain cotton duck trousers—red or green or whatever, with checkered tops sort of like a loose jacket that buttons up to a high collar like a chef’s uniform. They wear caps, too, only without ruffles. Not that they couldn’t have ruffles if they took the notion, mind you. We don’t practice sex discrimination unless we catch ’em out on top of the cinnamon bags doing what has no place in a well-run mincemeat factory, which I regret to say has been known to happen. But anyway, once they’re dressed for work, we can’t let ’em go roaming the roads and getting all unhygienic, as you must surely realize.”

“Oh yes,” said Dittany, “we understand perfectly. And it’s not as though there were much to go out for in Lammergen, anyway.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mother Matilda a shade huffily. “We do have a dentist, and a real nice feed store. If somebody’s got an appointment or something we make an exception, but the general rule is once you’re in, you’re in for the day. So that lets you out, I’m afraid, Dittany. I couldn’t possibly take you on as hired help because it wouldn’t make sense to hire somebody in your present condition. The employees would get to wondering, which of course is what we want to avoid because there’s talk enough already, and heaven only knows what they’ll be saying once word about poor Charles gets around.”

She paused to dab her eyes, men ruthlessly dragged herself back to business. “So it looks as though Osbert will just have to go it alone, if he’s game to try and can get the time off from work. What do you do, sonny?”

“I’m a writer,” Osbert replied modestly.

“I meant for a living.”

“That’s what I do. I write Western stories.”

“And get paid for them?”

“Hoots, Cousin Matilda!” Sergeant MacVicar had at last found something to amuse him on what had thus far been a day sadly lacking in light moments. “E’en in Lammergen, surely folks have heard of Lex Laramie?”

“Well, of course, but—you mean that’s him? This young squirt right here? Sorry, Osbert, but I’ve always pictured Lex Laramie as being seven feet tall, wearing wolf-hide chaps and riding a black stallion twenty-six hands high. And here you are, not one darn bit more leathery and hard-bitten than my nephew Harold, who’s still taking bassoon lessons at the conservatory in Scottsbeck. I’ll bet you don’t even roll your own.”

“No, ma’am, I’ve never smoked at all. I tried once and it made me sick. I have been known to belly up to the bar for a shot of red-eye, though,” Osbert offered lest Mother Matilda’s illusions be completely shattered.

His only reward was a snort of disbelief. “I’ll bet you have! A shot of lime rickey would be more like it. Well, my stars, if that doesn’t beat all! Anyway, I expect being a writer means you can take off whatever time you want. It’s not as though you had any real work to do.”

“That’s what you think,” snarled Dittany. “Writing’s about the hardest work there is. Try it yourself sometime if you don’t believe me.”

“Me?” Mother Matilda had the grace to blush for her misapprehension. “I wouldn’t know where to begin, just as I don’t know where to begin with this awful business. All right, Osbert, I apologize. I suppose you’re also a famous detective in disguise. You wouldn’t happen by any chance to be Sherlock Holmes, too?”

A
CTUALLY IT WAS RATHER
gallant of Mother Matilda to essay even this mild quip in so dire a situation; but Sergeant MacVicar did not consider the force he commanded a laughing matter under any circumstances. “When I introduced Osbert and Dittany Monk as my deputies, Cousin Matilda,” he said rather coldly, “I spoke naught but the truth. Together, these two young folk have succeeded in clearing up three of the most baffling mysteries that e’er sullied the annals of law enforcement. Osbert Monk needs no fancy label, he is a host in himself. Whether he will be handicapped by the fact that his partner in criminology, as in life, will not be able to penetrate yon mincemeat factory, I much doubt. And I confess that I’d have been gravely apprehensive had she gone.”

After Ditson Henbit’s death, Sergeant MacVicar had got to thinking of Dittany as a wee, fatherless bairn. He was still finding the habit hard to break notwithstanding her present status as wife and incipient mother. He, was giving her one of those benign looks of his, Dittany noted, and trying to think up something to say that wouldn’t make her want to stamp her feet and flounce off in a huff.

“Howsomever,” he concluded after a moment’s cogitation, “I doubt not that Dittany will be assisting the investigation in her own inscrutable ways.”

“Right now,” said Mrs. MacVicar in no uncertain tone, “I think Dittany could use a bit of assistance herself. Take her home, Osbert, and make her put her feet up for a while. Can I offer you a fresh cup of tea, Cousin Matilda, or do you have to be getting back to the factory?”

“I’d better go back and call a directors’ meeting, thank you, Cousin Margaret. Osbert, what you’d better do is present yourself tomorrow morning as an applicant for Director of In-House Security. We’ve never had such a position before, but Charles decided we needed one after poor old Fred got debagged. He’d actually made preliminary arrangements to hire somebody, so the staff won’t consider it odd when you show up. In that position you’ll have carte blanche to roam all over the place and question anybody you choose. Don’t you think that’s the best plan, Cousin Donald? You’ll give Osbert a reference, won’t you?”

Sergeant MacVicar stood up and bowed her toward the door. “Dinna fash yoursel’ about the references, Cousin Matilda. Come, we’ll go out together. I’ll be nipping on over to Scottsbeck, Margaret, to inspect those two cars they’ve found ditched and to make sure the mortal coil which Cousin Charles so tragically shuffled off is being treated with due respect.”

“Find out how soon Cousin Matilda can have him back, Donald,” said Mrs. MacVicar. “I’m sure she’ll want to get the funeral plans in order.”

“I expect likely I will,” Mother Matilda agreed, “once I’ve got this director’s, meeting over with. You can be sure of one thing, Cousin Margaret—dear old Charlie’s going to get the rip-roaring send-off he deserves, bless his heart wherever he may be now. Osbert, your appointment’s for tomorrow morning at eight-thirty sharp. We start early in the mincemeat business.”

“Yes, Mother Matilda. I’ll go straight home and write myself some red-hot references just as soon as I’ve put Dittany’s feet up.”

Up was precisely where Dittany wished her feet to be. Lugging a pair of twins around became increasingly hard on the pedal extremities, she was discovering. “I don’t see why they can’t have mother-to-be carriages as well as baby carriages,” she fretted as they turned the corner onto Applewood Avenue.

“Want to play horsey?” Osbert suggested. “I’ll get down on all fours and you can ride on my back.”

“Thank you, dear, but you really ought to consider your dignity as Director of In-House Security,” Dittany replied. “What name are you going to use?”

“I was thinking about something along the lines of Osbert Monk.”

“But everybody from here to Halifax knows Osbert Monk is really Lex Laramie,” Dittany objected. “Sorry, dear, I meant that Lex Laramie is Osbert Monk.”

“That’s all right, dear,” Osbert comforted her. “I get confused sometimes myself. Then how about my being Reginald Monk, who happens to be staying in Lobelia Falls with his brother Osbert and Osbert’s beautiful though bulgy wife. The one with the sore feet.”

“Brilliant!” cried Dittany. “Then if people notice the resemblance, you can say you and Osbert are often mistaken for twins.”

“Why can’t I just say we
are
twins?”

“I suppose you could, now that you mention it, though it does seem to me there’s almost a plethora of twins around here already. I wonder whether Mum and Arethusa went somewhere with Glanville and Ranville. Let’s hope we don’t find the answer in our front parlor.”

“Not to mention in our kitchen, our dining room, or down cellar messing around with our new sump pump.” This was the first sump pump with which Osbert had ever had occasion to become personally acquainted, and he tended to be rather fiercely protective of the relationship. “You know how fond of your mother I am, darling,” he went on plaintively, “but doesn’t she ever get tired of being sociable?”