Something in the Water

by Charlotte MacLeod

  It was dismissal, courteous but definite. Peter hitched the strap of his gathering bag to a more comfortable parking place on his collarbone, took the two filled water jugs that Miss Rondel handed him—sure enough, he hadn’t once set eyes on the spring—and hiked back to his car.

  The blue-and-silver pickup wasn’t there. He’d forgotten all about it until he noticed the empty spot where it had been parked, and also about that glowering oaf who’d come storming down the path, shouting back at Miss Rondel what had sounded like a threat.

  Peter would have preferred to keep on forgetting. This had been too halcyon a day to clutter up the memory of it with some backwoods bully’s melodramatic bellowings. He’d had enough melodrama last night at the inn, he wondered whether Mrs. Bright had had any word by now as to what Jasper Flodge had died from, and was annoyed with himself for wondering. Peter stowed his seeds in the trunk for safekeeping and set the jugs of water on the floor in back with a few sheets of last Friday’s Balaclava County Fane and Pennon wadded up between them so that they wouldn’t joggle together and crack on the way back down this deplorable excuse for a road.

  He’d been wondering how he might recompense Miss Rondel for letting him raid her lupines. One thing she could really use would be a rented backhoe and a few loads of fill. On the other hand, maybe she preferred to keep her land the way it was. At least it must discourage gawkers from driving up to picnic in her garden. That wise old up-country axiom “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” might well apply here.

  Peter remembered the first time he’d been in Maine, the real Maine that the tourists who came to shop in Kittery and Freeport never got to experience. He’d got a feeling then that this was a different place; he hadn’t been able then to pin down the difference and he still couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt it nonetheless. His painting was part of the difference, so was the unknown genius who’d created it, so was the elixir that came from Miss Rondel’s secret spring. He was in alien territory here. Not hostile territory, he hoped, but—he could think of no apter word—different. It behooved him to go canny, he steered a careful path around the rocks and over the ruts until his tires hit familiar, unlovely asphalt and he could follow the yellow line back to the inn.

  Nobody was at the desk in the lobby. That didn’t surprise Peter, it was coming up to the peak dinner hour, Mrs. Bright was no doubt busy in the kitchen. He wouldn’t bother her now, he stepped around the counter and parked the jugs underneath, where nobody would stumble over them. His pant legs were stiffened from the dried-on salt spray, the day’s activities must have left him looking and smelling like one of the early sea people. Strangely enough, he didn’t feel the least bit tired, but comfort and common decency both demanded a shower and change before he showed himself in the dining room.

  Peter took his time dressing. He’d lost, or at least temporarily mislaid that sensation of otherness. By the time he’d got himself sanitized and garbed in reasonably presentable slacks, a clean short-sleeved shirt, and a light jacket—no tie, of course, that would have been carrying gentility a step too far—he was feeling smug and contented. Now was the time to call Helen.

  There was no telephone in the room but canny Mrs. Bright, or possibly the late Jean-Luc, had caused a pay phone to be installed in a booth at the far corner of the lobby for guests’ convenience and, no doubt, to keep them from trying to charge calls on the telephone at the desk. Peter shut himself in the booth and fished out a handful of change. In a matter of moments, he was connected to his wife.

  “Oh, Peter, I was hoping you’d call. Did you get to see the lupines?”

  “I came, I saw, I conquered. Those lupines are even more overwhelming than Catriona said they were. And I took seed from every dratted one of them.”

  “You’re a great man, darling.”

  “That I am. Nice of you to notice. By the way, O Psyche from the regions which are fairyland, would you care to stuff a couple of thousand dollars into your panty hose and ride up here with Catriona?”

  “Peter, you don’t mean right now?”

  “Tomorrow would do. Or even the day after, if needs must.”

  “But why? Peter Shandy, don’t tell me you’re about to be arrested for stealing those lupine seeds and want me to bail you out?”

  “Perish the thought, mine own. I am pure as the driven snow. Purer, in fact, considering how much air pollution goes into your average snowflake nowadays. Suffice it to say that I look the whole world in the face for I rob not any man. Or woman. Miss Rondel, according to information received, is somewhere in the midst of her nonage, but I got the impression that she could still lick me in a fair fight. We got on like a house afire, I’ll have you know. She not only granted me carte blanche among her lupines, she also gave me a drink of water from her invisible spring and a private view of that which I need to raise the cash to buy you a present of.”

  “An antique buggy lamp?”

  “No, nor yet an iron stag for the lawn. You’ll know when you see it. Just do me a favor and don’t say anything about this to Catriona or anybody else until you’ve had a chance to make up your mind. The deal is perfectly legitimate, to the best of my knowledge and belief, but the circumstances seem to be a trifle peculiar and I don’t want to rock the boat.”

  “How deliciously enigmatic! But what shall I tell Cat, then?”

  “Tell her I’ve wasted away from wifely neglect and am too weak to drive home alone. Alternatively, that I’m clamoring for you to see the lupines before all the color goes. The latter explanation might be the more plausible of the two.”

  “But the former is the more flattering to the female ego. All right, dear, I’ll come as soon as I can. Audrey’s already left, she got a call this morning that Maud Silver had taken one of her turns. Maud Silver’s her cat, she suffers terribly from hair balls because she’s always trying to give Audrey’s husband’s old bearskin rug a bath with her tongue. The rug molts terribly but Sam won’t let Audrey junk it because his great-uncle Otis saved his great-aunt Margaret’s life by shooting the bear while they were on a camping trip to Glacier Park with Mary Roberts Rinehart, which makes the beastly thing a family heirloom. Awfully hard on poor Maud, but you know how it is with families.”

  “The only family I don’t know about is ours,” Peter replied a trifle querulously. “Have you no thoughts on the matter that was under discussion before we got sidetracked to Maud Silver’s hair balls?”

  “Right. Sorry about that. As of this moment, Cat and Iduna Stott are out in the backyard hulling berries for the strawberry festival that Iduna’s chairing for the Friends of the Library tomorrow, and I’m here in the kitchen getting our supper. Dan Stott will be back from giving his speech to the hog growers’ association on Friday. I expect Iduna will be champing at the bit to start barbecuing the fatted calf for Dan’s homecoming banquet as soon as she’s done her stint at the festival. So would Thursday be soon enough?”

  “Thursday will be fine.”

  A day in between should give Miss Rondel time enough to crank up her mysterious protege’s acquisitive instincts, Peter was thinking. She was probably eating her supper about now, he’d better leave her to it and phone in the morning. What he’d do with the rest of the day remained to be seen.

  This chat about food reminded him that it was high time he got some; nevertheless he stayed on the line, giving Helen a brief rundown on the Jasper Flodge incident since she’d be bound to hear of it anyway once she got here, until a minor commotion at her end heralded the return of her friends and the strawberries. He sent them his hearty wishes for a fruitful fund-raising and hung up the inn’s telephone.

  The pay booth had been built by a carpenter who knew his stuff, Peter didn’t recall having heard a sound from outside once he’d shut himself into it. What puzzled him was that he still wasn’t hearing anything now that he was out of it. Surely this was not too early an hour for people to be arriving for dinner, could he possibly have frittered away so much time that they’d al
ready come and gone? He quickened his step and entered the dining room.

  There must be something wrong with his watch. It read ten minutes to seven, about the same time he’d come here on Sunday. The place had been packed. Last night he’d shown up almost an hour later, the patrons were gone but the uncleared tables had been proof enough that business had been at least equally brisk. Tonight, one diner was sitting at a corner table by himself; it was, of course, Withington. All the other tables were not only empty but tidily set for customers who must either have come surprisingly early or hadn’t come at all. Thurzella rushed to meet Peter as though he’d been her long-lost rich uncle.

  “Oh, Professor Shandy, we were afraid you weren’t coming. And Grandma’s made this terrific big roast of beef with Yorkshire pudding and—” She took a long deep breath. “And would you like yours rare or medium? Or would you rather look at the menu?”

  “The roast beef sounds great to me. I haven’t had Yorkshire pudding for ages. Rare to middling on the beef, if you can manage it.”

  “No problem,” Thurzella assured him.

  “You can have it however you want it. There’s the whole—I mean there’s plenty. And roast potatoes and fresh peas and what kind of dressing do you want on your salad and how about a bowl of chowder for starters? And we’ve got chocolate fudge cake for dessert and you can have ice cream on it if you want. I like mine plain.”

  “So do I.”

  Peter couldn’t say that he was surprised but he was damned sorry for Thurzella and more so for Elva Bright. The word was out about last night. Patrons were understandably leery about eating in a restaurant where one of their neighbors had dropped dead in his plate.

  They’d keep on feeling leery, moreover, until they got the official word on what Jasper Flodge had died of. Whether they’d accept the verdict was another matter. If the death had stemmed from natural causes there’d always be the few who claimed the report had been faked for sinister and underhanded reasons. If it was something other than natural, then, barring a miracle, Elva Bright might as well close the inn and move to Florida.

  Peter supposed he might as well go down with the ship. “Shoot the works, Thurzella. Not a bowl of chowder, though, just a cup. Oil and vinegar dressing on the salad, please, and no ice cream on the cake. My wife says I’m too fat.”

  “No you’re not, Professor. You’re just right.”

  At least the young waitress wasn’t looking quite so forlorn now. She popped into the kitchen and came back in a trice with the chowder and a basket of hot rolls, back in another trice with Peter’s salad. By the time she bounced in a third time to clear away his empty chowder cup and fetch his roast beef with gravy on the side in a chipped but rather pretty old Bavarian gravy boat, she’d acquired another customer.

  The man was not wearing his red cap this time. He’d smartened himself up to the extent of a wash and a clean flannel shirt in the Stuart Dress tartan. Nevertheless, Peter would have recognized that glower in the souks of Cairo or the howling wastes of Van Diemen’s Land. He was not happy to see the surly one choose a seat at the next table, thus putting himself in perfect position to be glowered at. Thurzella, on the other hand, was delighted to see another table occupied.

  “Hi, Evander. Where’s your brother tonight?”

  So he did have a name. Evander’s answer was a shrug and a growl. “What you got?”

  “Roast beef?”

  “That’ll do.”

  With no further question, Thurzella went and got her new customer a bowl of chowder and a basket of rolls. Nothing was said or done about a salad. Evander, whoever he might be, settled down to his chowder, bailing it in over his short but bushy beard efficiently but without undue zeal, pausing between spoonfuls to butter a roll, to pick a fishbone out of his teeth, or to glower at Peter Shandy. To give Evander his due, his table manners were almost dainty compared to the late Jasper Flodge’s, although they might not have stacked up all that high against stiffer competition.

  Peter had been aware ever since he’d entered the dining room that Claridge Withington was itching to bend his ear. They’d made eye contact once or twice, Peter had given the older man a reasonably cordial nod while selecting a table that was far away to discourage conversation; but clearly a nod was not enough. That was more than Evander, as Peter was now forced to think of him since Thurzella hadn’t mentioned a last name, had done, however.

  Evander was sitting with his back to the corner table, but the slight to Withington might not have been deliberate. Perhaps he’d preferred to face the door into the restaurant because he was expecting his brother to show up looking for him. Perhaps he was glowering at Peter now simply because there was nobody else in the room conveniently situated to glower at. It was a mildly comforting thought.

  The roast beef had been all that any carnivorous heart could desire. Peter speared his last bite of Yorkshire pudding and sent Thurzella for some black coffee to go with his chocolate cake. It was unlikely that he’d be able to swallow another bite of anything without something to wash it down. He supposed he could prepare himself for the cake by getting up and running a few laps around the table to joggle the roast beef into a less uneasy lie on his stomach, but that didn’t seem quite the decorous thing to do.

  Peter further supposed it would be only decent to take his coffee over to Withington’s table. The insatiable old newshound might have some news, or at least an educated guess, as to how Jasper Flodge had met his demise. Anyway, since Peter had maneuvered himself into getting stuck here for another day or two, he might as well be sociable, within reasonable limits. Not that he was in any mood for trivia when there were those incredible paintings to think about; he kept toying with his cake to put off the moment of truth. Nevertheless, Peter experienced a pang of annoyance when he suddenly found himself redundant.

  Chapter 6

  A TALL, BROAD-SHOULDERED BRUNETTE somewhere between forty and fifty, Peter estimated, knowingly made up and smartly dressed in black with touches of scarlet, swept into the dining room. She was carrying a patent leather handbag the size of a briefcase, or maybe it was in fact a briefcase, and made a beeline for Withington’s table.

  “Hi, Claridge, long time no see. I was wondering if I’d find you here. What’s good tonight?”

  “I am, since I’m incapacitated from being otherwise. How are you, Lucivee. You look blooming as ever. Do sit down and keep me company, I’ll call the waitress over.”

  “Ah, relax, she’ll be along. I’m in no mad rush to eat, I stopped for coffee in Bangor. Where the heck is everybody tonight?”

  “That’s a good question. At least you shouldn’t have any trouble getting a room.”

  “Who needs one? I’ve still got the key to my own house.”

  “Your—you don’t mean Jasper’s house?”

  “I mean my house, and you’d better believe it. You don’t think I’d have been dumb enough to let that louse get away with not making it legal, do you? God knows what sort of condition the place is in by now. I figured I’d better get something substantial under my belt before I go to see.”

  The woman was making no effort to keep her voice down, she was staking her claim and she wanted the town to know. No fear. Peter noticed that the door into the kitchen was standing open a crack. Elva Bright wasn’t about to miss a word. Even the dour Evander was forgetting to glower; when his brother did show up, he came perilously close to grinning.

  This was turning into a real Old Home Week, the brother even went so far as to say “Evenin’, Lucivee. Haven’t seen you around here for a while.”

  “That’s been my loss and your gain, Fred. Don’t worry, you’ll be seeing enough of me for a while yet. Once I get Jasper planted deep enough so that there’s no chance of him digging his way up again, I’ll have to begin settling the estate. Who’s that kid? One of Elva’s bunch?”

  “Ayuh. Granddaughter. Name’s Thurzella.”

  “That figures. Okay, Thurzy, if that’s roast beef I smell, you can bring me t
he rarest you’ve got and whatever goes with it. Put it here on Claridge’s table. Come on, Fred, join the party.”

  “I’ll set here with Evander, thanks. Beef for me, Thurzella.”

  All of a sudden, business was booming. It couldn’t have taken long for the word to get around a place the size of Pickwance. Faces appeared at the door. Noting that none of those at the tables had as yet keeled over, some of the snoopers ventured inside, asking for cake and coffee. A few even ordered a full dinner, Peter suspected that was to give them an excuse for staying longer. Lucivee Flodge, if that was in fact her legal name, was proving to be quite a draw.

  Peter himself was interested to see how this small drama would play itself out. He wished now that he hadn’t frittered away his chance to sound out Withington as to whether the cause of Jasper’s death had been established and whether the almond extract had anything to do with it. He allowed Thurzella to refill his coffee cup and sat back to let it cool. Lucivee was by no means a shy woman, she appeared not at all disconcerted by the breathless hush that hung over the dining room, or by the many sidelong glances being directed at the corner table. Withington was no shrinking violet either, he was playing up to the widow for all he was worth.

  “So what have you been up to since we last met, Lucivee?”

  “Oh, this and that. You know me, Claridge, I’m not the type to sit back and rest on my laurels, such as they are. A woman with a B.A. in business and a law degree on top of it doesn’t have to, these days. One thing I’ll say for Jasper, he did give me credit for being a damned sight sharper than he ever dared to be when it came down to business. He still came to me for advice, you know. I’ve got the whole kafoozle right in my lily-white hands, and you’d better believe it’s going to stay there.”