Peter wrenched his mind away from Jean-Luc’s progeny and fell to wondering whether the tunic that looked so right on the weaver would go as well with his wife’s blond hair, blue eyes, and peach-bloom complexion. He decided it wouldn’t. However, it was dollars to doughnuts that Helen would manage to find something here that she did want. Lots of somethings. Expensive somethings. Far be it from him to begrudge the wife of his bosom a spree among the weavings when he already had his own shopping list pretty well made out. But what to buy for Miss Rondel? He stepped up to the counter.
“Er—my name is—”
“Professor Shandy! My daughter’s been telling me about you, she says you’re the nicest customer she’s ever waited on.”
Michele Cluny’s smile was warm and welcoming. The one Peter gave in return was shy and modest. “Then she can’t have been waitressing very long. She sent me here to have you help me—er—choose a present for a lady. Miss Rondel was kind enough to let me collect seeds from her lupines yesterday, as Thurzella’s no doubt told you by now. I thought I’d like to take her something by way of thanks, but I have no idea what she’d like. Thurzella said you’d know.”
There seemed to be much here to like and little to snoot. Handwoven garments, scarves, lap robes, tablecloths, and objects that Peter couldn’t identify—though Helen would no doubt be able to—made up the bulk of the stock. There was also, however, a tasteful assortment of hand-crafted doodads and hand-thrown pottery geared to the well-heeled tourist’s taste and credit card, along with a display of homemade jellies, jams, pickles, and cookies. These last must be a little sideline that Elva Bright turned out when business was slow at the inn. While Peter marveled at the prices, Michele pondered his request.
“There’s no sense in giving Miss Fran anything handwoven, of course, she makes half this stuff herself. She’s never been much for bric-a-brac and she’s fussy about what she eats. She does like Mother’s jams and cookies, though, I could make you up a nice basket. How much were you planning to spend?”
Peter shrugged. “Whatever it comes to. It occurs to me that yesterday, when I went into Miss Rondel’s kitchen on a little—er—errand for your mother, I noticed a broken pitcher lying on the table. Do you think she might like a replacement? One of those you have sitting in the window, perhaps?”
“What kind of pitcher was it?”
Michele Cluny fairly snapped out the words, Peter wondered why so trifling a remark had elicited so sharp a reaction. He tried without much luck to recall what the shards had looked like.
“M’well, the pieces—er—didn’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary. Pottery, not china, not very big. Rather an unattractive yellowish color, as I recall with a dark-brown stripe. It’s too bad my wife wasn’t with me, she knows a lot more about such things than I do.”
“Thurzella says Mrs. Shandy’s coming tomorrow. That will be nice.”
Mrs. Cluny was still smiling, but now she didn’t mean it. She walked over to the window and picked out a pitcher about eight inches high, plump at the base, narrower at the neck, with a soft, brownish glaze and a delicately incised pattern of lupine leaves and flowers. “Is this about the right size? It’s one of Betsy Love’s designs. Seventy-five dollars plus tax.”
The shopkeeper’s voice was almost accusing. Didn’t she want to sell the piece? Peter refused to be daunted.
“Yes, that will do fine, if you think Miss Rondel will like it.”
“She ought to, at this price. I suppose it’s time Miss Fran had a new one. They do say a pitcher that goes too often to the well—” Mrs. Cluny shrugged. “Betsy Love does do beautiful work.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind—er—wrapping it for me?”
“Not at all.”
That was a lie, or at least an equivocation. Why was the woman so all-fired touchy about selling a pitcher? Couldn’t Betsy Love make her another? A person might think a shopkeeper would be pleased to make a fairly good sale so early in the day. “Then you won’t want the basket of jellies, Professor?”
“Why not?” Was she afraid he was going to stick her with a bum check? “Couldn’t you use a bigger basket and just—er—bung the things all in together? If Miss Rondel doesn’t care for the pitcher, at least she can eat the cookies.”
“Oh, I expect she’ll like it fine.” Michele Cluny was getting her aplomb back, swathing the various items in sea-blue tissue paper and nesting them in the basket, the pitcher in the middle and the edibles fitted in around it. “I gave Miss Fran a couple of mugs in this same design for Christmas, she uses them all the time. How long are you and Mrs. Shandy planning to stay?”
“So far, just the one night. I can’t say for sure. I expect my wife would enjoy visiting your shop sometime before we leave. Will you be open tomorrow?”
“Oh yes, we’ll be here any time after nine in the morning till half past five. We stay open till seven on Fridays and Saturdays, those are always our busiest days. We do close on Sunday because that’s the only time my husband and I can have the whole day together. It used to be our family day, but now the kids are always off doing their own thing.”
“Does the inn restaurant stay open?”
“Oh yes. That’s Mother’s biggest day, as a rule. She has a neighbor who’s a widow in to help with the cooking Sunday, Monday and Tuesday; she takes a day or two off the first of the week to catch her breath and do the marketing. Normally Mother has a couple of waitresses she can call on, but one’s off on her second or third honeymoon, I forget which, and the other broke her wrist last week trying to start her lawn mower. So poor Thurzella’s working double shifts and no time off till we can get one of her cousins up from Portland to pinch-hit. You can’t have just anybody waiting on tables at a country inn, you know. People around here don’t take much to strangers handling their food.”
That was a bad slip. She buttoned her lips, got very busy tying a fancy green bow to the handle of the basket, then shoved it across the counter. “That’ll be ninety-eight dollars and fourteen cents, counting the tax.”
Peter liked to carry a hundred-dollar bill folded into a secret pocket of his wallet in case of emergencies. Slightly irked by this off-and-on treatment, he fished out his hidden hoard and handed it over. Michele counted $1.86 in silence, then dredged up a last ounce of courtesy.
“Thank you for coming in, Professor. Enjoy the rest of your stay and give Miss Fran my love.”
“I will. Thanks for your help.”
Peter felt a bit like the Easter Bunny carrying Miss Rondel’s present out to his car. He set the beribboned basket on the floor beside him and started the engine, still puzzling over why Michele Cluny had reacted so oddly when he’d mentioned that broken pitcher. Well, it was no skin off his nose, he just hoped the old lady would like the replacement. People did get attached to objects they’d lived with for a long time.
Michele had learned her weaving from Miss Rondel, the former teacher supplied merchandise for the shop. It stood to reason there must be a strong bond between them. Maybe the pitcher was an heirloom that the last member of the family had cherished. Maybe she’d promised to pass it on to Michele. Maybe Michele saw the breakage as a sign that her old friend was beginning to lose her grip. Or maybe she was afraid the damage had come from another source.
Peter hadn’t forgotten what that fellow Evander had shouted yesterday morning; “I’ll do it. And you won’t like it.” The surly cuss couldn’t have helped realizing that Peter had heard what sounded far too much like a threat. Was that why he’d been so glowery in the restaurant? Could those yellowish shards have signaled a warning of more serious damage to come? Peter found himself stamping down on the gas pedal, worrying about what he might find at the end of his ride.
What he found was Miss Fran Rondel, seated on the wellhead coping, having a sociable morning chat with three of the biggest, handsomest hens he’d ever been privileged to lay eyes on. Their combs and wattles were fiery scarlet, their plumage shone red-gold in the sunshine. Their eyes
sparkled like cabochon-cut jewels, their expressions were amiable. Peter had been pecked on the ankles too often as a farm boy gathering eggs to have worked up any great fellow feeling for the species; but here, he felt, were fowl he wouldn’t mind getting to know.
Miss Rondel had three eggs gathered together in the lap of her apron, all of them pretty much the same color as the pitcher he’d brought her and about the same size Peter fancied eagles’ eggs might be, albeit he’d probably never get around to dropping in on an aerie for comparison’s sake. It was a pity Dan Stott wasn’t here. Dan wasn’t much of a poultry man as a rule but even a dedicated hog fancier wouldn’t be able to resist taking a shine to these three. Now that he’d had such luck with the lupine seeds, Peter wondered whether he might try to negotiate a setting of eggs. He saw no sign of a rooster around so perhaps Miss Rondel’s flock weren’t that kind of girls. Anyway, this was hardly the time to ask; there was still the burning question of the paintings to be addressed.
Ah, Miss Rondel had spied him and not recoiled in revulsion. As a matter of fact, he thought she looked rather pleased.
“Good morning, Professor Shandy.”
“Good morning, Miss Rondel. I just dropped by to bring you a—er—small thank-you for your great kindness yesterday, and to say that my wife will be coming tomorrow. She’s very interested to see the paintings.”
The elderly woman accepted Peter’s offering with a slight inclination of her head. “I spoke to the artist last evening. It took some time for your message to sink in, but I’m fairly confident that a purchase can be arranged if you’re still of a mind to go through with it. What time do you think would be convenient for Mrs. Shandy?”
“She and Catriona are planning an early-morning start, they should be able to reach Sasquamahoc sometime between noon and one o’clock. I’ll drive over in the morning, be there to pick Helen up when they arrive, and bring her here. Shall we say half past three or so to be on the safe side?”
“That will do nicely, I have no other special plans for the afternoon. You do understand that I also have no authority to negotiate any sale until I’ve conveyed your offer and obtained the artist’s consent?”
“Oh yes, no problem. We’re planning to stay the night in any event, so there ought to be time enough to get squared away.”
“One day is much like another to me, Professor. Thank you for this tempting basket, I shall save it to enjoy as my suppertime treat.”
Miss Rondel hadn’t so much as lifted a corner of the tissue paper, it was obvious to Peter that the interview was over. He said good-bye, walked back down to his car, and turned it in the direction of Sasquamahoc.
This wasn’t a bad day for a drive, there were enough mares’ tails in the sky to keep the sun from being too glary. He’d be pleased to see Guthrie, he was even more pleased that the unknown genius sounded willing to talk turkey. Peter did feel a slight sense of chagrin at not having got to take a second look at his painting, but tomorrow was another day and it would have been impolitic as well as discourteous to pester Miss Rondel for extra favors this time around.
There was no special reason why Peter couldn’t have brought his toothbrush along and stayed overnight with Guthrie instead of driving there and back two days in a row, but he didn’t want to. Guthrie’s housekeeping was less than magnificent; his house looked not only tacky but also barren without the mass of kitsch that Guthrie had chucked out after his marriage, if such it could be called, had broken up with a resounding crash. Catriona had been nagging him to get a woman in to clean once or twice a week but Guthrie was not yet ready to let a female foot cross his doorstep, for which he could hardly be blamed, all things considered.
Peter would cheerfully have bunked at Catriona’s but she wouldn’t be there to cook him a sumptuous breakfast of eggs and home fries, so back to Elva Bright’s cuisine he would go. And a far, far better thing it would be, provided nobody else dropped dead in the dining room and he managed to elude the clutching claws of Claridge Withington, though that might not be a hazard now that Lucivee Flodge was back in town.
Peter made good time, his mood was pleasantly anticipatory. He and Guthrie Fingal had roomed together all through agricultural college. By graduation time, Peter had become thoroughly convinced that Guthrie had Ent blood on some limb or other of his family tree. Guthrie had majored in silviculture, had come home to Maine and taken a teaching fellowship at Sasquamahoc Forestry College. He’d liked it at Sasquamahoc, he’d refused offers from several more allegedly prestigious institutions. He was now, and had been for some time, president of the venerable college. He would remain so, no doubt, until the Great Forester in the Sky hauled him up by the roots and replanted him on a higher plane.
It was barely noon and this morning’s breakfast had just about worn off when he rolled into the college yard, figuring that Guthrie would be either in his office or out communing with some tree or other. He was right the first time. Guthrie sprang from his presidential chair, the padded arms of which had been reupholstered with duct tape since Peter’s last visit, and leaped to extend a welcome.
“What the hell are you doing here, you old blot on the landscape? I thought you wouldn’t be infesting the premises till tomorrow. Where’s Helen? Where’s Cat?”
“Don’t ask me. Helen was burbling about their planning to take the bus to Boston and visit some den of depravity like Filene’s Basement or the Aquarium, or possibly both. Or neither. The ways of womankind are beyond comprehension.”
Peter refrained from adding “As you ought to know,” but Guthrie filled in the blank for him. “Look who’s telling who. How come Helen let you off the chain?”
“I’m here on business, drat it. I spent all day yesterday deseeding lupines at Rondel’s Head. Know where it is?”
“How the hell could I keep from knowing? Cat bends my ear often enough about this mysterious woman who’s lived all by herself with three French hens and a partridge in a pear tree for the past two hundred years and never gets a day older. She’s asked me to go up there with her when the lupines are in bloom but I never seem to find the time. I suppose Cat’s the one who set you on to Miss Rondel?”
“She is and I went and you don’t know what you’ve missed. The fact that this occurred just at the time Helen was beginning to give me strong hints about betaking myself elsewhere before the eaglesses gathered may or may not be coincidental. I’m staying at a pleasant little place called Bright’s Inn. Have you been there?”
“I’ve heard of it. They’re supposed to have a great restaurant. Say, somebody mentioned something about that place last night, it was in the newspaper. I didn’t have time to listen because we’re running a summer evening program and I had to give a seminar on our friends the earwigs or some damn-fool thing. I’ve done so many that half the time I forget what I’m supposed to be talking about. You want to give a program tonight?”
“Not on your life, comrade. I’m going back to the inn for supper. Speaking of food, how would you feel about going to that fried-clam taco place for lunch?”
“You paying?”
“I am, and proud and happy to have the privilege.”
“What’s the matter, you got religion or something?”
“Cease the schoolboy persiflage, oaf. You’ve been spending too much time among the earwigs. Your car or mine?”
Chapter 8
HAVING GONE THROUGH THE formalities, the two erudite scholars knuckled down to talking their own highly specialized kind of shop. President Fingal became fairly impassioned with regard to the spruce budworm, Professor Shandy waxed eloquent on the nematode. Neither of them had a good word to say about the carpenter ant or the Japanese beetle, much less the curculio weevil.
This feast of reason naturally whetted their appetites for more tangible fare. Once arrived at Edna’s Diner, a quaint little bistro in Squamasas that sat out on a wharf over the water, they both ordered lavishly of Edna’s fried-clam tacos with home-brewed root beer and extra coleslaw on the side.
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Edna had her own idea of what a taco ought to be. She laced the batter with tartar sauce to save the patron the bother of lathering it on the clams, and ignored all that outlandish nonsense about chopped-up hunks of lettuce and tomato. Clams were what her customers came for and clams were what they got: fresh-dug, fresh-shucked, succulent bivalves, tenderly enrobed in corn meal, fried in good, clear cooking oil just long enough but not too long, and served hot from the basket. Guthrie and Peter suspended their learned discourse until the inner man had in each case been satisfied and a pushy herring gull had made off with their scanty leavings. They then ordered coffee and took it out on the rocks, where they could stretch their legs and be comfortable.
Perhaps not everybody thinks of rocks in terms of comfort, but New England Coast rocks are friendly rocks, at least to New Englanders’ buttocks. Dumped by the Great Glacier, eroded and scoured by ages of battering from waves and weather, cracked and creased and warmed by the sun, they were, by Peter’s and Guthrie’s standards, just the ticket for a postprandial loll. The rocks wouldn’t be offering much in the way of hospitality a while from now, though, if those clouds that had chased Peter all the way here kept on thickening.
“Drat!” Peter crushed his coffee cup, weighted it with a pebble and lobbed it expertly into a trash can about fifteen feet away. “I hope we’re not in for a rainy day tomorrow. Helen and Cat are planning to start out sometime around the first crack of dawn, they say.”
“That so? Cat hasn’t called me. I’ve been dropping over now and then to make sure Andrew’s doing right by the monsters.”
Guthrie was referring to Carlyle and Emerson, two Maine coon cats approximately the size of Maine bobcats but looking larger because of their luxuriant ruffs, long fur, and plumy tails. Catriona’s cantankerous old hired man affected to despise the critters as he did most people, things, and circumstances on general principles; in fact, Andrew was devoted to the cats. He would have resented anybody else’s muscling in on what he considered his territory, but he made an exception of President Fingal, who never put on airs and was quite ready to hunker down and swap gossip when Andrew’s alleged boss wasn’t around.
Something in the Water Page 7
