Something in the Water

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “According to Withington, Mrs. Bright was married at sixteen for—m’er—technical reasons; but I understand both her daughters went to college, so they probably didn’t marry until they were twenty or more. Just to make it more interesting, Mrs. Bright told me that Miss Rondel was in school with her grandmother.”

  “She must have been joking.”

  “She wouldn’t joke about Miss Rondel. By the most conservative estimate, Miss Rondel must surely be ninety or more by now; but look at her. Spry as a cat and blooming like the rose.”

  “I assume you’re talking about those little old bush roses whose petals come out faded and wrinkled. But they smell far sweeter than the new hybrids, and they do go on forever. When do we get to the pitcher? Hasn’t your pal Withington given you a rundown on its history?”

  “No, oddly enough, that’s one subject on which Withington hasn’t uttered so much as a yip. Of my own knowledge, however, I find it safe to say that the pitcher was an artifact of ordinary yellow earthenware with brown stripes such as could have been found years ago in your average New England farmhouse. I happened to see the shards of one on Miss Rondel’s kitchen table the day I went to collect the lupine seeds. When I mentioned that fact to Mrs. Cluny on Wednesday, she lost her composure.”

  “Peter Shandy, I do not believe for one second that Mrs. Cluny lost her composure. That woman was born composed.”

  “All right then, she didn’t lose her composure. But it wobbled a little. You’ll grant me a wobble, I trust?”

  “Yes, dear, you may consider the wobble granted. So what you’ve been leading up to in this unnecessarily circumlocutory way is that the pitcher had been used to carry water from the hidden spring, thus imparting to the water, as Mrs. Cluny apparently believes, and her mother doesn’t, certain mystical powers comparable to those that Ponce de Leon never found because he wasn’t looking in the right place. One is reminded of Kipling.”

  “One is?”

  “Certainly one is. Haven’t you ever read ‘Venus Anno-domini’?”

  “Oddly enough, I have. You refer, perhaps, to the sentence ‘Youth had been a habit of hers for so long that she could not part with it.’”

  “One might also cite ‘She was as immutable as the Hills. But not quite so green,’” Helen suggested. “That would explain why Mrs. Bright stays so young looking but doesn’t buy into the theory that it’s the container and not the water itself that does the job. She’s old enough to know better. How do you feel about that?”

  “M’well, if the pitcher was in fact enchanted, I’ve wasted seventy-five dollars plus tax on the disenchanted one that I bought Miss Rondel to replace it; so I’m rooting for the water. You know, Helen, it’s by no means an untenable premise that the spring at Rondel’s Head does have a high concentration of minerals conducive to strong growth and extended longevity. That could explain why people around here all look so healthy, why Miss Rondel is able to raise those enormous lupines in a location where it’s theoretically next to impossible for them to grow at all, and even why her hens lay ostrich eggs. No wonder she looked mildly amused when I took soil samples without thinking to test the water. Your old man’s a dunderhead, macushla.”

  “If you say so, dear. Personally, I think you’re rather cute. What do you suppose she’ll give us for lunch?”

  “A lettuce leaf and a black-eyed pea.”

  “That sounds about right, I have a premonition that Mrs. Wye may be planning to lay on a fairly impressive high tea. Imagine her having lived right across the Crescent from us all this time, and we never knew who she was.”

  “Algernon’s going to miss her,” said Peter.

  “And she him, no doubt, but think how happy Iolanthe must be to get back into her own kitchen, after all she’s been through. Can you imagine the sort of childhood she must have had, growing up with that hypocritical ghoul of a father pouring brimstone and ice water on her head every step of the way? He stole from her, Peter! It’s not only that inheritance he kept her from getting; it’s her whole life he tried to rob her of. He’s as big a thief as Jasper Flodge ever dared to be.”

  “He deserves to be preached to death by wild curates.”

  “Don’t you go quoting Sydney Smith at me when I’ve got a good mad worked up, Peter Shandy. That man’s a beast.”

  “The woods are full of them, my love.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t think Fred Wye’s going to turn on his wife again?”

  “No, I don’t think Fred Wye will do anything of the sort. He must know by now that it’s not safe to rush into hasty judgments. Try me on Evander.”

  “That’s the brother who gets drunk and picks fights?”

  “There are just the two brothers, as far as I know. I don’t know the specifics, but the word around town is that Evander Wye in a snit is not a man to be taken lightly. I haven’t mentioned this to anybody else, Helen, and I hope you won’t, but I witnessed an odd little circumstance Tuesday morning when I went to Rondel’s Head to gather the seed. I’d parked my car down below the path, there was a blue pickup truck parked a little farther up. As I passed it, I heard a man’s voice up above, yelling ‘I’ll do it and you won’t like it.’”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Then something came whizzing past my ear and lammed into a yellow birch tree. Not caring to get in the way of the man’s target practice, I stepped behind that big boulder you may have noticed yesterday and waited till he’d gone by. As he passed the boulder, I got a look at him and realized he was somebody I’d seen at breakfast in the dining room. Once he was well away, I went over and took a look at the yellow birch. There was the pebble, a smooth piece of granite about the size of a walnut, embedded so deeply in the tree that I couldn’t prise it out without breaking the blade of my jack-knife.”

  “Oh Peter! He must have put terrific force into his throw. But he wasn’t necessarily taking deliberate aim at the tree, was he?”

  “Considering that I heard a second thud right after the first, and that, on my way back to the car later on, I found another tree with a rock in it just as deep and just the same height from the ground, I’m inclined to believe he was. I’ll show you the two trees when we get there, if you want.”

  “And Thurzella caught a glimpse of Evander in the lobby right after that Flodge woman had had her run-in with Mrs. Bright and been ordered to leave. And not long after that, Mrs. Flodge was killed by a stone not much bigger than a walnut. Doesn’t it make you wonder, Peter?”

  “How can I help wondering? I’ve even wondered whether I might be keeping pertinent information from the police by not telling them. But I’d eaten dinner with the Wyes Wednesday night. I’d seen Evander the first of the three men to speak up in Iolanthe’s defense. Then he and Fred and their cousin and I went to shoot a few rounds of pool and, well, we got to be sort of buddies. The mere fact that a man can throw straight doesn’t necessarily make him a murderer. Drat it, Helen, I could have hit that tree. I suppose I could have hit Lucivee Flodge if she’d happened to get in my line of fire at the wrong moment. So could any kid who’s ever played a game of catch. Even a person who couldn’t hit a barn door on purpose might do it by accident. I can’t go running to the police with a story like that.”

  “I understand, dear. But don’t you think you might at least mention the incident to Miss Rondel when you get a chance? She seems to be the real power around here, from what little I’ve seen.”

  “I’ll think about it. Let’s not say anything until after we’ve got squared away about the paintings.”

  “And eaten our black-eyed pea. It’s your decision, dear. I feel funny, not bringing anything for the hostess. Except a bagful of money.”

  Peter began to laugh, Helen joined in. They were both still laughing when they tackled the horrible path, not taking time to look for embedded pebbles in the birch trees because they were barely on time as it was. Miss Rondel met them at the top of the path, put down the hen she’d been carrying, and ushered them into
the house.

  “Right on the dot, I see. Now, are you people very sure that you wish to proceed with this transaction?”

  “Yes,” said Peter, “we are. Helen, I believe you’ve brought the necessary?”

  “I have ten certified checks, each in the amount of a thousand dollars. That seemed the easiest and safest way to handle the money. All I have to do is sign them in your presence, Miss Rondel, then you can either cash them yourself or endorse them over to the artist. If our bill runs over ten thousand, we’ll just have to scratch around for the rest.”

  “If your purchases ran any higher than that, I expect the person for whom I’m negotiating would die of shock.” Miss Rondel didn’t commit the solecism of laughing at her own quip, but there was gladness in her voice. “You two have no idea of the marvel you’ve worked by your spontaneous show of admiration for an unknown artist’s work, and the price you’re willing to pay for the pleasure of having it in your house. The cash itself is the least part of the bargain. It’s the fact that you were willing to spend so much that gave such a tremendous lift to someone who’s been burdened for a long time by depression and self-doubt. Money does talk, you know, and yours shouted loud enough to reach an ego that needed a good, swift kick to get it going.”

  This time, Miss Rondel did laugh. “I seem to have scrambled my metaphor there, but I trust you get the drift. Now, as to the payment. I’m instructed to say that your offer is too large and that you may have the four paintings you selected for a flat five thousand dollars, which still seems a great deal to me. I strongly advise you to accept the offer without quibbling, for everyone’s sake, mine included. I find that being put in the position of an artist’s agent is not a job that I care to keep. Now, why don’t we go into the dining room? I thought you might want to eat your lunch among the paintings.”

  “What a wonderful idea, and what a beautiful table!” Helen exclaimed. “I love your china dishes.”

  “Early Sears Roebuck. Sit here, Professor, so that you can see your special favorite.”

  The meal was a little less austere than Elva Bright had predicted. Peter found it somewhat awesome to be eating half a deviled egg on a bed of assorted greens in the midst of such glory. Not that the egg itself wasn’t awesome in its way; he doubted whether he could have managed the other half. Those super-hens of Miss Rondel’s certainly kept their minds on their job.

  Miss Rondel had mashed up the yolks with finely chopped fresh chives and a touch of lemon balm and moistened them with the same kind of boiled dressing Peter’s grandmother used to make. There were slices of home-baked whole-wheat bread and tumblers full of water from the hypothetically miraculous spring. Peter could think of nothing he’d rather be eating.

  Facing his own painting, the one that would truly be his once Helen had finished her deviled roc’s egg and got around to signing the checks, he felt like a proud father about to bring his firstborn home from the hospital. At least he thought he did. Actually, it was more the way he’d felt when, after long, long months of nursing turnip seedlings to their ultimate fruition, he had produced the primordial Brassica napobrassica balaclaviensis, the Balaclava Buster, that mega-rutabaga which by now had fed millions of bovines and bipeds wherever rutabagas are known and loved, or even moderately liked. Peter was in no rush for the meal to end. He sensed that Helen was feeling the same as he, and that Miss Rondel was not displeased to have their company.

  “I was thinking, Miss Rondel,” Helen remarked when it seemed the right time to do so, “now that a sale has been made, your artist friend may be more amenable to having his or her work shown through a reputable gallery. Catriona has friends who own a gallery, maybe you all could get together and find out how the system works. Cat was saying on the way up that she wants to visit you before she starts her new book.”

  “I shall be pleased to see her. I do think this sale is already effecting a change in the artist’s attitude about showing the work, which I intend to encourage. The sooner I’m shut of the whole business, the happier I shall be. Michele and I have some new ideas we want to try out and we’ll need this room for work space. Now, why don’t we get our bit of business taken care of? Did you happen to bring something to wrap the paintings in?”

  “Unfortunately, it didn’t occur to me,” said Helen. “Driving up with Cat was a last-minute decision, I didn’t dream at the time that we’d be buying a painting.”

  “No matter, I have some old sheets from the inn that Elva gave me. Michele and I use them in the workroom for dust covers. You can borrow a couple and bring them back on your next visit, which I hope will be soon.”

  “How kind of you to say so.”

  Helen was already signing the checks. Miss Rondel accepted them with a nod and went to get the sheets while Helen cleared the table and Peter took down their selected paintings from the wall. Miss Rondel reappeared with the sheets over her arm, took full charge of the wrapping, and made a neat job of it, as was only to be expected.

  “And now, I want you to tell me precisely what’s been happening down in Pickwance. I understand that Iolanthe Wye is back where she belongs. That father of hers ought to be locked up. And you people are going to tea with her and Fred this afternoon.”

  “Yes. I believe she wants us there about three o’clock.”

  “Good, that gives us plenty of time. Come into the kitchen so that I can wash the dishes while we talk. And, no, I don’t want any help, thank you. This was my mother’s china. If any of it’s going to get chipped or broken, I’d just as soon the blame fell on myself.”

  Chapter 22

  MISS RONDEL WAS A relentless questioner, the story took a fair while in the telling. By the time the luncheon dishes were done, the paintings stowed in the Shandys’ trunk, and the hostess’s curiosity satisfied, it was half past two and a little beyond. When Helen and Peter began to repeat their thanks and say their good-byes, Miss Rondel demurred.

  “Oh no, I’m coming with you. Why don’t you and I sit together in the back seat so we can talk, Helen?” She was using their first names by now, although they knew better than to use hers. “Peter can drive. I expect I’ll stay to dinner at Elva’s. Somebody will drive me home.”

  Her object being, of course, to show the townsfolk that it was still as safe as ever to eat at Bright’s Inn. Miss Rondel wasn’t bothering to change her faded cotton dress, to tidy her hair, to do any of the small things women generally do when they go out in society. Why should she? She was who she was, and that was enough. She did pick up a handwoven tote bag and lock the door in case of wandering tourists.

  “Time was when nobody around here ever locked a door,” she remarked, “but these days, one never knows. Sometimes I get to feeling I’ve lived too long and might as well quit, but there’s always something that needs to be done first. Now, Helen, I want you to tell me about your work on the Buggins Family archive. I had a great-uncle who married a Buggins. Bethseda, her name was.”

  “Bethseda Elvira.” Helen knew all there was to know about Bethseda’s antecedents but little about her married life; she and Miss Rondel talked genealogies until they’d got down into Pickwance and up the hill to the Wye mansion. Both Iolanthe and Fred were on the front veranda waiting to greet the Shandys, they were surprised but visibly honored to see Miss Rondel.

  “Miss Fran, how dear of you to come!”

  Iolanthe Wye had shed another five years or so by now. Her hair was softly curled, her face lightly made up. She had on a frilly pink dress that must be one of those which she’d left behind when she fled and Jasper Flodge hadn’t bothered to steal. On her ring finger, left hand, was a clear pink tourmaline set in gold. She noticed Helen’s admiring glance and smiled.

  “Fred gave me this on our first anniversary. I just found it an hour or so ago, when I was trying to straighten out the pantry. I’d taken it off that morning because I was rolling out biscuits, and dropped it in an empty jelly tumbler for safekeeping. And here it was three years later, still waiting for me to put it
back on.”

  “She’s going to have a real nice one soon as we have decided on what she’d like,” said Fred.

  “I don’t need another ring, darling. This one’s too precious.”

  Iolanthe might perhaps have enjoyed a quiet sniffle about then but she was, after all, the hostess. “I’ve got iced tea all made. If anybody’d rather have hot, I can boil the kettle in a jiffy. Fred and I thought you might like to sit out here on the veranda, it’s such a beautiful day. And besides, I haven’t had a chance to put the front parlor back in shape yet. It’s going to take a month of Sundays to fix up this house the way it ought to be. I don’t know what this big lummox was doing all the time I was gone.”

  “Waiting for you to come home.” Fred Wye bestowed a somewhat indecorous caress on his wife, caught Miss Rondel’s eye, and reddened. “Guess I’m supposed to wheel out the tea cart about now. Eh, boss?”

  “Want some help?” Peter was beginning to feel awkward standing here doing nothing.

  “Sure, Pete, come ahead. You can pick up what I break.”

  “Bring out the big armchair for Miss Fran,” Iolanthe called after the men.

  “No, please,” Miss Rondel protested. “I much prefer a cane rocker. I remember sitting in this same chair on an afternoon like this, back when Fred was one of my pupils and his mother was still alive.”

  “Telling her all the awful things I’d been doing at school, I bet.” Fred was in great form. “Come on, Pete, before these women gang up on us.”

  He and Peter went into the house. Iolanthe managed to drag her eyes away from her husband and back to Miss Rondel. “Was he really awful, Miss Fran?”

  “Frightful! Fred was the only child I ever had in my class with whom I could not cope. I can’t begin to tell you what a scamp he was. He’d wait till my back was turned, then pull some foolish trick that got the whole class laughing. When I turned around, he’d be sitting up all innocence. I could almost see the angel’s wings sprouting out of his shoulders. I think it was the day Fred brought a long-haired hamster to school and set it loose on the floor just as the principal walked into the room with the county superintendent that I decided it was high time for me to retire from teaching.”