The Grub-And-Stakers Move a Mountain

by Charlotte MacLeod

“Great! See you then.”

  “What do you mean, then? Aren’t you coming back at two to pick up the tables?”

  “Ever thought of teaching a course in slave-driving?”

  He grinned and was gone, with the unknown man beside him carrying a box of mangled apologies to the recreant but not perhaps repentant goat. Dittany went back to peddling cupcakes.

  By two o’clock there wasn’t a crumb left in the bandstand. Gratefully the Grub-and-Stakers folded their table-clothes, sorted out which cake tin belonged to whom, and wended their various ways. As a parting gesture, Dittany scrawled across the bake sale poster with her lipstick, “Gone to work on the mountain. Come and help!” Then she picked up the heavy money box Dot Coskoff had given her to pass on to Mr. Binkle. So far this had been quite a day.

  Chapter 15

  THE FIRST HALF OF the day turned out to be the easy part. When Dittany got home she found Hazel already in the kitchen greasing cupcake pans and Ellie at the dining table doggedly pleating butterfly wings. Dittany greased a few pans, creased a few doilies, took the sale money over to Jane Binkle, who promised to hand it over to Henry as soon as he returned from the shop, and went home again because she’d promised on Guides’ honor to help frost the cupcakes.

  There she was discovered by a moppet Minerva had sent down to see if Miss Henbit had any more axes and rakes kicking around because a swarm of people had come to help and most of them hadn’t thought to bring any tools. Dittany festooned herself and the child with whatever she could lay hands on and trudged up to the Enchanted Mountain, accompanied by Ethel, who had heretofore been guarding the house, the butterflies, and especially the cupcakes.

  “Apace” was hardly the word for the way work was going on. The mountain literally swarmed with volunteers, some of whom even seemed to know what they were there for. Chain saws whined ferociously through dead trunks and fallen logs. A shredder was ingesting the branches and spewing them forth as wood chips that were at once snatched up and carried away to cover the newly cleared paths.

  Nobody appeared nervous about the fact that a still unsolved shooting had taken place on the mountain only a few days ago, though some of the young fry kept shouting, “Duck if you see any Yank hunters.” Dittany found the jest ill timed, but most of the adults were too pleased with themselves to notice.

  “Just look at this,” Minerva gloated, her face glowing like a hot stove despite the raw weather. “Doesn’t it do your heart good?”

  “It can’t be doing your blood pressure much good,” Dittany retorted. “Hadn’t you better go home and lie down awhile, eh?”

  “Time enough to lie down when they plant me six feet under. What a pity to cut down that nice little birch, but it’s right in the path.”

  Minerva swung her hatchet and the three-inch sapling lay on the ground, sliced off slick as a whistle. That was how she’d handled the frisky squirrels that invaded her attic and the cute, fat woodchucks that invaded her lettuce bed. One simply expressed polite regret and swept them neatly out of existence. Not far from here, old John Architrave had been pinned through the body by a single perfectly placed arrow. Dittany decided to go home and frost cupcakes.

  By the time Hazel and Ellie gasped at the time and rushed off, leaving her to clean up their messes, the day was far spent and so was Dittany Henbit. Thankful that Hazel had removed the lettuces from her bathtub, she bathed and changed into a skirt and pullover that didn’t have yellow frosting all over them. Whatever had possessed her to invite company for supper tonight of all nights?

  She was opening her can of beans when Henry Binkle phoned in wild excitement, for him, wanting to know how in the name of Little Jim they’d ever managed to raise four hundred thirty-two dollars and seventy-six cents in four hours.

  “I think it was mostly the goat,” Dittany told him. Then of course she had to tell him the rest because Jane hadn’t mentioned any goat and what did goats know about fundraising that he didn’t, eh? Before she’d got him satisfied on the finer points, somebody was thumping at her door.

  “Henry, I’ve got to hang up now. My company’s here and the beans aren’t even on the stove.” He’d know what she meant. Everybody in Lobelia Falls ate baked beans on toast for Saturday night supper and would have been considered eccentric if they didn’t.

  She was surprised to find Ben Frankland alone on the doorstep. “Where’s Minerva?” was her not very tactful greeting.

  “Mrs. Oakes said to tell you she’s not so young as she thought she was. She’s going to soak her feet in Epsom salts and watch Lawrence Welk.”

  “Oh. Well, come in and haul up a chair. Supper isn’t ready yet because I was on the phone with Henry Binkle. Can you imagine we made well over four hundred dollars at the bake sale?”

  “Sure. I can imagine anything around this town. Is it always like this?”

  “If it were, we’d all have been laid out in neat rows long ago. Have some cheese while I make a salad.”

  She poured them each a glass of burgundy from her stepfather’s sadly depleted largesse, set her beans on to heat, filled the kettle, and put what Gramp Henbit used to call the eating tools on the table. “We’ll have to eat in the kitchen. The dining room’s full of gold paper butterflies. And I’ve got twenty-seven fancy casseroles in the freezer and ten dozen frosted cupcakes in the pantry but I’d be taking my life in my hands if I tried to sneak any.”

  “That’s what you get for having a pantry. Be nice to rip it out and turn this into a real old-fashioned country kitchen, wouldn’t it? You could install knotty pine overhead cabinets and plastic counters and one of those island units in the center with an electric stove and dishwasher set into a nice, rustic butcher-block top.”

  Dittany was staring at Frankland in stark, horrified unbelief when the door burst open as through propelled by a blast of hot air straight from Ottawa. “Ah, just in time,” caroled Arethusa Monk, executing an expert riposte in tierce at the cheese. “Two more glasses vitement, s’il vous plaît.”

  Too stunned to wonder why Arethusa was demanding the extra glass, Dittany went back into the pantry, aghast that anybody should even think of desecrating this sacred shrine where Gram Henbit used to keep the never empty crock of hermits. When she emerged she was relieved to see not a nice butcher-block island unit but a belt made of clothesline tied in a proper square knot. Its wearer, a tallish, thinnish, blondish young man, was hovering close to the door. All at once a great light dawned.

  “I know,” cried Dittany. “You’re Osbert.”

  “There, you see, Osbert,” said Arethusa. “I told you she was intelligent. Osbert can’t stand stupid women.”

  “I didn’t say I can’t stand them, Aunt Arethusa,” he mumbled. “I said I never know what to say to them.”

  “If they’re stupid, say whatever comes into your head. They won’t understand you anyway. And quit calling me Aunt Arethusa.”

  “But you are my aunt,” he replied. “You’re my father’s sister.”

  “Is that supposed to be my fault?”

  Dittany intervened. “How’s the goat, Osbert?”

  “Resting comfortably, I believe. His owner came and got him. He’d been kidnapped. If you can kidnap a full-grown goat, that is. Kid being the—er—junior form.”

  “Osbert, shut up,” said his aunt. “The word is ‘abducted.’ Well, Dittany, aren’t you going to offer us anything to eat? Or”—she took a thoughtful pull at the burgundy she’d poured herself—“do we have to wait till you get around to inviting us? Stap me, where are your manners lately, anyhow? You haven’t even introduced anybody. Let’s see, this is Sir Edward Frankland of course. And this, as he keeps insisting, is my nephew Osbert Monk. I presume we all know Dittany Henbit since otherwise we shouldn’t be here, should we?”

  “No, Arethusa,” said the beleaguered Miss Henbit. “Pour your nephew some wine while I throw a couple more plates on the table. Sit down, Osbert. Help yourself to anything you can manage to grab.”

  “But I thought�
��I mean, Aunt Arethusa gave me the distinct impression—”

  “Oh, she knows I always keep open house. Ask anybody. As it happens I was a guest short. Ben here was supposed to bring his landlady but she decided to stay home and soak her feet. Besides, I’m glad you came because I never did get a chance to thank you properly for catching that goat before he wiped us out. And I hope you like beans and brown bread because that’s all we’ve got.”

  Osbert blushed and said he liked beans and brown bread very much. Dittany embezzled a handful of Hazel’s lettuce to eke out the salad, brought up the last bottle of burgundy, put more biscuits on the plate, and collapsed into the only unoccupied chair.

  Arethusa graciously poured her a drink. Ben protectively cut her some cheese. Osbert diffidently got up and stirred the beans. Before long Dittany realized to her astonishment that she was giving a successful party.

  With Arethusa around, there was never any dearth of conversation. Tonight she even let the others get in an occasional word. Ben told thrilling tales of life among the sump pumps. Osbert mentioned a sister who could play the musical glasses and waggle her ears in three-quarter time. Dittany described her mother and Bert tripping hand in hand down life’s broad highway, strewing high-fashion eyewear like rose petals en route. Time flitted by on winged feet. They drank gallons of tea and ate every Fig Newton in the house. Dittany was about to poll the gathering with regard to boiling another kettle when Gram Henbit’s treasured mission oak clock pulled itself together for the effort and bonged midnight.

  “’Sblood,” cried Arethusa, “the tocsin soundeth. Come, Osbert. Haul your dear old aunty off to beddy-byes before I turn into a pumpkin.”

  “Me too,” said Ben. “I mean I’d better haul myself off. Another big day coming up, eh, Dittany?”

  “‘Big’ is a feeble, not to say paltry description. I’m down on the books to leap out of bed at the crack of dawn, defrost the casseroles, pack up the butterflies and take them over to Samantha’s, then spend a quiet hour or two moving furniture so we can start getting ready for the party.”

  “Want me to lend a hand with the furniture?”

  “I’m sure you’d be welcomed with open arms.”

  “Whose, for instance?”

  Arethusa was cocking an interested eyebrow and Dittany was wondering if a man who could speak of tearing out pantries might yet be redeemed when Ethel leaped up from under Osbert’s feet where she’d spent the evening happily cadging tidbits.

  “Awoo! Awoo! Wurff! Wurff!”

  “What’s the matter with her?” said Ben rather crossly.

  “Perhaps she hears something outside,” Osbert ventured.

  “Most likely a skunk,” Dittany sighed. “Ben, don’t let her—”

  Too late. The door was open and Ethel was off.

  “What’s that light up Lookout Point? Somebody must be having a—” Dittany didn’t wait to finish, but grabbed her storm coat and followed Ethel. Ben did a startled double-take and followed Dittany. Osbert passed them both, traveling at a little less than the speed of light. Arethusa flung her cape about her, shouted, “Yoicks, away!” and ran a creditable fourth.

  Dittany still wasn’t quite sure why she was running, but she now knew Ethel did indeed have a strain of bloodhound in her. What other breed could sustain such a peculiar, mournful baying or provoke so many neighbors into flinging open their windows and yelling, “For God’s sake, shut that thing up!”?

  Heeding no irate outcry, Ethel forged on. She must also be part greyhound, or possibly whippet. Osbert stayed well up with her. Dittany, already exhausted, began to fade in the stretch. Ben fell back to keep her company.

  “What’s happening?” she panted.

  “Shh! Listen.”

  Glad of any excuse to catch her breath and ease the stitch in her side, Dittany shushed and listened. From above came sounds of breaking glass and uncouth ribaldry, then a triumphant “Awoo!” a burst of rude Anglo-Saxon immediately translated into French to meet Canadian regulations on bilingualism, and the sound of a motor being gunned for all it was worth.

  “Get back!”

  Ben grabbed Dittany and yanked her back off the path seconds before a vehicle hurtled toward them. Ethel pelted behind in victorious pursuit with some trophy of the chase flapping around her muzzle. The driver had switched on his lights, since trying to negotiate that newly hacked roadway down the mountain would have been suicide without them. As the machine passed, Dittany could see it was a plain black van.

  “I’ll bet that’s the same one they let the goat out of,” she hissed.

  “Could you see who was inside?” Ben asked her.

  “No, they went by too fast. Here, Ethel, let’s see what you’ve got in your mouth.” She managed to secure the object. “This feels like cloth. Come on, we’d better see what’s happened to Osbert.”

  “Hold on a second. Somebody’s coming.”

  Then they heard a gasp that sounded like “Gadzooks” and realized Arethusa was still among the party. The three of them stormed the summit, to find Osbert with a large flashlight surveying what appeared to be the leftovers from a Roman orgy of the post-Neronian period.

  “Ods bodikins,” panted Arethusa. “How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood. This place smells like our cellar the time Dad’s home brew blew up.”

  “Minerva will have a heart attack,” wailed Dittany. “How many of them were there, for goodness’ sake?”

  “About sixty, from the look of all these broken bottles,” said Ben.

  “I only saw three,” said Osbert. “Ethel caught one but he tore loose and got off in the van with the rest.”

  “That must be how she got the cloth in her mouth. Shine your light on this, eh?” Dittany held out her find, which appeared to be a sizable portion of somebody’s rearward covering.

  “Mustard yellow and catsup red with brown spots,” mused Arethusa. “Perchance the varlet runs a hamburger joint. Do we know anyone named Ronald MacDonald?”

  “At least we know he’s got lousy taste and a broad beam,” said Ben.

  Osbert, having glanced at the trouser seat, winced, and averted his gaze, handed his torch to Ben. He then produced a smaller but no less efficient one from his coat pocket and began an inch-by-inch examination of the ground at a spot where the shards lay thickest.

  “Come out of that, you ninny,” said his aunt. “You’ll cut yourself.”

  “No, I shan’t. It’s surprisingly muddy here, don’t you think? Would anyone happen to have a receptacle of any sort?”

  Dittany fumbled in her pocket and brought out a crumpled paper cup she’d picked up when they were tidying after the bake sale and forgotten to throw in the trash. “Will this do?”

  “Admirably.” Osbert smoothed out the cup as best he could, scooped some mud into it, and sniffed. “I think we ought to get the police up here before we disturb the evidence further.”

  “Why?” said Ben.

  “Because this mud reeks of beer.”

  “What’s it supposed to smell like? Roses? Those are beer bottles they broke, aren’t they?”

  “That’s just the point. If you were given to smashing beer bottles in a fit of drunken revelry, which I’m sure you’re not, wouldn’t you prefer to drink the beer first?”

  “Well, sure. Oh, I get it.”

  “Then, since you present a more formidable appearance than I, would you and Aunt Arethusa stay here with this splendid animal and guard the evidence while Dittany and I go back to her house and get some help?”

  “What am I supposed to do if those rumscullions come back, forsooth?” demanded his aunt.

  “Flap your cape and scream. They’ll think you’re the Wicked Witch of the North.”

  “Thank you, Osbert. Remind me to cut you out of my will.”

  “Yes, Aunt Arethusa. Wait, Dittany, I’ll light the way for you.”

  “I’ve been up and down this path so often lately that I could walk it with my eyes shut.”

  Ditta
ny proved her point by tripping over a root. Osbert picked her up and thenceforth kept a firm grip on her coatsleeve for which she was secretly grateful. When they got to the house, Dittany realized she hadn’t got her key with her and somebody had slammed the door shut with the catch on when they made their pell-mell exit. She was about to heave a rock through the kitchen window out of exasperation when Osbert did something with the thin blade of his jackknife and they were free to enter.

  Sergeant MacVicar received Dittany’s frantic summons with accustomed sangfroid and told her he would proceed to the scene of the outrage as soon as he got his uniform on, and did Dittany by chance have a camera with a flash attachment? A member of his department had committed the grave error of borrowing the official photographic apparatus for other than official business over the weekend. He would be receiving the rough side of Mrs. MacVicar’s tongue when he returned the camera on Monday and considerably worse than that from Sergeant MacVicar in person if he forgot to do so.

  “Oddly enough, I have,” said Dittany. “It’s even got film and flash bulbs in. I was planning to take pictures at the Burberrys’ party tomorrow because I knew Samantha would never think of it.”

  “Excellent. And can you also furnish some large plastic bags?”

  “Tons. Mama was always buying them and then not using them because they’re non-biodegradable. Anything else?”

  “Sticky labels, a marking pen, empty trash cans, and a shovel.”

  “Yes, Sergeant MacVicar. I’ll take them up in my own car. There’s gas in the tank. I think.”

  Sergeant MacVicar told her she was a credit to her sex and rang off. Dittany and Osbert were loading Old Faithful’s capacious trunk when Jane and Henry Binkle appeared in the driveway, both of them wearing coats and scarves over their sensible wool bathrobes.

  “Dittany, is something the matter? We heard Ethel making a ghastly racket, then we saw lights up on the Enchanted Mountain.”

  “We’ve had vandals. Ethel chased them off. There’s broken glass and beery mud and Sergeant MacVicar’s on his way. So are we. Oh, Jane and Henry Binkle, this is Osbert Monk. Arethusa’s up on the mountain being the · Wicked Witch of the North.”