“Then what are we fooling around here for? Come on!”
“Mrs. Burberry, you’re not fit,” Ben objected.
“In a pig’s eye I’m not. You get me over to that auditorium if you have to carry me in a basket.”
“Don’t you at least want to get cleaned up first?”
“Don’t I ever! But they’re going to see me just the way I am so they’ll know that skunk for exactly what he is. Oh, but I am so hungry.”
“They won’t start on the dot, they never do,” said Dittany. “Here’s the police car now. We’ll stop at my place just long enough to get some soup into you.”
“And while you are doing that,” said Sergeant MacVicar, “my lads can be loading those trash cans full of broken beer bottles into the cruiser. Since you are putting on such a valiant show, Samantha, you may as well give them a smashing encore.”
Chapter 19
TO SAY THAT SAMANTHA Burberry created a sensation when she staggered into the auditorium fifteen minutes late under heavy police escort and covered with coal dust would be to utter the understatement of all time. The meeting had already been called to order, but it had to be called again and then a third time when Sergeant MacVicar and his myrmidons (including Ben, whom he had deputized for the occasion over Frankland’s modest protests), having deposited Samantha in a chair handy to the tea and buns so she could finish her impromptu repast, went back outside and returned, each rolling a trash barrel that smelled like Arethusa Monk’s father’s cellar the time the home brew exploded.
In years to come, Dittany’s fondest memory of that meeting would be the sight of Andrew McNaster trying to withdraw his overstuffed form quietly from the auditorium under cover of the furor.
Perhaps some of the other candidates got to speak their pieces. If so nobody remembered or gave a hoot. All were jittering on the edges of their chairs, breathless for the moment when Samantha Burberry confronted Sam Wallaby on the platform and explained why she’d come looking like a chimney sweep.
The moderator, realizing after a while that the others weren’t getting a fair shake and being pretty itchy for the details himself, moved them up on the program and, out of gallantry, gave Samantha first chance to speak. She’d had no time to read over the speech Dittany had written for her but that fact bothered her not at all. By now the rescue, the hot soup, the tea, the buns, and the look on Sam Wallaby’s face had restored her usual aplomb. It was a confident Samantha Burberry who stepped to the microphone.
“I apologize for appearing before you in this condition,” she began, “but I had no time to change. Since I understand you’ve all been out looking for me, and I want to thank you here and now for your wonderful efforts, I don’t have to tell you that I’ve been kidnapped since about ten o’clock last night. Sergeant MacVicar and some kind friends found me only about half an hour ago, tied up and gagged in John Architrave’s coalbin.”
Naturally that news caused an outbreak of gasps and babbling. Samantha held up her hand for silence.
“Please bear with me. As you can imagine, I’m wobbly on my legs and my throat’s sore from that gag and I’m absolutely dying for a hot bath, so I’d like to make my remarks brief. You all know, of course, that John Architrave was found shot last week up on the Enchanted Mountain with an arrow in him that nobody’s been able to identify. I have no idea how that happened. I can only point out to you that my assailant, whom I can’t identify, took me to poor old John’s house for hiding. Whether you choose to draw any connection between those two facts is up to yourselves.”
A buzz of connections surged through the hall. The moderator whanged his gavel. Samantha took a sip of the tea she’d brought to the podium with her and found voice enough to go on.
“As you also know, John Architrave was up on the mountain that day evidently because he’d ordered percolation tests to be done for a reason that has not been officially established. His death did serve one useful purpose. It focused attention on one of Lobelia Falls’s most valuable natural resources; one, I may say, that has been grossly neglected by previous Development Commissions. Perhaps having some open land where our children can see wildflowers that have been wiped out elsewhere by the so-called progress of ill-managed urbanization doesn’t seem important to some people. Not so important as putting a lot of town money and effort into a high school annex that somehow wound up in the hands of a private business, for instance. Not so important as defacing our main street by the removal of some fine old trees in order to create a parking lot that attracts litter and riffraff.”
Loud cries of “You tell ’em, Samantha” led by Zilla Trott prevented her from continuing until she again had to plead for silence.
“Some of us less imaginatively endowed citizens have never quite understood the alchemy by which town property gets diverted to the particular interests of certain individuals. A group became quite reasonably alarmed at the prospect of such a thing’s happening in the case of the Hunneker Land Grant and urged me to offer myself as a write-in candidate for the Development Commission because they know I stand squarely on the side of maintaining public lands for the use of all our citizens instead of a privileged minority. The fact that so many have turned out to help turn the Enchanted Mountain into a workable park leads me to believe that the town as a whole feels the same way as I do.”
“Damn right we do,” bellowed Roger Munson, of all people, and an a capella chorus from all over the hall assured the speaker that Roger was damn well damn right they damn well did, too. Samantha took another sip of tea.
“Ever since I announced my candidacy last week, there have been attempts at harassment. Some were minor, like taking down my campaign posters. There was that episode of the goat let loose at the bake sale, which many of you witnessed. Late Saturday night a scene was staged up at Lookout Point that was obviously meant to suggest that the park we’re trying to create would become a haven for rowdyism. Thanks to the truly heroic efforts of certain persons and one very brave dog, the vandals were caught in the act and chased away, but not before they had left a good deal of telltale evidence. This evidence was examined, photographed, tested and impounded by Sergeant MacVicar, who was at the scene of the crime only a few minutes after it happened, and I think we should all be proud and glad that we have such a vigilant officer heading our police force. And now I’d like to ask Sergeant MacVicar to come up here and tell you what these trash barrels full of broken beer bottles are all about because I’m really afraid I’m about to—”
As Samantha collapsed, so did Sam Wallaby’s chances of getting elected. Dittany didn’t wait to see him booed off the stage, as Zilla Trott later reported. Sergeant MacVicar was just advancing to the front of the auditorium when she helped Ben, Osbert, and Arethusa Monk, who had fallen temporarily into the role of Florence Nightingale, carry the still supine Samantha out of the hall and back to her own house.
By the time she got home, Samantha had revived enough to get her clothes off and have a bath and shampoo under Dittany’s supervision while Arethusa heated up some of the leftovers from the party for which Samantha said her heart had been lusting during the lucid periods of her incarceration. While she was sitting up in bed getting her hair fixed by Dittany and eating from the dainty tray Arethusa had prepared, Joshua phoned. He asked how she was. She told him she’d spent almost the entire period of his absence bound and gagged in Mr. Architrave’s coal cellar. Her husband laughed at this merry flight of fancy, told her several things she didn’t particularly want to know about the conference, wished her luck on election day, said he’d be back in time to vote for her if he had to get out and push the plane all the way, and hung up. Samantha smiled fondly, finished the last bite on her tray, made dainty use of her serviette, lay down, and went to sleep.
Tuesday morning when the polls opened, those of the Grub-and-Stakers who had positioned themselves nearby with signs urging people to write in votes for Samantha Burberry were almost trampled underfoot by townsfolk champing at the bit to get into
the polling booths and do just that. By noon, unofficial surveys indicated that Wallaby had been pounded to a gory pulp. Even before all the votes were counted, the verdict was so official it was ridiculous.
Andy McNasty was not going to get his Astroturf lawn with the pink plastic flamingo up on Lookout Point. God was in His heaven, all was right with Lobelia Falls, and everybody immediately concerned was over at Dittany Henbit’s, naturally, getting sloshed. Sergeant MacVicar, accompanied on the melodeon by Mrs. MacVicar, was singing “Hail to the Chief” in the original Gaelic. Joshua Burberry, having reached home in the nick of time to cast his unneeded vote and absorb the realization that his wife had in truth been kidnapped and kept prisoner in the late John Architrave’s coal cellar, was clutching Samantha rather ferociously to his side and thinking it might be a far, far better thing if Sergeant MacVicar would quit singing and go catch the kidnapper. Being a philosopher by profession, however, Joshua realized that it would do no good to say so because to all things there is a time and a season and any effort to hurry a Scot who had already announced his intention of rendering “Annie Laurie” as an encore would be futile.
Even Ethel was celebrating. The Binkles had brought her a beef bone to chew on. All and sundry were scratching her neck and thumping her backside and telling her what a great old mutt she was. However nobody, not even the Binkles, was inviting her to fetch her teddy bear and jammies and spend a night or two. Dittany had begun to realize she’d acquired herself a dog.
She was beginning to realize something else, too, and so were a good many of her guests. Ben Frankland was behaving toward her in a manner that could only be termed proprietary. To the trained observer it was clear that Hazel Munson was already thinking in terms of petits fours with pink and white icing for the linen shower and wondering if Dittany and Ben could get on with it in time for a June wedding because then Ben would be able to occupy his spare time during the summer painting the house, a task one could reasonably expect from a husband but not a paltry fiancé and goodness knew something had to be done about those peeling clapboards before another winter or the place would go to rack and ruin.
Dittany fully appreciated the convenience of having somebody around to fix the drinks and bring out the extra chairs, but she did wish he wouldn’t be so free with remarks like “We ought to keep more ice in the fridge” and “We’ve been talking about remodeling the kitchen.” Osbert Monk was glowering from behind the coal stove and hitching angrily at his trousers, which were still being held up by a tastefully knotted-bit of clothesline. No doubt it seemed to him as it did to her that Ben was taking one heck of a lot for granted on the strength of a mutual enthusiasm for Fig Newtons.
Just to show everybody she was no pushover, Dittany went over and began chatting with Osbert about the distinction between an Apache and a Comanche. He was not altogether clear on the subject though he did confess that he’d always been secretly on their side even when the exigencies of his trade led him in a contrary direction. That got them on to the technicalities of writing, about which Dittany knew a great deal because Arethusa knew so little. She thought it would be only decent to show him how she’d organized her office and that this might be a good time because everybody else was clustered around Dot Coskoff’s husband, who was doing his imitation of Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald to the usual tumultuous applause. She’d had enough tumult already to last her awhile, and Osbert was rather a cozy sort of person to talk to when there was nobody around for him to glower at.
All at once she said, “Osbert, if you were to buy this house, what would you do about it?”
“Do about it?”
“You know, fix it up. Remodel the kitchen and that sort of thing.”
“But why should I want to? I mean,” he blushed furiously, “I guess I could buy it if you needed some money or anything because if you write enough westerns you make quite a lot and I never seem to be able to think of anything to spend it on except that I’ve got to buy myself a new belt pretty soon because this clothesline is getting sort of frayed. I mean, if you happened to care to consider—well, maybe not an outright sale but a—well, I suppose you could call it a—that is, for instance if you and I—but what I mean is, why remodel the kitchen? What’s wrong with the way it is?”
“You wouldn’t be interested in tearing out the pantry, for instance?”
“Good gosh, no! If you haven’t got a pantry, how can you keep one of those big old stone crocks in it full of molasses cookies about the size of dinner plates with sugar sprinkled on top?”
“Not hermits?”
“Hermits?” Osbert pondered the question. “You mean big, fat, spicy ones with lots of raisins in them?”
“Those were what I had in mind.”
“Gee, I never thought of hermits. I mean, I was sort of hung up on molasses cookies the size of dinner plates with little gritty pieces of sugar sprinkled on top so they’d kind of crunch when you chewed them.”
“And crinkly edges?”
“Well, naturally crinkly edges. So you could bite off the crinkles one by one before you really got to work on the cookie. On the other hand, though, there’s a lot to be said for hermits. Dittany, I tell you what I’d do with this house if it were mine.” Osbert’s attractive hazel eyes shone with sudden inspiration. “What I’d do is, I’d get two of those big stone crocks, one for molasses cookies and one for hermits. Only I—well, you see, the problem is I don’t know how to cook anything but bacon and eggs and I can’t even do that without breaking the yolks more often than not. So that means I’d need somebody to—”
“Hey, Dittany! What are you doing in here, for Pete’s sake? Can’t you find something better to do? And we need more ice.”
Ben Frankland was looking extremely put out.
“Then somebody will have to go someplace and get some,” said Dittany, feeling more than a bit miffed herself. “We’ve already bummed from the Binkles, the Munsons, the Burberrys, the MacVicars, and Minerva Oakes. What about your Aunt Arethusa, Osbert?”
“Yeah,” said Frankland, “what about your Aunt Arethusa, Monk? Why don’t you go see if you can scare up some ice? Take your time.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” said Osbert, and left.
“He needn’t hurry on my account,” said Ben. “I don’t see why you had to hole up in here with a guy like him anyway. Now with a guy like me—”
“I’d better see what’s happening in the kitchen,” Dittany interrupted. “Is there anything left to eat?”
“Mrs. Binkle ran home and got some stuff, and the last I saw of Mrs. Munson she was putting together some kind of concoction with baked beans and chutney. Come to think of it, I was supposed to ask if you have any curry powder. Sounds Godawful, eh?”
“Hazel couldn’t possibly make anything that wasn’t delicious. She cooks the way Arethusa Monk writes. You think it’s going to be ghastly and everyone goes crazy about it.”
“Jeez, I’ll be glad when that creep nephew heads for the wide open spaces again,” said Ben with feeling. “How much longer does he plan to stick around?”
“He hasn’t said. I don’t know why he should leave at all, if it comes to that. His aunt has an enormous house to herself, and two can write as cheaply as one, I expect. Personally, I’m hoping he stays. Maybe he’ll throw a little business my way.”
“Looks to me as if he’s already throwing a little business your way,” Frankland grunted. “What was that line he handed you about the cookie jars in the pantry?”
“You mean to tell me you’ve been eavesdropping again?” gasped Dittany.
“Now don’t get up on your high horse, eh? I just happened to overhear a few words as I came looking for you about the curry powder.”
“I thought it was about the ice.”
“Well, it was, only I meant to mention the curry powder too. Now look, Dittany, you’re just about the sweetest little kid I’ve ever run into, but when it comes to business you sure need somebody to give you a hand. For one th
ing, those writers are nothing but out-and-out moochers. The aunt comes sponging on you all the time and now the other one’s started in at the same game. And furthermore you don’t seem to realize that you’re sitting on a valuable piece of residential property here. I’ll admit this house is pretty much of a wreck now, but with a little cheap paint and wallpaper and maybe some nice green aluminum siding on the outside we could fix it up to look darn desirable. Only you’ve got to do something about a decent kitchen because that’s what the women always fall for. Say we take out a little mortgage to finance the renovations, we’d raise the market value by maybe two, three hundred per cent and sell out for—”
“Excuse me, Ben, I must look after my other guests.” Dittany was, after all, a Henbit and a Henbit did not breach the code of hospitality by laying out a guest under her own roof with an iron frying pan even when he used words like “sell out.” And she hoped he’d noticed her use of the singular pronoun.
Chapter 20
AS WAS ONLY TO be expected in Lobelia Falls, Dittany found when she circulated through the throng with Hazel’s dip (which was, of course, superb) that the conversation had got around to archery. Now that Andy McNasty’s hash was well settled and Sam Wallaby given his comeuppance, attention could be focused on more important matters like the Grand Free-for-All.
The interesting thing about the Free-for-All was that everybody competed against everybody else regardless of age, sex, or which branch of the Methodist Church they belonged to. The results always had the charm of unexpectedness. One year the gold ribbon had been won by Grandfer Coskoff, aged ninety-six at the time and since remarried; once by Zilla Trott shortly after she’d discovered wheat germ; once by a brigadier general in the Salvation Army; once by Hazel Munson’s brother Euonymus Busch when a mere twig of ten and a quarter. Sam Wallaby had won twice although it was now being bruited about that he must have finagled his scores and needn’t think he could get away with it again, eh.
The Grub-And-Stakers Move a Mountain Page 17
