The Luck Runs Out

by Charlotte MacLeod

  That broke up the party. While Cronkite was wolfing his belated breakfast, Catriona and Guthrie collected the few belongings they’d brought with them and made their farewells. They were practically out the door when Guthrie stopped short.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you folks. The New Haven police had the FBI do a fingerprint check on Elisa. It turns out she’s actually Alice Lynch.”

  “Then Cat was right,” said Helen smugly. “Miss or Mrs.?”

  “Mrs. The Lynch who appears to be still her lawfully wedded husband or was when she married me, which is what counts, is doing twenty years at Dannemora for manslaughter and grand larceny. Elisa got off on a technicality but there was no doubt in anybody’s mind that she’d been in it with Lynch all the way. So I’m still a bachelor and Elisa’s facing a bigamy charge among other things. I guess I’d be pretty sore if I weren’t so relieved. Well, now that you folks know the way to Sasquamahoc, you’ll be coming again soon, I hope.”

  “You can count on it,” Peter assured his old friend. “We’ll all go whale watching together.”

  After a good deal more laughing and hugging, Guthrie and Catriona went off in another rented car.

  “See,” said Helen. “I told you all’s well that ends well. Now, Cronkite, if you’ve quite finished eating, I do think you’re right about getting on out to Woeful Ridge. Goodness knows what may be happening at the Binks estate once the news gets around, and that poor woman won’t have a clue as to what it’s all about.”

  “Do you want to come with us?” Peter asked.

  “I’d love to, but I still have to finish typing that translation, then go over to the library and run off some copies. Mrs. Wetzel’s planning to stop by in a while and pick hers up. I’ll send another to the sheriff at Hocasquam by express mail, and save one for us just in case. I have no idea who’s supposed to get the original diary, but no doubt somebody will tell me sooner or later. Go on, you two. Give my regards to the heiress.”

  “I’m sure glad it’s good news we’re delivering this time,” Cronkite remarked as he and Peter started off in the Shandys’ road-stained car.

  “Let’s hope Miss Binks also thinks it’s good news.” Peter grunted.

  “What are you talking about, Professor? Ninety million bucks would be good news to anybody.”

  “We’ll soon find out. She does appear to have worked out a pretty satisfactory way of life for herself, in which money doesn’t figure at all.”

  “But don’t you think the way she lives is sort of a waste? I mean, a nice, bright woman like her down in that woodchuck hole all by herself?”

  “I may think so and you may think so, but what counts is what Miss Binks herself thinks. My only hope is that we can find her before the stampede begins. You did locate that bicycle cache easily enough, though, didn’t you?”

  “Well, I located it. I can’t say the finding was easy, even though I did have the driveway and the cellar hole to orient myself by. Say, Professor, that hidden well we climbed out of wasn’t far from where we got the bikes.”

  “M’yes, I’ve been thinking about that. The only problem with trying to get to Miss Binks’s lair via the well is that what she called her drawbridge had to be lowered from the tunnel side. I suppose in a pinch we could simply drop into the water and swim across. It would only be a stroke or two.”

  Neither of them found the idea of being immersed in that black hole particularly attractive. They were almost relieved to find they’d have to find a different means of ingress. A couple of cars were already parked by the cellar hole and their drivers wandering around the area with cameras, wondering what to shoot. Peter raised his voice in loud complaint.

  “No sense wasting our time here, there’s nothing to see. Let’s go over to Woeful Ridge and find out where they staged that big shootout yesterday. Quick, before those yahoos over there beat us to it.”

  That started a stampede, of course. Peter and Cronkite made a feint of going, too, then doubled back and slipped into the woods.

  “Our best hope, I suppose, is to try to find those two big trees. She may be up in her aerie, where we found her the first time. If she isn’t, we can leave a note.”

  “I’ve already got Mr. Swope’s note,” murmured a voice out of a bush. “Follow me, please.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  THEY COULD’NT SEE SO much as a flash of deerskin, but they could hear a slight rustling noise, so they followed that. It wasn’t until they were well into the woods that Miss Binks showed herself, and then only to beckon them down one of her holes. She stopped up the opening with a neatly cut chunk of sod that had a small shadbush growing out of it and scuttled ahead of them along a tunnel that had to be traversed at a crouch.

  Eventually, they found themselves back in the underground lair where they’d spent that memorable night. The banked fire wasn’t casting enough of a glow for them to see by comfortably so Miss Binks uncovered the embers, added a fat pine knot or two, and set her teakettle across two flat rocks.

  “Now, gentlemen, can I offer you a cup of sassafras tea, or are we in too much of a hurry to stay for the kettle to boil? There have been some exceedingly strange doings over at Woeful Ridge since our last meeting. But perhaps you know more about that than I do?”

  “I expect we do,” Peter replied. “No, there’s no rush. Sassafras tea sounds most attractive.”

  While Miss Binks fussed around her midget kitchen, he and Cronkite gave her an account of what the disturbance had been all about. She expressed surprise and gratification.

  “That is really excellent news, gentlemen. Now I shall feel free to range over my domain without let or hindrance. Thank you so much for coming to tell me. Honey with your tea, Mr. Swope?”

  “Uh, thanks, Miss Binks, but that’s not what we came to tell you. I mean it was, but there’s more. You’d better do it, Professor.”

  Peter cleared his throat. “It’s about your grandfather, Miss Binks.”

  “My grandfather? You do surprise me. Don’t tell me he’s already been resurrected?”

  “No. Er—quite the contrary. There’s been a power outage at the cryonics laboratory. He and the other—er—occupants were accidentally defrosted and it—er—didn’t work.”

  Miss Binks set down the teapot very, very carefully. “Are you absolutely certain of this?”

  “Oh yes,” said Cronkite. “I telephoned California to get the details as soon as the news came in over our AP line at the paper. Mr. Binks is pretty ripe and kind of squishy, and there’s bright green fuzz an inch long growing all over him.”

  “I see.” Miss Binks sat perfectly still for a moment, staring into the fire. “Poor, dear Grandfather! All his dreams of rejuvenation turning to bright green fuzz. This is a poignant moment for me, as I’m sure you must be aware.”

  “I’m afraid it may be more poignant than you realize, Miss Binks.” Peter decided this was no time to beat around the bush. “The news item to which Swope refers also mentioned that the search is already on for the missing heiress who disappeared mysteriously after losing her court suit to gain custody of the old man’s property. If you don’t resurface right away, claimants are going to be crawling out of the bushes and you may have another nasty court fight on your hands.”

  “That is a point to consider, certainly. I have been so happy here. But as you say, if I don’t claim my inheritance, someone else will. And that, I expect, would put an end to my being able to live here. Whoever got it would want to develop the land, no doubt.”

  “Very likely.”

  “Eviction by bulldozer. Not the sort of end I’d foreseen to my peaceful sylvan existence. There is, as I recall, a great deal of money in the trust.”

  “Ninety million dollars was what it said in the news release,” Cronkite amplified. “I don’t know how much would be taken up in taxes.”

  “A good deal less than you’d have to pay if the money weren’t in a trust,” said Peter, “and if you hadn’t been named as your grandfather’s heiress. You�
��re going to be an extremely rich woman, Miss Binks.”

  “There’s irony for you.” Miss Binks took a sip of her sassafras tea and gazed around her snug dwelling with sadness on her face. “I’ve been feeling myself an extremely rich woman out here already. I’ve owned nothing worth fretting about and lacked nothing that I’ve needed. Now I’m supposed to exchange this idyllic existence for infinitely more than I need and a great deal to worry about.”

  The thin shoulders inside the badly made deerskin tunic lifted in a shrug. “But what alternative is there? One must play the hand that’s dealt one, as my Uncle Charles used to say. This philosophical attitude made him a sucker for card sharps, as you may imagine. Very well, if I must be rich, I suppose I must. The prospect does have its positive side, I must admit. What would you suggest, gentlemen? Shall I merely stroll out of the woods crying ‘Ecce femina,’ or would a more businesslike approach be advisable?”

  “What about the lawyer who acted for you in your lawsuit?” Peter ventured. “Did you two—er—part friends?’

  “Oh yes. It wasn’t Mr. Debenham’s fault he couldn’t crack the trust. He was perhaps overzealous on my behalf, allowing personal regard to sway his judgment as to the favorable outcome of the suit, but one can hardly fault a man for liking one. And I wasn’t actually much worse off after we lost. He refused to take a fee and even offered to pay the court costs, poor man. Of course, I couldn’t allow that, but now there’s a chance at the big plum pudding, Mr. Debenham certainly deserves to have his slice. How shall I get to him? On my bicycle?”

  “What I’d suggest, Miss Binks, is that you put on your—er—shore-going clothes and let Swope and me drive you. We could stop at my house near the college long enough for you to do any—er—titivating you may feel inclined for. My wife will be delighted to make your acquaintance. You could then explain to the lawyer that you’ve been visiting friends who prefer not to be named because they don’t want to be involved in the publicity which is bound to result from your—er—emergence. Unless you can think of something better.”

  “Anything but the truth, eh, Professor? I quite understand. I must be careful not to give any other possible claimant an opening for having me declared of unsound mind. Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”

  “M’well, it’s a point to consider.”

  “You are quite right. They’d have me in a padded cell quicker than a chipmunk can wink its eye. I shall say I’ve been staying at a small winterized camp in a secluded area where I was able to live very cheaply on what little money I had left from the sale of my aunt’s effects. As to where it was, I shall refuse to tell on the grounds that I don’t want my former neighbors to be pestered by ill-mannered curiosity seekers. That should suffice, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Heck yes,” said Cronkite. “You don’t have to mention that your neighbors are skunks and woodchucks.”

  “And a rather churlish Mr. Badger.” Miss Binks did have a delightful smile. “You see, I don’t want to lie any more than I absolutely have to. Once I’ve been put in possession of the funds, it won’t matter a jot if the truth does come out. Anybody with ninety million dollars to disburse as she sees fit can be as eccentric as she chooses and nobody will dare raise an eyebrow.”

  Miss Binks poured them another round of sassafras tea. “So let’s drink to the great god Mammon! Naturally I’ve entertained myself from time to time wondering how I should spend Grandfather’s money if I ever got the chance.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to give some thought to rebuilding the soap factory?” Cronkite suggested diffidently.

  Miss Binks’s smile became a chuckle. “I should be delighted, and it’s not going to cost me a cent. All I shall have to do is back Sam Snell into a corner and give him a sound tongue-lashing about performing his civic duty.”

  “Huh. You’ll have to catch him first. Right now he’s off someplace on his yacht, thinking it over.”

  “Is he, forsooth? Cheer up, Mr. Swope, he won’t stay long. Entre nous, our valiant yachtsman gets seasick at the mere sight of a wave over three inches high. We have but to keep an eye on the weather reports and accost him as soon as he sets foot on shore. Once he finds out I’ve got my hands on Grandfather’s money, he’ll be groveling at my feet and licking my shoes. Which reminds me, I must buy some for the occasion. Trust me, Mr. Swope. Settling Sam Snell’s hash will be a mere bagatelle. And, I may add, a labor of love.”

  “Miss Binks, you’re fantastic!”

  “So I’ve been told before, but never in that tone of voice. Thank you, Mr. Swope. Let’s see, where were we? Oh yes, still stuck with all those superfluous millions of Grandfather’s. You know this dustup with those absurdly named survivalists has set me thinking. What strikes one at the beginning, of course, is their total unconcern with survival—at least, with anybody else’s survival. Grandfather was really concerned with survival, but his approach appears to have been ultimately as self-defeating as theirs. However, we must not therefrom infer that the basic concept of survivalism is wrong.”

  “One could hardly say so,” Peter agreed, “since we’ve been working on survival ever since we struggled out of the primal ooze.”

  “Ah yes, ‘when you were a tadpole and I was a fish in the Paleozoic slime.’ Or is it ‘time’? I shall have to refresh my memory for nonsense verse. For nonsense in general, I suppose, if I’m to resume my place in polite society. But anyway, what I’m getting at is that I’ve learned a great deal about survival during these past few years. I believe the best way to keep Grandfather’s memory green—oh dear, that’s an unfortunate turn of phrase, but no matter—would be, as I was about to say, for me to spend his money passing on to others what I now know about staying alive.”

  “That sounds like a great idea, Miss Binks,” said Cronkite. “What will you do, give classes on how to make amaranth pancakes?”

  “Classes would be part of the program, certainly, but we’d have to operate on a far wider scope for the plan to convey any meaningful benefit to the general public. It’s not just a matter of showing people how to take a pointed stick and scratch the ground for edible roots, you know. There are too many of us, and not enough roots in the places where they’re needed most. A holistic approach to survival these days is a far more complex business than it was in ages past. What with acid rain and neutron bombs and supply and demand and poisons in the groundwater, we’ve got ourselves into such a mess that we can’t even count on having another age to fiddle around in. We’ve got to get it right this time.”

  Miss Binks laughed a little at her own intensity. “Well, gentlemen, I didn’t mean to bore you with my trivial ponderings. My aim would be to deal with the simple facts, and to start where I find myself. We here in this country have picked our apples before we let them ripen, and we’re suffering now from an economic bellyache. The ache’s going to get a good deal worse before it gets better, in my personal opinion. In the meantime, bellies will still have to be filled and heads will need roofs over them, our climate being what it is. Food’s to be had if you know what to look for, and shelter can be contrived in more ways than we generally think about. There’s a lot to be said for a hole in the ground, you know. The big thing is to keep the earth closet far enough away from the water supply. And you see, I can explain all that.”

  “By George, so you can!” Peter was liking this. “None better. And how do you plan to do so?”

  “First I plan to ask your advice on whether it would be possible to affiliate with Balaclava Agricultural College. This would add credence to my venture and provide me with access to a brain trust such as yourself and the distinguished Professor Enderble, whose marvelous book, How to Live with the Burrowing Mammals, has been such a source of inspiration and enlightenment that I’ve actually worn the covers off.”

  “John will be delighted,” Peter assured her, “and I’m sure President Svenson will be glad to discuss whatever thoughts you may have on the subject. I’ll arrange a meeting as soon as he gets back
from Sweden, if you like.”

  “Excellent. I shall have a more concrete proposal ready by then—and, I hope, cash in hand to get started with. My proposal will be essentially to turn Grandfather’s land into an annex of the college, reserving a small plot on which I’ll build a modest house for myself to live in. On the site of the original house, I’ll erect whatever buildings are needed for carrying on the various activities we decide to pursue. One of these will be a television station devoted entirely to educational programs connected with survivalist themes.”

  “A television station?”

  “Oh yes, that’s the only way, don’t you think? It’s all very well to read in a manual of edible plants that in order to avoid being poisoned, one must gather the edible shoots of pokeweed before they’re more than six inches tall, but when the plants are that small, how can the reader be sure they’re really pokeweed? On the other hand, suppose you take a person out into a field and show him or, needless to say, her. ‘See, this is a young pokeweed. It’s small enough to pick safely. That one over there is too big, forget it. And this plant isn’t a pokeweed at all, it’s monkshood and it can kill you, so leave it alone.’ Then the person will know precisely which is which, and that’s the sort of thing one can do best on the grand scale through the medium of television. Furthermore, one could follow up with a demonstration of what to do with the pokeweed once it’s picked. Pokeweed salad, for instance, or simmered pokeweed shoots with day-lily-pollen biscuits and wild elderberry jelly.”

  “And you could show somebody getting sick from picking the monkshood instead of the pokeweed and having to eat day lilies or something for an antidote.” Cronkite was getting into the spirit of the thing.

  “It would take a good deal more than day lilies to cure you of monkshood poisoning, young man! Our whole thrust will be to teach people to pick the right stuff in the first place. Anyway, gentlemen, the ramifications are endless, but that gives you a small idea of what I want to do. Henceforth I shall devote my abilities, such as they are, to making sure that Grandfather will not have defrosted in vain.”