The Grub-and-Stakers Quilt a Bee

by Charlotte MacLeod

  Osbert had a reply for that one, but Dittany gave him a look, so he contented himself with remarking, “The bee’s got one purple whisker.”

  “What are you driveling about now, prithee?” his aunt snapped back. “Most bees have one purple whisker. It’s a well-known entomological fact.”

  Hunding Paffnagel was poring over the scraps with professional interest. “I must say those women who created these artifacts were hipped on bees. Here’s one climbing out of a rose.”

  “It’s got a green whisker,” Osbert said, but nobody could hear him because the erstwhile silent Jehosaphat was clamoring for the floor.

  “My mother had a phonograph record of John McCormack singing, ‘When You Look into the Heart of a Rose.’ Back when I was a boy soprano, I could do a perfect imitation of him, including the crack in the record. Want to hear how it went?”

  It occurred to Dittany that Jehosaphat was more than a trifle whacked. Berthilde must be noticing, too. A few minutes later, when his wife caught him sidling toward the brandy decanter, she decided it was time they stepped out for a breath of fresh air.

  “Jehosaphat and I had better walk off that delicious meal,” she told Arethusa, “or we’ll never be able to get up tomorrow. And I suppose we ought to say good-bye to Aunt Evangeline since we won’t be seeing her again. Want to come, anybody?”

  Hunding Paffnagel said she wouldn’t mind a little stroll. Dittany and Osbert said they’d stay and help Arethusa with the dishes, which seemed the lesser evil. They weren’t worried about Hunding’s skipping town while under the Fairfields’ escort, though perhaps they ought to be concerning themselves with Berthilde and Jehosaphat in view of recent developments. Anyway, it was highly unlikely all three were in a plot together and even more improbable any one of them was sober enough to engineer an escape just now. The Monks waved them off and adjourned to the kitchen sink.

  “I don’t know whether you two happened to notice how much Berthilde and Hunding resemble each other in those purple dresses,” Dittany remarked as she filled the dishpan.

  “Egad, how could one miss it?” Arethusa replied. “They look like Mrs. Tweedledee and Mrs. Tweedledum.”

  “I wonder if I ought to go mention the coincidence to Sergeant MacVicar,” said Osbert, not without guile.

  “Stay, base varlet,” barked his aunt. “You’re not weaseling out on the dishes that easily. If Sergeant MacVicar doesn’t already know about those duplicate dresses, you can rest assured his wife does. And if she doesn’t, she will. Whatever possessed me to vaunt my skill as a needlewoman? There are others—”

  “Quit looking at me, Arethusa,” cried Dittany, seeing all too clearly which way the ball was about to bounce. “You’re a million times better than I am. So’s Minerva. Zilla’s not bad, either.”

  “Zilla wouldn’t have the patience for such fiddling work, and Minerva has her hands full already. Unless,” and Arethusa began to look more and more like Mrs. Siddons doing Lady Macbeth, “we can evolve some wile or ruse to rid her of Evangeline Fairfield.”

  “Arethusa, how can we?” Dittany protested. “Miss Paffnagel says Evangeline’s lost Perry’s pension and we darn sure can’t give her one from the Architrave. I don’t know if she’s entitled to anything from the government or not, since he’d been working down in the States for so long.”

  “Dittany, stop dithering. The man must have had life insurance, and surely they’d managed to save something.”

  “How, if he was always haring off after artifacts?”

  “Natter, natter, natter! Cease and desist, wench. I refuse to accept any suggestion that might lead to our having Evangeline Fairfield dangling albatrossly around our necks for the rest of her life. Damme, I’ll pension her off myself, if I have to. I’m sure you realize that last remark was uttered in the heat of the moment and not to be taken literally,” Arethusa added hastily. “Surely there’s a comfortable rest home somewhere for relicts of deceased curators. With a few well-chosen artifacts displayed on top of the television set to remind them of all that has gone before.”

  “Never mind what’s gone before,” snapped Dittany. “We’ve got troubles enough with the present. Where do I park this fish slice?”

  “Leave it on the counter. I’ll put it away later. Is that all the silver? Anything left in the dining room?”

  “Nothing but Osbert and the quilt pieces. Last time I looked in, he’d found a bee with a baby-blue whisker.”

  “Gets that from his mother’s side of the family, I hope. Pardieu, to think what your children will be like! A gaggle of little Osberts chasing after bees to see what color their whiskers are.”

  “Our children will not be chasing bees. They’re going to have their own ponies and ride wild and free down Cat Alley. Osbert always wanted a pony when he was little, and his stuffy old parents wouldn’t let him have one.”

  “That may have been because they lived in a high-rise apartment in the heart of picturesque downtown Toronto, you know. A pony could be a dreadful nuisance in a crowded elevator.”

  Osbert’s father was a somewhat high-powered oil company executive and still couldn’t figure out how his younger son had turned out to be Lex Laramie. Mr. Monk blamed his sister, of course.

  “Getting back to the quilt pieces,” said Arethusa, “we’ve got to have them all fixed up and ready to assemble by the end of the week. We must get cracking on the quilting bee before the galley proofs for Sir Percy Foils Again come in.”

  “Why?”

  “Because as soon as I’ve got them corrected, I have to whiz off to a writers’ conference and make a speech.”

  “Arethusa, how exciting. Where’s the conference?”

  “I forget. Somebody will remind me, I expect. If not, I’ll get out of making the speech. But you do understand the need for haste in either event.”

  “Not really, but I suppose if we’re going to do it, we might as well make a start. I’ll take them with me and see whom I can round up to work.”

  Dittany didn’t see why she’d wound up getting stuck again after Arethusa’s grandiose talk, but she’d have accepted any excuse to escape before Berthilde and Jehosaphat got back. Minerva must be giving them tea and cake or something. It was scarcely credible that sheer delight in Aunt Evangeline’s company could be keeping them out this long.

  Maybe Hunding had lured the Fairfields off to the inn for a nightcap, come to think of it. That would be nice, even if it did mean throwing business Andrew McNaster’s way. With any luck, the outlanders would make a night of it, and she and Osbert wouldn’t have to listen to another of Hunding’s travelogues. She collected the quilt pieces and her somewhat bemused spouse, and headed for home.

  After they’d gone a little way, she said abruptly, “Osbert, what do you really think he was up to?”

  “The bee with the orange whisker?”

  “No, darling. Andy McNasty.”

  “Oh.” Osbert pondered for a while. “Well, darling, assuming he wasn’t trying to shanghai you into some foul den for nefarious purposes, he might simply have thought it would be pleasant to buy a cup of tea for a beautiful woman.”

  “Darling, I’m not.”

  “That,” said her husband, “is too silly a remark to dignify with a reply.”

  Somewhat to Dittany’s surprise, Osbert did in fact make no further response. Her patience held out until they were almost to Applewood Avenue, then she said, “What do you say we stroll up to the Enchanted Mountain and see how Ethel’s making out with her new boyfriend?”

  He shook his head. “Actually, I was thinking I’d like to take another look at those quilt pieces.”

  “But why? Not that I think it’s sissy for a man to show an interest in embroidery, but—”

  “I know, sweetheart. I can’t explain it, myself. It’s just that there’s something about all those red and blue and orange feelers on those bees that keeps nagging at me. You say each embroidery was done by a different girl?”

  “That was the custom.” />
  “Then how come they all ran out of thread in the same place?”

  “You know, Osbert, that’s an awfully good question.”

  Osbert had another one. “Who knew you’d taken the pieces home?”

  “Mrs. Fairfield, of course. I expect she told Minerva and Zilla while they were waiting for Mr. Fairfield to come home, and no doubt they told a few more. You know how things get around.”

  “But do you remember telling anybody that Aunt Arethusa had taken them away from you?”

  “Now that you mention it, no. After she left, I didn’t see anybody to tell. I housecleaned all afternoon, then I went to Minerva’s tea party and it wouldn’t have been exactly delicate to talk about them in front of Mrs. Fairfield. And then you and I went off to find Fred Churtle.”

  “And our house was ransacked while we were gone, and nothing was taken.”

  “Osbert, you don’t mean the burglar was looking for those quilt pieces?”

  “Why not? They’re the only thing somebody might have thought we had but we didn’t. And they did come from the Architrave, and Hunding Paffnagel told us Mr. Fairfield had got hold of a letter that mentioned a secret code. Darn it, I wish I could figure out what a baby-blue whisker on a bumblebee might mean.”

  “Darling, how could a bee’s whisker be a code?”

  “Don’t ask me, but I think it’s funny, that’s all. I tell you what, why don’t we tell a few people Arethusa’s got the quilt pieces instead of us? If she gets burgled, too, then we’ll know.”

  “Osbert Monk, don’t you dare. If she gets burgled, she’ll be too scared to stay alone, and you know darn well where she’ll wind up.”

  “Dittany, not—not our happy home?”

  “You bet your Sunday socks our happy home. She’ll pack up her typewriter and her crocodiles and hike herself straight upstairs to the spare bedroom, and you know darn well neither of us would have guts enough to kick her out. Oh, my gosh!”

  “Dearest, you’ve blenched. You’re not going to faint?”

  “Why not? It’s too late for anything else. Osbert, don’t you realize the hour of doom is upon us? Hunding, Berthilde, and Jehosaphat all saw those quilt pieces just a while back at Arethusa’s, and now they’ve gone to Minerva’s.”

  “But maybe they’ll talk about something else.”

  “What, for instance? Here’s Berthilde, an embroidery expert; here’s Hunding, sniffing around after artifacts; here’s Evangeline, infesting the Architrave and no doubt taking full credit for discovering the quilt pieces; and here’s Jehosaphat, too drunk to shut them up, which I don’t suppose he’d see any reason to do anyway. And there’s Minerva wanting to hear about the pieces because she hasn’t seen them yet herself.”

  “Could we get Minerva not to spread the word?”

  “Hah! If I know Minerva, she’s got Dot Coskoff over there helping her ride herd on Mrs. Fairfield because Dot’s kids are away at camp and Bill’s gone fishing, and Zilla Trott and goodness knows how many more. No doubt they’ve already formed a delegation to go and borrow Hazel Munson’s grandmother’s quilting frame. Come on, quick.”

  They ran into the house, rushed to the phone, and dialed Arethusa. “Has anybody phoned you yet about the quilting bee?” Dittany panted into the mouthpiece.

  “What quilting bee?” Arethusa sounded rather annoyed.

  “The one they evidently haven’t phoned you about yet. Look, if anybody does, tell them—Osbert, what should she say?”

  “Good question. She’d better not say anything about us.” He took the receiver from Dittany’s hand. “Aunt Arethusa, if anybody calls you and says anything about those quilt pieces, why don’t you just tell them you’re busy with your house guests and you’d rather talk later.”

  “I’d rather not talk at all. I’m trying to get a little work done. Are you out of what you erroneously refer to as your mind?”

  “Look, Aunt Arethusa, this is serious. We think those embroideries may be more important than we thought they were, but we don’t yet know why. We need your help, honest. Can’t you act glamorous and inscrutable, like one of those seductive foreign spies in the old E. Phillips Oppenheim novels you sneak your plots out of?”

  “I do not sneak my plots out of E. Phillips Oppenheim!”

  “Well, you know what I mean. Slink around tight-lipped and mumchance, like the twenty-ninth of February. Look enigmatic.”

  “Over the telephone?”

  “Then sound enigmatic. Don’t go telling anybody we brought the quilt pieces here with us, if the subject comes up. Say they’ve been taken to a safe place. If they ask where, say you’ve got something boiling over on the stove. Got that?”

  “What did she say?” Dittany asked him after he’d hung up.

  “Mainly a lot of flapdoodle about my mother’s side of the family. I expect she’ll go along, though. You know how Aunt Arethusa loves to hurl herself into a role. Dad-blang it, I wish I could think what it is that bee with the orange whisker reminds me of!”

  “It will come to you, darling. Come on, let’s take the pieces in and spread them out on the dining room table, the way we did at Arethusa’s.”

  “But what if Hunding and the others come barging in?”

  “Well, darling, they already know we’ve got them.”

  “No they don’t. They think Aunt Arethusa does.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten so many raspberries. I can’t seem to think straight any more. How about if I take them down cellar and hide them in the washing machine?”

  “Suppose Hunding decides to rinse out her purple dress?”

  “Behind the pickles, then. No, I’ve already told her that’s where we keep the wine.”

  “How about under our mattress? We’ve already been burgled there. Look, darling, I’m sure you’ll think of something. I’ve got to go see Sergeant MacVicar and arrange a stakeout in case somebody tries to dry-gulch Aunt Arethusa tonight. Not that I really think they would with the Fairfields still there, but you never know.”

  “Be sure and mention the matching dresses, just in case.”

  “I will. Are you sure you don’t mind staying alone? I’ll only be gone a few minutes.”

  “I’ll concentrate on dog biscuits. Maybe that will bring Ethel home. I’ve often suspected she has psychic powers.”

  “You do that, darling.”

  CHAPTER 19

  HE KISSED HER AND was gone. Dittany took that troublesome box of exotic scraps upstairs, trying to think about milk bones but finding her attention inexorably switched to multicolored bees’ antennae.

  Were the truth but known, they were probably some silly whim the girls in the sewing circle had cooked up one rainy afternoon over a pan of fudge. Red for Beatrice, orange for Bessie, purple for Berthilde—drat! Whichever way she turned, those two purple dresses kept poking themselves forward. Backward, actually, and the odds were they didn’t mean a darned thing. Gram Henbit’s friend Agnes used to complain about how hard it was to find pretty clothes in half sizes. Here was an attractive style in a flattering color; no doubt it had been selling like hotcakes all over North America. South America, too, for all Dittany knew. Why look for new complications when they had plenty already?

  What she ought to be doing was what people did in mystery stories: sit down and make a timetable of who’d been where around the time Peregrine Fairfield met his doom. And what would it tell her? That Fred Churtle had been at the Architrave, that Cedric Fawcett had been there, that Hunding Paffnagel might or might not still have been there, that Berthilde Fairfield also might or might not have been there and might or might not have been mistaken for Hunding Paffnagel, not that anybody appeared to have paid much attention to either one of them.

  Suppose Berthilde had happened to drop in for a chat with Uncle Perry on her way to sell Miss Jane Fuzzywuzzy a few binfuls of yarn. Suppose she’d seen someone who looked much like herself chatting with Perry up among the artifacts. Might she not have decided now was as go
od a time as any to rid herself of an uncherished in-law because she could put the blame on that other woman?

  It might seem a trifle outré to commit a murder just because the chance seemed too good to miss, but stranger things had happened. Conversely, Dittany supposed, Hunding could have done the fell deed intending to blame Berthilde, again assuming Berthilde had been there to blame. In that case, though, why hadn’t Hunding dropped some incriminating remark when they met, such as, “Oh, yes, I saw you at the museum. You were sneaking in just as I went out leaving my old friend Perry sound in wind and limb. I didn’t speak because I assumed at the time you were merely my doppelgänger.”

  She shared her thoughts with Osbert when he got back from the police station, but he shook his head. “Miss Paffnagel wouldn’t have said doppelgänger, darling. She’d have employed some Mayan equivalent. Anyway, I don’t think we ought to bother the MacVicars again just now. Their son Alex and his wife and baby are visiting. The kid’s cut a new tooth. They were all sitting around gazing into its mouth and I could hardly get a word in edgewise.”

  “But what about the stakeout at Arethusa’s?”

  “Oh, that. Sergeant MacVicar deems it unnecessary in view of the fact that (a) Arethusa has house guests to protect her, and (b) he hasn’t anybody to stake. Bob and Ray have the night off and Ormerod’s still away. So if anybody’s going to guard Aunt Arethusa, it’ll have to be me.”

  “And leave me here alone with Hunding Paffnagel? Not on your life, hombre. You did promise to love, honor, and cherish me, you know.”

  “Darling, I do. I am. I will. All right, let’s forget the stakeout. I had something else in mind for this evening, anyway. Why do you always have to wear blouses that button up the back?”

  “Osbert, stop that. We can’t.”

  “But we can, darling. We do, quite often. Remember?”

  “I mean we mustn’t, till we get Miss Paffnagel tucked away for the night. I don’t want her strolling in here and finding an excuse to give us a lecture on pre-Columbian fertility rites. Let’s go back downstairs and have a glass of lemonade. I’m thirsty after all that wine at Arethusa’s.”