The Corpse in Oozak's Pond

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Great balls of fire, you know more about what’s happening around campus than I’ve found out in the past twenty years,” said Shandy.

  “Information is a librarian’s business, dear. Besides, Sieglinde stopped in here last evening, too. She’s awfully grateful to you for taking this Oozak’s Pond business off Thorkjeld’s hands while he’s so swamped himself. She’s been keeping him well stoked with herring to help him over the hump, she says, but there’s a limit to what even herring can do. By the way, maybe you’d better pick up some herring if you’re near the fish market today.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to be near. The brink, I’d say offhand.”

  After Helen left, Shandy sat brooding over his eggy plate. At last he got up, cleared away the dishes, and went to put on one of his elderly but still good gray worsted suits. He couldn’t see any special reason why he should attend the Buggins funeral, but neither did he see a reason not to. Besides, he was curious to be on hand if Bracebridge Buggins turned up alive and litigious. The more he heard about the wily twin, the firmer his conviction became that this asinine lawsuit had a strong flavor of Bracebridge about it.

  Bracebridge did not come, though, and nobody was acting as if he’d been expected. Hesperus Hudson appeared, to Shandy’s surprise, cleaned up and togged out in a fairly respectable outfit that most likely belonged to Zack. Hudson looked more genuinely crestfallen than most of the other alleged mourners, as was no more than fitting in one whose life experiences had been so closely intertwined with Trevelyan’s. No doubt he was grieving because nobody was left to run the still, but at least Hudson’s was a genuine sorrow.

  Marietta Woozle must have taken the morning off from the Pied Pica Press, either to pay her respects or to keep a sharp eye on her uncle. She was one of the more smartly turned out congregants in a bright blue coat and a white furry hat, with white boots and a red handbag.

  Captain Flackley and his wife were there, too, both wearing Sherpa coats and subdued expressions. Shandy didn’t see any soulful glances pass between Flackley and his dressy neighbor, but he’d hardly have expected to, under the present circumstances. Comparing Marietta Woozle to the attractive Yvette Flackley, Shandy found it hard to believe glances would pass under any circumstances and wondered why he’d thought they might.

  Miss Minerva Mink was there, but not with her bingo chauffeuse. One of the Minks must have gone out and got her. She was sitting with the family, as was only right and proper, being Purvis’s aunt and the former prop and mainstay of the deceased. As well as the possible inheritor of their property. Shandy wondered whether Trevelyan Buggins had ever got around to making a will. It would be a touching gesture if he’d left his still to Hesperus Hudson.

  There was a pretty good crowd in the church. Shandy recognized several of the garden club ladies. Grace Porble was not among them. She was up front with Sephy and the Minks, looking as if she’d been dragged backward through a knothole but keeping a brave face in front of the congregation.

  At least Porble had a cast-iron excuse not to come with her. He hated getting dragged to any sort of ceremony, and he certainly entertained no mellow feelings toward the Bugginses even if he hadn’t, as Harry Goulson so delicately put it, effected their demise.

  Chief Ottermole wasn’t here, of course. Shandy hadn’t expected him to be. Neither was Edna Mae. She was probably home crocheting a bedspread for the roll-away cot. Silvester Lomax’s wife was present and no doubt Clarence’s as well, though Shandy didn’t know the latter on sight. Betsy Lomax was also on deck in her respectable black coat with the muskrat collar and cuffs she’d inherited from an aunt who’d married the druggist over in Hoddersville and lived pretty high on the hog. From the back row came an occasional muffled sneeze and a frequent sniffle that indicated Cronkite Swope was back on the job.

  Mike Woozle’s inamorata not only hadn’t come with Miss Mink, she evidently hadn’t come at all. Shandy looked in vain for the red wig and the ratty fake fur. Maybe Marietta had persuaded Flo to stay away, or maybe Flo simply hadn’t got up in time. Half past eight was pretty early for a funeral but convenient for those who wished to show their sympathy and still get their day’s work done. Therefore, it was a favored time in Balaclava Junction, though possibly not among the jet set out at the Seven Forks.

  Would Flo have wound up at the Dirty Duck last evening? Probably not, since Mike’s brother hung out there, but Shandy was inclined to think she’d wound up somewhere other than Marietta Woozle’s kitchen. Well, all flesh was as grass, as the minister was even now reminding his hearers, and grass needed moisture to thrive. Shandy shifted uncomfortably on the oaken pew seat and wondered again what he was here for.

  The service was a fairly lengthy one, not that the minister could find a great deal to say about Mr. and Mrs. Buggins by way of a eulogy. He padded out the rite with several of the old gospel hymns the Bugginses were reputed to have sung together over the years. That was all right, Shandy liked to sing hymns. Besides, they gave him a chance to stand up and stretch a bit in an unobtrusive way. He was pleasantly surprised to hear Hesperus Hudson singing, too, and deeply touched by the fervor Hudson put into the one about drinking at a fountain that never would run dry. But it was during “Rock of Ages” that Shandy got his revelation.

  From then on, he was on pins and needles, but the service finished at last, as all things must. Then he had to stand waiting while the mourners filed out behind the now closed double casket, which just about squeaked through the narrow aisle with Harry Goulson steering and two of Arabella’s cousins who helped out sometimes propelling from behind.

  Persephone Mink had her handkerchief out, dabbing at her cheeks. Purvis Mink was looking embarrassed, as a husband naturally would, and keeping a hand on his wife’s shoulder in a reckless public display of affectionate concern. Grace Porble was staring straight ahead of her, walking like an automaton. Miss Mink was looking prim and self-righteous. The rest were just looking tired and slightly relieved.

  Since Shandy had chosen to sit far back in the church, he was among the last to leave, he and the sniffling Swope. “You going to the cemetery, Professor?” the reporter asked, punctuating his question with a sneeze.

  “Gesundheit,” said Shandy. “No, I’m not. Don’t let me detain you.”

  “Oh, I’m not going, either. Funerals are Arabella’s department. I was just wondering what new developments have arisen in the murder case.”

  “I had a feeling you might be. As of now, we’re still more or less where we were.”

  “But, gosh, Professor, you’re not going to leave Dr. Porble languishing in the coop, are you?”

  “Is he languishing? I haven’t been to see him yet today.”

  “Neither have I, but why wouldn’t he be? I’d languish. You’d languish. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Swope, if it’s your intention to get off a lot of slop about ‘Librarian Languishes in Lockup—’”

  “For cry-eye, Professor, what do you take me for?” yelped the virus-ridden journalist. “I haven’t written one word about Dr. Porble getting arrested, and I don’t intend to unless I’m driven to it. Fred Ottermole said he’d break my neck if I did, and I wouldn’t, anyway.”

  “What? You mean Ottermole’s passing up a chance to get his picture with a brand-new haircut in the Fane and Pennon, and you’re going along with him?”

  “Well, sure. Why not? You’ve cooperated with us often enough. See, Fred figured he had to take some action on Dr. Porble in the face of the evidence, but he doesn’t really believe Dr. Porble’s guilty, so Fred’s kind of sitting on him till you come up with the real murderer. That way, Fred figures he won’t come out looking like a schnook.”

  “Like a what?”

  “A schnook. Kind of a dumb jerk who gets himself into stupid situations.”

  “M’yes, that would seem to be the mot juste. I must say, I’m filled with admiration and gratitude at your mutual restraint. Perhaps we might go together and check on Dr. Porble’s pre
sent state of languishment. I have something to discuss with Ottermole, anyway. Do you have your camera with you, by the way?”

  “Well, not exactly with me, no. I didn’t think the minister would want me to bring it into the church. But it’s in the trunk of the press car. You don’t mean you want me to take a picture of Dr. Porble in the lockup, after all?”

  “I do not, and I shouldn’t advise you to get any second thoughts on the matter yourself, unless you plan on involving the Fane and Pennon in a lawsuit. I merely want to know if the camera will be ready to hand when and if it’s needed.”

  “Oh. Sure thing, Professor. All gassed up and rarin’ to go. Plenty of film, plenty of flashbulbs. Just point me in the right direction and tell me when to shoot. Hey, I think my cold’s gone.”

  “Divine intervention, perhaps. Let’s go, Swope.”

  They got themselves out of the push in the vestibule just in time to see Grace Porble cast an anguished glance in the direction of the police station before she got into one of the black limousines that were thrown in at no extra charge as part of Goulson’s friendly service to friends and neighbors. Poor woman, she must be going through a terrible time. Well, with any luck, she’d be out of the Slough of Despond pretty soon.

  In deference to Swope’s convalescent status, they rode in the press car to the police station, though this was only a matter of backing up a hundred feet or so and pulling into a different parking spot. Inside, they found Dr. Porble was not languishing in the lockup. On the contrary, he was sitting at Chief Ottermole’s desk with Edmund on his lap, a cup of coffee at his elbow, and a great many file folders sorted into piles in front of him.

  “Morning, Peter,” he said rather absently, with his eyes on the files.

  “Hi, Phil,” Shandy replied. “Been promoted to trusty?”

  “I’m just trying to organize a more efficient filing system so Ottermole won’t get stuck with so much unnecessary paperwork. It’s utterly ridiculous the way this town overworks its grossly underpaid employees. I’m going to have something to say about the matter at town meeting, I can tell you.”

  “You have my wholehearted approval and support. Where’s the chief?”

  “Ottermole got called out on a robbery. Somebody’s broken into the turkey-farm kitchen and stolen six turkey pies.”

  “Great Scot, he’s not going to arrest a fox?”

  “A fox wouldn’t have swiped six plastic knives and forks to eat the pies with. Ottermole pounced on that clue right away. He just phoned in to say he’s traced the miscreant through tracks in the snow and will be effecting a collar, so would I kindly hide the comic books under the cot mattress to make the lockup look more official?”

  “Comic books?”

  “Yes, his boys insisted on bringing them down for me to read when they found out I’m a librarian. They had them all arranged in alphabetical order. Refreshing to find there are still youngsters around who know their ABC’s. I hadn’t seen Superman for something like forty-five years. He doesn’t seem to have changed a great deal, though I’ll admit my memory’s unclear on the details. How’s Helen making out at the library?”

  “She’s coping but none too happy about having to. Administration’s not her thing. She’ll be relieved to get back to the Buggins Collection.”

  “No accounting for tastes,” Porble grunted. “You haven’t come to get me out of here, by any chance?”

  “Not just now. Soon, I hope.”

  “Well, stall it off for another hour or two if you can. I hate to leave a job undone. Ah, here’s Ottermole. Where’s your prisoner, Chief?”

  “Aw, he was just some poor bastard in a busted-down van with a wife an’ two little kids. He got laid off from his job at a factory up in New Hampshire. His unemployment run out, an’ they got evicted from their place, so they parked their stuff in somebody’s garage and started out to see if he could find work down here. But he ain’t had no luck, an’ they hadn’t eaten for two days, so what the hell? I talked Jack Pointer into givin’ the guy a job delousin’ turkey coops. It ain’t much, but they’ll eat. We couldn’t squeeze ’em all in here, anyways. How you comin’, Doc?”

  “Quite well. I find it rather relaxing, actually.”

  “I don’t. Hi, Professor. Hey, Cronk, what are you doin’ here? You know what I told you about keepin’ this out o’ the paper.”

  “Don’t worry, Ottermole,” said Shandy. “Swope’s, er, with me. I want you to swear us both in as your deputies, and, Phil, I want you to witness the swearing-in. I assume there’s no legal problem about that, Ottermole, since Porble hasn’t been formally arrested.”

  “What do you mean arrested?” Ottermole sounded hurt. “Doc’s just here to reorganize the files while bein’ held in protective custody as a material witness.”

  Witness to what? Shandy didn’t ask. He merely stood waiting while the chief flapped around trying to make up his mind as to the correct procedure for swearing in a deputy. He’d sworn both Shandy and Swope in before, as a matter of fact, by saying something like “Okay, you guys are deputies. Let’s go.” This time, however, Ottermole naturally wanted to put on a good show in front of his distinguished temporary assistant.

  In fact, he managed quite nicely, even allowing Cronkite Swope to take a picture of him swearing in Professor Shandy, provided he keep Dr. Porble well out of camera range. “Makes it more official,” he explained. “Now, Cronk, I’ll swear you in an’ the professor can take one of us.”

  Shandy fretted a bit at this unnecessary delay, but reason told him there was no need to rush off. If his hunch was correct, his quarry had no intention of going anywhere in a hurry, and Ottermole had earned the right to spread his tail feathers. He took the picture.

  “And lastly, Ottermole, I want you to make me out a search warrant.”

  “Sure, Professor, anything you say. Where are you plannin’ to search?”

  Shandy told him. Porble’s eyebrows went up, but he said nothing and went on with his methodical checking of the files, while the police chief filled out the warrant.

  “Okay, Professor, that ought to do it. You want me to go with you?”

  “On the contrary, I particularly do not want you to go with me,” Shandy answered. “No offense, Ottermole, but right now I have nothing whatever to work on except a funny feeling. Taking somebody along who, er, smacks of officialdom could ruin any possible chance I might have of finding out whether I’m barking up the right tree. Would I need another warrant to arrest somebody, by the way?”

  “Nah, just bring ’em in. We’ll get Doc here to handle the paperwork. Jeez, I hope you don’t catch the real killer before we get them files straightened out.”

  “Dr. Porble has already expressed a similar wish. Speaking for myself, I’d like to wrap things up as quickly as possible and get my wife back. She’s declared a moratorium on domesticity for the duration. Swope, you’re welcome to come if you care to.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it, Professor. Where are we going?”

  “First to my house.”

  That clearly wasn’t the sort of Blazing Saddles takeoff Swope had envisioned, but he went cheerfully enough and entertained Jane Austen with a wad of paper on a string while Shandy spent a long time and no doubt a great deal of money making long-distance phone calls.

  “All right, Swope. Bainbridge Buggins is still officially missing in action. The shipping line doesn’t know where Boatwright Buggins is. Trowbridge has been off on a geological field trip for the past three weeks, and Bracebridge hasn’t been seen at the Wayfarers’ Rest since 1972. Now I think I know where we’re heading. Let’s put the show on the road.”

  Chapter 19

  THEY’D LEFT THE PRESS car sitting out on the drive in defiance of Crescent protocol. Mirelle Feldster was out on her front steps next door, ready to give them an earful, but Shandy only gave her a nod and climbed in beside Swope.

  “Where to, Professor?”

  “Head for the Seven Forks,” Shandy told him, “and thank God
it’s you driving instead of me. I feel as if I’ve worn a groove in the road out there.”

  “Are we going back to the Buggins place?”

  “Eventually. First we stop at the Dirty Duck.”

  “For Pete’s sake, why?”

  “To see if we can collect Hesperus Hudson without having to face his niece. You wouldn’t be safe a minute in that woman’s clutches.”

  “Is she the one in the white boots who brought him to the funeral?”

  “She is.”

  “Then I guess I wouldn’t.” Cronkite didn’t sound flattered, only scared. “I’ve run into a couple like her going around doing interviews on should the dog license be extended to cats and other vital issues of the day. There was one woman who—well, I finally had to make believe I’d had the mumps at a delicate age. So she gave me the name of some friend of hers who thinks he’s a faith healer like that guy in the Philippines with the rusty jackknife and told me to come back when I was cured. What I do now is, I stay out on the doorstep. The important thing about being a journalist is learning to keep clear of big, soft sofas. I wrote to the Famous Journalists’ Correspondence School about putting it in the curriculum, but I sort of don’t think they will.”

  “M’well, perhaps they feel some things have to be learned by experience,” said Shandy. “Aha, we’re right on the button. Here he comes now.”

  Hesperus Hudson was in fact just emerging from the woods. Marietta must have known better than to let him escape in those respectable clothes, as he was now clad in the horrible garments he’d been wearing last night and no doubt for many nights before that. The bath hadn’t quite worn off, and he hadn’t had a chance to let his whiskers grow back, but time would take care of that. As he steered toward the Dirty Duck, his face wore an expression of happy anticipation. When Shandy got out of the car and walked over to him, it changed.