Wrack and Rune

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Here’s one for you, Henny. Prob’ly your draft notice from Gen’ral Pershing. Way the gov’ment operates the post office these days is a cryin’ shame. We used to pay two cents for a letter an’ a penny for a postcard an’ get two deliveries a day. Now you have to sign your life away to afford a stamp an’ the Lord knows whether your mail will ever get delivered or not. Well, open it, can’t you for the land’s sake? What’s it say?”

  “Don’t spring your corset stays, Aunt Hilda. Give a man time to—well, I’ll be damned!”

  “Like as not, but you don’t have to brag about it out loud in a house o’ mournin’. Speak up, can’t you?”

  “Hold on a minute, can’t you? Here.” Henny handed the message to Shandy. “You read it, Professor. I want to make sure I understand what it says. I’m hopin’ it’s him an’ not me that’s gone crazy.”

  Shandy scanned the page, feeling more apoplectic at every line. “Why, that low-down son of a b—I beg your pardon, Miss Horsefall, but of all the unmitigated—Horsefall, he can’t do this!”

  “Looks like he’s already done it, ain’t he?”

  “Done what?” screamed Miss Hilda.

  “Canute Lumpkin appears to have filed suit against Hilda and Hengist Horsefall, court-appointed guardians of his cousin Spurgeon, for gross negligence resulting in said Spurgeon’s death from exposure to a corrosive substance without due warning or precaution. Lumpkin’s claiming a million dollars in damages.”

  “A million dollars?” she gasped. “Where the flamin’ perdition does Nutie think we could ever get our hands on that kind o’ money?”

  “A million dollars?” From all sides the banshee wail rose. “He must be out of his mind.”

  Nutie the Cutie was thereafter alleged to be a number of other things, some repeatable and some not. Drawing, quartering, boiling in oil, and stomping his lousy, rotten guts out with a pair of hobnailed boots were brought forth as appropriate methods of dealing with Lumpkin’s incredible demand. The feeling that he might as well cut their throats and be done with it was expressed with heat by many voices. Only the vinegar-faced second cousin once removed appeared to find anything to smile at in the lawyer’s epistle.

  “Only one thing you can do now, Henny. Get that Fescue woman back here pronto, strike the best deal you can get for hard cash on the line, stuff the money inside your socks, and head for Paraguay.”

  “Paraguay? What the hell for?”

  “Because Lumpkin’s cooked your goose good and proper, far as I can see. Of course he doesn’t expect to get a cool million. Hell settle for whatever he can get out of your property, which ought to be a tidy amount if Gunder Gaffson’s as hot to get his mitts on it as that Mrs. Fescue claims he is. You’d be crazy not to get out while the getting’s good, Uncle Henny. Be a couple of years, most likely, before the court gets around to trying the case. By that time you and Aunt Hilda will both be six feet under anyway, like as—”

  “How’d you like a punch in the mouth, Adelbert?” inquired Great-nephew Ralph and Great-nephew Eddie in one voice.

  “What are you two lighting on me for? I’m only trying to talk a little sense into this old—”

  Miss Hilda wasted no time on words. She simply handed the lemonade pitcher to Jolene and the glasses to Marie, then whanged down the heavy metal tray on Adelbert’s head.

  “Any name-callin’s to be done with my nephew, I’ll handle it myself, thank you kindly. You always was a nasty, whinin’, sneaky-handed little brat, Adelbert. Why your folks ever bothered to raise you was more’n I could ever figure out, an’ I still say you wasn’t worth the effort. If you wasn’t my own flesh an’ blood, though a dern poor specimen of it, I’d make Henny run you off this place with a pitchfork. We got enough trouble around here already without you shootin’ your mouth off about Paraguay. An’ furthermore I ain’t your aunt, praise the Lord. Your grandfather was my cousin an’ that’s as close to you as I ever want to get, so don’t start claimin’ what you ain’t entitled to.”

  “I beg your humble pardon, I’m sure,” Adelbert replied with what shreds of dignity he could scramble together. “Since I don’t appear to be wanted here, I’ll take myself off. Just don’t say I never warned you when you find yourselves out on the street with no roof over your heads.”

  “It’ll be a cold day in hell before we ever try to set foot under any roof o’ yours,” Henny retorted. “Me an’ Aunt Hilda’s managed to hang ’er tough this long. I guess we can make it the rest o’ the way, since accordin’ to you we ain’t got far to go.”

  Young Hilly flung her arms around the old man’s scrawny neck. “Don’t pay any attention to silly old Bertie, Uncle Henny. You’ll live to tell awful lies to my grandchildren, and Aunt Hilda will bake them gingerbread boys the same as she did for us. I’m counting on you both.”

  “I declare, Marie,” Jolene surprised everybody by observing, “I couldn’t be prouder of your Hilly if she were one o’ my own. And Ralphie, too, the way he spoke up for his family.”

  “And his uncle and aunt and cousins, which is no more than you deserve. I hope your young’uns appreciate what they’ve got for parents,” Marie replied.

  “Lord a’mighty,” Miss Hilda marveled. “If that’s what it takes to get them two talkin’ civil, we better get Adelbert back here so’s I can thump ’im again.”

  Henny laughed and Shandy was glad to see him do it. He had a hunch that might be the last laugh old Horsefall was likely to enjoy for some time to come.

  Shandy had managed to locate the Ameses by now. Laurie and Roy were over by the hen run with some small children researching the borrowed geese. Tim appeared to be showing some of the adolescent Eddies and Ralphs how to do soil tests. A good time was evidently being had by all, so Shandy merely waved to let them know he was around, and wandered off by himself to mull over this latest nasty development.

  Anybody who could pull off a stunt like this at such a time would stick at absolutely nothing. Shandy was not only willing but eager to believe Nutie the Cutie had murdered his cousin and missed assassinating Cronkite Swope only by the fluke of a young woman’s kindly impulse. But how had he managed his tricks? Had he been here last night? Among that unruly mob, getting in would be no problem. He could have worn a false beard or a woman’s wig or something, and stalked young Swope until he’d seen his chance for another quick kill.

  But why Swope particularly? Maybe Lumpkin had a grudge against the young reporter. Maybe it was just that a fellow whizzing around on a light motorbike presented a likely chance for some dirty work. Maybe getting somebody rubbed out last night was part of a campaign to keep the pot boiling on the Horsefall farm. Maybe the idea was to downgrade Spurge’s death by making it look like part of a major harassment or even the Viking curse at work, so that the police wouldn’t start getting too nosy about why the one barrier to Nute’s collaring the Lumpkin fortune had been so conveniently removed. Maybe, furthermore, Nute had found the alleged fortune to be far smaller than he’d expected, and was hoping to make up the shortfall by pressing this infamous lawsuit against the Horsefalls.

  The hell of it was, Nute did have a case of sorts. He was officially on record as having tried to remove his cousin from the Horsefalls’ custody on the grounds that they weren’t able to take proper care of Spurge. He could take an “I told you so” attitude of indignation against an unjust verdict and probably get a fair amount of public opinion on his side, for whatever that might be worth.

  Mrs. Lomax claimed Miss Horsefall had managed to make a good many enemies during her long and evidently scandal-ridden life. Henny was not what one could term a colorful personality, and there might not be any great number of people who’d be willing to stand up for him. No doubt plenty of his neighbors thought Henny was taking a ridiculous attitude about parting with the land he was too old to farm, especially those who’d succumbed to the lure of quick money and were sore because he’d had the fortitude not to.

  Timothy Ames and maybe a few others could fully a
ppreciate what a triumph Henny had made of his life. For most, it was Nutie the Cutie, with his knack of getting rich people to give him large sums of money for things they could perfectly well have done without, who’d be tagged successful. Somehow, popular favor often did tend to fall on the side that looked to be winning.

  Shandy recalled that he’d meant to check on the amount of the Lumpkin inheritance and hadn’t yet done so. He might go over to Town Hall and spend the rest of the day wading through probate records. On the other hand, he might ask Mrs. Lomax.

  He stood a moment in thought. Mrs. Lomax had been to the Shandys’ yesterday, to the Ameses; the day before, and maybe to the Enderbles’ on Monday if it wasn’t her club day. Normally she’d be at the Stotts’ today, but Professor Daniel Stott, Solon of Swine, was still off escorting his bride of two weeks, the former Iduna Bjorklund, on visits to one and another of her eight new stepchildren and their families. Therefore it was well within the bounds of possibility that Mrs. Lomax might even now be in her flat up over the dry goods store communing with her cat and turning out her closets, pastimes to which she was much addicted. He would telephone.

  Where from? It would not be prudent to do it from here, with so many relatives and Ladies’ Aiders hanging around with their ears flapping. Nor would it be very polite to leave yet, as he’d just arrived and there were still things he wanted to do. Fergy must have a phone at the Bargain Barn, though. Now that they’d become such buddies all of a sudden, surely Fergy wouldn’t mind his strolling down there and introducing himself to the real nice little lady from Florida.

  The lady herself couldn’t have been more pleased. Shandy found her alone among the chipped porcelain doorknobs and graniteware chamber pots, puttering around with a dustcloth when what she’d have needed to cope with the dust was an obliging tornado. Shandy was perhaps a less handsome and dashing figure than Helen thought he was, but he must still look pretty good in contrast to Fergy. The lady quickly hid her duster, put on her company face, and advanced to meet him.

  “My name is Shandy.” he told her. “Fergy sent me down to make sure you’re managing all right down here,” he added mendaciously. “He’s rather stuck at the Horsefalls’ for the moment. You know how those things are.”

  She replied that her own name was Millicent Peavey and she did indeed know how those things were. “It’s always like pulling teeth to get away once you’ve got yourself stuck someplace. Fergy’s been after me for ages to drop up and pay him a little visit, but you know how these things are. First it’s one thing, then it’s another. Finally I found somebody to feed the canary and managed to get away, and now look what I’ve landed myself in the midst of. Not that I’m in the midst of it myself, I mean, because I’m not one to butt in on strangers, as Fergy may have told you.”

  “Yes, Fergy did—er—mention that you’re not one to butt in. The Horsefalls are hoping, of course, that they’ll—er—get to meet you after the—er—excitement has died down.”

  The Horsefalls were perhaps hoping exactly the opposite, but one could hardly say so. Millicent Peavey looked to Shandy like the sort who cried easily.

  “When did you arrive, Mrs. Peavey? Or is it Miss?”

  “Oh, it’s Mrs., all right. Actually Joe Peavey was only my second. I’ve had two more since him, but I’ve always been sort of partial to Peavey so I go back to it between-times. Get a good name and stick to it is what I always say. You married, Mr. Shandy?”

  “Yes—er—very much so,” he replied rather nervously. “I—er—hope my wife shares your view about getting a good name and sticking to it,” he added just in case Mrs. Peavey was beginning to have notions about a fifth Mr. Peavey. “Did you have a good flight up?”

  “Flight? I wouldn’t get on an airplane if you paid me. Fergy sent me a bus ticket. I don’t mind riding on buses. The drivers are real friendly, some of them, and they even have little bathrooms now.”

  “So you got here just in time for the big doings,” Shandy persisted, wondering why the woman couldn’t have answered a simple question instead of dragging in all her former husbands and the bus driver. “Were you here when Spurge Lumpkin was killed?”

  “Wasn’t that the awfulest thing you ever heard of? I cried and cried when Fergy told me.”

  “Then you’d met Spurge?”

  “Well, no I hadn’t, but I’m awfully tenderhearted. I bet Fergy told you how tenderhearted I am.”

  “He—er—didn’t happen to mention it, but I’m sure you are,” Shandy replied, backing away because he’d seen that same tenderhearted look on women’s faces a few times during his years of bachelorhood. “Do you happen to recall which bus you came on, Mrs. Peavey? I’m interested because a—er—friend of mine just came up from Florida on the bus, too. Tall, dark, good-looking chap with a little mustache,” he improvised, desperate for some way to capture Mrs. Peavey’s undivided attention. “My wife says he reminds her of—er—what was the name of that movie actor chap?”

  “Clark Gable? He’s dead now, of course, but I always—”

  “Er—yes, that’s the one. Was he on the bus with you?”

  Mrs. Peavey shook her more or less blond head sadly. “I don’t think so. Which bus did he come on?”

  “Which bus did you come on?” said Shandy, getting back to the root of the matter. “Yesterday or the day before?”

  “Yesterday,” Mrs. Peavey admitted at last.

  “Morning or afternoon?”

  “Noontime, because Fergy met me with the truck and took me for a hamburger before we came on here. I was sort of hoping for something besides a hamburger, to tell you the truth, only don’t mention it to Fergy because I’d hate him to think I wasn’t grateful and I knew we had to hurry because he couldn’t leave the barn for long. Running your own business means you’ve got to be right on top of it every second, doesn’t it? That’s a lovely truck Fergy’s got. He does all right here, doesn’t he? Last night they were swarming in so fast I could hardly keep up and it isn’t as if I hadn’t had plenty of experience. I worked in a supermarket as a checker for almost fifteen years and now I’m cashier at a real nice diner in Vero Beach, which is how I happened to meet Fergy. He comes in to eat all the time when he’s down there. On account of me, he says, but don’t think I haven’t heard that one before.” Mrs. Peavey giggled and cocked her head. “It’s been slow today, I must say. I suppose he averages out pretty well at the end of the week, though?”

  Shandy tried to look knowing. “There—er—seems to be a general feeling around here that he—er—averages out pretty well at the end of the week. After all, not everyone can afford to—er—take the whole winter off as he does.”

  “That’s what I thought. And at least you wouldn’t have to fill the ketchup squirters when things were quiet at the register.”

  Aha! So Millicent Peavey was here on business. Somewhere among the feathers inside her head there must, after all, be a vestigial brain. Shandy continued his uphill fight for information.

  “Fergy didn’t seem to have heard about the accident last night.”

  “What accident? I’m not surprised, the way they were bumper to bumper all up and down this poky little road, but—”

  “It happened later on, after the traffic had more or less cleared out. A young chap on a motorbike.”

  “Was he killed?”

  “No, just maimed a little. Broken bones and so forth.”

  “Oh.” Millicent sounded disappointed at missing another chance to demonstrate her tenderheartedness. “No, we never knew a thing about it. By the time Fergy and I got to bed—I mean, by the time we—well, you know what I mean. Anyway, I was so worn out by then I’d have slept through anything. I suppose they had ambulances and fire engines and everything.”

  “I daresay they did.”

  “And we missed it all. Well, that’s how it is. Anyway, Fergy and I had had a little drink to celebrate. You know how it is. I mean, we’d been so busy all evening we hadn’t had time. We were going to have a nice dinner
—Fergy had TV dinners all ready in the freezer and I was going to make us turkey Tetrazzini, but we wound up thawing out some pizzas instead because you can eat them while you work. So what with one thing and another I really didn’t have much in my stomach and then he insisted we ought to have a highball or two because it was my first night, though in Florida we mostly just go for burgers and beer. So we had a few balls even though he knows the strong stuff just puts me right to sleep. You know how it is.”

  Shandy said he knew how it was and would Mrs. Peavey mind if he used the telephone?

  Luckily a customer came along while Mrs. Peavey was showing him the phone inside a sort of office Fergy had made for himself by walling off a former horse stall with Homasote, so he got to make his call without an audience. Mrs. Lomax was indeed at home, much exercised over the fact that her cat had been found to have fleas. Shandy said he knew how it was and moved to the subject of the Lumpkin inheritance before she could get rolling about the pros and cons of flea collars. He was in any event familiar with her views in this regard, since her cat always did get fleas around the end of June.

  Mrs. Lomax had a good head for figures. She knew to the last cent how much had been spent upon which separate piece of litigation, what had been its effect on the principal, the interest, and the litigants. Her summation took time, but Shandy could have no doubt of its accuracy. The upshot was that as of today’s market conditions and interest rates, less legal fees and inheritance taxes, Canute Lumpkin stood to collect somewhere between $727,341.16 and $727,341.29. Mrs. Lomax was sorry she couldn’t be more exact.

  Shandy said that was close enough for practical purposes, thanked her profusely, sent his condolences to the cat, said he mustn’t tie up the line any longer because he was using somebody else’s phone, that being a reason at which Mrs. Lomax could not decently take offense, and severed the connection.

  So Nute Lumpkin wasn’t going to wind up a millionaire, but he’d be a lot richer than most people in Balaclava County, even if he never fleeced another customer. Henny Horsefall, on the other hand, had maybe forty-five acres, a big farm by local standards, but parts of it neither buildable nor arable. The going rate for such land in this area would be somewhere around five hundred dollars an acre.