“Not I, Mrs. Peavey. I obtained the shank from an—er—outside source and, believe me, it wasn’t taken from here as a joke. Would you care to confirm that, Mr. Fescue?”
“Who, me? How the hell would I know?”
But Fescue’s hand closed tight over the flimsy beer can and foam spurted out the hole in the top, wetting the front of his dark blue T-shirt. Thorkjeld Svenson closed in behind him and the hand that held the beer began to shake.
Trying to show them how cool he was, Fesky drained off his drink, threw the can on the floor, and shoved his betraying hand into the pocket of his jeans. Then he dragged it out again, looking down in puzzlement at what his fingers held.
“My goodness, what a coincidence,” chirped Millie, still trying to keep the party bright. “You take the same kind of allergy pills as me.”
“The hell I do! I never take no pills.”
Fesky flung the package away from him and it landed among the doorknobs. Shandy went over and picked it up. The pills were set into a die-cut sheet of cardboard, to be popped out one at a time. Four of the holes were empty.
“How often do you take your pills, Mrs. Peavey?” he asked.
“Aren’t you sweet to take an interest. Most men don’t want to hear about a woman’s troubles. It’s the rose fever with me. Every year about this time it drives me crazy, only this year it hasn’t been so bad and since I got up here I swear I haven’t so much as sniffled. I bought a new package of capsules before I came and I haven’t even opened it yet. I tell Fergy it’s because the air up here agrees with me. Don’t I, Fergy,” she called out to the fat man who’d just come in from the trailer with three cans of beer in his hands.
“Sure you do, Millie, whatever you said. Oh, hi, Professor Shandy. Say ain’t you President Svenson, mister? I’d shake hands, only I’m kind of overloaded here. Take one, Millie. Here, right off the ice. An’ this one’s got your name on it, Fesky. Excuse me a second, folks. I’ll slide on back an’ get a couple more,”
“Don’t bother for me,” said Shandy. “I’ll take this one.”
He reached over and plucked the can of beer from Fesky’s still-shaking hand. It was a shockingly rude thing to do, and no wonder Fergy expostulated.
“Hey, no. Wait, I got some real good booze back there. You give that cheap stuff back to Fesky. He don’t care what he drinks long as there’s lots of it.”
“I’m quite sure he wouldn’t care to drink this one,” said Shandy, still holding the can away from Fergy’s grasp. “By the way, we found that doorknob shank you mislaid.”
“Huh? You tryin’ to be funny or somethin’?” Fergy edged toward the open doorway.
“On the contrary. I’m telling you the fun is over. Swope! Lewis!”
The dogs had Fergy on the ground before Shandy finished calling for help. Thorkjeld Svenson cursed a bit at having been beaten to the draw by a team of malemutes, then went out to bellow for a policeman.
Chapter 23
CRONKITE SWOPE HAD VISITORS. The Fane and Pennon’s demon reporter was looking a great deal brighter than the pallid wreck who’d collapsed in front of the television cameras day before yesterday, possibly because Jessica Tate was among those present. Shandy couldn’t see that the young woman’s eyes particularly resembled limpid pools of night, but she was withal as comely a wench as ever crossed campus, though in his personal opinion Mrs. Mouzouka’s pastry classes were doing more for her figure than needed doing.
Helen, the Svensons, the three Ameses, and Henny Horsefall were also crowded into the small hospital room. The nurse in charge would no doubt have been looking askance had she not been hovering nearby herself, agog to hear what was up. Shandy cleared his throat and began.
“Er—as you all know by now, the man who appears to be known to the police as Ferguson Black, among other things, is now under arrest for murder, conspiracy, and killing geese out of season. I don’t know when he first developed the idea of hounding the Horsefalls out of their house so that he could get hold of their antiques. No doubt he’s had his eye on the stuff ever since he first crossed their threshold. However, it apparently was not until he got back here from Florida this spring that he got his chance. The niece of the late Belial Buggins’s housekeeper had died over the winter, and her possessions were being sold to settle her estate. At the auction, Fergy managed to get hold of a box of so-called junk that contained Belial’s Viking relics.
“He knew the story, you see. His drinking buddy’s father happened to have been a nephew of the niece, if you follow me. This Miss Fescue had been fond of the also deceased Jim Fescue as a lad. She’d told him many tales she’d heard from her own Aunt Effie, the housekeeper, about old Belial, including the runestone hoax he took so much trouble planning but never got a chance to complete. This nephew was, of course, husband to Loretta and father of the chap known as Fesky. He appears to have been a good-natured slob who took to drink in self-defense when he found out what sort of hornets’ nest he’d married into, but that’s not germane to our tale.
“The point is, he told the stories in turn to his son, who’s rather a chip off the old block and probably the only one he could get to listen. Fesky repeated the Viking story to Fergy during one of their barside chats. Fergy listened, just as he’d listened to Spurge Lumpkin’s ramblings and used them in his campaign of persecution at the Horsefalls’. When the Viking relics fell into his hands, he knew exactly what they were and decided to carry out Belial’s plan.”
“Knowing perfectly well what it would do to the Horsefalls,” said Cronkite. “And I was dumb enough to help him out!”
“If you hadn’t fortuitously stumbled on the story yourself, you may be sure he’d have found a way to rub your nose in it,” Shandy reassured him. “Fergy’s bright in his nasty way, you know. He fully intended to create utter chaos at the Horsefall place by churning up a story about a Viking curse, and thereby drive Henny and Miss Hilda to sell out from desperation. He would then play the hero’s role, offering to take all their old junk off their hands at what would seem like an overly generous price.”
“I was absolutely certain it was Nute Lumpkin who was working that angle,” Helen sighed. “He’s such an utterly ghastly man.”
“He is indeed, and I had him down on my list as number one suspect until I learned that Lumpkin had never been allowed to set foot inside the house and therefore wouldn’t know the Horsefalls had anything worth swindling them out of. I assume Lumpkin merely grabbed the chance to kick the Horsefalls while they were down, in order to get back at them for having made a fool of him in court.”
“Arrogant bastard,” growled Thorkjeld Svenson.
“He is indeed. As a matter of fact, that revolting personality of Lumpkin’s did have some bearing on the plot. Last night after he realized he had no way out, Fergy spilled his guts. He admitted he’d always resented having to pass on any decent stuff he came across to Lumpkin. Nutie the Cutie never missed an opportunity to twist the knife a bit about the difference between a rag-and-bone man like Fergy and a high-class antique dealer like himself. Fergy put on a rather pathetic turn about wanting to ruin Lumpkin by setting up in straight competition. He couldn’t pass up a golden opportunity to acquire all the stock he’d need for a comparative pittance, since the Horsefalls had no idea what their possessions are worth on today’s market.”
“What are they worth?” asked Cronkite eagerly. “It’s okay, I won’t print it. I’d just like to know.”
“We are having an appraiser from Boston come out to set values,” Sieglinde told him. “Miss Horsefall and her nephew will then have a better idea of what they wish to keep and what to sell. I do not suppose she will wish to take many things to Sweden when she becomes the wife of Uncle Sven. He has a fine house with many treasures. Of the wedding you may print all you like,” she added kindly. “We have decided to eliminate the engagement party and proceed directly to the nuptials, so you must hurry and get well. Perhaps Miss Tate will care to come, also?”
�
�Oh, I’d love to!” gasped the young student, who so far hadn’t dare utter a word in so august a company. “I’m hoping to become a food columnist and Cronkite says I can write an article for the Fane and Pennon. Maybe I could—” She blushed and faltered.
“You could write of smorgasbord,” cried Sieglinde. “Later we shall talk, you and I. For the wedding I have planned already sixteen different kinds of herring.”
“Cripes, I can’t get used to the idea of Aunt Hilda makin’ it legal after all these years,” Henny muttered. “S’pose there’s hope for me yet?”
“Once the news about your antiques gets around, half the widows in Balaclava County will be lined up at your door,” Laurie promised him.
“Damn right,” Tim corroborated. “They were even after me, till the kids came home to protect me.”
“Jolene was over last night to the farm while Peter and President Svenson were off catching that dreadful man,” Helen murmured to Laurie. “After she’d heard about Miss Hilda and Uncle Sven, she told Henny she hoped he wasn’t planning to get married and raise children now that the great-nephews and their families had decided to move in with him. Miss Hilda said, ‘Hell, he ain’t riz nothin’ but garden sass for the past thirty-seven years.’ I do adore that woman.”
Professor Shandy, taking a leaf out of Dr. Porble’s book, glared his wife into silence. “As I was attempting to tell Swope here, Fergy and Fesky agreed to work together on a campaign of terror. Fesky claims he had no idea of the scope of Fergy’s ambition. He thought Fergy had a client for some barnboards and wanted Henny’s because they were handy. His own noble motive, or so he would have us believe, was simply to help his mother. He knew she was desperately trying to secure the Horsefall property for Gunder Gaffson and decided he’d play the dutiful son for a change. As there would have been a fat commission for Mrs. Fescue and no doubt some sort of bonus for Fesky himself out of the deal, it’s even possible he’s telling the truth.”
“Darn,” said Helen. “I did want Mrs. Fescue to be one of the bad guys.”
“I was convinced for a while that it was she and Fesky who constituted the demolition team,” Peter admitted, “but apparently Mrs. Fescue is single-mindedly concentrated on selling real estate and knows no more about antiques than the Horsefalls. Anyway, Fergy and Fesky launched their dirty-tricks campaign, starting with minor pranks such as teenagers might play in the hope of starting a major feud between the Horsefalls and their good neighbors the Lewises. When that didn’t work, they turned vicious.
“Fergy was the brains. Fesky did most of the tricks because he’s a less noticeable type. At a distance, he could easily pass as one of Ralph’s or Eddie’s sons. I expect that’s how he managed to plant that detonator in the manure pile yesterday morning while Fergy was at the funeral establishing himself an alibi. If Fesky had been challenged by any policeman who didn’t know him, he could have passed himself off as one of the Horsefall tribe doing chores. And of course any cop who did know him would also know he’s the chief’s nephew.”
“I bet he’ll get off with probation,” Cronkite Swope remarked cynically. “But he wouldn’t have fooled the Horsefalls themselves. How did he get in and out all those times?”
“Spurge Lumpkin had a secret path he’d cut through the woods from behind the barn over to the old logging road. Rather a long and tortuous affair. Also quite well camouflaged, which I suspect was Fesky’s doing. I gather its original object was to give Spurge an escape route over to Fergy’s on the nights Miss Hilda was after him to take a bath and change his socks. Of course he’d bragged about it to his good buddy Fergy, and the cloak-and-dagger boys took it over.”
“Must be how he got past Bashan yesterday,” Svenson grunted.
“Undoubtedly. He only wanted to make sure you’d taken Belial’s bait, and I suppose to find out whether his birch tree had been sprung yet. That was just another bit of stage dressing, I expect, to carry out the theme of eerie doings around the runestone. Fergy didn’t mind getting the bum’s rush once he’d seen things were going as planned.”
“I just wisht I knew which one of ’em put that quicklime in my spreader,” Henny sputtered. “I’d give ’im a dern sight more’n the bum’s rush for what he done to Spurge.”
“Fesky insists that was Fergy. He claims he put up a squawk when he learned what a rough game Fergy was playing, and tried to back off. That, presumably, is why Fergy loaded Fesky’s beer with Mrs. Peavey’s allergy pills last night. Those things don’t mix well with alcohol. If Fesky had tried to drive home with that dose inside him, he’d have racked up his car and maybe wrecked somebody else’s as well, and chalked up another for the Viking curse. I don’t know whether Fergy aimed to kill Fesky or just scare him into submission, and I have a ghastly hunch he didn’t really care. I don’t think he gave a hoot whether you died when you crashed without your helmet either, Swope; or if that quicklime killed Spurge Lumpkin or only maimed him for life.”
“Cripes,” said Henny Horsefall, “an’ here was me thinkin’ the world’s prize bastard was Nute Lumpkin.”
“Oh!” Helen jumped up from the foot of Cronkite’s bed, where she’d been perched beside Laurie. “Here’s a scoop for you, Mr. Swope. I forgot to tell my husband because he’s been so busy this morning pinning the rap on Fergy, or whatever it was he had to do down at the police station. Mrs. Lomax told me why Nutie was in such a swivet to get his hands on Spurge’s possessions. It seems he’s looked everywhere under the sun for his parents’ marriage certificate and can’t find it. He had a last, lingering hope his cousin Spurge might have been hiding it from him.”
“No doubt because that’s what he’d have done himself,” said Shandy. “But wasn’t the marriage recorded somewhere?”
“Apparently not. There’s nothing to prove Nute’s parents ever bothered to formalize their relationship before the father went overseas and was killed in the war, leaving the mother pregnant. She claimed they’d been married before he left, naturally, and her family backed her up, naturally; but now it appears Nute’s only a Lumpkin by hearsay, as it were. In the meantime, some long-lost Lumpkin from Arizona had just blown into town with all the right credentials. She’s an ardent conservationist who wants to turn the Lumpkin property into a wildlife sanctuary and use the money for environmental defense.”
“Hey,” shouted Roy, “that’s terrific! Hear that, Dad?”
“I heard. Dammit, you don’t have to burn out my batteries.” Timothy Ames leaned over and gave Henny Horsefall a mighty slap on the shoulder. “All’s well that ends well. Eh, old friend?”
“It’s straight out of Tolkien,” cried Laurie, her dark eyes gleaming like limpid pools of night. “Fergy winds up in jail for a million years, I hope. Nutie the Cutie loses the big inheritance he schemed to get. Loretta Fescue loses the sale she had no business trying to make in the first place. Gunder Gaffson loses his chance to pull another shady deal. Fesky loses his job for being a fink, no doubt. And Miss Hilda’s going to be married and Henny gets to keep his farm and all the Horsefalls will five happily every after. The Hobbits win and the Orcs get clobbered!”
Thorkjeld Svenson winced. “Did you have to say Orcs? Makes me think of Orm. I still can’t believe—” His head fell on his chest.
Sieglinde rose and took him firmly by the arm. “Come home, dear husband. There is much to be done. In getting ready for Uncle Sven’s wedding reception you will become so infuriated you will forget this cruel deception.”
“Damned old rake.” The president looked a shade less woebegone. “At least maybe she’ll cure him of chasing widows.”
“Dern right she will,” Henny agreed. “Ain’t no man alive could stand up to Aunt Hilda, an’ you can bet your bottom dollar on that.”
“Then our pretty Laurie is right and virtue has again triumphed,” said Sieglinde. “Perhaps, Thorkjeld, we should stop at the fish store on our way home. Mr. Swope, this is not for publication but I am going to tell you all a little Norse secret you will not find o
n any runestone. To wed is good, but to live happily ever after you must always keep in the house plenty of herring.”
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copyright © 1982 by Charlotte MacLeod
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