The Grub-And-Stakers Move a Mountain Page 11

  However she had no particular cause to hint as much now that he was steering the conversation to so innocuous a subject as the Hunneker Land Grant.

  “I still haven’t got it straight in my head about why Mr. Architrave ordered those perk tests. Isn’t the land supposed to be a park? That’s the impression I got from Mrs. Oakes?”

  “It’s as much a park as anything else, anyway,” Dittany told him. “The grant is public property, deeded over to Lobelia Falls on March 27, 1893, by Elmer and Silas Hunneker.”

  She was off and running, it would be possible to talk about the Hunneker brothers until, with any luck, she’d bored Benjamin Frankland into going away.

  Or so she thought. However, her guest didn’t look bored at all. He appeared only too content to be sitting there scratching Ethel’s head, asking an occasional leading question, and making drastic inroads on the Fig Newtons. As she racked her brain for more statistics, Dittany began to feel put upon. She was really awfully tired. Why didn’t Frankland have sense enough to go home and let her get some rest? Why didn’t the telephone ring? She’d had nothing but interruptions all day, why couldn’t she have one more to break up this little party before she either collapsed from exhaustion or suffered the social stigma of being branded a fallen woman without even getting a chance to commit the impropriety?

  As some philosopher once observed, it is never safe to wish for anything because one is thus placed in the vulnerable position of being apt to get it. Dittany learned the vanity of human wishes. Arethusa Monk didn’t even bother to interrupt with a knock. She merely swept through the door which Dittany had foolishly neglected to lock after admitting Frankland. As usual, she was in full cry.

  “Furthermore I think it would be more dynamic if in that bit where Lady Ermintrude drops her muff and the mysterious stranger—by the way, what did I call him? I can’t for the life of me remember and he’s about to challenge Sir Percy over the gaming tables.”

  “Hold on a second,” groaned Dittany. “I’ll get the typescript. Oh, by the way, this man with the bewildered expression is Benjamin Frankland.”

  “By my halidom! No relation to Sir Edward Frankland, by chance? He’d be a little out of my period but readers are delightfully uncritical, don’t you find?”

  Arethusa flung herself into Dittany’s chair and reached for a Fig Newton. Dittany left her by now definitely unwelcome guests to sort out their periods and fled to her office. She could have sworn she knew exactly where to lay her hand on the bit of balderdash Arethusa was inquiring about, but somehow Lady Ermintrude had got mixed up with Samantha Burberry’s speech. By the time she got back to the kitchen she was aghast to hear Arethusa remark, “So as I see it the logical next step is for someone to challenge McNaster over the gaming tables. Or wherever.”

  “Arethusa,” screamed Dittany, “what are you telling him?”

  “That we need a champion, of course. Some valiant knight-errant to enter the lists against that caitiff knave.”

  “That and what else?”

  “Only what you told me. After all, Dittany, one could hardly expect a gentleman to stand stripped to his waistcoat in the gray light of dawn potting at Andy McNasty for no reason whatever, could one? Not in this crass, materialistic day and age, anyhow. There was a time when the mere word of a lady affronted—”

  “Save it for the vast reading public,” snarled Dittany. “Don’t you know he works for the Water Department?”

  “And what if he does, forsooth? Full many a noble heart may beat beneath an humble sump pump. Mayn’t it, Sir Edward?”

  “I suppose it might if you had a pretty strong heart and a pretty small sump pump,” Frankland replied cautiously. “But what does my working for the Water Department have to do with—unless you’re talking about those perk tests? Dittany, is that why you and Mrs. Oakes have been pussy-toeing around trying to keep me in the dark? You think I was in cahoots with that old twit? You think we were both working either for or against this bird McNaster and that’s why whoever killed Mr. Architrave tried to shoot me, too?”

  “I—I don’t know what I thought.” Dittany slumped into a chair and let her forehead rest on her hands. “I guess I’m too tired to think at all. What do you think?”

  “To be honest with you, what I think is that I deserve a kick in the pants for taking this job in the first place. Look, will you two ladies believe me if I tell you when I came to work for your Water Department I was dumb enough to think I’d just be working for the Water Department? Now I don’t know if I’m supposed to be an accomplice, a fall guy, or dead. All I can say is that I don’t like being shot at and I don’t like being made a fool of and I think it’s time I took an open stand somewhere. I’m not much on that pistols-at-dawn stuff, but if your bunch needs somebody to help with the fetching and carrying, you can count me in.”

  Chapter 13

  NOW THAT ARETHUSA HAD spilled the beans to Ben Frankland, Dittany did what she ought to have done in the first place: went straight to Sergeant MacVicar the next morning and spoke her piece about what she’d learned at McNaster’s offices. She got the expected reproof for not having told him sooner, along with a veiled hint that, while Mrs. MacVicar’s quasi-official position would preclude her taking any active role in the campaign, Mrs. MacVicar might possibly have a spare pan of scones kicking around for the bake sale.

  Chastened but relieved, she’d gone on about her duties, which included making posters, scrubbing yellow dye out of the washing machine, helping Ellie Despard stick wings on butterflies, and answering the seldom silent telephone when she wasn’t out campaigning for Samantha, marking trails for Minerva, or scrounging card tables for Hazel. She also performed delicate diplomatic missions like convincing Zilla Trott that the Burberrys would be getting enough lecithin and magnesium sulfate in their casseroles without the addition of alfalfa sprouts and that she’d better keep off the subject of soybean oil because Hazel was rapidly coming to the boiling point, as who wasn’t?

  Though the weather continued to bluster and sulk, work went on apace at the Enchanted Mountain. They’d got a road of sorts cut all the way to the top now. Several of the more zealous laborers were suffering from poison ivy but they passed the calamine lotion from hand to comradely hand and kept on grubbing. Their inspiring example, plus some strenuous arm twisting of relatives and neighbors, was working fiscal wonders. Henry Binkle had already made several neat entries in the shiny new ledger that was his personal donation to the Enchanted Mountain Reclamation Project.

  Harassment was expected and it came. Wednesday noontime when Dittany took the copy for Samantha’s campaign booklet down to be duplicated, she saw Sam Wallaby walking away from Ye Village Stationer and Mr. Gumpert in the act of taking down the poster she and Ellie had labored over.

  “Mr. Gumpert,” she cried, “whatever are you doing that for?”

  “Well—er—” he stammered, “it’s not our policy to get involved in controversial issues.”

  “Then why did you let Ellie put up the poster in the first place? Who’s setting your policies all of a sudden? Sam Wallaby’s just been in here bending your ear, hasn’t he?”

  “Now, Dittany, you know we local merchants have to stick together.”

  “And what about your local customers? How many typewriter ribbons has Sam Wallaby bought from you lately, eh? You may be interested to know, Mr. Gumpert, that Sam Wallaby is going to get the pants beat off him next Tuesday because he’s created an eyesore and a public nuisance and downgraded our main street. We’re sick and tired of his shenanigans and we’ve started to boycott his store. Of course if you choose to identify yourself with the hoodlum element, that’s up to you. I’m sure your former customers will respect your freedom of choice. Now since you choose not to be involved in controversial issues I’m sure you’d rather not print up these two thousand fliers I was going to ask you to do for Mrs. Burberry. So I’ll bid you a very good day and take my business elsewhere.”

  “Dittany,” sighed Mr. Gumpe
rt, “you grow more like your mother every day of your life.” With another uneasy glance at Wallaby’s unsightly emporium, he stuck the poster back in his window.

  “Thank you,” said Dittany sweetly. “I knew you’d understand our point of view. Could we please have these fliers by tomorrow morning, and would you mind putting up this poster too? It’s about the bake sale for the Enchanted Mountain Reclamation Project.”

  “Oh that,” said Mr. Gumpert, somewhat relieved. “I’ll be glad to. High time something was done about the Enchanted Mountain. I was saying to my wife not long ago, it’s a burning shame the way that place has been allowed to go to rack and ruin. We used to go up there and fly our kites when we were youngsters, your father and I and the rest of the bunch. Yes, that was a big thing with us boys, flying kites. I expect Mrs. Gumpert would bake something for the sale if you want me to ask her.”

  So there was one minor branch of the Rubicon passed, but that was only the beginning. That same afternoon when Minerva and Zilla led their myrmidons up to the Enchanted Mountain, they found all the strings they’d broken their backs to mark the paths with had come unstrung. Luckily it turned out that the Boy Scouts had got in a spot of trail-blazing practice so the markers weren’t really needed after all, but it was annoying just the same.

  Thursday somebody started a rumor that Samantha had been guilty of malfeasance and/or hanky-panky with the flower show funds two years ago, but as in fact it had been Mrs. MacVicar who’d served as treasurer for the event and Samantha hadn’t had personal control of a single penny that rumor was rapidly and indignantly squashed and the few who’d been rash enough to spread it quailed in their boots for fear of official retaliation.

  Friday morning Dittany rushed out for a fast trip to the shopping mall, only to find a strange car blocking her driveway. There was no earthly reason why it should be there since Applewood Avenue was otherwise empty on both sides, so she had to conclude this was another deliberate annoyance.

  Very well, she was annoyed. “Come on, Ethel,” she called. “Let’s find a big, sloppy mud puddle and go wading.”

  While Ethel was getting her paws well mired, Dittany scattered dog biscuit all over the hood and top of the car. It happened to be a white one, so the resultant pattern of plate-sized pawprints showed up nicely. Dittany then hitched a ride to the store with Hazel and sailed through the day with a pleasant feeling of being one up on the adversary.

  As darkness closed in and the car didn’t go away, though, Dittany began to feel a bit edgy. Should she let Sergeant MacVicar know? Was she making too much ado about nothing? Mightn’t it be a good idea to give Minerva Oakes a ring first and perhaps see what Ben Frankland thought?

  Ben himself answered the phone. He thought it mightn’t be a bad idea for somebody to have a look at that car and how was she fixed for Fig Newtons?

  “I bought a fresh lot today,” Dittany assured him.

  “Good. Put on the kettle, eh? I’ll be right over.”

  Ben was as good as his word and perhaps a shade better. “Say, that’s some fancy paint job of Ethel’s. I took down the car’s number just in case. What’s the thumping noise from down cellar?”

  “Oh, just the sump pump,” Dittany reassured him. “We get some seepage during the spring thaw, and the pump always thumps when it sumps.”

  He grinned down at her. “You wouldn’t by any chance be dropping a hint? Tell you what, I’ll go take a look at the pump if you’ll keep an eye peeled out the front window. Holler if you see anybody coming for a car. I wouldn’t mind having a word or two with that bird.”

  “Well, if you’re sure you really want to.”

  Dittany left him to it before he could say he really didn’t. She lurked behind the parlor curtains staring out at the empty street until, as luck would have it, the kettle started to shrill, Ethel began growling and pawing at the door, and a dark form ambled toward the car all at once. Dittany flew back to the kitchen and shouted down the cellar staircase.

  “Ben, hurry! I think he’s here.”

  He ran upstairs, wiping his hands on a rag. “You stay here, eh? Come on, Ethel.”

  Dittany wasn’t about to miss the action. She paused to say, “Be careful,” and slop boiling water over the tea leaves in the pot, then she followed. As she reached the front door she could hear language unfit for a lady’s ears. The car’s owner must have discovered Ethel’s artistry.

  Then Ben said, “Had your eyes checked lately, mister? Don’t you realize you’ve left this heap blocking a private drive all day?”

  The miscreant muttered something and moved to open his car door. Frankland wasn’t letting him off that easily. “Mind showing me your registration? I’m curious to see if it matches the license plates.”

  At that, the strange man made a dive for the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and gunned his motor. Frankland came back up the walk.

  “I expect that’s the last you’ll see of him, Dittany. Do me a favor, though, and be careful about locking up tonight, eh? And keep Ethel right with you. That mightn’t have been so funny if he’d found you here alone.”

  “I know. Let’s go have our tea. I feel the need. That must have been one of McNaster’s men, mustn’t it? Do you think they’ve found out about my being in the office that night?”

  “Here, let me pour that tea. You’re shaking like a leaf. I wouldn’t worry too much about that office business if I were you. More likely this was something to do with your being up to the neck in Mrs. Burberry’s campaign. Sam Wallaby must know you live here alone and since you’re a young kid he probably thought you’d scare easy. Drink your tea while it’s hot. Do you good.”

  Dittany wasn’t much used to dominant males, but she had to admit they came in handy sometimes. She drank her tea and found it, as predicted, good. Her nerves somewhat steadied, she was pouring a second cup for her guest when something thumped against the foundation of the house directly below the bay window where they were sitting.

  “Now they’ve started throwing rocks,” she giggled nervously.

  “Probably a tree limb blowing down. Stand away from the window, eh? I’ll go take a look.”

  “There’s no wind tonight. Ben, don’t go. It may be that man in the car, back with a gang. Let me call Sergeant MacVicar.”

  “Relax, Dittany. Look at Ethel. She just picked up her ears, then went back to sleep. This the outside light?”

  Frankland flipped on the switch, then let himself cautiously out the back door while Dittany held her breath and prayed. A minute or so later he was back, holding something long and slender wrapped in the end of his jacket.

  “Maybe you’d better give the sergeant a buzz, eh, after all? He’ll want to see this.”

  Ben Frankland didn’t have to tell Dittany what “this” was. His jacket didn’t hide the wooden shaft with the wide black band painted above the gray feathers. She went to the phone and called the police station.

  Chapter 14

  “THEN YOU HEARD NO sound until this arrow struck the house?” Sergeant MacVicar scrutinized the lethal projectile that lay on the kitchen table among the teacups and Fig Newtons. “Yet Ethel had growled when this stranger came to collect his car from the street?”

  “Oh yes, she fussed like anything and pawed at the door.”

  “And what were you doing at the time, Dittany?”

  “I’d been watching out the front window right beside her. I believe I’d just heard the kettle come on the boil and was turning around to go make the tea when he showed up.”

  “Mr. Frankland was not with you?”

  “No, he was down cellar fixing the sump pump. It’s been making funny noises.”

  “It is still making noises,” said Sergeant MacVicar.

  “I know,” said Frankland. “I hadn’t gotten around to doing much of anything when Dittany called me upstairs. Anyway, I’m pretty sure it needs a new gasket.”

  “Ah. So you abandoned the task to confront the man in the car and then came back here to have you
r tea. Where were you sitting?”

  “I was here facing the window where I always sit,” said Dittany, “and Ben was there at my right where the other cup is.”

  “And the curtains were drawn as they are now?”

  “Yes. I think I started to push them aside when I heard the noise, but then I—didn’t.”

  “A wise decision. This light over the table was on?”

  “Of course.” Dittany flushed slightly. Surely Sergeant MacVicar didn’t suppose she and Ben had been sitting here in the dark on such short acquaintance. “It’s a good strong light, too. We’ve always kept a hundred-watt bulb in it because Gramp liked to sit here and read the paper.”

  “I am cognizant of that circumstance. Therefore one might assume your shadow and Mr. Frankland’s would show up well enough against the curtains.”

  “They certainly ought to have. The curtains are just muslin. Do you want us to sit down again so you can go out and take a look? That is, if you’re—”

  “I am not afraid of being shot at, if that is what you are so tactfully not saying. That is a sensible idea, Dittany. Please take your places as before and do whatever you were doing when you heard this horrendous thump.”

  Looking rather sheepishly at one another, Dittany and Frankland went through the motions of sipping their tea and passing the cookies back and forth. Sergeant MacVicar went outside and returned unscathed and nodding.

  “Your silhouettes are clearly visible and easily distinguished. If there had been any serious intention of shooting either one of you, I doubt not you would have been hit.”