The Grub-and-Stakers Quilt a Bee Read online

  She clapped the by now somewhat less pristine handkerchief to her mouth. Sergeant MacVicar shook his head.

  “I fear not, Mrs. Fairfield. He landed in a bed of bee balm, you know. The plants were badly crushed by the impact of his body. There is no such crushing anywhere but underneath where he lay when we found him. Dr. Somervell gives it as his considered opinion that the dent in Mr. Fairfield’s head was such as to have effected his instant demise. Also, we have discovered yarn from that gray Shetland cardigan he was wearing at the time caught on one of the ornamental spikes that surround yon skylight. Can you explain how it got there?”

  Mrs. Fairfield shook her head. “Then—then what you’re saying, Sergeant MacVicar, is that my husband killed himself.”

  CHAPTER 9

  SERGEANT MACVICAR’S BLUE EYES remained unswervingly focused on her face. “Can you think of a reason why he might have done so, Mrs. Fairfield?”

  “I never saw anybody look so much like a largemouth bass in my life,” Dittany told Hazel Munson later, not derisively but merely in the interest of accurate reportage.

  Nor was she exaggerating. It was some time before Mrs. Fairfield managed to get her lower jaw back under control. Even then she had to wet her lips and swallow a couple of times before her voice came back.

  “No. Not really. I suppose one never knows what may be going on inside another person’s mind, but I’d have thought Peregrine was the last person in the world to commit suicide. He hadn’t been happy about retiring, but then the appointment to the Architrave came along and that cheered him up. Of course when we got here we found it was—well—something less than we’d been given to expect, but that just made the challenge all the greater. Peregrine was quite cheerful about it, really. He said it was like starting a new career.”

  “And what about his health, Mrs. Fairfield?”

  “Not bad, for a man his age. He took blood pressure pills, but that’s nothing unusual.”

  “Any pressing financial worries?”

  “Not after I managed to get Frederick Churtle’s hand out of his pocket. One doesn’t exactly get rich in our line of work, you know, but we’d managed to build up a little reserve, and Peregrine had his pension. The salary here isn’t much, of course, but we felt that getting our living quarters provided by the Architrave made it a reasonable enough situation. No, Sergeant MacVicar, unless there was some secret in Peregrine’s life I don’t know about or unless Peregrine had a sudden attack of brain fever, I simply can’t picture him climbing up on the roof and jumping off.”

  “Then that brings us to the final alternative, does it not?”

  “The final—I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “A mere matter of logic, Mrs. Fairfield. Since we have ruled out the likelihood that Mr. Fairfield effected his own sorry demise either by accident or by design, then it must follow as the night the day that somebody murdered him.”

  The widow took his words better than Sergeant MacVicar appeared to have been expecting. Dittany wasn’t a bit surprised, though. Tough as a boiled owl was her own ungenerous private appraisal, not that she’d ever boiled an owl or would have dreamed of trying to. Anyway, Mrs. Fairfield must have seen it coming. She bowed her head, employed her handkerchief, then replied quietly enough, “I suppose there’s nothing else left to believe, is there? But who on earth would want to kill Peregrine?”

  “That is what we must find out, Mrs. Fairfield. Have you any ideas as to a possible suspect?”

  Mrs. Fairfield began pleating her already overstrained handkerchief. “That’s a terrible thing to ask, Sergeant. I’d have to think long and hard before I ventured any kind of suggestion.”

  “Then I will await the result of your cogitations with what patience I can muster. In the meantime, it might facilitate our investigation if you could give me an account of whatever may have occurred before you left the museum yesterday afternoon.”

  “What occurred? Why, nothing in particular that I can recall. By the time Mrs. Monk and I came down from the attic, the afternoon was fairly well over. We were both covered with dust by then, my arm was bothering me terribly, and I was about ready to drop from the heat. I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking much about anything except getting back to Mrs. Oakes’s for a shower and some clean clothes.”

  “Did you speak to your husband before you left?”

  “Oh yes. For the last time. Though of course I didn’t know it then. I told him about the windows, as a matter of fact, and showed him a few things we’d turned up in our prowling. Mrs. Monk had taken the only real find away with her, so he never did get to see that, but I don’t suppose it matters now.”

  “And he seemed in good spirits then?”

  “Normal spirits, I should say. He was in the dining room, sorting through some odds and ends of china to see if we had anything that would make a decent showing in that bowfront cabinet. It had taken me a few minutes to track him down, I remember. I’d thought he’d be either here in the office or else in the kitchen where the plumber was working. Or alleged to be.”

  “That would have been Cedric Fawcett from Scottsbeck?”

  “I suppose so. It was the same one who’d been here before. I didn’t ask his name.”

  “But you did speak to him?”

  Mrs. Fairfield couldn’t repress a grim smile. “Oh, I spoke to him, all right.”

  “And he was still here when you left?”

  “I believe he must have been. I left almost immediately afterward. In fact, I have a dim recollection of seeing his truck drive out of the yard as Mrs. Oakes and I were walking toward here later. Though come to think of it, I’d thought the plumber’s truck was blue.”

  “And what color was the truck you saw leaving?”

  “It seems to me it was brown. Perhaps Mrs. Oakes will remember.”

  “Mrs. Fairfield, this is extremely important.” Sergeant MacVicar was forgetting to be benign. “Are you positive this truck was coming from the museum? You must realize that would mean its driver may actually have been there at the moment of your husband’s death.”

  “Certainly I realize that, I wish I could swear to it as a fact, but I can’t. I believe I saw it pulling out of the driveway and I have an impression it was brown. That’s the best I can do. At the time I was worried about my husband, you know.”

  “But it was not so very late, after all.”

  “Yes, but I was afraid he might have had one of his dizzy spells. He did have high blood pressure, as I mentioned. Sometimes he forgot to take his medicine if I didn’t remind him. One does hate to be nagging all the time. So he’d have had reason to be apprehensive about heights even if it weren’t for his phobia. That was Frederick Churtle’s fault, too, by the way.”

  “How so?”

  “Back when they were little boys, they were playing on top of a henhouse, which of course they shouldn’t have been doing, and Frederick shoved Peregrine off the roof. He landed among a flock of guinea hens and they all started gobbling and screaming at him. You know what an unspeakable racket they make. He was terrified, naturally. And Frederick just stood up on the roof laughing at him. Did you ever hear of anything so heartless?”

  She rubbed her hand across her forehead. “How did I ever get started on guinea hens? Please forgive me. You were asking about the truck. Surely if I wasn’t imagining it, somebody other than myself must have noticed. I find very little seems to escape the neighbors around here.”

  “But it was suppertime,” Dittany pointed out. “They’d have been eating.”

  “Not all of them, surely?”

  “Certainly all of them. It was Male Archers’ practice night. The men would want their suppers right on the dot so they could get out to the butts.”

  “Aye,” sighed Sergeant MacVicar, doubtless still brooding on the shots he himself had missed making when duty so inopportunely called. “Nevertheless, we shall make inquiries on the off-chance somebody can confirm or refute Mrs. Fairfield’s supposition. Nor is it without the bounds of p
robability that Minerva Oakes will be able to cast light on the matter. Now, Mrs. Fairfield, let us get on with this already fruitful reminiscence. Can you state for a positive fact that you and Mr. Fairfield were alone here, save for the plumber in the kitchen, before you left him and went to change your dress?”

  “Why, no, I couldn’t swear to it. I didn’t go searching through the rooms or anything. People do drift in and out, you know. There was that woman in the purple dress, for instance.”

  “Ah, yes. The Munson boys mentioned her. Were you able to ascertain her identity?”

  “No. I only caught a glimpse of her. She was going out toward the back as I was coming downstairs. All I can say is, she was wearing a dress of some silky material in an unusual shade of purple printed with a smallish green and turquoise design of some sort. Rather attractive, really. I remember wishing I could get a look at the front to see how it was made.”

  “You didn’t call out to the woman or attempt to pursue her for this purpose?”

  “Hardly. I was filthy dirty, you know. On the contrary, I ducked back hoping she wouldn’t take a notion to turn around and see me looking such a sight.”

  “Dittany, lass, you have made no mention of this woman in the purple dress,” Sergeant MacVicar said. “How is it you did not see her yourself, if you and Mrs. Fairfield came down from the attic together?”

  “Because we didn’t, I suppose. I mean we did, but we split up on the second floor. I was walking ahead and decided to use the front stairs instead of the back because I was in a hurry to get home before Osbert.”

  In fact, she’d been high-hatting Mrs. Fairfield over that box of quilt pieces. Dittany didn’t particularly care to remember that now, despite the lemon oil that had flowed over the dam since then.

  “So it’s possible this woman was still in the museum when I left,” said Mrs. Fairfield. “I remember wondering, now that I think of it, if she was going down cellar with something for the flea market.”

  “In a silky purple dress with green and blue doodads on it?” Dittany shook her head. “Sounds rather fancy to be prowling around that dirty old cellar in. I wonder if she could have been someone from the inn.”

  “I am surprised you are not wondering which lady of your acquaintance owns such a frock,” Sergeant MacVicar admonished.

  “Because I already have and I can’t think of anybody. Mrs. MacVicar might know.” Mrs. MacVicar usually did. “If not, I could ask around.”

  “Aye, Dittany, do that. I will make inquiries at the inn.”

  “With all respect, Sergeant MacVicar, that’s pretty finky of you. Can’t you let Bob and Ray do it instead? Petsy Poppy’s waitressing over there now, you know.”

  Sergeant MacVicar was not to be baited. “Aye, I misdoubt my deputies would be pleased to renew their acquaintance with Miss Poppy, who was so helpful to the police in the affair of the Hunneker Land Grant.”

  And a few other affairs, maybe. Dittany wouldn’t be surprised if Bob and Ray hadn’t already renewed their acquaintance. Petsy was a young woman of awesome physical endowment. She held the further distinction of being the first and so far only female Osbert Monk had ever picked up in a bar.

  Far from being jealous, Dittany held a warm spot for Petsy in her own regard. First, Osbert had made his advances in line of duty during his earlier deputization by Sergeant MacVicar and under the tutelage of Bob and Ray. Second, his success with Petsy had caused him to overcome his shyness and emboldened him to propose to the then Miss Henbit after less than a week’s acquaintance. Even so, Dittany didn’t want the job of interrogating Petsy left to Osbert again.

  “I could ask her myself if you like,” she offered. “Petsy’s a niece of the Mrs. Poppy who’s my cleaning woman, you know.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Fairfield most inadvisedly, “do you have one?”

  Since Dittany had invited the Fairfields to tea one day the previous week, and since she’d been at considerable pains to have the house looking decent for the occasion, she pointedly left the widow’s question unanswered. Mrs. Fairfield was actually starting to look somewhat abashed when Arethusa blew in and gave her an excuse to pretend no awkwardness had occurred.

  “Egad and a rousing gadzooks” was Arethusa’s tactful greeting, “whatever are you doing here, Mrs. Fairfield? Shouldn’t you be prostrate in a darkened room? With a wreath of lilies around your brow,” she added after a pause for reflection.

  “No, no.” Mrs. Fairfield had got the long-suffering cadence down pat by now. “My husband would have expected me to carry on. Having put one’s hand to the plough, you know. What a handsome Brussels lace tablecloth you’re carrying. Is that for us?”

  “Yes, but it’s Battenburg.” Arethusa spread the cloth out to give them a better look. “Miles of little tapes, you see, stitched all together by hand, with crocheted thingamajigs intercalated among the interstices. Hideous waste of time, but rather a pleasant effect. 1897.”

  “I should say at least forty years earlier.”

  “Then you wot not whereof you speak. My great-grandmother wrote in her diary on April 14 of that year, and I quote, ‘Today I completed the Battenburg lace tablecloth on which I have been working all winter to the detriment of my eyesight and the annoyance of my husband, who deems my nightly preoccupation with needlework prejudicial to his enjoyment of what he pleases to consider his conjugal rights.’ We’ll use it on the dining room table, with that silver gilt epergne Samantha Burberry’s mother-in-law gave us full of wax fruit and artificial flowers in the tastelessly flamboyant, though admittedly eye-catching, mid-Victorian manner.”

  “Oh?” It was a remarkably chilly “Oh?” for one whose mind might at that time have been expected to be dwelling on the eternal verities. “Do you find the tastelessly flamboyant mid-Victorian manner altogether appropriate for a genuine Queen Anne table?”

  “Not at all,” said Arethusa. “I mention it only because what we have is a tastelessly flamboyant mid-Victorian imitation of a Queen Anne table.”

  Mrs. Fairfield looked as if she were going to say something else but had recourse to her handkerchief instead. Then she said bravely, “Sergeant MacVicar, if you have no further use for me here, I ought to be getting along. Reverend Pennyfeather will be expecting me about the funeral. Just leave the tablecloth in the dining room, please, Miss Monk. I’ll attend to it when I get back in an hour or so.”

  Arethusa shook her luxuriant raven tresses, which she was wearing today à l’espagnole, complete with a spit curl on either cheek. “You will do no such thing, Mrs. Fairfield. Mrs. Pennyfeather is giving you lunch with the deacons at the parsonage. After that, Mrs. Oakes expects you back at her house for a nice little lie-down before she and Mrs. Trott escort you to the funeral parlor, where various members of the community will be waiting to pay their respects. You then return to Mrs. Oakes’s for tea with the museum trustees. That includes you, Dittany. I dropped in at the house but that idiot nephew of mine said you were over here, which is why I came, come to think of it. Where was I?”

  “I think you were about to ship Mrs. Fairfield back to the funeral parlor after we’d finished tea.” Dittany told her.

  “So I was. Well, that’s our program and we’d better get cracking. Mrs. Pennyfeather’s making croustades aux crevettes à la nantua out of respect for Mr. Fairfield’s memory, and they’ve got to be eaten hot.”

  “But I’m not dressed for anything so grand,” Mrs. Fairfield protested.

  “True, i’ faith,” said Arethusa, viewing without favor Mrs. Fairfield’s stockingless legs, denim skirt, and short-sleeved plaid cotton blouse. “You should have worn black, or at least something dark and dignified. People expect it. Sergeant MacVicar will run you back to Minerva’s to change. Tout de suite.”

  “But the museum?”

  Mrs. Fairfield wasn’t liking this high-handedness a bit, Dittany could see. She’d have hated it herself. But then, were she, perish the thought, a new-made widow, she wouldn’t be here dithering about dining room
tables. She’d be out in her own back yard, erecting a funeral pyre to commit suttee on. Perhaps she’d better not mention that, though. It was just the sort of thing Arethusa might want added to the agenda.

  CHAPTER 10

  “ARETHUSA,” SAID DITTANY A little later, back on Applewood Avenue, “weren’t you laying it on a bit thick back there?”

  “How should I know, forsooth? We’ve never buried a curator before.”

  The chairman of the board hauled a chair up to the kitchen table and sat scowling in the direction of the den, whence her nephew’s typewriter could be heard galloping like the hoofbeats of a wild stallion on his way to visit some likely-looking mare; not that any stallion of Osbert’s invention would be caused to make its intentions known on paper. Readers of Westerns are a pure-minded lot, and Osbert wouldn’t have wanted to offend their sensibilities.

  Arethusa was not thinking of Osbert’s readers’ sensibilities. She was moodily selecting the fattest little onion from the dish of mustard pickles Dittany had just set out. “In my personal opinion, we’re planting the wrong half of that connubium, though I suppose I shouldn’t say so.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” Dittany replied in a rather offish tone, for she had been planning to eat that onion herself. “At least not until after the funeral,” she modified. “I foresee we’re going to have to straighten that lady out one day soon.”

  “And I foresee who’s going to be the straightener.” Arethusa snapped viciously at a piece of pickled cauliflower, getting mustard on her chin. “You do realize, ecod, that la Fairfield expects us to keep her on as curator in her husband’s place?”