The Corpse in Oozak's Pond (21 page)

Hudson had demonstrated that at least part of his mind was still in working order, perhaps because he never had money enough to stay as drunk as he preferred to be. His story of why he’d gone to the shack and how he’d found the body rang true enough. Too bad he couldn’t recall exactly when he’d gone there, but Shandy had got the impression it was within the past week or two. That would be about the right span of time for the body to have been in the pond. Much longer, and the false beard would surely have come loose regardless of what it was fastened with, because the facial tissues would have begun to deteriorate.

The still had been bone dry, Hudson had said. Shandy believed that, too. Having virtually grown up on Buggins’s moonshine, Hudson must know how to go about extracting any possible deposit of dregs from its workings. That meant it had been some time since old Buggins had run a batch through. Alcohol left in the tubes wouldn’t have frozen, and in the cold weather it would take a while to evaporate. It might be possible to narrow down the time frame within which the man was killed by finding out when Trevelyan Buggins had filled his last vinegar jug. Minerva Mink ought to be able to tell that, though what use could be made of the information remained to be seen.

Maybe they should have waded into the bureaucratic morass at the Veterans Administration or wherever and tried to find out if there’d ever been any clarification of Bainbridge Buggins’s missing-in-action status. If there had, though, surely the family would have been notified and Grace Porble would have known. Her theory that Bainbridge had deserted made plenty of sense in view of what Hesperus Hudson had said about his old pal; Bain wouldn’t have bothered to leave a forwarding address with his commanding officer. He’d have fixed himself up with a new identity first crack off the bat. From the sound of him, he’d have skinned some victim’s hands to provide himself with a different set of fingerprints if he took the notion. Whether or not they were Trevelyan’s legal begets, those Buggins twins must have been a pair of first-class bastards.

Jane was climbing his pantleg, demanding her share of the fried bacon. Shandy shoved the Buggins boys to the back of his mind and buckled down to the business at hand.

“EXCELLENT, DARLING.” HELEN SET
down her empty cup. “Now I’m afraid I’ve got to run. You can’t imagine how much administrative work there is to running that library. I do not see how Thorkjeld manages to keep this whole college going and stay on top of everything the way he does. Right now he’s neck-deep in revamping the dairy-management curriculum, working with the architect on plans for the new wing on Lower West dorm, trying to squeeze a few more thousand dollars out of the endowment fund for that bunch of seniors who came up with a great plan for a cooperative orchard and haven’t the capital to start it with, and about twenty more projects. And that doesn’t count the usual day-to-day stuff like breaking the news to a freshman girl that her pet iguana died back in Tuscaloosa because her parents hadn’t the guts to tell her themselves. She took it hard, poor kid.”

“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 present 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?”