Wrack and Rune (24 page)

“Born Effie Fescue, was she? You surprise me. I hadn’t realized the Fescues were such an old family in these parts. Oh, they’re not? Only since the Civil War? No, the exact date isn’t important. Don’t bother looking it up. It was really the Buggins property I—did she? That was—oh, I see. Yes, bad practice not making a—I should imagine there—yes, of course an auction. Only thing to do under the—you were? What an interesting coincidence. And what did you—really? Yes, one can always use another umbrella stand. And would you happen to remember who—”

Ridiculous question. Certainly Mrs. Lomax remembered who’d bought what at the auction held after the niece to whom the late Effie Fescue Lomax had willed her own Buggins Collection died intestate and unwed. Shandy nodded from time to time as she went down the list. All at once he stopped her.

“What? You’re quite sure? Yes, of course you are. I—er—hadn’t realized he was—er—among us at that time. Tell me, Mrs. Lomax, did the late Jim Fescue know the late Mrs. Effie Lomax at all? She’d have been an elderly lady when he was a kid, I suppose. Oh, did they? And she’d have told him stories about her life with Belial Buggins? No, I don’t expect she would, but there must have been other—so I understand. Yes, quite a card. Chatty old lady, was she? No, you wouldn’t, but no doubt your Aunt Aggie—ah, yes. Thank you, Mrs. Lomax, you’re a veritable compendium of useful information. No, I shouldn’t worry. I’m sure he’ll be—yes, I’ll give Jane his regards and I’m sure she—er—reciprocates. Good night.”

It had been a long call, but well worth the time. Now he knew. His only problem was to prove it. He stuck his head in the parlor where the rest were now all gathered, and spoke to his wife.

“Helen, I’m going out for a while. Can you get home if I—”

“Of course, Peter. Shh!”

Sieglinde was talking of smorgasbord. Shandy tiptoed away. Who could compete with a herring?

The night was black and sticky as the inside of a tar pot now. No wonder Mrs. Lomax’s overstuffed feline was sweating through the soles of his feet. Maybe Jane’s tiny pink pads were moist, too. He wished passionately that he were back in the small brick house on the Crescent with Helen in his arms and Jane prowling across their backs wondering why kittens didn’t get invited to join this interesting game. He wished to God he’d done what he should have done earlier, asked what he ought to have asked, seen what was under his nose, instead of risking lives to oblige a murdering devil who didn’t mind maiming or slaughtering whoever came handiest.

He shouldn’t be risking his own life, if it came to that, now that he had a wife and a cat to care for. But how was a person supposed to protect himself against someone who attacked with such crazy weapons in such unpredictable ways? Was it any more risky to be inside the lion’s cage than out of it, once the bars were down?

He was dealing with a totally ruthless person here, somebody who evidently went beyond a lack of regard for human life, somebody who didn’t even seem to know what humanity was. Somebody who could set the stage for a quick, expert murder by means of a stolen helmet, a damaged headlight, and a puddle of oil on a dark road, and never stop to realize that a sensible, quick-eyed young woman might lend the intended victim her hard hat. Somebody who knew how to rig an explosion in a manure pile that an old man might be working near but couldn’t visualize a young boy using his own body as a protective shield.

Shandy thought of Spurge Lumpkin with his face burned off by the seething quicklime he hadn’t had sense enough to stay away from, of old Henny Horsefall mourning his hired hand, of Miss Hilda’s face as she’d watched Nute Lumpkin carry away Spurge’s collection of old tobacco boxes. He thought of Fergy in his circus clown’s getup of bushy orange hair and yellow-checked suit, taking the morning off from his work and his nice little lady from Florida to attend the funeral of the mentally retarded man who’d helped him unload his truck and drunk his beer and talked his ear off because what the hell, Spurge was human, too.

Fergy’s was the place to start. Shandy just hoped to God he hadn’t left it too late.

S
HANDY WAS ALMOST DOWN
to the end of Henny Horsefall’s driveway when he met a stray menhir. At second glance, the huge, craggy object proved to be Thorkjeld Svenson, standing alone in the dark.

“The heart bowed down by weight of woe,” Shandy remarked, not that he was feeling all that flippant. “What’s the matter, President? You look like a leftover from Mount Rushmore.”

“Shut up,” said the great man. “I am suffering, damn it. Where are you off to now?”

“To get killed, I think.”

Shandy explained why. Svenson brightened up as much as one who had just lost an Orm might reasonably be expected to, said, “Arrgh,” and fell into step with him. They hadn’t gone much farther before they encountered eight large dogs with their tongues hanging out.

“Are they rabid?” the president inquired politely of the young chap who had them in tow.

“No, just sweating.” Shandy recognized the voice as that of Lewis’s buddy Swope. These must be his sled dogs.

“I thought dogs sweated through the soles of their feet,” Svenson replied, patting all eight at once.

“That’s cats,” said Shandy. “You brought your team, I see, Swope.”

“Yeah, and now the police say they don’t need ’em.”

“Good, because we do. Can you get them turned around and headed the other way?”

“Sure. Come on, guys.”

Young Swope made a few noises and the eight malemutes wheeled as one.

“I sort of like the tongues,” said young Lewis, who proved to be among those present, also. “Makes ’em look ferocious.”

“So it does.” Shandy was feeling considerably less queasy about this expedition than he had a few minutes ago. “I feel like Peter and the Wolves. This way, gentlemen. And ladies, should there happen to be any on the team.”

“Where are we going?” Lewis asked.

“We’re going hunting for the person who blew up your geese and tried to kill your friend’s cousin.”

“Hey, right on!”

“You’d better understand, Lewis, that this is serious, dangerous business. Spurge Lumpkin was deliberately and cleverly murdered. Cronkite Swope would be dead now if it weren’t for that young woman’s lending him her hard hat after his helmet was stolen and his headlight tampered with.”

“I didn’t know that!” cried the cousin.

“You know it now, so keep your heads, both of you, and don’t do anything stupid. Essentially what we’re trying to do is stir up enough evidence to make a case with. What you may possibly see or overhear is more important than what you do. Swope, take four of your dogs and move around to the far side of the Bargain Barn as quietly as you can. Go in from the rear so you won’t be spotted, and keep the dogs quiet if you can. Lewis, take the other four if you’re sure you can handle them, and stay on this side. The dogs are to protect us all as much as anything else. If you see someone trying to escape and you can interfere successfully without getting hurt, do so. If I call for help, bring the dogs and come around to the front. If you’re threatened with a weapon of any sort, get out of the way. We’ll let the police handle any rough stuff.”

Thorkjeld Svenson’s only reply was an amused snort.

“Don’t get your hopes up, President,” Shandy told him. “Our bird may not be anywhere near here.”

“What happens if we draw a blank?” Lewis wanted to know.

“We hunt some more. Got the dogs sorted out? Then start moving, you two. Come on, President, we go in from the front. Quit gritting your teeth and try to look amiable and nonchalant.”

“What the hell for?”

“Because I say so, dammit.”

Surprisingly, Svenson accepted Shandy’s edict, though his version of amiable nonchalance would have been pretty ferocious by any standard but his own. The pair of them sauntered up to the open barn, passing a battered sedan that was parked out front. Its inside was crammed with paintpots, pieces of lumber, and tools of various descriptions. Its outside appeared to be an old shade of brown. Or was it something else? Shandy turned his flashlight on the car and decided it might well be purple, that trickiest of all colors under incandescent light. His heart catapulted into his throat. He muttered to Svenson, “We’re in business,” and went in.

It was past Fergy’s closing time now. The man who’d driven up in Loretta Fescue’s cast-off purple car was clearly no customer but a visitor. He was a thinnish, youngish fellow with black hair falling coarse and unwashed over a gaunt, high-cheekboned face that could have stood a shave. A couple of his teeth were broken. The lips that didn’t hide them were rather too full and slack, though curved now in a smile of mild amusement, perhaps because his right hand was curved lovingly around a large economy-size can of beer. So this was Fesky, and what happened now?

Fergy wasn’t in sight at the moment. His drinking buddy was being entertained by Millicent Peavey. She paused to greet Shandy with cries of delight and act properly flustered at getting to meet Thorkjeld Svenson. Then she took up her tale again.

“Isn’t that the craziest thing you ever heard of? Oh, I was just telling Fesky here. Would you believe, Professor Shandy, somebody came in here and stole the little whatsit out of a pair of those porcelain doorknobs over there? I mean, Fergy would have sold the whole thing for a dollar, knobs and all, but this wise guy had to unscrew the knobs and leave them right there on the table, and walk off with the dingus that held them together. Honest, the things you run into!”

“You sure it was there in the first place?” Fesky drawled. “How’d you ever remember one piece from another in this junk heap?”

“Listen, mister, if you’d done as much waitressing as I have, you’d notice things all right. Try leaving a spoon off the table, or like if you give somebody a water glass with a crack in it, you get a squawk from the customer and a look from the boss and an extra trip back and forth with your corns killing you every step. Who needs the aggravation? So you learn to notice, see? And I darn well noticed there were six of those doorknob sets earlier because I dusted them, see. Professor Shandy saw me dusting around here. Didn’t you, Professor?”

“I believe I did, now that you mention it. And you say one is gone now?”

“I say nothing of the sort. I say the knobs are there but the middle part isn’t. There’s five whole sets and one pair of loose knobs. Go look for yourself, right over there.”

Millicent was a little bit drunk, Shandy could see, but he had no inclination to doubt she knew whereof she spoke. He walked over to the table she was pointing at, picked up one of the knobs so enigmatically freed from its shank, studied it for a second, then took out the short piece of rod Roy had found after the explosion, and screwed the knob to its threaded end. It was, as he’d expected, a perfect fit.

Millicent Peavey screamed. “Why, for Pete’s sake! I saw what you did. Don’t think I don’t notice things. You took that thing right out of your own pocket. Aren’t you the little kidder, though. Trying to play a joke on li’l ol’ Millie.”

“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.

C
RONKITE 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.