The Grub-And-Stakers House a Haunt (23 page)

Perhaps because they couldn’t find any cow liniment, at least I’ve never seen any. Or perhaps because they knew horse liniment would disagree with a cow, as indeed it did. But what has all this to do with Wilberforce’s gold whistle? If it was in fact his, now that I think about it. I can see Wilberforce wanting to own a gold whistle, but I can’t see him going out and buying one.”

“Then isn’t it possible that the whistle was dropped by the person who fed Mossy the liniment? Would you happen to know of anybody else who carried a gold whistle?”

“Do you mean anybody now living?”

“Well, I suppose so.” This was a question Osbert hadn’t expected. “Anybody who was living at the time of your brother’s-ah-misfortune, anyway.”

“Oh, too bad!” cried Mrs. Orser. “If you’d said anybody who’d been living until slightly less than a week before my brother’s sad demise, I’d have had the answer right on the tip of my tongue. As it is, I’m afraid I’ll just have to say no.”

“But if you’d been able to say yes, whom would you have named?”

“Why, Mr. Cottle, of course.”

“Mr. Cottle being-“

“My brother’s late employer. The bank president who, as you may recall, was so regrettably kidnapped and murdered.”

“Mr. Cottle had owned a gold whistle? This couldn’t have been the one you found after Mossy-uh-“

“Oh, no. Mr. Cottle was a nice enough man, but he wouldn’t have given away his gold whistle. With him it wasn’t just the whistle, you see, it was gold everything.

Mr. Cottle had a positive passion for gold jewelry and trinkets.

All perfectly suited to a man in his position, of course.

He had this lovely gold watch about the size of a turnip, on a very striking gold watch chain strung across his tummy with various objects hanging from it, all pure gold. Besides the gold whistle, there were a couple of big round seals, Mr. Cottle called them, and a gold toothpick in a little gold case that had been his greatgrandfather’s, and a timberwolf’s tooth with a gold filling and a ring in the top. To hang it from the chain you know. And a gold nugget carved into the shape of a beetle, and a gold pencil and a gold cigar cutter that had a steel nipper because of course gold won’t cut anything.”

“That must have bothered him a little,” said Osbert.

“Oh, I suppose it did, but he never let on. Wilberforce said Mr. Cottle had never been one to complain about little things, which is more than could be said for Wilberforce, poor fellow. Did I mention the twenty-dollar gold piece? Wilberforce said they could always tell when Mr.

Cottle was coming because they could hear him tinkling.

The tellers used to sing ‘Jingle Bells’ under their breath.”

“Did he have a snowy white beard?” Osbert asked hopefully.

Mrs. Orser giggled. “No, isn’t it a pity? As a matter of fact, Mr. Cottle was practically hairless. I used to see him occasionally myself. At the bank, you know, Frank and I had our account there. Of course we switched over after the tragedy because Frank didn’t like me going into a bank where people got tied up and lugged away and had their fingers cut off. Frank is quite ferociously protective of me when he can find the time. He brought me the cutest little Malay kris on his last trip home, and he’s promised me some poisoned arrows to keep in a jar on the mantelpiece because one never knows. But getting back to Mr. Cottle, he did have rather attractive eyebrows but his head was completely bald except for a little gray fuzz behind the ears and his skin was as pink as a baby’s. He looked as if he’d never had to shave in his life.”

“Lucky him.”

Osbert ran a fingertip over his own by now somewhat raspy chin and wondered if Charlie Evans happened to keep a spare razor in the crop-dusting plane. It would be a shame to spoil the family reunion to which he was eagerly looking forward by having his loved ones break out into howls of anguish when he tried to kiss them. Not that they ever had so far, but a responsible husband and father had to consider these things.

As Osbert considered, Mrs. Orser resumed her inventory.

Mr. Cottle had been what might be called a portly man, he’d always left his suit coat unbuttoned so that his watch chain could be shown off to best effect. He’d affected an old-fashioned gold pince nez on a thin gold chain attached to a gold button pinned to his left lapel. He’d worn a heavy gold wedding band and a gold signet ring set with a big garnet, and a gold stickpin with a smaller garnet in his tie. Mrs. Orser rather thought Mr. Cottle had had a few gold fillings in his teeth but could not be certain about that as he and she hadn’t been on sufficiently familiar terms.

“Oh, and his watch chain also had a little gold penknife on it that he used to sharpen pencils with, Wilberforce said. Not that he ever used a wooden pencil because he had his gold one. Wilberforce thought Mr. Cottle just enjoyed sharpening pencils so that he could show off his gold knife. Wilberforce could be catty sometimes. I know it’s women who are supposed to be catty, but I’m sure that if you went around counting, you’d find there are quite as many he-cats as she-cats. If not more.”

“Truer words were never spoken, Mrs. Orser. Well, this has been extremely helpful and I thank you for giving me your time. Nice meeting you, Mossy.”

Osbert half expected Mossy to offer him her hoof but she didn’t, so he said good-bye and got back into the police car with the constable who’d been inconspicuously taking notes of the conversation, with special reference to the enigmatic trinket Mrs. Orser had found in the barn after her brother’s tragic and still not wholly explained death.

It was interesting about that whistle. Interesting too about the kidnapped banker’s multipurpose watch chain. That jingling adornment made Osbert think of something, something he’d heard about quite recently but couldn’t pin down at the moment. It would come to him, like as not, sooner or later.

Ivarling, you’re home!”

“Yes, dear. I did say I would be, you know.” Osbert gave his wife a few extra kisses to make sure she got the message loud and clear. “Too bad you weren’t along on the ride, you’d have enjoyed meeting Mossy. She’s the cow who inadvertently effected the demise of the bank watchman, as you may recall. Her current owner made it clear that Mossy was more sinned against than sinning.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Dittany. “Have you had anything to eat?”

“Nope. Charlie Evans did suggest that as we passed over Oshawa we might parachute down for a pizza, but I was anxious to get home. Charlie’s writing an epic poem about crop-dusting, you’ll be interested to know, though right now he’s stuck on a rhyme for insectivora.”

“Couldn’t he switch to ‘bugs’?”

“I did raise the suggestion, as a matter of fact, but Charlie didn’t seem to feel ‘bugs’ was epical enough. How about if I pour us each a modest tot of sherry to cut the phlegm?”

“Why not? After all, I have miles to go before I sleep.”

“You do?” Osbert’s eyes narrowed. This was not the homecoming he had envisioned. “How many miles?”

“As many as it takes, my love. You do remember that tonight’s the night I dowse for the gold. I’ve got my divining rod all shined up and ready to dip. Want to see?”

“But of course, my beauty of the buttes.” Osbert leaned forward with polite interest, then reared back like a spooked mustang. “Great galloping garter snakes, is that a divining rod?”

“This is it,” Dittany confirmed. “Rather impressive, don’t you think?”

“Impressive is hardly the word. Where the heck did you get that mass of ossification? Off a pterodactyl?”

“It’s just a turkey wishbone, silly. Formerly the property, I grant you, of a very large turkey. Those are the cuff links you inherited from your great-uncle Bedivere, the one your mother never liked. You don’t mind using them, do you?”

“Nope. Us old cowhands don’t go in much for gold cuff links out here on the range, where men are men and women are treasured for their ability to lug a fifty-pound wishbone around for hours on end without buckling at the knees. When were you planning to dowse?”

“I suppose that will have to depend on how long it takes Hiram Jellyby to get his eyeballs charged up. So many things seem to depend on Hiram lately. It’s strange what a difference he’s made in the aura around here. Do you suppose we’ll ever get back to normal?”

Osbert removed the bedizened wishbone from his wife’s grasp and took both her hands firmly in his own.

“Darling, do you recall the day we first met?”

“Of course,” said Dittany. “It was at the bake sale, when the billygoat got up on the bandstand and ate your belt. That was right after John Architrave got murdered and we were trying to save the Enchanted Mountain for the spotted pipsissewa.”*

“My point precisely. Normal is simply not an appli*

The Gruband-Stakers Move a Mountain

cable word in Lobelia Falls. Most people, according to the late Ralph Waldo Emerson, live lives of quiet desperation.

Show me one inhabitant of this town who’s living a life of quiet desperation and I’ll show you the UFO he flew in on.”

“I see the force of your argument, dear. Never having lived anywhere else, I have no real basis for comparison, but I suppose we do tend to have rather more things going on here at any given moment than they have in Scottsbeck or Lammergen. Or Toronto or Montreal or New York or London or any of those other quaint backwaters. Will you mind staying with the children while I dowse?”

“What?” yowled Osbert. “Me sit here sucking my thumb and nursing my gout while you brave the impenetrable wilderness with nothing but an oversized turkey bone and a pair of disembodied eyeballs for protection?”

“I expect Zilla wouldn’t mind coming along to keep Hiram company,” Dittany temporized.

“Zilla is not your lawfully wedded husband, madam!”

“You’re quite right, dear, she isn’t,” Dittany agreed willingly enough. “Nor, I must say, is it at all likely that she ever would have been or have wished to be. However, you have to admit that Zilla could be a formidable adversary if we should happen to be attacked by gold rustlers, assuming there’s actually any gold out there to be rustled, which we should know fairly soon unless this wishbone lets us down. Dearest, you’ve had a long and smelly trip in that poky little plane of Charlie’s, and interviewed the cow and all; don’t you think you should just settle down quietly here at home with the children and catch up on your bonding?”

“In a word, dear, no. Why can’t we just bundle the tads into their carriage and trundle them along to the scene of the action?”

“And expose their delicate little lungs to the night air?

Rennie, perhaps feeling left out of the conversation, chose that moment to demonstrate what a pair of delicate little lungs could do when called upon for a bravura performance.

Annie was quick to follow suit. Dittany began to think perhaps she’d been a trifle overprotective of the twins. They did own a large supply of assorted carriage robes and buntings, not to mention the multitude of booties, bonnets, leggings, sweaters, and other tiny garments that hadn’t even been worn yet and would soon be outgrown if they didn’t get cracking; perhaps it was time for the wee ones to begin enjoying the local night life. She pacified them with infant food of a suitable nature, finished her sherry, and was preparing to fortify the inner woman for the evening’s adventure when who should show up but Zilla and a misty something with a faint, far-off flavor of ancient mule that could only be Hiram Jellyby.

“Well, the very people we were hoping to see,” Dittany said, although in fact Hiram was so far more a state of mind than a viewable object. “What can I get you, Mr.

Jellyby?”

“What you drinkin’?”

“Sherry, actually. Want some?”

“I dunno. It don’t have none o’ them vitamin things in it that Zilla’s always gassin’ about?”

“No, none at all. Sherry’s just plain grape squeezings fortified with a little brandy.”

“Oh. Well then, hell. Go ahead, slide the bottle over this way an’ gimme a shot at the emanations. An’ don’t you go glarin’ at me like that, Zilla. Gripes, Miz Monk, I never seen such a woman for glarin’, her an’ that shecougar she’s got helpin’ her run the place. Them two, they’ll set there lashin’ their tails an’ glarin’ at me as if I was a rabbit they was fixin’ to have for supper. If I had any nerves left, I’d be twitchin’ like a toad eatin’ lightnin’.”

“And if you had any brains left,” snapped Zilla, “you’d keep your cussed old beak out of that sherry bottle. You’ve already been sniffing half the day at my dandelion wine crock, and don’t think I don’t know it. You’ve got one eye bright orange and the other one striped like the Union Jack.”

“Ain’t every ha’nt could o’ done it,” Hiram replied complacently. “Gimme another sniff o’ that sherry, Miz Monk, an’ I’ll show you fireworks like you never seen before.”

“Just call me Dittany, everybody else does. You’d better hold back on the voltage, though, Hiram. We may need some extra illumination out at Hunnikers’ Field tonight.

I’m counting on you to help me catch Charlie Henbit’s emanations when I try to dowse.”

“Ain’t never let you down yet, have I?”

“No, but this is the first time I’ve had occasion to ask you for a favor. Not that you wouldn’t have granted it willingly, I’m sure.”

“I ain’t so dang-fired certain of that.”

Maybe sherry was not Hiram’s tipple. It seemed to be putting him in a mood that some of Osbert’s characters, adhering to the tradition of the sagebrush intelligentsia, would unhesitatingly have described as ornery. He spurned the supper Dittany offered him, claiming that he could see vitamins crawling all over the plate and giving the others an uneasy feeling that maybe he was right. He took exception to including the babies in the expedition, even though nobody wanted to stay home and babysit them so there was really nothing the Monks could do except take them along. He claimed he didn’t like the way Ethel was staring at him and threatened to put a hex on her if she didn’t cut it out, although he obviously had not the faintest notion of how to go about hexing any creature great or small.

Under heavy grilling from Zilla, whose shamanistic ancestry naturally gave her the edge, Hiram was forced to admit that he’d probably have failed of his purpose anyway since nothing about hexes had been listed against his name in the Akashic Record. Having to knuckle under didn’t make the phantom’s temper any sweeter. All in all, it was a grumpy little troupe who finally set out for Hunnikers’