The Grub-And-Stakers Move a Mountain (20 page)

“I see no reason to connect John’s demise with Samantha’s disappearance on the basis of present evidence. I confess to you, however, that I have been mulling over a theory that might have sprung from the pen of our esteemed resident authoress Arethusa Monk: namely and to wit, that Samantha is being held captive somewhere until Sam Wallaby will have had a chance to capitalize on her failure to appear at Candidates’ Night. Such a failure would provide him with an opening to dismiss her attempt at a write-in campaign as frivolous and lacking in true commitment.

Does that sound at all plausible to you?”

“Well, of course. Why else would they have chloroformed her and shoved her in the van?”

“Dittany, we do not know that anybody chloroformed Samantha and shoved her in a van.”

- “Then how did they get hold of her?”

“That is a question we may perhaps answer in due time.”

“Due time! They’re probably sticking toothpicks under her fingernails already. Those silly ones with cellophane frills on, from the inn.”

“What for? It would hardly be necessary to torture her to make her confess she is running for office. You ladies have already plastered the town with fliers and placards to that effect.”

“Do you have to stand there being Scotch? Can’t you see Samantha may be in terrible danger?”

“I can see that you are indulging in a luxury we law enforcement officers cannot allow ourselves.”

“Such as what?”

“Jumping to conclusions. Dittany, I have reason to believe Samantha is not in terrible danger. I grant you that she may well be in grave distress of mind and perhaps of body,” Sergeant Mac Vicar conceded. “I agree that it is surely my bounden duty to release her from bondage if, mind you, any bondage has taken place; and to bring the malefactors to justice, assuming any malefaction is involved.”

“Haven’t we had enough kinds of malefacting around here already?

Why should McNaster stop at a spot of kidnapping?

Look at the way he and his hoods vandalized this place right here.” Dittany stamped her foot for emphasis, sending up a splash of beer-laden mud. “I’m sure those horrible pants Ethel tore were his. Who else would have such gosh-awful taste?”

“We are endeavoring to trace the garment. In the meantime you may be interested to know that, as we surmised, the RCMP

tests revealed this soil to be saturated with beer. We can therefore assume the bottles now stored in your cellar were in fact full before they were smashed. Hence we have sound reason to deduce the affair was no rowdy drinking party but a ruse or wile intended to discredit this area as a drawing point for persons of loose morals and disreputable habits.”

“And the beer came from Wallaby’s, naturally.”

Sergeant Mac Vicar caressed his mustache again. “When I ask myself who would carry out the wanton destruction of a great deal of perfectly potable beer, I find myself thinking of a temperance zealot, a madman, or somebody who is able to purchase the beverage in quantity at low wholesale prices. You are free to draw your own inference.”

Dittany drew her own inference in silence for a moment.

Then she said, “Are you going to search McNaster’s place?”

“I have turned the possibility over in my mind.”

“Then what’s keeping you?”

“On sober reflection, the endeavor would not seem potentially fruitful. Do you know how many people McNaster employs?”

“A lot more than I thought he did, anyway.”

“There are twenty-three regular employees, not counting the cleaner and the various persons who have occasion to visit the offices with reference to construction jobs, deliveries, and so forth. Considering Andrew McNaster’s own temperament and habits, do you think it reasonable that every one of them would be one hundred per cent loyal to his interests, eh, especially if their employer were guilty of so flagrant a crime as imprisoning a hostage on his premises?”

“Naturally he wouldn’t tell them.”

“Such a secret would be hard to keep, especially in a jerry-built structure like his. You may rest assured, however, that, should other avenues of search prove fruitless, I shall write myself out a warrant and go have a look.”

“And in the meantime Samantha will miss Candidates’ Night and Sam Wallaby will do her in and Andy McNasty will steal our mountain. We should never have let her out of our sight.

We might have known McNaster would do something ghastly like this.”

“And how might we have known, eh?”

“Well, because-because he shot Mr. Architrave, I guess. Only he’s never-he’s always pulling dirty tricks but-I suppose the thing is, we still don’t quite believe he could actually-“

“Have resorted to violence? That is a point to consider, Dittany.

I suggest you consider it. Consider also that it is not yet five o’clock. The search will go on. Dinna fash yoursel’, my girl.”

“I’ll fash mysel’ if I darn well feel like it,” Dittany muttered, but Sergeant Mac Vicar had not stayed to hear. Satisfied at last that Samantha was nowhere on the mountain, he was wending his stately way toward other avenues of search.

She poked along the path a bit. Then, worn out by the stupendous work load she’d been carrying, the strain she’d been under, and the prospect of seeing it all go down the drain in another three hours’ time, Dittany did what any other red-blooded Canadian girl would have done: found herself a hard, cold boulder to sit on and had herself a good cry.

Preoccupied with her woes and the desperate need for a tissue she’d thought she had in her coat pocket and couldn’t seem to find, Dittany did not at first realize she was not alone in her grief. Then a comforting hand lay on the sleeve she’d been about to wipe her nose on in lieu of anything more refined. A warm voice said, “Hey, Dittany, what’s the matter?”

She sniffled a mighty sniffle and croaked, “Hello, Ben. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, if you really want to know. I sort of thought you might be somewhere along about here. I mean, it’s sort of our special place, eh?”

Dittany sniffled again. “What’s so special?”

“Aw, come on. Don’t tell me you can’t remember.”

Still unable to find the tissue, Dittany plied her free coat sleeve until she could get the tears out of her eyes and see where, in fact, they were. “Oh. It’s where we got shot at, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yeah, and I grabbed you in my arms and-darn it, Dittany, you might have remembered.”

Now that he mentioned it, she did remember. There was still a bruise on her wrist where he’d seized it and jerked her off her feet, and another where her behind had hit the backhoe. That had been a tender moment in one sense, but hardly the sort one cared to jot down in one’s diary and mark with a baby-blue satin ribbon. If Ben thought those fading contusions heralded the start of a romantic relationship he must either remember something that had escaped her notice in the confusion of the moment or else be indulging in a spot of wishful thinking.

Anyway it was sweet of him, she supposed, only she did wish he’d chosen a time when her nose wasn’t running. Furthermore this boulder wasn’t big enough for the pair of them and if he kept nudging her over like this, she’d land on her bruised remembrance. Unless by some chance he was planning to clasp her to his bosom in what Lex Laramie would describe as a manly embrace.

She had an uneasy feeling Ben was about to do just that when another male voice said, “Here, Dittany, take my bandana. What the hell do you think you’re up to, Frankland?”

“Why the hell don’t you get lost, Monk?” came the ungracious reply. “This happens to be a private conversation.”

“Stuff it,” barked the new Osbert. “Ma’am, if this ornery coyote has been annoying you with his unwelcome attentions-“

“Oh, put a sock in it, eh?” Dittany blew her nose violently on the bandana, which was not a flamboyant red but a modest blue.

“I’m crying because I’m tired and cold and my feet hurt and we can’t find Samantha Burberry and why the heck don’t we all quit yelling at each other and go have a drink?”

“Whatever you say, Dittany,” said Ben, and took possession of her left arm.

“At your service, ma’am,” said Osbert, and took her other arm.

Traveling under heavy escort had its advantages. As Ben and Osbert each appeared determined to outstride the other, Dittany found herself being skimmed along barely touching the ground.

This odd method of locomotion was great for the feet, which were indeed excessively fatigued, though a strain on the armpits.

Anyway they reached Applewood Avenue a good deal faster than she would have done under her own steam and she managed to get the kitchen table between her two knights-errant while she got out the whiskey and three tumblers.

“Here, drink up and shut up while I find us something to chew on.”

Both men leaped to assist her but she snarled so ferociously, “Sit down,” that they fell back in their chairs and sought nepenthe in Seagram’s.

“Say, Dittany,” Ben ventured after he’d spent a few moments glaring in silence at Osbert Monk, who merely gazed back with the stern detachment of one who has looked long on distant horizons, “you’ve been rustling the grub for me a lot lately. How about letting me take you out to the inn for supper, eh?”

“The inn?” shrieked Dittany. “I wouldn’t set foot in that den of iniquity if you roped and hog-tied me. Sorry, Ben, I’m sure you meant well but maybe you don’t know Andy McNasty owns the place.”

“Well then, is there a place around here McNaster doesn’t own? Or how about driving over to Scottsbeck?”

“Ben, I can’t go anywhere. If Samantha hasn’t turned up by eight o’clock, I’m going to march myself over to Candidates’

Night and deliver her speech myself.”

“But you can’t!”

“Why can’t I? I wrote it, didn’t I? Now I’m going to throw some bacon and eggs in the pan. After we eat, we can go back to hunting. She’s got to be somewhere.”

“Yeah, like for instance Saskatchewan. Dittany, I hate to throw cold water-“

“Then don’t,” barked Osbert. “Dittany, park yourself at this table and have your drink. You’re plumb tuckered out, not to mention beat to the socks. I’ll cook the bacon and eggs. They’re the only things I can cook,” he added with wistful candor. “Is this the frying pan you use?”

“No, take the big one hanging by the stove.”

Dittany abandoned the fight to stave off this ill-timed onslaught of gallantry and tried not to notice how Osbert was dribbling egg white all over her stove while Ben cut her cheese enough to sustain a starving wolverine and kept trying to ply her with more whiskey than she could handle in a month.

“Come on, Dittany, it’s good for what ails you.”

“If I take one more sip I’ll be drunk as a skunk. Go get some plates and things out of the pantry if you want something to do.

The bread’s in the breadbox and the butter’s in the fridge. And if you’re going to open those pickles, for Pete’s sake hold the jar right side up. How are those eggs coming, Osbert?”

“Just about set. How do you like yours?”

“Any way I can get them. I’m starved.”

“I’ll have mine flipped, Monk. Without breaking the yolks,”

Ben added vindictively.

“You’re just saying that because you think I can’t do it.”

Osbert essayed the all but impossible task and proved to Ben’s unconcealed glee that he couldn’t. He did achieve a drinkable pot of tea and managed to get the bacon and eggs on the plates with no serious mishap. They ate in an atmosphere somewhat less charged with male hostility, or so it seemed to Dittany, who was by now pleasantly numbed with fatigue and whiskey. As the hot food sobered her up and restored her vigor, though, she began to chafe at the bit again.

“Eat up, you two. We’ve got to get back on the trail.”

“Dittany, at least half the town must be out hunting for Mrs.

Burberry right this minute,” Osbert reminded her gently.

“I don’t care if they’ve flown in a regiment from Toronto. I have this premonition that one way or another I’ll wind up having to track her down myself. I suppose it’s because every last thing that’s been done-since I caught Ben digging up the Spotted Pipsissewa has somehow wound up in my lap. Now who’s at the door? Go see, will you, Osbert? It’s probably your Aunt Arethusa wanting to borrow a butt of Malmsey.”

She was wrong. It was Sergeant Mac Vicar, looking a good deal more self-satisfied than the circumstances would appear to warrant.

“Have you found Samantha?” Dittany gasped.

_ “No,” he replied, “but I have found a gasket that I believe will 119 fit your sump pump.”

1 “Who the heck cares about gaskets at a time like this? Any”

way, Ben said he’d order one.”

“He has not yet done so, however.”

“Some information network you’ve got around here,” grunted Frankland, a bit red in the face. “I thought I could pick one up over in Scottsbeck, but I’ve been so busy around here-“

“Ah, yes. So have we all, and there is still work to be done.

Put on your coats, if you please. Deputy Monk, you are prepared for active duty, I trust?”

“Yes, sir,” said Osbert smartly, stuffing the last of his bacon in his mouth and doing a fast cleanup job with a serviette.

“Him a deputy?” Ben Frankland snorted.

“Mr. Monk most kindly volunteered to be deputized on the grounds that he could charge off the experience as research and thus not require to be paid out of town funds. He has already done admirable work.

“Such as what, eh?”

“Tracking down a material witness, for one thing.”

“Somebody who knows where Samantha is?” cried Dittany.

“No, somebody who has provided information concerning the death of John Architrave.”

“You mean you know who took those pot shots at Dittany and me?” Frankland clenched his large fists. “Wait till I get my hands on him!”

“You will perhaps not feel so eager when you hear the name of the culprit.”

Dittany felt sick to her stomach. Then it must be Minerva Oakes. Whom else around here had Ben had time to get fond of?

She did happen to think of one other person he seemed to have warmed up to pretty fast, and put on her storm coat before he and Osbert could start fighting over which of them got to hold it for her. “Never mind that now,” she snapped. “Where are you taking us?”