Wrack and Rune (19 page)

“Then Nutie the Cutie had better refigure. Anybody who saddles himself with one of Gaffson’s classy houses at today’s mortgage rates will be lucky to have money enough left over for groceries, let alone Bow tea sets. I think you’ve hit it, though, Lewis. That could explain why Lumpkin is suing Horsefall. The Horsefall property, being on the top instead of the slope of the hill, has a better view and is less apt to be contaminated by sewage runoff from all those other houses there won’t be enough good leaching beds for. Therefore it would be the more desirable, and Lumpkin would have a better chance of unloading the rest if he could tie it in as a package deal. Thank you very much. Good to have met you, Swope. Perhaps I’ll see you later at the—er—barricades.”

“I’ll be here. We’ve already had to chase a bunch off. Hey, should I bring my dog team over later?”

“You mean—er—hunger-maddened malemutes?”

“Yeah, only all they do is hang around and pig out now that the dogsledding season is over. Maybe we can kid people into thinking they’re wild timber wolves.”

“What a splendid suggestion. As a special favor to me, would you mind driving them past the elder of those two archaeologists who are in there with Dr. Svenson? I don’t suppose you’d care to disguise yourself as an Assyrian?”

“Huh?”

“Forget it. Just a passing fancy. Carry on, gentlemen.”

Humming “With cat-like tread, upon our prey we steal,” Shandy again bent his steps toward Fergy’s Bargain Barn. He found the proprietor in the act of selling a rusted-out wheelbarrow to a lady who wanted something cute to plant geraniums in. That reminded him of Loretta Fescue, of whom he preferred not to be reminded.

Millicent was ever so glad to see him. Poor woman, she must be having a boring time of it here. He must be careful not to let Helen know or they’d wind up having Millicent over to the house for dinner. Helen’s milk of human kindness tended to overflow sometimes. Anyway, the amount of money Fergy pocketed as he presented the deluded geranium lover with a hunk of otherwise useless wire mesh to line the wheelbarrow with so the dirt wouldn’t fall through the hole in the bottom must be a comfort to Millicent if she was indeed contemplating becoming a permanency in the establishment. No doubt they had their moments of tedium among the ketchup squirters, too.

After the wheelbarrow had been loaded into the woman’s car and the trunk lid tied down with some frayed rope Fergy donated as further testimony to his beneficence, Shandy asked what he’d come to find out.

“Fergy, while you were over there at the runestone, did you happen to notice a sapling bent over into a sort of arch?”

“Huh?” Fergy scratched his beard, now back to its accustomed state of dishevelment. “Seems to me—yeah, I did. It reminded me of McDonald’s hamburgers, see, an’ that made me think I ought to be gettin’ back to Millie, so I hurried over here to let ’er know what was up. Say, she’d sure like to get a squint at that gold they found. Any chance?”

“I’m afraid not. They have the area cordoned off and police out at the road. By the way, how did you get past Bashan?”

“Oh, I just bulled my way through.”

Guffawing at his own wit, Fergy went to get himself another beer.

T
HAT WOULD HAVE MADE
a fine exit line, and Shandy was more than ready to exit. However, there was still one point he hadn’t dealt with, and Fergy, who probably took that insatiable thirst of his to the neighborhood beer joints, was as apt as not to have some information for him. He waited till the next slug of malt was halfway down the fat man’s gullet, then asked, “Would you happen to know that son of Mrs. Fescue who works for Gunder Gaffson?”

“You mean Fesky? Skinny guy with black hair an’ a front tooth busted off?”

“If you say so. I’ve never seen him myself. I thought perhaps you might have—er—hung out with him sometime or other.”

“Yeah, we hoist one together now an’ then over at Billy’s Brewery. You ever go there?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“I s’pose guys like you have to be kind o’ careful,” said Fergy with an offhand contempt that Shandy found rather amusing. “Well, anyway, him an’ me sort o’ got together ’cause our names is so much alike only we look so different, if you get what I mean. For such a skinny guy, he sure can put it away,” he added with a tinge of envy.

“Has he any other talents, would you say?”

“I dunno. He fixed the jukebox one night when a Johnny Cash record got stuck. I guess he’s one o’ them guys that’s naturally handy with their hands. He’s mentioned doin’ odd jobs for his mother sometimes, like if she’s tryin’ to sell a house with a big leak in the ceilin’, for instance. He can fake it up so’s it looks okay till she finds some sucker to unload it on. Course as soon as the next rainstorm comes along, forget it. We was kiddin’ about it that night at Billy’s, after he got the jukebox goin’. Fam’ly moves in, somebody happens to sneeze, an’ Fesky’s repairs all falls apart. They’re left sittin’ there in a heap o’ lath an’ plaster.”

Fergy thought this was a great joke. So did Millicent. Shandy was not amused.

“How did—er—Fesky take your teasing?”

“Oh, he laughed. He’s an easygoin’ guy. Kids about it himself. He says that’s how come he gets along okay with Gaffson. They’re both good at fakin’ things up to look like what they ain’t. I guess that’s what Fesky does mostly, patches up cracks in walls an’ fixes the doors so’s they’ll open an’ shut three or four times before they fall off. Or so he claims. Anyways, I guess he does all right for himself. Always has plenty o’ the old do-re-mi. An’ never mind askin’ for an intro, Millie. Fesky’s too young for you. Anyways, he ain’t much for the women. All that gink cares about is beer an’ goin’ to the dogs.”

“Do you mean figuratively or literally?”

“Huh? Oh, I get you, Professor. You talk so damn educated sometimes it takes me a while to figure out what you’re tryin’ to say. I mean like goin’ out to the track. That’s where he spends most of his nights, I guess, when he ain’t at Billy’s. I don’t get over there too often myself so I couldn’t say for sure, but whenever I do happen to see Fesky, he’s always braggin’ about how he won forty to one on some meathound or other.”

“They say they train those greyhounds with real, live bunny rabbits.” Millicent shuddered fetchingly.

“So what? Gotta get ’em to run somehow, ain’t they? You wouldn’t act so squeamish if you’d just won a few bucks on one yourself, I bet. You gonna fix us that turkey Tetrazzini for supper?”

“Don’t let me keep you, Mrs. Peavey. I must be getting home,” said Shandy, glad to take the hint. He didn’t care to hear any more about live bunny rabbits and he’d found out as much as Fergy would be able to tell him about Fesky Fescue. If Loretta’s son the odd-job specialist had been exercising his talents around the Horsefall place, Fesky would have been particularly careful to stay out of Fergy’s sight. He turned to leave, then stopped.

“By the way, Fergy, did you hear that President Svenson’s uncle was injured down by the runestone shortly after you were there?”

“No! What happened?”

“He fell and cut his head.”

“How bad?”

“I don’t think it amounts to much. Miss Hilda is administering first aid and—er—tender, loving care.”

“Hilda? That dame’s about as tender as a rubber boot. Hey, don’t go tellin’ her I said that. I mean, she’s a great old gal, but, jeez! I’d hate like hell to have her soothin’ my fevered brow.”

“You’d rather have me, wouldn’t you, Fergy?” coaxed Millicent, who must have been feeling left out.

“Yeah, sure, anytime. Hey, I thought you was cookin’ supper. Gotta soothe the ol’ pauncho too, you know.”

“Isn’t he cute?” Millicent shook her frowsy curls and made a gallant attempt to wiggle her behind as she went off to the makeshift kitchen. Fergy watched her out of sight, then turned to Shandy.

“Hey, no kiddin’, Professor,” he asked in a sort of conspiratorial hiss, “how did the old guy get hurt?”

Shandy looked at him in some surprise. “I can’t tell you precisely.”

“I knew it! It was the runestone, wasn’t it? Go ahead an’ laugh if you want to, but I ain’t as dumb as I look. You can’t tell me precisely how Spurge Lumpkin died either, can you? S’posed to be an accident. Huh! The stone’s on what used to be his land, isn’t it?”

“You’ve been talking to Nute Lumpkin, have you?”

“Me? Not today, but a guy was in here a while ago sayin’ all that land you asked me about earlier turns out to be Lumpkin land, so that means it was Spurge’s as much as Nute’s, don’t it? Cripes, I wisht Spurge was still alive. If I’d o’ known he was a long-lost heir, I’d o’ hit ’im up for a few bucks.”

Fergy tried to grin, but it was a feeble effort. “Poor bugger. I felt like hell at that funeral, I don’t mind tellin’ you. An’ I don’t feel so hot right now, in case you’re interested. Think it over, Professor. Here’s Spurge gone an’ Cronk ought to be, after that awful spill he took. An’ now the old geezer who read them runes about the curse is laid out with a busted head an’ Henny’s in hot water up to his eyeballs an’ then some. An’ here’s me smack in the path o’ the—the whatever it is. Okay, I’m tryin’ to kid myself I ain’t scared, but I wouldn’t be human if I wasn’t, would I?”

Shandy scratched his chin. “Then it was remarkably brave of you to enter that enclosure with Bashan in order to get down the path to the stone.”

“Oh, you know how it is. A guy doesn’t like to admit he’s a coward, so he does somethin’ foolish to prove he ain’t. Hey, you don’t think it’s more apt to rub off, like, if you get too close? Is that what the big guy was yellin’ at me about? He said to get the hell out of there fast.”

“By the big guy, I assume you mean President Svenson. I’d say the curse you ought to dread is his if you try gate-crashing again, which I gather you’re—er—becoming less inclined to do.”

“Yeah, I knew you’d think it was a big joke. But you brainy birds been wrong before, don’t forget. Didn’t I tell you Cronk better watch out? An’ who’s layin’ over there in Hoddersville Hospital right this minute? Answer me that.”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

Shandy had just spied a television camera truck beetling up toward the Horsefall farm. In it were the driver, an announcer, a technician, and a bruised, battered, bandaged, but still reasonably comely young man with a now-familiar face. Cronkite Swope had made the big time.

“You’d better go eat your turkey Tetrazzini, Fergy,” he said. “Something tells me this is going to be another of those nights.”

He felt a desperate need for sustenance and wifely consolation himself. The hitch was that he’d left his car in Horsefall’s barnyard. By going to get it, he risked being nailed by young Swope for an interview. Well, the hell with it. He was too beat to walk eight miles home, and damned if he’d hitchhike. He went back to the farm and, as he’d fully expected, Cronkite pounced.

“Hey, Professor Shandy! Wait, we want to—”

“Her name is Jessica Tate,” he roared back, and stamped on the gas pedal with all his might.

Helen was standing looking out the window when he got home. From the relief on her face as she flung the door open and ran down the steps to greet him, he could see how worried she’d been.

“What’s the matter?” he growled into her hair, knowing full well that their next-door neighbor Mirelle Feldster was lurking behind her living room curtains watching him embrace his wife right out in the open, and not giving a damn what Mirelle thought about this display of wanton conjugality. “Did you think Orm had got me?”

“Well, after what I’ve been hearing about that poor Swope boy—arms and legs all over the road and practically at death’s door, they say—”

“Who’s they?”

“People who came into the library.”

“Well, you can tell them that when last seen, to be exact about fifteen minutes ago, that poor Swope boy was infesting Henny Horsefall’s hen coop with a television crew.”

“My stars! Hurry, let’s put on the news.”

“I’m not sure I want to.”

Peter’s protest availed him nothing. Helen had him into the den, settled in his armchair with his feet up and a gin and tonic in his hand, and the set turned on in front of him, all more or less in one movement.

They’d missed the first part of the report, but were in time to see Henny Horsefall and Miss Hilda standing there like strays from a Grant Wood painting while the announcer panted, “So does the curse of the runestone actually exist? Was the bizarre death of Spurgeon Lumpkin due to some malignant force emanating from that eerie oak grove on the old logging road? Why did the young reporter who braved the Viking’s wrath have such a narrow escape from sudden death? Is the eminent Swedish archaeologist Dr. Sven Svenson yet another of the rune-stone’s victims? Stay tuned for the next thrilling—I mean, Channel 2½ will be following this story very carefully. Mr. Swope, do you have any final word for our viewers?”

Cronkite, who was looking as white as his bandage and probably had sneaked out of the hospital while the doctor wasn’t looking, grabbed the microphone. “Yes. I want to beg everybody to stay the heck away from here. The Horsefalls have been through enough already and it was my fault for breaking the story and look where it got me. I don’t know what’s happening here, but all I can say is—”

Whatever it was, Swope never got to say it. He folded neatly to the ground. As Miss Hilda bent over him, her words were carried distinctly to the vast listening public.

“Vikin’ curse, my backside! I been livin’ next to that runestone for a hundred an’ five years an’ it never brung me nothin’ I didn’t go lookin’ for, did it? Haul ’is carcass in on the kitchen cot an’ I’ll ladle a swig o’ my homemade gin into ’im. If that don’t perk ’im up, he’s a goner for sure.”

“Good God, you don’t give alcohol to a concussion victim!”

Shandy leaped for the phone, but the Horsefalls’ line was already busy. Either Cronkite’s mother had beaten him to the draw or young Swope was in the hands of the Norse gods. He hoped Odin, Freya, and the rest of the Valhalla crowd were a match for Miss Hilda.

“Sit down, Peter,” said Helen. “That boy looks like a pretty sturdy specimen to me. How went the battle today?”