Read Online Something the Cat Dragged In by Charlotte MacLeod - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
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were loud in their disappointment. The trustees hadn’t even thought of appealing to the citizenry for help because it was a fundamental tenet laid down by Balaclava Buggins himself on that long-ago founding day that Balaclava Agricultural College wasn’t never going to ask nothing from nobody, but that didn’t prevent the aforesaid citizens themselves from volunteering.
And volunteer they had. As soon as the word got around, a group of concerned neighbors, or so they’d described themselves, had clubbed together to form the Silo Supporters. Since the college was doing so much for the farmers, they clamored, it was no more than right the county should do something for the college. They’d seemed a well-meaning though somewhat bumble-headed lot. Even so, Shandy remembered, Thorkjeld Svenson had demurred until the Board of Trustees had decided what the hell, this bunch would never raise the price of a binful of concrete anyway and they might as well be given free rein.
So the Silo Supporters, spearheaded by fluffy little Ruth Smuth, had started holding bake sales, barn sales, plant sales, book sales, all the different kinds of sales by which well-meaning volunteers raise a few hundred dollars, if they’re lucky, for a worthy cause.
At first it had been rather touching and mildly amusing to watch the self-appointed do-gooders out on the lawns and commons peddling their homemade zucchini bread and hand-embroidered needle books. Shandy himself had contributed flats of seedlings and pots of geraniums to the plant sale. Every faculty family had cleaned out its attic, donated an armload of books, done something or other to further the cause, merely to show appreciation and not because they really expected anything to come of the project.
But then, by George, the money had started piling up. Those amateurish little fund-raising events were bringing in sums that left everybody gasping, notably Ruth Smuth and the Silo Supporters. Serendipity ran rampant. For instance, some family moving out of town contributed a pile of stuff to a rummage sale. Most of it was junk, but among the heap were a pair of genuine Chippendale side tables. The donors had left no forwarding address and in the general confusion nobody could exactly recall who they were. There really hadn’t been a thing the sellers could do except regard the tables as manna from heaven and price them accordingly.
That was no doubt the time somebody should have begun to smell a rat. Instead, the alleged windfall had served to turn enthusiasm into euphoria. After that, all Balaclava County was silo-happy. Ruth Smuth was everywhere, getting her picture plastered all over the Fane and Pennon as she tacked up yet another poster, sold yet another loaf of zucchini bread, or paid yet another tribute to the marvelous, fabulous, just too utterly darling folk of Balaclava.
Jemima Ames had, to be sure, taken a dark view. Along with everybody else, Shandy had at the time put her waspish utterances down to pique at the fact that she herself hadn’t been quick enough to grasp the reins of command. To make a long story short, the college had got its money, got its silo, and was now getting the shaft. And how in thunderation was Peter Shandy going to bail out Thorkjeld Svenson and defuse Ruth Smuth?
Chapter Seven
T HEY FINISHED THEIR MEAL and dispersed; Helen to observe developments with regard to Dr. Porble’s stiff upper lip, Peter to keep his appointment with Harry Goulson. He phoned down first to make sure Ottermole and Melchett would be on deck as scheduled, found they were even then closing in on the funeral parlor, and turned to Svenson.
“Care to come to the private viewing?”
“Ungh,” said Svenson, so they went. On the way down, Shandy filled the president in on what he and Mrs. Lomax had found out so far. Svenson listened without so much as a grunt until he’d run out of things to tell, then nodded.
“Files. Had ’em.”
Shandy was used to interpreting his
And volunteer they had. As soon as the word got around, a group of concerned neighbors, or so they’d described themselves, had clubbed together to form the Silo Supporters. Since the college was doing so much for the farmers, they clamored, it was no more than right the county should do something for the college. They’d seemed a well-meaning though somewhat bumble-headed lot. Even so, Shandy remembered, Thorkjeld Svenson had demurred until the Board of Trustees had decided what the hell, this bunch would never raise the price of a binful of concrete anyway and they might as well be given free rein.
So the Silo Supporters, spearheaded by fluffy little Ruth Smuth, had started holding bake sales, barn sales, plant sales, book sales, all the different kinds of sales by which well-meaning volunteers raise a few hundred dollars, if they’re lucky, for a worthy cause.
At first it had been rather touching and mildly amusing to watch the self-appointed do-gooders out on the lawns and commons peddling their homemade zucchini bread and hand-embroidered needle books. Shandy himself had contributed flats of seedlings and pots of geraniums to the plant sale. Every faculty family had cleaned out its attic, donated an armload of books, done something or other to further the cause, merely to show appreciation and not because they really expected anything to come of the project.
But then, by George, the money had started piling up. Those amateurish little fund-raising events were bringing in sums that left everybody gasping, notably Ruth Smuth and the Silo Supporters. Serendipity ran rampant. For instance, some family moving out of town contributed a pile of stuff to a rummage sale. Most of it was junk, but among the heap were a pair of genuine Chippendale side tables. The donors had left no forwarding address and in the general confusion nobody could exactly recall who they were. There really hadn’t been a thing the sellers could do except regard the tables as manna from heaven and price them accordingly.
That was no doubt the time somebody should have begun to smell a rat. Instead, the alleged windfall had served to turn enthusiasm into euphoria. After that, all Balaclava County was silo-happy. Ruth Smuth was everywhere, getting her picture plastered all over the Fane and Pennon as she tacked up yet another poster, sold yet another loaf of zucchini bread, or paid yet another tribute to the marvelous, fabulous, just too utterly darling folk of Balaclava.
Jemima Ames had, to be sure, taken a dark view. Along with everybody else, Shandy had at the time put her waspish utterances down to pique at the fact that she herself hadn’t been quick enough to grasp the reins of command. To make a long story short, the college had got its money, got its silo, and was now getting the shaft. And how in thunderation was Peter Shandy going to bail out Thorkjeld Svenson and defuse Ruth Smuth?
Chapter Seven
T HEY FINISHED THEIR MEAL and dispersed; Helen to observe developments with regard to Dr. Porble’s stiff upper lip, Peter to keep his appointment with Harry Goulson. He phoned down first to make sure Ottermole and Melchett would be on deck as scheduled, found they were even then closing in on the funeral parlor, and turned to Svenson.
“Care to come to the private viewing?”
“Ungh,” said Svenson, so they went. On the way down, Shandy filled the president in on what he and Mrs. Lomax had found out so far. Svenson listened without so much as a grunt until he’d run out of things to tell, then nodded.
“Files. Had ’em.”
Shandy was used to interpreting his
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