Read Online The Grub-and-Stakers Spin a Yarn by Charlotte MacLeod - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
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father was a doctor and my mother used to help him in the office quite a lot, so she was glad to let Granny take over the kitchen. Not that we didn’t have a hired girl to wash the pots and pans,” Mrs. MacVicar added, not out of vulgar ostentation, but because she knew what was expected of a doctor’s daughter and a police chief’s wife. “But how pleasant to meet you, Cousin Matilda, as I suppose I may as well call you. My own given name is Margaret.”
“That doesn’t surprise me a bit,” said Mother Matilda. “Granny’s middle name was Margaret. I declare, here I was feeling lorn and bereft, and it turns out I’m among family. You know, Margaret, I wonder whether you and I mightn’t work out a written recipe and start considering the commercial possibilities of Granny’s cullen skink? Not right now, of course. First we’ve got to get this awful business about the mincemeat recipe straightened out, then I’ve got to take a few days off so’s I can sit around and feel awful about poor Charles. I’m going to bawl like a baby once I get the chance, but first things first, as Granny used to say.”
Mother Matilda laid her serviette back on the tray and straightened her spine. “Margaret, what’s your husband’s first name?”
“It’s Donald,” Mrs. Mac Vicar replied with a slight hesitation and a sideward glance at the gentleman in question.
“Good. Now then, Cousin Donald, let’s get down to business. I might as well tell you first as last that I have no more confidence in that fatuous old hairpin who calls himself Lammergen’s police chief than I’d have in that doorpost over there. Less, in fact. The doorpost at least seems to be doing its job competently enough, which is a darn sight more than you can say about Fridwell Slapp. What I’m getting at is, I want you to be the one in charge of this awful business.”
“Umph,” Sergeant MacVicar replied, “that may not be possible, Cousin Matilda.”
“I declare, isn’t that just like a man? Always wanting to make things complicated when a relative asks a perfectly simple favor.”
“The law is the law,” Sergeant MacVicar sternly reminded his newly acquired cousin-in-law. “I can and will investigate that portion of the ootrage which has been committed within the purlieus of Lobelia Falls, but I have no jurisdiction to enter yon mincemeat factory, wherein I misdoubt will be found the most vital clues to the identities of the perpetrators.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” snapped Mother Matilda. “Sit on my hands and watch eighty-seven years’ worth of dedication to the ultimate in gourmet mincemeat production trickle away down the drain? Not to mention letting the wicked assassination of the sweetest, dearest VP Nutmeg who ever trod this earth go unavenged?”
“ ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’ ” Sergeant MacVicar reminded her.
“Aye, verily,” she shot back. “And the Lord helps those who get down to work and help themselves find out who’s helping themselves to my granny’s mincemeat recipe. For Pete’s sake, Donald, quit being so cussed Scotch and consider my position. Those crooks have already snaffled the cider, the lemon peel, the suet, the currants, and presumably the nutmeg. Mark my words, first thing you know, they’ll be after the cloves and the cinnamon. By the time they get to the raisins, I’ll be tottering on the brink of a hostile takeover.”
“Yes, but—”
Sergeant MacVicar might as well have tried to stem Victoria Falls. “And they’ll do it,” Mother Matilda rushed on, “if there’s nobody between them and me but that old poop Fridwell Slapp. Where’s your Highland clan spirit, man? How can you refuse a simple favor to your own good wife’s second cousin? Or maybe her third, but what’s the difference? Do you want to go through the rest of your life choking on every spoonful of cullen skink that crosses your lips, remembering how you betrayed the blessed memory of that
“That doesn’t surprise me a bit,” said Mother Matilda. “Granny’s middle name was Margaret. I declare, here I was feeling lorn and bereft, and it turns out I’m among family. You know, Margaret, I wonder whether you and I mightn’t work out a written recipe and start considering the commercial possibilities of Granny’s cullen skink? Not right now, of course. First we’ve got to get this awful business about the mincemeat recipe straightened out, then I’ve got to take a few days off so’s I can sit around and feel awful about poor Charles. I’m going to bawl like a baby once I get the chance, but first things first, as Granny used to say.”
Mother Matilda laid her serviette back on the tray and straightened her spine. “Margaret, what’s your husband’s first name?”
“It’s Donald,” Mrs. Mac Vicar replied with a slight hesitation and a sideward glance at the gentleman in question.
“Good. Now then, Cousin Donald, let’s get down to business. I might as well tell you first as last that I have no more confidence in that fatuous old hairpin who calls himself Lammergen’s police chief than I’d have in that doorpost over there. Less, in fact. The doorpost at least seems to be doing its job competently enough, which is a darn sight more than you can say about Fridwell Slapp. What I’m getting at is, I want you to be the one in charge of this awful business.”
“Umph,” Sergeant MacVicar replied, “that may not be possible, Cousin Matilda.”
“I declare, isn’t that just like a man? Always wanting to make things complicated when a relative asks a perfectly simple favor.”
“The law is the law,” Sergeant MacVicar sternly reminded his newly acquired cousin-in-law. “I can and will investigate that portion of the ootrage which has been committed within the purlieus of Lobelia Falls, but I have no jurisdiction to enter yon mincemeat factory, wherein I misdoubt will be found the most vital clues to the identities of the perpetrators.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” snapped Mother Matilda. “Sit on my hands and watch eighty-seven years’ worth of dedication to the ultimate in gourmet mincemeat production trickle away down the drain? Not to mention letting the wicked assassination of the sweetest, dearest VP Nutmeg who ever trod this earth go unavenged?”
“ ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’ ” Sergeant MacVicar reminded her.
“Aye, verily,” she shot back. “And the Lord helps those who get down to work and help themselves find out who’s helping themselves to my granny’s mincemeat recipe. For Pete’s sake, Donald, quit being so cussed Scotch and consider my position. Those crooks have already snaffled the cider, the lemon peel, the suet, the currants, and presumably the nutmeg. Mark my words, first thing you know, they’ll be after the cloves and the cinnamon. By the time they get to the raisins, I’ll be tottering on the brink of a hostile takeover.”
“Yes, but—”
Sergeant MacVicar might as well have tried to stem Victoria Falls. “And they’ll do it,” Mother Matilda rushed on, “if there’s nobody between them and me but that old poop Fridwell Slapp. Where’s your Highland clan spirit, man? How can you refuse a simple favor to your own good wife’s second cousin? Or maybe her third, but what’s the difference? Do you want to go through the rest of your life choking on every spoonful of cullen skink that crosses your lips, remembering how you betrayed the blessed memory of that
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