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Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
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saintly woman who taught Margaret’s grandmother how to make it?”
“Donald,” pleaded his wife, “surely there’s something you can do. Great-granny-in-law really must have been a lovely woman.”
Much affected by this pathetic tableau, Dittany turned to Osbert. In turn, Osbert turned to Dittany. Both of them then turned to Sergeant MacVicar. It was Osbert who spoke.
“Not to be pushy or anything, Chief, but Dittany and I are wondering whether you might consider the fact that she and I aren’t officially members of the Lobelia Falls police force. That means we’re not bound by the same regulations as you and Bob and Ray and Ormerod, so I don’t see any real reason why we couldn’t do a little nosing around over in Lammergen and report back here to you. I might get myself taken on at the mincemeat factory as an apple corer or a salt shaker or something. Dittany could bring me my dinner pail at noontime and stop to chat in a friendly way with the choppers and peelers. Nobody’s going to suspect a sweet young mother-to-be of being an infiltrator.”
“There now,” cried Mother Matilda, “that’s using your head for something besides a hat rack. The only trouble with your idea, Osbert, is that we have a cafeteria where all the employees eat. They don’t go outside at all; so there’s no way she’d get to meet any of them. It’s not that we’re mean to them, it’s on account of sanitary regulations. You have to be real fussy around food, you know. Every employee has to get washed up soon as they come in, just like hospital workers, and put on a clean uniform which doesn’t get taken off till they leave for the day.”
She turned to her cousin. “You’d like the uniforms, Margaret. The women have real pretty Mother Hubbards in different-colored ginghams depending on what department they work in: red for apples, yellow for lemon peel, purple for raisins, green for citron, and so forth. They wear elasticized mobcaps with cute little ruffles all around to cover their hair so’s it won’t get into the mincemeat. Hair in mincemeat was one thing Granny never stood for and neither will I.”
“But what about the men?” said Mrs. MacVicar.
“The men have plain cotton duck trousers—red or green or whatever, with checkered tops sort of like a loose jacket that buttons up to a high collar like a chef’s uniform. They wear caps, too, only without ruffles. Not that they couldn’t have ruffles if they took the notion, mind you. We don’t practice sex discrimination unless we catch ’em out on top of the cinnamon bags doing what has no place in a well-run mincemeat factory, which I regret to say has been known to happen. But anyway, once they’re dressed for work, we can’t let ’em go roaming the roads and getting all unhygienic, as you must surely realize.”
“Oh yes,” said Dittany, “we understand perfectly. And it’s not as though there were much to go out for in Lammergen, anyway.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mother Matilda a shade huffily. “We do have a dentist, and a real nice feed store. If somebody’s got an appointment or something we make an exception, but the general rule is once you’re in, you’re in for the day. So that lets you out, I’m afraid, Dittany. I couldn’t possibly take you on as hired help because it wouldn’t make sense to hire somebody in your present condition. The employees would get to wondering, which of course is what we want to avoid because there’s talk enough already, and heaven only knows what they’ll be saying once word about poor Charles gets around.”
She paused to dab her eyes, men ruthlessly dragged herself back to business. “So it looks as though Osbert will just have to go it alone, if he’s game to try and can get the time off from work. What do you do, sonny?”
“I’m a writer,” Osbert replied modestly.
“I meant for a living.”
“That’s what I do. I write Western stories.”
“And get paid for
“Donald,” pleaded his wife, “surely there’s something you can do. Great-granny-in-law really must have been a lovely woman.”
Much affected by this pathetic tableau, Dittany turned to Osbert. In turn, Osbert turned to Dittany. Both of them then turned to Sergeant MacVicar. It was Osbert who spoke.
“Not to be pushy or anything, Chief, but Dittany and I are wondering whether you might consider the fact that she and I aren’t officially members of the Lobelia Falls police force. That means we’re not bound by the same regulations as you and Bob and Ray and Ormerod, so I don’t see any real reason why we couldn’t do a little nosing around over in Lammergen and report back here to you. I might get myself taken on at the mincemeat factory as an apple corer or a salt shaker or something. Dittany could bring me my dinner pail at noontime and stop to chat in a friendly way with the choppers and peelers. Nobody’s going to suspect a sweet young mother-to-be of being an infiltrator.”
“There now,” cried Mother Matilda, “that’s using your head for something besides a hat rack. The only trouble with your idea, Osbert, is that we have a cafeteria where all the employees eat. They don’t go outside at all; so there’s no way she’d get to meet any of them. It’s not that we’re mean to them, it’s on account of sanitary regulations. You have to be real fussy around food, you know. Every employee has to get washed up soon as they come in, just like hospital workers, and put on a clean uniform which doesn’t get taken off till they leave for the day.”
She turned to her cousin. “You’d like the uniforms, Margaret. The women have real pretty Mother Hubbards in different-colored ginghams depending on what department they work in: red for apples, yellow for lemon peel, purple for raisins, green for citron, and so forth. They wear elasticized mobcaps with cute little ruffles all around to cover their hair so’s it won’t get into the mincemeat. Hair in mincemeat was one thing Granny never stood for and neither will I.”
“But what about the men?” said Mrs. MacVicar.
“The men have plain cotton duck trousers—red or green or whatever, with checkered tops sort of like a loose jacket that buttons up to a high collar like a chef’s uniform. They wear caps, too, only without ruffles. Not that they couldn’t have ruffles if they took the notion, mind you. We don’t practice sex discrimination unless we catch ’em out on top of the cinnamon bags doing what has no place in a well-run mincemeat factory, which I regret to say has been known to happen. But anyway, once they’re dressed for work, we can’t let ’em go roaming the roads and getting all unhygienic, as you must surely realize.”
“Oh yes,” said Dittany, “we understand perfectly. And it’s not as though there were much to go out for in Lammergen, anyway.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mother Matilda a shade huffily. “We do have a dentist, and a real nice feed store. If somebody’s got an appointment or something we make an exception, but the general rule is once you’re in, you’re in for the day. So that lets you out, I’m afraid, Dittany. I couldn’t possibly take you on as hired help because it wouldn’t make sense to hire somebody in your present condition. The employees would get to wondering, which of course is what we want to avoid because there’s talk enough already, and heaven only knows what they’ll be saying once word about poor Charles gets around.”
She paused to dab her eyes, men ruthlessly dragged herself back to business. “So it looks as though Osbert will just have to go it alone, if he’s game to try and can get the time off from work. What do you do, sonny?”
“I’m a writer,” Osbert replied modestly.
“I meant for a living.”
“That’s what I do. I write Western stories.”
“And get paid for
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