HESTER SAT cross-legged on the floor in an attitude of intent thinking. On the floor in front of her, the object of her observation, was a box of Mother Murphy’s Quick-Cooking Oats. It was, to be precise, the same box that she had dosed with cyanide peanuts and had later hooked from Crump’s kitchen. There appeared to be nothing sufficiently unusual about the box to justify Hester’s dedicated attention, and anyone, after examining it, would have sworn that it was perfectly normal. Anyone, that is, who was unaware of its contents. To Hester, however, there was one glaring discrepancy, in the light of what had happened, that refuted her earlier conclusions and opened up some speculations that were interesting to say the least. It was this discrepancy that engaged her attention and incited her mind. In brief, as she had observed when she first laid hands on it in the commission of a petty felony, the box had not been opened.
The direct and immediate inference from this was clear. Mrs. Crump, struck down in an instant over a teacup, may have been the victim of a defective liver, as Quinn had suspected, but she had not died of cyanide in her oatmeal. Uncle Homer and Hester had simply been misled by the coincidence of her eating an oatmeal cooky at the time, which was a natural mistake, and one that almost anyone would have made in the same circumstances. It was quite a relief to be exonerated of any guilt in the matter, even though Mrs. Crump’s death had acutally been considered no more than an accident at worst. The police, Hester supposed, could be unreasonable about such things whether they were intended or not.
But why had the box not been opened? Surely oatmeal, if bought at all, was bought to use, and Mrs. Crump had surely bought it. Moreover, she had bought it for a specific and urgent purpose; namely, as an essential ingredient in Senorita Fogarty’s diet of oatmeal and sex. Even allowing that Senorita had made a sudden and remarkable recovery, it seemed reasonable to assume that Mrs. Crump would have put her on the diet anyhow, at least for the duration of Mother Murphy’s Oats, to help prevent a recurrance of Senorita’s malady if for nothing else. As anyone knew, it was an established fact that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. In addition, at least a moiety of the diet must have been followed as prescribed, for Crump, on the afternoon of the same day that Mrs. Crump bought the oatmeal, had bought the stud. Would oats have been abandoned and sex retained? Well, maybe. Sex, of course, was a bit more than a curative for what ailed you. It was also the technique of procreation, with the result, in Senorita’s case, of beginning an interminable series of litters that would indefinitely prolong the exclusion of the family from the fruits of Grandfather’s will.
And what, by the way, had become of the stud? Lester had seen him in a cage when he was carried home from the kennel by Crump, but no one, to Hester’s knowledge, had seen him since. Junior swore that he had never laid eyes on him during all his afternoons of espionage, but this in itself was far from conclusive testimony, for Junior had clearly spent most of the time napping. What was more significant was the fact that she, Hester, had never seen him in the little park with Crump in the mornings. It did seem, when you stopped to consider it, that Crump would have given the stud a turn once in a while, or would even have let him join Senorita as a special treat. Decorum was well enough in its place, but it was hardly sensible to impose it too rigorously upon Chihuahuas. Anyhow, Crump’s moral disintegration after the abrupt departure of Mrs. Crump did nothing to support the theory that he wished to avoid a public display of passion. Hester was prepared to testify that public opinion meant little to Crump these days.
What meant something to Crump, in Hester’s private opinion, was the garden house. Although Junior was far too much of a dunce to realize it, Crump’s reaction to finding a spy stationed there had been excessively violent. One could accept his resentment, and even understand his ordering Junior off the property, but how could one explain the threat to run Junior through with a spiral dog stake, to say nothing of calling him a young son of a bitch? That was certainly extreme, and it aroused suspicion. After all, Junior was almost completely impotent between the ears, and his mere presence in the garden house, however annoying, did not justify such an unrestrained uproar.
Implications were all over the place, and Hester, being clever, had thought and thought about them. Now, however, the time for thinking was past, and it was high time, if ever it would be, for aggressive action. Indeed, she hoped that it was not too late. Things had been happening too fast and too erratically for comfort, that was all. Mrs. Crump was dead, old Brewster was dead, and Flo, in spite of her optimism, was halfway to jail. Yes, there was no doubt about it. Sense and order must be given to events that, up to now, had seemed disorderly and senseless. It was time to do instead of think, and Hester, who always knew what time it was, had already started doing.
It was almost midnight, and Hester, wearing a sweater and slacks and flats, was expecting callers. Perhaps it was extravagant to call them callers, only Lester and Junior, but she had drafted them into service as being more help than none, and here they were right now, apparently, for her bell was ringing.
She let them in, noting with some relief that they were dressed, according to instructions, in dark sweaters and pants. Experience had made her skeptical of their ability to follow even the most simple and essential orders.
“Well, here you are,” she said. “Did you bring the crow bar and the shovel?”
“Yes, we did,” said Lester. “They’re downstairs in the MG, and I don’t mind saying that they make it damn crowded. Are you sure that they’re necessary?”
“I’ll decide what’s necessary and what isn’t, if you don’t mind. We had better be on our way without delay, for it’s almost midnight.”
“Where are we going?” Junior said.
“You’ll find out.”
“What are we going to do?”
“You’ll know when we get there.”
“Damn it, Hester,” said Lester, “why do you have to be so mysterious about everything? I agree with Junior that it would be much more comfortable if we knew where we are going and what we are going to do when we get there.”
“No, thank you,” Hester said. “I’ve had quite enough of confiding in people who seem to have a positive genius for ruining things at the last moment.”
“At least,” said Junior, “you could give us a drink before we leave.”
“There’s no time for drinks. Junior, can’t you do anything at all without having a drink first? You’re getting as bad as Uncle Homer. By the way, are Uncle Homer and Aunt Madge waiting for us at Mother’s, as I requested?”
“Oh, they’re there, all right, and they’re wondering why. Uncle Homer was threatening to come along with us, but we slipped off without him.”
“Good. Uncle Homer would be a handicap at best. Now we simply must go. There’s someone we have to meet at midnight.”
“Who?”
“Lester, will you please stop asking questions? If I had wanted you to know who, I’d have told you who.”
“Well, regardless of what you want or don’t want, I’m not going an inch anywhere until I know who we are going to meet at midnight.”
“Oh, all right. I suppose that it can’t do any harm for you to know now. We are going to meet Lieutenant Bones.”
“Lieutenant Bones! Hester, are you sure you know what you are doing? I can’t think of a single good reason for meeting Lieutenant Bones at midnight or any other time.”
“Neither can I,” Junior said. “Why are we?”
“Because,” said Hester, “I want an official witness to what, I am convinced, will shortly be discovered.”