in that interview, and was perhaps fortunate to have come out at all. Nute was cute all right. Clever as a rat, putting on an act designed to make one think he couldn’t possibly be so rotten as he made himself appear, when in fact he was no doubt a lot worse.
Canute Lumpkin was the sort to run a dirty-tricks campaign with enthusiasm and panache. He had his pipeline to the Horsefall farm via Fergy’s friendship with Spurge. He had a grudge against the old pair for wrecking his plan to get custody of his cousin and the Lumpkin inheritance. He was wily enough to have started with minor nuisances that would brand Henny an old crank for lodging complaints with the police, and gradually step them up to the point where he could do real damage without much interference.
In his “I’m only concerned for my cousin’s welfare” role, he’d have an excuse to ask Fergy details of Spurge’s work on the farm. Fergy might easily have mentioned that Henny had been after Spurge to wash out the spreader, and Nute could have guessed how his cousin would react to the novelty of bubbling quicklime. If he got killed, fine. If he didn’t, Nute would have a lovely reason to sue the Horsefalls for custody and damages. Since they had nothing but their property to pay him off with, he’d wind up with the Horsefall farm in his pudgy pink hands. After that, he’d no doubt be more than willing to bargain with Loretta Fescue and her eager client. A few years from now, these rich acres would be covered with blacktop and supermarkets, like as not. If there could be a worse crime than murder in Shandy’s book, that would have to be it.
Chapter 6
I T WAS JUST ABOUT five o’clock now, too late to drop in at Town Hall. Too bad. Shandy would have liked to get some specific information about the Lumpkin estate. Chances were, though, that the Horsefalls would have some idea of what Nute now stood to inherit. Anyway he had to go back there and collect Tim, unless Roy and Laurie had already done so.
As he headed out from Lumpkin Center, Shandy happened to spot a curlicued sign outside a modestly built but considerably gussied-up frame house that said: “Loretta Fescue, Realtor.” He stopped and rang the bell but nobody answered. He scowled at a plastic gnome that was supposed to be pushing a toy wheelbarrow full of salmon-pink geraniums and got back into the car.
At the Horsefall place, Tim, Henny, and Miss Hilda were all sitting out on the porch in rush-seated rockers, looking down in the mouth. His coming was obviously a welcome diversion.
“Hi, Pete,” Tim called before Shandy was out of the car. “Glad you came. Laurie phoned a while back to see if I needed a lift. I said I’d go home with you.”
“Land’s sakes, don’t leave yet awhile,” Miss Hilda fussed. “That’s the trouble with you young things, always jumpin’ around like peas on a hot griddle. Let Professor Shandy catch ’is breath, can’t you? I’ll fix us a bite o’ supper soon as I get my legs back under me. Havin’ that Goulson man come an’ cart poor Spurge away was kind of a facer, I have to admit.”
Henny shook his head. “I know, Aunt Hilda. Couldn’t hardly believe it happened till then. Cripes, when I think of—here, Professor, haul up a chair an’ set. We’ll be eatin’ pretty soon, I guess maybe.”
“Please don’t bother fixing anything for me,” said Shandy. “My wife will be expecting me.”
“How long you been married?” Miss Hilda wanted to know.
“Since January twenty-first.”
“You mean this past January? Took your time about it, didn’t you?”
“Not really. I didn’t meet her till the week after Christmas.”
“Mph. Widow lookin’ for a meal ticket, was she?”
“No. Neither of us had been married before and my wife is quite capable of earning her own living. She has a doctorate in library science.”
“Then what in tarnation did she want to bother ’erself with a husband for?”
“She—er—claims to be
Canute Lumpkin was the sort to run a dirty-tricks campaign with enthusiasm and panache. He had his pipeline to the Horsefall farm via Fergy’s friendship with Spurge. He had a grudge against the old pair for wrecking his plan to get custody of his cousin and the Lumpkin inheritance. He was wily enough to have started with minor nuisances that would brand Henny an old crank for lodging complaints with the police, and gradually step them up to the point where he could do real damage without much interference.
In his “I’m only concerned for my cousin’s welfare” role, he’d have an excuse to ask Fergy details of Spurge’s work on the farm. Fergy might easily have mentioned that Henny had been after Spurge to wash out the spreader, and Nute could have guessed how his cousin would react to the novelty of bubbling quicklime. If he got killed, fine. If he didn’t, Nute would have a lovely reason to sue the Horsefalls for custody and damages. Since they had nothing but their property to pay him off with, he’d wind up with the Horsefall farm in his pudgy pink hands. After that, he’d no doubt be more than willing to bargain with Loretta Fescue and her eager client. A few years from now, these rich acres would be covered with blacktop and supermarkets, like as not. If there could be a worse crime than murder in Shandy’s book, that would have to be it.
Chapter 6
I T WAS JUST ABOUT five o’clock now, too late to drop in at Town Hall. Too bad. Shandy would have liked to get some specific information about the Lumpkin estate. Chances were, though, that the Horsefalls would have some idea of what Nute now stood to inherit. Anyway he had to go back there and collect Tim, unless Roy and Laurie had already done so.
As he headed out from Lumpkin Center, Shandy happened to spot a curlicued sign outside a modestly built but considerably gussied-up frame house that said: “Loretta Fescue, Realtor.” He stopped and rang the bell but nobody answered. He scowled at a plastic gnome that was supposed to be pushing a toy wheelbarrow full of salmon-pink geraniums and got back into the car.
At the Horsefall place, Tim, Henny, and Miss Hilda were all sitting out on the porch in rush-seated rockers, looking down in the mouth. His coming was obviously a welcome diversion.
“Hi, Pete,” Tim called before Shandy was out of the car. “Glad you came. Laurie phoned a while back to see if I needed a lift. I said I’d go home with you.”
“Land’s sakes, don’t leave yet awhile,” Miss Hilda fussed. “That’s the trouble with you young things, always jumpin’ around like peas on a hot griddle. Let Professor Shandy catch ’is breath, can’t you? I’ll fix us a bite o’ supper soon as I get my legs back under me. Havin’ that Goulson man come an’ cart poor Spurge away was kind of a facer, I have to admit.”
Henny shook his head. “I know, Aunt Hilda. Couldn’t hardly believe it happened till then. Cripes, when I think of—here, Professor, haul up a chair an’ set. We’ll be eatin’ pretty soon, I guess maybe.”
“Please don’t bother fixing anything for me,” said Shandy. “My wife will be expecting me.”
“How long you been married?” Miss Hilda wanted to know.
“Since January twenty-first.”
“You mean this past January? Took your time about it, didn’t you?”
“Not really. I didn’t meet her till the week after Christmas.”
“Mph. Widow lookin’ for a meal ticket, was she?”
“No. Neither of us had been married before and my wife is quite capable of earning her own living. She has a doctorate in library science.”
“Then what in tarnation did she want to bother ’erself with a husband for?”
“She—er—claims to be
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