The Grub-And-Stakers Quilt a Bee by Charlotte MacLeod, Alisa Craig Page B

go home and embroider a gown for Lady Ermintrude.” Arethusa scooped the quilt pieces back into the box, stuck it under her arm, and left.

CHAPTER 11
    “She’s gone loco,” said Osbert. “I knew all that garter-stapping would catch up with her sooner or later.”
    Dittany kissed the tip of his nose. “Darling, why don’t you go rustle another yak while I call Minerva?”
    ‘Tes, darling. That worker bee had one red whisker.”
    “How nice. I hope Arethusa doesn’t put those quilt pieces down some place and forget where. We’ve got to get started on that quilt while people are still feeling sympathetic. I’d better find out if Minerva wants me to-oh, is that you, Zilla? Where’s your buddy?
    Well, holler out and tell her to leave the weeding for another day.
    She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s giving a tea. No, just the trustees.
    You, me, Hazel, Therese, and Arethusa. And Mrs. Fairfield, of course. Should I whomp up a batch of-oh, they have? Yes, naturally they would.”
    She turned to Osbert. “Zilla says everybody’s been bringing cakes and things. What, Zilla? No, the tea was Arethusa’s idea and I must say I think it’s a good thing to do. No, of course Mrs. Fairfield isn’t prostrated. She was over at the museum throwing her weight around all morning, and now she’s at the parsonage eating shrimp wiggle. Look, here’s the drill. When she gets back to Minerva’s, make her lie down for a while. Then you and Minerva escort her to the funeral parlor. Visiting hours are two to four, then seven to nine. Get her back to the house as soon after four as you can make it. Some of us will be over there early to fix the tea. Right. Over and out.”
    She hung up. “There, that’s settled. Now I’ll give Hazel and Therese a buzz.”
    “Just a second, darling,” said Osbert. “I’ve been thinking. Dave Munson said he saw that woman in the purple dress sometime during the middle of the afternoon, didn’t he? Three o’clock or thereabout.”
    ‘Tes, I think so.”
    “And what time was it when you and Mrs. Fairfield came downstairs?”
    “Around a quarter to five, I know the Munson boys were gone by then. Darling, I see what you’re getting at. If that woman wasn’t messing around down cellar all that time in her good dress, what the heck was she doing?”
    She and Osbert stared at each other for a moment, then Osbert said, “I think I’ll step around to the station.”
    “Yes, why don’t you? See if Mrs. Mac Vicar’s come up with any word on the dress.”
    Dittany suspected the solution to that particular enigma lay in the end-of-summer markdowns. She herself hadn’t been around to the sales. She’d been too busy at the museum, and she had a closetful of gorgeous new clothes anyway, now that Osbert had found something to spend his money on. But it simply wasn’t possible none of her friends had seized the chance to pick up a bargain or two. Even the home sewers would have joined in the hunt, because they’d all been too busy running up school clothes for their kids or curtains for the museum to make anything new for themselves. In truth, Dittany would have gone herself, sudden affluence or no, if she’d had the time. There was still the thrill of the chase. She gave a moment’s wistful thought to clearances of yesteryear, then got at the dishes.
    These done, she began wiping around with a sponge. Next thing Dittany knew, she was housecleaning full tilt. Theoretically, Mrs.
    Poppy now came every week instead of only twice a month as in the pre-Osbert period. What it boiled down to, however, was that Mrs. Poppy thought up twice as many reasons why she couldn’t come at all. So things did tend to pile up. Dittany refused to admit to herself that Mrs. Fairfield’s snide crack had been the propellant for this burst of domesticity, but she knew such fits didn’t take her often and it was well to make the best of them when they came.
    Besides, cleaning was good therapy. By the time she wrung