He asked, “Was there more than one subject of conversation to whittle it down, or was it all...”
“No. It was all about the one thing. What can you do, Doctor?”
“Well, first we’ll have to get at the cause.”
“That isn’t going to be easy, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t forget I have great powers. I might have him arrested as a vagrant.”
“He’ll get out again. He says no one has ever been able to keep a Wiggins in.”
Duryea laughed. “Perhaps a thirty-day recess might help a lot. What are you doing?”
“Cooking dinner, my love. Remember, the maid’s having two days off this week.”
“Oh, yes... Where’s the source of your leg trouble?”
“Out in his trailer right at present. He’s been a busy little man all day. You know something, Frank?”
“What?”
“According to rumor, Gramps Wiggins is the very, very, very black sheep of the family. Wine, women, and song; and anything he lacks along musical lines, he’s made up in the other two.”
“Well?”
She said, “I thought a quart of whiskey and a bottle of cocktails might get him completely blotto in case you don’t feel like talking a lot of shop. Then we could go see that movie. I’ve even gone so far as to purchase the requisite liquid refreshments from my housekeeping allowance. I’ve budgeted ’em under ‘Medical Necessities.’ ”
“Well,” Duryea said gravely, “we might get Gramps in here and try some of the medicine. If he doesn’t pass out, we might take him to the movies with us.”
She said, “Not Gramps. He’s picked out a mystery movie he thinks you should see. He’s absolutely and utterly steeped in mystery. He makes dark, cryptic remarks and grim forecasts. I’ll bet he’s sleeping with a gun under his pillow.”
“Is he getting on your nerves, babe?”
“Heavens, no,” she said, laughing. “I don’t mind him, but you married me and not my family.”
He asked, “Where is that bottle of cocktails?”
She produced it, and Duryea drew the cork. “Let’s get him in for a toast to crime,” he said.
Gramps Wiggins’ voice, shrill and high-pitched, sounded from the doorway. “Don’t need to call me when you’re pullin’ the cork on a bottle, son. Some sort of a psychic sense brings me ’round right at what they call the psychological moment. Of course, I ain’t absolutely perfect. Here an’ there in the last sixty-eight years I reckon I’ve missed an occasional drink, but it’s been few and far between.”
Duryea poured out the cocktails into a shaker filled with cracked ice, then into three glasses. They touched rims. “Here’s to crime,” Duryea said.
Gramps Wiggins’ eyes danced. “Bigger an’ better crimes!” He pulled a blackened pipe from his pocket, pushed tobacco down in it, lit a match, and filled the kitchen with a thick, pungent smoke. “Son,” he said, “about those murders...”
“Have a refill on that cocktail,” Milred said quickly.
“Don’t care if I do.”
Duryea poured the cocktail, and Gramps Wiggins tossed it off with a quick, all-but-casual gesture. “Now, son, about them murders...”
“Gramps,” Milred interrupted, “you could help put some of the things on the table.”
“Okay, what do I do?”
“Split open those baked potatoes, put a couple of squares of butter in each one. Sprinkle on some paprika, and get the pad on the table for the steak platter. This steak is going to be sizzling when it comes out of the broiler.”
“Okay,” Gramps said. “Where are the potatoes?”
“Coming right up,” she said, opening the oven door, and bringing out a pan, which held three large baked potatoes. “Use these pot-lifters, Gramps, and you won’t burn your fingers. Just push the ends in so you break them a little, and...”
Gramps said indignantly, “Think I don’t know how to bust an’ butter a potato?”
He picked up the pot-lifters, grasped the potatoes by the ends, pushed them together, and, as cracks opened in the top, inserted squares of butter. “Now, son,” he said, “about these here murders...”
Milred looked at her husband. “I surrender. I’ve done every darn thing I can.”
Frank laughed. “Go ahead, Gramps. What about the murders?”
“Been scoutin’ around a little bit,” Gramps Wiggins said with that close-lipped, nervous, high-pitched voice which was so characteristic of him. “Been doin’ quite a little scoutin’, talkin’ around with different people. S’prizin’ how much you can learn just by sittin’ around an’ visitin’ with people.”
Duryea, sipping his cocktail, said, “I guess that’s right.”
Milred said. “Lots of elbow room, please. Here comes the steak.” She opened the door of the broiler, slid out a three-inch loin steak done to a delicious brown. “Gramps, pick up that hot platter on top of the stove. Hold it with the pot-lifters down here where I can slide the steak on it... There, that’s fine... Now, let’s have that butter.”
Gramps Wiggins looked at the steak with the eye of a connoisseur. “Chop just a little bit of garlic into some olive oil and pour it on while she’s cooking,” he said. “Gives it a nice flavor. Then there’s a way of packing it in moist salt. The salt bakes into a crust, an’ you break it right off when the steak’s done. That way you seal in the juices an’...”
Milred said, “Yes, I know. There are lots of different ways of cooking steaks, but I like my way the best.”
“What’s your way?” Gramps asked.
“It’s a secret.”
Wiggins helped with the steak, then turned back to Duryea, casually picking up his empty cocktail glass from the kitchen table as he did so. He held the glass in his right hand, making little gestures with it. “Well, let’s get back to them there murders. Like I said, you learn a lot talkin’ with...”
“Gramps’ glass is empty,” Milred said. “Remember, it’s out of household money and budgeted as medicine.”
Duryea refilled all three glasses.
Milred held up the glass and announced, “I don’t know what this is going to do to me.”
“This!” Gramps Wiggins exclaimed in surprise. “Why, this is just sort of a tonic. You can’t drink enough of this to get any effect. Dry Martini, ain’t it? Thought so. Ain’t no particular strength to ’em, just a good flavor. Well, son, like I was sayin’ about these here murders...”
Milred said, “Come on, let’s get dinner on the table. You men go in and sit down.”
Wiggins tossed off his third cocktail, said, “Like I was sayin’, I just poked around a little bit today, foolin’ around down there on the beach, talkin’ with people, askin’ questions. Well, I met a family, name o’ Tucker — mighty nice people — out here from the interior, spendin’ four or five days, stayin’ out at an auto camp. Awful nice chap, Tucker. Works in the oil wells, but he an’ old John Barleycorn go to the mat once in a while in a big wrestlin’ match. The companies don’t like that. They’ve sorta laid him off, an’ the finance company was lookin’ for his automobile. So he decided to take his wife an’ go on a little vacation. Registered under an assumed name on that account, but he’s all right, awfully nice fellow.”
Milred said parenthetically to her husband, “Whenever Gramps gives anyone the endorsement of being a mighty fine chap, you can rest assured he’s either been in jail, is hiding from the sheriff, or is a confirmed drinker. Perhaps it’s all three.”
Wiggins looked sternly at her over the tops of his steel-rimmed glasses. “Now, don’t go puttin’ on airs, Milred. You’re a mighty nice girl, sort o’ took after the Wiggins’ side of the family. Mighty good thing you did, too. Your father resembled his mother a lot, only he was a lot more pantywaist than his mother ever thought o’ bein’. You’re a Wiggins. Don’t go spoilin’ it now. Havin’ a little trouble ain’t nothin’ to hold up against a man. Now this here Tucker...”