“Well, I’m afraid he lied to you, madam.”
She slammed down the receiver, and Qwilleran chuckled. He was headed back to the kitchen when the phone rang again. This time he was sure it was Polly. “Good evening,” he said in the ultra-friendly voice that amused her.
“Is Ralph there?” came the same husky voice.
This time Qwilleran slammed down the receiver, not in anger but in pleasant anticipation of telling the story to Polly—when she called.
The banana was waiting for him—but not the peel. Where was the peel? He was sure he had left it on the kitchen counter!
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed something yellow on the floor. A strip of banana peel—with fang marks.
“You heathens!” he yelled. It was only a quarter of a total peel. Where was the rest of it? It could be dangerous underfoot! First he inspected all the hard surfaces: floor, tile, and flagstone. The Siamese were of no help at all. Ordinarily they would join the search, sniffing and scratching, but they were hiding, in evident guilt.
He looked in the wastebaskets, where Yum Yum usually deposited her loot. No banana peel. He walked up the ramp (carefully) to the three balconies. If he could find the cats, he thought, he could find the peel.
The search was interrupted by Polly’s call. “Am I calling too late?” she asked. “I just got home! We all had a wonderful time.”
Preoccupied with his own problem, Qwilleran listened inattentively. The gist of it was this: Dwight Somers of Somers & Beard, local public relations firm, had been retained by the K Fund to handle publicity for The Pirate’s Chest.
And prior to the press preview, Dwight had taken the entire staff to dinner at the Mackintosh Inn. That meant Polly, her assistant, three contingency aides in green smocks, and Alden Wade.
“We had a private dining room,” she went on. “Alden and Dwight kept up a nonsensical banter about Dundee, and the secret statue under cover in the park, rare books in the jelly cupboard, borrowing limousines from the funeral home to pick up the out-of-town press, and so forth.
“And what did you do today, dear?” Polly concluded.
“Nothing much,” he said.
“Thank you so much for the groceries, dear.”
“My pleasure. À bientôt.”
“À bientôt.”
The phone rang once more that evening, and a gruff male voice with a Scottish accent said, “Are you still serving drinks without a license?”
“Only to police chiefs. Come on over, Andy.”
Qwilleran set out Scotch, ice cubes, Squunk water, glasses, and a platter of cheese and crackers on the snack bar, then went to the barnyard to meet his guest.
Andrew Brodie was a towering Scot with a menacing swagger whether wearing a police uniform or a bagpiper’s kilt and bonnet. In mufti he still had an air of authority. The cats were waiting to greet him at the kitchen door. They knew that the big man with the loud voice always slipped them a morsel of cheddar or Gouda from the cheese platter.
Sitting at the snack bar, the two men poured their own drinks, and Andy said, “Still drinkin’ Squunk water? You’re gonna turn into a Squunk.”
“Better than turning into a casualty at the Black Creek bridge,” Qwilleran said. “Did Fran say anything about it?”
“Haven’t seen her. M’wife and two other daughters saw the show. They said it was good.”
“Do you know if Fran went out celebrating with the other actors after the matinee?”
“Nope.”
Qwilleran said, “The fellow who was killed had been coming down from Lockmaster for rehearsals, and he should have known about the tricky curve at the bridge.”
“They shouldn’t bring in outsiders for the Pickax shows,” Brodie said. “Y’never know what they’re up to. The medical examiner said the driver was on drugs. Drugs and alcohol—that’s murder! Larry and Carol don’t allow no drugs in the club. Their youngest kid was on drugs when he ran his car into the side of a moving freight train.”
“I’m shocked to hear about the medical report, Andy. I wonder if the Lanspeaks know?”
“They’ll have a fit when they find out. . . . Say, this is good cheese!”
SEVEN
Qwilleran walked downtown to file his Tuesday “Qwill Pen” column before the noon deadline and returned by way of Granny’s Sweet Shop. His recent ruminations about banana splits had given him the urge to try one for lunch. He reasoned that it would provide his banana for the day. And he was in a good mood when he returned to the apple barn in time to hear the phone ringing.
A man’s voice said, “Mr. Qwilleran? Mrs. Duncan gave me your phone number.”
“Don’t tell me! Let me guess! You’re Jack Worthing aka Ernest.”
“You have a good ear, sir.”
“You have a distinctive voice, sir. What can I do for you?”
“Mrs. Duncan has assigned me to start a literary club under the auspices of the bookstore, and she thinks you will have some input. Could you spare some time this afternoon?”
“Gladly! At the store? Or here?”
“With only two days to go before the press preview, things are a little hectic over here—”
“Then come to the barn. Do you know where it is?”
“Behind the theatre and through the woods?”
“Are you in the mood for coffee or a cold drink?”
“I think I’d like to try your infamous coffee.”
Without ever having met the man, Qwilleran liked the timbre of his voice and his economy with words. A few minutes later they were shaking hands in the barnyard and exchanging first names.
Alden gazed up at the lofty octagonal building. “This is beyond my wildest imaginings, Qwill. And you live here alone?”
“No, I live with two Siamese cats, who are the equivalent of a large family.” Glancing at his visitor’s briefcase, he added, “Shall we sit at the conference table?”
Papers were spread out and coffee was served at the dining table, hardly ever used for anything but small meetings and large cocktail parties, such as the famous cheese-tasting at which Koko went bananas and literally trashed the whole scene. The black-tie crowd who had paid three hundred dollars a ticket—for charity—never forgot it.
Alden said, “We have a list here of fifty persons who have shown an interest in a lit club, patterned after the one in Lockmaster.”
Glancing at the list, Qwilleran saw the names of the school superintendent, the president of the community college, two attorneys, doctors, retired academics, a professional astrologer, and artists. “What kind of programming do you propose?”
“Book reviews, lectures, discussions of preassigned books. The names on this list will be invited to attend a planning session. At this meeting everyone would like you to be our first speaker.”
“Hmmm . . .” Qwilleran mused. “Any suggested topic?”
“How about a profile of Eddington Smith, since you probably knew him better than any other customer.”
“How many hours can I have?” Qwilleran asked.
That settled, they went on to talk of other matters.
About Mrs. Duncan, as he called her with unnecessary formality: “A charming woman. Cultivated voice. Good executive.”
About Ronald Dickson: “Sad! Very sad! He had his theatre training in my class at the academy. He was a natural when it came to acting, but he lacked confidence. He thought popping pills would solve the problem. Not true! I don’t approve of amphetamines. There are techniques to be learned. But he wanted shortcuts. Poor Ronnie.”
Qwilleran said to his guest, “Have you found a satisfactory place to live?”
“The Hibbard House. Excellent accommodations. A good cook. Charming hostess. Congenial guests. One can always find four for bridge or a party for duck hunting. There’s a good library . . . and a music room with a Steinway.”
“Any pets?” Qwilleran asked.
“No personal pets. But Violet has a watchdog named Tasso that has won me over. I
n fact, I’ve asked her permission to take full responsibility for him. I’ve always had at least two dogs, and I miss them.”
“I know how you feel,” Qwilleran said, thinking about Koko and Yum Yum.
“There’s one strict rule. No smoking on the premises—anywhere. The house is over a hundred years old and built completely of wood. There are fire extinguishers everywhere, some disguised as art objects.”
Qwilleran said, “About the dog: Where does he hang out in this magnificent place?”
“He has a separate room, just off the kitchen, and his own screened porch. He’s an Italian breed, a Bracco, and one of the best gun dogs I’ve ever hunted with. You must come with us some weekend.”
“How did you find this choice place, Alden?”
“Violet Hibbard is on the ESP board, and Mrs. Compton introduced us.” There was much sympathy for the widower, and he happened to be a good-looking man with polished manners. It was common knowledge that there was a waiting list for accommodations. Lisa had apparently pulled strings.
By the time the polished guest left, he had lined up the first speaker for the literary club.
Only then did Qwilleran realize that the Siamese had not made an appearance while Alden was on the premises. Did they sense he was a dog person? Now they were walking with the stiff-legged gait and stiffened tails that denoted disapproval.
And yet the Siamese always welcomed Culvert McBee, the farmboy who lived on the back road, and he always had dogs. He sheltered old, unwanted dogs in a shed on the family farm, a hobby that his parents encouraged. So did Qwilleran, who maintained a Koko Fund to cover veterinary expenses. To raise money for dog food, Culvert sold small handcrafted items, his mother’s cookies, and fruit from their ancient pear tree, said to be older than Pickax. Pears ranked next to bananas on Qwilleran’s least-favored-fruit list, but they were welcomed by fellow staffers at the Something.
So it was not Alden Wade’s canine connection that turned off the Siamese. Was he wearing a scent discernible only to a cat’s sensitive nose? Did his lofty mode of speech offend their delicate ears? Yum Yum had not even made her usual stealthy search for something small and shiny to steal. Qwilleran’s puzzlement only increased his curiosity about the new man in town.
Altogether it was a busy afternoon at the apple barn: First, Alden Wade with stimulating news about the Hibbard House . . . then Culvert with another bag of pears . . . and finally Dwight Somers with news about Thursday’s press preview at The Pirate’s Chest. The publicist from Down Below had a knack for dramatizing events in the boondocks.
“Glass of wine?” Qwilleran offered him.
“Not this time, thanks. I have work to do tonight. But I’ll try a glass of that stuff you drink.”
They sat at the snack bar with Squunk water on the rocks, with a twist, and Dwight pulled papers from his briefcase: press releases for four separate news events.
Dwight said, “I’ll give you a quick rundown. TV and print media will arrive by chartered planes from four major cities; they like to report on bizarre happenings in remote areas. They’ll be met at the airport by limousines, and we’ll make sure they know they’re borrowed from the Dingleberry Funeral Home.
“The major event will be the ribbon cutting, with Mayor Amanda Goodwinter wearing her usual scarecrow clothing and putting on her usual bad-tempered act. There’s nothing diplomatic about Amanda. She says ribbon cutting is stupid and she’ll have none of it. The president of the city council will be there, and the fact that Scott Gippel weighs three hundred pounds won’t hurt a bit. Your attorney will represent the K Fund, and Polly will represent the bookstore.
“They may or may not want Polly to hold the bibliocat. In any case, Dundee is going to steal the show. He’s fearless, inquisitive, and persistent.
“Indoors, the pirate’s chest up on the wall will make a good shot, with people on the staircase looking up at it. The history of it will be covered in the releases.”
Dwight stopped for a slug of Squunk water and said, “Hey! This isn’t bad! Refreshing!” Then he continued. “Next, the Edd Smith Place. It’s unusual for a commercial bookstore to give a third of the building to pre-owned books, with proceeds going to charity. Hundreds of books have been donated, including some rare titles worth as much as five thousand. The releases will cover the quaint feldspar building that stood on the site for a century and a half until destroyed by an arsonist. Mention is made of Winston Churchill, the bibliocat who dusted the dusty old books with his plumed tail and miraculously escaped the fire.
“And that leads up to the final story: Winston Park—a walk-and-learn park with paths meandering among two dozen evergreens of the pine, spruce, cedar, hemlock, and holly families—all suitable for our northern climate. The focal point of the park is the mystery statue that will be unveiled for the cameras.”
Qwilleran said, “It makes me wish I were a reporter covering the story for The Daily Fluxion or Morning Rampage. How long will it take the crews to cover all the angles? And what about the ever-hungry press?”
“Glad you asked, Qwill. Lunch will be served in one of the public rooms of the bookstore, where there are tables and chairs. Lois’s Luncheonette will cater, with Lois herself joshing and bullying the media as she slices a turkey and a roast of beef and makes sandwiches on real bread. Her son, Lenny, will serve the apple pie and coffee. . . . Do you think we have a story, Qwill?”
When Qwilleran talked to Polly on the phone that evening, he said, “Dwight Somers dropped in to give me a rundown on the press preview. He’s a real pro! He told me everything except what’s hidden under the tarpaulin in the park.”
“That’s because he doesn’t know. I know, but I’m not going to tell you,” she said with evident satisfaction, knowing that he deplored unanswered questions.
“And what did you do today that’s not top secret?”
“Everyone’s been guessing about the statue. The consensus is that it’s a space capsule. . . . But wait till you hear about the decision I made today! I’ve created another position, assistant to Dundee! You see, one of our Green Smocks—Peggy, who’s moving into the Winston Park apartments—offered to come in seven days a week to take care of Dundee’s needs. Suddenly it occurred to me that someone has to buy cat food and litter and police his commode and feed him twice a day. Why not assign one of the Green Smocks to that responsibility?”
“Is she completely reliable?”
“Definitely! And she adores Dundee. What do you think of it, Qwill?”
“I’d like to apply for the position of assistant to Dundee’s assistant. What does it pay?”
EIGHT
Grudgingly, Qwilleran chomped his bowl of cereal and sliced bananas that morning, instead of the sweet, sticky bachelor breakfast that had formerly ushered in his days. He wondered whether he would experience any increased productivity or brilliant ideas or improved writing skills. He doubted it . . . although an idea struck him while chomping, and he considered its possibilities. He had recently written three books—a collection of local legends, a compilation of cat lore, and the text for a portfolio of Moose County photographs—all published by the K Fund. Now, how about . . . ?
He phoned the county historian at home. “Thorn, what do you know about the Hibbard Guest House?”
“I don’t know what it is now, but I know what it used to be. The Hibbards are one of those four-generation pioneer families, you know. Old fellow who built the house was illiterate but rich; his great-granddaughter is a professor of literature and, I presume, well off.”
“What do you know about the house he built?”
“He was an eccentric duck. He built the largest house—on the highest hill in the county—in the most unusual style, and he built it entirely of wood. He owned sawmills. The amazing thing is that it’s still standing! Why do you ask?”
“Do you think it would make a good book for the K Fund to publish?”
“I’m sure it’s full of ghosts, if you can interview them. And as an
example of nineteenth-century architecture, it’s certainly unique.”
The historian had said the magic word; in Qwilleran’s vocabulary, “unique” meant newsworthy.
Qwilleran said to him, “It seems to me, Thorn, that you’re one of those fourth-generation families—going on fifth.”
“Yeah, we’ve been thinking about rounding them all up for the Pickax sesquicentennial. But when we’ve got them rounded up, what do we do with them?”
“Good question,” Qwilleran agreed.
Upon returning to the kitchen to rinse his cereal bowl and tidy the counter, Qwilleran realized he had forgotten to put the banana peel under lock and key. Before he could go looking for it, the phone rang.
“Yes?” he barked into the mouthpiece.
“Qwill! You sound mad as a hornet! Want me to call back? This is Lisa.”
“Sorry. That’s what bananas do to me. I called earlier to see if Violet Hibbard will be in today.”
“From two o’clock on. She’s dying to meet you, Qwill.”
Both cats were probably guilty of the banana-peel misdemeanor; they failed to respond when he announced, “Your uncle George is coming!” The attorney was coming for another shot in the arm.
At the dining table, Allen Barter opened his briefcase and reported on the Winston Park apartments, a property of the K Fund. All units had been rented, and tenants were moving in.
When it was Qwilleran’s turn to report, he broached the idea of a book on the historic Hibbard House, said to be unique. “It’s one of the oldest houses in the county. The K Fund should publish it before it burns down.”
“Is that the big house on the hill?” the attorney asked. “I pass the gate on my way downtown.”
“It’s one of those four-generation families. I’m meeting with the last remaining Hibbard this afternoon. She’s a retired professor; her great-grandfather—who amassed the fortune and built the house—was illiterate. I have yet to see the house, but I’m sure there are plenty of photo possibilities for John Bushland, and enough folktales to make a good text.”
The Cat Who Went Bananas Page 5
