"He has no sense of humor," Qwilleran said, lowering his voice, "and that 'frumpy woman' happens to be Mrs. Cobb, the housekeeper of my choice, whose apricot-almond crescents you're wolfing down."
"I'm sorry, but you have to admit she's frumpy," Hixie whispered.
"Not any frumpier than a certain advertising woman I used to know Down Below."
"Touché," she said. "Why don't you come to the Mill for lunch today?"
"What's the special?"
"Chili. Bring your own fire extinguisher."
Shortly before noon Qwilleran had another visitor. Nick Bamba, husband of his part-time secretary in Mooseville, dropped off a batch of letters to be signed. Nick was greeted effusively by two sniffing Siamese, who seemed to know that he shared living quarters with three cats and a person whose long braids were tied with dangling ribbons. The two men went into the library followed by two vertical brown tails, stiff with importance.
"Time for a drink?" Qwilleran asked. He welcomed the visits of the sharp-eyed young engineer who worked at the state prison and shared his interest in crime. "How's everything at the incarceration facility?"
"Quiet enough to have me worried," Nick said. "Make it bourbon. How do you like this weather?"
"It reached six below in Brrr the other night."
"Windchill factor was thirty-five below."
"How's the baby?" Qwilleran could never remember the name or sex of the Bamba offspring.
"He's fine. He's a good baby, and healthy, thank God!"
"That's good to know. Did you take Snuffles to the vet?"
"He says it's some kind of dermatitis that affects spayed cats. She's taking hormones now."
"I appreciated your report on the trespasser, Nick. I notified the sheriff as you suggested."
"I see you've got your property posted now."
"Mr. O'Dell hurried up there and covered all the bases: no trespassing, no hunting, no camping."
"He's a terrific guy," Nick said. "When I was in high school he bailed me out of some hairy scrapes."
"Anything new in Mooseville?"
"There's never anything new in Mooseville. But... you know that camper I spotted on your property last week? It was unusual for this area — sort of citified. Three shades of brown. Custom job. Since then I've seen it several times in the parking lot at the Old Stone Mill, back near the kitchen door. Just for the hell of it, I did a rundown on the plates. It's registered to someone by the name of Hixie Rice."
After Nick had left, Qwilleran reflected that Hixie was hardly the outdoor type; he had never seen her in heels lower than three inches.
He went to lunch early and ordered his bowl of chili. "Did Koko get over his snit?" Hixie asked.
"Apparently. As soon as you walked out the door, he gobbled the pork liver cupcake... Incidentally, who owns that good-looking camper on the parking lot?"
Hixie looked vague. “The brown one? Oh, it belongs to one of our cooks. Her husband works in Mooseville and has to commute sixty miles a day, so he drives their small car, and she drives the gas-guzzler to work."
What was she hiding? Qwilleran recalled that Hixie had always been a glib liar, though not necessarily a successful one, and she always managed to get involved with a certain fringe element in the romance department. What else had she invented? The invisible chef? His cookbook? His sick mother in Philadelphia?
11
Wednesday, November twentieth. When the telephone rang at six in the morning, Qwilleran knew it would by Harry Noyton. Who else would have the nerve or insensitivity to call at that hour? He managed a sleepy hello and heard an unbearably cheerful voice say, "Rise and shine! Gonna sleep all day? How about inviting me over for one of those he-man breakfasts?"
"Do you expect me to get the housekeeper out of bed in the middle of the night?" Qwilleran grumbled.
"I'm coming over there anyway. Want to talk to you. I'll grab a taxi and be there in five minutes."
"There are no taxis, Harry. You can walk. It's only three blocks."
"I haven't walked three blocks since they let me out of the infantry!"
"Try it! It's good for you. Don't go to the main house; come to my apartment over the garage."
Qwilleran pulled on some clothes and opened a closet door that concealed a mini kitchen. A mini sink produced instant boiling water for his culinary specialty, instant coffee. A mini microwave thawed breakfast rolls taken from a mini freezer.
In no time at all Noyton bounded up the stairs. "Is this where you live? I like this modem stuff better than the junk in the big house. Hey, this is a sexy sofa! Do you bring girls up here?"
Qwilleran was always grumpy before his morning coffee. "This is where I work, Harry. I'm writing a book."
"No jive! What's it about?"
"You'll have to wait and buy a copy when it's published."
"I like you newspaper guys," said Noyton with buoyant good humor. "You're independent! That's why I go for this idea of owning a paper. This neck of the woods is waiting for something to happen. There's a lot of money up here! People own their own planes, three or four cars, forty-foot boats, sable coats! You should see the rocks on the women at the country club!"
"You're looking at inherited wealth," Qwilleran said. "There's also poverty and unemployment, and too many kids aren't going to college. A newspaper with guts could stir up some civic consciousness and promote job training and job opportunities and scholarships. The Klingenschoen Fund can't do it alone — and shouldn't do it alone!"
"Dammit! You've got it all figured out. That's what I like about you newspaper guys."
Qwilleran placed mugs of coffee and a plate of Mrs. Cobb's cinnamon rolls on the travertine card table. "Pull up a chair, Harry. How do you like the hotel? Are you comfortable?"
"Hell, they gave me the bridal suite with a round bed and pink satin sheets!"
"What luck with your conferences yesterday?"
"No hitch! Everything's sewed up! That Goodwinter gal doesn't know what hit her! I wrote six-figure checks on three different banks for the rights to the Picayune name and the old printing equipment."
"How did you work it?"
“The mayor took us all to lunch at the club — her and the economic development guys — private conference room. It was upbeat all the way. When it was over, she was calling me Harry and I was calling her Gritty. My lawyers called her lawyer, her banker called my bankers, and we both had a deal. The city's behind it a hundred percent. It'll create jobs. We get a building tax-free for ten years. The paper can be job-printed until the plant is set up."
"What will happen to the old burned-out building?"
“The city's condemning it and paying her off. They'll resell it for a minimall. The county commissioners got in the act, too. The county will go fifty-fifty on a newspaper museum near Mooseville. Tourist attraction, you know... , Hey, these are damn good rolls!"
"What was XYZ Enterprises doing all the time you were outbidding them and buttering up the widow?"
"XYZ never had anything on paper. It was all hanky-panky with Gritty. So she wasn't obligated to do business with those robbers. If a poor widow can get three-quarters of a million instead of some piddling five-digit figure, who's going to take her to court?"
Qwilleran thought, The news won't go down well with Exbridge. She'll have to move out of Indian Village in a hurry. The news will be allover town by now.
Noyton was wound up and talking nonstop. "Some of the commissioners drove me around to see the lay of the land, and — hey, you faker! — they didn't say a word about rutting bucks coming through the windshield! I like Mooseville. Everything's built of logs. I'd like to build a hotel there. The town's ripe for a highrise. We could build it of poured concrete logs. How does that grab you?"
"Harry, you have no taste. Leave the design to the architects."
"Hell, it's my money! I tell the architects what to design."
"Well, when the newspaper is launched, don't try to tell the editors how to edit."
> Noyton's face took on a confidential smirk. "Gritty rode with us to Mooseville, and we sat in the back seat and developed a little — what do you call it?"
"Rapport."
"Then she took me to dinner at the place with the wheel that rattles and creaks. I told them to give me an oilcan and a screwdriver, and I'd go out and fix the damn thing. But we had a good time, Qwill, and I mean a go-o-od time. We ended up in my suite at the hotel with a bottle of hooch. She didn't want to go home to where she's been living, so I made a little arrangement at the hotel. Couldn't let those pink sheets go to waste. She's my kind of woman, Qwill — with spunk and a little shape to her figure. Remember Natalie? My life was never the same after I lost Natalie. And do you know what? Gritty goes for me in a big way! I'm taking her to Hawaii for a little holiday. I've got some business down there. Nothing big. Just condos."
"You'd better get out of here before snow flies," Qwilleran said, "and before Exbridge comes after you with a shotgun. He just got a divorce because of Gritty."
"I'm not afraid of Exbridge," Noyton said. "I've handled smarter suckers than him... Oh, by the way, I talked to your editor friend — found him down in Texas — and he's hot for it. Then Gritty took me to the hospital to meet Junior, and he went into orbit!"
Qwilleran said, "Find out if Gritty knows anything about a small fireproof box that disappeared in the Picayune fire. No one knows what it contains, but Junior thinks it's important. It could be buried in the rubble."
"No problem! We'll get a crew over there and start sifting. And did I tell you I made an offer for the Pickax Hotel? We'll get a good decorator up here from Down Below and change the name to Noyton House."
"Don't do it that way. Use a local designer and keep the old name. Do you want these good people to think they're being invaded? The trick is to fit in, not take over."
"Okay, General. Yes sir. General. Sure you don't want to go on my payroll?"
"No, thanks."
"Now I've got to get out of here. Thanks for the coffee. I've tasted better, but it was sure strong! I've got a few loose ends to tie up before I leave for the airport. I've ,chartered a plane to Minneapolis."
"Need a ride to the airport?"
Noyton shook his head and looked smug. "Gritty's driving me, but do me a favor, will you? She'll leave her car keys at the terminal desk with Charlie. Somebody should pick it up before snow flies. She won't be needing it. She's not coming back till spring."
Noyton had just gone thumping down the stairs in his new boots when Junior telephoned. "Want to hear some news?"
"Good or bad?"
"Both. The deal for the Picayune is finalized. The money's in the bank. Arch Riker is on his way up here. I'm getting out of the hospital today. I've shaved off my beard, and Grandma Gage is going to Florida, so I'm housesitting till she comes back."
"What's the bad news?"
"Jody's mad at me. I don't know what's wrong with her. All of a sudden she says I don't listen to her and I ignore her when other people are around."
"You'll have to start thinking from her viewpoint as well as your own if you two are going to get married," Qwilleran said. "I speak from sad experience. You don't know how much she worries about you. She worried about you when your father died, when you were fighting the Picayune fire, when you missed out at the Fluxion, and when you went out in the woods."
There was a pause, then, "Maybe you're right, Qwill."
At eight o'clock Qwilleran tuned in the morning weather report: "Storm warnings in effect for all of Moose County... Repeat: Storm warnings in effect."
Mrs. Cobb buzzed him on the intercom. "Are you interested in breakfast, Mr. Q?"
"Not this morning, thanks, but I want to talk with you before you leave for the auction."
He put the Siamese in the wicker hamper, and the three of them crossed the yard to the main house.
"Did you hear the weather report?" Mrs. Cobb said. "It sounds like the Big One. I hope it holds off until after the auction. Susan Exbridge is picking me up at ten o'clock. Herb told me not to buy anything, but you know how I am at auctions!"
"How was the preview?"
“They have some wonderful things, and I saw the farmhouse for the first time. I can hardly wait to get my hands on it. We solved our problem; Herb is going to have one wing of the house for smoking and guns and stuffed moose heads and all that. Are you going to the auction?"
"I might drop in for a while to see the action. When's the best time to go?"
"Not too early. They put up box lots in the morning and hold the good things till later. They'll have a lunch wagon around noon. Don't forget to dress warm, and don't wear your best clothes, Mr. Q."
After Mrs. Cobb had bustled off in great excitement Qwilleran loitered around the house until he could stand the suspense no longer. Who would be at the auction? What were they buying? How high were the prices? What were people talking about? What were they serving at the lunch wagon? Wearing his lumberjack coat, woodsman's hat, and duck boots, he headed for Black Creek Lane in North Middle Hummock.
The country roads were unusually heavy with traffic. Cars, vans, and pickups were heading north, and a few were returning, loaded. Half a mile from the farmhouse he began to see vehicles parked on both sides of the road. He pulled in where a pickup was pulling out and walked the rest of the way. Auction-goers were trudging to their cars lugging floor lamps and rocking chairs. One woman was carrying a fern stand made of bent twigs.
"I don't care, honey," she said to her frowning spouse. "I simply wanted something that belonged to a Goodwinter, even if it was only an old toothbrush."
Parked in the front yard was a moving van labeled Foxy Fred's Bid-a-Bit Auctions. Customers shuffled through rustling leaves, examining rows of household furnishings: blankets, bicycles, small appliances, glassware, laundry equipment, garden tools. Large pieces of furniture were still in the farmhouse; everything else was jammed into a large pole barn where the bidding was in full swing.
Foxy Fred, wearing a western hat and red down jacket, was on the platform, haranguing a hundred or more bidders who were packed in shoulder-to-shoulder. "Here's a genuwine old barn lantern complete with wick. Who'll gimme five? ... Five? ... Gimme four... Dollar bill over there. Gimme two. Gimme two... Two I got. Gimme three. Do I see three? Three! No money! Wanna four, wanna four, wanna four."
In order to bid, customers were picking up numbered flashcards from a red-jacketed woman who was entering sales in a ledger and collecting money. Qwilleran had no intention of bidding, but he picked up a card anyway. It was number 124.
"Look up! Look up!" the auctioneer called out. Porters in red Bid-a-Bit windbreakers were hoisting an upholstered chair high over their heads for audience inspection.
Bidding was slow, however. The customers were either bored or stifled by blasts of heat from portable electric heaters. Suddenly Foxy Fred jolted them to attention. After only two bids he allowed a ladder-back rocker to go for an outrageously low price. The audience protested.
"If you don't like it, wake up and bid!" he scolded them.
Qwilleran ambled out of the bam and found Mrs. Cobb and Susan Exbridge at the lunch wagon. "How's the food?" he asked.
"It's not exactly Old Stone Mill," said Mrs. Exbridge, "but it's good. Try the bratwurst. It's homemade."
"The new chef at the Mill has made a big difference," Qwilleran said. "Has anyone met him?"
"I've seen him in the parking lot at Indian Village," she said. "He's tall, blond, and very good-looking, but he seems rather shy."
Mrs. Cobb said, "You'll never guess what I bought! A handmade cherry cradle! I'm expecting my first grandchild soon."
"Are the out-of-state dealers bidding things up?" Qwilleran asked her.
"They're hanging back, waiting for the good items, but there's a lot of them here. I can always spot a dealer. They're sort of shrewd-looking but laid-back. See that short man with his hands in his pockets? See the woman with a fuzzy brown hat? They're dealers. The man in
the shearling coat — I think he's security. He isn't bidding. He isn't even listening. He's just watching people."
Before turning to look, Qwilleran had a hunch it would be the stranger who claimed to be a historian. The man was wandering aimlessly through the crowd.
At that moment there was a general movement toward the barn, as if on signal. Inside the building the chatter was loud and excited as the porters started to bring out the heavy artillery.
"Look up! Look up!" the auctioneer shouted in a voice that cut through the hubbub. "Victorian rococo chair, genuwine Belter, I think — part of a parlor suite — two chairs and a settee. Upholstered in black horsehair. Good condition. Who'll gimme two thousand for the set? Two thousand to start. Two thousand, anyone?"
A flash card was raised.
"HEP!" shouted a porter, who doubled as spotter.
"Two thousand I got. Gimme twenty-five gimme twenty-five gimme twenty-five. Waddala waddala waddala ..."
"HEP!"
"Twenty-five! Gimme thirty.”
"HEP!”
"Thirty! Gimme forty. Waddala waddala bidda waddala bidda bidda waddala ..."
"HEP!"
The excitement was mounting. It was like the last half of the ninth inning with the score tied, two out, and the bases loaded, Qwilleran thought. It was like third down on the two-yard line with a minute to play.
When the furniture was finally knocked down for a figure that he considered astronomical, the audience deflated with groans and sighs.
Someone tugged at his sleeve, and a woman's voice said, "How come you didn't bid on that one, Qwill?"
"Hixie! I didn't know you liked auctions!"
"I don't, but my customers have been talking about this one, so I sneaked away when the lunch crowd thinned out."
"Quiet back there!" shouted Foxy Fred, and Qwilleran took Hixie' s arm and steered her outside and across the yard to the farmhouse.
"The good stuff is in here," he said, picking up a catalogue. Among the large items still in the house were two General Grant beds, a parlor organ, a breakfront twelve feet wide, a large pine hutch, a black walnut sideboard with matching table, and a ponderous rolltop desk. "This desk is the only thing I'd be tempted to bid on," Qwilleran told Hixie.
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