“Hear! Hear!” was the response from the audience.
The somber accountant said, “This is an expensive flag. We couldn’t afford to replace it with anything of like quality in today’s market.”
Scowling over her glasses, Amanda Goodwinter added, “It would have to be custom-made. This flag is one-hundred percent virgin wool, lined with silk—very unusual. The stripes are individually stitched, and the stars are embroidered on the blue field. It was ordered through my studio.”
“Don’t forget the gold fringe,” piped up a tremulous voice from the end of the table. “You don’t see many flags with gold fringe.” The speaker was an old man so small that he virtually disappeared behind the council table.
A councilman of enormous girth, who occupied two armless chairs placed side by side, said, “Looks to me like the flag’s got some moth holes in it.”
“The holes could be darned,” said the elderly woman sweetly. “I would do it myself if my eyesight were better.”
“Darning is ridiculous,” said Amanda with her usual bluntness. “Professional reweaving—that’s what you need. But we’d have to send it Down Below, and we wouldn’t get it back for two months.”
“It should be sprayed with something,” the little old man suggested helpfully.
Again the overweight councilman spoke up. “All that reweaving and all that spraying, and you’ve still got a flag with forty-eight stars. You’re not facing up to the issue as stated by Mr. Hackpole.”
Three of his peers glared at him, and Mr. Cooper said, “I, for one, am opposed to the purchase of a costly flag to satisfy a single taxpayer. It’s not in the budget.”
A lively discussion ensued.
“We wouldn’t have to buy an expensive one.”
“Who needs embroidered stars?”
“Yes, but would a cheap flag project the image we want for the city of Pickax?”
“To heck with image!”
“Why not embroider two more stars on the flag we have? I would be glad to undertake it myself if my eyesight—”
“Where do you think you’d put them? On a red stripe? That would look god-awful!” This was Amanda’s comment.
“It would not be legal.”
“We’d be defacing the flag of the United States.”
“Why not get an ordinary printed flag? It doesn’t have to be as fancy as this one.”
“That solution doesn’t eliminate the affront to the donor, rest her soul.” This was the elderly councilwoman.
“Then buy a fancy one with gold fringe and send the bill to Hawaii and Alaska. They’re the ones with all the money.”
There were cheers from the audience.
Mayor Blythe wielded the gavel “We have a four-horned dilemma here. We can keep the present flag and offend Mr. Hackpole. We can replace it and offend the memory of the original donor. We can buy a cheap substitute and sully the city’s image. Or we can buy an expensive flag with funds that might better be applied to the new municipal parking lot. I would entertain a motion to table this issue and proceed with further business, assuring Mr. Hackpole that his objection will be given due consideration.” The flag issue was tabled; the forty-eight stars and thirteen stripes were saluted by all except Mr. Hackpole, and the council applied its brainpower to more important matters: barking dogs, the watering of the downtown flowerboxes, and a request from the waterbed store for permission to install a Cuddle Room in which prospective customers might test the product.
At the conclusion of the business meeting the mayor said, “Before we adjourn I would like to introduce a distinguished guest and new resident of Pickax—Mr. James Qwilleran.”
The benevolent heir to the Klingenschoen fortune—impressively tall and hefty and moustached—rose and bowed graciously. He was greeted by applause and cheers, but no whistles, this being Pickax.
“Mr. Mayor, members of the council, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “it is a pleasure to join a community imbued with such sensitive concern, cogent awareness, and vigilant sense of responsibility. I have listened with rapt attention to the flag discussion, and I should like to propose a solution. First I suggest that you preserve the present flag as a memorial to the donor and as a historic artifact, mounting it on the wall under glass. Second, I urge you to accept my gift of a new custom-made, all-wool, silk-lined, floor-standing flag with hand-stitched stripes, embroidered stars, and gold fringe, to be ordered through Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design.”
The cheers were vociferous, and the demonstration ended with a standing ovation. Qwilleran raised his hand for silence. “You are all aware of the historic Klingenschoen mansion on the Circle. It is my intention that it will eventually be donated to the city of Pickax as a museum.” More cheers. “Meanwhile, its priceless treasures are being preserved professionally by our new house manager, who will function as conservator, registrar, and curator of the collection. She is an authority with impeccable credentials, who comes to us from Down Below. May I present Iris Cobb? Mrs. Cobb, will you please stand?”
Mrs. Cobb’s eyes glistened more brightly than the rhinestones on her glasses as she took her bow. And when the meeting adjourned, Penelope said in slightly crisp tones, “Indeed, Mr. Qwilleran, you were a wellspring of surprises this evening.”
She drove them home but declined to join them in a celebratory nightcap. “My brother is waiting for me at the office,” she explained. “We are pleading a case in court tomorrow, and there are momentous decisions to make before we call it a day.”
Mrs. Cobb also excused herself. “You’ll think I’m silly, Mr. Qwilleran, but I want to have a good cry. If only my husband was alive and could hear the applause tonight and see me taking a bow! And your wonderful introduction! It was all so—so thrilling!” She ran upstairs.
Qwilleran went to the library to gaze in panic at the growing pyramid of mail on his desk. Fearing that his gift of a flag would result in even more saccharine letters of commendation, he telephoned the Mooseville postmistress at her home. Her husband answered.
“Hi, Nick. How’s everything in Mooseville?”
“Perfect temperature, Qwill, but we need rain. I saw you out biking the other day. Where’d you get that relic?”
“It could use a paint job,” Qwilleran admitted, “but it works. I like biking. It gives me time to think. What I don’t like is a dog barking at my heels.”
“They’re not allowed to run loose in this county. You could make a complaint to the police. That’s a violation.”
“Well, I always bellow a few choice words, and so far I haven’t lost a foot. How’s Lori? Is she still working?”
“Not for long,” Nick said. “She’s put in her resignation.” ’
“She wrote to me about part-time secretarial work.”
“Sure thing. I’ll put her on.”
A vivacious Lori came on the line. “Hello, Qwill. Did you get my letter?”
Immediately Koko was on his desk, nudging the phone and trying to bite the cord. He knew who was on the other end of the line. Qwilleran pushed him away.
“I did indeed, Lori, and there are two bushels of letters here, waiting for you. If Nick wants to pick them up, you can answer them at home.”
“Super!”
“You’re an expert typist, and your machine is much better than mine.”
“Thank you. Nick gave me an electronic for my birthday. I really wanted some little diamond earrings, but he’s so practical. An engineer, you know.”
“I also want to ask a question, Lori, since you’re so knowledgeable about cats.” Qwilleran was fighting for possession of the phone. “Koko likes to sit on the grand staircase, but only on the third stair. How do you explain that behavior?” He gave Koko another shove.
Lori said, “Cats leave their individual scent wherever they go, and they like to return to the same spot. It’s like their private territory.”
“Hmmm,” Qwilleran mused. “Perhaps you’re right.”
It was still only ten-thirt
y, and he was finishing a letter to the Pickax Thespians, declining their invitation to play the role of Teddy in Arsenic and Old Lace, when he heard a snatch of music.
From the drawing room came three distinct notes: E, D, C. Koko was playing the piano again. At least, Qwilleran presumed it was Koko at the keyboard, although he had never actually witnessed the cat pressing the keys. No doubt Mrs. Cobb would attribute the performance to the resident ghost.
Going to investigate, he found Koko ambling around the drawing room with conspicuous nonchalance. Qwilleran picked him up and plunked him without ceremony on the piano bench. “Now let’s hear you play something.”
Koko said, “ik ik ik,” in a pleasant voice and rolled over to lick his nether parts.
“Don’t be modest. Show me what you can do.” Qwilleran set the cat back on his four feet and then guided one paw to the keyboard. Twisting like a pretzel, Koko squirmed out of the man’s grasp, jumped to the floor, and walked away with stiff-legged hauteur, returning to his perch on the third stair.
Was it coincidence that the notes coming from the piano had been the opening phrase of “Three Blind Mice”? Qwilleran felt the familiar tickle on his upper lip. There was some significance, he felt, to the number three. Three-base hit . . . three-dollar bill . . . three sheets to the wind . . . the three Weird Sisters . . . three-mile limit. Clues eluded him completely.
The next morning Qwilleran was having his third cup of coffee when Amanda Goodwinter arrived unexpectedly, giving the doorbell her three impatient rings.
She barged into the vestibule, wearing an unkempt khaki suit and canvas golf hat, with wisps of hair escaping from underneath the brim. “Came to see if my painter is loafing on the job,” she announced.
Qwilleran marveled that Penelope could look so sleek in a suit and Amanda could look so frumpy—the sleeves too long, one shoulder drooping, and the blouse collar half-in and half-out.
“What’s that infernal racket?” she demanded.
“Birch Tree is doing some repairs for us,” Qwilleran said. “Excuse me a moment. I have something to give you.” From a locked drawer in the library desk he brought an ivory elephant. “I think this belongs to you.”
“Where the devil did you find this?” She turned the carving over to verify the label.
“Among Daisy Mull’s belongings. I was cleaning out the attic.”
“It must be six years since this disappeared from the studio,” the designer said. “Daisy was working for me then, but it was an election year, and I thought some sneaky Republican made off with it.” She handed the carving back to Qwilleran. “Here! It’s yours. It’s a good one—old—can’t import them anymore.”
“No! No! It’s your property, Amanda.”
“Shut up and keep it,” she barked at him. “I’ve already taken a loss on the books. What did you think of the meeting last night?”
“It was refreshing to hear public servants speaking English. No prioritizing. No impacticizing. No decontextualizing.”
“Your speech was a corker—all that bosh about vigilant awareness and cogent concern. It gave me a bellyache, but they fell for it.”
“By the way, who’s Mr. Hackpole?” Qwilleran asked.
“He gives everybody a bellyache. Always throwing a monkey wrench in the works. Steer clear of Hackpole. He’s bad news.”
“The overweight councilman seemed to side with him in the flag dispute.”
“That’s Scott Gippel—scared to death of Hackpole. They’re next-door neighbors. Hackpole never pulled a shotgun on anybody yet, but he can get gol-durned mad if somebody steps on his grass or complains about his dogs.”
“What’s his problem?”
“Wife ran off with a beer-truck driver, and he went bonkers. Didn’t affect his financial savvy, though. He sells used cars. Sharp operator! . . . Well, let’s go and look at the paint job. You ought to keep this back door locked. Bloody tourist season, you know. Town’s full of creeps, stoned to the gills. They broke into Dr. Hal’s office. Took drugs and needles.”
As they approached the garage Qwilleran said, “Look at this big wardrobe. I thought it was junk, but Mrs. Cobb says it’s a Pennsylvania schrank and highly collectible.”
Amanda snorted. “Looks like junk to me.”
“Well, I’d like your porters to move it into the house when they have time. I’d like to put it just outside the library.”
“Arrgh!” she growled. Puffing and grunting, she climbed the stairs to inspect the apartment under renovation. After threatening to fire Steve if he didn’t show some signs of life, she had another incredulous look at Daisy’s murals and then said to Qwilleran, “Walk me to my car.”
As they walked down the driveway under ancient maple trees, Qwilleran remarked about the glorious weather.
“Wait till you’ve spent a winter here, mister!” Then she added, “Got some advice for you. Watch your step in Pickax. The town likes to gossip. Somebody’s always listening. Seems like the whole town’s bugged. Wouldn’t be surprised if they bugged the flowerboxes on Main Street. I don’t trust our mayor either. Nice fella, but I don’t trust him as far as I can spit. So keep your eyes and ears open, and don’t say anything you don’t want repeated.”
“At the coffee shop, you mean?”
“Or at the country club. Or on the church steps.”
Amanda climbed into the driver’s seat with some awkward maneuvering of knees, elbows, and hips. She gunned the motor and her car shot down the driveway, stopped short with squealing tires, and backed up. “And watch out for my cousins! Don’t be fooled by the phony Goodwinter charm.”
She took off again, barreling recklessly into the traffic flow around the Circle.
Qwilleran was baffled. Pickax was full of Goodwinters, and they were all cousins. There was nothing phony about Melinda. He liked her humor—sometimes cynical, usually irreverent. She had just returned from Paris, and he had made a date with her, anticipating a relaxing evening of conversation, if not more. Melinda had been aggressively seductive from the beginning.
“Is that good or bad?” he said aloud when he returned to the house to feed the cats. “What would you guys like for breakfast? Veal Oscar? Coq au vin? Shrimp deJonghe?” He diced some of Mrs. Cobb’s pot roast and arranged it on a Royal Worcester plate with pan juices, a little grated carrot, and a sprinkling of hard-cooked egg yolks. “Voilà,” he said.
Both cats attacked the meal with gusto, carefully avoiding the grated carrot.
His next visitor was Tiffany Trotter, the same wholesome, robust country girl who had interviewed for the job of housekeeper. This time they talked in the library to avoid the noise of Birch’s hammering and sawing and radio; he was now building shelves for Mrs. Cobb’s reference books.
In the library Tiffany swiveled her eyes over the bookfilled shelves and sculptured plaster ceiling. “This is a pretty room,” she said.
“You wanted to speak to me about Daisy,” Qwilleran reminded her.
“She used to work here.”
“I’m aware of that. Are you a friend of Daisy’s?”
“We were very good friends, and—” She shrugged for want of the right words. “I thought it was kinda funny when she left town without telling me—didn’t even write.” She searched Qwilleran’s face for his reaction.
“Did you make inquiries at that time?”
“I asked the old lady she worked for, and she said Daisy moved to Florida. She acted as if she was mad about something.”
“That was five years ago. How long had you been friends?”
“Since ninth grade. The Dimsdale kids were bused to Pickax, and the other kids made fun of Daisy because she was a Mull. I kinda liked her. She was different. She could draw.”
“Did she have boyfriends?”
“Not till she left school. She didn’t finish. She didn’t like school.”
“Do you know who her friends were?”
“Just guys.”
“She was pregnant when she left. Did you
know that?”
“Mmmm . . . yes.”
“Did she say anything about getting an abortion?”
“Oh, no!” Tiffany was emphatic for the first time during the interview. “She wanted the baby. She wanted to get married, but I don’t think the guy wanted to.”
“Who was the father?”
“Mmmm . . . I dunno.”
“What did Daisy’s mother think about all of this?”
Tiffany shrugged. “I dunno. She never talked about her mother. They didn’t get along.”
“Mrs. Mull died a few days ago. Did you know?”
“Somebody told me.”
It was one of those moments when Qwilleran would have relished a smoke. Puffing a Scottish blend in his old quarterbend bulldog would have sharpened his mental processes, would have given him pauses in which to organize his questions. But Melinda had urged him to give up his comfortable old pipe.
He asked the girl if she would like a beer, thinking it would help her relax; she was sitting on the edge of the blood red leather sofa.
“I guess not,” she said. “I hafta go and do the milking.”
“Do you think something bad might have happened to your friend?”
Tiffany moistened her lips. “I dunno. I just thought it was funny when she went away and didn’t tell me. Nobody else cared, so that’s why I came.”
As Qwilleran accompanied her to the front door, Birch was shifting his tools and radio to another place of operation. “Whatcha doin’ here, sweetheart?” he called out in his hearty voice. “Lookin’ for a job? Whatsa matter with that big bozo you married? I thought you’d be knocked up by now. Baa-a-a-a?”
Tiffany gave the man a sideways glance and a timid smile, and Qwilleran said to him, “Skip the social pleasantries, Birch. Just tell us when we’re going to get a lock on the back door.”
“Came in yesterday—airmail from Down Below,” Birch said. “You’ll have it tomorrow. No lie.”
Qwilleran watched Tiffany leave. She crossed the little park and drove away in a pickup that had been parked on the far side of the Circle. Why hadn’t she parked in the driveway? There was ample space. Her wordless reaction to Birch’s remark had been equally puzzling.
The Cat Who Played Post Office Page 10
