“I haven’t heard his pitch firsthand, but Lynette Duncan is sold on him,” Qwilleran said.
“The question is: Suppose we stick to our guns. Would we want to be the only holdout in the neighborhood?. . . Well, why are we standing here? Let’s go in the kitchen and have some cake and coffee. I have a sweet tooth, and the Scottish bakers has this Queen Mum’s cake that’s unbeatable, if you like chocolate.”
Qwilleran sat at the kitchen table and looked at a group of framed photos on a side wall. “Is the curly-haired blond boy your grandson? You don’t look old enough to have grandchildren.”
“Well, thanks for the compliment. Yes, that’s my little Bobbie. My daughter’s divorced and living with us, and she works part-time, so Vivian and I get pressed into service as baby-sitters. And Qwill, I’m here to tell you it’s the greatest thing that ever happened to a retired insurance agent! I have granddaughters, too, but they’re in Arizona. That’s where Vivian is now, visiting our son.”
The kitchen was old-fashioned in its large size and high ceiling but updated in its cabinetry, appliances, and decorating. Slick surfaces made Kemple’s great voice reverberate and made Qwilleran wince. “Have you ever been on the stage, Ernie?”
“Sure! I belonged to the theatre club for years. I played Sheridan Whiteside in The Man Who Came to Dinner. I left the club when we started doing a lot of traveling. . . Do you drink regular or decaf? We’ve got both. I grind the beans fresh.”
“Regular,” Qwilleran requested and waited for the racket of the grinder to stop before saying, “The club is casting a play right now that has a perfect role for you. Are you familiar with Hedda Gabler?”
“Is that the one where a woman is so wrapped up in her house that she loses her husband?”
“You’re thinking of Craig’s Wife, by George Kelly. This is Ibsen’s drama about another self-centered woman who destroys one man and falls under the power of another. The role of Judge Brack is made to order for you, and I happen to know they’re looking for an actor powerful enough to carry it. How do you look in a moustache?”
“Sure, I could handle that role, and I have the time now. The moustache is no problem. I’ve lived with spirit gum before.”
“You’d be playing opposite a very striking young woman who’s new in this area.”
“Is that so?” Kemple said with increased interest. “Who’s directing?”
“Carol Lanspeak.”
“Oh, she’s good! Not only talented but organized. I think I’ll take your suggestion and surprise Vivian when she comes home. She’s always telling me I could play Madison Square Garden without a mike.”
“Are you both natives of Moose County?”
“No, we came up here from Down Below twenty years ago, because it seemed like a good place to raise kids. Also because I liked to hunt. I had mounted heads all over the place—my office, too. Then suddenly I turned off. I brought down a six-point buck one day, only wounded, and when I went to finish him off, he looked up at me with sad eyes. It was like a knife in my heart! I never went hunting again. Even got rid of the trophies.”
The two men applied themselves, almost reverently, to the Queen Mum’s cake, and there was little conversation for a while.
“How did you get interested in dolls?” Qwilleran asked then.
“When I gave up hunting, I needed a new hobby. History was my minor in college, and Vivian was getting into classic dolls, so I started researching historic dollmakers in England, France, and Germany—almost a hundred of them. It’s good for a couple to have a hobby they can share, and it’s good to be learning something.”
“What did Vivian collect before classic dolls?”
“Primitives. Old Moose County dolls that the pioneers made for their kids. Carved and painted wood, stuffed flour sacks, all that type of thing.”
Qwilleran remarked that he had yet to see a doll on the premises.
“All upstairs. In glass cases.”
“Under lock and key?”
“Never thought it necessary, but now. . . ” Kemple shrugged.
Qwilleran pointed to another photo in the wall grouping: a pretty young blond woman. “Your daughter?”
“Yes, that’s Tracy, around the time she was married.”
“She looks familiar.”
“You’ve seen her at the Old Stone Mill. She works lunches there, dinners at the Boulder House Inn. She’s a waitress. Server is what they want to be called now. She could have had a nice job in the insurance office, but she likes meeting people, and she likes those big tips! And believe me, she gets them! She has a nice personality . . . More coffee? Or do you want to see the dolls?”
Upstairs in the six-bedroom house there were three rooms outfitted with museum-type cases. The first room contained primitives made between 1850 and 1912. One doll consisted of thread spools strung together so that the arms and legs moved. Another was carved from the crotch of a small tree, with the forked branches for legs. A stuffed stocking had crudely stitched features: crossed eyes, crooked nose, upside-down mouth.
“Ugly,” Kemple said, “but every one was loved by some little kid.”
“Who has access to these rooms?” Qwilleran asked.
“Personal friends, serious collectors, and groups we belong to—that’s all. During the holidays we had Vivian’s Sunday-school class and then the historical society. In our will we’re leaving the primitives to the Goodwinter Farm Museum. The classics will be sold to put our grandkids through college. They’re appreciating in value all the time.”
“I’d like to see the classics.”
Dazzling was the word for the two rooms displaying the china, porcelain, wax, bisque, and papier-mâché beauties. Twelve to twenty inches tall, they had pretty faces, real hair, and lavish costumes. There were hoop skirts, bustles, elaborate hats, muffs, parasols, kid boots, tiny gloves, and intricate jewelry. Rich fabrics were trimmed with lace, embroidery, ruffles, buttons, and ribbons.
Kemple pointed out French fashion “ladies,” character dolls, brides, and pudgy infants. Flirty dolls with “googly” eyes that moved from side to side reminded Qwilleran of Danielle; he had always suspected she was not quite real.
Ever the historian, Kemple pointed out that the older dolls had small heads, long arms, and a look of surprise. Then came plump cheeks, soulful eyes with lashes, and tiny pursed lips. Parted lips showing tiny teeth were a later development.
Qwilleran was fascinated by certain facts about the wax dolls. Some had human hair set in the wax head with a hot needle, hair by hair. Wax had a tendency to melt or crack, and kids had been known to bite off a piece and chew it like gum.
“Little cannibals!” Qwilleran said. He listened patiently as Kemple discussed patent dates, dollmakers’ logos, and the construction of jointed and unjointed dolls. Then he asked about the doll that had been stolen. It was carved and painted wood, eight inches tall, and very old. The paint was badly worn, and it was thought to have come from a native American village on the banks of the Ittibittiwassee River. It might have been more of a talisman than a toy.
“It was the first that ever disappeared from our collection,” Kemple said. Then he lowered his voice to a rumble. “It was found in Lenny Inchpot’s possession, you know.”
“In his locker,” Qwilleran corrected him, “while he was out of town. Police had to cut the padlock, yet Lenny says he never locked it, and I believe him. I’ve asked my own attorney to take the case. It’s my opinion that he was framed.”
Kemple looked relieved. “Glad to hear that. Tell your attorney I’ll go as a character witness at the hearing if he wants me to. That boy’s been in this house hundreds of times. He was Tracy’s boyfriend when they were in high school. He had a reputation as a prankster, but he wouldn’t do anything like stealing from people.”
“Aren’t we all pranksters at that age?”
“Yes, but his were clever. Let me tell you about one. Everybody knew the mayor was having an affair with a woman who worked at the post off
ice. One night Lenny painted big yellow footprints on the pavement, leading from the city hall to the post office. The cop on the nightbeat saw him doing it, but it was such a good joke he looked the other way. It was the kind of paint that washes off, and fortunately it didn’t rain till the whole town had seen it. That was our Lenny! Vivian and I considered him a future son-in-law.”
“What happened?”
“Tracy eloped with a football player from Sawdust City. She’s impulsive. It didn’t last, and she and Bobbie came home to live with us. Then Lenny’s girlfriend was killed, and he started coming to the house again.”
“How did Tracy react to his arrest?”
“She was troubled, I could tell, but she wouldn’t talk to me. She’ll talk to her mother, though. I’ll be glad when Vivian gets home.” He paused to reflect on family secrets. “You see, Tracy’s always one to go for the main chance, and now she’s set her sights on Carter Lee James. My fatherly instinct is flashing red. I don’t want her to be disappointed again. It seems to me that all the women are flipping over him.”
“Understandably,” Qwilleran said. “He has a likable personality, good looks, and a glamorous profession.”
“That’s for sure, and my daughter is a beautiful young woman. James has wined and dined her a few times, and her hopes are up. She comes home late with stars in her eyes. What can I say? She’s a grown woman. She wants a husband, a father for Bobbie, and a home of her own. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Not to digress, but. . . how does she feel about the Pleasant Street project?”
“Oh, she’s all for it! She says it’ll make our neighborhood world-famous. I’m not sure that prospect appeals to me. . . But look! Why am I burdening you with my problems?”
“No burden. No burden at all,” Qwilleran said. “I can put myself in your shoes. I know exactly how you feel.” He had an interviewer’s talent for empathy, and often it was genuine.
Driving home from Pleasant Street, he was glad he had no parental responsibilities. It was mid-afternoon, and it had been a day of diffused activity, little of which really concerned him. It was his congenital curiosity that involved him in the problems of others. What he needed now was a good shower, a dish of ice cream, and an absorbing book.
The Siamese were sleeping soundly. Only when he opened the refrigerator door did they wake and report to the kitchen for a lick of French vanilla. After that, Yum Yum ran around in joyful circles, but Koko read Qwilleran’s mind. That cat knew it was booktime and stood on his hind legs at the hutch cupboard and sniffed titles.
There were favorites brought from the barn, recent purchases from Eddington Smith, and gifts from friends who knew Qwilleran’s fondness for old books. Koko’s nose traveled up and down each spine, moving from one to the other until it finally stopped, like the planchette on a Ouija board. It stopped at Ossian and the Ossianic Literature, the book written by A. Nutt.
Qwilleran thought, Is he expressing an uncomplimentary opinion about me? Or does he really want to hear about ancient Gaelic poetry?
Although not in the mood for a scholarly study of a centuries-old mystery, Qwilleran gave it a try. He read aloud, and after a while all three of them were asleep in the big lounge chair.
TEN
By the end of January, Qwilleran had several leads for Short and Tall Tales, and one that particularly appealed to him was the story of Hilda the Clipper. It was funny, old-timers said, and yet it was sad. She was an eccentric woman who had terrorized the entire town of Brrr seventy years before. Brrr, so named because it was the coldest spot in the county, was a summer resort town situated on a promontory overlooking the big lake. In winter it resembled an iceberg in the North Atlantic.
The person said to know the details of the Hilda saga was Gary Pratt, proprietor of the Black Bear Café in Brrr, and Qwilleran drove out to see him one day. The noon rush was over, but one could still order a bearburger—not related to Ursus americanus but simply the best ground beef sandwich in the county.
The café was in a hotel on the highest point in town; a sign on the roof, visible for miles, said: ROOMS. . . FOOD. . . BOOZE. A kind of poetry in the internal vowels made it memorable, and it had been there as long as anyone could remember, guiding trawlers and pleasure boats into harbor.
Affectionately known as the Hotel Booze, the plain, boxlike structure dated back to the rough-tough days of mining and lumbering. Gary Pratt had inherited it along with its debts and code violations. Wisely he had preserved its dilapidated appearance, which appealed to boaters and commercial fishermen, while making just enough repairs to satisfy the county license bureau.
He leaned on the bar while Qwilleran sat on a wobbly bar stool, eating a bearburger. Gary was a big bear of a man, having a lumbering gait and a shaggy black mop of hair, with beard to match. “Glad you agreed to be grand marshal of the Ice Festival, Qwill.”
“I wasn’t aware I’d agreed,” Qwilleran muttered between bites. “Who else is in the parade?”
“The queen, wrapped in synthetic polar-bear skins and riding in a horse-drawn sleigh. Dogsleds drawn by packs of huskies. A fleet of motorbikes with riders in polar-bear costumes. Two high-school bands on flatbeds. Eight floats celebrating winter sports. And torch bearers on cross-country skis.”
Qwilleran refrained from making the cranky remarks that came to mind. The festival, after all, was going to be good for the county, and hundreds of go-getters were working hard to make it a success. Besides, the sandwich he was eating was courtesy of the house.
“Tell me about your book,” Gary said. “What’s the idea?”
“A collection of stories and legends about the early days of Moose County, to be published by the K Fund and sold in gift shops. Proceeds will go to the historical museum. How do you happen to know about Hilda?”
“My father and grandfather told the story so many times, I learned it by heart. Are you gonna record it?”
“Yes. Let’s go to your office, where it’s quieter.”
The following account was later transcribed:
My grandfather used to tell about this eccentric old woman in Brrr who had everybody terrorized. This was about seventy years ago, you understand. She always walked around town with a pair of hedge clippers, pointing them at people and going click-click with the blades. Behind her back they laughed and called her Hilda the Clipper, but the same people were very nervous when she was around.
The thing of it was, nobody knew if she was just an oddball or was really smart enough to beat the system. In stores she picked up anything she wanted without paying a cent. She broke all the town ordinances and got away with it. Once in a while a cop or the sheriff would question her from a safe distance, and she said she was taking her hedge clippers to be sharpened. She didn’t have a hedge. She lived in a tar-paper shack with a mangy dog. No electricity, no running water. My grandfather had a farmhouse across the road, and Hilda’s shack was on his property. She lived there rent-free, brought water in a pail from his handpump, and helped herself to firewood from his woodpile in winter.
One night, right after Halloween, the Reverend Mr. Wimsey from the church here was driving home from a prayer meeting at Squunk Corners. It was a cold night, and cars didn’t have heaters then. His model T didn’t even have side curtains, so he was dressed warm. He was chugging along the country road, probably twenty miles an hour, when he saw somebody in the darkness ahead, trudging down the middle of the dirt road, and wearing a bathrobe and bedroom slippers. She was carrying hedge clippers.
Mr. Wimsey knew her well. She’d been a member of his flock until he suggested she quit bringing the clippers to services. Then she gave up going to church and was kind of hostile. Still, he couldn’t leave her out there to catch her death of cold. Nowadays you’d just call the sheriff, but there were no car radios then, and no cell phones. So he pulled up and asked where she was going.
“To see my friend,” she said in a gravelly voice.
“Would you like a ride, Hilda?”
She gave him a mean look and then said, “Seein’ as how it’s a cold night . . . ” She climbed in the car and sat with the clippers on her lap and both hands on the handles.
Mr. Wimsey told Grandpa he gulped a couple of times and asked where her friend lived.
“Over yonder.” She pointed across a cornfield.
“It’s late to go visiting,” he said. “Wouldn’t you rather I should take you home?”
“I told you where I be wantin’ to go,” she shouted, as if he was deaf, and she gave the clippers a click-click.
“That’s all right, Hilda. Do you know how to get there?”
“It’s over yonder.” She pointed to the left.
At the next road he turned left and drove for about a mile without seeing anything like a house. He asked what the house looked like.
“I’ll know it when we get there!” Click-click.
“What road is it on? Do you know?”
“It don’t have a name.” Click-click.
“What’s the name of your friend?”
“None o’ yer business! Just take me there.”
She was shivering, and he stopped the car and started taking off his coat. “Let me put my coat around you, Hilda.”
“Don’t you get fresh with me!” she shouted, pushing him away and going click-click.
Mr. Wimsey kept on driving and thinking what to do. He drove past a sheep pasture, a quarry, and dark farmhouses with barking dogs. The lights of Brrr glowed in the distance, but if he steered in that direction, she went into a snit and clicked the clippers angrily.
Finally he had an inspiration. “We’re running out of fuel!” he said in an anxious voice. “We’ll be stranded out here! We’ll freeze to death! I have to go into town to buy some gasoline!”
It was the first time in his life, he told Grandpa, that he’d ever told a lie, and he prayed silently for forgiveness. He also prayed the trick would work. Hilda didn’t object. Luckily she was getting drowsy, probably in the first stages of hypothermia. Mr. Wimsey found a country store and went in to use their crank telephone.
The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Page 11
