“The next day,” Qwilleran went on, “I sent him a message about the teacher. Her face would get very red once in a while, and she’d mop her brow with a handkerchief. The message was: Miss Getz sweats.”
The women groaned. Polly was not attuned to schoolboy humor; and Mildred, having taught school for thirty years, empathized with the long-suffering Miss Getz. She said, “All you two miscreants deserve for dessert is lemon sorbet.”
All four ordered Chef Wingo’s famous blueberry cobbler, however. Arch wanted a dollop of ice cream on his; Polly asked for a smidgen of yogurt; Mildred thought she would like “just a tad” of whipped cream. The host took his neat.
But he asked, “Should I know what a tad is?”
“Halfway between a smidgen and a wee bit,” Mildred informed him.
As they lingered over coffee, they discussed the Pickax Sesquicentennial celebration scheduled for the following year. Arch had attended the first meeting of the planning committee.
“I hate to tell you this,” he said, “but they elected Hixie Rice as general chairman.”
“Oh, no!” Mildred said.
“Oh, dear!” Polly muttered.
The promotion director of the Moose County Something was a clever idea-person with boundless energy and enthusiasm—and a record of disasters, through no fault of her own. There had been the Ice Festival that thawed out, the Mark Twain Festival canceled because of a murder, the cat contest that ended in a riot (of cat owners, not contestants), and more. The city was still wondering what to do with fifteen thousand polar-bear lapel buttons ordered for the Ice Festival.
Yet, Hixie always bounced back, entranced people with her optimism and creativity, and found herself elected to chair another fiasco.
The next day was a workday, so the party broke up early. For Qwilleran the evening was not over, however. At home he put a sheet of blank white paper in an envelope and addressed it to Arch, chuckling as he visualized his old friend’s reaction. Though suspicious, his old friend would be unable to resist heating it over a lightbulb, and when he found it blank, Arch would lie awake all night plotting revenge.
The next day Qwilleran walked downtown to buy a New York Times and stopped at the design studio, a good place to get a cup of coffee and the latest news. Fran was back in town, he learned, but was taking a day off.
Her assistant was trying hard to be her boss’s clone—in dress, manner, and hairstyle. But she was more talkative. Her name was Lucinda Holmes. She had a boyfriend named Dr. Watson, she said with a giggle. He was a vet at the Whinny Hills Animal Clinic. They took care of her thoroughbred gelding and two English foxhounds. She loved riding to hounds. The clinic used to be the Thackeray clinic. It had changed a lot. It was very sad. Dr. Thackeray was killed in an accident. There were rumors that it was suicide, or even murder.
Qwilleran asked, “Was he related to Fran’s client?”
“He was her twin brother. She’s a very interesting person. Fran took me out there on her first trip. We had to measure everything in the house. It’s all being moved here, and floor plans have to be established before the moving men get here.”
“So you’re from Lockmaster! What brought you to Pickax?”
“I studied design at the Harrington School in Chicago and worked in Lockmaster for a while, but I wasn’t learning anything. With Fran I learn how to present ideas to clients, how to listen to their own ideas, how to change their minds without offending them—”
A bell tinkled on the front door. Qwilleran drained his coffee cup and left Lucinda to practice her new skills on a client.
Back at the barn a red light was flashing on the answering machine, although Koko paid no attention to it. He had a way of screening calls and making a catly fuss when he deemed one important.
This one was from Fran Brodie, speaking in a throatily teasing way: “If you’ll invite me over for a drink, I’ll tell you all about Thelma Thackeray, but don’t invite me to dinner; I’m dining with Dutch at the Palomino Paddock. I hope you know how to mix a margarita. Just phone and leave a message: yes or no.”
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Of course he could mix a margarita—or anything else in the book. He had earned his way through college by tending bar.
He said to Yum Yum: “Guess who’s coming over for a drink!” The fur on her neck was standing on end; she had recognized the voice on the machine.
4
The Qwilleran System of Weights and Measures was the topic of his next “Qwill Pen” column. He wrote:
How far is it to the nearest gas station? “Just a hop, skip, and a jump.”
Where is the motel? “Down the road a piece.”
Would you like more coffee? “Just a splash.”
How about a drink of Scotch? “A wee dram.”
How much hot sauce did you put in this soup? “Not much. Just a kachug.”
How much longer do I have to wait to see the doctor? “He’ll be with you in a jiffy.”
How fast can you sew a button on? “In two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
How much do you love me? “A whole bunch!”
When Qwilleran filed his copy with the managing editor, he said, “I owe you one, Junior; there really is a Thelma Thackeray. I’ll take you to lunch at Rennie’s.”
“Super! I’m hungry! . . . Sit down. Be with you in a see.” The editor rushed from the office with proof sheets.
While pondering the difference between a sec and a jiffy, Qwilleran noticed a proof of the editorial page, with a letter from a reader who aired her views, forcefully and entertainingly.
TO THE EDITOR—My family attended the last open meeting of the county Board of Commissioners, so that my daughters could see how government works. The issue being addressed was the important one of zoning. May I respectfully inquire what language our esteemed board members were speaking? It sounded like Jabberwocky in Through the Looking-Glass—“ ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.” We were not alone. Others in the audience, equally bewildered, gathered on the court-house steps after the meeting and proposed a message to our elected officials: “All mimsy were the borogoves.”
Mavis Adams
HBB&A
Junior returned, ready for a free lunch at his friend’s expense, and they went to Rennie’s coffee shop at the Mackintosh Inn. It was named for Charles Rennie Mackintosh and inspired by one of his tea-rooms in Glasgow: tables lacquered in bright blue and bright green, chairs with unusually high backs, napkins striped in black and white.
They ordered French dip sandwiches with fries and a Caesar salad.
Qwilleran asked, “Is there any news that’s not fit to print?”
“We’re all waiting for Thelma Thackeray. Would you like to interview her?”
“No thanks. It sounds like a story for Jill Handley.”
The editor said, “We want to run a profile in depth. It will be good to have in the obit file. She’s getting on in years.”
“So are we all—except you, Junior. You still look like a summer intern.”
“You don’t have to rub it in, just because you’re buying lunch.”
“Have you heard what’s going into the old opera house?”
“Someone said it’s a new county jail.”
“I was hoping for the world’s largest emporium of used books. I miss Eddington’s old place.”
Junior said, “It’s got to be an operation that requires a lot of parking space. They’ve torn down the storefront on both sides, and the lots are being paved.”
“The plot thickens,” Qwilleran said. “Shall we have dessert? The chocolate pecan pie sounds good.”
They ordered the pie, and Junior said, “Are you still reading to your cats?”
“Absolutely! It sharpens their intellect. Since advocating it in my column, I’ve received scores of letters from readers, reporting striking results.”
“Let’s not overdo it,” Junior warned. “The felines could take over the local government.”
“Not a bad idea! We can start by packing the town council.”
When the pie was served, they fell into a blissful silence for a while until Junior asked, “What are you reading to the cats now? Plato and Schopenhauer?”
“Noel Coward’s biography. I sing some of the Coward songs. Koko likes the one about mad dogs and Englishmen.”
The young editor never knew whether to take Qwilleran seriously or go along with the gag, so he concentrated on eating his pie.
Qwilleran had said “yes” to Fran Brodie’s cavalier proposal and hoped he would not regret it. As four o’clock approached, he set up the work bar with tequila, lime, salt, the silver tray, and so forth. Yum Yum huddled apprehensively nearby. He told her, “Fran Brodie is coming for a drink. What do you want me to put in it?” She scampered away.
Fran was the picture of glamour—with her chic clothing, model’s figure, artful grooming, and perfect legs. They were always enhanced by high-heeled strappy sandals, weather permitting. But the sophisticated designer and the sweet little female cat had been feuding from the beginning. Yum Yum was possessive about Qwilleran, and Fran came on strong, attracted by his large moustache, or large fortune, or both.
When he first arrived in Pickax, he gave her a key to his apartment to use in his absence. She came in with her installer to rearrange the furniture and hang the window blinds. Or she came alone to accessorize the rooms with framed prints, pillows, candles, and the like. She thought them important, and her client let her have her way.
The only accessory he owned was the very old Mackintosh crest in wrought iron, said to come from a Scottish castle. It was leaning against the wall in the hallway, and she thought it would do nicely as camouflage for an ugly old radiator. While rolling it into the living room like a hoop, she accidentally rolled the fifty-pound artifact over her sandaled foot. She claimed that Yum Yum had darted out from nowhere and made her do it. A few weeks in a surgical boot cooled her ardor for the Klingenschoen heir. He had never liked sexually aggressive women anyway, preferring to do the pursuing himself. Whether or not Yum Yum had caused the accident was a moot point, but Fran was forever paranoid about female cats.
Her first words, when she arrived for her margarita, were “Where is she?”
“They’re both in the gazebo,” he said.
“You have a new silver tray! It’s not what I would have chosen for this environment, but it’s nice—not good, but nice.”
She was looking stunning in a periwinkle silk suit and new hair color, and high-heeled strappy shoes—all chosen, no doubt, for her dinner date with . . . “Dutch.”
Qwilleran said, “You’re looking spiffy, in spite of your arduous trip. . . . Let’s sit in the living room.”
She sank into one of the deep-cushioned sofas and looked critically at the fireplace cube. Its face—above and on both sides of the fireplace—was covered with adjustable bookshelves. “Do you really need to have those shelves on this side of the cube?” she asked.
“I’m running out of wall space,” he said as he raised his glass. “Cheers!”
“Cheers! . . . What are you drinking?”
“The new Qwilleran cocktail . . . Recipe is being patented.”
His guest still stared at the wall of books. “Is it a good idea to have books above a fireplace? I should think the heat would be bad for the bindings. If you could possibly remove them, I could get you a large sculptural wall accent—”
“Too bad I gave the Mackintosh crest to the inn,” he said, slyly.
Fran changed the subject abruptly. “You met my new assistant yesterday. Did she tell you anything?”
“Yes, she seems to be interested in dogs and horses.”
“I mean, did she tell you anything about Thelma Thackeray?”
“She simply said she was interesting.”
“She’s that, all right,” Fran agreed. “And a good client! She knows what she likes, is open to suggestions, makes quick decisions, and doesn’t change her mind. She’s been in the business world for almost fifty years, and it shows! Also, she wants the very best and is willing to pay for it.” The margarita was working its spell. Fran was less edgy; she was willing to talk.
“What kind of career did she have in California?”
“She started with a sandwich shop, then a good restaurant, and then a private dinner club. It’s her strong personality, I think, that has made her a success. Friends and customers gave her a smashing farewell party.”
“Why did she decide to come back to Moose County—of all places?”
“Her only living relative is here, and you know how it is: People tend to get sentimental about family as they grow older.”
Fran held out her glass for a refill and kicked off her shoes. “You really know how to mix margaritas, Qwill!”
He served another drink. “When does Madame Thackeray arrive?”
“It’s all orchestrated. She left before the movers arrived, and she’ll arrive after they’ve delivered. Everything will be unpacked at this end.”
“How much staff does she have?”
“Secretary, housekeeper, and driver,” Fran said slyly, waiting for a reaction. Then she added, “They’re all the same person—more of a companion—a woman half her age, who’s really devoted to Thelma.”
Qwilleran said, “I could use one of those when I’m her age. How old is she?”
“Eighty-two, but she certainly doesn’t look it!”
“Face-lift?” he inquired.
“That’s another terrific thing about Thelma. She eats right, exercises, and gives herself a daily face-lift with the electromagnetic rays from her fingertips. . . . Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling all this—to the media.”
“One question,” Qwilleran said. “Why did she choose to buy property on Pleasant Street?”
“She remembered it from her childhood, when her father—who was a potato farmer—used to drive the family into town in his Model T—to see movies. As an extra treat he also drove up and down Pleasant Street. To those kids it was like Grimms’ fairy tales. They were like huge gingerbread houses decorated with white frosting in fancy scrolls. So when she called a Realtor here and learned that one of the story-book houses was listed for sale, she flipped!
“Do you know Mavis Adams, the attorney?” she asked abruptly.
“I know she’s the new ‘A’ in HBB&A. We’ve met briefly.”
“The Realtor recommended her to handle legal details of the property transfer. Also, Thelma will have to file a new will in this state. . . . Mavis thinks the residents of Pleasant Street should give a reception to welcome Thelma.”
“Friendly idea,” Qwilleran said. “Since half the families on the street are Scottish, you could hold it at the Scottish lodge hall.”
Fran gave him a sly glance. “We hoped you’d let us use your barn.”
“Hmmm,” he mused. “That’s something to think about!”
“Think fast. It’s to be a week from Sunday. Robin O’Dell will do the catering, and Burgess Campbell will take care of expenses. The Scots will be in High-land attire, which makes for a gala mood.”
“Well . . . since you’re working on a short dead-line . . . I’ll say yes.” Qwilleran liked any excuse to wear his Highland kit.
“Everyone will be delighted, and Thelma will be terribly impressed.” Fran was putting on her shoes.
“Before you leave, let me bring in Yum Yum,” Qwilleran said. “You two rational females should bury the hatchet.”
“No, no! She’ll nip my nylons even if she doesn’t break my foot!”
He accompanied her to the barnyard and noted that she was driving a new car—a luxury model. The Thackeray assignment must have been lucrative.
Before stepping into the car, she hesitated and then said, “As a favor to me, Qwill, would you let me supply an artwork to hang over your fireplace, replacing the bookshelves, just temporarily? Thelma knows I did the interior of the barn, and I want it to look its best.”
“I�
�ll take it under advisement,” he said gravely. He felt about his books the way parents feel about their children.
When he brought them in from the gazebo and watched Koko gobbling his dinner and Yum Yum nibbling daintily, he thought, How could this sweet little creature be accused of nipping nylons?
Later, he asked Polly on the phone, “Does Catta ever nip women’s nylons?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve heard that some female cats have a nylon fetish.”
He was careful not to mention Fran’s visit. Polly disliked her flip manner and such gaucheries as kicking off her shoes when offered a second drink. Polly called the gesture “just too cute.”
So Qwilleran told her only that the pleasant people on Pleasant Street wanted to borrow the barn for a reception welcoming Thelma. “It’ll be a week from Sunday. Highland dress is suggested, since half the residents are Scots.”
“Lovely!” she said. “Am I invited? I’ll wear my clan sash, pinned on the shoulder with a cairngorm.”
“You’re not only invited; you’re in charge of back-ground music—preferably light classics that make people feel good but aren’t too boringly familiar.”
“I have just the thing! The piano pieces of Sibelius. They’ll be thrilling on your stereo system.”
Then he told her he was thinking of removing the books over the fireplace and replacing them with art-work.
She approved. “I’ve always thought that was a risky place for book bindings. The heat could dry them out, you know. You might find a suitable wall hanging at the Art Center Sunday.”
Having Polly in accord with his two forthcoming projects, he tackled the preparations with a modicum of enthusiasm.
Qwilleran was inept at household maintenance chores. He worked with words and believed that carpenters should work with hammers, plumbers with wrenches, and painters with brushes. Whenever he had attempted a simple do-it-yourself project, the Siamese sensed the gravity of the occasion and watched with apprehension. He said to them, “Keep your toes crossed and if I fall off the ladder, call 911.”
Cat Who Brought Down the House, the Unabridged Audio Page 3
