The job called for removing the books, the shelving, the brackets that held the shelves, and the metal strips that supported the brackets, leaving several large screw-holes in the wall. He seemed to remember that such holes could be filled with toothpaste, but the wall was white, and his current toothpaste was green. The obvious solution was to buy a wall hanging large enough to cover the blemishes. It would require an artwork at least five feet wide and three feet high.
5
In the late nineteenth century the octagonal apple barn had presided over one of the strip farms of the period—almost a half mile long, but narrow. A wagon trail ran its length. Now it was a single-lane country road, seldom used for vehicular traffic. Qwilleran used it to walk from the barn to his rural mailbox and newspaper sleeve on the back road and to the Art Center at the far end.
On Sunday Qwilleran and Polly walked down the lane to the Touchy-Feely Exhibition—he with a tape measure in his pocket.
On the way down, she asked, “Did I tell you that the library has had a run on novels by William Make-peace Thackeray?”
His acerbic reply: “Only Moose County could put two and two together and get seventeen. . . . Did you find out anything about his middle name?”
“Not a clue! . . . I had an uncle Makemoney—at least, that’s what I called him. He was always talking about making money! My father, who was very precise about language, said you can earn money, invest money, inherit money, save money, and lose money but you cannot make money. You would have liked my father, Qwill, and he would have approved of you.”
“My loss,” he murmured.
The skeletons of blighted apple trees had been replaced by a garden that attracted birds, another designed for butterflies, and reforestation with hardwoods and evergreens.
The Art Center at the end of the lane resembled a rustic residence, and that was what it was originally intended to be. Now it was a complex of exhibition halls, studios, and classrooms. The new show featured stitchery inspired by great artists. There were sunflowers (Van Gogh), apples (Cezanne), super-flowers (O’Keeffe), trompe l’oeil (Harnett), and so forth.
For himself he found an abstraction inspired by Feininger—an explosion of color, leading the eye into the distance. And it was the right size! A “sold” sticker was affixed. According to gallery policy, purchased artworks had to remain in the exhibition until the end of the month. He consulted the manager about the forthcoming reception.
“No problem! We’ll notify the artist, and she’ll be flattered to have her work on display in your fabulous barn.”
Mildred Riker was there, ready to recount the blueberry legend of Moose County, and they went into a vacant studio to do the taping.
“Arch kids me about throwing a handful of blueberries into everything,” she said, “but they’re part of Moose County’s history.”
On the desk was a metal scoop about ten inches wide, with about thirty metal prongs. Qwilleran said, “What’s that? It would be good for policing a cat’s commode.”
Stifling a giggle, Mildred said, “That’s a blueberry rake used in harvesting.”
He turned on the recorder, and the following tale was later transcribed:
THE INCREDIBLE MOOSE COUNTY BLUEBERRIES
Long before we knew about antioxidants and bioflavonoids, blueberries were doing their thing; Mother Nature had made them good-for-you as well as good-to-eat. In the seventeenth century French explorers reported that native Americans used wild blueberries as food and medicine.
In the nineteenth century my great-grandfather, Elias King, came to Moose County from Maine to work as a lumberjack and save up to buy a farm. His diary is preserved in the historical collection at the public library.
He wrote that the woods were full of wild blueberries, called bilberries. The lumberjacks ate them by the handful. They were like candy—after the lumber-camp diet of beans and salt pork.
Eventually he had saved enough to buy farmland at the north edge of what is now Pickax. The land was well endowed with wild blueberries—low-growing shrubs that crept across the property as if they owned it.
When my grandfather, Matthew King, inherited the farm, he claimed that blueberries occupied more acreage than did corn and potatoes. He said, “Wild blueberries can’t be cultivated, but they can’t be killed, either.” So he gave the berries away to anyone who cared to pick them. Grandma King said she lay awake nights, thinking of ways to use them in family meals: a handful of blueberries here, a handful of blueberries there. The perfect blueberry pie recipe that she masterminded is in my security box at the bank.
By the time my father inherited the property, the family was involved in producing, packaging, marketing, and shipping blueberry products. He was jocularly called the Blueberry King, and friends launched a frivolous campaign to change the name of the area to Blueberry County. Their slogan: “When was the last time you saw a Moose?”
Finally my brothers and I were bequeathed the blueberry empire, but we were interested in careers of our own. We sold out to the large Toodle family, who developed the property in various ways, including a supermarket with extensive parking and loading facilities. They carry excellent produce from all parts of the country. Included are the large cultivated berries that I put in muffins, pancakes, soups, salads, stews, and Grandma King’s blueberry pie. Considering my blueberry heritage, it seems ironic that I now buy the berries in eight-ounce boxes. . . . No matter. There is a postscript to the tale.
The supermarket has had constant trouble with the parking lot. Asphalt buckled. Concrete cracked. One day Grandma Toodle showed me the latest damage. Shrubs were pushing up in the wide cracks.
“What do you think they are?” she asked.
“I know what they are!” I said. “Nothing can stop the incredible Moose County blueberries.”
Qwilleran turned off the recorder and said, “Mildred, millions of people wouldn’t believe that blueberries could wreck a parking lot . . . but I do!”
On Monday morning Koko was huddled over his plate, concentrating on his food, when he suddenly turned his head to the side and listened for a few seconds before returning his attention to the business at hand. Moments later, he turned again, and the telephone rang.
It was a welcome call from Thornton Haggis, the Art Center’s volunteer man-of-all-work. He said, “Mildred told me yesterday that you bought a wall hanging and it’s okay to take it before the show ends. I could drive it up there and hang it for you right now.”
Qwilleran said, “Best news I’ve had since Amanda was elected mayor. I have a stepladder. What else do you need?”
“Nothing. I have all the tools and know all the tricks for hanging textiles.”
“Then come along. I’ll start the coffeemaker.”
The Siamese were excited when they saw the stepladder come out of the broom closet, and saw a car moving up the lane that seldom knew traffic, and saw a white-haired man approaching the barn with a big roll of something under his arm.
“Where do we hang it?” were Thornton’s first words.
“Above the fireplace, covering the holes.”
“It won’t cover! It’s a vertical.”
“Just hang it horizontally.”
The expert unrolled the hanging on the floor and studied it from all angles. “Why not?” was his decision. “But we won’t tell the artist.”
After the deed was done and the result admired, the men sat at the snack bar for coffee and some sweet rolls from the freezer.
“Terrific rolls! Where’d you get them?” Thornton asked.
“From a woman in Fishport who sells home-bakes.”
“I know her. She and her husband reported a missing person last summer and got all that unfavorable publicity. A shame! Nice folks, the Hawleys. He’s a commercial fisherman, semi-retired.”
Thornton knew everyone in the county, past and present.
They talked about the Sesquicentennial and the Haggis Monument Works, purveyor of gravestones for a century and a half.<
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“My forebears chiseled some outlandish inscriptions in the early days, and I photograph them whenever I find them.”
“You should write a book,” Qwilleran suggested. “I’m sure the K Fund would publish it. I’ll buy the first copy.”
“Do you think the restored opera house has anything to do with the Sesquicentennial, Qwill? I have a hunch it’s going to be the big event of the celebration, and that’s why they’re being so secretive.”
If so, Qwilleran thought, and if it was Hixie’s idea, something dire will happen! Not wanting to be a doomsayer, he changed the subject casually after a brief pause: “Where do you get your hair cut, Thorn?”
“When my wife lets me get it cut, I go to Bob the Barber, which isn’t very often; she likes the Zulu look.”
Bob the Barber did business in a curious old building on Main Street. It was set back a few feet from its neighbors, and steps led down from the sidewalk to a small patio at basement level. Here there was a park bench, a potted tree, and an old revolving barber pole. One could look through a large window and see how many customers were waiting.
Qwilleran said, “You don’t often see a barber pole anymore, especially one that revolves. I’ve often wondered about the significance of the spiral red-and-white pole.”
Thornton was a history buff and the right one to ask. He said, “In the Middle Ages there were barber-surgeons who did bloodletting with leeches. They hung bandages on a pole outside their shop to advertise the services. The colors on the barber pole that evolved were red for blood, white for bandages, blue for veins.”
“Sorry I asked,” Qwilleran said.
A haircut was on his schedule for Monday, a day that was usually not busy. When he walked down the steps to the barbershop, he discovered that other customers had the same idea. Through the large window he could see both barber chairs occupied and several customers waiting in the row of folding chairs against the wall. A man in overalls, a feed cap, and field boots was leaving the shop. He said, “Can’t wait . . . too slow. Young Bob broke his thumb.”
“Cutting hair?” Qwilleran asked.
He could see Old Bob working at the first chair and Young Bob, with a splint on his left hand, at the second chair.
“Playin’ softball,” the farmer said. “He can wiggle his fingers some, but . . . too slow . . . too slow. Ain’t got time.”
Among those who had time to wait were an agricultural agent, a storekeeper, and a lecturer at the communitsy college. Burgess Campbell, blind from birth, was accompanied by his guide dog, Alexander.
The two men played their usual charade.
Qwilleran said, “Professor Moriarty! Are you here for a haircut or a bloodletting?”
“My friend Sherlock!” he replied. “Did you bring your violin?”
“Shouldn’t you be in the lecture hall, Professor?”
“Not until one o’clock. When are you going to audit one of my lectures?”
“What’s this week’s topic?”
“Geopolitical Machinations in the Nineteenth Century.”
“I’ll wait till next week,” Qwilleran said.
Old Bob whipped the sheet off his customer and said, “Either of you two jokers ready to be clipped?”
Qwilleran said to Burgess, “You go first. I want to look at the bulletin board.”
“All I need is a trim. You can have the chair in . . . two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” His emphasis on the last phrase was a pointed reference to the “Qwill Pen.”
There was a wall of cork near the entrance, where customers were welcome to post their business cards: Bill’s Bump Shop, Main Street Flowers, Tipsy’s Tavern , and the like. But interspersed with the legitimate cards were computer printouts that local wags contributed:
TRAFFIC TICKETS FIXED—CHEAP
FALSE IDS—WHILE U WAIT
TAX-EVASION SERVICE—TOP-QUALITY ADVICE
Qwilleran asked the head barber, “Do the police ever raid this joint?”
“When Andy Brodie comes in for a clip, he heads straight for the board and laughs his head off,” said Old Bob.
After Qwilleran’s session in the barber chair, he found Burgess and Alexander waiting for him on the patio.
“Got a minute to sit down, Qwill? I want to thank you for letting us have the reception in your barn.”
“My pleasure. But you never visited the barn, and—as the host of the occasion—you should drop in and get the lay of the land.”
“Good idea! I can have a student driver take me over there any afternoon after three o’clock.”
“I assume you refer to an MCCC student who drives—and not a kid who’s learning to operate a vehicle.”
Burgess laughed heartily . . . and an appointment was made.
6
Qwilleran had mixed feelings about Pleasant Street. Residents included some of his best friends, important in the community and known for intelligence and taste. They lived in large houses set well apart on one-acre lots—frame houses—painted white and lavished with white jigsaw ornamentation.
To Qwilleran, with his eye for contemporary, they looked like a collection of wedding cakes! Yet, the street had been photographed often and featured in national magazines as a fine example of Carpenter Gothic.
They had been built by the Campbells in the nineteenth century, and while the residents owned their dwellings, Burgess Campbell owned the land. That fact gave him a baronial interest in the neighborhood and the well-being of its occupants.
Now, Qwilleran felt it behooved him to take a closer look at Pleasant Street. He would bike, pedaling his vintage British Siiverlight. With his slick red-and-yellow bike suit, yellow bubble helmet, sun goggles, and oversize moustache, he had been known to stop traffic on Main Street. (On one occasion a car back-ended another at a traffic light.) So he approached Pleasant Street via the back road.
It was a cul-de-sac, with a landscaped island at the end for a turnaround. The five houses on each side had broad lawns, and the serenity of the scene was enhanced by the fact that there was no curb-parking. Each dwelling had a side-drive with garage and visitor parking in the rear. There was a Wednesday-morning quiet: children at school, adults at work or doing errands or volunteer work. Others would be pursuing their hobbies. A contralto could be heard doing vocal exercises. The distant whine of a table saw meant that the woodworker was making a Shaker table.
Qwilleran biked twice up and down the street then stopped at the entrance to appraise the whole. No two houses were alike, yet they all had a vertical silhouette. There were tall narrow windows and doors, steeply pitched roofs over a third floor. Some had turrets. All had a wealth of ornamentation along roof lines, balcony railings, atop doors and windows.
Before leaving the scene he braked his bike and scanned the streetscape through squinted eyes. He was reluctant to admit that it had a kind of enchantment, like an illustrated edition of a book of fairy tales. Its residents included businessmen, two doctors, a college lecturer, an attorney, a professional astrologer, a musician, and an artist! Perhaps Burgess could explain the lure of Pleasant Street.
Qwilleran had time to take a quick shower, drop some crunchies into the plate on the kitchen floor, and wolf down a ham sandwich before his appointment with Burgess. Then, a few minutes before three o’clock, Koko rushed to the kitchen window. He sensed that a car was turning off Main Street, crossing the theatre parking lot, and meandering through the woods to the barn.
Qwilleran went out to meet it and saw the two front doors fly open. A dog jumped out the passenger door, followed by a man in lecture-hall tweeds. The driver, in jeans and T-shirt, emerged with an expression of rapt wonder.
“Hey, man! That’s some kinda barn!”
Burgess said, “Qwill, this is Henry Ennis, chauffeur par excellence. Hank, you can pick me up at four o’clock.”
“Make it four-thirty,” Qwilleran suggested.
The driver said, “If you want me earlier, call the library. I’ll be studying there.”
As he drove away, Burgess explained, “Hank is a scholarship student from Sawdust City. I reserve my second floor as a hostel for MCCC students without cars, who can’t go home every night.”
Burgess employed students part-time to read aloud—from research material, the New York Times, and student papers for grading.
Qwilleran said, “Okay! The tour starts here. . . . On Sunday night parking will have to be here in the barnyard, and space is limited. So guests should be instructed to carpool.”
Burgess made a note of it on a small recorder.
“Actually, this is the kitchen door, so someone will have to direct them around the barn to the front entrance. It’s a stone path, so women will find it kind to their high heels. I’m assuming it will be a dressy occasion. . . . I suggest that guests assemble in the bird garden before going indoors. There are stone benches and flowering shrubs, and I think we can get Andy Brodie to play the bagpipe for a half hour.”
They went indoors, and Qwilleran conducted them through the large foyer, where the receiving line would be stationed . . . through the dining room, where Robin-O’Dell would have the refreshment table set up . . . past the snack bar with its four stools for guests who like to sit and lean on their elbows . . . through the library with its comfortable seating . . . and into the living room with its large sofas.
Burgess asked, “Where are the cats? I can tell they’re here—by the way Alexander is breathing.”
Qwilleran said, “They’re on the rafters, which are forty feet overhead. They’re watching every move we make.”
When all the decisions were made, and all the notes were recorded, they sat at the snack bar for cold drinks, and another story was taped for Short & Tall Tales.
Cat Who Brought Down the House, the Unabridged Audio Page 4
