“I’ll pick you up Thursday morning.”
Qwilleran liked the idea. He had promised Thelma lunch at the Nutcracker Inn; news about the Old Log Church suggested a nostalgic trip to her distant past; and helping Bushy shoot the hats would be another point in his favor before “popping the question.”
16
When Qwilleran called for Thelma on Wednesday morning, Janice came to the door and said, “Come in. She’s all ready. She’s just saying good-bye to the Amazons. Do you say good-bye to your cats?” she asked.
“Always,” said Qwilleran.
Thelma arrived in such a flurry of enthusiasm and anticipation that Qwilleran was aware only that she was wearing something lavender and bangle bracelets and diamond ear-studs and crepe-soled shoes.
She hopped into the SUV with the pep of a twenty-year-old and asked, “Are we going anywhere near Toodle’s Market?”
“In Moose County everything is near everything else. Why do you ask?”
“Janice buys our groceries there and raves about it. Also, the woman who runs it is called Grandma Toodle, and she says she knows me from grade school.”
“Then that will be our first stop.”
They found Grandma Toodle in the produce department sniffing pineapples critically. She looked up and flung her arms wide. “Thelma! I saw your picture in the paper! Do you remember me? Emma Springer! You called me your little sister.”
“You were so tiny! I had to look after you. You had beautiful long curls, and when the boys pulled them, I chased them with a big stick.”
“And now you’re famous, Thelma!”
“I still carry a ‘big stick’!”
Qwilleran wandered away and inspected the broccoli until the hysterical reunion ended.
Thelma bought a fresh pineapple, explaining that it contained an enzyme that would cure what ails you. Qwilleran bought some eating apples, and they joined the lineup at the checkout counter. There was a wait, as usual, while a customer searched for her credit card and the cashier had to find out today’s price of bananas. In front of Thelma a boy of about ten years waited patiently as his mother complained about the holdup; he was eating candy out of a paper bag.
Suddenly he turned to Thelma and said, “Would you like a jelly bean?” He offered the bag to the customer with diamond ear-studs and bangle bracelets.
“Thank you, Ducky!” she said. “Do you have any black ones?”
“Yep, but you have to dig for ’em.”
Thelma reached into the bag just as the boy’s mother said, “Don’t eat all that candy, Jason. You’ll spoil your dinner.” And the line moved up a few inches.
“Nice young boy,” Thelma remarked as they left the market.
“Did you find a black one?” he asked.
“After he’d been digging around with his grubby hands? I took one for Lolita. She doesn’t care what color it is.”
As they drove away, her musings rambled. “Just imagine!—little Emma Springer marrying big Buck Toodle! We all went to a two-room school! Eight grades with one teacher and a potbellied stove!”
Qwilleran asked, “Did you write secret messages to each other with lemon juice?”
“Are you kidding, Ducky? I never saw a lemon until I moved to California! . . . The Toodles had a crossroads grocery, with everything from turnips to kerosene. We had to walk a mile to spend a penny on candy. We walked everywhere, except in blizzards. We’d put on our Sunday best and walk to church and arrive covered with dust. . . . I liked going to church because I could wear a hat. . . . Always loved headgear. I paraded around the house with pots and pans on my head. I made hats out of cornflake boxes.”
“Do you remember the name of your church?”
“No, but it was built of huge logs. Pop helped to build it. He said it would last forever.”
“He may have been right. The forest grew up around it, but it’s being cleared out, and a friend told me how to find it. It has a little graveyard with a stone wall around it.”
Farther on, an arrow pointed to THE OLD LOG CHURCH, and their vehicle bounced down a narrow rutted road through deep woods.
At a jog in the road Thelma cried, “That’s it! That’s it!” She jumped out of the car and knew exactly where to find the three Thackeray graves.
Qwilleran waited until her emotions were played out, then said, “They’re planning a dedication ceremony. Would you represent the Thackeray family?”
“Bless you! I’d be honored!”
Back on the pavement they jabbered all the way to the Nutcracker Inn.
He said, “I’ve bought a Gold Card Membership.”
“You shouldn’t have, Ducky. You can see a show anytime as my guest.”
“But I wanted to be a member. How will we know what’s being shown?”
“Members get a newsletter every two months.” She mentioned productions like The African Queen . . . The Godfather . . . My Fair Lady . . . Close Encounters of the Third Kind. And then, “I’ve been wondering, Qwill, how you handle the housecleaning in your huge barn.”
“Three young men with vacuums and other cleaning equipment come in on a regular schedule, plus an older woman who does dusting and polishing and is very fussy. . . . By the way, I’m helping Bushy shoot your hats tomorrow morning.”
“Glad you told me! We’ll have waffles.”
“Not this time. It’s strictly a work session. But we’ll take a rain check. . . . Did the hats make the cross-country trip without damage?”
“Well, each hat has its own sturdy hatbox, and the moving company built four wooden crates that would be a tight fit for six boxes. They were painted THIS SIDE UP in big letters. Perfect!”
The Nutcracker Inn was an old Victorian mansion with a turret and black walnut woodwork, purchased by the K Fund and converted into a stylish resort. Peanuts were supplied for feeding the squirrels that enlivened the extensive grounds, and bread was available for feeding the ducks that paddled about the Black Creek. Qwilleran’s old friend, innkeeper Lori Bamba, gave Thelma the kind of effusive welcome she liked. The sleek black Nicodemus, the resident cat, looked on, knowing when and when not to be friendly. Qwilleran noted that Thelma took him in stride.
Their table was reserved in the conservatory, but first they had Q cocktails on the deck, where they could watch the squirrel ballet.
Qwilleran asked, “What did you think about the black cat?”
“He has wicked eyes,” she replied noncommittally.
“But a sweet disposition. In fact, guests who are lonesome for their pets can arrange for him to stay overnight with them. In fact, he’s reserved far in advance.” The latter was a little hyperbole added for comic effect, and Thelma looked at him sharply. He went on. “How do you feel about cats? I was told to keep mine out of sight when you were coming.”
“I’m not enthusiastic.”
“We had all kinds of barn cats on the farm, and they adored my brother. He had a kind of magnetism, even then, that attracted cats and dogs. I was jealous I think. I pulled their tails and one of Bud’s cats bit me. They were the only thing he and I ever fought about. . . . After he was a doctor—and we kept in constant touch—cats were never mentioned.”
Qwilleran nodded sympathetically. “But that was then, and this is now. You’re living in a community where there are one-point-five cats for every person. We all have our likes and dislikes. Still, there are busybodies who are spreading the rumor that you’re a ‘cat hater.’ Now is the time to make some gesture that will squelch the rumor. You might consult Dwight Somers. And who’s your local attorney?” He knew, but he wanted to hear it from her.
Thelma brightened. “Mavis Adams! First woman attorney I’ve ever had. She’s a gem! She listens; she understands; she gives good advice; she solves problems.”
Qwilleran added, “And she lives on Pleasant Street. It wouldn’t hurt to discuss the matter with her. She founded the local chapter of an animal-rescue movement and is spearheading a revue to raise funds for it. Whatever amount is
realized, the K Fund will match dollar-for-dollar.”
The hostess interrupted to say their table was ready, and they went into the conservatory. It was a many-windowed room with views on three sides.
Thelma said, “Pop built one of these on the back of the farmhouse after he did well in potato chips. We called it a sun parlor.”
After they had ordered (roast beef sandwich for him, something patently healthful for her), he brought up the subject of Bud’s letters. “Do you still want an opinion as to their possible publication?”
“I do! I do! Janice is putting them in chronological order and then in letter files for your convenience. She’s such a joy!—an efficient secretary, wonderful cook, and careful driver! Off the record, Qwill, I’ve set up a trust fund for her future financial needs. And now that we’re living here, I hope she will make some friends. She goes over to the Campbell house to play with the kittens, and that’s good for her.”
After lunch they walked down the hill to the creek, carrying some bread to feed to the ducks. They sat on a park bench facing the water, and immediately two mother ducks and their broods sailed toward them in perfect formation. Thelma was delighted with the performance, and after the bread was gone, she was reluctant to leave.
“It’s so peaceful here,” she said. Then, after a long pause, she asked suddenly, “Do you think I was right to start Thelma’s Film Club?”
“It seems like a great idea to me, Thelma. And you say the memberships are selling well. Are there problems?”
“Only one. My nephew! He’s not the man his father was. He wants to have Bingo at the club one night a week! I told him in no uncertain terms that I would not allow gambling in a club with my name on the marquee. He said, ‘It’s only a game, Auntie.’ It irritates me when he calls me that! If it’s not gambling, why is it outlawed in so many communities . . . and in places where it’s considered legalized gambling, why are there so many restrictions and regulations?”
“You’re quite right, Thelma, to limit a film club to films. There’s a gambling casino in Bixby County, but Lockmaster and Moose Counties have never permitted it. Was that the end of it?”
“He said we’re a private club and can do anything we want—even strip dancing!—as long as it’s undercover. I said, ‘I’ll hear no more of this twaddle! Decide whether you want to work for me—or not!’ So he backed down. He knows which side his bread is buttered on!”
“I’m glad to see you stick to your guns, Thelma.”
“I always stick to my guns.”
“When do you start showing films?”
“One week from today. Everything was going so well until the upsetting argument with my nephew.”
“Forget about Dickie Bird and what a bad boy he is,” said Qwilleran. “Do something constructive that will cancel out your negative feelings! Make a spectacular gesture that will win the admiration of the county.”
The rest of their conversation is best reported in Qwilleran’s own words—in his personal journal:
Wednesday, April 23—All during our nostalgia trip around the county and our pleasant luncheon at the Nutcracker Inn, I had been waiting for the right moment to pop the question (as Dwight phrased it). This might be it. I knew she appreciated my hospitality, but I didn’t want to ask a favor in return. It would have the taint of quid pro quo.
Now she was disenchanted with her nephew and dispirited about the Film Club. I thought fast. The trick would be to boost her morale and solve the Kit Kat problem with one stroke. I said, “I know the situation is disappointing, Thelma, but you must rise above it! Do something constructive that will benefit others as well as yourself!”
Thelma regarded me questioningly, and I went on. “Restoring the old opera house is a boon to the whole county! Even people who aren’t interested in old movies are curious to know what you’ve done with the building. And it so happens that we have plenty of affluent citizens who would pay to have a private look at the building if it would benefit a local charity. (Tax deductible, by the way.) They like to put on dinner jackets and long dresses and be treated like celebrities: valet parking, red carpet, press photographers, even TV cameras from Down Below, and publicity all over the state.”
I was on my soapbox, as Polly calls it. Thelma was mesmerized, if I do say so myself. She asked, “Do you mean I should open the theatre for a charity preview? Did you have a charity in mind?”
I said, “Mavis Adams is doing a commendable job of spearheading a new kind of animal-rescue effort and has been rehearsing an entertainment to raise funds. Civic leaders will pay two or three hundred dollars a ticket if it’s presented in an environment like the Film Club, and for you to offer the premises would be a handsome gesture. Ask Mavis for details, and consult your P.R. man. I’m sure Dwight will applaud your suggestion.”
She said, “I have an appointment with Mavis at the law office tomorrow. I’ll mention it. . . . It might be an interesting thing to do.” Mission accomplished! With no arm-twisting!
But I have a hunch that Dickie Bird is going to be more of a problem than his “auntie” expects.
17
On Thursday morning three young men with high-tech cleaning equipment and Mrs. Fulgrove with homemade metal polish arrived at the barn, and that meant removing the Siamese from the premises. They wouldn’t bother the cleaning crew, but the crew would bother them. Qwilleran put them in the SUV along with their blue cushion, commode, water dish, and snack bowl, and off they went to Pleasant Street to help photograph hats.
Janice met Qwilleran and said, “Bushy’s upstairs; Thelma had an appointment with her attorney. Is there anything I can do for you? Coffee? Cold drink?”
“You might like to go out to the car and say hello to the Siamese.”
“They could come indoors, since Thelma isn’t here.”
“No, thanks. They’re happy where they are. They have all the comforts of home.”
Bushy was in the upstairs room called the Gallery of Hats, setting up. The two side walls had hats displayed on shelves. Others on pedestals were spaced in the middle of the room. Each hat had its own acrylic hat stand.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” he said. “Move all the hats to one side of the room; then move them to the other side one-by-one as they’re photographed. That way we won’t shoot one hat twice.”
Qwilleran said, “That reminds me of the story about the man who wanted some new trousers shortened three inches, and the tailor shortened one leg twice.”
“Funny, but I don’t have time to laugh. Too much to do.” Bushy had set up one pedestal, as a stage for the hat to be photographed. Two floor-standing lights were placed to bounce light off walls and ceiling. The camera was placed on its tripod, ready to go. It would be Qwilleran’s job to place a hat on the pedestal and rotate it this way and that until Bushy had the best angle. Then he would tell his assistant how to direct the handheld light to best advantage. “Raise it . . . tilt it down . . . a little to the left . . . move it an inch.” The tricky ritual would be repeated three times for each hat.
The first two shots were interesting; after that Qwilleran entertained himself by inventing names for them: Heavenly Hash . . . Chef’s Salad . . . Crème de Chocolat. Despite his talent for description, he would find it impossible to do justice to creations like these. There were wisps of this and swirls of that, unexpected trims, touches of hand-painting or stitchery, defiant color contrasts, crowns and brims in mad shapes.
Halfway through, the photographer said, “See if you can scare up some coffee, Qwill, and let’s take a breather.”
“How do you want it?”
“Naked.”
“What do you think of the hats?”
“Well . . . they’re different! Wonder what she paid for them?”
“Did you notice the hatboxes?”
Stacked in the corners of the room were two dozen round hatboxes covered in shiny alligator-print paper.
Qwilleran asked about them when he went down-stairs for coffee.
/> “Thelma had them custom-made,” Janice said. “She adores the alligator look. She has alligator shoes and handbags.”
“Did you go out to see the Siamese?”
“Yes, and I took them a little treat. I also put a couple of boxes of letters from Thelma’s brother in the car. I went through them and put them in chronological order to make it easier for you.”
“I appreciate that.”
Upstairs he told Bushy, “I’ll look forward to seeing your prints. You always make everything look better than it is.”
“Did Thelma tell you I’m going to do a portrait of her? It’ll be a companion to the one hanging in the lobby of the clinic.”
“You spoke highly of Dr. Thurston, but I don’t think you knew much about the son did you?”
“Only by reputation. My ex-wife was a native of Lockmaster, and she said he was a drifter. But he always seemed to have money.”
After his dubious experience with twenty-four hats, Qwilleran would have relished a Reuben sandwich and fries at Rennie’s, but the Siamese had been confined long enough so he drove back to the barn. His passengers seemed to be peacefully aware of their destination until they entered the deep woods leading to the barnyard. Then a low rumble in Koko’s innards became a growl. It was a familiar expression of disapproval. The cleaning crew had gone. There was something indoors that aroused Koko’s resentment.
Leaving the cats in the car, Qwilleran let himself into the barn cautiously. There was the reassuring aroma of cleaning fluid and metal polish. And on the bar was a gift-wrapped package—also a scrawled note in the unique style of Mrs. Fulgrove: “A man brung this gift which he left no name.”
It was wrapped in alligator gift wrap with gauzy black ribbon, and a note from Thelma: “With much thanks for everything; Dick is here and will drop this off at your barn.” The box contained a pair of glazed porcelain parrots in brilliant green with patches of red and yellow.
Cat Who Brought Down the House, the Unabridged Audio Page 13
