“I think I’m losing my assistant—after all the time and training I invested in her. I even took her to California on the Thackeray job.”
“What’s her reason?” Qwilleran asked.
“She’s getting married and may move out of town, where her fiancé is investigating a new job.”
That would be the Holmes girl and her Dr. Watson, Qwilleran thought, and it was a legitimate reason, but Fran wanted only sympathy, so he consoled her.
“Amanda will have to spend more time in the studio and less at City Hall.”
“You try telling her that!” Fran replied sourly.
Qwilleran, instead of buying potted tulips, went to Amanda’s studio. Lucinda was sitting at the consultation desk, and a young man lounged casually in one of the chairs for clients. But the radiant expression on both faces was not that of a designer-client relationship.
“Hi, Lucinda,” Quilleran said. “I thought I would browse for a few minutes before picking Polly up at the airport.”
“Hi, Mr. Q!” she said, waving a hand with a sparkler on the third finger. “This is Blake Watson.”
“Hi, Mr. Q,” he said, jumping to his feet.
Qwilleran said, “If that ring means what I think it means, best wishes to you both. What are your plans?”
Lucinda said proudly, “We’ll be married in June, and then move to Minneapolis, if Blake takes the position that’s been offered him.”
Blake said, “They’re impressed by my five years with Dr. Thurston. That’s how well known he was in the profession. But when he died and the clinic changed hands, they started cutting corners.”
“That often happens,” Qwilleran murmured. “Lucky they didn’t buy the Thackeray name.”
“Sure is! . . . but you have to meet a plane, and I’m keeping you.”
When Qwilleran drove Polly home from the airport Saturday noon, he asked if she would like to stop for a little lunch at Onoosh’s.
“Thanks, but I’d rather go home and collapse and see my Brutus and Catta.”
“I stopped in twice during the week, and they seemed to be in good spirits and amply fed. Your cat-sitter left a report on the kitchen table each morning and filled the automatic feeder for their dinner.”
“Yes, she’s very conscientious and absolutely trustworthy. She goes to my church.” Polly glanced at the landscape. “Everything looks dry. We need rain.”
“Were there any momentous decisions made about the bookstore?”
“Yes and no, but it’s all strictly confidential. They don’t want it known until the plans are final, and I don’t want it known that I’m leaving the library at the end of the year.”
“Then tell me while we’re driving,” he said. “There are no spies in the backseat. I checked.”
Polly was too tired to appreciate the whimsy of his remarks.
“Well, they’ve definitely decided to build on the site of Eddington’s old store. And the realty experts who visited Pickax said that Book Alley is really an alley, and the old store faced the back of the post office with its trucks and loading dock. So the new building should have its entrance on Walnut Street. I didn’t tell them about the buried treasure. I didn’t want to lose my credibility. You can tell them about that later on.”
As Qwilleran understood it, Eddington’s grandfather was a blacksmith who moonlighted as a pirate and buried his loot under a tree in the backyard. After he died—or failed to come home—his wife discovered his secret and had the yard paved with cobblestones. She told the story to Eddington on her deathbed. Whether or not he believed it, he covered the cobblestones with asphalt and it would be one of the legends reported in Qwilleran’s collection of Short & Tall Tales.
Qwilleran said, “The thought of the Klingenschoen Foundation digging for pirate’s treasure under the parking lot before building the bookstore strikes me as highly amusing. The question is: Whether it is better to dig and be disappointed—or not dig and be forever unsure.”
They rode in silence for a while, considering the options.
“I admit I had stage fright about brainstorming with the Klingenschoen think tank, but they were all relaxed and jolly, and it was fun.”
“There were suggestions like . . . No food, no gifts, no greeting cards . . . A special-events room for book reviews, signings, and literary discussions, with guest speakers . . . Sponsorship of a Literary Club . . . Donation of a percentage of each sale to the Literacy Council . . . No videos . . . A room for large-print and recorded books . . . One wing of the store for preowned books, to be named the Eddington Smith Room . . . Children’s programs without lollipops . . . Purchase of the vacant lots across from the entrance—to turn into a grassy park.”
“Did you broach your pet idea?” Qwilleran asked.
“Yes, I told them that in the nineteenth century, the stores on Main Street had living quarters on the second floor, and it was considered smart for a merchant to live over the store. That changed with the coming of the automobile and suburban living, and the upstairs rooms are now used for storage and offices. Today we have a shortage of downtown apartments for singles and young marrieds. Also, there are professionals living around the county who would appreciate a pied-à-terre downtown. And there are MCCC faculty members who come up here to teach two or three days a week and would prefer a studio apartment to a hotel room. And the idea of an apartment over a bookstore with a view of a grassy park would appeal to intellectuals. . . . Well, Qwill, imagine my surprise when they applauded!”
“No wonder, Polly. It was good reasoning, and it came from a good-looking woman with a mesmerizing voice!”
She demurred modestly, and for a while they drove in the preoccupied silence that can be enjoyed by two close friends.
“What did you bring me from Chicago?” he asked.
“A Prokofiev opera on CD. I’m dying to hear it on the barn stereo.”
“We’ll play it tomorrow—after brunch at Tipsy’s.”
“It’s in Russian, of course, based on a novel by Dostoevsky—all about scandal, intrigue, falsity, and greed.”
“Sounds just like Pickax,” he said.
Tipsy’s Tavern was a roadhouse in a sprawling log cabin—with a yardful of hens and a menu of two dozen interesting egg dishes. Qwilleran ordered ham and eggs with home fries; Polly chose poached eggs on corn pancakes topped with melted cheddar and served with homemade apple chutney. She said it was good but they made the mistake of leaving the raisins whole. “It’s important for the raisins to lose their identity,” she said.
After that, they went to the barn to listen to the new recording. Qwilleran had only recently become interested in opera, and it was chiefly to please Polly and show off the barn’s magnificent acoustics. The Siamese always joined the audience—more for togetherness than appreciation of music. The first soprano aria always had them covering their ears with their hind legs.
Before the music started, Qwilleran served glasses of pineapple juice on a Shaker-style wood tray.
“Where’s your silver tray?” Polly asked.
“I haven’t been able to find it since cleaning day. I left it out for Mrs. Fulgrove to polish, and she has a habit of putting things away where they don’t belong. I haven’t had time to do a thorough search as yet.”
Polly said, “I was unable to find a libretto in English. I have the scenario, though. It’s in four acts.”
The action took place in the gambling casino of a spa, where men and women won and lost fortunes, borrowed money to pay debts, trusted no one, lied to support their addiction. An aged woman gambled away the fortune that her heirs were waiting to inherit.
Koko hated it! The first act had barely begun, when he raised an indignant howl and continued to scold the speakers until he was banished to the gazebo.
“He doesn’t like Prokofiev,” Qwilleran explained. But he wondered, How could that cat sense the theme of an opera titled The Gambler?
Monday morning Qwilleran drove to Lockmaster to meet Kip MacDiarmid at Inglehart House, a res
taurant operated by Bushy’s ex-wife. Inglehart was a famous name in that town, and this was a historic mansion on the main thoroughfare. The conversation started in a predictable manner.
Qwilleran said, “How’s Moira? . . . Are you taking any trips? . . . Did you decide to get a new puppy? . . . What’s new at the Lit Club? . . . We need rain, don’t we?”
Kip said, “The Lit Club enjoyed Cool Koko’s Almanac. . . . How’s Bushy doing? I see his credit line. Moira wants me to ask if he ever remarried. . . . Are you taking any trips? . . . How’s Polly? . . . Now what’s this book you have in mind?”
Qwilleran said, “A bio of the Thackeray twins, born in Moose County about eight decades ago. Thelma has just returned after a successful career in California; you know about Thurston’s animal clinic.”
“It was ahead of its time,” Kip explained. “Moira used to take our pets there, and she said Dr. Thurston was something special—not only his skills but also his caring attitude. The Thackeray Estate sold it to a consortium, and it’s now the Whinny Hills Animal Clinic.”
“What I can’t find out is the cause of Dr. Thurston’s death. That’s why I’m here.”
“I’ve brought you copies of all the clips in the file. The rumormongers had a field day. They considered it suicide because he was depressed after the death of his wife. But it was officially ruled an accident. A recent rain—slippery rocks on the edge of the gorge—perhaps a momentary dizzy spell. He was getting on in years.”
“Who were his heirs?” Qwilleran asked.
“He left his house to the county for a horse museum, his liquid assets to his sister, and the clinic to his son, Dick.”
“What’s Dick’s line of work?”
“Good question. He’s always pursued his business interests in other parts of the country, coming home to visit his parents at intervals . . . I might add that he was involved in a fracas a couple of years ago when he applied for a permit to operate a motorbike dirt-racing track. He had acquired some acreage in the western part of the county, near some posh condos. The neighbors rose up in arms. They virtually rioted at a meeting of the county commissioners. They bombarded the Ledger with angry letters to the editor, opposing the proposed venture on grounds of noise, dust, weekend traffic on quiet country roads, disturbance of the Sabbath peace, and lessening of property values.”
Qwilleran shook his head sympathetically. “This must have been painful to Dr. Thurston.”
“His clients and admirers considered it an outrage, and the scuttlebutt was that Dick acquired the acreage as payment of a gambling debt owed him. The doctor had never accepted the notion that Dick was a compulsive gambler, but—sub rosa—it was considered a fact.”
Quilleran felt a tingling in the roots of his moustache as he recalled Koko’s tantrum during the Russian opera. “What was the outcome?”
“Dick disappeared from the local scene, and the acreage was put up for sale. The consensus was that his father paid him to leave town. It must have been a crushing blow, so soon after the death of Dr. Sally.”
“Dick’s former schoolmates said he used to be very popular. Too bad he turned out to be a blot on the Thackeray escutcheon,” Qwilleran said.
“Yes, he made a few enemies in Lockmaster during the motorbike episode.” The editor lowered his voice. “In fact, when the suicide rumor was ruled out, there were quite a few hints of patricide. Dick was so quick to sell his father’s clinic that the accident on the gorge trail began to look fishy to many locals.”
“Dick told the police that his father went out at daybreak as a matter of course—to avoid the crowds of Sunday hikers. He said he would be home by noon and they would go out for Sunday brunch at the Palomino Paddock. When the doc didn’t return by three o’clock, Dick notified the police. . . . It’s all in these clippings I’ve brought you. The amateur sleuths even brought up the question of hiking shoes. Dick claimed he never went hiking; a local store claimed that he bought a pair of hiking shoes the day before his dad’s accident. . . . It would have been ludicrous if it weren’t so tragic.”
On Monday evening, the shuttle flight bounced to a stop, and the passengers emerged, carrying briefcases or shopping bags. A husky gray-haired man carrying a duffel bag came down the ramp with quick glances to right and left.
Qwilleran stepped forward. “Mr. Simmons? Qwilleran’s Limousine Service.”
The duffel bag was transferred to the other hand and the right hand shot out. “You’re the famous Qwill! I’m Mark Simmons.”
“Welcome to Moose County! Do you have other luggage?”
“One bag. Thelma told me to bring my tux.”
“What does the bag look like?”
“Blue nylon. Red stripe.”
“Hi, Mr. Q!” the baggage handler said. “Which one is yours?”
“Blue nylon. Red stripe. But I’ll take anything that looks good.”
The visitor was filling his lungs. “The air smells good. What do you do to it?”
“Secret formula. Don’t breathe too deeply or you’ll float away.”
As soon as they were in the SUV and headed for Pickax, the conversation started and never stopped.
“How d’you like our Thelma, Qwill?”
“She’s a grand lady! But she’s not yours! She’s ours, and we let California have her for sixty years. You’re not a native of the West Coast?”
“Sure ain’t! I’m a Hoosier. Met a girl from L.A. when I was in the armed services and followed her out there. Perfect marriage. Two sons, one daughter—all married. Grandkids on the way. Can’t complain. Had my good years. Widowed six years ago. Retired for five. Do a few security jobs. That’s how I met Thelma.”
“I understand you’ve been a great help to her, Mark.”
“Call me Simmons. That’s what I was in the Army and that’s what I was on the police force. Only Thelma adds the Mister.”
“Thelma and the New York Times,” Qwilleran muttered.
“Thelma’s a smart woman, but I don’t see why—at her time of life—she should come here to help her nephew, a grown man. . . . You’ve met him, Qwill. What do you think of him?”
“He smiles a lot.”
“Sure does! . . . What’s that thing over there?” He pointed to a tall, weatherbeaten shack.
“A shaft house. It marks the site of an abandoned mine. There were ten mines here. When they closed, Moose County went into a three-decade depression.”
“Thelma told me about it. Her dad—she calls him Pop—was a poor potato farmer until he got into the potato chip business.”
Qwilleran glanced at his passenger, looking for a glimmer of tongue-in-cheek or twinkle-in-eye. There was none. The potato chip myth had reached the West Coast.
Qwilleran asked, “Did Thelma tell you about my barn?”
“Sure did. I’m looking forward to seeing it.”
“Then I have a suggestion,” Qwilleran said. “Since Thelma’s spare room is occupied by her nephew while the Film Club is getting under way, she planned to put you up at a hotel, but there’s a vacant apartment near my barn that you may as well use. It’s only a few blocks from Pleasant Street, and she’ll give you the keys to one of her vehicles, so you can come and go as you please.”
“Sounds good,” Simmons said. “Better than being holed up with two females, five parrots, and a guy who smiles all the time. Much as I like Janice’s cooking, I have to say that I’ve eaten enough of her waffles to sink a battleship. Have you met Janice?”
“Oh, yes. She’s a nice young woman—very thoughtful and devoted to Thelma. She said she would come to the apartment and make up the bed, hang towels, and leave a little something in the refrigerator for you.”
“That sounds like Janice,” Simmons said.
At a certain point on Main Street Qwilleran pulled to the curb. “Look down that street. What does it look like?”
“Disneyland.”
“That’s Pleasant Street, and Thelma has the third house on the left.”
At a traff
ic circle, Qwilleran turned into the driveway of a large fieldstone building. “That was once a mansion filled with antiques, but it was gutted by fire. . . . Arson, you’ll be interested to know . . . Now it’s a small theatre for live productions. . . . The former carriage house at the rear had stalls for four carriages and servants’ quarters upstairs. That’s where you’re going to bunk while you’re here. . . . I suggest we drop your luggage there and then drive through the woods to my barn and have a drink.”
“I may never return to California,” the guest said.
“How do you feel about cats? I have two Siamese.”
“Cats, dogs, hamsters, white mice! My kids had ’em all. Thelma hates cats!”
“I know. They were kept out of sight during the champagne reception here.”
They drove through the dense woods and emerged in a clearing, where the four-story octagonal barn loomed like a medieval castle.
“I don’t believe it!” Simmons said.
“Wait till you see the interior!”
Qwilleran was accustomed to the gasps, gulps, and speechlessness of first-time visitors, but this Hoosier from Hollywood seemed stunned by the vast spaces, the balconies and ramps, the rafters four stories overhead, the large white cube in the middle of it all.
“How about a drink?” Qwilleran asked.
The guest came out of his trance long enough to say, “A little bourbon and water.”
20
Thelma’s Mr. Simmons was enjoying the barn so much—and the attentions of the Siamese—that he was reluctant to leave when Janice came to pick him up. They were going to dinner at the Grist Mill and Qwilleran was invited. He declined, saying he had to attend a very important meeting.
It was the dress rehearsal for the Kit Kat Revue, and it proved Qwilleran’s contention that a cat trained to walk on a leash will walk where he wants to walk and not where he’s told to walk. Wetherby’s Jet Stream acted as if he had fleas and sat down center-stage to scratch. Nick Bamba’s Nicodemus kept sniffing invisible spots on the floor and baring his fangs in an expression of disgust. It was decided that all cats would be carried or otherwise conveyed. Apart from that, all went well. The creative dance club from the high school and the tumbling team rehearsed to get the feel of the stage—and the feel of their furry costumes with tails.
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