The signal was given, and the motorcade pulled away from the courthouse and proceeded up Main Street, where shoppers stood on the curbs and cheered. This was an important event for Moose County. For the next four hours the vehicles zigzagged through the countryside, past the ten minesites on back roads and lightly traveled highways.
The first destination was the Big B Mine that had been owned and operated by Maggie’s great-grandmother. When the motorcade stopped, all the car doors opened simultaneously, and the passengers piled out, gathering around the bronze marker. Like all the mines, it was now only an expanse of barren ground, fenced and posted with warnings, the only relic being a weathered wood tower about forty feet high. There was something mysterious, even scary, about the silent, lonely shafthouses.
Maggie and the chief commissioner were posed with the bronze plaque, and a young woman from the florist’s van came running with a large wreath tied with purple ribbon, to hang on the post supporting the marker. Photographers jockeyed for angles that would include the shafthouse in the background.
Then the commissioner made his speech about Moose County’s proud mining heritage. . . . The thousands of miners and their families who had lived and died here . . . the disasters they endured: cave-ins, explosions, riots. . . their primitive villages of huts, a one-room schoolhouse, a chapel, and a company store. Now there was nothing left but the shafthouse! He talked a little too long, and the celebrators were glad to return to their cars.
Qwilleran thought, One down and only nine to go!
At the next mine, associated with the Harding family, there were more photographs, another wreath, and another speech by another politician, who said, “Other parts of the country have Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon, or the Statue of Liberty. We have ten shafthouses!”
A photographer told a direct descendant to take his thumb out of his mouth and try to smile, but Leslie only cocked his finger at the man and said, “Ping!”
The rest of the afternoon was reported by Qwilleran himself in his personal journal:
After the first five stops, all the direct descendants had been photographed and had lost interest in the proceedings, but they were trapped. So were the other dignitaries. Photographers from the Bixby Bugle and Lockmaster Ledger had all the stuff they could use, and they left. The TV crew drove back to the airport after shooting what they considered most newsworthy: Amanda with her built-in scowl and scarecrow style of dressing, and Burgess with his kilt and Alexander.
The speeches were getting shorter—and the listeners fewer. Homer Tibbitt refused to leave the limousine anymore, and Leslie continued to torment him, cocking his finger and saying, “Ping!”
“Kid, if you do that one more time,” Homer screeched in his high-pitched voice, “I’ll bash you with my crutch!”
His wife said, “Leslie, dear, he doesn’t have a crutch. Why don’t you sit up front with the driver, and you can shoot sheep and cows through the windshield.”
“Thank you, Rhoda,” I said sotto voce. “You’re a sweetheart!”
So Leslie rode with me in the front seat, and I guess I unnerved him by saying, “What kind of ammunition do you use? Do you have a license to carry a handgun? How long have you belonged to the NRA?”
After a while he pounded my arm and whispered something. “What?” He whispered again. There we were—in the middle of nowhere—surrounded by acres of stony pasture with not a bush in sight! So I leaned on the horn and brought the motorcade to a stop. I checked with the deputy; wasn’t there a crossroads store nearby? He said yes—at the next intersection.
When we got there, I grabbed Leslie by the wrist and virtually dragged him into the store. The storekeeper was a character with a beard about a foot long. I said to him, “This young man wishes to use your restroom.”
“It ain’t a public toilet,” he said.
I didn’t say a word, but dragged Leslie out to the sheriff’s car. A few seconds later a deputy with a service gun in his holster conducted the boy back into the store.
Meanwhile, one of the politicians riding with Dwight went into the store and bought a pint of something. By the time we arrived at our tenth minesite, the pols were stoned, and the direct descendants were bored out of their skulls. Homer was asleep. The photographer had run out of film, and the florist had run out of wreaths.
Such is life in the boondocks!
three
Qwilleran placed his new “old book” from Edd’s shop on the coffee table. It had a handsome jacket that had been protected by a plastic slipcover: an illustration of pyramids rising mysteriously from the desert. He thought, Egypt has pyramids; we have shafthouses.
Whenever something new was added, the Siamese had to make an immediate inspection. Yum Yum was subjective in her appraisal. (Can it be batted around? Hidden under a rug? Chewed?) Koko was inclined to be more objective. (What is its purpose? Where did it come from? Why is it here?)
Mysteries of the Egyptian Pyramids came under close scrutiny. Yum Yum rejected it on all counts; Koko found that it had merit and gave it his blessing: He sat on it. Qwilleran would read aloud from it before leaving for Sunday brunch and the silent auction. They liked the sound of his voice, whether he was reading about ancient Egypt or the World Series. Then, at noon, he gave them a crunchy treat and a few parting instructions: “Drink plenty of water. Take your afternoon naps. Don’t make any long-distance phone calls.” They listened politely.
Qwilleran picked up Polly and the Rikers in his van. Just in case he bought the six- by eight-foot rug, he wanted to be able to bring it home.
Arch and Mildred were eagerly awaiting an afternoon of food and bargains in the company of their best friends. The couple had found each other late in life, and both had found new careers after retirement. She was plump and pretty and loved to cook; he was paunchy and ruddy-faced and loved to eat.
“Beautiful day!” Mildred said as she climbed into the van.
“It won’t be long before snow flies,” Polly said.
“It’ll put an end to the threat of wildfires,” Arch observed.
“Tell them what you’ve just found out, hon,” his wife said.
“Yes . . . It’ll be Monday’s banner story. A geologist from the state university called and said there’s a similar situation in Canada. In abandoned mines it’s quite possible that fires have been smoldering underground for as much as a century. Normal rainfall keeps them under control, but they surface as spontaneous conflagrations when drought conditions prevail. All our mines are said to be connected, you know.”
“No, I’ve never heard that,” Polly said.
“We should have constant surveillance of the mine area, but the sheriff claims to have insufficient vehicles and personnel for a stepped-up patrol. That’s the bad news. The good news comes from Moose County Community College. Burgess Campbell’s students propose a Citizens’ Fire Watch. Volunteers will drive their own vehicles over prescribed routes in three-hour shifts. They’ll use cell phones to report smoke or burning weeds to a hotline.”
Mildred was always optimistic. “They won’t have any trouble enlisting volunteers. It’s a temporary thing—until snow flies—and it’s for a good cause. Everyone wants to save the shafthouses.”
Arch said, “Tomorrow’s paper will be a fat issue: the wildfire emergency, the motorcade, the silent auction . . . How was the motorcade, Qwill?”
“Interesting,” he said.
Tipsy’s Tavern in nearby Kennebeck was a roadhouse in a sprawling log cabin that had been noted for good food since the 1930s. The founder had named it after his cat, a white one with comical black markings, and her portrait hung in the main dining room. At one time there had been a countywide controversy over her feet in the painting; should they be black or white? Customers were in complete agreement about the steak and fish, however. It was the best!
The Sunday brunch was a recent innovation, offering “anything you want, as long as it’s eggs.” They were “laid this morning by happy hens in our own back
yard.” The yolks were domed and intensely orange-yellow—a good sign, according to Mildred. The house specialty was called Eggs Tipsy. A large English muffin was split and grilled; then each half was topped with a homemade sausage patty, a poached egg, and melted cheddar cheese. Local grandmothers waited on tables.
At Qwilleran’s table they entertained themselves by bandying superlatives:
“Tipsy’s is the oldest restaurant in the county.”
“The Mackintosh Room at the inn is the newest—and best.”
“Lois’s Luncheonette is the shabbiest and friendliest.”
“Otto’s Tasty Eats—until it closed—took top honors for being the worst and the noisiest—”
“And probably made the most money. Otto has the building up for sale.”
“There’s a rumor it’s going to be an antique village—a cooperative where dealers rent spaces and take turns minding the store.”
Qwilleran knew his guests liked a Bloody Mary before brunch, and he ordered four. “But make mine without the vodka,” he said. “I’m underage.”
“Yes, sonny,” said the white-haired waitress.
When drinks were served, Arch proposed a toast to Lenny Inchpot, who had won “the last bike race before snow flies.”
“His mother will be thrilled,” Polly said.
“Lois will be serving free coffee tomorrow. Lenny’s a good kid. Ambitious. Hardworking. Conscientious.”
Mildred, the only Moose County native in the foursome, said, “He doesn’t take after his father. Mr. Inchpot never did a day’s work in his life. He was always ill, Lois said. She looked after him, raised their son, and supported them by running the lunchroom. And by the way, her husband drank a little, saying it was good for his condition. One day he came out of a bar, stepped in front of a truck and was killed. Lois went all to pieces—until she found out the truth. Dr. Goodwinter didn’t tell her, but his nurse did. There’d never been anything wrong with Mr. Inchpot. He was a malingerer.”
Arch said, “That should lay to rest the notion that all the bad guys are in large cities, and all the good guys are in small towns. And how about the forgery ring, Millie?”
“That was way back when I started teaching. Three all-A students were signing report cards, writing absence excuses, and doing the other kids’ homework.”
The two men exchanged glances. They had grown up together in Chicago. Qwilleran said, “The only time we got into trouble, it was for humorous pranks.”
“Like putting glue on the teacher’s chair cushion,” Arch added.
“Cute!” said Mildred.
They ordered Eggs Tipsy all around, and the plates arrived in about two minutes.
“What took you so long?” Arch asked.
“Gotta wait for the hens to lay the eggs,” the white-haired waitress said.
The freshness of the eggs, flavor of the sausage, crispness of the grilled muffins, and zippiness of the cheese were duly noted. Then conversation turned to the haiku contest being sponsored by Qwilleran’s column. His readers were invited to compose poems inspired by the Japanese style, mailing them on postal cards to the Something. Winners would have the thrill of seeing their entries printed on page two, and each would receive a fat yellow lead pencil stamped with “Qwill Pen” in gold.
Arch said, “Our mailroom is swamped! The response is double that of last year. That’s amazing, considering we don’t offer a two-week vacation in Hawaii or a year’s supply of chocolate-coated potato chips.”
Qwilleran said, “People of all ages and walks of life like haiku, because the form is written in plain language, about common experiences and emotions, and sometimes with a whimsical slant. An early Japanese poet wrote: Don’t worry, spider; my housekeeping is casual. And one of last year’s winners wrote: I never know what to say when I speak to a butterfly.”
He had promised that the winning haiku would be printed “before snow flies.”
“You didn’t give them much time to create masterpieces,” Mildred remarked.
“The shorter the deadline, the more response we get. Give them a month to think, and they forget all about it. What’s new at the art center, Mildred?”
“There’s an interesting new artist in town. Her husband is the new dermatologist from Chicago. She’s joined the art center. She specializes in batik wallhangings.”
“What are those?” Arch asked.
“It’s a centuries-old method of painting on fabric, using wax and dye,” Qwilleran informed him, enjoying his one-upmanship.
“How do you know?”
“I get around. I’m having dinner with her and the doctor Tuesday night. They want some advice on adjusting to the small-town culture.”
“How’d you like to write an advice column for the Something?” Arch came back. “You could call it Q Tips.”
They skipped the bread pudding, and there was no lingering over coffee; their minds were on the auction. It was being staged at the community hall. Not only was the parking lot filled, but the police were allowing cars to park on both sides of Main Street.
At the entrance an older woman greeted Qwilleran with an exuberant hug and shook hands with his guests. She was Maggie Sprenkle, the same rich widow who had donated the bronze plaques, who served loyally on the library board, and who spent long hours at the animal shelter as a volunteer.
Many of those in attendance had bought tickets to support a good cause and spent their time circling the refreshment table in the center of the hall or making friends with the puppies and kittens waiting to be adopted, yipping and mewing, extending paws through the bars of their cages. Serious auction-goers headed for the bidding tables, where antiques, decorative objects, and handcrafted items were on display.
There were rows of folding chairs here and there, where guests would sit and sip punch. Maggie, a gracious hostess, would ask them, “How do you like the punch? I made it myself. . . . Are you doing any bidding? Keep an eye on the bidding sheets, and don’t let anyone top you. . . . Every item is worth at least twice the minimum bid.”
Qwilleran perused the offerings quickly until he found the Danish rya rug, draped over a rack and spread out over a table. The bidding sheet said “Minimum bid, $500; Minimum raise, $50.” No names had been signed to the sheet; no bids had been made. He signed for five hundred.
The Rikers came along and Arch said in surprise, “Are you bidding on that?”
A check of the bidding sheets indicated that Polly was bidding on a pair of Italian porcelain parrots.
Arch, who considered himself a serious and knowledgeable collector, was bidding on a piece of rusty tin.
Qwilleran said to him, “Are you bidding on that?”
“It’s a fabulous piece of folk art in painted tin,” he was informed. “It’s a matchbox. The idea is that the cat scares the mice away from the matches.”
Guarding the matchbox was the head of a cat with large, rapacious eyes; its tail formed a hook for hanging on a wall.
“What are they bidding on this?” Qwilleran asked.
“It’s up to two-fifty. I am willing to go three.”
“Three hundred?”
“Even at that it’s a steal!” A connoisseur of old painted tin, Arch had built an enviable collection Down Below, only to lose it in a divorce settlement. His ex-wife then had the effrontery to open an antique shop and name it Tin ’n’ Stuff.
Qwilleran said, “Nice piece of tin. Hope you get it.”
He himself went back to the Danish rug to check the bidding. There was not a single name on the sheet, other than his own. Chuckling to himself, he raised his own bid and signed Ronald Frobnitz. Then he went in search of Polly.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“They’re pushing the prices too high. I’m dropping out. How about you, Qwill?”
“Someone else is bidding on the rug that Fran Brodie wanted me to have, but I’m keeping my eye on it.”
The crowd was moving toward the stage at the end of the hall, and he rounded up
his party for a show featuring professional canines and their handlers.
First there was a German shepherd from the Moose County sheriff’s department, trained for search and rescue. He had found lost children, missing persons, fugitives, and accident victims. He listened modestly as his handler extolled his intelligence and perseverance. “He—never—gives—up!”
From Bixby County came a black Labrador retriever trained for drug searching. She amused the audience by retrieving a folded towel again and again with unflagging enthusiasm. Her handler said, “In training sessions, narcotics of different kinds are wrapped in the towel. In a drug raid she can spot nine kinds of contraband.”
The audience waited expectantly for another extraordinary dog, when who should amble on stage but the six-foot-eight Derek Cuttlebrink with his guitar. The audience screamed and applauded. After strumming a few chords with a bouncy rhythm, Moose County’s favorite young-man-about-town sang with a nasal twang:
I found my puppy in Pickax At the animal shelter one day.
I was feeling down
When I come to town,
And I took him home to stay.
He was jest a li’l white puppy
With a black spot round his eye,
But he bumbled and he yipped,
And he nuzzled and he nipped,
And he kissed my blues goodbye.
“Sing it again!” everyone yelled.
He strummed a few chords. “Everybody sing!”
Loudly, and unsure of the lyrics, they sang, “I found my puppy in Pickax. . .da-duh, da-da-da da da da da. . .”
Polly groaned.
“They like it,” Qwilleran said.
“It’s the kind of inane jingle that haunts one. I’ll have to hum the Hallelujah Chorus to get it out of my mind.”
The Cat Who Smelled a Rat Audio Page 3
