“In a weak moment I said I would,” said Qwilleran with a lack of animation.
“How would you like to come along for the ride? It’s an hour’s drive to Lockmaster, and we can stop for dinner on the way down. I know a good place. Coming back, she’ll sit in the backseat and not say a word. Frankly, she gives me the creeps. So I’d be glad of the company.”
That was all Qwilleran needed to hear: Stop for dinner at a good place.
“I’ll have to shower and feed the cats,” he said. “How much time do we have?”
“We ought to leave by six o’clock.”
“Then would you be good enough to give them their food?”
“Me! I’ve never fed a cat in my life!” Roger professed to a fear of felines, and he looked about apprehensively as he entered the cabin. “Where are they?”
Qwilleran pointed to Koko on the moosehead and Yum Yum on a crossbeam spanning the dining table.
“I’d feel more comfortable, Qwill, if they were down on the floor. Isn’t that where cats are supposed to hang out?”
“Not Siamese! But I’ll get them down in a hurry. Watch this! . . . CEREAL!”
Koko thumped from the moosehead to the mantel to the woodbox to the floor, and Yum Yum swooped through the air from the beam to the top of the bar, causing Roger to duck and retreat toward the exit. For their prompt response they were rewarded with a few of Mildred’s tasty crumbles.
“Now here’s a can of salmon,” Qwilleran explained, “and here’s the can opener and a spoon. Just spread it on this plate, mashed up, with the dark skin removed. They don’t like the dark skin.”
“At our house we eat the dark skin—if we’re lucky enough to have canned salmon,” said Roger. “Hey, it’s red salmon! Mostly we buy tuna, when it’s on sale.”
Qwilleran said, “I notice you’re wearing a coat and tie.”
“Mrs. Ascott doesn’t approve of casual.”
“Okay, I’ll be ready before six. If you want music, put a cassette on the stereo. Koko likes Brahms.”
In the allotted time he emerged—coated, cravatted, and spiffily groomed except for his flamboyant moustache which always looked wayward. “I’ll be glad to drive my car,” he offered.
“Thanks, but Mrs. Ascott will fit better in the backseat of my four-door. She’s rather large.”
“How will she get home?”
“She’ll stay over, and Mildred and Sharon will drive her back in the morning.”
The route to Lockmaster was sixty miles straight down the main highway, and as soon as Roger went into overdrive, Qwilleran asked, “Have the police any leads on Clem Cottle’s disappearance?”
“Not that they’re telling.”
“Do you know his father?”
“I’ve met Doug Cottle, but I don’t know him very well.”
“What is he like? He sounded curt when I talked to him on the phone.”
“Oh, he’s curt, all right. Curt is something he does very well. So different from Clem. I guess Clem takes after his mother. She’s nice.”
“Do father and son get along together?”
“Not too good, I hear. He blamed Clem for the fire—something he said Clem did, or didn’t do, in connection with the electrical system.”
“Did the state fire marshal investigate?”
“He didn’t have to. No one was killed, and the fire chief didn’t report any evidence of arson.”
After crossing the Moose County line, the road led into hunting country with its rolling hills, opulent horse farms, and miles of fences dipping and curving across the green terrain. In the landscape and the dwellings there was an air of sophistication that Moose County lacked, and the restaurants were said to be better. Roger pulled into the parking lot of a place called the Palomino Paddock.
When Qwilleran noted the hostess in a long dress and several diners in dinner jackets and a wine steward wearing heavy chains, he began to think he should pick up the check for this meal. When they were seated (with pomp) and the menus were presented (with a flourish), he knew the Palomino Paddock was not for a young man on a tuna-fish budget. “Since you’re driving tonight, Roger, dinner is my treat,” he said.
They started with vichyssoise, and Qwilleran said, “What do you know about Mrs. Ascott?”
“Not much. She and my mother-in-law have been good friends for years. Mildred reads the tarot cards, you know, and I guess they have something in common. Did she ever read the cards for you?”
“Once, a couple of years ago. I hate to admit it, but she was right about everything—although I didn’t think so at the time. You said Mrs. Ascott is a big woman?”
“She’s huge! Not fat, just monumental, as Sharon says. There’s something about a huge old woman that’s more formidable than a huge young woman. Her eyes are always half closed, but they’re long! Sharon thinks she uses eye makeup to make her eyes seem longer, like they do in India. She doesn’t talk much in company, just monosyllables in a tiny voice. But when she goes into action and starts predicting the future, she’s frightening. She sounds like a drill sergeant. I wouldn’t mention this to Sharon or Mildred, but sometimes I think she’s really a man.”
Both men had ordered the prime rib, and Qwilleran declared it to be real beef without the hypodermic needle or irradiation or blood transfusion.
“Speaking of Mrs. Ascott,” Roger said, “do you want to hear something weird? . . . When the baby was born, we asked her to be godmother. She came up here for the christening, and Mildred had a get-together for some friends, with Mrs. Ascott delivering spirit messages. It was spooky. She had a message for Sharon and me from a spirit named Harriet. This Harriet said we should move the baby’s crib to another room. That’s all—just move it to another room.”
“How did you react?”
“I felt like a fool, but Sharon insisted, so we moved the crib from the nursery to our own bedroom, which was pretty crowded. Two nights later . . . the whole plaster ceiling of the nursery fell down!”
“Did you ever know anyone named Harriet?”
“Sharon never did,” said Roger, “but that was the name of my great-great-grandmother.”
Qwilleran threw a quick, incredulous glance across the dinner table. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“It’s true! Ask Sharon. Ask Mildred.”
Lockmaster had been the home of wealthy lumber barons in the nineteenth century, and their mansions were fanciful examples of Victorian architecture. At one of these, which appeared to be an exclusive boarding house, Qwilleran and Roger picked up Mrs. Ascott. In her long black dress, with black crepe draped over her dyed black hair, she moved slowly and majestically to the waiting car with Roger at her elbow. They wedged her into the backseat with some embarrassment on the part of the men, and a few artfully controlled giggles from Roger. She sat in the center of the seat, staring straight ahead through eyes long and slitted.
“Are you comfortable, Mrs. Ascott?” Qwilleran asked.
“Mmmmm,” she replied.
In the front seat, during the ride back to Mooseville, there were animated discussions about baseball, politics, and the prevalence of violent crime Down Below. Arriving at Mildred’s cottage, the two men eased Mrs. Ascott out of the car and guided her indoors like two harbor tugs maneuvering an ocean-going liner into its berth. There she was greeted with adulation by Mildred and Sharon and ushered to a seat of honor in the middle of the living room sofa—the flowered sofa that Mildred had recently reupholstered with hours of sweat and tears. Qwilleran thought, I hope she reinforced the springs.
Seated in a half circle, facing the sofa, were the guests, speaking in hushed tones: John and Vicki Bushland, Sue Urbank without her husband, the Comptons, and others Qwilleran had not met. It was still daylight, but the traverse draperies had been drawn across the window-wall, and lamps were lighted. A hint of incense gave the assembly a mystical aura.
Mildred welcomed the group, saying, “We’re privileged to have Mrs. Ascott with us this evening. She has
so much to tell us about matters beyond our perception that I’ll waste no time in introducing this renowned woman whose revelations speak for themselves.”
The guests were asked to write their initials on slips of paper, fold them, and drop them in a basket, which was then placed on the coffee table in front of the seer. There was a breathless pause. Mrs. Ascott, ignoring the contents of the basket, gazed at a distant point above and beyond the heads of the assemblage. Finally she started to speak in a booming voice, addressing her pronouncements to the initials in the basket.
“To SFU . . . I am receiving the impression . . . of a mistake . . . You have made a drastic decision . . . not for the best . . . Is it too late to change your plans?”
“No,” said Sue Urbank in a small frightened voice.
“Then do so!”
A murmur of surprise rippled through the audience.
“To RJM . . . You have changed careers . . . with some trepidation . . . Have no fear . . . You have acted wisely.”
Roger and Sharon exchanged happy glances.
“Remember your responsibilities . . . Avoid unnecessary risks.”
“Yes. Thank you,” said Roger.
Mrs. Ascott continued to stare at the opposite wall through heavy-lidded eyes. “To LMC . . . I see pain . . . Remember your age and use discretion . . . You could have trouble with . . . your knees.”
Lisa Compton groaned while nodding her head.
“To SKM . . . In my mind’s eye . . . I see you tormented . . . by indecision . . . Duty first, desire later.”
Again the MacGillivrays exchanged glances, not happy ones.
“To JWB . . . I have a vision . . . of great loss . . . material loss . . . but you will save what really matters.”
Bushy passed a nervous hand over his nearly hairless head.
“To LFC . . . I see a dwelling . . . Are you selling property?”
“I’m trying to,” said Compton.
“Don’t be impatient . . . Bide your time . . . A good offer is on the way.”
“Thank you.”
“To VRB . . . My dear . . . something you have long wanted . . . will be yours.”
Vicki Bushland barely suppressed a little shriek.
At that point Mrs. Ascott asked for a glass of water, and there was a brief intermission as guests whispered to each other and Qwilleran thought, Mildred could have briefed this woman on the concerns of her friends: Sue Urbank’s pending divorce, Roger’s career crisis, Lisa Compton’s “jogging knees.” Everyone knew that Lyle wanted to sell his house in Pickax and buy a condominium, and Sharon wanted to hire a baby-sitter and return to teaching school, and Vicki desperately wanted a successful pregnancy.
Mrs. Ascott resumed with a message for MTH: “It would be wise . . . to have a complete physical examination . . . without delay!”
Qwilleran thought this a cruel pronouncement to make so abruptly and in public, and he turned to see Mildred’s reaction. Her lips were pressed together.
When the session ended, there had been messages for everyone except JQ, and Qwilleran surmised that the psychic had sensed his skepticism, or Mildred had warned her.
At this point the hostess rose and said, “Mrs. Ascott has consented to answer a few direct questions if anyone cares to ask.”
There was silence until, in a challenging voice, Qwilleran asked, “Can you tell us anything about the whereabouts of a young man named Clem Cottle?”
Mrs. Ascott stared at the upper wall with unseeing eyes. Finally she said, “I have a sense of distance . . . a long distance. He is very far away. Is he in the armed services?”
“No,” said Qwilleran, “he’s a local carpenter.”
“He wishes to return . . . but he is unable.”
She’s bluffing, Qwilleran thought, but then the enigmatic woman added, “Are you JQ? I have a message for you . . . from a female spirit . . . Her name is . . . Joy . . . Take precautions . . . to protect your family. Do you have two . . . children?”
“No, ma’am, I have two cats.”
There was a suppressed tittering in the audience.
“There is another message . . . from Joy . . . not quite clear . . . about an excavation . . . The message is . . . fading out . . . It’s gone . . . That is all.”
“Thank you,” said Qwilleran, somewhat shaken.
She went on with other messages from other spirits for other guests, but he could think only of the cryptic tidings from Joy, his boyhood sweetheart, who had been dead for two years.
TWELVE
On Sunday morning Qwilleran recalled Mrs. Ascott’s messages with mixed reactions. He suspected she had received no vibrations whatever about Clem Cottle and was only trying to save face. He resented her ominous reference to Mildred’s health; there were less frightening ways of urging a friend to have a physical checkup. On the other hand, the idea of a spirit message from Joy Wheatley, with whom he had been so close for so many years, was disturbing. He remembered Roger’s story about Harriet and the nursery ceiling.
He was on the porch with the Sunday papers, throwing each section on the floor as he finished reading it. Yum Yum liked to roll on them, kicking and squirming and having a good time. At one point he went indoors to call Mildred and discuss the events of the previous evening. There was no answer, of course; she and Sharon were chauffeuring Mrs. Ascott back to Lockmaster. While he was letting the phone ring the recommended number of times, however, he heard the unmistakable sound of ripping paper. Koko was standing on a newspaper with his front end down and his hind end elevated and his tail stiffened into a question mark. With teeth and claws he was shredding the Moose County Something. It was the second time Koko had attacked the “Qwill Pen” column.
“This has got to stop!” Qwilleran scolded. “Shape up, or we’ll ship you to Washington. You can get a job at the Pentagon.”
Why did that cat never shred the Daily Fluxion or the Morning Rampage or the New York Times? Did it have something to do with the quality of the paper or the smell of the ink? Patiently he gathered the torn scraps of newsprint. Koko had destroyed Emma Wimsey’s story about Punkin.
Qwilleran had met many old-timers since moving to Moose County: the incredible Aunt Fanny; Grandma Gage, who did push-ups and headstands; Homer Tibbitt, still doing volunteer work at ninety. When he was with them, he felt he was talking with his own grandparents, whom he had never known. Now he had a sudden strong urge to drive to Pickax and visit the Senior Care Facility. He could scout the possibilities of more memoirs. He might take some flowers to Emma Wimsey. He wondered if the Chief Canary would be on duty. Smugly he groomed his moustache with his fingertips.
Sunday afternoon was a popular visiting day at the Facility. Cars filled the parking lot, and relatives were chatting with residents in the lounge, the lobby, and the dining room. The “canaries” flitted about in their yellow smocks, bringing the elderly down from their rooms, watching lest they became overtired or overexcited, then wheeling them back to the elevator.
Irma Hasselrich, in her yellow blazer, was on duty at the reception desk. “Oh, Mr. Qwilleran!” she greeted him. “We’ve all been reading your column about Emma and Punkin. It’s delightful!”
“Thank you,” he said, “but I can’t take credit. It was Emma’s story.”
“We read it to her three times, and it brought tears to her eyes. I myself thought it was beautifully written—with such sincerity and compassion.”
Qwilleran preened his moustache with pleasure. Although he affected modesty, he relished compliments about his writing. “Is she allowed to have flowers?” He was carrying a bunch of daisies in a florist’s green tissue.
“Of course. She’ll be thrilled! I’ll have someone bring her down to the reading room, where it’s quiet. We’re getting awfully busy today. By the way, Emma had some discomfort this week, and the doctor is limiting her visits to ten minutes.”
When Emma’s wheelchair rolled into the reading room, she reached forward to clasp Qwilleran’s hand with both of
her shrunken ones, her thin lips trembling in a smile. “Thank you . . . for that beautiful . . . writeup,” she said, her speech faltering and her voice noticeably weaker. More than ever she appeared fragile and wispy.
“It was a pleasure to write,” he said, “and here’s a small thank-you for sharing your story about Punkin.”
“Oh!” she cried. “I never had any . . . flowers in . . . green paper. We never had . . . money for . . . fancy things.”
“May I ask, after you went to college, did you teach school?”
“Yes. The school had . . . one room. There was . . . a potbellied stove . . . and oil lamps . . .”
He tried to ask questions that would focus her attention and jog her memory, but her answers were hesitant and vague. “You told the story of Punkin very well. Do you remember any other tales?”
“I used to know . . . a lot of stories . . . . I wrote them down . . . I don’t know where they are.”
“Emma, honey,” said the volunteer, “they’re safe and sound in your room upstairs.” She caught Qwilleran’s eye and tapped her watch. Emma was looking weary.
“We’ll have another visit someday,” he said. “Until then, goodbye.” He clasped her cold hands in his.
“Goodbye,” she said in a wisp of a voice.
As Emma was wheeled away, clutching her daisies, he went to the reception desk to speak with Irma Hasselrich. “She seems to be failing,” he said.
“But you never know!” she said brightly. “These farmwomen have tremendous stamina.” Optimism was the policy of the canaries.
“The newspaper is interested in running more memoirs of old-timers. How many residents do you have?”
“Sixty-five, and others on the waiting list.”
“Would it be possible to screen them? The volunteers probably know who has a reliable memory and who has a story to tell.”
“I’ll raise the question at a staff meeting this week,” she said, “but we wouldn’t want to discriminate, would we? We might hurt the feelings of some of these dear folks. They’re like children.”
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