“If you have occasion to leave your apartment after dark, Polly, I’d rather you didn’t drive alone. These are changing times. We have to face the fact that strangers are coming into Pickax. If you have an evening engagement, call me and I’ll provide chauffeur service.”
“Why this sudden concern, Qwill? Has anything happened? If it’s because of that prowler last June . . . that was three months ago!”
“It’s your neighborhood I worry about,” Qwilleran said. “There are so many vacant houses. It behooves you to be careful. Meanwhile, would you like dinner tomorrow night? I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“The library will be open, and it’s my turn to work.”
“How about Friday?”
“The Hasselriches invited me to dinner. They’re having Irma’s favorite rolladen cooked in red wine.”
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. That was twice in one week! Now that she was their “surrogate daughter,” they would be monopolizing her time. “Then how about Saturday? We could drive to Lockmaster and have dinner at the Palomino Paddock,” he said, one-upping the Hasselriches’ rolladen. In a state-wide dining guide the Paddock was rated **** for food and $$$$$ for price.
Polly gasped as he hoped she would. “Oh, that would be delightful!”
“Then it’s a date.”
There was a pause.
“All’s well, then?” he asked gently.
“All’s well,” she said with feeling.
“À bientôt, Polly.”
“À bientôt, dear.”
He immediately phoned the Paddock to reserve a good table. It was short notice for the celebrated restaurant, but the mention of his name commanded special consideration even in the next county, the K Foundation having recently funded a swimming pool for the youth center in Lockmaster.
Then he started up the ramp to change into pajamas and slippers. He was halfway to the first balcony when Koko rushed up behind him at a frantic speed and lunged at his legs, throwing him off balance and nearly knocking him to the floor.
“Say! Who do you think you are?” Qwilleran yelled. “A Green Bay linebacker? You could break my neck, you crazy cat!”
Koko, who had bounced off his target, picked himself up and sat on his haunches with head lowered as he licked his paw and passed it over his mask, stopping between licks to stare at the forehead of the man who was scolding him.
Qwilleran passed his own hand over his moustache as he thought, Can he smell Melinda’s perfume? I spent two minutes with her, and he knows it! . . . And then he thought, Or is he trying to tell me something? I’m following the wrong scent; he’s trying to push me back on track. What does he want me to do?
ELEVEN
THE MORNING AFTER Koko’s flying tackle, there was no more domestic violence in the apple barn, but Koko stared at Qwilleran pointedly, as if trying to communicate. Over coffee and a thawed breakfast roll, the man tried to read the cat’s message, thoughtfully combing his moustache with his fingertips. Could it be, he wondered, a warning about the Boulevard Prowler? Precognition was one of Koko’s rare senses.
In sheer uncertainty mixed with curiosity, Qwilleran drove his car north that morning, turning left at the Dimsdale Diner onto the unpaved extension of Ittibittiwassee Road. This neglected stretch of gravel dead-ended at the abandoned Dimsdale Mine, with its rotting shafthouse and red signs warning of cave-ins. Nearby, where the thriving town of Dimsdale used to stand, there was only an eyesore called Shantytown.
It was a slum of shacks and decrepit travel trailers, rusty vehicles, and ramshackle chicken coops. They were scattered in a patch of woods, and the transients who lived there were actually squatters on Klingenschoen property. Shantytown was known as a hangout for derelicts, but poor families also lived there, and children played in the dust that surrounded the substandard housing. Efforts by the county and the K Foundation to “do something about Dimsdale” never achieved much. As soon as families were helped to move on to a better life through skill-training, employment, and a healthy environment, more families moved in to take their dreary place.
On this occasion, Qwilleran chose not to drive into the Shantytown jungle, thinking that his white car would be too conspicuous, but he peered through the woods with binoculars for a glimpse of a maroon vehicle and saw nothing that fitted that description. Leaving the area, he stopped for lunch at the diner, chiefly to confirm that it was as dismal as he remembered. The windows were still opaque with grime; two more seats had fallen off the stools at the counter; and the coffee lived up to its reputation as the worst in the county. Nevertheless, he recalled one dark and anxious night when he was stranded on the way home from North Middle Hummock with his car upside down in the ditch; the cook at the diner had sent him hot coffee and stale doughnuts on-the-house, a gesture that was much appreciated at the time.
A chalkboard announced the diner’s Thursday specials: TOM SOUP, TUNA SAMICH, AND MAC/CHEEZ. Qwilleran, who had never encountered a plate of macaroni and cheese he didn’t like, ordered the special with sanguine expectation but found the pasta cooked to the consistency of tapioca pudding. As for the sauce, library paste could have tasted no worse.
When he returned to the barn, ill-fed and somewhat ill-tempered, Koko was hopping up and down like a puppet on strings, a performance that signified a message on the answering machine. The call was from John Bushland in Lockmaster: “Qwill, it’s Bushy. Making a delivery in Pickax this afternoon. Will drop by. Hope you’re there. Got some good pix.”
The photographer’s van pulled into the barnyard about two o’clock.
“How come you’re making a delivery in the backwoods?” Qwilleran asked. Lockmaster, with its horse breeders and golf courses, considered itself more civilized than its rural neighbor to the north, where potato farms and sheep ranches were the norm, and feed caps and pickup trucks were high fashion.
Bushy said, “Arch wanted to know if I had any shots of the Bonnie Scots gang with Scottish landmarks or local color. He said he’d run a spread, maybe a double-truck.”
“Could you help him?”
“Oh, sure. I delivered more than a dozen prints, and I brought a set to show you, plus some scenics that are kind of different. Where can we spread them out?” There were three yellow boxes filled with 8×10 black-and-white glossies. “I’ll have the color later,” he said. “Here we are when we had lunch at Loch Lomond . . . and in this one we’re waiting for the ferry at Mull. Here are some of the gals on the bridge at Eilean Donan Castle. The only complete group is around the bus at Oban; I even jumped into the picture myself.”
“Wait a minute,” Qwilleran said as he went to the desk for a magnifying glass. “Isn’t that the bus driver in the background?”
Bushy studied the print with the glass. “You’re right! He didn’t duck his head for this one! I can blow it up and make a mug shot for the police.”
“This calls for a celebration! How about Scotch with a splash of Squunk water?”
The photographer followed Qwilleran to the serving bar. “I know how it happened, Qwill. I was using the tripod, and I set the timer so I could run and get in the picture, and because I wasn’t behind the camera, Bruce didn’t realize he was being photographed . . . Hey! The cat’s licking the prints!”
“Koko! Get away!” Qwilleran clapped his hands threateningly, and Koko darted guiltily from the vicinity.
“It must be the emulsion he likes,” Bushy said. “Maybe I should put them back in the boxes . . . Guess what!” he said with more incredulity than enthusiasm. “Arch wants me to photograph the teddy bears for a story you’re writing!”
“Be prepared for a wacky experience!”
“I know. Grace hired me to shoot her jewelry for insurance purposes before we left on the trip, and she hasn’t paid me yet!”
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “What do you bet she’s giving us the teddy bear story so she’ll get free photos for the same purpose?”
The photographer sipped his drink moodily for a whi
le and then said, “Do you think Pickax could support a photo studio, Qwill?”
“Why? Do you want to open a branch?”
“I’m thinking of moving my whole operation up here,” Bushy said morosely. “That’s the problem I told you about. Vicki and I are breaking up. My studio and darkroom are in the house, and I’ve got to get out. She’s turning it into a restaurant.”
“Sorry to hear about that, Bushy. I thought everything was going great with you two.”
“Yeah . . . well . . . it looks like we won’t have a family, so she’s been hot for a career, which is okay with me, but she’s gone crazy over her damned catering business! And now some guy at the riding club wants to back her financially if she’ll open a restaurant. He comes on pretty strong, if you know what I mean. He’s not just interested in food.”
Qwilleran shook his head sympathetically. “I’ve been through that kind of mess myself, and let me offer some advice: Whatever you do, don’t let them grind you down. Illegitimi non carborundum, as they say in fractured Latin.”
“Yeah, but not so easy to do,” Bushy said grimly. “Anyway, do you think a photo studio would go up here?”
“With the right kind of promotion . . . definitely! Pickax could use your talent and energy. If you don’t mind working for a paper, the Somethingcould give you plenty of assignments. And with your kind of enthusiasm, I predict you’ll be president of the Boosters Club within a year!”
“Thanks, Qwill, I needed that! Those are the first upbeat words I’ve heard since I got back from Scotland . . . And now I’ve got work to do. I’ll bring the mug shot of the bus driver tomorrow when I come up to shoot the bears.”
“Deliver it to Andy Brodie,” Qwilleran advised. “Start making points with the police chief.”
When the photographer had left, he opened the yellow boxes on the dining table, where he could spread the prints out, and he was astounded at what he saw. Bushy had used unorthodox camera angles and different lenses and exposures to produce a startling kind of travel photography: impressionist, partially abstract in some shots, surreal in others. He went to the phone to call Arch Riker.
“Got an idea for you,” he told the publisher. “I’ve just been talking to Bushy.”
“Yes, we’re running his Bonnie Scots pix Monday. How about writing some cutlines? We’ll need them by noon tomorrow.”
“Do I get a by-line?”
“Depends on how good they are. We’ll go with the teddy bears Tuesday. That means copy’s due Monday morning . . . Now what’s your idea?”
“I’ve been looking at Bushy’s scenic photos, and that guy definitely has a different way of looking at castles, mountains, sheep, fishermen, and all the other stuff. They’re exhibition quality, Arch! Why couldn’t the Something sponsor an exhibition of his travel photos?”
“Where?”
“In the lobby of the K Theatre, to tie in with the opening of Macbeth. He also has interesting shots of Larry and Melinda rehearsing in the courtyards of old inns.”
There was a pensive pause before Riker said, “Once in a while you come up with a good one, Qwill.”
As Qwilleran returned to the dining area, feeling pleased with himself, he was abashed to hear a telltale sound that was not good; Koko was slurping photos.
“NO!” he yelled. “Bad cat!”
Koko leaped from the table with a backward kick, scattering prints in all directions.
“Cats!” Qwilleran grumbled as he segregated the damaged glossies. Several had been deglossed in spots by the cat’s sandpaper tongue and potent saliva.
He mentioned Koko’s aberrant behavior to Polly as they drove to Lockmaster Saturday evening. “It’s not the first time he’s done this.”
“Bootsie never does anything like that,” she said.
Sure, Qwilleran thought. Bootsie never does anything—but eat.
The exclusive Palomino Paddock was located in lush horse country, and they found a parking place between an Italian sports car and a British luxury van. Eight o’clock guests in dinner jackets and long dresses were beginning to arrive—one pair in a horse-drawn surrey. The building itself, in purposeful contrast to the exquisite food and elegant customers, resembled an old horse stable—which it may well have been—and the interior was artfully cluttered with saddles, bales of hay, and portraits of thoroughbreds. Informality was the keynote, and the waitstaff—all young equestrians—were dressed like grooms. Early diners in hunting pinks, sipping their exotic demitasses, sprawled in their chairs with breeched and booted legs extended stiffly in the aisles.
Qwilleran and his guest were conducted to a cozily private table in a horse stall, where a framed portrait of a legendary horse named Cardinal was enshrined, with credit given to the Bushland Studio.
When a young wine steward wearing the keys to the cellar on heavy chains presented the wine list, Qwilleran waved it away. “The lady will have a glass of your driest sherry, and you can bring me Squunk water with a slice of lime. That is,” he added slyly to test the young man’s education, “if you have a recent vintage.”
With perfect aplomb and a straight face the steward said, “I happen to have a bottle dated last Thursday and labeled Export Reserve. I think you’ll find it exciting, with a mellow bouquet and distinctive finish.” In reference to Squunk water, “bouquet” was a flattering term.
The waitress had the breezy self-confidence of a young woman who keeps her own horse, wins ribbons, and looks terrific in a riding habit. “I’m your waitperson,” she said. “We love having you here tonight. My name is Trilby.”
“May I guess the name of your horse?” Qwilleran asked.
“Brandy. He’s a buckskin. No papers, but beautiful points! I’ll bring you the menus.”
To Polly he said, “The woman in a red dress over there is Bushy’s wife, Vicki. Her escort is someone I don’t know.”
“Vicki’s my aunt,” said Trilby, presenting the menus, “and he’s an officer of the riding club. They’re going to open their own restaurant.” She dashed away again.
In a lower voice, Qwilleran said, “The Bushlands are having marital problems.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “He’s such a congenial and thoughtful young man.”
“Talented, too. Wait till you see his pictures of Scotland. They have nothing to do with postcard art. Arch is going to start giving him assignments.”
“That’s good news! The photos in the Something are so unimaginative.”
“We use amateurs with smart cameras. What we need is a smart photographer. For starters, Bushy is going to photograph Grace Utley’s teddy bears.”
“Are you interested in teddy bears?” asked Trilby, who had returned to discuss the evening’s specials. “We have a teddy bear club in Lockmaster.”
“Good for you!” Qwilleran said. “What do you recommend this evening?”
“We have a new chef, and he’s prepared some very exciting things: for an appetizer, a nice grilled duck sausage with sage polenta and green onion confit. Our soup tonight is three-mushroom velouté.”
“Is your chef from Fall River, by any chance?”
“I don’t think so. Our specials tonight are a lovely roasted quail with goat cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, and hickory-smoked bacon and also a pan-seared snapper with herb crust and a red pepper and artichoke relish.”
“Oh, dear!” Polly said in dismay. “What do you think I would like?”
“My personal favorite,” said Trilby, “is the roasted pork tenderloin with sesame fried spinach, shiitake mushrooms, and garlic chutney.”
Polly decided on plain grilled swordfish, and Qwilleran ordered fillet of beef for himself. Raising his glass of Squunk water he proposed, “Lang may your lums reek, as they say in Scotland.”
“That sounds indecent,” Polly replied as she raised her glass uncertainly.
“I believe it means ‘Long may your chimneys smoke.’ In the old days they weren’t concerned with pollution. They just wanted to keep warm an
d cook their oatmeal.”
They talked about the Chisholm sisters’ teddy bear collection (incredible!) . . . the prospect of a tag sale on Goodwinter Boulevard (deplorable!) . . . the forthcoming production of Macbeth (ambitious!).
Qwilleran said, “I’ve promised Carol I’ll work in the box office next week.”
“You have? There’ll be a run on tickets,” Polly predicted teasingly. “Everyone will want to buy a ticket from a handsome bachelor who is also a brilliant journalist and fabled philanthropist.”
“You’re blethering, as they say in Scotland,” he protested modestly, although he knew she was right. He had enjoyed semicelebrityhood while writing for major newspapers Down Below, but that was nothing compared to his present status as a billionaire frog in a very small frog pond.
She said, “I hear that Derek Cuttlebrink is playing the porter, and Dwight has him telescoping his six-feet-seven into a five-foot S-curve that will probably steal the show.”
“I know Derek,” said Trilby swooping in with the entrées. “He’s a sous chef at the Old Stone Mill.”
“Very sous,” Qwilleran muttered under his breath.
“I’ll bring you some hot sour-dough rolls,” she said as she whisked away.
“Quick!” he said to Polly. “Do you have anything private to discuss before Mata Hari brings the rolls?”
“Well . . . yes,” she said, taking him seriously. “My sister-in-law does the bookkeeping at the Goodwinter Clinic, you know, and she told me in strict confidence that the staff is beginning to worry about Dr. Melinda.”
“For what reason?”
“She’s made at least two mistakes on prescriptions since returning from Scotland. In both cases the pharmacist caught the error—it had to do with dosage—and phoned the nurse at the clinic.”
Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. “She has too many irons in the fire: worrying about the liquidation sale, rehearsing the lead in the play, running off to Scotland—”
“All the while carrying a full load of appointments,” Polly reminded him.
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