“Well . . . just a nip.”
They sat at the snack bar, attended by two chummy Siamese, who liked the weatherman.
Qwilleran asked, “What did you think of the unveiling?”
“They put on quite a show, didn’t they? And the sculpture itself is a swell idea! I’m going to do a little tribute to Winston on my show tonight.”
“He’s still living, you know, Joe. He lives with the Bethunes on Pleasant Street. What’s the nature of your tribute?”
“Just a parody I wrote with apologies to my alma mater: ‘Dear Old Winston! Dear Old Winston!’ Be sure to tune in at eleven.”
“I wouldn’t miss it, Joe.” Then Qwilleran asked, “Do you still go to Horseradish weekends?” The weatherman had been spending an inordinate amount of time in his hometown without explaining why.
“Not anymore! Things change!”
“Do you happen to know if they are talking about Ronnie’s accident?”
“Yes, and they’re in shock because of a nasty rumor that’s circulating. People are whispering that it was caused by drugs and alcohol! His parents are crushed! And I’m furious! It can’t be true!”
“It was in the medical examiner’s report, Joe.”
“Look here! I grew up with Ronnie, and he was always a health nut—eating the right food, taking vitamins, and never drinking anything stronger than a beer. You can’t convince me those Lockmaster dudes could get him on drugs. Alden Wade called Ronnie’s parents and offered sympathy. He couldn’t believe the rumor either. . . . Did you know that Alden’s from Horseradish?”
“All you talented people . . .” Qwilleran began.
“Yeah, there’s something in the drinking water. But we all change our names when we go out into the real world. Alden was George; did you know that? He said that George is a good name for a political leader, but an actor needs a name with more sex appeal—like Alan, Alex, Alfie—names beginning with AL. He had his name legally changed to Alden Wade. And the gals have been swooning over him ever since.”
Qwilleran asked, “How about you, Joe? Was yours legally changed to Wetherby Goode?”
“Nay, that’s just a nickname. For a weather prognosticator, it’s a lot better than Joe Bunker!”
“YOW!” was Koko’s clarion comment.
Wetherby jumped up. “Gotta get to the station. . . . What’s that on the floor?”
“Be careful!” Qwilleran picked it up. “Koko collects banana peels. Does Jet Stream have any interesting hobbies?”
While the dedication ceremonies were still fresh in his mind, Qwilleran expressed his sentiments on the pages of his personal journal.
Thursday, September 25—I agree with Amanda Goodwinter: There must be a better way! To launch a seagoing vessel, a bottle of champagne is smashed on the hull. To dedicate a new building, ribbon is stretched across the façade, to be cut by a civic official, or a civic official’s five-year-old daughter in a frilly dress.
Somehow—halfway between the champagne and the five yards of ribbon—there must be a sane compromise! . . . Anyway . . .
After the memorable unveiling of the Winston Park monument, the cameras turned to focus on the bookstore. Five yards of green ribbon were stretched across the glass doors and show windows of the building. Dwight Somers, swinging a large pair of shears, was jockeying the dignitaries into line. Polly and Bart, representing the K Fund, looked spiffy in a businesslike way. Burgess Campbell, on the board of the ESP, was striking in Highland attire: kilt, knee-socks, shoulder plaid, and cocky Glengarry bonnet. And, of course, he was accompanied by his guide dog, Alexander. Together they always steal the show when photographers are around.
But where were the two city officials? Dwight paced nervously and talked on a cell phone. Suddenly a police car drove up, and out stepped the pair representing City Hall. Her Honor, the mayor, had a golf hat jammed down on her straggly gray hair and looked as if she had been raking leaves on the City Hall lawn. The president of the Town Council—all three hundred pounds of him—was stuffed into a mechanic’s greasy coveralls.
Dwight escorted them into the lineup and presented the shears.
“Not me!” Amanda growled. “No way!”
“I don’t cut ribbons,” Scott Gippel muttered.
Without a moment’s hesitation the attorney stepped forward and said, in his courtroom voice, “It is traditional and appropriate for civic leaders to cut the ribbon as a gesture of welcome to a new business enterprise that will benefit the entire county.” That guy Bart! He managed to mix authority with an ingratiating manner. Polly looked relieved. Alexander whimpered.
And Scott said, “Okay, gimme the dang clippers and I’ll cut the dang ribbon!”
I don’t know how much of the dialogue was picked up by the mikes, but it resounded all over the park.
TEN
For the Siamese, it was a day like any other day; for the rest of the civilized population of Moose County, it was a breathless lull between the press preview and the public opening of the new bookstore. Qwilleran, being ahead of schedule with his writing, spent much of the morning brushing the cats’ coats, entertaining them with a rollicking game of grab-the-necktie, and reading aloud to them from good literature. It was Koko’s responsibility to select a title for reading and push it off the bookshelf. It was Qwilleran’s responsibility to catch the book before it landed.
For reasons of his own, the cat had shown an interest in Balzac (in English), Emily Dickinson, and Zane Grey. Now he was on a Shakespeare kick. A complete set of the annotated plays in individual volumes had been given to Qwilleran by Polly, and they were a convenient format for pushing off a shelf. Othello and Hamlet had been Koko’s selections in the last week.
After a dramatic reading of Hamlet’s scene with his father’s ghost, Qwilleran said, “To be continued.” Then he added, “Mrs. Fulgrove is coming!” She was the industrious, competent, trustworthy housekeeper who came to the barn to “fluff it up,” as she said, between visits from the high-powered janitorial service. Qwilleran always tried to be absent when she was working; when he returned, he could expect a slight aroma of beeswax and whiffs of homemade metal polish—a simple compound of vinegar and salt—that reminded him of salad dressing.
It would be improved, he thought, with a touch of garlic, but he never mentioned the whimsical suggestion to the intensely serious housekeeper.
On this occasion he left Mrs. Fulgrove a note about a strange odor on the first balcony, instructed the Siamese to stay out of her way, and departed for the newspaper office.
Space was always reserved on page two for the “Qwill Pen” column, and Qwilleran always filed his copy as late as possible—mainly to incur the friendly wrath of his pal Junior Goodwinter, managing editor. After some mutual jibes, Junior showed him the page proofs of the bookstore coverage.
Shooting from a high stepladder, the photographer had caught a close-up of the bronze Winston in the lower left-hand corner and the new building in the background. For contrast there was a file-photo print of the 1850 bookstore that had burned down. Then there was a close-up of the vestibule doormat with its stern directive:
DON’T LET THE CAT OUT
In the background was the inner door, with Dundee peering through the glass. In another photo the bibliocat was sniffing a five-thousand-dollar copy of Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon.
Then Junior scanned the “Qwill Pen” copy and rang for the copyboy.
“Hi, Mr. Q! I’ve got your book here!” Kenneth said.
“The conference room’s empty. Meet me there.”
A few minutes later Qwilleran was autographing the book and scribbling an appropriate inscription while saying the usual “Hope you enjoy it.”
“I’ve already read it twice! I learned a lot!” Kenneth said. “If there’s anything I can help you with, Mr. Q, I have weekends off, and I’d do it for nothing, just for the experience. You know—legwork or anything like that.”
“It’s unprofessional to work for nothing,
so get that idea out of your head,” Qwilleran said. “So far, I’ve never needed a legman, but if I do . . . Give me your home phone.”
Qwilleran had to devise a plan to stay out of Mrs. Fulgrove’s way that afternoon. Lunch at the Luncheonette was the first solution. He said to Lois, “I hear you made a big hit with those camera cowboys from Down Below.”
“Nice bunch o’ boys. We had a lotta laughs. They took my picture.”
“Right now your visage is being flashed on TV screens from coast to coast.”
“Don’t know about my visage. I thought they were shooting in my face.”
From there Qwilleran went to the public library to kill an hour, researching Lord Byron (Violet’s favorite poet) and Tasso, the Italian poet after whom she named her watchdog. Brimming with more information than he really wanted, he returned to the barn to see if Mrs. Fulgrove had solved the mystery. He found her note written with meticulous handwriting and correct spelling, but she had a grammatical habit that mystified him. She talked the same way. He called it “whichery.”
Dear Mister: I found a banana peel in one of your shoes, which you should keep your closet door closed. I put your shoes in the shed to air out, which you should leave them till morning.—Mrs. Fulgrove
Before his dinner date with Violet, Qwilleran considered his wardrobe thoughtfully. Once upon a time he had lacked interest in sartorial style; appearing in public with Polly had changed all that. Now he had blazers in several colors, fashionwise shirts and ties, and more than one suit. Before dining out he and Polly would compare notes: “What are you wearing?” As a result, their ensembles never clashed, and friends said, “You two always look so good together!”
To play it safe on Friday night he wore his camel hair blazer with brown trousers, light tan shirt, and monochromatic striped necktie. It was a fortunate choice, since Violet appeared in a tailored suit of brilliant violet twill. No hat. Polly always wore a hat when dining in restaurants.
It had been Violet’s idea—since she was helping Lisa at the ESP all afternoon—that she could drive downtown with Alden, Qwilleran would pick her up at the bookstore, and then he would drive her home to Hibbard House after dinner—for a glimpse of the famous building and a brief meeting with some of the residents. They all read the “Qwill Pen” column and were eager to meet Mr. Q.
When he arrived at the bookstore at five-thirty, everyone was working late in a desperate attempt to be ready for the public opening.
Members of the staff said, “You two look wonderful!”
Polly said in a polite voice, “Have a nice . . . dinner.”
On the drive to the restaurant, Qwilleran asked if Violet had dined at the Grist Mill since returning to Moose County. She had not. He regaled her with the background of the owner, Liz Hart, and the maître d’, Derek Cuttlebrink, who had played Lady Bracknell in the recent play.
“You make everything sound so interesting!” she declared. “I know you’re going to write a fascinating book on Hibbard House!”
Derek greeted them with professional éclat but managed to throw a questioning glance at Qwilleran and a speculative glance at the sixtyish woman.
When the menus were presented, Qwilleran asked his guest, “What are they having for dinner at Hibbard House tonight?”
“If anyone has gone fishing, Cook prepares their catch for dinner, but there’s always a backup of shrimp or lobster in the freezer.”
Skillfully, Qwilleran steered the table talk past domestic matters, personal chitchat, and the ordering of food. He said, “Violet, I’ve been looking forward to hearing the history of your colorful family. Don’t be reticent! You promised to tell all. And I happen to have a tape recorder in my pocket.” The following account was later transcribed:
My great-grandfather, Cyrus, came to this area when it was wilderness and when he was a young man filled with ambition. He had nothing but a sawyer’s skills, but he had a genius for business. He eventually owned all the sawmills in towns along the coast—at the mouth of rivers and creeks, where logs were floated down from the forests. Like certain other self-made men in the past, he was eccentric. He never learned to read and write. And he undertook to build a house unlike any other in the area—or anywhere! While other successful entrepreneurs were building mansions of brick or stone, Cyrus built his entirely of wood—bigger, more original, totally unsafe. In an era of candles and fireplaces, it would certainly burn down! But it has outlasted three generations of Hibbards.
My grandfather, Geoffrey, was educated in private schools and lived the life of a country gentleman. My father, Jesmore, went to Harvard and lived the life of a gentleman scholar. But they all lived in the frame house that was expected to burn down! I grew up there—and returned there after a career in teaching.
Violet motioned to have the recording device turned off and then said, “May I ask you a rude question, Qwill?”
“If you don’t object to getting a rude answer.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“Once. Briefly. The details are withheld until the posthumous publication of my memoirs. How about you?”
“Almost . . . Early in my career I taught at an American university in Italy and almost married an Italian artist, but my father called me home because my mother was dying. I never went back. The rest of my teaching was done in this country.”
Qwilleran asked, “What caused you to take early retirement?”
She paused before answering. “My father was dying, and exacted a promise that I would live in the Hibbard House and preserve what he considered a sacred trust. I’m the last remaining Hibbard.”
Qwilleran said, “I’m beginning to understand why you want a book written on the Hibbard House. I’m willing to write it. I’ll have John Bushland call you to make a date for photographs. And the K Fund will publish it.”
After this solemn pledge there was a silence at the table, until Qwilleran asked, “Alden tells me you’ve named your watchdog Tasso. Is that because of your Italian adventure?”
“Do you know Tasso?” she asked eagerly.
“Only through Lord Byron’s epic.”
“I adore Byron! He’s so romantic!”
“He’s a little long-winded for me,” Qwilleran confessed. “I have a short attention span. A sonnet is about my speed—fourteen lines.”
“Have you written any sonnets, Qwill?”
“No, but I consider myself a connoisseur of the form. I maintain that a good sonnet should not only paint a picture, express an emotion, or declare a philosophy; the words should feel good in the mouth when read aloud. Consonants and vowels should fit together in a smooth way. I won’t mention any names, but consider this line: Earth has not anything to show more fair. Then compare it with the sibilance of: When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, which is difficult to say without spitting. In fact, when I read it to my cat, he hissed—the way he does at a garden snake. . . . But I digress. We were talking about the Hibbard House. Do you happen to have any pictures of the exterior? I’ve never seen it.”
“I have a snapshot in my handbag.”
After some fumbling, Violet extracted a print that had Qwilleran struggling to compose himself. He had heard it called historic, unique, impressive, original, or just HUGE! No one had called it handsome or even attractive. Now he knew why. The celebrated Hibbard House was ugly.
Diplomatically, he said, “I’m not completely familiar with architectural styles. Do you know what Hibbard House represents?”
“My grandfather, Geoffrey, called it eclectic.”
“Did he tell you who designed it?”
“He said that no one designed it, it just happened. Cyrus bought thirty acres in the Middle Hummocks and took a crew of carpenters to see the property. There was an elevation in the center of the site, and that’s where he wanted them to build him a large, square, three-story house with a pyramid-shaped roof and an observation tower rising from the peak. He wanted several large brick chimneys, several verandas both upstai
rs and downstairs, a grand front entrance with four columns, and a ballroom on the third floor.”
“I see,” Qwilleran said, stroking his moustache. “Shall we order dessert? I recommend the plum buckle.”
The nighttime approach to the Hibbard House was along an unlighted country road in the wooded hummocks, and it loomed suddenly on its little hill, floodlighted and weird, in Qwilleran’s opinion.
“Will you come in and meet some of the guests, if they’re still around?” Violet suggested.
She had left instructions for all the lights to be turned on, and she suggested a walk through the main rooms to get the effect.
It was unreal—a movie set, a fairy tale. “Enchanting!” he said.
He was sure it was staged, probably by Alden Wade, who was playing the piano in the music room. Someone was reading in the library. A bridge game was in progress in the drawing room, and one of the players waved to Qwilleran; she was the cats’ veterinarian. Two young men were coming upstairs from the Ping-Pong table on the lower level; Violet introduced them as “our duck hunters”! They invited him to go hunting with them some Sunday.
“I’m a washout with a rifle,” he said, “but I’d be interested in duck habitat as a topic for the ‘Qwill Pen.’ ”
“We’ve got a book at the office you can borrow. We’ll dig it out.”
And Alden went on playing Chopin. What a ham! was Qwilleran’s reaction.
There was a tall, erect older man with snow-white hair who was introduced as Judd Amhurst, a retired engineer. “He keeps us out of trouble,” Violet said, giving him an appreciative look.
“I know who he is!” said Amhurst. “I’m one of his avid fans. I won a yellow pencil in one of his contests!”
The two men shook hands. “Have another pencil!” Qwilleran reached into his inside coat pocket for one of the fat wooden gold-stamped “Qwill Pen” pencils that he always carried.
“Wait’ll the boys at the bar hear this!” Judd said.
“He never drinks anything stronger than Squunk water,” Violet said, giving Judd a playful nudge.
The Cat Who Went Bananas Page 7