“I say the scandalous secret of the blacksmith’s wife is pure myth. Does anyone agree with me? If so, will you please stand?”
The county historian was the first to rise, followed by all the officers of the club, the college president, the K Fund attorney, the editor of the newspaper, teachers, and everyone else in the audience.
The lights came up, and Qwilleran stepped down from the platform and shook hands with the audience as they filed out.
The last to leave was Polly. “Qwill! You were wonderful! I was so proud I couldn’t keep back the tears! . . . If you say it’s a myth, I believe it’s a myth! I’ve missed you so much in the last few weeks. . . .”
“I’ve missed you, too, Polly. The eleven-o’clock phone calls . . . and the dinner dates with good conversation . . .”
“And the musicales afterward.”
“I have a fabulous new recording of Tchaikovsky’s Fifth. Would you like to come to the barn to hear it? I promise to get you home by a respectable hour.”
“It doesn’t have to be respectable tonight,” she said. “Tomorrow is my day off.”
SEVENTEEN
On Friday morning Qwilleran ate his cereal and sliced bananas without complaint, and he opened a festive can of cocktail shrimp for the cats. He and Polly were together again. They would be dining at the Grist Mill, listening to great music, having long discussions about words, phoning each other at eleven P.M.
At the barn, following the lit club meeting, there had not been a single word about the Book Log Computer System! And Qwilleran had given her the blue cashmere robe that celebrated her matriculation from public library to bookstore.
Now he wanted to close the barn for the winter and move to Indian Village. Unit Number Four at the Willows would be readied by Pat O’Dell’s janitorial service and “fluffed up” by the “be-whiching” Mrs. Fulgrove.
Qwilleran walked with a light step to the newspaper office to file his Friday column before the noon deadline and then back downtown for lunch at the Mackintosh Inn. On the way he passed the Sprenkle Building, and a young man rushed out from the Wix & Wix Realty office, saying, “Mr. Q! Mr. Q! I have that book for you. Can you pop in for a minute?”
He was one of duck hunters at the Hibbard Guest House who had invited him out for a weekend shoot.
“I’m a washout with a rifle,” he had told them, “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,” the younger Wix had said. “We’ll dig it out.”
So now he had drifted in, and they had dug out their copy of the duck book.
“Pleasant office,” Qwilleran said. “Are you brothers? Is Wix a local family?”
“It’s really W-I-C-K-E-S, but Bud and I decided the short spelling would be more eye-catching on a sign and easier for the public to remember. Alden has been telling us about your barn. If you ever want to unload it, Wix and Wix would like to list it.”
“Take a number,” Qwilleran said genially.
“Alden’s a terrific guy! Not only is he a terrific shot with a duck rifle, he can play the piano. He can act. He can sing. The gals are wild about him. He’s a good organizer. He has ideas. . . .How’s the Hibbard book coming?”
“It’s been photographed, and I’m collecting material for the text. Do you have any stories to add?”
“Only what we talk about when we’re out on the boat—just brainstorming, you know: Violet could develop her thirty acres if and when she gets tired of being a landlady. The house could be made into a spa—with upscale condos and apartments all around.”
“No shopping mall, I hope,” Qwilleran said with veiled sarcasm.
“No, but there’d be room for one or two good restaurants.”
Qwilleran stood up. “Thanks for the book. I’ll return it. Sorry to dash off. I’ve got an appointment in Lockmaster.”
In the early afternoon Qwilleran drove to Lockmaster for some grist for the “Qwill Pen” mill . . . and some speculation.
Moira MacDiarmid was ready for him with coffee and bite-size marmalade tartlets.
“How’s our little sweetheart?” she asked.
“Presuming that you mean Dundee, he’s happily basking in an effulgence of compliments. Do you have some good information on the breed? Prior to the reign of Dundee the First, my only acquaintance with a reddish cat was on Goodwinter Boulevard, where we were house-sitting one year. He was dirty-orange, fat as a pig, and with foul breath. He kept coming to our back door and annoying the Siamese.”
Moira said, “Some ginger cats are enormous, and their owners boast about their weight. We breed our marmalades for a modern taste. Gingers can be tiger-striped, splotched, or all one shade in a choice of spicy colors; our marmalades are apricot and cream in a nonthreatening stripe. . . . But did you know Sir Winston Churchill always had a ‘ginger tom’ in his home? And his will specified that there always be a ginger tom in residence at Chartwell, his estate.”
Qwilleran asked for names and phone numbers of marmalade fanciers who would be willing to be interviewed. And that was that! The conversation shifted to . . . speculation.
Qwilleran said, “You had something interesting on your mind when you called me.”
“Yes. Kathie wanted me to talk to you. When you so kindly let us into the bookstore and bought us ice cream in that delightful little shop, there was a young man there who Kathie thought she recognized. Though he had a beard, she thought he was her old boyfriend Wesley. But you said his name was Kenneth and he was a copyboy at the Something. There was no time to argue; she had to catch a plane.”
“Does she have a special interest in Wesley, aka Kenneth?”
“Nothing serious,” Moira said, “but they’ve known each other all through high school and enrolled in J school at the state university at the same time. Then Wesley never showed up for classes, and it worried her. He simply disappeared.”
“How about his parents? Are they worried?”
“They’re both deceased. Kip knew Wesley’s father. Kip said he was a high roller in the stock market and lost everything. He shot himself, but I think there was more to the story than that.” She stopped abruptly and looked wise. “I think his wife was cheating on him; he was a very proud type. And . . . after his suicide, his wife remarried too soon—much too soon!”
“Classical situation,” Qwilleran murmured. “Straight out of Shakespeare.”
“Kathie says Wesley adored his father and hated his stepfather. He kept his father’s surname. . . . I’m babbling on and forgetting my manners. Will you have more coffee, Qwill?”
He nodded. She poured and went on: “Kathie is afraid Wesley will follow his father’s example. . . . But Kip made a discreet inquiry at the bank and discovered that withdrawals were still being made from Wesley’s trust fund . . . so you can see how badly Kathie wanted your Kenneth to be our Wesley-with-beard.”
Qwill said, “Tell Kathie that Kenneth is doing some research for me, and I may be able to do a little undercover investigating.”
On the drive to Pickax, Qwilleran reflected on how much had happened since his previous drive with Dundee in a coop beside him. And he thought how relieved he would be to close the barn and move to Indian Village for the winter. There would be less distraction, and he could work on the Hibbard House book, he would be a few doors away from Polly, the batty Wetherby Goode, and—now—even the cats’ veterinarian! How would the cats react to Dr. Constable as a neighbor, dropping in for coffee? Yum Yum would run and hide under the bed; Koko would greet her with throaty purrs, thinking she had brought her thermometer.
Qwilleran’s amusement at the possibility was interrupted by a phone call; he pulled off the road.
It was Janice on the line. “Qwill, Bushy said it was all right to call on your cell phone. Have you seen today’s paper?”
“No. I’ve been interviewing in Lockmaster for the ‘Qwill Pen.’ What’s the news I’ve missed?”
“The
wedding announcement. Violet has married Alden Wade!”
“Is that so? I thought it would be that white-haired engineer. It would be handy to have an engineer in the family.”
“Yes, I thought they were a cute couple, too.”
“How did Bushy react?”
“He says Alden is . . . all wrong for Violet!”
That was all Janice cared to say on the phone, and Qwilleran drove the rest of the way home in a state of fascinated . . . speculation. What would Polly say? Maggie? Lisa? Wetherby? And, for that matter, Koko?
Toward dinnertime, Qwilleran drove out Ittibittiwassee Road to Indian Village to pick up Polly in Unit One of the Willows. There were signs that the doctor was already in Unit Two. The occupant of Number Three would be at Station WPKX at this hour, bamboozling his listeners about the weather, as Qwilleran took pleasure in telling him.
He used his key to unlock Polly’s door but also gave the doorbell their secret code-ring, the first four notes (approximately) of Beethoven’s Fifth.
Brutus and Catta came running to meet him, followed by Polly in her plum-colored suit with pink blouse and opal earrings, and she had been to the hairdresser. Qwilleran was wearing coordinated grays blending with his graying hair, gray eyes, and pepper-and-salt moustache.
“See? The little dears are happy to see you!”
“They’re happy because they know I’m not staying long,” he said.
As they drove away, Polly remarked, “Dr. Constable’s furniture arrived today. It’s been in storage pending the final divorce settlement. She’s been eager to get away from the guest house. She said the mood changed after Alden moved in.”
“From what—to what?”
“She said the relaxed family feeling changed to a formal, terribly proper atmosphere. . . . I know you won’t mention this.”
“Did you see the wedding announcements in today’s paper, Polly?”
“No, but several people phoned me. What motivated her? Love? Loneliness? Some practical consideration? Women find him very attractive. But—I hesitate to say this—my assistant, who’s from Lockmaster, says he has a reputation as a fortune hunter.”
A negative thought entered Qwilleran’s mind, but he squelched it. He said, “Violet seems in a hurry to have the Hibbard book published, as if she’s afraid the house will burn down. Bushy has photographed it inside and out, so . . . Anyway, all I have to do now is tell the Hibbard story in beautiful prose.”
His arch remark was taken seriously by Polly, who admired his writing.
At the Grist Mill there were admiring glances from other diners and a questioning look from Derek Cuttlebrink. He seated them under the murderous scythe on the wall, saying, “I just found out it’s made of plastic. If it falls off the wall it might splash your soup, but it won’t decapitate anybody.”
“Bon appetit,” Qwilleran said.
When the waiter took their order, it was Chicken Venezia for her and Sirloin Marsala for him.
Conversation at the table was about . . . words.
How Bill Turmeric had explained Mrs. Fulgrove’s use of “which.”
How Koko was fascinated by George Ade’s Fables in Slang simply because it was a small book.
How Violet had used the word “repair” correctly when most people would say “retire.”
For dessert they had plum buckle.
EIGHTEEN
There were no crowds on Saturday morning. No cheers. No band music. No TV cameras. There was only Roger MacGillivray, weekend photographer-reporter for the Something, to cover the event. The K Theatre was being renamed Theatre Arts.
Large block letters had been cut from aluminum and then mounted directly on the fieldstone building with a little space between.
The style had originated with the Mackintosh Inn, suggested by K Fund designers. It was now becoming popular in the City of Stone. In this case, an element of mystery was created by doing the work under the cover of darkness and covering it with canvas until the official unveiling. Only Larry Lanspeak and Alden Wade were present to pose for pictures and give Roger a press release.
Qwilleran was the one invited spectator; after all, the name had been his idea. Roguishly he thought it would be a laugh if the workmen had made a typographical error—putting the A before the E, or the E before the R.
The new name marked the theatre club’s new venture: a program of classes in acting technique, voice culture, stage makeup, and set-building, under the direction of Alden Wade.
Qwilleran wished them well, then rushed home to the barn to attend to his own program: moving his household to Indian Village for the winter . . . and writing a book on the historic Hibbard House. He needed to collect stories about “the big house on the hill” from people who had been there.
Once more he called upon Whiskers for legwork, although he had a private reason for wanting to speak with the young man.
The Siamese sensed that a friend was approaching through the woods, and they staged a welcoming demonstration in the kitchen window.
“What are they all excited about?” Kenneth asked when he walked in.
“You! Speak to them.”
“Hello, cats.”
Qwilleran said, “Sit at the snack bar. I’ve thawed some sweet rolls from Celia Robinson. I hope you like your coffee strong. Do you know Celia Robinson? Remarkable woman. When I first moved up here and was doing a little private investigating, she was my undercover agent.” He watched for Kenneth’s reaction. It was sudden but guarded.
“Now about the Hibbard House: Your work with the documents was excellent. We need to collect personal memoirs from old-timers who visited the house and/or knew the family. Your first source: the historical collection at the public library. Next, call Thornton Haggis, the county historian, for names of members of the Old-Timers Club who are over eighty. I’ll tell him to expect your call.”
Kenneth was taking notes.
“I’m going to tell Thorn—that’s what he likes to be called—that three hot subjects are better than a dozen warm bodies. I suggest you do the interviews on weekends. You’ll need a car.”
“I can borrow Peg’s.”
“No. Keep this on a professional basis. Rent a car and put it on your bill. I’ll give you a pocket tape recorder for the interviews. Any questions?”
Kenneth asked intelligent ones. Then Qwilleran asked one of him: “Do you know a Kathie MacDiarmid in Lockmaster? She’s in J school now. She and her mother came to visit Dundee last weekend. Dundee came from Mrs. MacDiarmid’s cattery.” The short sentences were intended to allow the young man to collect his wits before the Big One. “I took them to Granny’s. You were there with Peggy. Kathie thought you were someone she knew.”
“Yeah, we were in high school at the same time.”
“But she thought your name was Wesley. I set her straight.”
Kenneth took time to gulp and look from side to side before answering. “I had a family problem, sort of. I wanted to work for the Something, but I didn’t want anyone to know I was here.”
With sympathy in his voice and understanding in his brooding eyes, Qwilleran said, “I know how those things happen. If there’s anything I can do to help, it’s strictly confidential. Don’t hesitate to ask.”
There was a long, pathetic silence until Kenneth said abruptly, “What’s he doing?”
Koko was butting Kenneth’s ankles with the top of his head.
“Cats are smart. They know right from wrong. Koko has exceptional instincts in this regard. He knows the good guys from the bad guys. He approves of what you’re doing. You don’t have to explain.”
Kenneth went on gulping, and Koko went on butting his ankles.
“I want to talk about it,” he said. “My stepfather is living here. I don’t think he’s to be trusted. There’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t have any proof—any evidence against him. All I can do is watch him. It’s not just the way kids have always hated their stepfathers. It’s just that . . . I don’t know . . . am
I wrong?”
Qwilleran put his hand to his moustache. “I know what you mean. I have the same unexplainable reaction at times. I call it a hunch, and the strange thing is . . . the way it turns out, I’m always right. So what can I say? You have to play your hunches. Do what you’re doing, but keep your eyes open and your mind alert. And if you want to talk about this again, you know you’ve got a sympathetic listener. Two listeners, including Koko.”
Kenneth’s visit had left Qwilleran with a feeling of satisfaction about the Hibbard research; he would call Thornton Haggis and alert him to the need for interviews with old-timers.
On the other hand, the young man’s emotional outpouring had left Qwilleran with a tingling sensation on his upper lip, and he found himself patting his moustache frequently. The wicked stepfather of fairy tales was obviously Alden Wade; Kenneth was obviously Wesley, whose father was a suicide and whose mother was the victim of a sniper’s bullet.
Yet Alden Wade was lauded in Pickax for his charm, helpfulness, polished manners, and many skills. Qwilleran himself recognized his acting talent, fine voice, and well-organized mind. All the while, there were friends of Qwilleran’s who called the newcomer a lady-killer, home breaker, and fortune hunter.
Qwilleran had two reasons to visit Maggie Sprenkle again, and he called to make an appointment. He would pick up his tape recorder with her memories of early days at the Hibbard House. And he would ask what she thought about Violet’s sudden marriage.
On the phone, he asked casually if she had recalled any incidents from the good old days at Hibbard House. “Yes, I have! And I was just thinking about you, Qwill. Would you care to come over for a cup of tea?”
He walked downtown—for the last time until April—and soon he was sitting in the plush Victorian parlor, drinking jasmine tea and listening to Maggie’s Hibbard House memories. He heard about a Fourth of July bonfire that got out of hand and terrified everyone . . . a black bear that came to the back door and terrified the cook . . . a berry-picking party that got lost in the thirty-acre woods.
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