“Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran.”
Big Mac nodded. “Half my female relatives are named after Lady Anne. Let’s go downstairs and look at the new exhibit.”
The walls of the lower lounge were covered with maps, photographs of Scotland, and swatches of clan tartans. Qwilleran found the Mackintosh dress tartan, mostly red, and the Mackintosh hunting tartan, mostly green for camouflage in the woods. The majority of men were in kilts, and he felt comfortable among them.
Gil MacMurchie, the dowser, was wearing a lively Buchanan tartan. Qwilleran said to him, “I’m ready to buy your dirks, if you haven’t sold them.”
“They’re still there.” MacMurchie paused and looked down sadly. “But the one I was saving for myself was stolen.”
“No! When?”
“While I was running those ads to sell my furniture and dishes and pots and pans. Strangers were traipsing through the house, some of them just nosey, and I couldn’t keep an eye on all of them.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“Oh, sure, and after Lois’s boy was arrested, I went to the station to see if my dirk turned up in his locker, but it wasn’t there.”
“How ironic,” Qwilleran said, “that the thief should take the one your wife gave you.”
“The hilt was silver,” MacMurchie said. “The others have brass hilts.”
The wail of a bagpipe summoned them to the dining hall on the upper level, where the walls were hung with antique weaponry. As soon as everyone was seated at the large round tables, the double doors were flung open, and in came the police chief in kilt, red doublet, towering feather bonnet, and white spats. A veritable giant, he walked with a slow swagger as he piped the inspiring air “Scotland the Brave.” The skirling of the pipes, the swaying of the pleated kilt, and the hereditary pride of the piper made an awesome sight. He was followed by a snare drummer and seven young men in kilts and white shirts, each carrying a tray. On the first was the celebrated haggis; on each of the other six was a bottle of Scotch.
Bagpipe, haggis, and Scotch circled the room twice. Then a bottle was placed on each table, and toasts were drunk to the legendary pudding, which was sliced and served. Diners guffawed while old haggis jokes were told. “Did you know the haggis is an animal with two short legs on one side, for running around mountains?”
Then dinner was served: Forfar bridies, taters and neeps, and Pitlochry salad. Big Mac said to Qwilleran, “I hear you interviewed Gil for your column.”
“Yes, but it can’t run until I’ve seen a dowsing demonstration. When do you think snow will melt this year?”
“My guess is April. In 1982, it was all gone by March twenty-ninth, but that was a fluke. Last year the official meltdown was three-eighteen P.M. on April fourth. My backyard was the Secret Site.”
Every year the Moose County Something invited readers to guess the exact minute when the last square inch of snow would disappear from a Secret Site, usually someone’s backyard. It was considered an honor, and the property owner was sworn to secrecy.
MacWhannell said, “I had to monitor the situation constantly near the finish time. When the last patch of snow was the size of a saucer, I phoned the paper, and they sent a reporter, photographer, notary public from city hall, and Wetherby Goode. They stood around, watching it shrink and holding a stopwatch. It disappeared at three-eighteen exactly.”
Qwilleran said, “One wonders if the hot breath of the onlookers hastened the finish time.”
“Not enough to make a difference. The nearest guess was four-twenty-two P.M. The winner was a carpenter from Sawdust City. He won a year’s subscription to the paper and dinner for two at the Old Stone Mill.”
The emcee rapped for attention. The evening would include the reading of Robert Burns’s poems and the serious business of drinking toasts to Scottish heroes. First there was a moment of silence, however, in memory of Willard Carmichael, who had connections with the Stewart clan. Brodie piped “The Flowers of the Forest” as a dirge.
Then Whannell MacWhannell stood up and announced, “Tonight we honor someone who came to Pickax from Down Below and made a difference. Because of him we have better schools, a better newspaper, better health care, a better airport, and a column to read twice a week for entertainment and enlightenment. If you pay him a compliment, he’ll give credit to his mother, who was a Mackintosh. It gives us great pleasure to add a name to our roll of distinguished Scots: the son of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran!”
Qwilleran walked to the platform amid cheers in En-glish and Gaelic. A photographer from the Something was taking pictures.
“Officers, members, and guests,” he began. “I’ve long admired the Scots—with their bagpipes, kilts, and tolerance for oatmeal porridge. For hundreds of years Scottish fighting men, shepherds, and outlaws have worn the kilt and wrapped themselves in the plaid on cold nights, out on the moor. Wearing kilts they faced the muskets of English redcoats at Culloden, brandishing their swords and howling their defiance. In World War One, regiments of soldiers in tartan kilts stormed the beaches, led by intrepid pipers. They plowed through icy water, cursed the choking smoke, and fell to enemy fire, but the Scots kept on coming—screaming their battle cries and urged on by the screeching pipes. The Germans called them ‘Ladies from Hell.’
“Gentlemen, I confess it has taken some heavy persuasion to get me into a kilt, but here I am, wearing the Mackintosh tartan as a tribute to Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran, a single parent who struggled heroically to raise an obstreperous male offspring. Anything I have achieved—and anything I have become—can be traced to her influence, encouragement, and devotion. In her name I accept this honor, proud to be among the Ladies from Hell!”
Brodie piped “Auld Lang Syne,” and the audience stood up and sang, “We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet.”
Later in the evening, after circulating in the lounge and accepting congratulations, Qwilleran said to Gil MacMurchie, “If you’re going home from here, I’ll meet you there and write a check.” In a short while he was on Pleasant Street, and Gil was admitting him to a house that was emptier than before. Qwilleran followed him to the glass-topped display table, hopping aside to avoid stepping on Cody.
“Sorry. I thought she was a black rug,” he said. The dog was flat out on the floor, belly on the floorboards, and all four legs extended.
“That’s her froggy-doggy trick. I don’t suppose you’ve found a home for her, have you?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
The four dirks with scabbards and brass hilts were under the glass in the curio table, along with the two brooches.
“Was the table not locked?” Qwilleran asked.
“Hasn’t been locked for years! The lock’s broken. The key’s lost.” He wrapped the dirks and brooches in newspaper while Qwilleran wrote a check for a thousand.
* * *
The Siamese recognized the sound of the car motor when he drove into the attached garage, and they knew the sound of his key in the lock. They had forgotten their original scare at the sight of the kilt and bonnet. Their greeting was positive without being effusive.
When he unwrapped his purchases on the kitchen counter, both cats jumped up to investigate the large round stones in the brooches, the brass hilts of the dirks, and the brass-mounted scabbards. Qwilleran withdrew one dirk from its scabbard, and Koko went into paroxysms of excitement over the blade, baring his fangs and flattening his ears as he moved his nose up and down the blood grooves.
NINE
When Qwilleran returned home after Scottish Night, there were messages on the answering machine from friends who had heard about his honor on the eleven o’clock newscast, and there were phone calls the next morning. John Bushland was one who called with congratulations.
Qwilleran said, “I saw you taking pictures at the dinner. Was that for the newspaper or the lodge?”
“Both. I’m doing a video for lodge members: Brodie playing the pipe, MacWhannell reading Burns’s poetry, and
everybody whooping it up.”
“Did Polly call you about Lynette’s birthday party?”
“Yes, and I’ve got an idea for a gift. See what you think. . . On New Year’s Eve I got a great full-face color shot of her, talking with two guys—wineglass in hand, eyes sparkling, nice smile. The light balance was just right, and she looked young and happy.”
“Who were the guys?”
“Wetherby Goode and Carter Lee James. I could blow it up and put it in a neat frame. Do you think she’d like it?”
“She’d be thrilled. Do it!” Qwilleran said.
Then Carol Lanspeak phoned congratulations and said, “You deserve a monument on the courthouse lawn, but that will come later.”
“Much later, I hope,” he said.
“Are you and Polly free on Sunday? I want to give a quiet little dinner for Danielle. I know it’s short notice.” When he hesitated, she added, “She thinks you’re a super guy, and it would do her a world of good if you could be there. You always know exactly the right thing to say.”
Qwilleran was thinking fast. Danielle would be at Lynette’s birthday party, and one evening with Googly Eyes would be enough in one week, if not too much. He said, “You’re right about the short notice, Carol. I’ve invited guests for Sunday and couldn’t possibly cancel.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” she said, “but we’ll do it another time, won’t we?”
“How is Danielle?” He thought it only civil to inquire.
“She’s holding up very well, and Carter Lee is coming back, so she won’t be lonely. It’s important for her to do something constructive, and the lead in Hedda Gabler is a real challenge.”
Qwilleran thought, It’s a disaster waiting to happen.
“She’s a quick study. I wish the whole cast could learn lines as fast.” Carol was directing the play. “The main problem is that she doesn’t like the actor we cast for Judge Brack. It’s a personality clash.”
“Who’s playing Brack? George Breze? Scott Gippel? Adam Dingleberry?” Gippel weighed three hundred pounds; Dingleberry was about a hundred years old; Breze was a mess.
Carol was not amused. “We have the drama and debate coach from the high school, and he’s good, but he’s dropping out. Danielle would rather play opposite you.”
“It’s out of the question.” He thought, She’s used to having her own way because she’s gorgeous.
“I understand, Qwill. Sorry you and Polly can’t be with us on Sunday.”
* * *
Qwilleran had some errands to do downtown. He always did Polly’s grocery shopping on days when she was working at the library, in return for which she invited him to dinner frequently. It was one of the mutual advantages in living only three doors apart. He rolled her trash container to the curb once a week; she sewed on buttons for him; they fed each other’s cats when necessary.
While downtown he stopped at the office of the Moose County Something to pick up a free newspaper. The day’s edition had just been delivered from the printing plant, and he found the whole staff in a state of jocosity, grinning slyly and making abstruse quips. The reason soon became clear.
On the front page was a full-length photo of Qwilleran in Scottish Highland attire. He groaned. Did they have to print it four columns wide and eighteen inches high? Did they have to headline it “Lady from Hell”? The ribbing from fellow staffers did nothing to ease his embarrassment:
“Hey Qwill, you look like an ad for Scotch!”
“Look at those knees!”
“What’s that thing in his sock?”
“All he needs is a bagpipe!”
“Are you available for films and commercials, Qwill?”
He said, “Obviously it was a slow day on the newsbeat.” He picked up an extra copy for Polly and left the building, briefly considering a week’s vacation in Iceland. But then he drew upon the qualities that life had bestowed upon him: the aplomb of a journalist, the spirit of an actor, and the confidence of the richest man in northeast central United States. He parked in the municipal lot and entered Amanda’s Design Studio through the back door, carrying a newspaper-wrapped package.
Fran greeted him, waving that day’s edition of the Something. “Qwill! Your picture on the front page is fabulous! Marry me!”
“You’ll have to wait your turn. Take a number.”
“Dad even called me about it! He was all choked up with emotion—something that never happens. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“I’m afraid so. I’m thinking of leaving the country until it blows over.”
“What do you have wrapped in newspaper?” she asked. “Fresh fish?”
He showed her the four dirks he had bought and asked how to display them on the wall. “I don’t want them under glass. I want instant access in case of attack by the Pickax pilferer. He, she, or it stole a dirk from Gil MacMurchie.”
She unwrapped the dirks, frowned at them silently, then vanished into the stockroom, leaving Qwilleran to wander around the shop and look for a valentine gift for Polly. He found an oval jewel box shaped from natural horn and inset with a sunburst of brass.
Fran returned from the stockroom carrying an antique pine picture frame, a simple rectangle of wide flat boards mitered at the corners and waxed to a mellow golden brown. She said, “This was the base for an old ornate frame of gilded gesso, which was badly chipped. We stripped it down to the pine and gave it this nice finish. We can put a backing in it for mounting the dirks and then devise clamps or clips for holding them.”
“Perfect! You’re so clever, Fran.”
“The bill will go out in the mail tomorrow.”
“How’s the play going?”
“Not splendidly. Danielle’s become a temperamental star. We lost a good Judge Brack because of her. She wants someone exciting for the role, since they have so many scenes together.” Fran looked at Qwilleran hopefully, and he could see where the discussion was leading.
He said, “Couldn’t Larry play the judge?”
“He’s playing Tesman.”
“How about your friend Prelligate?”
“He’s doing Lovborg.”
“Why not switch Larry to the judge, let Prelligate do Tesman, and bring in Derek Cuttlebrink for Lovborg?”
“You’re bonkers, Qwill. Derek is almost seven feet tall. It would be a joke.”
“Derek playing Lovborg is no funnier than Danielle playing Hedda.”
“Forget Derek!” she said with finality.
Qwilleran persisted. “In Macbeth he crumpled his figure so that he looked a foot shorter. That might work well for Lovborg, who has a crumpled reputation, so to speak. Furthermore, Derek is a popular actor, and you wouldn’t have to worry about ticket sales. His groupies would attend every performance, and the K Fund wouldn’t have to bail you out.”
Fran rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Go away, Qwill. Just leave your dirks and go away! Leave the country! You need a change of climate.”
Obediently he started for the back door, then returned. “Do you happen to know the family with the famous doll collection?”
“Of course I know the Kemples. I worked with Vivian Kemple on their house. It’s on Pleasant Street. She and her husband are both involved in rare dolls.”
“May I use your phone?” he asked, adding dryly, “You can add the charge to my bill.”
A man with a particularly loud voice answered, and Qwilleran identified himself.
“Sure! We’ve met at the Boosters Club, Qwill. I’m Ernie Kemple.” He was the Boosters’ official back-slapper and glad-hander, greeting members at every meeting.
“I’m calling about your doll collection, Ernie, as a possibility for the ‘Qwill Pen’ column.”
“Well, now. . . we don’t like publicity. You know what happened to the Chisholm sisters’ teddy bears.”
“That was a freak situation,” Qwilleran said.
“Yeah, but we had a doll stolen recently—not worth a lot in dollars but highly collectibl
e. Makes you stop and think, you know. . . Tell you what: Come and see the collection for your own enjoyment. It’s art; it’s history; it’s an investment.”
“Thank you. I’ll accept the invitation.” It was a break for Qwilleran. He could satisfy his curiosity without having to write about. . . dolls.
“Tell you what,” Kemple said. “Come over now, and I’ll rustle up some refreshments. My wife’s out of town, and I’m waiting for three o’clock so I can pick up my grandson from school. I retired January One. Sold Kemple Life and Accident to the Brady brothers.”
“I’ll be right there,” Qwilleran said.
* * *
Pleasant Street looked particularly pleasant that afternoon. A new fall of snow had frosted the lacy wood trim on the houses, and the whole street was an avenue of white ruffles. The Kemple house, more attractive than most, was painted in two shades of taupe, reflecting Fran Brodie’s educated taste.
“A most attractive house,” Qwilleran said to Ernie Kemple when he was admitted. Like the exterior, the rooms showed the hand of a professional designer. Traditional furniture was arranged in a friendly contemporary manner; colors dared to depart from the historically correct; old paintings and engravings were hung with imagination. And there was not a single doll in sight!
Kemple replied in a booming voice that would make crystal chandeliers quiver. “You like it? I think it’s pretty good myself. Comfortable, you know. . . But now my wife thinks maybe we should let Carter Lee James restore it to nineteenth-century authenticity. He and his assistant went through the house, making notes. But heck! We just spent a bundle with Amanda’s studio, and I hate to see it go down the drain. Vivian—that’s my wife—says everybody on the street is going along with James. It’s supposed to increase the value of the property, and maybe give us a tax break. What do you think, Qwill? This James fellow presents a convincing case. Of course, he’s not doing it for nothing! But he seems to be knowledgeable, and people like him. What’s your opinion?”
The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Page 10