When the recorded music—Scottish tunes for flute and dulcimer—suddenly stopped, the guests turned toward the entrance. The double doors opened, and Andrew Brodie in bagpiper’s regalia piped the wedding party down the white aisle with the traditional strains of “Highland Wedding.” First came the officiating clergyman, then the groom and groomsman and—after a few suspenseful moments—the bride and her attendant.
Lynette’s clan sash, predominantly green, was a column of brilliant color fastened on her shoulder and cascading down the front and back of her long white dinner dress. She wore a wreath of stephanotis in her hair. The same green tartan figured in Polly’s evening skirt and clan sash, worn with a white silk blouse. Qwilleran was resplendent in full Highland kit. Against the Duncan green and Mackintosh red, the groom’s black dinner clothes looked ominously somber.
“He looks like a waiter,” Riker later confided to Qwilleran.
The ceremony was brief and flawless. There were no sentimental tears—only happiness—as the fire crackled on the hearth and the words were said. Then Brodie piped the triumphal “Scotland the Brave” and led the wedding party and guests to the dining hall. An oatcake was broken over the bride’s head, and she made the first cut in the wedding cake with a dirk.
Champagne was poured and toasts were said and guests kissed the bride. Danielle was the first to kiss her cousin. “Give me a big hug,” she said.
Even Qwilleran was kissed by many of the women including, of all people, Amanda Goodwinter. “This is turning into an orgy,” he said to her.
“You said it!” she muttered. “Did you see how the Carmichael woman bussed her cousin? I hope Lynette knows what she’s doing. It’s bad luck to marry on Tuesday or marry in green.”
“Don’t worry,” Qwilleran said. “With a silver coin in her shoe and oatcake crumbs in her hair, she’s home safe.”
Carter Lee was his usual charming self, flashing his winning smile at the guests in between fond glances at his bride. She was brimming with the joy she had lost twenty years before. When Brodie played a lively tune, she hoisted her skirt and danced the Highland fling.
Mac MacWhannell said to Qwilleran, “Too bad she didn’t marry a Scot. Know anything about his genealogy?”
“No, but James is a good British name. You know: King James. . . P. D. James . . . and all those others.”
“When they’re back from their honeymoon,” Big Mac promised, “we’ll invite him to join the genealogy club.” And then he said, “That was an interesting column on naming cats. We have two gray ones, Misty and Foggy, and our daughter in New Hampshire has a kitten called Arpeggio. It runs up and down the piano keys.”
“The things you hear when you don’t have a pencil!” Qwilleran said. “Send the names in on a postcard.”
“No!” Arch Riker protested. “No more postcards! The mailroom is swamped! What are we supposed to do with them all?”
Mildred said, “My grandkids have a tomcat called Alvis Parsley. He likes rock and roll.”
“I believe they tune in to a rhythmic beat,” said the choir leader from the church. “Ours sits on the piano with her tail swinging to the music. We call her Metro, short for metronome.”
Everyone joined the game. Everyone knew an aptly named cat: a tom named Catsanova; a shrimp addict called Stir Fry; a pair of Burmese known as Ping and Pong.
“Send postcards!” Qwilleran reminded them.
Polly said to him, “You’ve opened a Pandora’s box. Is it going to be a blessing or a curse?”
When the piper swung into a strathspey, it was a signal that the newlyweds were leaving. Qwilleran, who was driving the getaway car, fished the car keys from his sporran and asked Riker to bring his van to the clubhouse door.
En route to Boulder House Inn, the couple in the backseat raved about the gift from the couple in the front seat, little knowing how close they had come to getting a schnauzer. Carter Lee said they would schedule a sitting with the portraitist as soon as they returned. Polly hoped they would have good weather in New Orleans. Lynette hoped not to gain any weight.
As for the driver, his moustache was giving him some uneasiness. Champagne had flowed freely at the reception, and he was probably the only one who was totally sober. He kept thinking about the X-rated kiss that Danielle had bestowed on the groom. . . and about the hints that they were not really cousins. . . and about the hasty marriage that was a topic of local gossip.
The Boulder House Inn perched on a cliff overlooking the frozen lake and was indeed built of boulders, some as big as bathtubs, piled one on top of another. Snow accented every ledge, lintel, sill, and crevice. Indoors, some of the floors were chiseled from the huge flat rock that made the foundation of the building. Four-foot split logs blazed in the cavernous fireplace, around which guests gathered after dinner to listen to the innkeeper’s stories.
Silas Dingwall was like the innkeeper in a medieval woodcut: short, rotund, leather-aproned, and jolly. Smiling and flinging his arms wide in welcome, he ushered the wedding party to the best table in the dining room. The centerpiece was a profusion of red carnations, white ribbons, and white wedding bells of plastic foam. A wine cooler stood ready, chilling a bottle of champagne, courtesy of the house.
“May I open it?” he asked.
The cork escaped from the bottleneck with a gentle pffft! and he poured with a flourish, while lavishing felicitations on the bridal pair. He ended by saying, “I’ll be your wine steward tonight, and Tracy will be your server.”
Involuntarily Qwilleran’s hand went to his upper lip as he saw the innkeeper speak to a pretty young blond woman. He saw Dingwall gesture toward their table. He saw her nod.
Lynette and Carter Lee were drinking an intimate toast to each other, with arms linked and eyes shining, when the blond server approached the table. She took a few brisk steps, wearing a hospitable smile, then slowed to a sleepwalker’s pace as her smile turned to shock. “Oh, my God!” she cried and ran blindly from the dining room, bumping into chairs and lurching through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
There was silence among the diners. Then hysterical screams came from the kitchen, and the innkeeper rushed through the swinging doors.
“Well!” Polly said. “What was that all about?”
Lynette was bewildered. Carter Lee seemed poised. Qwilleran looked wise. He thought he knew what it was all about.
The innkeeper, red-faced, bustled up to the table. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Tracy is not well. Barbara will be your server.”
* * *
After the wedding dinner, Qwilleran and Polly chose to drive back to Pickax without waiting for the storytelling hour around the fireplace. She had to work the next day, and he was less than comfortable with the situation as he perceived it. But he was “best man,” and he had made the best of it.
While the two sisters-in-law embraced with tears of joy, the two men shook hands, and Carter Lee thanked his best man for being witness to the ceremony.
“It’s the third time I’ve performed this role,” Qwilleran said, “and it’s the first time I’ve done it without dropping the ring, so that bodes well!”
Before leaving, he told Silas Dingwall about Short and Tall Tales and made an appointment for the next day to record “something hair-raising, mysterious, or otherwise sensational.” The innkeeper promised him a good one.
On the way home, no mention was made of the waitress’s outburst. Polly told him he was the handsomest man at the wedding; he told her she looked younger than the bride. Both agreed that Lynette looked beatific.
“So you see, you were wrong about her jilting him, Qwill.”
“First time in my life I’ve ever been wrong,” he said with a facetious nonchalance that he did not really feel.
* * *
On the way to Boulder House Inn, the day after the wedding, Qwilleran reviewed the incident of the previous evening. The server’s name was Tracy; she was a pretty blond; she was obviously Ernie Kemple’s daughter, who had been wine
d and dined by Carter Lee James. Her father knew she was gullible; he feared she would be hurt again. Now Qwilleran was wondering what kind of husband Lynette had acquired. He was a suave young man who was enchanting local women, including Polly. She remarked about his engaging ways. He was being called charming, gallant, gentlemanly. What else was he?
Arriving at the inn, Qwilleran was greeted effusively by Silas Dingwall, who was excited about being “in a book.” He said, “We’ll go in the office, where it’s quiet.”
“And first tell me something about yourself,” Qwilleran said.
Over coffee he learned that Dingwall was descended from the survivors of a shipwreck more than a century before. All his life he had been fascinated by tales handed down through the generations.
“There were ghost stories, murder mysteries, rum-running thrillers and you-name-it. My favorite is the Mystery of Dank Hollow, a true story about a young fisherman who was also a new bridegroom. It happened, maybe, a hundred and thirty years ago when Trawnto was a little fishing village. Want to hear it?”
“I certainly do. Just tell it straight through. I won’t interrupt.”
As eventually transcribed, the story went like this:
One day a young fisherman by the name of Wallace Reekie, who lived in the village here, went to his brother’s funeral in a town twenty miles away. He didn’t have a horse, so he set out on foot at daybreak and told his new bride he’d be home at nightfall. Folks didn’t like to travel that road after dark because there was a dangerous dip in it. Mists rose up and hid the path, you see, and it was easy to make a wrong turn and walk into the bog. They called it Dank Hollow.
At the funeral, Wallace helped carry his brother’s casket to the burial place in the woods, and on the way he tripped over a tree root. There was an old Scottish superstition: Stumble while carrying a corpse, and you’ll be the next to go into the grave. It must have troubled Wallace, because he drank too much at the wake and was late in leaving for home. His relatives wanted him to stay over, but he was afraid his young wife would worry. He took a nap before leaving, though, and got a late start.
It was a five-hour trek, and when he didn’t show up by nightfall, like he’d said, his wife sat up all night, praying. It was just turning daylight when she was horrified to see her husband staggering into the dooryard of their little hut. Before he could say a word, he collapsed on the ground. She screamed for help, and a neighbor’s boy ran for the doctor. He came galloping on horseback and did what he could. They also called the pastor of the church. He put his ear to the dying man’s lips and listened to his last babbling words, but for some reason he never told what he heard.
From then on, folks dreaded the Dank Hollow after dark. It was not only because of the mists and the bog but because of Wallace’s mysterious death. That happened way back, of course. By 1930, when a paved road bypassed the Hollow, the incident was mostly forgotten. And then, in 1970, the pastor’s descendants gave his diary to the Trawnto Historical Society. That’s when the whole story came to light:
Wallace had reached the Dank Hollow after dark and was feeling his way cautiously along the path, when he was terrified to see a line of shadowy beings coming toward him out of the bog. One of them was his brother, who had just been buried. They beckoned Wallace to join their ghostly procession, and that was the last thing the poor man remembered. How he had found his way home in his delirium was hard to explain.
The pastor had written in his diary: “Only the prayers of his wife and his great love for her could have guided him.” And then he added a strange thing: “When Wallace collapsed in his dooryard, all his clothes were inside out.”
“Whew!” Qwilleran said when the story ended. “Is Dank Hollow still there?”
“No, they filled it in a few years ago and built condominiums. I’m not superstitious, but I’d sure think twice before buying one. When will your book be published?”
“As soon as I’ve collected a sufficient number of yarns. I might have space for one of your rum-running tales at a later date, if you’d be good enough to—”
“I’d be honored!. . . More coffee?”
While drinking his second cup of coffee, Qwilleran asked, “What happened to the server who was supposed to wait on our table last night?”
“Tracy? Well, she’s a good worker, and pretty, and has a nice way with customers, but she’s a very impulsive type. She suddenly rushed into the kitchen as if she’d seen a ghost. She was hysterical, and my wife took her into our private quarters so the guests wouldn’t be disturbed. We didn’t know what kind of seizure it was, so we called 911. We also called her home, and her father came and got her. It turned out that the gentleman who just got married was supposed to be her boyfriend. Can you beat that?”
“It’s been the stuff of Greek tragedy, opera, and novels for centuries,” Qwilleran said. “The villain usually gets stabbed.”
“She has a little boy, you know, and that might be why she lost out. An elegant young man like Mr. James might not want to take on a ready-made family.”
Especially, Qwilleran thought, when the alternative is a woman with property and inherited wealth.
* * *
From the Boulder House Inn, Qwilleran drove to the Pickax community hall, where the Boosters Club was having its weekly luncheon. Ernie Kemple would be there as official greeter, and Qwilleran wanted to have a few words with him. There would be a fast lunch and an even faster business meeting, and then the members would hurry back to their stores and offices.
Kemple was welcoming them at the door with his usual hearty banter, but Qwilleran detected an undertone of anxiety. He said, “Ernie, let’s talk after the meeting.” He wanted to brace him for the newspaper coverage of the wedding. But first he had to stand in line for his soup-and-sandwich platter, which he carried to one of the long institutional tables. He sat next to Wetherby Goode and across from Hixie Rice.
“Bean soup again! Ham and cheese again!” the weatherman complained. “I thought the lunches would have more class after they let you gals join.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Next week it’ll be fruit salad and melba toast.”
During the business session it was she who gave the update on the Ice Festival:
• Contestants coming from eight states, including Alaska.
• Prizes valued at a quarter-million, donated by business firms and well-wishers.
• Seven colleges sending student-artists to the ice sculpture competition.
• Snow-moving equipment in three counties on standby, ready to build the rinks, race tracks, and snow barriers.
• Hospitality tents leaving Minneapolis by truck on Monday.
• Fifteen thousand polar-bear buttons already delivered.
• Jim Qwilleran lined up as grand marshal of the torchlight parade.
• Volunteers needed for hospitality tents and traffic control.
“Need any indoor volunteers?” Wetherby Goode called out. “I can’t stand the cold.”
After the applause and the grand rush for the exit, Qwilleran and Ernie Kemple stayed behind. “How goes it?” Qwilleran asked in a warmly sympathetic tone.
“Tracy’s in the hospital. She tried to OD. Vivian’s flying home from Arizona. That Carter Lee James is a heel! He’s been trying to use Tracy to get us to sign up for his project. Last night she found out in the cruelest way. She was assigned to wait on his table at the Boulder House. It turned out to be his wedding party! He’d married the Duncan woman, who has a house on our street.”
“I know,” Qwilleran said. “I was there, and I just want to tip you off; there’ll be a big spread on the wedding in today’s paper.”
“Oh, God! I’ll be glad when Vivian gets home. She’s coming in on the five o’clock shuttle. Tracy won’t talk to me. I’d warned her, but she wouldn’t listen, so now she hates me because I was right. Can’t win!”
“They have to make their own mistakes,” Qwilleran murmured as if he were an expert on parenting.
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“You don’t know how hard it is,” Kemple said, “to stand by and see them go over the cliff. This is her second disappointment. She should’ve stayed with Lenny. She’ll never get him back now. . . but here I am, dumping my woes on you again.”
“Don’t apologize,” Qwilleran said. “I’m really concerned.”
He was, too. There were increasing tremors on his upper lip.
FOURTEEN
After the Boosters’ luncheon, Qwilleran killed time until three o’clock, reading out-of-town newspapers at the public library. He was waiting for a chance to talk to Lenny Inchpot at his mother’s restaurant. At three o’clock he bought a copy of the Something and took it with him to Lois’s Luncheonette, where he dawdled over apple pie and the local news. The wedding was handled as a photo feature with a minimum of text:
VALENTINE WEDDING IN THE VILLAGE
Lynette Duncan of Pickax and Carter Lee James of New York City were united in marriage Tuesday evening in a Scottish wedding at the Indian Village clubhouse. Witnesses for the couple were Polly Duncan and James Qwilleran. The Reverend Wesley Forbush officiated.
The photos were credited to John Bushland: a close-up of the bride and groom; the wedding party in front of the fireplace; the oatcake ritual; the bride making the first cut in the wedding cake with a Scottish dirk; and a group shot of guests in tartans and Brodie with his bagpipe.
When the last customer had left and the Closed sign was hung in the window, Lenny started mopping the floor. Qwilleran went to the kitchen pass-through and shouted at Lois, “Permission requested to speak to the mop-jockey on matters of vital importance.”
The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Page 15