Fran Brodie was calling to say, “I’d like to collect that margarita you promised me.”
“When!” Qwilleran asked sharply.
“Now!” she replied crisply.
“Where are you?”
“In your backyard.”
When he went to the barnyard to meet her, she added apologetically, “I hope I’m not interrupting your work.”
“That’s all right. I’m sure you won’t stay long.”
“Touché!”
“Come indoors.”
She perched on a bar stool while he prepared her favorite cocktail. “I’m here,” she said, “because I heard you’re going to visit the parrots tomorrow.”
“Do you think I should have a psittacosis shot? Who told you?”
“Dwight.” She referred to their mutual friend, who was handling public relations for Thelma. “If you’re planning to do a Thackeray story, Dwight thinks you should avoid mentioning the interior design. And so do I!”
It was an unusual request from the designer who had just received an enormous commission.
They took their drinks into the living room, where Fran saw the wall hanging over the fireplace. “I see it’s still there,” she said with a sniff.
He ignored the remark. “So, what’s the problem at Thelma’s house? I’m invited for a waffle breakfast and a social call on Pedro, Lolita, and company. If I write anything, it’ll be a legend for Short & Tall Tales. What are you trying to tell me about the decorating—excuse me. The interior design.”
“Have you been in any other houses on Pleasant Street?”
“Two or three.”
“Then you know they all have wallpaper, stained woodwork, draperies, and Oriental rugs on hardwood floors. Thelma shocked us by wanting stark white walls, white-painted woodwork, white miniblinds, and—worst of all!—wall-to-wall white vinyl cemented to the beautiful oak floors. What could we do? It’s her house! Amanda believes in letting the customers have what they want. Her modern furniture looks perfect with that background . . . but not on Pleasant Street!”
“Sticky wicket!” Qwilleran said.
“I know you like contemporary, Qwill, in all its forms, so you’ll probably like it. But both Dwight and I feel that it would not be to anyone’s advantage to have the interior published. So concentrate on the parrots, her collection of designer hats, her waffles, and her infatuation with old movies.”
“Hmmm,” he mused as he picked up her empty glass. “Shall I try it again? Maybe I’ll get it right.”
She jumped to her feet. “No, thanks. We’re having a family get-together tonight. I have to be there—and sober.”
As Qwilleran watched her drive away, he speculated that there was no family get-together. Fran wanted to avoid answering questions about Thelma’s secret business enterprise. He was certain now that it involved the old opera house. Earlier in the day he had driven past the site and stopped to watch moving vans unloading large cardboard cartons. Each had the manufacturer’s name and large letters spelling out ONE CHAIR or ONE TABLE.
Qwilleran went directly to the phone and called Dwight Somers.
He was still in his office. “Qwill! It’s been a long time! Are you staying out of trouble?”
“Yes and it’s boring. Are you free for dinner? We could go to Onoosh’s and plot something illegal.”
Dwight Somers had the kind of face that looks better with a beard—stronger, wiser. He had come to Moose County from Down Below—to handle public relations for XYZ Enterprises. Disagreeing with the management over the development of an offshore island, Dwight resigned and joined a P.R. agency in Lockmaster. Their company policy was: no beards. Too bad. Devoid of whiskers he looked clean-cut, honest, and younger, but not strong or wise. He eventually left to start his own P.R. firm in Pickax. He called it Somers & Beard, Incorporated.
“Now you look like Dwight Somers!” Qwilleran told him when they met at the Mediterranean café. They sat in a booth for privacy. There were beaded curtains in the windows, hammered brass tops on the tables, and spanako pita on the menu.
Politely, Qwilleran asked about Indian Village (where Dwight had an apartment) and about Hixie Rice (with whom he was seen everywhere).
Dwight asked politely about the Siamese.
“I hear you’re handling public relations for Thelma Thackeray. How is she to work with?”
“I talk to her like a big brother. I tell her that people have a tendency to be critical, jealous, and antagonistic when a local son or daughter returns with money, fame, and glamour. My job is to let these people know what a friendly, generous person she is. We’ve lined up donations to all local charities and fifteen churches—the latter in memory of her dear ‘Pop.’ She’s no public speaker, but she’ll appear at social events and answer questions about parrots, old movies, and hats as an art form.”
“I understand,” Qwilleran said, “that you want me to avoid mention of the interior design.” As a journalist he should resent being told by a P.R. man what to write . . . but this was a small town, and there was more than Thelma’s public image to be considered.
“Fran and I have discussed it. Stark white décor is high style in some parts of the U.S. and abroad, but the concept is far-out for Moose County. Nothing would be gained by shocking the gossips and turning off the general public. Meanwhile we can accentuate the positive by concentrating on the parrots.”
Qwilleran said, “And waffles, and art hats, and old movies. I’m no expert on interior design, anyway, although I know what I like, and I like most contemporary stuff. You could help me, Dwight, by telling me about her new business venture, which seems to be a deep dark secret. Has she bought the old opera house?”
“It’s been in her family for seventy-five years. It’s been rented for everything from government purposes in wartime to appliance storage in peacetime.”
“Is she opening a restaurant? I’ve seen tables and chairs being delivered.”
Dwight lowered his voice. “It’s to be a film club, cabaret style . . . with the latest and best in projection equipment and sound system and screen . . . for viewing old movies exclusively.”
After dinner, Qwilleran shut himself up in his office on the balcony and went to work on the Friday column. The question was: How to make it interesting to the readers? The answer was: Make them think. Keep them guessing. . . . Give them something to talk about. He wrote:
WHO SAID THIS?
Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead. You have three guesses. Here are some clues:
He was a philosopher, publisher, scientist, diplomat, mathematician, postmaster general, signer of the Declaration of Independence, vegetarian, and genius. He invented the idea of daylight saving time long before it was adopted. And he invented the incredible glass harmonica. In case you have not yet guessed . . . you’ll find his portrait on the hundred-dollar bill.
This Renaissance Man of eighteenth-century America also found time to write collections of wit and wisdom and publish them over a period of twenty-five years under the pen name of Richard Sanders. (They became known as Poor Richard’s Almanac.) Included are sayings that everyone knows, like Make haste slowly and Time is money. Some have a trace of cynicism: Where there is marriage without love, there will be love without marriage.
Qwilleran ended his column with a quiz, challenging his readers to test their worldly wisdom. He informed them that the answers would be in his “Qwill Pen” column on Tuesday.
Pleased with his work, he had a large dish of ice cream, then walked three times around the barn with a flashlight, thinking . . .
The next day would start with waffles at Number Five Pleasant Street and a get-acquainted session with the parrots. Would they be nervous after being snatched by strangers in the middle of the night? How much would Thelma want to say about her Lockmaster trip? Did Dick take her to dinner at the five-star Palomino Paddock? Who picked up the check?
He could think of many questions to ask, but they were all out-of-bounds: Do yo
u think the kidnappers followed you from California? If not, did they learn about the much-loved parrots from Friday’s newspaper? Did the interview reveal that all the neighbors would be away, feting the newcomer? What was the ransom demand? How could anyone scrape up a large amount of cash on a Sunday night? Do kidnappers now accept checks or credit cards? (Bad joke.) So was it Thelma’s jewels they wanted? How did they know she had ten-thousand-dollar lapel pins and fifteen-thousand-dollar bracelets?
11
On the night before the waffle breakfast Qwilleran tuned in the WPKX weathercast, knowing he would hear nonsense as well as reasonably accurate predictions. His friend Wetherby Goode was more entertainer than meteorologist, but that was what the good folk of Moose County wanted. He always had a few lines of poetry, song, or nursery rhyme to fit the weather.
At least once a week he dedicated a forecast to someone in the news, such as Lenny Inchpot when he won the bicycle road race and Amanda Goodwinter when she was elected mayor.
On Thursday he dedicated his predictions to “Thelma Thackeray, who grew up here and has returned to God’s country after a long career someplace in California. . . . Thelma, you may have forgotten that we have interesting weather here. This morning is sunny with temperatures in the upper seventies, but if you go out, take a jacket and umbrella, because there will be light rain and a chill breeze—that is, if you don’t want to catch cold. But if you do get the sniffles, drink some hot lemonade and put a goose-grease plaster on your chest.”
Then he sang a few lines about “raindrops falling on my head” accompanying himself on the studio piano.
If Thelma happened to be listening, she would scream with laughter at the mention of goose grease. Old-timers in Moose County, reminiscing about the “bad old days,” always guffawed over the hot, scratching, smelly horrors of a goose-grease plaster.
To Qwilleran’s recollection he had eaten waffles only once in his life, and it behooved him to educate himself. A phone call to the public library launched a volunteer on a spirited search.
Thanks to her efforts, he learned that waffles have been around since Ancient Greece . . . that the first waffle iron in the United States was patented in 1890 . . . that waffle irons were the most popular wedding gift in the first quarter of the twentieth century . . . that there was at least one waffle iron in every respectable attic in Moose County.
As the time came to leave for breakfast, the cats watched him with anxious blue eyes, as if they expected never to see him again. “Would you like to send your regards to Pedro and Lolita?” he asked.
Pleasant Street was quiet—ten gargantuan wedding cakes waiting for a wedding. The most flamboyant was Number Five. The front door, called the carriage entrance, was on the side, and Janice was waiting for him in her cook’s apron and floppy hat.
“Good morning,” she said. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”
He handed her the bunch of carnations in green tissue that he had picked up on the way over. His instinct had told him to choose brilliant red.
“Thelma will love them!” Janice said. “She’s running a little late. Shall I bring you coffee while you’re waiting?”
The wait gave him a chance to appraise the decorating. He thought it had elegance and joie de vivre. The whiteness of it all reminded him of a white-on-white artwork he had won in a raffle at the Art Center. Against the totally white background, however, exciting things were happening: A sofa and chairs with ebony frames in contemporary mission style had square-cut seats and back cushions in steel gray silk. Cool! he thought. They were accented with puffy down-filled toss pillows in parrot colors: vivid green, brilliant red, and chrome yellow. Tables were stainless steel with plate-glass tops. Handmade art rugs, large and small, defined the areas. Wall art consisted of large contemporary paintings and tapestries that stayed on the wall instead of jumping out at the viewer.
He was attracted to a pair of tall, narrow etageres in the foyer—stainless-steel frames, each with five plate-glass shelves graduated in width. The frames flared upward, so that the shelf space at the top was wider than the shelf space at the bottom. It was a concept that gave grace and lightness to the design. The Moose County approach, Qwilleran thought, would be: straight-up-and-down like a ladder.
The shelves were filled with an astounding collection of tropical birds in brilliantly glazed porcelain. As Qwilleran examined them, he became aware of a strong presence: Thelma was descending the stairs with one braceleted hand grasping the handrail and the other braceleted hand extended in welcome. She was wearing a simple caftan in brilliant yellow that accentuated the silvery gray of her hair—a short-crop with bangs.
Qwilleran said, “Your home, Thelma, has an air of elegance plus a certain joie de vivre!”
“Bless you, Ducky! You talk just like you write! And you look even handsomer than you did at the party! Follow me! Waffles will be served in the breakfast room. I hope you like them as much as we do!”
In the breakfast room Qwilleran was served crisp, buttery waffles flavored with toasted pecans and topped with an apple-date sauce. He declared they were the best he had ever tasted in his life. (His previous experience had been in a fast-food place in New Jersey.) “What do the parrots have for breakfast?” he asked, to nudge the conversation in another direction.
“Standard parrot feed,” Thelma said, “plus treats like safflower seeds, apples, bananas, celery, and raw peanuts. They love chocolates and marshmallows, but we don’t want them to get fat.”
Janice said, “Dick gave Lolita a chocolate-covered caramel, and her beak got all gummed up. It was funny to watch her struggle, but she liked it and wanted more.”
“I don’t approve of Dick’s cute tricks, and I’ve told him so!” his aunt said sternly.
Twice, in asides to each other, the two women had referred to a “Mr. Simmons.”
“Who is Mr. Simmons?” Qwilleran asked. “Your probation officer?”
Janice squealed in glee; Thelma murmured her amusement and said, “He’s a retired police detective who worked for me at the dinner club. He was a security guard in dinner jacket and black tie, and he felt it his responsibility to protect my personal safety.”
“He had a crush on Thelma,” Janice said mischievously.
“When I sold the club and retired, he became a friend of the family, coming to dinner once a week and keeping an eye on everything. He adored Janice’s cooking. When he learned we were moving east, he insisted on giving me a small handgun and showing me how to use it, being concerned about two women crossing the continent alone. He is a dear, sweet man.”
Qwilleran said, “I hope no one ever calls me a dear, sweet man.”
“Don’t worry, Ducky; they won’t,” Thelma retorted.
That was what he liked about her—her edge.
Qwilleran had avoided asking obvious questions about the parrots, since the answers had been in Friday’s feature story, which he should have read. Actually he had given it a quick scan, so he played it safe. “How was your sightseeing in Lockmaster, Thelma?”
“The horse country is pretty . . . and the restaurants are quite good . . . though not as good as mine, Ducky!” she said with a confidential wink. Then she said soberly, “What I really went to see was my brother’s grave. I told Dick to leave me alone for a few minutes and I visited with dear Bud . . . and said a little prayer . . . Then I wanted to see the gorge where he and Sally used to hike, and where he had his accident. Dick stayed at the car—he said it was too gruesome. But I thought it was beautiful. There was a trestle bridge in the distance that looked as if it was made of toothpicks, and while I watched, a little toy train roared across it. There was a river far down below.”
“The Black Creek,” Qwilleran said.
“When Pop used to bring us to Lockmaster for a picture show, we never saw anything like the gorge. He’d hitch up the wagon, and my stepmom would make pastries, and we’d have a picnic lunch. Tickets to the picture show were a nickel, so that was twenty cents for four. Pop didn’t
often splurge.”
“Do you remember the first movie you ever saw?”
“How could I forget? It was Ben Hur with all those chariot races! Silent, of course . . . then The Circus with Charlie Chaplin. How we loved the little tramp! . . . The first picture with sound was The Jazz Singer and that’s when I decided I wanted to be in pictures, as they said then. By that time we weren’t so poor and could go oftener.”
Qwilleran asked, “When did movies come to Pickax?”
“Bud and I turned twelve, and Pop gave us the Pickax Movie Palace for a birthday present. It had been the old opera house—closed for ages—and he said he got it cheap. That’s when we started seeing Garbo, John Barrymore, Gable, and the Marx Brothers. We saw Duck Soup three times. When I saw The Gay Divorcee with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, that’s when I knew I had to go to Hollywood.”
Janice had the waffle iron at the table, and Qwilleran was indulging himself.
“Shall we take our coffee into the aviary?” Thelma suggested.
All the houses on Pleasant Street had been designed with a front parlor and a back parlor, the latter being the family room in contemporary parlance. At Number Five it was called the aviary, however. Half of the space was behind chain-link fencing reaching to the ceiling. The other half was comfortably furnished with wicker tables and chairs and indoor trees in brass-bound tubs.
Inside the giant cage all was aflutter with color and life as parrots teetered on perches, showed off on trapezes, or climbed the chain-link, using their feet and strong beaks. One powerful beak was chewing on a tree branch. At the same time there was chattering, whooping, conversing in two languages, and noisy flapping of wings.
Cat Who Brought Down the House, the Unabridged Audio Page 9