"I'd like to talk to him. Why don't you bring him over to the west wing for some cider and doughnuts?"
"When?"
"How about tonight?" Qwilleran suggested. "About eight o'clock."
"I'll bring some goat cheese and crackers," she said in great excitement. "And don't worry - the cheese isn't poisoned."
Next Qwilleran phoned Polly at the library. He said, "I'm driving into Pickax to do errands. Would you care to join me there for dinner?"
"Delighted," she said, "provided it's early. I must go home, you know, to feed my little sweetheart. He has four meals a day on a regular schedule."
Qwilleran recoiled. Many a time he had said, "I've got to go home and feed the cats," but Polly's simpering was intolerable.
"Why don't you come to my apartment when the library closes?" he suggested. "I'll have the Old Stone Mill send over some food. What shall I order for you?"
"Just a green salad with turkey julienne and some melba toast. I'll take some of the turkey home to my sweetheart. He eats like a little horse."
Qwilleran winced, forgetting how many doggie bags he had toted home to the Siamese, forgetting how the pocket of his old tweed overcoat had once smelled of turkey gravy. True, he often called Yum Yum "my little sweetheart," but he did it in private.
He spent that afternoon writing a "Qwill Pen" column on the museum's new disaster exhibit. About the missing sheet he was mum, but he questioned why there was no mention of the miners lost in the explosion. On display was a photo of a granite monument in the cemetery, erected by public subscription to the memory of the thirty-two, but they were not identified.
He filed his copy at the office of the Something and bought cider and doughnuts for his soir‚e with Kristi and Mitch, arriving at his Pickax apartment in time to order dinner. Although home delivery was not an advertised service of the Old Stone Mill, the chef catered meals for the Siamese when they were in town, and a busboy named Derek Cuttlebrink was used to making daily visits with sushi, shrimp timbales, braised lamb brains and other delicacies.
Polly arrived on foot. Leaving her car in the library parking lot she cut through the rear of the property to the former Klingenschoen carriage house, an ounce of the discretion that she found wise to practice as head librarian in a gossipy town, although it fooled no one. The carriage house, now a four-car garage, was a sumptuous fieldstone building with arched doors and eight brass carriage lanterns posted at the comers. Using her own key, Polly unlocked what had been the servants' door and climbed the narrow stairs to Qwilleran's quarters. There was a warm moment of greeting that would have titillated the Pickax grapevine, and then he inquired about the health of her new boarder.
"He's becoming more adorable every day!" cried Polly. "The things he does are so darling, like sleeping on my pillow with his nose buried in my hair and purring his little heart out. He's gained five ounces, imagine!"
Qwilleran shuddered and picked up a decanter. "May I pour the usual?" As Polly sipped her sherry she asked about the goat poisoning. "Any more news?"
"Nothing official. We also have a couple of mysteries at the museum. You may not have noticed it during the festivities yesterday, but the Reverend Mr. Crawbanks' sheet has disappeared from the disaster exhibit. Also missing is Iris Cobb's cookbook."
"Really? That's most unusual! The cookbook I can understand, but why the sheet? The young people used to flit about the countryside in white sheets around Halloween, trying to frighten people, until the county outlawed it with what they call the pork-and-beans ordinance."
"And what might that be?"
"It was the result of an incident near Mooseville. A woman sent her teenage son to buy groceries at a crossroads store, and he was walking home on a country road after dark. As he approached the bridge over the Ittibittiwassee, a white-sheeted figure rose out of the dark riverbed and started moaning and screaming. The intrepid youth kept on walking until he was a few yards from the ghost. Then he reached into his grocery sack and hurled a can of beans at the spectre - right between the eye holes. It was a young woman under the sheet, and she went to the hospital with a concussion."
"And I presume the youth went to the majors," Qwilleran said.
Just then the doorbell sounded, and Polly thought it prudent to retire to the bathroom to fix her hair. A tall lanky busboy arrived with Polly's salad and Qwilleran's lambchop - plus two servings of pumpkin chiffon pie with the compliments of the chef.
"Where are the cats?" the busboy asked.
"On vacation," Qwilleran said as he handed him a tip. "Thanks, Derek."
"They've got it made. I never get to go anywhere."
"I thought you were going away to college this fall." Derek shrugged. "Well, you see, I got this good role in the next play at the theatre, and I met this girl from Lockmaster who's a blast, so I decided to work another year."
"Thanks again, Derek," said Qwilleran, ushering him to the door. "I'll look forward to seeing you in the November play. Don't tell me anything about your role; it's bad luck. The Siamese send you their regards. Give my thanks to the chef. Watch your step with that girl from Lockmaster. Don't trip on the stairs." In slow stages he maneuvered the gregarious Derek Cuttlebrink from the apartment.
Polly emerged from the bathroom, looking not much different. "He's a nice boy, but he hasn't found himself yet," she said.
"He's looking in the wrong place," Qwilleran muttered. They dined at the travertine table, and Polly inquired how he liked the Othello recording.
"A stunning opera! Even the cats have enjoyed it. I've played it several times." Not all the way through, but he withheld that detail.
"How did you like Iago's Credo?"
"Unforgettable!"
"And don't you agree with me that Dio! mi potevi is gorgeous?"
"My word for it exactly!... And what did you think of the disaster exhibit?" he asked, changing the subject deftly.
"The girls accomplished a miracle! That was a difficult subject to dramatize. And the balloting idea was very clever."
"In my opinion they missed the boat. They should have honored the thirty-two victims by name, and I said so in my column."
"No one knows who they were, except for an occasional family recollection," Polly informed him. "There is no official list. We have old copies of the Picayune on microfilm, but the issues of May thirteenth to eighteenth are missing, oddly enough."
"Where did you get this film?"
"Junior Goodwinter turned everything over to us when the Picayune ceased publication. We also checked the county courthouse files, but death records prior to 1905 were destroyed in a fire that year."
"It would be interesting to know who threw the match," Qwilleran said. "It's doubtful that all the records were destroyed accidentally. Who would want the victims' names forgotten? The Goodwinters? Or would their names give a clue to the identity of the lynch mob? There were probably thirty-two in the gang, one to avenge each victim. A ritualistic touch, don't you think? They were draped in sheets so no one would know the identity of the actual hangman. I imagine they drew straws for the privilege."
"An interesting deduction," Polly said, "assuming that the lynching story is true."
"If Ephraim committed suicide, why would he do it in a: public place? He had a big barn. He could have jumped off the haymow. Actually, does anyone really care - at this late date - about the exact fate of the old scoundrel? Why do the Noble Sons of the Noose persist generation after generation?"
"Because Ephraim Goodwinter is the only villain Moose County ever had," said Polly, "and people love to have a bˆte noire to hate."
She declined the pumpkin pie, and Qwilleran had no difficulty in consuming both pieces. Then he said, "What do you know about Vince and Verona?"
"Not much," Polly said. "They suddenly appeared a month ago and proposed a deal, which the museum board was delighted to accept. Vince offered to catalogue the presses, in return for which they gave him the cottage rent-free. Those presses were a white elephant, so Vince's arrival on the scene was considered a blessing from heaven."