There were no trucks and no workmen, but concrete had been poured and smoothly troweled. She had decided on a crawl space instead of a basement, and on a poured foundation instead of concrete block - this after extensive reading on the subject. On one of their recent dinner dates she had explained, A poured foundation gives a stronger wall with less danger of cracks and leaks. Did you know they are supposed to leave a groove in the footings to tie in a poured concrete wall?" And after dinner they had visited the building site to check the grooves.
Now the walls had been poured, and Qwilleran phoned Polly at the library to report.
"Thank you for letting me know," she said. "Now I feel the project is finally under way."
"Yes, you have something concrete to show for all your planning," he said lightly.
"I wonder how long it takes to dry before they can start the framing. Mr. Trevelyan uses platform framing construction. I must phone him tomorrow morning to see if he spaces the joists on twelve-, sixteen-, or twenty-four-inch centers."
"I'd go with twelve-inch, considering the way Bootsie goes around stamping his feet," Qwilleran said in another attempt to amuse her.
With worry in her voice she said, "Will I regret my decision to eliminate the fireplace? It makes a charming focal point, but it adds to the initial cost and then creates extra work if one burns wood, and I would never consider the gas- fired type."
"Be of good cheer," he said. "I have three fireplaces, and you're welcome to come and enjoy one or more at any hour of the day or night. I'll chop the wood, keep the logs burning, and haul the ashes. Reservations should be made an hour in advance." He was doing his best to divert her, without success, and the conversation ended with frustration on Qwilleran's part.
He turned from the telephone to his stack mail. An envelope with an Illinois postm caught his eye:
Dear Chief,
I got your letter about the Kabibbles and almost died laughing. Glad you like them. I'll send some more. You can see by the envelope I've left Florida. I'm back on my son's farm. Sorry to say, I don't get along too good with my daughter-in- law-she's such a sourpuss - and you may think I'm crazy, but I'm thinking of moving to Pickax. It sounds very nice. I know you get lots of snow, but I love to throw snowballs at the side of a barn. I'd need to somehow find a furnished room because I sold everything when I moved to Florida, and maybe I could find a part- time job-cleaning houses or waiting on tables. I'd like to sort of give it a try for a year anyway. What do you think?
Yours truly Celia Robinson
She gave a phone number, and Qwilleran called immediately without waiting for the evening discount rates as he was prone to do. The phone rang and rang, and he let it ring while fragments of thought teased his brain: Celia could cook... Did he need a live-in housekeeper?... No, he liked his privacy... Some macaroni and cheese, though... Some meatloaf for the cats...
He was wondering about Celia's mashed potatoes when a woman's harassed voice shouted a breathless hello.
In a menacing monotone he said, "I'd like to speak to Mrs. Celia Robinson."
"She's out back, collecting eggs. Who's calling?"
"Tell her it's the Chief."
"Who?" "Chief of the Florida Bureau of Investigation," Qwilleran said with his talent for impromptu fabrication.
The receiver was put down abruptly, and a woman's voice could be heard shouting, "Clay, go and get Grandma quick. Tell her to hurry!"
There was a long wait, and then he could hear Celia's laughter before she reached the phone. "Hello, Chief," she said happily. "You must've got my letter."
"I did indeed, and it's a splendid idea! Your grandson can spend Christmas with you, and you can have snowball fights. How is Clayton?"
"He's fine. Just got back from science camp. He won a scholarship."
"Good! Now to answer your questions: Yes, you'll have no trouble finding part- time work. Yes, you can find a furnished apartment. There's one close to downtown, if you don't mind walking up a flight of stairs."
"I don't want to pay too much rent."
"No problem. The owner will be only too happy to have the premises occupied."
"Could I bring my cat? You remember Wrigley, from Chicago."
"By all means. I'll look forward to meeting him." He waited for her merry laughter to subside before asking, "Do you have transportation?"
"Oh, you should see the cute little used car I bought, Chief! It's bright red! I bought it with your check. I didn't expect you to send so much. It was fun helping you."
"You performed a valuable service, Celia. And now... Don't waste any of our glorious summer weather. Plan on coming soon. I'll send you the directions."
"Oh, I'm all excited!" she crowed, and he could hear her happy laughter as she hung up.
The apartment he had in mind was a four-room suite in the carriage house behind the former Klingenschoen mansion, now the K Theatre. It was imposing in its own right, being constructed of glistening fieldstone with carriage lanterns at all four corners and four stalls for vehicles. Qwilleran had lived there while his barn was being remodeled, and it was still equipped with his basic bachelor-style furnishings in conservative colors.
After talking to Celia, he tore into action, his first call being to Fran Brodie at the design studio. She had selected the original furnishings and also those in the barn.
"Fran, drop everything - will you? - and do a quick facelift on my old apartment... No, I'm not moving back into it. A woman who was a friend of Euphonia Gage in Florida has been advised by her doctor to move up here for the salubrious climate."
"Well! I never heard anything like that!" Fran exclaimed. "Perhaps we should open a health spa. What kind of person is she?"
"A fun-loving grandmother, who has a cat and drives a red car.... Yes, I agree the place needs some color - and some feminine fripperies, if you'll pardon the political faux pas. The cats' old hang-out should be made over into a guestroom for her teenage grandson, and my Pullman kitchen should be replaced by a full-scale cooking facility, with an oven big enough to roast a turkey. How fast can you.do this? She'll be here in ten days." "Ten days!" Fran yelped into the phone. "You're a dreamer! Free-standing appliances are no problem, and we can get stock cabinets from Lockmaster, but there's the labor for installing countertops, flooring, lighting - "
"Offer the workmen a bonus," Qwilleran said impatiently. "Get them to work around the clock! Send me the bill." He knew Fran liked a challenge; she prided herself on doing the impossible.
Breaking the news to Polly required more finesse, however. He called her at home that evening. "How did everything go today?" he asked pleasantly. "I see they painted the yellow lines on the library parking lot."
"Yes, but that wasn't the main event of the day," she said. "Mr. Tibbitt's seat cushion developed a slow leak and whistled every time he moved. It could be heard on the main floor, and the clerks were in hysterics. It was rather amusing in a bawdy way." Polly trilled a little discreet laughter.
Finding her in a good mood, Qwilleran broached the real subject on his mind. "I know your assistant likes to moonlight on her day off. Would she be willing to act as mentor for a new resident of Pickax?"
"What would it entail?"
"Driving someone around town and pointing out the stores, churches, restaurants, civic buildings, medical center, and so forth. Information on local customs would be appreciated - also city ordinances, like 'No whistling in public.' And she might throw in some current gossip," he added slyly, knowing that Virginia Alstock was the main fuse in the Pickax gossip circuit.