"Wasn't that a senseless, uncivilized thing to do?" she replied vehemently. "What did they hope to accomplish? It won't bring the fugitive back! It won't compensate them for their financial losses!"
"And it wasn't even Floyd's dog," Qwilleran told her. "It belonged to his son, your builder."
"That's even worse!"
"He's the chow who came to work with the crew every day - a beautiful animal, friendly and well-behaved."
"Are there any suspects, have you heard?"
"Not as yet, I guess. Police are investigating."
"Oh, dear," Polly sighed. "One evil only leads to another."
Qwilleran changed the tone of his voice from objective to warmly personal. "And how is everything with you and Bootsie?"
"We're well, thank you. And what did you do today, dear?"
"Well, this evening I watched the Tubes trounce the Typos in the annual ballgame. I knew you'd be too busy to go, but everyone wanted to know where you were." This was stretching the truth; there had been only two inquiries, although everyone was probably wondering why the richest bachelor in the northeast central United States was alone. Hope sprang eternal in the breasts of several hundred single and soon-to-be-single women in Moose County.
"I'm sorry, dear," Polly said. "I know I haven't been good company recently. I've had so much on my mind."
"That's all right," he said and then added naughtily, "Celia Robinson arrives tomorrow, and I feel obliged to spend some time with her. She doesn't know anyone up here."
There was an eloquent pause before Polly said coolly, "That's very hospitable of you."
"You'll meet her sooner or later, although I think she's not your type. She splits infinitives."
"I'll look forward to meeting her." Polly's voice dripped icicles.
"Well, I'll let you get back to your blueprints."
"Thank you for calling... dear."
"I'll keep in touch. Don't let the house get you down, Polly."
Qwilleran hung up with a pang of misgiving. He had deliberately irked Polly by mentioning Celia, and he recognized it as an act of unkindness to vent his own frustration. It was like shooting the embezzler's dog, he realized.
Tomorrow, he told himself, he might call and apologize; then again, he might not.
The next day was sunny with little breeze and temperatures higher than usual. An Anvil Chorus of ringing hammers at the end of the trail indicated that the carpenters were working feverishly. After coffee and a roll, Qwilleran walked down to the building site. There were now three men on the job, all wearing sweat- bands and no shirts. Their perspiring' backs glistened in the sun.
Qwilleran called to them, "Could you guys use some cold drinks? I live at the end of the trail. Be glad to bring a cooler down here."
"Got any beer?" asked the helper with a ponytail.
"No beer!" Eddie ordered. "No drink in' on the job when you work for me... Benno!" The way he spoke the man's name was a reprimand in itself.
Qwilleran went home and loaded a cooler with soft drinks, which he delivered by car. The trio of workers removed their nail aprons and dropped down under a tree - Zak's tree - and popped the cans gratefully.
After a couple of swallows, Eddie set down his drink and started sharpening a pencil with a pocketknife.
Qwilleran said, "I notice you sharpen that pencil a lot."
"Gotta have a sharp pencil when you measure a board," the carpenter said, "or you can be way off."
"Is that so? It never occurred to me.... Where's your dog? Is it too hot for him today?"
The two helpers looked at their boss questioningly, and Eddie said with a glum scowl, "He won't be comin' with me no more. Some dirty skunk shot him, night before last."
"You don't mean it!" Qwilleran said in feigned surprise. "Sorry to hear it. Was it a hunter, mistaking him for a wild animal?"
Furiously Eddie said, "Wasn't no accident! I could kill the guy what done it!"
Qwilleran commiserated with genuine feeling and then said he'd leave the cooler and pick it up later.
Eddie followed him to the car. "D'you live in the barn up there? Somebody in my family built it, way back. This was his orchard. I see you fixed up the barn pretty good. I poked around one day when there wasn't nobody home, 'cept a cat lookin' at me out the window. At first I I thought it was a weasel."
"Would you like to see the inside of the barn when you've finished work today?" This was a rare invitation. Qwilleran discouraged ordinary sightseers.
"Would I! You bet!" the young man exclaimed. "We quit at four-thirty. I'll drive up and bring your cooler back."
"Good! We'll have a drink." Qwilleran knew how to play the genial host. Before driving back up the trail, he picked up his mail and noticed with foreboding a bulky envelope from the accounting firm. It suggested tax complications with pages of obscure wordage in fine print. When he opened it, however, out fell a large swatch of plaid cloth in bright red - the Mackintosh tartan. He felt the quality. It was a fine wool, and the red was brilliant. An accompanying note from Gordie Shaw stated that custom-made kilts could be ordered from Scottie's Men's Store. There was also an application for membership in the Clan Mackintosh of North America. It was simple enough; the dues were low; his mother's clan affiliation qualified him for membership. It was something he would have to think about seriously - the membership, not the kilt. He left the envelope on the telephone desk where it would catch his eye and jog his decision.
Qwilleran planned to stay home all day, waiting for an important phone call. Celia Robinson was driving up from Illinois and was instructed to telephone upon reaching Lockmaster.
Throughout the day there were frenzied sounds of building at the end of the traiclass="underline" the clunk of two-by-fours, the buzz of a tablesaw, the syncopated rhythm of hammers. Qwilleran admired a carpenter's skill in sinking a nail with three powerful blows. His own attempts started with a series of uncertain taps, a smashed thumb, and a crooked nail, which he tried to flatten by beating it into the wood sideways.
At about two o'clock the phone rang, and Koko's uncanny sense knew it was important; he raced to the telephone and jumped on and off the desk. Qwilleran followed, saying, "I'll take it, if you don't mind."
A cheery voice said, "I'm in Lockmaster, Chief, and I'm reporting like you said. Permission requested to proceed." This little charade was followed by a trill of laughter.
"Good! You're thirty miles from Pickax, which is straight north," he said crisply. "When you reach the city limits, it's three more blocks to a traffic circle with a little park in the center. Look for the K Theatre on your right. It's a big fieldstone building. Turn into the driveway. I'll be watching for you. Red car, did you say?"
"Very red, Chief," she said with a hearty laugh.
Qwilleran immediately jogged through the woods to the carriage house to check its readiness. The windows were clean, the phone was connected, and the rooms had been brightened with framed flower prints, potted plants, and colorful pillows. He added a copy of the Moose County Something to the coffee table. The kitchen was miraculously complete, even to red-and-white checked dishtowels. In the bedroom there was a floral bedspread; in the guestroom, a Navajo design. He thought, Nice going, Fran!
Qwilleran went downstairs, just in time to see a red car pulling into the theatre parking lot. The driver rolled down her window and gave him a wide, toothy smile. "We made it!"
"Welcome to Pickax," he said, reaching in to shake her hand.
She was a youthful-looking, gray- haired woman whose only wrinkles were laugh lines around the eyes and smile creases in the cheeks.
"You look just like your picture in the paper, Chief!"
He grunted acknowledgment. "How was the trip?"