"I've met the son. He's building Polly's house. It was his dog who was shot. Did you read about it?"
"Nasty business!" Lisa said.
"I agree. I have no sympathy for Floyd, but I feel sorry for his family, especially his wife, and I have a suggestion. The Celia Robinson I mentioned to you has a cheerful disposition that would do wonders for Mrs. Trevelyan, I'm sure. Mrs. Robinson will call at your office tomorrow, and I wish you'd see what you can do."
"You don't think she'd mind the drive?"
"She's just driven for three days with a cat in the backseat, and there were no complaints from either of them. She's an inspiration, I tell you! She could even make Lyle smile."
"Hands off my husband!" Lisa said. "He may be an old curmudgeon, but he's mine!... Okay, I'll see what I can do."
Qwilleran hung up slowly with a satisfied feeling of accomplishment. Already his logical mind was telling him how to brief Celia for her assignment. As he sat at the desk, making notes with a black felt-tip, he realized that neither cat had greeted him at the door. He glanced around casually, then with mounting concern. That's when he saw the blood-red splotch on a light-colored sofa.
Logic gave way to panic! He jumped up, knocking over the desk chair, and rushed toward the lounge area. "Koko! Yum Yum!" he shouted. There was no answer.
-8-
Words can hardly express Qwilleran's panic when he glimpsed the blood-red splotch in the lounge area, nor his relief upon finding that it was the swatch of fabric in the Mackintosh tartan. The Siamese had stolen it! The envelope containing the application for membership in the clan was on the floor nearby. And where were the culprits? On top of the fireplace cube, observing Qwilleran's brief frenzy with wonder, as if thinking, What fools these mortals be!
"You devils!" he said, shaking his fist in their direction. Then he had second thoughts. It was not necessarily a two-cat caper. Which one of them was guilty? They both looked annoyingly innocent. Most likely Koko had heisted the envelope for some obscure reason of his own. Did he smell the red dye in the cloth? At one time in his brief but stellar career he had chewed red neckties.
Then Qwilleran had a quirky thought. "If you're trying to get me into a kilt," he shouted at Koko, "no dice!"
Nevertheless, he read the application blank once more. By nature he was not a joiner of clubs, societies, or associations (apart from the press club). Yet, as Big Mac had said, it would be a tribute to his mother if he joined the clan; she had been so proud of her Scottish heritage. Having reached middle age, he now found himself thinking about her with appreciation and admiration. He remembered her precepts: Give more than you get.... Be yourself; don't imitate your peers.... Always serve beverages on a tray.
She had died when he was in college. If she had lived longer, she would have gloried in his success as a journalist, wept over the crisis that almost ruined his life, and finally delighted in his new prosperity, especially since it was her Klingenschoen connection that sowed the seed.
Qwilleran filled out the membership application. Polly would be happy. "But no kilt!" he muttered to himself.
"YOW!" came a comment from the top of the fireplace cube.
The day after his visit with Eddie Trevelyan, Qwilleran drove to the mailbox with another cooler of soft drinks in the trunk. This was Phase One in his plan to get into the Trevelyan household by the back door. For Phase Two he would need Celia's help and the cooperation of Lisa Compton.
There were five trucks at the building site; electrician and plumber were "roughing in," according to Eddie. Qwilleran dropped off the cooler and returned to the barn to read his mail. One letter piqued his curiosity. The stationery had character, and the envelope was hand written in a distinctive script. He read:
Dear Mr. Q,
Just a note to say I'm sending you a memento from my father's personal collection. Whenever you sit in it, your creativity will scintillate. I want you to have this souvenir because I shall never forget that you saved my life on the island and encouraged me to improve my life-style.
My brother will bring it over on his boat, and Derek will pick it up at the pier in Mooseville and deliver it in his truck.
Gratefully, Liz
Qwilleran's first thought was: No! Not a pyramid! What will I do with it? Where can I put it? How large is it? Can I donate it to a school or museum without hurting Elizabeth's feelings? She had wanted him to call her Liz, a diminutive that only her father had used, but Qwilleran had no desire to be a surrogate parent.
He read the rest of his mail, throwing most of it into the wastebasket or red- inking it for handling by the secretarial service. A few letters he would answer himself, by postal card or phone call. Cards required fewer words than letters and were cheaper to mail. Despite his new wealth, there was an old frugality in his nature.
After that he went to work in his balcony studio, which was off-limits to the Siamese. The closed-door policy, he liked to explain, kept the cats out of his hair and the cat hairs out of his typewriter. Now he was trying to find something different to say about baseball for the "Qwill Pen" column.
He wrote, "Compared to a nervous, hyped-up, violent, clock-watching game like football, baseball is a spectator sport that encourages relaxation. The leisurely pace - punctuated by well- spaced spurts of running, sliding, and arguing - promotes a feeling of well- being, enhanced by the consumption of a hot dog or beverage of choice. The continual pauses - for bat-swinging, mitt-thumping, cap-tugging, belt- hitching, hand-spitting, and homeplate- dusting - produce a pleasant hypnosis."
Qwilleran's concentration was interrupted by the urgent ringing of the doorbell, as well as banging on the kitchen door. He ran down the ramp and found Derek Cuttlebrink towering on the doorstep. "Special delivery from Breakfast Island!" he announced. "Want me to carry it in?"
"Will it come through the doorway?" Qwilleran asked. A pyramid large enough to sit in, he reasoned, would have awkward dimensions.
"No problem," Derek yelled as he returned to his pickup and unloaded an item of furniture. "Where d'you want me to put it?" he asked as he maneuvered it through the kitchen door.
"Do I have to tell you?" Qwilleran responded tartly. "What is it supposed to be?"
"A rocking chair! Handmade! Antique! One size fits all! It belonged to Elizabeth's old man." Derek set the rocker down and sat in it. "Comfortable, too! Try it; you'll like it!"
It was made entirely of bent twigs, except for the rockers - and the bowl- shaped seat that appeared to be varnished treebark. Qwilleran thought, It's the ugliest chair I've ever seen! He slid into the seat cautiously and was immediately tilted back as if ready for dental surgery. It was, however, a remarkably comfortable sling.
"There's something I'm supposed to give you." Derek dashed out to his truck and returned with a snapshot. "This is her old man, posing with his chair. She thought you'd like to see what he looked like. Now I've gotta get to work. I'm on for the dinner hour, five to eight."
"What about your rehearsal?" Qwilleran called after him.
"The rude mechanicals aren't scheduled tonight."
After Derek had driven away, raising more dust than other visitors had done, Qwilleran grabbed the phone and called Amanda's Studio of Design, hoping Fran Brodie would be in-house. She answered.
"Stay there! I'll be right over!" he shouted. He hung up while she was still sputtering, "What... What... ?"
He usually chose to walk downtown, but this time he drove. At the design studio he barged through the front door and threw a snapshot on Fran's desk. "Know anything about this? The chair, not the man."