"What's going to be done about the mess on Breakfast Island?"
"It hasn't been officially announced, but XYZ Enterprises will forfeit their equity in the resort, and the Klingenschoen Foundation will restore the south end of the island to its natural state. That includes reforestation and beach nourishment. Mother Nature is expected to do the rest."
"A major undertaking, if you ask me," said Dwight.
"But worth it."
"What about the Domino Inn and the other bed-and-breakfasts?"
"The plan is to have them function as youth hostels, elder hostels, and a summer campus for the new college. The islanders will continue to live in their secluded village, and the exclusive summer estates will have their taxes raised.... Now tell me about the theatre club, Dwight. What happened at the board meeting tonight?"
"We decided to go out on a limb and do a summer production for the first time. I'm recording secretary and always tape the minutes. Want to hear it?"
Dwight took a small recorder from his pocket and placed it on the coffee table. After a few seconds of fast-forwarding, familiar voices could be heard. Though distorted by the limitations of the device, they were recognizable: Larry Lanspeak, owner of the department store... Fran Brodie, interior designer... Scott Gippel, car dealer, who served as treasurer of the club... Dwight's own voice... and Junior Goodwinter, young managing editor of the newspaper.
LARRY: Now for new business. Considering the influx of tourists, should we do a summer play?
JUNIOR: The campers and fishermen and boaters have no place to go in the evening, except bars. Not even a movie house.
GIPPEL: I'm for giving it a shot. Let's grab some of those tourist dollars. Let's do a Broadway comedy with lots of belly laughs.
JUNIOR: Or a good mystery.
DWIGHT: Or a campy melodrama, like Billy the Kid, that'll get the audience booing the villain.
LARRY: Or a musical with a small cast, like The Fantasticks.
FRAN: I'd like to see us do Midsummer Night's Dream.
GIPPEL: You're nuts! That's Shakespeare!
LARRY: Yes, but it has comedy, romantic love, glamorous court scenes, and magic. What more can you ask?
JUNIOR: You can have a lot of fun with Dream. I played Puck in college.
LARRY: All the costumes for Henry VIII are in the basement. We could use them for the court scenes.
DWIGHT: Thrift, thrift, Horatio!
FRAN: How about using students for extras, as we did in Henry?
GIPPEL: Now you're talkin' turkey! All their friends and relatives will buy tickets. I say: Go for it. How many kids can we use?
FRAN: There's no limit to walk-ons. High-schoolers can play the lords and ladies, and junior high kids can do the fairies.
GIPPEL: Fairies? Are you kidding? You'd better make them little green men. Kids don't go for fairies. I've got three at home, and I know.
DWIGHT: Three little green men? Or three kids?
(Laughter)
FRAN: I like the idea of little green men! Let's do it! I'd love to direct.
Dwight turned off the recorder. "What do you think of it, Qwill?"
"Sounds okay to me, but Polly will have a fit if you convert Shakespeare's fairies into extraterrestrials. She's a purist."
"That detail isn't finalized, but we're going ahead with auditions. Off the record, we're precasting Junior as Puck and the Lanspeaks as the duke and his bride. They'll also double as Oberon and Titania. They've done the roles before, and we've got to take a few shortcuts if we want the show on the boards before Labor Day."
It was eleven o'clock, and the Siamese had come stalking back into the room. They stared pointedly at the visitor.
Suddenly he said, "Well, I'd better head for the hills. Thanks for everything."
"Glad your career has taken a propitious turn, Dwight."
"And that's not the only good news. I had a date with Hixie last night, and everything's coming up roses."
"You're lucky! She's great fun." It
was an appropriate match. Hixie Rice was another transplant from Down Below, and she was in char of public relations for the newspaper. Qwilleran put on a yellow baseball cap hanging near the kitchen door and accompanied his guest to his car. "We have an owl in the woods," he explained, "and if he sees a good head of hair, he might think it's a rabbit. I'm quoting Polly, the ornithology expert."
"Well, I'm safe," Dwight said, passing a ha over his thinning hair. He cocked his head listen. "I can hear him hooting. Sounds like Morse code - long and short hoots."
As the happy young man drove away Qwilleran watched the taillights bouncing through the ruts of the Black Forest and wondered what had happened to Hixie's
previos heartthrob. He was a doctor. He owned a cab cruiser. He had a beard. Qwilleran walk around the barn a few times before going indoors; it was pleasantly warm, with a so breeze. He listened and counted.
"Whoo-o-o hoo hoo... hoo hoo hoo..whoo-o-o."
Qwilleran decided to call him Marconi and write a "Qwill Pen" column about owls. Fresh topics were in short supply in the summer. Sometimes the newspaper had to rerun his more popular columns, like the one on baseball and the one on cats.
When he went indoors, all was quiet. That was not normal. The Siamese should have been parading and demanding their nightly treat with ear-piercing yowls. Instead, they were assiduously washing their paws, whiskers, and ears, and the bowl on the coffee table was empty. Stuffed with Kabibbles, they staggered up the ramp to their apartment on the top balcony. Qwilleran, before he called it a day, wrote a thank-you note to a woman named Celia Robinson.
-2-
When Qwilleran wrote his thank-you note for the Kabibbles, he sat at his writing table in the library area - one side of the fireplace cube that was lined with bookshelves. For serious work there was a writing studio on the balcony, off- limits to the Siamese, but the bookish, friendly atmosphere of the library was more comfortable for writing notes and taking phone calls. For this brief letter to Celia Robinson he used a facetiously bombastic style that would send her into torrents of laughter. She laughed easily; it took very little to set the dear woman off.
Dear Celia, I find it appropriate to pen an effusive expression of gratitude for the succulent delights that arrived today to tantalize my taste buds and heighten my spirit. Your Kabibbles are receiving rave reviews from connoisseurs in this northern bastion of gastronomy. I suggest you copyright the name and market them. You could become the Betty Crocker of the twenty-first century! Perhaps you would grant me the distribution franchise for Moose and Lockmaster counties. Let me know your new address so I can order Kabibbles in ten-pound sacks or twenty- gallon barrels.
Gratefully, Q
No one in Pickax knew about Qwilleran's whimsical acquaintance with Celia Robinson, not even Polly Duncan - especially not Polly, who was inclined to resent the slightest intrusion on her territory. The cross-country acquaintance had begun when Junior Goodwinter's grandmother died suddenly in Florida. Through long-distance conversations with her next-door neighbor, Qwilleran conducted an investigation into the death, and he and Celia developed a chummy rapport. He called her his secret agent, and she called him Chief. He sent her boxes of chocolate-covered cherries and the paperback spy novels that she liked; she sent him homemade brownies. They had never met.
The case was closed now, but Qwilleran had an ulterior motive for continuing the connection: She enjoyed cooking. Fondly he envisioned her relocating in Pickax and catering meals for himself and the cats. It was not an improbability; she wanted to leave the retirement village in Florida. "Too many old people" was her complaint. Celia was only sixty-nine.
Qwilleran posted the letter in his rural mailbox the next morning, walking down the orchard wagon trail to the highway, Trevelyan Road. The trail was the length of a city block. It ran past the skeletons of neglected apple trees, between other trees planted by squirrels and birds in the last hundred years, alongside the remains of the old Trevelyan farmhouse that had burned down, and past the two acres where Polly would build her new house. After raising the red flag on the oversized mailbox, he took a few minutes to consider the construction site. The fieldstone foundation of the old house was barely visible in a field of waist-high weeds. An abandoned lilac bush was doing nicely on its own, having grown to the size of a two-story, three-bedroom house, and it still bloomed in season. When the wind direction was right, its fragrance wafted as far as the apple barn.