"Going too fast in a controlled-speed zone."
"Oh!"
Her cryptic syllables fascinated him, and he waited for the next question. She was, after all, a journalist.
"Before you forget, Clarissa, what did you want to tell me about the Ledfields?"
"Yes, something strange is happening at the Old Manse. I phoned to make an appointment and return her fabulous ring, but I can't talk to anyone except a secretary, who says they are unwell. When Harvey and I were there, they seemed in good health. Am I getting the runaround? What do you think I should do?"
He was getting twinges of suspicion in his upper lip. Actually, Qwilleran had not been comfortable with the situation for some time - not since Koko had dropped on Harvey's head. It was something the cat had never done before! Then, a second time, he had dropped on the sofa alongside Mitch Ogilvie. Was there a connection?
All of this flashed through Qwilleran's mind in answer to Clarissa's question.
He said, "I can understand your concern, but don't let it interfere with your concentration on your new job. My advice would be to send Doris a handsome get-well card and enclose a note explaining what happened to your ?engagement' and tell her you want to return her ring. Ask how she wants you to go about it. Enclose your phone numbers at home and at the office. Send the card by motorcycle messenger."
When they ordered dessert - cherries jubilee for her, strawberry shortcake for him - Derek flamed the cherries at the table with a flourish that impressed Clarissa.
"He has style," she whispered.
"He's an actor in the theatre club," Qwilleran explained. "He's currently playing the villain in Billy the Kid. There are press passes available, if you're interested."
So it went - an evening of excitement for the newcomer. On the way back to the barnyard she was quiet, however, and just before she left in her new little used car she said, "Qwill, I've had a wonderful time, and you've been so kind that I feel guilty. There are things I should explain. It's easier to say in writing, so I left a note for you - on the top of the bar."
Clarissa drove away, and Qwilleran hurried indoors faster than usual. . . . There was no note, but Koko sat on the bar, looking guilty.
It was not until Tuesday morning that Qwilleran brought the stepladder to the living room and found Clarissa's letter, complete with fang marks, on the top of the fireplace cube.
Dear Qwill,
You and Polly have been so kind and helpful that I owe you an explanation. I was never engaged to Harvey; I was part of his scam to get money from his uncle for a ski lodge. It didn't work, and I should never have taken part in it. But if I hadn't, I wouldn't be here, working for theSomething and meeting so many wonderful people.
Clarissa
Chapter 12
Another week! Another" Late Great" profile for the "Qwill Pen" column. Osmond Hasselrich had been the founder and majordomo of the law firm known as HBB&A. When Qwilleran inherited the Klingenschoen fortune, it was old Mr. Hasselrich who helped him establish the K Fund.
Qwilleran still remembered how the attorney served tea before commencing any business meeting in his mahogany-paneled office. His secretary would bring teapot and cups on a silver tray, and the elderly gentleman insisted on pouring the tea with his trembling hands into his grandmother's Victorian porcelain teacups.
Did anyone know what had happened to those precious teacups that rattled in their saucers when the old man passed them to his clients?
Lisa Compton had done the research on Hasselrich. Qwilleran labored to give balance to the thousand-word profile: Osmond Hasselrich had been a pioneer's son . . . educated by the largesse of grandparents in Philadelphia . . . a struggling young lawyer in the straggling town of Pickax . . . his life included half a century of hard work and genuine concern for his clients . . . eventually he had three partners and a richly paneled office.
A researcher's note said, "Qwill, rumour has it that Fanny Klingenschoen had a torrid romance with Osmond before he went to law school and before she became a belly dancer in Atlantic City, but I don't think you want to mention that. - Lisa."
Qwilleran filed his Tuesday copy by motorcycle messenger, leaving him time for desk chores. Then at two o'clock he walked down the trail to the back road, where there was a rural mailbox and a newspaper sleeve. Clarissa's first feature story would be on page one. How much space would they give her? How big a byline? What position?
He well remembered his first assignment on a Chicago paper. It was buried in a back section; the copy was butchered; his name was misspelled. But that was Chicago, and this was Pickax.
The first of four installments on the Heirloom Auction appeared on the front page above the fold. And the illustration was a large photo of an Abraham Lincoln portrait - in copper - actually a printer's copperplate from which thousands of black-and-white prints had been pulled. There was also a teaser, saying, "Watch for another pedigreed antiquity in tomorrow's Something. "
Clarissa would be walking on air, and Qwilleran could enjoy her pleasure vicariously.
He was sitting on the porch of the art centre and was not surprised when volunteer Thornton Haggis burst out of the building saying, "How long have you been sitting here? We charge for parking!"
"How much do you want for the bench? I'll buy it," Qwilleran retorted.
Thorn sat down alongside him, and Qwilleran said, "Do you remember the young couple visiting me, who bought one of your wood turnings? You entertained them with local history. This is the girl. She's living here now."
The historian looked at the mug shot and remembered them very well. "They are related to the Ledfields."
"And thereby hangs a tale, Thorn. The Ledfields have become quite reclusive, I hear."
"Oh, they never made the big social scene, Qwill. They're one of the last fine-old-families worthy of the name, and I think it weighs heavily on Nathan that the Ledfields are dying out. His brother, who was killed in an accident recently, was a blight on the family name; I don't know about the man's son. Is he the one with all the hair who came down here and bought one of my bowls?"
"He's the one!"
"Wel-l-l!" His inflections expressed plenty.
"Doris Ledfield was on Polly's board of directors at the library for a short time, Thorn, but she resigned."
"Yes, Doris is sweet but shy. She worships the ground Nathan walks on. In fact there is a story that I wouldn't repeat to anyone but you, Qwill. When Doris found out she was barren, she offered Nathan a divorce so he could continue the bloodline elsewhere. It's to his credit that he was appalled at the suggestion. Oh, he's a gentleman! And he lives by a rigorous code of ethics."
"Have you heard him play the violin?"
"He could be on the concert stage, Qwill! . . . Excuse me." Thornton was called indoors to the phone, and Qwilleran walked back up the lane more slowly and thoughtfully than he had walked down.
Around six PM Qwilleran phoned Maggie Sprenkle at home, when she would be having a bowl of hot chicken soup and a green leafy salad after a hard day at the animal shelter. Her dining table seated six, and he could imagine her five ladies keeping her company, one on each chair, sitting quietly. In a Victorian palace, even the cats behaved like royalty. They never even spoke until spoken to - and then only with ladylike mews.
When assured that he was not interrupting dinner, Qwilleran asked, "Did you see the spread on the auction in today's paper?"
"I did indeed! Who wrote it? The name is new to me."
"The new feature writer from California, who has just arrived with her cat, a British Shorthair. She'll be assigned to cover the kitty auction, no doubt, and she'll do a good job. Clarissa would feel honored to meet your ladies, having admired them from across the street."