Before driving to the lakeshore, they stopped at the barn to feed the cats. Polly's cats had an automatic feeder that could be set for any hour, but Koko let it be known that he disapproved of automation.
From the barn Qwilleran phoned the inn for a reservation, and they drove leisurely through the countryside.
Polly said, "Everyone's talking about the ten-thousand-dollar bid from Lockmaster - for the Plensdorf library table. Can you think of anyone down there who would pay that?"
"Some sharpie who'll sell it for twenty thousand in Chicago. When they send a truck to pick it up, we should have our spies follow it."
She could not be sure whether he was serious or tossing one of his flip remarks. Rather than reveal her naïveté, she remained silent.
Qwilleran said, "This is the third time I've seen Foxy Fred in action. Do you think he will use the same sharp, scolding, bossy tactics with an audience of cat lovers? I should think the right approach would be gentler, appealing to their sentimentality. Also, I can't visualize the platform procedure of a cat auction."
"Well, you remember Peggy, who comes to the store twice a day to feed Dundee, don't you, Qwill? She's been volunteering at the animal shelter. She says each cat will arrive onstage in his own ?limousine' - a picnic basket with lift-up lid and top-handle. His name and other information will be on a tag attached to the handle. And the tags are being hand-lettered and decorated by art students. There's a soft pad in the bottom of each basket. Each cat is spending a few hours each day in his own private limousine to familiarize himself with the aroma."
Qwilleran said, "The well-organized routine sounds as if Hixie Rice has had a hand in the planning," he said with a touch of sarcasm, for which Polly rebuked him.
It was generally thought that Hixie's brilliant plans always went awry. Thus far, her plans for Pickax Now had been successful. Even the weather had cooperated, and the three-month celebration was almost two-thirds over. Still, Qwilleran could not quell the newsman's suspicion that everything was going too well.
Chapter 14
Hixie Rice was flying high! Sell-out audiences were having a good cry at The Big Burning and laughing in all the right places at Billy the Kid. Family reunions were a success - with one exception, the shooting. Who really killed the rabbit hunter?
Everyone was looking forward to the second parade. One day Qwilleran entered the following in his journaclass="underline"
Today the cats and I were enjoying the gazebo when Culvert McBee came walking up the lane carrying a plastic sack. His mother makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the county! And I was prepared with a limerick:
Fresh cookies from Mrs. McBee
Are always received with much glee!
Does she bake every batch
Of cookies from scratch?
Or maybe they grow on a tree?
How that boy has grown! I remember him when he was a nine-year-old defeating adults in a spelling bee! Since then his parents have encouraged him in a series of worthwhile enterprises, including a backyard shelter for old, sick, abandoned dogs.
I invited him to sit down, but he said he had to go home and do chores. Yet he showed a certain heel-kicking reluctance to leave.
"Is something on your mind?" I asked him.
He said the new girl at the paper found out about his backyard shelter and wants to write about it. His father said no, explaining that people all over the county will be dumping the unwanted dogs on the McBee farm.
I told Culvert his father is absolutely right! I said I would explain it to the new girl.
Only yesterday she informed me the cat club had invited her to join it, and enter Jerome in the cat fashion show. He had won one in California.
I pointed out to her that she was brought here as a journalist to report on such events - not as a joiner of organizations seeking publicity.
Qwilleran was looking forward to another book signing on Wednesday. The Literary Club was introducing The Historic Hibbard House : text by James Mackintosh Qwilleran and photographs by John Bushland.
All the best people assembled on the lower floor of The Pirate's Chest.
They rose to their feet in a vociferous welcome when the author stepped to the podium and the photographer projected the first image in the darkened room. It was the century-old mansion of eccentric design and curious legend - that had been reduced to ashes overnight.
Bushland's photo of the strange architecture made a striking illustration for the dust jacket of The Historic Hibbard House. Stranger still was the color of the jacket - a flowery shade of violet. Qwilleran explained it to the audience:
"Four generations occupied this house. It was built by a wealthy sawmill owner who could neither read nor write. . . . His son, college-bred, lived his life as a country gentlemen who liked to entertain guests. . . . His grandson was a serious scholar, noted for his library. . . . His great-granddaughter and last of the Hibbards was a professor of drama and poetry. Her name was Violet."
The morning after the book signing, Qwilleran walked downtown to Lanspeak's Department Store to buy a violet-scented gift for Polly, who had originally suggested the color of the book jacket.
Carol Lanspeak was at the cosmetics counter, arranging a display. "Can you believe it? We're having a run on violet this morning! I'm going to do a window on the color - with items from all over the store, and with books courtesy of The Pirate's Chest."
For Polly, Carol suggested a light violet scent in a gold filigree bottle. "Do you have time to go back to the office and say hello to Larry?"
The owner of the store was frowning over record books. "Come in! Come in! Have a cup of coffee, I'm ready to take a break."
"I saw you and Carol at the meeting last night."
"Compliments on a good presentation. Carol and I knew the Hibbards."
"I suppose you know the Ledfields," Qwilleran said.
"Quite well, although they don't socialize like the other old-timers. Our daughter is their physician."
"Is that so?" Qwilleran sensed another link in the Ledfield Saga.
The Lanspeaks were fine old stock like the Ledfields but chose to live in a rambling farmhouse in the hills and join in the business life and community interests of the county. Their daughter was a physician practicing locally and living in Indian Village.
Suddenly Carol breezed into the office saying in a low voice, "Larry, strangers in jewelry. Would you see what they're all about?"
Larry dashed out, and Qwilleran asked, "Are you having any trouble this summer?"
"We're seeing a lot of new faces," she said, "but there are strangers - and strangers ! When Larry and I were in New York, trying to get into theatre, we both worked as store detectives - and learned plenty! This year our six-foot-two stockboy from Wildcat has been promoted to store detective, but this is his day off."
"Is he a Cuttlebrink?" Qwilleran asked, exhibiting his local savvy.
"Aren't they all?" She rolled her eyes.
She said, "You were asking about the Ledfields. They go to our church, and twenty years ago the Sunday school had a hands-on program for youngsters. Each child adopted a lonely widow or a couple who were childless. They sent handmade greeting cards throughout the year to their ?adopted' elders--"