Qwilleran's property dated back to pioneer days, when strip farms were the norm - half a mile long and no wider than today's city block. It had been the Trevelyan apple orchard, and the back road still bore their name, but a series of disasters caused the family to sell.
Once upon a time this had been a drive-through barn, where wagonloads of apples were unloaded and stored in a series of lofts.
When Qwilleran first inherited the property, there was a fieldstone mansion as well, facing Main Street. It became the theatre arts building. Behind it was a dense patch of woods that Qwilleran called the Marconi Forest. It was the habitat of a huge owl that hooted in Morse code. Next came the lofty apple barn - all fieldstone and weathered shingles for siding. The barn was octagonal with a roof leading to a cupola at the apex.
The blighted apple orchard had been reforested with evergreens and fruit trees that attracted butterflies and birds. And an art centre stood at the site of the old Trevelyan farmhouse.
As for the barn, the interior was redesigned so dramatically that the few persons privileged to see it called it the Eighth Wonder of the World. To the owner and his two cats, it was Home. They lived quietly for the most part.
True, the interior space was estimated at four hundred thousand cubic feet. True, there were three balconies connected by ramps. But Qwilleran insisted that it functioned as an ordinary three-bedroom house.
The expansive ground floor was centred by a fireplace cube in stark white with three white smokestacks reaching to the roof. Around it was a series of open-plan rooms: a kitchen where Qwilleran fed the cats and warmed soup for himself, accompanied by a serving bar and snack bar . . . a formal dining room seldom used except as a conference table for official business and champagne parties for charitable causes . . . a roomy foyer where Qwilleran parked his two bicycles - a recumbent and a British Silverlight . . . a library where Qwilleran read to the cats as much as he did to himself . . . and a living room with two sinfully comfortable sofas angled around a large square coffee table.
All the dark wood surfaces had been bleached to a honey color. Light came from odd-shaped windows cut in the barn walls.
The furnishings were exactly to Qwilleran's taste: contemporary, massive, comfortable. The entire environment suited the Siamese, who flew up and down the ramps, teetered across the rafters like tightrope walkers, and virtually disappeared in the deep cushions of the sofas.
When the three arrived home from the condo with their luggage the cats silently checked the entire premises, beginning with their water bowl and dinner plates (his and hers) under the kitchen table.
Their private apartment was still on the third balcony.
The wastebaskets were in their accustomed place, but empty. The crows were still viewable from the foyer. All was right with the world.
Qwilleran never expected or wanted to be the richest man in the northeast central United States, but he made the best of it. The philanthropic K Fund invested the money for the good of Moose County. "Mr. Q," as he was known, wrote his popular column, listened to what people said, gave thoughtful advice, pampered the Siamese.
"Glad to see you back in town," said the attorney G. Allen Barter, at the barn early Tuesday morning when he arrived to discuss K Fund business.
"Unusually mild spring this year," Qwilleran explained, "and a lot of excitement over the anniversary."
"Where are the cats?"
"Watching you from the top of the refrigerator. . . . Shall we repair to the conference room?"
There were two thumps as Koko and Yum Yum jumped down and followed the men to the dining area.
"How do you like the official name of the sesquicentennial, Bart?"
"Inspired! They say it came to Hixie Rice in a dream. Do you buy that, Qwill?"
"Of course! There are day dreams and night dreams, and the subconscious works both shifts. If I can't solve a problem by day, I assign my subconscious to it, and by morning I have the answer."
"Do you have this system patented?"
"I'd like to consider it but, meanwhile, the system - as you call it - has come up with an idea for Pickax Now. Once a week, for the duration of the celebration, the ?Qwill Pen' column will feature one of the ?late greats' of Moose County - deceased persons who left a memorable mark. It will be a thousand-word profile: Osmond Hasselrich, Dr. Halifax Goodwinter, Fanny Klingenschoen, simple souls like Eddington Smith. Even a scoundrel or two."
Bart said with enthusiasm, "The K Fund could publish a collection of the profiles. Do it, Qwill!"
There followed the dull business (for Qwilleran) of signing papers, making decisions, solving problems.
Then the attorney said, "Clients of mine have asked me to intercede for them in a request. Do you remember Mr. and Mrs. Ledfield, who paid three hundred dollars a ticket to attend a charity event here in the barn? Koko turned it into a fiasco that no one has forgotten."
"Don't remind me," Qwilleran said. "Ever since that debacle I've avoided opening this humble abode to sight-seers."
"Don't worry. What the Ledfields are asking won't bother Koko and might appeal to you. They have a nephew in California who is about to enter college as an architecture student. He says that the fame of this barn is known in architectural circles on the West Coast."
"Is that so?" Qwilleran remarked with a glimmer of interest.
"Their nephew would like permission to sketch the interior as part of his college entrance portfolio. As you know, many architects consider what you've done with the space to be an impossibility."
"I didn't do it. It was the work of a talented designer named Dennis Hough, who lacked the credentials to call himself an architect."
"You never told me, Qwill! Where is he now?"
"Where he'll qualify for the ?late greats' in the ?Qwill Pen' column . . . Okay, your clients' nephew can come and make sketches, as long as he gives full credit to the deceased designer. Incidentally, I've not seen any photographs that did justice to the interior. It will be interesting to know what draftsman's sketches can do with it."
Bart said, "On behalf of my clients, I thank you, and I'll see that you get a set of drawings.
"By the way, in case you want to see what the young man looks like, Mrs. Ledfield gave me a newspaper clipping with his picture, taken when he was a downhill ski racer. His major interest is skiing."
Qwilleran looked at the photo of an athletic-looking fellow dressed for snow, with a stocking cap pulled over shoulder-length hair. He said, "He'll have to cut his hair when he becomes an architect."
"Maybe yes, maybe no," Bart said. "Have you been to California lately?"
They discussed K Fund business while Koko sat on the table and watched closely. But when the attorney gathered up his papers to leave, the photo of Harvey Ledfield was missing. "His aunt wanted it returned," Bart said.
"It's probably mixed in with your papers," Qwilleran reassured him. He really thought otherwise! Koko had been hanging around with a mischievous glint in his eye!
After a lengthy career in journalism Qwilleran had his emotions under control when it came to personal events. He could be pleased, mildly moved, even enthusiastic, but never, never excited. After the attorney's visit he had to admit that he was excited about having the barn's interior sketched. He reminded himself that this young fellow was only a would-be student, not yet enrolled. And a draftsman's sketch was not the same as an artist's drawing. Still, he was too excited to wait until eleven PM to break the news to Polly in their nightly phone chat. He walked downtown.
With his oversize moustache and orange baseball cap he was recognized everywhere. "Hi, Mr. Q!" said pedestrians with faces wreathed in smiles. "How's Koko, Mr. Q?" To the men he gave a friendly salute; to women, a gracious bow, which would be described to family and friends. Qwilleran was not only the ?Qwill Pen' in person but the power behind the K Fund.