From the barnyard he walked through the evergreen woods, causing some flutterings of wings and scurrying in the underbrush, then across the parking lot of the theatre arts building and north on Main Street in the City of Stone, as the shopping centre was nicknamed. Behind the post office was the new bookstore, The Pirate's Chest, where Polly was enjoying her new career as manager.
He used his key to the side door, letting himself directly into the office. She was not there, but behind a folding screen Dundee, the bibliocat, could be heard scratching in his commode.
Soon Polly arrived. "Qwill! What a pleasant surprise! How does it feel to be able to walk downtown?"
"Invigorating! I'm really here to ask a question. . . . Do you know the Ledfields of Purple Point?"
"I know they're one of the ?fine old families' - very wealthy. Nathan is a collector. Doris was on my board of directors at the library - but not for long. She's rather frail. No children. Nathan's only brother and his wife were killed in a car accident out west not too long ago. Why do you ask?"
"The orphaned son, as I understand it, is coming here to visit his aunt and uncle and - you won't believe this - sketch the interior of my barn for a college-entrance portfolio."
"How very exciting," Polly said.
"Yes," Qwilleran said coolly, concealing his real feelings.
From Polly's office he went out to the selling floor, exchanged pleasantries with saleswomen in Green Smocks, told Dundee he was a good bibliocat and could expect a raise. He walked down the broad staircase to the community area with its view of meeting rooms, and the Edd Smith Place, where pre-owned books were donated and sold, with proceeds going to good causes.
In Moose County one simple fact encouraged the charitable impulses of the general public: The K Fund would match any donation dollar for dollar.
In the ESP, as the lower-level shop was known, Lisa Compton was the volunteer at the cash register. A retired academic, married to the school superintendent, she was the one Qwilleran wanted to see.
"Lisa, how would you like to collaborate on a ?Qwill Pen' project that will later be published in book form?"
When she heard about the "Late Greats," she was enthusiastic. She and her husband were third-generation natives. Together they could suggest candidates for the honor, and Lisa would do the research.
She would start with the late Osmond Hasselrich, pioneer lawyer, and Agatha Burns, well-loved teacher.
Back upstairs, he found Polly waiting for him with her eyes sparkling in a way that meant mischief or conspiracy.
"Sit down!" she ordered. "We have to discuss your birthday dinner! I've made a reservation at the Mackintosh Inn - your favorite table in front of the Scottish castle crest, and I thought it would be fun if we wore our Highland kit."
That meant the Mackintosh kilt for Qwilleran, with dinner jacket, sporran, and a dagger in his sock. Polly would wear a long white dress with Duncan plaid pinned on the shoulder with a cairngorm.
"They won't know it's your birthday. I'll tell them we're celebrating a moment in Scottish history, and they'll serve us two Scotch eggs as aperitifs, and you can have half of mine."
When assured that he would not have to blow out candles on a cake, Qwilleran agreed. Afterward, they would go home and listen to good music. He had a new John Field recording he wanted to play.
Later that evening Qwilleran wrote in his private journal, explaining somewhat his panic about birthday celebrations.
Thursday - When Arch Riker and I were growing up in Chicago, he claims I was always a rotten kid on my birthday. He should know. He was there. And he was no sweet potato. Even at an early age, I recall, I despised the silly games played at birthday parties - and the blowing out of candles after making a wish - and the Happy Birthday song, sung out of tune and off key.
Now that I'm an adult, I find the same inanities are being practiced, and I have to smile and thank everyone when I'd rather break the cake platter over their skulls.
I know it's an eccentricity, and I have no intention of giving it up. We're all entitled to a few eccentricities, provided they don't harm anyone, break the law, or constitute a public nuisance.
Chapter 3
One Sunday afternoon in late May Hixie Rice and a member of the Sesquicentennial Committee arrived at the barn to discuss various matters. Dwight Somers was a public relations counselor whose PR firm was called Somers & Beard, although the only beard was on his face. Qwill and his guests seated themselves in the sumptuous sofas and Hixie said, "These sofas are just too comfortable, Qwill! We may never want to leave."
"Don't worry," he said. "Koko has a built-in alarm clock and will throw you out. Talk fast."
Both cats were on the coffee table, huddled shoulder to shoulder on a very large paperback book. "What are they sitting on?" she asked.
"Their bedtime reading: Mark Twain for Kids. " The cover had a full-length photo of the great author.
Hixie said, "He has a moustache like yours."
"Or, rather, I have a moustache like his."
Qwilleran was a great admirer of his predecessor's wit. It was Twain who gave the world's shortest advice: "When in doubt, tell the truth."
"Now, what's the latest about the celebration?"
"To make it brief," said Dwight, "three parades will define the thirteen weeks of celebration. On Memorial Day the theme will be Pickax Past, with historical tableaux on floats. The main feature will be the antique pickax that has been in a glass case at City Hall."
Dwight went on. "On July Fourth the theme will be Pickax Now, and on Labor Day, Pickax Future. "
Hixie said, "I've been telling Dwight about the one-man show you did, Qwill - on the Big Burning of 1869."
"How did it work?" Dwight asked.
Qwilleran explained. "We asked the audience to imagine that radio existed in 1869, and we brought them a broadcast covering the fire, which destroyed practically the whole county except the courthouse in Pickax. I played the radio announcer; Hixie was technical assistant, handling sound effects."
Hixie groaned. "Once we did the show in a church basement when the furnace was out of order. The audience was sitting wrapped in blankets and wearing earmuffs and mittens. And the radio announcer was saying that the temperature was a hundred degrees as he mopped his brow."
Qwilleran recalled another time when - at the most tragic moment in the show - a small girl walked across the stage looking for the restroom. "A few minutes later, she came back. It's to the audience's credit that they didn't laugh, but I had a hard time keeping a sober face."
Dwight asked, "Could you dig your script out of mothballs and do the show for Pickax Now audiences?"
Qwilleran said he believed so. Actually, he was fond of working before an audience, reading words that he had written, hearing the enthusiastic applause. "How many shows?"
Dwight thought one a week for thirteen weeks would be appropriate - and well attended. "What would you think about a Sunday matinee? In the opera house?"
"Better than church basements and school gyms, I say. Let's do it!"
The City of Pickax was ready for its great moment in history! Houses were painted; trees were pruned; street paving was repaired. Downtown, the sidewalk planters were a riot of pink, white, and red petunias, and cracked concrete sidewalks were repaved in the fashionable brick.
The stately old brick courthouse with its proud stretch of lawn was now flaunting its famous peony bushes.