By contrast, the Pickax City Hall had always been a civic embarrassment: a two-story gray brick building with a flat roof, small naked windows, and an unimpressive entrance door.
The police department upstairs was entered from the rear, and there was a jail in the basement. But this year Hixie Rice had made it a personal mission to beautify City Hall. The windows were given shutters; the two front steps were given an ornamental handrail; an important entrance door was coaxed out of an antique shop; and the windows, both upstairs and down, were equipped with window boxes.
Hixie accomplished all this with her strong sell, winning personality, long eyelashes, and refusal to take "no" for an answer.
Then the Downtown Beautiful Committee planted the window boxes with . . . pansies! Yellow pansies! The jokers in the coffee shops had a field day with the pansies and there were waggish letters to the editor. But the pansies flourished.
Three parades were announced with the first being on Memorial Day, with the theme Pickax Then. All signs pointed to good weather, according to the WPKX meteorologist.
Then Qwilleran received a troubling message:
"Qwill, I need to talk to you, but I don't want Gary to know. Don't return the call - Maxine."
She was the wife of the owner of the Hotel Booze in Brrr. They had been married only a short time. She had long owned and operated the Harbourside Marina.
The message gave Qwilleran a sudden desire for one of the burgers for which the Hotel Booze was famous. Grabbing his car keys and orange baseball cap, he said goodbye to the Siamese, who followed him to the door. In leaving, it made no difference what he said. It might be a little Shakespeare in a sonorous voice, like "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers," or it might be "Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle" in a falsetto that made their ears twitch. To him it was never clear whether they were reluctant to see him go or glad to have the premises to themselves for feline shenanigans.
On his way to Brrr Qwilleran reviewed what he knew about the town, founded two centuries ago because of its superb natural harbour. The hotel had been built on a cliff overlooking the bay. It had the proportions of a shoebox, and a sign running the length of the roof could be seen far out in the lake. In large block letters it said: ROOMS FOOD BOOZE . No one knew the sign's date of origin, but it gave the hotel its nickname.
When Qwilleran first arrived in the north country, Gary Pratt had just inherited the hotel from his insolvent father but could not operate it because of too many code violations. The elder Pratt had been able to get by on the grandfather clause in the building code, but young Pratt needed to make extensive improvements - or else. Yet banks would not lend him the money because of youthful indiscretions.
Enter: Qwilleran. He saw something promising in Gary Pratt, and the K Fund backed the improvements.
Actually, the hotel retained its scruffy appearance, because that was preferred by boaters, fishermen, and vacationers looking for something different.
The Black Bear Café at the hotel was distinguished by the huge mounted beast rearing on hind legs, the comfortable shabbiness, the cracks in the mirror behind the bar, and the appetizing aroma of grilling bear burgers.
Qwilleran sat on the last stool at the end of the bar, knowing it was less apt to collapse and deposit him on the floor.
A lively waitress approached. "Hi, Mr. Q! Haven't seen you all winter. The boss is out shopping. Squunk water as usual? Burger medium rare with fries?"
Without Gary Pratt for chitchat Qwilleran soon finished his lunch and strolled down the hill to the Harbourside Marina. Maxine came out of the office and led him down the pier that offered boats for sale. To all appearances she was selling him a cabin cruiser, but she was saying in hushed tones:
"It's like this: Gary was behind the bar last night and heard two customers making plans to steal the historic pickax before the parade! There's a certain element down here looks for ways to make trouble. When Gary told me about it last night, I said he should warn the Pickax authorities but he said it was unethical for a barkeeper to reveal his customers' conversations. Also bad for business. So I took it on myself to call you. Did I do right?"
"Certainly not wrong. Of course, there's always the possibility that a couple of drunks were indulging in barblab. Even so, it won't hurt to check the security at City Hall. I'll drop a flea in the correct ear."
Much relieved, she invited Qwilleran into the marina office for coffee, and they talked about forthcoming boat races and marine weather predictions.
That evening, Qwilleran phoned Andrew Brodie, Pickax police chief, at home - at an hour when a nightcap would be appropriate. "Andy, I happen to have some Gouda cheese - and what goes with it. Also a couple of hot tips. Put on your shoes and come on over."
A few minutes later, the big burly Scot burst through the kitchen door. The bottles were on the bar top; the cheese board was on the snack bar.
"Where's that smart cat? I've got a couple of investigations for him to do!"
Both cats were waiting with whiskers twitching in anticipation; Koko knew when he was being complimented, and Yum Yum knew when there was a good shoelace to untie.
The men sat at the snack bar and talked about Pickax Now : the expected crowds, the number of family reunions, and the ambitious schedule of parades.
"And that's one of the reasons I called you, Andy," said Qwilleran. "It's well known that the famous pickax that started it all will be featured in the first parade on the Number One float - with blinking lights, banners, a drum tattoo, and a lineup of armed guards." (It was a bit of fabrication on Qwilleran's part, but intended to dramatize the situation.) "Now - get this, Andy - my spies around the county tell me there is a plot among an anti-Pickax element to steal the ax from the council chamber. Apparently they have an inside accomplice at City Hall!"
Brodie almost choked on a swig of Scotch. "Where'd you hear this?"
"I protect my sources."
The chief recovered. "Let them steal it! It's a fake! The real thing is in the bank vault!" Then, with hoots and guffaws he added, "I can see the newspaper headline: ?Crazies Steal Fake Pickax!' It'll make them look like fools!"
Qwilleran asked, "How long has the fake pickax been on display?"
"From way back. A collector on Purple Point offered the city the real one. He had a kind of local history museum. Stuffed animals and birds. Never saw it myself, but when I was in the sheriff's department, there was some talk about it."
"Do you know the name of the family involved?"
"Sure! Ledfields. Made their money in the mines."
Qwilleran said, "I often wondered why the pickax was not in a locked case. The sign even calls it the original pickax. I suppose it was the pioneer sense of humour at work. They always liked a good joke."
Brodie said, "I hope the rowdies don't retaliate with acts of vandalism. Ever hear of the teller that daubed profanity on the side wall of the city hall - and signed his name? That's no joke! He was from the town of Brrr!"
Qwilleran said, "How are they going to make the parade any different, any more spectacular than any similar event?"
"One thing I can tell you," Brodie said, "is strictly under the table. One float is gonna honor the first inhabitants of Moose County."
"American Indians?"
"Nope."
"Prehistoric tribes?"
"Nope.
At this point in the conversation Koko started "looking at his wristwatch" as Qwilleran always described it. The cat would suddenly appear where and when least expected, drawing attention to himself in some unusual way. (It was after eleven o'clock.) Finally he hopped onto the bar top in full view of the snack bar and started giving himself a bath - a thorough bath!