Bushy was always cooperative. And he and Qwilleran had shared experiences that had cemented their friendship—with one reservation: Qwill would never again go out on Bushy’s powerboat!
ELEVEN
While Qwilleran waited for Polly’s first postcard from Paris, imagine his surprise at receiving a letter!
Dear Qwill,
It’s our first day here, and something funny happened that’s too good to keep!
Shirley wanted to take a nap, and our travel agent went looking for a bar. I just wanted to walk around and pinch myself. Was I really in Paris?
I was standing on a curb, waiting to cross the street, when a short middle-aged man came up to me. He was wearing a T-shirt with a large American flag on the chest—and carrying a French-English phrase book. He pointed to one translation and read slowly.
“Pardonnez-moi. Où se trouve l’opéra?”
I couldn’t resist the cliché: “I don’t know. I’m a stranger here myself,” I said.
Instead of being amused, he was obviously embarrassed, because he virtually fled from the scene. Too bad. It would have been fun to find out where he was from—Chicago? Denver?
Actually, I was flattered that he mistook me for a native! The Parisiennes have a definite chic!
And I’ve never seen such beautiful postcards!
Love from Polly
P.S. What made it so funny—I was wearing my blue gabardine coat and hat from Lanspeak’s.
Wednesday morning, G. Allen Barter arrived for legal business at the barn, whistling “Memory” from the musicalCats.
Qwilleran said, “Don’t tell me. You’re singing Grizabella inCats ? I would have thought you were more the Rum Tum Tugger type.”
“Not guilty! My wife and I took our eldest to the tryouts. We saw you there, but you didn’t sing. Did you get cold feet?”
When the bantering was over and the two men had trooped to the conference area with two tail-happy cats and a tray of coffee, Qwilleran said, “Does the county still need a coordinator for community activities?” Where once there had been only a community hall and athletic field, bequests from old families had now made it feasible for a music center, a senior club, and two museums as well. And although the office of HBB&A had handled the transition, the time had come for citizen control.
Qwilleran said to Bart, “Daisy Babcock has the intelligence, skills, and creativity to handle it. I suggest you call her to come in for an interview. The K Fund will back me up.”
“What does Koko say about it?” Bart joshed.
“He was the one who suggested it.”
There was the usual amount of joking and coffee swigging, followed by serious decision making and document signing. Then Qwilleran broke the news.
“How would the K Fund like to undertake a little two-county collaboration? That is, share an exhibit that has warm ties to both of them! We’re usually competing, criticizing, or opposing in some way.”
After a pause to arouse Bart’s curiosity, Qwilleran continued: “I think you will remember that Moose County twins once returned to the north country in later life. Thelma Thackeray had a career in Hollywood; Thurston Thackeray had made a name for himself, in providing medical services for the horses and dogs of Lockmaster. The passing of the two wonderful people was deeply mourned and—because of questionable circumstances—not properly honored.”
He stopped for breath, and his listener was interested.
“The activity would center about the bookstore of Pickax and the library of Lockmaster, and there would be newspaper features and talks. The twins’ father is buried in a hilltop grave, with a simple grave-marker inscription:Milo the potato farmer. Some believe he was a bootlegger.”
Bart said, “Go ahead! Anything that launches the two counties in one direction will be okayed in Chicago.”
Qwilleran said, “We’ll start with the photo exhibit at the two locations. Research, newspaper coverage, talks, et cetera, will come later. Everyone will want to jump on the bandwagon.”
That evening Qwilleran received a surprise phone call from Judd Amhurst. The temporary manager of the bookstore said, “Wouldn’t you know the showcases arrived today! Polly’s been expecting them for weeks…no, months! As soon as she left the country they arrived!” It was like this. The bookstore architects had designed a space for exhibits of a cultural nature.
Qwilleran asked, “Did you and Polly plan exhibits in them?”
“We had lots of ideas, but perhaps you’d like to make some suggestions. Showcases, too. They’re really elegant.”
“Good, I’ll drop in at the bookstore tomorrow.” Qwilleran was a welcome visitor at the Pirate’s Chest…and not simply because he always brought a box of treats from Grandma’s Sweet Shop.
That night Qwilleran wrote in his private journaclass="underline"
These are busy days in Moose County: new ideas, new activities, new people. And the same old gossips in the coffeehouses. They are not always right, but they are always provocative. And the best place to listen to the best scuttlebutt is Lois’s Luncheonette downtown. The trick is…to listen without getting involved. While the pundits and the know-it-alls filled the tables and chairs, I preferred to sit at the counter with my back to the madding crowd, supposedly reading the daily paper but actually listening. This was a good idea that didn’t work. The store clerks, truck drivers, and farmers at the table would catch sight of me and ask, “What’s your opinion, Mr. Q? Should they fire the guy? Was he stealing the city blind? How did he get elected, anyhow?” It was impossible not to get involved, when all I wanted was a cup of coffee and a few minutes’ rest after ending my beat or standing in line at the bank and at the office. One day I carried a New York paper instead of theMoose County Something. I sat at the counter to read with my back to the noise…and no one bothered me! How to explain it? A small-town phenomenon! From then on, whenever I had my nose in theTimes or theJournal, no one interrupted!
TWELVE
On Thursday, a handsome middle-aged woman with reddish brown hair, hatless, drove from Lockmaster to Pickax—turning off the highway on to a trail called Marconi between the public library and the theater arts building. It led through a patch of woods and emerged with a breathtaking view!
One came upon the barn suddenly—four stories high, octagonal, constructed of fieldstone and weathered shingles, with two Siamese cats dancing in a small ground-floor window.
Qwilleran went out to meet her.
“Welcome to the barn, Vivian.”
“One question! Why is this little lane named after the Italian inventor of the wireless telegraph?”
“It’s named after an owl in the woods that hoots in Morse code…. Now come in and meet Koko and Yum Yum.”
At one point his guest said, “They’re still talking—at our Lit Club—about the talk you gave on Stephen Miller’s book,Conversation: A History of a Declining Art …. Kip thinks you belong in Lockmaster.”
“I appreciate the compliment,” he said.
“May I ask what brought you to Moose County?”
“An inheritance, and when I had the barn converted, I was hooked. I’ll show you the interior. It was the last work of a very talented designer. I feel privileged to preserve his work. The acoustics are incredible.”
They went indoors and the guest gasped over the vast spaces, ramps winding around the interior, the views from the balcony levels—all the while followed by the Siamese like hired security guards.
“They like you!” the host said. “Do you have cats?”
“We have one of Moira’s friendly marmalades at the library—the staff named him Reggie—and I have a bossy Siamese at home, called Caesar.”
“How do you two strong-minded individuals get along?”