“It’s worth doing, even if we have to have an artist simulate it,” Qwilleran said.
“Janice may have some ideas. She may know an artist in California who produces lizard print,” Bushy added.
Qwilleran said, “If I can give you any menial help to expedite any of these things, I’m available. And don’t forget: Charge everything to the K Fund.”
Then it was back to the Qwill Pen until the caterwauling began again: It announced a truck coming through the Marconi Woods.
It pulled up at the kitchen door, announced by the cat ballet in the wide window. It was the Linguini truck, and Alfredo jumped out, reaching for a case of Squunk water.
Qwilleran went to meet him. “Hey, did I order that? I didn’t know I ordered any!”
“You didn’t. This is a present—from Daisy and me! There’s more, too!” Out came a carton of cat snacks and juices.
Fredo said, “Daisy and I appreciate everything you did to get her out of that hellhole.”
“She and the new job are perfect for each other…. How about you and Nick? Did you get roles in the new musical?”
“Yes, we’re doing Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer. Anytime you want to come and sing with us, you’re welcome at rehearsal. Have you done any singing? Your voice sounds like it.”
“Only in college, but I enjoyed it! Is the pianist back on the job?”
“Frankie? Yeah, that was a crime what happened to little Libby!” Fredo gave his listener a swift glance. “And I really meancrime !” He jumped into the cab. “Thanks again from Daisy and me.”
“One question,” Qwilleran said. “What is the arrangement you have with Frankie? I understand he doesn’t drive.”
“We take turns picking him up…. Wanna volunteer?” Fredo added in a jocular afterthought.
“I might do just that!” said Qwilleran. “I have a lot of space to fill in the Qwill Pen, and I might find a story on piano tuning. Why does a grown man—with an assortment of talents—get calledFrankie ?”
“His dad is Franklin, and they’re sort of an old-fashioned family.”
Fredo gunned the motor—and scatted the cats away from the window.
The conversation had reminded Qwilleran of all the half sentences and innuendos he had heard at Lois’s Luncheonette.
The Siamese were waiting for him near their feeding station. He asked, “What really happened to Libby Simms?”
They looked at each other and then jumped off the counter, and chased up and down the ramp.
Finishing his thousand words, the newsman took his New York paper and went to Lois’s Luncheonette for some scuttlebutt.
Before he could take the end seat at the counter and open his paper, Lois lumbered up. With all due respect to the heavyset proprietress, that was how she moved about her premises—slowly and with grandeur. The columnist was one of her favorite customers; she served him not only coffee but a slice of chocolate cake and some turkey scraps for the cats on the house.
He opened his newspaper and tuned in to the babble behind him:
“The city’s hired someone to keep a check on all the goings-on.”
“No kiddin’! Who?”
“Fredo Linguini’s wife.”
“She’s a lively one.”
“They’re giving her an office in the old community hall building.”
“I hope they fix it up for her. It’s showing its age.”
“Aren’t we all? All it needs is some paint. If they called for volunteers, I’d sign up! We’re lucky to have that building. We had our wedding reception there.”
During Polly’s absence, Qwilleran had plenty of dinner invitations, and one evening he was dining with the Bushlands. They discussed the forthcoming exhibit of Bushy’s hat photos. Janice, who had been Thelma’s assistant for years, was now assisting Bushy in the photographer’s darkroom.
Qwilleran asked, “Do you remember Thelma’s lizard-print hatboxes?”
“Yes, she had them custom-made. There’s still some lizard-print paper in her closet.”
“What!” Qwilleran almost dropped a forkful of sweet-potato pie.
After that, everything happened fast. A motorcycle messenger was summoned, and two rolls of the unusual paper were dispatched to Lockmaster.
By the time he returned to the barn, there was a message from Vivian on the phone: “A miracle! How did you do it?”
He called Vivian back and said, “Abracadabra! An old sideshow trick!”
“And Daisy Babcock is going to meet with me,” she said. “On the phone she sounds charming!”
The venerable community hall was part of the City of Stone in downtown Pickax. Several generations had trooped in and out of its doors for meetings, lectures, parties, business luncheons, exhibits, cat and dog shows, and antique auctions. Several generations of janitors had shuffled chairs, tables, platforms, and runways accordingly. Although the rooms were plain—clean but plain—it occurred to Qwilleran that Daisy’s presence would inspire changes: a little paint, some art on the walls, even background music.
It gave Qwilleran an idea!
The forthcoming publication of the Homer Tibbitt biography would no doubt be introduced by a program at the community hall. Homer had been born in Moose County, had attended college in Lockmaster County, and had been principal of Central High School there until his retirement.
Homer then returned to his home territory and served as honorary Moose County historian until his death at the age of a hundred. During that time he wrote hundreds of research papers now on file in the public library, and his feisty sense of humor made the citizens laugh.
Qwilleran’s idea—to mark the publication of the grand old man’s biography—was to rename the community hall the Homer Tibbitt Auditorium.
He proceeded circumspectly—pulled strings—and hinted at K Fund backing.
That evening, as Qwilleran gave the cats their bedtime treat, he mused at the changes awaiting Polly’s return: the two-county show of art hats…the Homer Tibbitt Auditorium…Vivian’s offer of a grand piano…the young girl’s death from a bee sting—just like that of Maggie Sprenkle’s husband.
Koko interrupted with a loud “Yow-w-w!” as if saying, “Let’s go! Let’s go!”
The next morning, Qwilleran drove downtown to the department store. He and Larry looked at Polly’s postcard of the Champs Elysées. Qwilleran told the joke about the tourist who thought she was a Parisienne in her Lanspeaks’ raincoat. Qwilleran bought an alligator belt for himself. He had always wanted one, but Polly didn’t like them.
So far, so good, he told himself. And then he had a phone call from Steve Bestover in Lockmaster…the attorney who was Shirley’s son.
“Mr. Qwilleran. I hope I’m not calling too early.” It sounded urgent.
“Not at all. It sounds important.”
“The girls have been in an accident. It could be worse, but they’re hospitalized, and it changes their plans. They were due to fly home this weekend.”
“What happened?”
“They were in a taxi that was hit by a car exceeding the speed limit. Polly has a few bumps and cuts, but Mother has a neck injury that causes back pain. She says they’re getting the best of care and not to worry, but they can’t leave as planned. I will fly over when I get the signal and accompany them home.”
“Do you have a number I can call?”
“Polly says it will be better if she calls you. She’ll phone collect when she has some information. The odd thing is that it happened in the Pont d’Alma tunnel, where Princess Diana was killed.”
“Yow!” came a blast in Qwilleran’s free ear.
“Was that your Koko?”
“He knows bad news when he hears it. Thanks for calling, Steve. Sorry we’ve never met. Keep in touch.”
Then Qwilleran regarded the cat strangely. He had been jumping on and off the desk. It was only when he heard about the tunnel accident that he responded—did he know that was where Princess Diana was killed…or what?