FOURTEEN
In most communities, half the citizens like a change once in a while; the other half likes everything the way it is. It was no different 400 miles north of everywhere. The proposed beautification of community hall was considered either a calamity or a delight. The town’s leading designer was offering her expertise. Without charge. She was the daughter of Andrew Brodie, Pickax police chief, and Qwilleran found it an excuse to invite his chum to the barn for a nightcap.
Qwilleran refrained from using the the old cliché “long time no see,” but the first words the chief said were “long time no see.”
Andy took a seat at the bar, and his host reached for the Scotch bottle. “The usual?”
“Still drinking that stuff?” the chief said in disdain as Qwilleran poured Squunk water for himself.
“What do you hear about the new community hall, Andy?” Qwilleran asked, although he knew the answer.
“I hear they’re changing the name. Keeping it secret. I hear they’re using wallpaper and fancy things like that.”
“Whatever your daughter suggests will be in good taste,” Qwilleran ventured. “It’s generous of the stores to donate the paint—and some of our foremost loafers to donate their labor…. What are you buying your wife for Christmas, Andy?”
Daisy Babcock, the new county coordinator, had been busy coordinating the details of the event: The building itself had a face-lift. Qwilleran would preview his new biography of Homer Tibbitt. Rhoda, his widow, would come in from Ittibittiwassee Estates with two busloads of her neighbors and would be presented with flowers. A baritone from their church choir would sing “He’s a Grand Old Man” to the tune of “It’s a Grand Old Flag.” Longtime friends would tell amusing tales from Homer’s later years, including the Brown Paper Bag Mystery. A delegation of notables would christen the old hall the Homer Tibbitt Auditorium. It would be filmed.
Daisy Babcock, working with Fran Brodie, had planned a decorative scheme based on the Pickax High School colors: gray, black, and gold. The building was gray stone; the athletic team was the Gray Panthers. Rhoda Tibbitt’s flowers were yellow roses. The commemorative programs with Homer’s photo on the cover were also yellow.
The weatherbeaten sign across the top of the entrance had been replaced withHOMER TIBBITT AUDITORIUM in crisp black letters touched with gold. And the shabby wooden doors in the wide entrance were now shiny black with brass hardware.
Qwilleran had interviewed countless citizens in writing the biography and planning the celebration, but nowhere did he reveal the secret of the Brown Paper Bag!
In his private journal that night, Qwilleran reported:
Homer came from a family of teetotalers and throughout his life he was never known to take a drink, but he delighted in teasing folks. In his adult life and well into his nineties, he carried a brown paper bag in his pocket, and it contained a flask of amber liquid from which he was known to take a swig occasionally. Even his closest friends were never allowed to share the secret. When, at the age of ninety, he finally married, it was expected that Rhoda would track down the truth. She never did. He managed to keep his secret to the end. He had a great sense of humor and kept on laughing at folks.
During Polly’s absence, Qwilleran received many invitations to dinner. One of them was from Lyle and Lisa Compton in their condo. For a fourth they invited a neighbor, Barbara Honiger. He knew the name. She contributed regularly to the Qwill Pen column and boasted to the Comptons that she had received enough yellow pencils from the Qwill Pen to build the foundation of a log cabin.
Barbara was not tall but had a commanding personality and sharp wit—an attorney with her own practice, specializing in real estate.
She had good-natured opinions on everything. A meal at the Comptons was always a lively talkfest, even though Lisa made no claims to cooking skills. No one asked any questions about the casserole she served, although it tasted pretty good, and conversation never lagged.
LYLE: “I like your alligator belt, Qwill. Lisa won’t let me have one.”
QWILL: “Polly dislikes them, too, so as soon she left the country, I splurged.”
LISA: “When are you closing the barn?”
BARBARA: “How do you go about closing a barn?”
QWILL: “Pat O’Dell and his crew swarm all over the place.”
LYLE: “Better do it before we have zero temperature and four feet of snow!”
QWILL: “I was waiting until after the Lit Club meeting. I’m putting up the speaker overnight.”
LISA: “That’s changed. There’s been a death in his family. Could you speak to the Lit Club, Qwill?”
After a thoughtful pause for dramatic effect, he said, “What would you think of forming a secret society named Word Tasters Anonymous?…Anyone can join…no dues!” There was a stunned silence, and he went on. “It’s a theory currently being tested. Words have flavor as well as meaning. Words can be enjoyed on many levels. Dickens is a master of the art. Consider the last lines inA Tale of Two Cities. ”
He quoted: “‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.’”
Following nods and murmurs from his listeners, he went on:
“When I say those words, I can taste their exquisite sweetness…. InA Christmas Carol I feel the crispy crunchiness of consonants, vowels, and diphthongs, delighting my taste buds.” He quoted: “‘Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence.’”
He explained, “Everyone knows there are music lovers, but few know that there are word lovers too: aware of the taste and feeling and magic of words, not necessarily the meanings. One of our members is a successful businesswoman who loved four words from Shakespeare: ‘Nothing comes from nothing.’ The arrangement of friendly consonants reassured her.”
Qwilleran said, “Word tasting is not limited to the work of great writers. Mildred Riker gets a shiver of pleasure from a practice sentence used in high school when learning to type.”
Everyone wanted to know it, and he quoted: “‘The time of many murders is after midnight.’”
Then, Barbara asked, “I suppose you’ve all seen Thelma’s hat photos at the bookstore?”
LYLE: “I hear the locals like the new showcases better than the hats.”
QWILL: “The hats were designed by California artists. Their taste is a little sophisticated for Moose County. I had to gulp myself at some of their productions, but I hear the library-goers in Lockmaster are so excited they can hardly wait to see the other half of the show; they’re coming up here to the bookstore to see it.”
Qwilleran enjoyed meeting Barbara. He liked attorneys. He looked forward to meeting Steve Bestover. He enjoyed his K Fund sessions with G. Allen Barter, who was less of a legal eagle and more of a brother-in-law.
On Mrs. Fulgrove’s last two visits to clean the barn…or “fluff it up,” as she said, she and her housecleaners covered the premises, frightening the cats…and then she always left a note. Qwilleran saved them for what he called the Fulgrove Witchery Collection. Her syntax was curious, to say the least.
Dear Mr. Q…Koko broke a bottle on your bathroom floor which I saved the pieces of glass so you could see what it was.
It proved to be Scottish aftershave lotion from Canada that Polly had brought from one of her trips. The following week, a porcelain figurine of a bagpiper in shoulder plaid, kilt, and knee hose was found on the living-room hearth in several fragments.