“Okay, but I think he was nervous about getting back on time.”
After dropping off Frankie unceremoniously at the concert hall, Qwilleran returned to the barn to feed the cats and was greeted by two agitated Siamese. It meant the phone had been ringing but no message had been left.
He prepared their plate of food and watched them devour it, but they did so nervously, with frequent glances toward the back door. While they were bent over their plates the phone rang—and they jumped a foot.
Daisy was calling from the theater. “Frankie got back on time but he was a wreck. Hannah had to sub for him. What happened?”
Qwilleran said, “Bears discussing, but not over the phone. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Writing in his journal that night, he remembered overhearing conversations in the coffee shop after the girl died from a bee sting at the Old Manse. One always heard gossips sounding off. They had been saying: Sounds fishy to me!…They’re not telling the whole ball of wax…. My cousin works at the Old Manse, and she says they’re not allowed to talk about the accident.
As the press had been led to believe, it would affect public response to the Old Manse and its gardens. And it had.
SEVENTEEN
Late Saturday night, Qwilleran phoned Wetherby Goode at the Willows.
“Joe, I’m tired of living in the Taj Mahal of Pickax and showing it off to every visiting celebrity. We’re moving back to the Willows.”
“Good! We’ll have a pizza party!”
“Will you bring Connie and Barbara down here for Sunday supper and a concert? As you know, the acoustics are incredible, and I have some recordings of the Ledfields’ violin-and-piano duets that I have to return to Maggie Sprenkle. Pat O’Dell will deliver the food. Then we’ll all go up to the Willows and be ready for theCats show next Saturday.”
On Sunday afternoon the delegation from the Willows arrived at the barn bearing gifts: Wetherby: a bottle of something; Connie: homemade cookies; Barbara: a tape recording of a jazz combo.
The two women, first-time visitors, were escorted up the ramp by the Siamese to enjoy the fabulous view.
Qwilleran said, “Try sitting in their twistletwig rocker for a stimulating experience.”
It apparently worked, because all four were frisky when they returned to the main floor.
Qwilleran thought, Well, anyway, it’s the last time I’ll have to go through this charade for six months.
They consulted the caterer’s menu, orders were placed, and they had aperitifs around the big square coffee table while waiting for the delivery, during which Koko returned to the top balcony and did his flying-squirrel act, landing on a sofa cushion between the two women guests. They screamed; drinks were spilled. Qwilleran said, “Bad cat!” The two men made an effort to keep a straight face.
There was plenty of conversation about Connie’s spring trip to Scotland and Barbara’s annual visit to the Shakespeare Festival in Canada. Wetherby said he never went anywhere but Horseradish.
Dinners were delivered. The decision was made to serve in the gazebo, where it was cool but pleasant.
Connie said, “The residents of Indian Village are agitating to have the open decks screened for summer, if it can be done without darkening the interiors. When are you moving back, Qwill?”
“Tomorrow!” he promised.
Then questions were asked about the barn: Who designed the remodeling? Is there a lot of upkeep? Are you handy with tools?
Qwilleran said, “You probably know Ben Kosley. He takes care of emergencies. I wrote a poem of praise about him in my column. Would you like to hear it? It sums up life in an old apple barn.” He read it to them.
Call 911-BEN-K
The locks don’t lock; the floorboards squeak;
The brand new washer has sprung a leak!
The phone needs moving; the pipes have burst!
You’re beginning to think the barn is cursed!
CALL Ben!
There’s a hole in the floor; the windows stick.
You need some help with the toilet—quick!
The chandelier is out of plumb.
The electric outlets are starting to HUM!
DON’T WORRY…CALL Ben!
The sliding door could use a new lock;
There’s something wrong with the oven clock.
The garbage disposal refuses to grind.
The dryer won’t dry. You’re losing your mind!
NO PROBLEM…CALL Ben!
The TV cable is on the wrong wall.
The bedroom ceiling is threatening to fall.
There’s a great big crack in a windowpane.
A wristwatch fell down the bathroom drain!
OOPS!…CALL Ben!
The porch roof is hanging from two or three nails!
When anyone sneezes, the power fails!
A buzzer just buzzed….
A bell just rang….
THE KITCHEN BLEW UP WITH A TERRIBLE BANG!
DON’T PANIC!…CALL Ben!
Then they asked about the history of the barn—if any happened to be known.
“Yes—if you’re not squeamish. It’s something I’ve never talked about.”
He had their rapt attention.
“The property dates back to the days of strip farms, two hundred feet wide and a mile long. What is now the back road was then the front yard and the location of the farmhouse. Apples were the crop, and this was the apple barn. We knew the name of the family, but we didn’t know what had become of them, and we don’t know why the farmer hanged himself from the barn rafters.”
Qwilleran’s listeners looked around as if searching for a clue.
“The family moved away, and the property was abandoned until an enterprising realtor sold it to the Klingenschoen Foundation. I needed a place to live, and the K Fund had money to invest in the town. We hired an architectural designer from Down Below, who is responsible for the spectacular interior. And we don’t know why he, too, hanged himself from the rafters.”
There was a long pause. Then Barbara jumped up and said she had to go home and feed Molasses. Connie jumped up, too, and said she had to go home and feed Bonnie Lassie.
“Wonderful party!” they both said.
“Let’s do it again!” Wetherby said, and the party ended without the playing of the Ledfield recordings.
The pocket-size gift that Barbara had brought Qwilleran from Cananda temporarily disappeared during the move to the Willows—but reappeared appropriately in a pocket of his coat. It was a tape recording of a jazz combo with swaggering syncopation that churned his blood and revived memories. The Siamese also reacted favorably. Their ears twitched, they sprang at each other, grappled, kicked, and otherwise had a good time.
When Qwilleran checked in at the bookstore that week, Judd Amhurst sermonized on the Literary Club problem: “The time has come for forgetting about lecturers from Down Below who have to be paid and then cancel at the last minute. We can stage our own programs!”
“Good! Never liked Proust anyway! What do you have in mind?”
“More member participation? Remember how Homer Tibbitt likedLasca? Lyle Compton likes ‘The Highwayman’ by Alfred Noyes, early twentieth century.”
“Favorite of mine, too. He was an athlete, and there’s an athletic vigor in his poetry.”
“Lyle says there’s a cops-and-robbers flavor to the story.”
“And the poet has a forceful way of repeating words.”
Qwilleran quoted: “‘He rode with a jeweled twinkle…His pistol butts a-twinkle…His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.’”
Dundee came running and wrapped himself around Qwilleran’s ankle.
In Pickax, Qwilleran’s annual move from barn to condo was as well known as the Fourth of July parade. The printers ran off a hundred announcements, and students addressed the envelopes. Mrs. McBee made a winter supply of chocolate chip cookies. Friends, neighbors, fellow newsmen, and business associates were properly notified. And on moving day, the Siamese went and hid.