Always interested in a little intrigue, he said, “See you in ten minutes.”
Later, in the private meeting room, Lisa said in a low voice, “This is not for publication, but I’m giving up volunteer work and taking a paid job as manager of the Senior Health Club.”
“Well!” he said in astonishment. “I’m shocked—and pleased! What does Lyle think about it?”
“He thinks the club is very lucky to get me.”
“I agree!”
“It’s a big job of coordination: scheduling activities, handling memberships, finding instructors, finding new ideas—”
“Lisa, you’re the only one who can do it. Let me know if there’s anything that I can do to help.”
Famous last words, he thought on the way back to the barn. What am I getting into?
Qwilleran collected Famous Last Words and had his readers contributing them too. Someday, he told them, the K Fund might publish a collection. There were examples like:
“You don’t need to take an umbrella…. It’s not going to rain.”
“The Road Commission says the old wooden bridge…is perfectly safe!”
“Let’s not stop to buy gas…. We’re only driving over the mountain.”
And for every gem that was printed, he gave the proud contributor a fat yellow lead pencil stampedQwill Pen in gold—trophies that were treasured.
To Arch Riker it was just a lazy columnist’s way of letting his readers do all the work. The editor’s huff was all an act, of course, Qwilleran told himself with a complacent shrug as the sacks of his fan mail filled the mailroom.
When Qwilleran brought the boxful of books into the barn, Koko came running; Yum Yum came in a sedate second.
Qwilleran placed the treasure trove on the bar, and Koko proceeded to go wild with excitement, a performance leading one to wonder where the books had been. When they were unloaded, however, it became evident that it was the box—not the books—that aroused the cat’s interest.Interest was a mild word; Koko went berserk over the empty box, inside and out!
Qwilleran called the ESP. “Lisa! Is it polite to ask who donated these books?”
“Is it polite to ask why you want to know?” she asked teasingly.
“Koko wants to know. It’s not the books that interest him so much as the box they came in.”
“It’s large,” Lisa said. “Maybe he wants to set up housekeeping in it.”
“It’s not only large—but plain. Just a brown carton without any pictures of Ivory Snow or Campbell’s Soup.”
“That’s funnier than you think, Qwill. The books came from one of the Campbell families in Purple Point.”
“I wonder where they acquired them. Do you know that family well enough to ask? Tell them Cool Koko wants to know its provenance.”
“They’ll love it! They’re all fans of the Qwill Pen.”
With shelf space found for the books and a session of reading fromThe Portrait of a Lady, Koko calmed down. The box itself was in the shed along with rubbish and a few garden tools. A do-not-discard note was taped to it; its provenance remained a mystery.
As for Koko, he behaved like a normal house cat for the rest of the day until four o’clock.
Late Monday afternoon, Qwilleran was lounging in his big chair when Koko suddenly appeared from nowhere and jumped to the arm of the chair. His lithe body was taut and his ears pointed toward the kitchen window.
Someone’s coming! Qwilleran thought. The cat jumped down and ran to the kitchen, where he could look out the window from the countertop. Qwilleran followed him.
Outside the window was the barnyard—and then a patch of dense woods and a dirt road leading to Main Street and several important buildings. Surrounding a traffic circle were two churches, the public library, a theater arts building, and the grand old courthouse.
Qwilleran waited to see a vehicle coming through the woods. Nothing arrived, but Koko kept on watching. Qwilleran went back to his lounge chair.
At that moment the kitchen phone rang. It was the attorney.
“Qwill! This is Bart! I know this is short notice. Do you have a few minutes? I’m phoning from the courthouse.”
Qwilleran was stunned into silence. Koko had known a call was coming from a building half a mile away!
“Qwill, did you hear me? I said—”
“I heard you, Bart. Koko was diverting my attention, that’s all. Come on over.”
“Tell Koko I have a treat for him.”
“Your Uncle George is coming,” he told the cats.
Shortly, the attorney arrived and was joyously greeted by all.
The four of them proceeded single file to the conference table—Qwilleran carrying the coffee, Bart carrying his briefcase, and the cats carrying their tails straight up.
Opening his briefcase, Bart said, “My wife sent a treat for the cats—something she makes for our brats. They like the sound effects when they crunch it.” He drew a plastic zipper bag from among the documents.
“It’s like Italian biscotti but with seasoning of particular interest to cats—my wife says! She calls it biscatti.”
Koko and Yum Yum were allowed to sniff the plastic bag, but it was too early “for their treat.”
Qwilleran said, “While you’re here, Bart, perhaps you could give me some information about the Ledfield house that’s being opened as a museum. Not everyone knows it’s called the Old Manse—and has been for the last hundred years. I’m wondering if Nathan Ledfield’s grandfather had read Hawthorne’sMosses from an Old Manse and incorporated any ideas from his reading. If so, it’s a suggestion for the Qwill Pen.”
“Would you like a tour of the house?” Bart asked. “It can be arranged.”
Then he launched into an explanation of necessary changes in converting a private mansion to a county-owned museum.
“Nathan Ledfield had long employed two assistants: Daisy Babcock, who handled financial matters, and Alma Lee James, in charge of his collection of art and antiques…. You may know her parents’ art gallery in Lockmaster, Qwill. Alma Lee is very knowledgeable, and her connection with the gallery resulted in some very favorable purchases for the Ledfield collection…. Is there more coffee?”
As Qwilleran poured, he said, “Leaving the mansion to the county must have entailed some drastic changes.”
“Not too drastic,” the attorney assured him. “Alma Lee has been named director of the museum. That involves training museum guides as well as supervising maintenance of the building. Daisy Babcock will act as her assistant, since the finances will be handled by an investment counselor appointed by the county.”
“Then I should see Miss James for a tour of the Old Manse,” Qwilleran assumed.
“Yes, either she or Miss Babcock can show you around…. If you’ll pardon a little in-house gossip: Daisy Babcock resents being demoted to second-in-command. When Nathan Ledfield was boss, Daisy was his fair-haired girl! I wouldn’t be surprised if she quits. She’s married to one of the Linguini sons but uses her maiden name.”
“Wise choice,” Qwilleran murmured, reflecting that “Daisy Linguini” would be a fetching name for a trapeze performer but not so good for a financial secretary to a billionaire.
Qwilleran asked, “Are those the Linguinis who had the wonderful Italian restaurant?” It was a mom-and-pop operation. If a customer was having a birthday, Papa Linguini would come out of the kitchen in his chef’s hat, get down on one knee, fling his arms wide, and sing Happy B-ir-r-rthday in an operatic voice. “Apparently they retired.”
“Yes, and their sons preferred to open a party store and plant a vineyard. They also want to open a winery, but the neighbors along the shore are objecting.”
Before he left, Bart said, “About visiting the Old Manse: Either of the women could show you around and answer your questions, but it might be politic to work with Alma James. Let me break the ice for you. I know she’s been dying to see your barn—”