Alexander whimpered, and the two men considered that approval. He was a very smart dog.
Qwilleran had a bad habit of writing a news story before the news broke, or describing a building before it was built. Polly said he should be writing fiction. The products of his imagination always surpassed the actual thing.
As for the Old Manse at Purple Point, Qwilleran wanted to design it to match Hawthorne’s book.
And the approach to the mansion signified he might be right…. There was the iron gate between two rough stone gateposts…. Then a long, straight driveway between two rows of poplar trees, with beds of daffodils here and there…ending at a large building with a prisonlike look: gray brick, plain windows, and a severe entrance door.
The make-believe script ended when he clanged the heavy brass door knocker.
He expected to be admitted by a butler with silver buckles on his shoes, but Daisy Babcock opened the door in a pink pantsuit and a flurry of excitement.
Merrily she said, “You’re Mr. Q! Welcome to the Old Manse. Did you bring Cool Koko?”
Only devoted Qwill Pen readers talked nonsense like that. He liked her instantly.
He remembered meeting her at Linguini’s Party Store when ordering Squunk water, but her informality came as a shock in a two-story foyer with marble floor, tall mirrors, brocaded walls, a mammoth crystal chandelier, and a stairway as big as the Bridge over the River Kwai.
Soberly, Qwilleran replied, “Koko regrets that he had a previous appointment with his publisher. He hopes you’ll call on him at the barn.”
“I’d love to,” she said. “Alfredo has told me about it. He makes deliveries of Squunk water, he says.”
“It’s a far cry from this little palace. Do you give guided tours?”
“Where would you like to begin?”
“As the King of Hearts said to the White Rabbit, begin at the beginning and keep going till you come to the end. Then stop.”
The loaf-shaped building with modest architecture was one of four wings surrounding a great hall with skylight and a fortune in large oil paintings importantly framed.
There was a music salon with two grand pianos, a dining room that would seat sixteen, and an extensive library upstairs. Every suite had a four-poster bed and an eight-foot highboy.
There was Mrs. Ledfield’s pride and joy—a large cutting garden that supplied freshly cut flowers for the silver and crystal vases throughout the house…and there was Nathan Ledfield’s specialty: a formal garden of daylilies comprising five varieties compatible with a northern climate.
It was almost as if the Ledfields were still living there. In the music salon there was sheet music open on the racks, as if waiting for the pianist and violinist to make an entrance.
“And this is called the Box Bank,” Daisy said. “It’s not usually shown to anyone outside the family.”
It was a roomful of empty boxes of every size and shape that Nathan had used in buying and selling collectibles: shoe boxes, hatboxes, jewelery boxes, clothing boxes, and large cardboard cartons.
At one point, a young woman in denim came to Daisy and whispered something.
“I’ll call him back, Libby. Get his number…. Did you go to the doctor? I want to know what he said.”
The girl nodded and dashed away.
Daisy said, “That is our office manager. She went into the garden this morning and was stung by a bee…. She was Nathan’s protégée, you know.”
Altogether, Qwilleran enjoyed coffee and cookies with Daisy more than the extravagances of the Old Manse.
Qwilleran said, “Your husband is making a delivery from the party store tomorrow. Why don’t you come along and say hello to Koko and Yum Yum?”
Qwilleran described the visit to Polly during their nightly phone call.
“You’re a rascal,” she said. “If Alma Lee James finds out Daisy has visited the barn first, she’ll be furious!”
“How do you know?”
“One of the Green Smocks at the bookstore has a cousin who is a housekeeper at the Old Manse, and she says there is jealousy between Daisy and Alma.”
Qwilleran said, “One of the office personnel came back from the doctor’s office while I was there—allergic to a bee sting, they said.”
“Did you know that’s how Maggie Sprenkle’s husband died? He was working in his rose garden when he was stung and had forgotten his emergency kit. By the time he maneuvered his wheelchair into the house, it was too late. That’s why Maggie sold the estate and moved downtown. By the way, what did you think of the Old Manse?”
He said, “I’ve decided the Hawthorne connection is too esoteric for Qwill Pen readers. I’m going to leave the Old Manse to the feature writers when the preview takes place. Well…”
“À bientôt.”
“À bientôt,dear.”
Late Thursday afternoon, Koko, who had been invisible for hours, suddenly made an appearance in the kitchen—not to order his dinner but to announce that someone was coming. He jumped on and off the kitchen counter overlooking the barnyard. He was right, of course. In fifteen seconds, according to Qwilleran’s stopwatch, the Linguini truck emerged from the wooded trail and drove up to the back door.
Daisy jumped out and looked up at the barn in wonder. Her husband, Fredo, jumped out and started unloading two cases of Squunk water and boxes of cranberry juice, potato chips, pretzels, mixed nuts, and enough wine and spirits to stock the bar for Qwilleran’s guests. Koko supervised.
“Is he your new bartender?” Fredo asked.
“No, he’s from the State Revenue Department. We have a limited license.”
Daisy was wandering around, gazing up at the ramps, balconies, soaring chimney stacks, and six-foot tapestries hanging from the highest railings.
The Siamese followed her, and Yum Yum allowed her to pick her up while Koko demonstrated his flying-squirrel act, landing on a sofa cushion below.
Then Qwilleran conducted them to the formal foyer with double doors, overlooking the octagonal gazebo screened on all eight sides. It had a view of the butterfly garden, flowering shrubs, and birdhouses on the trail leading to the Art Center on the Old Back Road.
Daisy was reluctant to leave, but they had two more deliveries to make.
Before they left, Qwilleran said, “It seems to me the Qwill Pen should do a column on vineyards. I’ve never grown so much as a radish, but grapes appeal to me as—what shall I say?—a satisfying crop.”
“My brother Nick can give you a conducted tour. He’s the vintner. Say when!”
On the phone Friday morning, the attorney and Qwilleran plotted Alma Lee’s visit to the barn. It would be brief: Bart had another appointment, and Qwilleran had to file his copy for the noon deadline.
When Bart and Alma arrived, the Siamese flew to the loftiest rafters, from which they could observe the first-time visitor.
Qwilleran met them in the parking lot and conducted them to the formal entrance on the other side of the barn.
“Where does this lead?” Alma asked.
“To my mailbox on the back road,” he said, omitting mention of such items as the butterfly pool and the Art Center.
She looked at the screened gazebo. “Is that where one of your guests shot himself last year?”
“He wasn’t a guest; he was an intruder, wanted by the police in three counties,” Qwilleran said, embroidering the truth.
Indoors, she looked up at the balconies and ramps, the large white fireplace cube with stacks rising to the roof forty feet overhead, the six-foot tapestries hanging from balcony railings. “You could use some small art objects,” she said.
Qwilleran replied, “The architectural complexities and vast spaces and walls of books don’t leave much space for miscellaneous art objects. Apart from that, there’s not much to see. It’s an atmosphere youfeel; you don’t see it.”