Dropping her critical frown, she said amiably, “Do you know what I’d like to see in this environment? Large vases filled with fresh flowers! Every area has an ideal spot for it, and you can get fabulous vases from the Ledfield collection in crystal, porcelain, and silver.”
Qwilleran and the attorney exchanged glances.
Qwilleran said, “With two airborne cats, a vase of flowers would last about ten minutes.”
And Bart said, “Come, come, Alma. Mr. Qwilleran is on deadline at the newspaper.”
Opening her handbag, she found a booklet bound in black and gold. “Here is the catalog of the Ledfield collection. The items with red stickers are already sold.”
Qwilleran thanked her and gave his wristwatch what was supposed to be a surreptitious glance.
Alma said, “The most important item has already gone to an old family in Purple Point.”
Barter said, “We won’t have time to sit down, because I have another appointment, and I know you’re on deadline, but thanks for showing Alma the interior.”
They were standing—awkwardly, Qwilleran felt—around the area with two large angled sofas.
Suddenly there was a scream as a cat dropped from the rafters onto the cushion of a sofa.
“Sorry,” Qwilleran said to his unnerved guest. “That’s Koko. He wants to be introduced.”
“We don’t have time for formalities,” said Barter. “We’re holding up the presses. Thank you, Qwill. Come on, Alma.”
As Barter rushed Alma out of the barn, he looked back and rolled his eyes meaningfully.
As soon as they had driven away, Qwilleran checked the catalog for red-stickered items. He found: a fifteen-inch punch bowl of Chinese export porcelain. It was dated circa 1780. The design was elaborate and historical.
He called Lisa Compton at the ESP place. “Are you still there? Won’t they let you go?”
“This sounds like Qwill. Tomorrow’s my last day at the bookstore. What can I do for you?”
“About your rich cousins”…(Campbell was her maiden name, but she claimed to be from the poor side of the clan)…“Do you happen to know what they bought from the Ledfield estate? Koko’s still fascinated by the box the books came in.”
“It was only a punch bowl, they said.”
“Glass or china?”
“China, but quite old. Do you want me to find out the nature of the design? There’s no telling what might light a fire under that smart Koko!”
After a little more nonsense common to the fans of “Cool Koko,” the conversation ended.
Qwilleran grabbed the black-and-gold catalog and found the punch-bowl listing: It had sold for sixty thousand dollars.
SIX
As Qwilleran had once written in his private journaclass="underline"
Anyone who thinks it’s easy to write a twice-weekly column is misinformed. It may be an enjoyable challenge, but it’s never easy. Friday has a relentless way of following Tuesday, and next Tuesday follows this Friday inexorably.
Only the loyalty and enthusiasm of readers kept Qwilleran’s creative juices perking.
The Hawthorne idea had proved to be a “no-story”—an unfortunate situation to a newsman with a deadline to meet. He had to resort to his “trash barrel,” as he called the deep drawer of his desk. Postcards from readers, clippings, notes could always be made into a chatty Qwill Pen column with, perhaps, a saying from Cool Koko: “Faint heart never won the softest cushion in the house.”
Polly said that Qwilleran made the same mistakes over and over again.
But doggedly…not stubbornly, he proceeded with another Qwill Pen idea, writing a story in his mind before researching it.
Moose County had a vineyard and a vintner! Qwilleran, Chicago-born, saw his first vineyard in Italy while a young foreign correspondent, and he had retained a romantic impression of the vineyard, the vintner—and perhaps the vintner’s daughter.
First he consulted the encyclopedia, determined to avoid another no-story disappointment. He liked the words:vineyard, viticulture, andvintner. He had never wanted to be a farmer, but he wouldn’t mind being a vintner. And there was more to viticulture than the making of wine; there were grapes for eating, juice for drinking, raisins for baking, and—his favorite spread for toast—grape jelly. It was an ancient culture, mentioned by Virgil, Homer, and the Bible. Thomas Jefferson tried it. Julia Ward Howe referred to grapes in “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
Qwilleran had new respect for the Linguini brothers. Nick was the vintner who helped with the store; Alfredo was the storekeeper who helped with the vineyard. He called and made an appointment.
So, on Saturday morning, he drove to the western part of the county, near the lakeshore, and visited Linguinis’ Party Store. There were quite a few cars in the parking lot. The party store was in a rustic building with a porch running the full width. Indoors, the goods were arranged casually, and the customers were not in a hurry. Some were wandering in and out of a back hall, smiling. It seemed, on investigation, that another homeless pregnant cat had wandered in from the highway and had been given a box and blanket—and had given birth to four minuscule kittens. The smiling customers were putting dollar bills in a pickle jar on the counter for their food, shots, and future expenses.
“Hi, Mr. Q,” said Fredo. “Want to cast your vote for the kittens’ names?…Nick is expecting you!…Marge, ring the vineyard and tell him Qwill is here.”
While waiting for the vintner to come up with his Jeep, Qwilleran accepted compliments from readers, answered questions about Cool Koko’s health and happiness, and generally made friends for theSomething.
As for discovering another two thousand words for the Qwill Pen, however…it was another Good Idea That Didn’t Work. But he heard some provocative comments from Nick that his sister-in-law, Daisy, had brought home from the Manse; they raised questions.
“Fredo and I think she should quit,” he said. “Too much monkey business! Know what I mean? There’s too much money floating around! Do you realize that a punch bowl sold for sixty thousand? What I’m wondering is, where is the sixty thousand?…That young girl who’s supposed to be handling Nathan’s personal accounts has been whispering suspicions to Daisy. See what I mean?”
Qwilleran agreed it was a sticky situation. “As I understand it, the entire property has been given to the county. Somebody should blow the whistle! But who? Let me think about it, Nick.”
“Think fast!”
Qwilleran left the vineyard in the firm belief that Koko’s curiosity about the large cardboard carton in the shed had some connection with Alma Lee; the cat had dropped from the rafters as if trying to frighten her. Then, when Qwilleran arrived at the barn, he found that the black-and-gold catalog had been torn to shreds!
No sane person would consider this evidence. It was coincidence, and yet…stranger things had happened in connection with Koko! What to do?
While he was downtown with his car, Qwilleran stopped at Grandma’s Sweet Shop to pick up ice cream—a gallon of particularly good butter pecan for himself and a quart of vanilla for the Siamese. A real grandmother presided over the cash register in the front, and her grandchildren waited on customers in the rear. Before he could place his order, he saw a waving hand from the seating area (old-fashioned ice-cream tables and chairs of twisted wire). It was Hannah Hawley, wife of Uncle Louie McLeod—with their adopted son, now about nine.
She beckoned to Qwilleran, and as he approached, the young man jumped up and politely added another chair to the table. (This was the waif who had never brushed his teeth or said his prayers when adopted!)
“How’s Koko?” she asked. “I’ll never forget his performance at the KitKat Revue.”