He asked the girl if she would like a beer, thinking it would help her relax; she was sitting on the edge of the blood red leather sofa.
"I guess not," she said. "I haftago and do the milking." "Do you think something bad might have happened to your friend?" Tiffany moistened her lips. "I dunno. I just thought it was funny when she went away and didn't tell me. Nobody else cared, so that's why I came." As Qwilleran accompanied her to the front door, Birch was shifting his tools and radio to another place of operation.
"Whatcha doin' here, sweetheart?" he called out in his hearty voice. "Lookin' for a job? Whatsa matter with that big bozo you married? I thought you'd be knocked up by now. Baa-a-a-a!" Tiffany gave the man a sideways glance and a timid smile, and Qwilleran said to him, "Skip the social pleasantries, Birch. Just tell us when we're going to get a lock on the back door." "Came in yesterday — airmail from Down Below," Birch said. "You'll have it tomorrow. No lie." Qwilleran watched Tiffany leave. She crossed the little park and drove away in a pickup that had been parked on the far side of the Circle. Why hadn't she parked in the driveway? There was ample space. Her wordless reaction to Birch's remark had been equally puzzling.
"Damrnit!" Qwilleran said aloud. He should have asked her why she came to see him. Who told her he was interested?
There's something going on here that I don't know about, he thought, and she knows something she's not telling.
That's the way it is in a small town. It's all very friendly and open on the surface, but underneath it's a network of intrigue and secrecy.
9
Qwilleran and Melinda dined at the Old Stone Mill, a former gristmill converted into a restaurant by dedicated preservationists who cared more about historic landmarks than about the seasoning of the soup. Yet, the atmosphere was inviting and conducive to intimate conversation. He ordered champagne, to celebrate her return, and something innocuous for himself.
"How was Paris?" he asked.
"Full of Americans. The next conference will be in Australia. You should go with me, lover." Too expensive, he thought. Then he realized the words no longer belonged in his vocabulary. He was finding it difficult to adjust to his new financial status.
"I don't like traveling alone," Melinda was saying. "I don't even like living alone." Her green eyes flickered invitingly.
"Watch those fluttering eyelashes," Qwilleran said. "We haven't even had the soup yet." "Any excitement while I was away?" In graphic detail he described the Great Flag Controversy. "I'm curious about Blythe," he said. "He's articulate and conducts a meeting exceptionally well. Who is he? What's his background?" "He's an investment counselor. His mother was a Good- winter. He was principal of the high school until the scandal a few years ago." "What happened?" As a journalist Qwilleran felt professionally privileged to pry.
"He was involved with some girl students, but he got off with a slap on the wrist and an invitation to resign. Anyone else would have left town in disgrace, but he's got the Goodwinter Guts. He ran for mayor and won by a landslide." At Melinda's urging they ordered ravioli. "It's the specialty of the house. They buy it frozen, and it's the only thing on the menu that the cook can't ruin." "This town really needs a good restaurant." "The Lanspeaks are opening one — haven't you heard? They travel a lot and appreciate good food, so it should be an oasis in a desert of French fries and ketchup… How's everything at the Pickax Palace?" "Mrs. Cobb finally arrived. And I've ordered a suede sofa for my studio. And at last we have a lock on the back door.
Birch Tree comes almost every day to do the repairs and play his obscene radio. Today he went fishing, and it was so quiet the cats walked around on tiptoe." "Is Koko still throwing your female guests out of the house at eleven P.M.?" "That's his bedtime," Qwilleran explained apologetically. "Not only can that cat tell time, but I believe he can count.
He sits on the third stair of the staircase all the time." "Third from the top or third from the bottom? If he's counting from the top, it's more likely he's sitting on the eighteenth stair." The green eyes were impudent.
Then Qwilleran told her about the three-foot candelabra 'in the silver vault. "If I decide to give a dinner party, will you consent to be my hostess?" "Or anything else, lover," she said with a green-eyed wink.
"My editor from the Fluxion is flying up to spend a few days, and I thought I might invite Penelope and Alexander and a few others from Pickax and Mooseville. Mrs. Cobb has offered to cook." "Is she good?" "Well, she does the world's best pot roast and coconut cake and macaroni — and-cheese." "Darling, you can't serve macaroni-and-cheese with three-foot silver candelabra on the table. You should have something elegant: six courses, starting with escargots… a butler serving cocktails in the solarium… two footmen to serve in the dining room… a string trio going crazy behind the potted palms." "You're not serious, I hope," Qwilleran said warily. "Of course I'm serious. There's no time to send out engraved invitations, so you'll have to telephone everyone, although it's not good form for a formal dinner." "Who'll know the difference?" "Penelope will know," Melinda said with a mocking grin. "Penelope still eats ice cream with a fork. Socially she's a throwback to the Edwardian era. My great-grandmother owned sixteen etiquette books. In those days people didn't worry about losing weight or getting in touch with their feelings; they wanted to know if they should eat mashed potatoes with a knife." She declined dessert and finished the bottle of champagne, but Qwilleran ordered French-fried ice cream, a cannonball of pastry reposing in a puddle of chocolate sauce. No matter how he attacked the impenetrable crust, the ball merely rotated in the slippery sauce and threatened to bounce to the floor.
With each sip of champagne Melinda was becoming more I elated about the party. "To impress your editor we ought to serve foods indigenous to this area, starting with terrine of pheasant and jellied watercress consomm. There's secret cove on the Ittibittiwassee — accessible only by canoe — where one can find watercress. Do you canoe?" "Only in reverse," Qwilleran said.
"How about Chinook salmon croquettes for the fish course?" She took another sip of champagne. "The entre could be lamb bcheronne with tiny Moose County potatoes and mushrooms. It's too dry to find morels." Another sip "Then a salad of homegrown asparagus vinaigrette. How does that sound?" "Don't forget dessert. Preferably not French-fried ice cream." "How about a wild raspberry trifle? We'll need two or three wines, but I can steal those from Dad's wine cellar." "I hope butlers and footmen are indigenous to Moose County," Qwilleran said.
"That poses a problem," Melinda admitted, "but…we might get actors from the Pickax Thespians. Larry Lanspeak played the title role in Jeeves, and he'd make a perfect butler." "You don't mean the owner of the department store, do you?" "Sure! He'd love it! The Fitch twins are home from Yale, and they could wear their costumes from The Student Prince and play the footmen. We'd have a rehearsal, of course, and they'd play their roles with a straight face… Penelope will have a fit!" Qwilleran believed not a word of it, but he was enjoying Melinda's champagne fantasy. "Where will we get a string trio?" She closed her eyes in thought. "Dad talks about three musicians who used to play Strauss waltzes behind the potted palms at the Pickax Hotel before World War Two." "By now they're all dead, Melinda." "Not necessarily. People live a long time in Moose County." As they left the restaurant he said, "Your scenario has been a lot of fun. I only wish we could swing it." "Of course we can swing it!" she said indignantly. "I have my mother's recipes, and I'll work out the details with Mrs.