“I think it’s an absolutely stunning piece,” she said when she saw it.
“You should have seen the one that got away,” Qwilleran said. “It was smaller but spectacular about the size of a grapefruit a bowl with a domed cover and a small knob on top, turned-in-one with the cover. Amazing! But it was already sold”
He had forgotten to look for a pencil-holder. His fat yellow pencils were stuck in a brown coffee mug inscribed “As he brews, so shall he drink.” He offered anyone a dollar who could identify the author. So far, only Polly had collected.
Labor Day, September 7 ‘When the cat’s away, the mice will play.’
Qwilleran and Polly celebrated by driving out of town for a backyard barbecue. G. Allen Barter and his wife were hosting the party. They had invited the new innkeeper from Chicago and some young men and women of his own age, mostly paralegals from the office of Hasselrich Bennett & Barter.
The route from Pickax passed several abandoned mines from Moose County’s distant past; the Big B mine, the Buckshot (scene of a recent cave-in), and the Old Glory. The sites were fenced with chainlink and posted as dangerous, and each had a weathered wood shafthouse towering above the barren scene. These ghostly monuments had a haunting fascination for locals and visitors alike.
The Barter house was surrounded by working farms, and cocktails were served on a terrace with a view of a neighbor’s grazing sheep, while chickens turned on a spit and corn roasted in the coals.
Someone asked the new innkeeper the inevitable question; “How do you like it up here?”
“Will someone please explain something?” he inquired. “What are those old wooden towers out in the middle of nowhere?”
The other young people looked at their boss, and Barter replied, “They’re the shafthouses of mines that were highly productive in the nineteenth century but failed in the early twentieth. There are ten of them in the county.”
“They should tear them down and fill in the mineshafts,” said the brash newcomer from Down Below. “Then they could graze more sheep.”
“Smile when you say that, chum,” Qwilleran advised. “Those shafthouses are near and dear to the hearts of local folks. And tourists, too. In the souvenir shops the bestselling postcards have views of shafthouses. And there’s a fine artist here who paints watercolors of shafthouses and can’t turn them out fast enough to fill the demand.”
“Somebody should write a book about all this!” said Barry.
“Somebody has!” several of the guests said in unison.
“It’s in the library, if you’re interested.” Polly told him.
Then she amused everyone by describing the Computer War, in which library subscribers picketed the building and burned their library cards on the front steps all in protest against automation.
Qwilleran said, “The people here, you have to understand, Barry, are descended from pioneers, who were rugged individualists.”
Everyone seemed to have a good time not a boisterous good time but a civilized good time. When it was over, Qwilleran told Barter about the security guard stunt. The attorney laughed and called it a harmless joke. Then they confided in Barry, who said, “Great!”
Tuesday, September 8 ‘Better a living dog than a dead lion.’
In the early afternoon Qwilleran left the barn for guard duty, saying goodbye to the sleeping cats on the bar stools and adding, “Wish me well, and I’ll bring you a cucumber sandwich.” Two pairs of ears twitched.
Carol Lanspeak and the wardrobe mistress were waiting for him at the K Theatre. The building was a giant cube of fieldstone, once upon a time the most magnificent residence in town. There the Klingenschoen family had lived in private splendor, spurned by the mining and lumbering magnates. Ironically, it was the K fortune that had recently doubled and trebled the quality of life in Moose County. As for the venerable building itself, it had barely survived disaster and now served as a theatre seating two hundred.
When Qwilleran arrived, Carol ushered him into the backstage area, saying, “Isn’t this a lark? With a little dye, dark glasses, and a visored cap, you’ll never be recognized.”
The Lanspeaks amazed Qwilleran. Nothing in their appearance or manners suggested that they had been on the stage, yet Carol could play a queen or a harlot convincingly, and Larry could play the role of scoundrel, old man, or dashing hero. Both had the inner energy that distinguished an outstanding performer.
Now Carol was saying, “It’s the kind of dye that will wash right out when you get home, so you don’t have to worry about that. The cats won’t recognize you, though.”
“Koko will, but Yum Yum will hiss at me.”
“You trimmed your moustache a little. That’s good.”
“I always trim it for weddings and undercover assignments,” he said.
“First choose your uniform. Then Alice can make alterations if necessary while I work on makeup.” Alice Toddwhistle was standing by with a tape measure around her neck and a thimble on her finger.
Qwilleran chose a dark blue outfit with an emblem on the sleeve and a cap that looked official if not examined too closely. When he tried it on and appeared in the fitting room, the two women screamed at the sight; the trousers too short, the sleeves too long, the cap three sizes too large.
“Do you have a Neanderthal in the club” he asked.
Alice said, “I can fix the pantlegs and sleeves in a jiffy. The cap will he okay if we stuff the crown with tissue paper.”
In the makeup room Carol went to work with professional assurance, darkening the pepper-and-salt mustache, eyebrows, and patches of gray at his temples.
“Did Delacamp arrive on schedule?” he asked.
“Yes. He brought his niece this time a quiet girl. She defers to him all the time. He’s put on some weight, but he’s quite handsome for a man of his age. I think he’s had cosmetic surgery. And his toupee is new. A very expensive one… Oops! Did I bump you in the eyeball? I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. I have another one.”
“At the country club dinner he showed his slides of fabulous jewels in museums. There was a necklace that Napoleon gave Josephine, and it must have weighed a pound; all rubies, emeralds, enamel work, and precious metals…. Do you realize that rubies and emeralds were replaced by diamonds in nineteenth-century fashion for the simple reason that the lighting in public places was improving? Dazzle became more important than color…. There!” Carol whipped off the cape covering his shoulders. “Now for the logistics; I’ll drive you to the inn. Barry Morghan will meet you at the entrance and whisk you upstairs on the elevator. At three o’clock he’ll escort you to the ballroom. As soon as it’s over, return to his office. He’ll phone the store, and Larry will drive you back here.”
Qwilleran said, “Carol, you’re so well organized, it’s unnerving.”
“Well, it helps if you’ve run a department store for twenty-five years… and directed two dozen stage productions… and raised three kids.”
As Qwilleran knew, their elder son was a clergyman in New York State; their daughter was an M.D. in Pickax; the younger son had been a tragic failure. No one ever mentioned him. “How does Dr. Diane feel about pouring tea this afternoon” Qwilleran asked.
“She says she hasn’t been so nervous since she lanced her first boil! She and Polly will pour for forty-five minutes and then be relieved by Susan Exbridge and Maggie Spenkle. It’s Maggie’s Belgian lace banquet cloth that we’re using, and Susan is lending two silver tea services and a six-branch silver candelabrum.”
Then the uniform was ready. Qwilleran assembled his disguise and looked in the mirror.