“Well?” Carol asked.
“Well?” Alice repeated.
He hesitated, “I don’t know who this guy is, but he’s not me!”
The women applauded.
As Carol drove him to the inn, Qwilleran asked, “Do you know a perfume called L’Heure Bleue?”
“Of course! It’s a classic. A delicate flowery fragrance with a hint of vanilla. Jacque Guerlain created it for Yvonne Printemps in 1912. As a matter of fact, Larry gave me a bottle of L’Heure Bleue when we were honeymooning in Paris umpteen years ago.”
“Could you special-order it? I’d like to surprise Polly.”
“Be glad to. I think she’d like the eau de toilette in the spray bottle…. And by the way, are you and she free on Thursday evening? We’re giving a small at-home dinner for Mr. Delacamp and his niece. For you, Qwill, it would be your only opportunity to meet him…. But I warn you, he’s a non-stop talker.”
“That’s okay, as long as I learn something.”
“You will, believe me! He’s an encyclopedia of facts about several subjects.”
They could see Barry Morghan standing at the carriage entrance of the inn.
“Okay,” said Qwilleran. “I’ve taken my adjustment. I’m Joe Buzzard, ex-cop. I hire out for security gigs. Everyone’s a potential jewel thief.”
He stomped out of the Lanspeak van and swaggered up to the entrance in a surly manner, pretending not to see Barry.
With a straight face the innkeeper asked, “Are you from City Security Services.”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Follow me.”
As soon as they were in the office with the door closed. Barry said, “You look great, Qwill! No one will recognize you. How about some coffee while we’re waiting for three o’clock? Can you drink without the dye running down your chin?”
“I’d feel safer with a straw…. How did you enjoy the barbecue?”
“I had a great time! Lots of nice people. They’re not uptight like city dudes.”
“They’re friendly, no doubt about it, but they’re also nosy and prone to spread rumors, so be on your guard.”
“Speaking of city types,” Barry said, “guess who barged into my office this morning wearing a Moroccan caftan and five pounds of silver jewelry! He said coolly, ‘I’m Delacamp.’ I jumped up to welcome him and got the tips of his fingers for a handshake. He had a complaint to make. He had gone to the kitchen to tell them how he wanted the tea made, and the chef he said was uncooperative and rude. I apologized for him but pointed out that Board of Health regulations put the kitchen off limits to anyone not involved officially in food service.”
“I’d say you handled that well, Barry.”
“I thought so, too…. Wait a minute, Qwill. You need something else. An intercom! I’ll get you one. Hang it on your belt.”
The focal point of the ballroom was a long tea table with lace cloth, tall silver candelabrum, and two flower arrangements. At each end a silver tea service stood ready. Small skirted tables and clusters of little ballroom chairs were scattered about the room. There was a piano in one corner, half hidden by large potted plants. And off to one side was the jewel table, covered with an Oriental rug. There were no jewels in sight just leather carrying cases. A hatted young woman in a businesslike suit was in charge.
At Barry’s suggestion Qwilleran stationed himself on the stairs in a shadowy corner from which he could observe without being conspicuous. When Polly and Dr. Diane arrived, they brushed past him without noticing and went to opposite ends of the tea table Polly in a simple blue Breton to match her dress, Diane in a toque with an impudently long pheasant feather. Then the servers brought platters of finger food and silver pots of tea to place on the burners. It would take more than a short black dress and frilly white cap and apron, Qwilleran thought, to transform MCCC students into French maids.
Shortly before three o’clock the host swept grandly down the stairs in Oriental caftan and heavy gold chains, his portliness only adding to his dignity. He introduced himself to the pourers, inspected the tea table, discussed something with his assistant at the jewel table, and signaled to the pianist.
Lyrical melodies flooded the room as guests began to move slowly down the stairs, balancing top-heavy hats and exuding whiffs of perfume as they passed the security guard.
Delacamp stood at the foot of the wide stairs and gazed at the women with patent admiration or was it part of his act? He bowed, kissed hands, and murmured words that met with pleased surprise or girlish delight. Qwilleran thought, What a ham!
For the next hour and a half the bearers of the spectacular millinery would move self-consciously about the room sipping tea, nibbling seed cake, conversing softly, and making gentle exclamations over the diamond clips and pearl chokers on the jewel table. Carol was there, wildly hatted, and she seemed to have a managerial role, supervising the French maids and controlling the flow of guests to the display of jewels. (They were on shallow trays that slipped in and out of the leather cases.) Neither Carol nor Polly ever glanced in Qwilleran’s direction.
After having his fill of sights and sounds and perfume he stole a surreptitious peek at his wristwatch. It was only twenty minutes after three! And already he had had enough. As a journalist he would have made a swift exit, but as a security guard he could hardly walk off the job. Feeling trapped in a situation was something he had always deplored, avoided, feared. Yet, here he was in a mess of his own making and he had to endure it for another seventy minutes. He could imagine what Arch Riker would say if he could see him in this predicament and in this disguise! Arch always sniped at him about his compulsions to snoop, and this fiasco would give his old friend plenty of ammunition.
Qwilleran steeled himself. He devised ways to keep himself amused:
How many of the guests did he know socially and how many had he met in the line of business?
Why was the pianist playing only Debussy and Satie?
Why did Delacamp object to Chopin? Was there some psychological influence at work? What would happen if she suddenly launched into ‘Flight of the Bumblebee’?
What would happen if he suddenly shouted “Fire!”?
How much perfume would be required to activate the sprinkler system? The mingled scents were getting stronger as their wearers drank hot tea and listened to Old Campo’s heated whispers.
Could mental telepathy be used to force Polly, or Carol, or the pianist to glance at the security guard?
When the servers removed picked-over platters of goodies such as they were and replaced them with fresh platters, what happened to the rejects? Did they go into the garbage-grinder? Were the French maids allowed to take them home? Qwilleran suspected they were merely rearranged and sent back to the tea table.
What was Sarah Plensdorf doing at the tea? She was an older woman who worked as office manager at the Moose County Something. She lived quietly, and her hobby was button collecting. Surely she was not in the market for a diamond clip. Did she have family heirlooms to sell? Her ancestors had been either shipbuilders or bootleggers, depending on the source of gossip.
Who was there to buy and who was there to sell? As Qwilleran deduced, the potential buyers pored over the jewels in the shallow trays, then spoke to the assistant, who wrote something in a black leather notebook. The potential sellers, on the other hand, ignored the display and merely spoke to the assistant, who again wrote in the book.
What did Delacamp think of the outrageous hats? Did he realize the guests we’re mocking him? Polly’s blue Breton was one of the few sane and simple hats in the hall. Qwilleran named it L’Heure Bleue. Others he named Swan Lake… Fruit Salad Plate… Yes We Have No Bananas… or Wreck of the Hesperus. It killed time.