Qwilleran rang the bell, waited for the buzzer to unlock the door, and found himself in a steep, narrow stairwell. It seemed narrower and steeper because of the thick stair carpet in a pattern of roses and the velvety rosepink walls hung with dozens of old engravings.
Maggie was waiting at the top. “Hang on to the handrail,” she cautioned. “The stairs are murder! Most of my guests come in the back, where there’s an elevator.”
“That’s all right,” he called up the stairs. “I prefer the dramatic approach.”
He made it safely to the top, and she welcomed him with a bear hug.
He found himself in a two-story foyer with a skylight and another staircase leading to the upper level. This reception area also functioned as a library, its shelves glowing with the polished calf bindings of fine old books.
“Do you have any Mark Twain?” he asked, thinking to introduce an earthy note.
“Yes, indeed!” she replied in her usual hearty manner. “My grandfather-in-law entertained Mr. Clemens when he lectured here…. Come into the parlor. The ladies are waiting to meet you.”
For a moment he expected the ladies of the library’s board of directors, forgetting Sarah, Charlotte, Carrie, Flora, and Louisa May. They sat in the five windows: a tiger with white boots and bib, a calico, an orange marmalade, a black-and-white, and a snowy white with blue eyes. Each had her own windowsill and sat under a canopy of lace curtain, cut away at the bottom for easy access.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said.
All but the white one turned away from their pigeon-watching and gave him an inquisitive glance.
“Charlotte is deaf,” Maggie explained, “but she’s an adorable little creature.”
“Unusual curtains,” he remarked.
“Amanda Goodwinter had them custom-made in Belgium. She’s done all my decorating for forty years. Wonderful woman! And now she’s going to run for mayor, and we must all support her…. Do sit down, and I’ll bring the tea tray.”
“I’d rather walk around and ogle your collection,” he said. “It’s a museum!”
The rosy velvet walls of the parlor were hung floor-to-ceiling with old oil paintings in ornate frames. Furniture crowded the room: heavy carved tables with marble tops; button-tufted chairs and settees heaped with needlepoint pillows; lamps with hand-painted globes; and everywhere a clutter of crystal and porcelain bric-a-brac.
When Maggie returned with the tea, she said, “Did you know that Florence Nightingale had sixty cats? Not all at once, of course. And she named them after famous personalities: Disraeli, Mr. Gladstone, and so forth…. All my ladies have come from the animal shelter where I work as a volunteer.”
They sat in carved side chairs at a carved table, and tea was poured into small porcelain cups with fingertrap handles, but for Qwilleran a plate of chocolate brownies made it all worthwhile.
“Polly said they’re your favorite sweet,” Maggie said. “She’s such a wonderful woman! And I’m so glad she has you for a friend.”
“It’s my good fortune,” he murmured.
Maggie chattered on: about the controversy over the library’s bookmobile… about the failing health of Osmond Hasselrich, senior partner of the city’s most prestigious law firm… about the Scottish Gathering. “Polly tells me that you and she are going on Sunday.”
“Yes. Polly likes the piping and dancing. I’ll attend the athletic events with Whannell MacWhannell on Saturday.”
“Wonderful man!” she said. “He handles my tax work.” She had not said a word about the murder. Yet it was generally known that she intended to sell the fabulous Sprenkle necklace to the jeweler. It was a strange oversight, considering local passion for commenting on the latest news.
As for Qwilleran, he was there for another purpose. After declining a third chocolate brownie, he drew a tape recorder from a pocket and said, “Now let’s hear the story about your great-grandmother, Maggie.”
“Do you want to ask me questions?”
“No, just repeat what you told the genealogical club.” Maggie’s tale was later transcribed as follows:
This story about pioneer days in Moose County has been handed down in my family and I believe it to be absolutely true. There were heroes and villains in our history, and many of them were involved in mining.
As you know, there were ten mines in operation and enough coal for all but most of the owners were greedy, exploiting their workers shamefully. My great-grandfather, Patrick Borleston, owned the Big B mine. He and another owner, Seth Dimsdale, cared about their workers’ health, safety, and families, and their attitude paid off in loyalty and productivity. Their competitors were envious to the point of hostility. When Patrick was killed in a carriage accident, his workers were convinced that someone had purposely spooked his horses.
They suspected Ned Bucksmith, owner of the Buckshot mine. Immediately he tried to buy the Big B from the widow. But Bridget was a strong woman. She said she’d operate it herself. The idea of a woman mine operator shocked the other owners, and when the mother of three proceeded to do a man’s job better than they could, their antagonism grew especially that of Ned Bucksmith. She was twice his size, being tall, buxom, and broad-shouldered. She always wore a long, voluminous black dress with a little white lace collar and a pancake hat tied under her chin with ribbons.
Folks said it was the lace collar and ribbons that sent Ned Bucksmith over the edge. He and the other mine owners met in the back room of the K Saloon on Thursday evenings to drink whiskey and play cards, and he got them plotting against Big Bridget. One Thursday night a window was broken in the shack she used for an office. The next week a giant tree was felled across her access road. Next her night watchman put out a fire that could have burned down the office.
One Thursday morning Bridget was sitting at her roll-top desk when she heard a frantic banging on the door. There on the doorstep was a young boy, out of breath from running. “Them men!” he gasped. “At the saloon. They be blowin’ up your mine!” Then he dashed away.
That evening Bridget went to the saloon in her tent-like black dress and pancake hat, carrying a shotgun. She barged in, knocked over a few chairs and shouted, “Where are those dirty rats?” Customers hid under tables as she swept toward the back room. “Who’s gonna blow up my mine?” she thundered and pointed the gun at Ned Bucksmith. He went out the window headfirst, and the other men piled out the back door. She followed them and unloaded a few warning shots.
There was no more trouble at the Big B. Now if you’re wondering about the youngster who tipped her off, he was Ned Bucksmith’s boy, and he had a crush on Bridget’s daughter. When they grew up, they were married, and that young boy became my grandfather.
Qwilleran turned off his tape recorder. “You tell the story well, Maggie.”
“That’s how I told it at the genealogy club. One man came up afterward and said his ancestors knew Bridget. They worked for her.”
“It must be gratifying to know who your forebears are. I never knew my grandparents. How do you know details like the lace collar and pancake hat?”
“The historical society has a daguerreotype of her. She looks like a king-size Queen Victoria.”
“You’ve inherited some of her fine qualities, Maggie.”
“And some of Bucksmith’s bad ones. That was my maiden name, and I was glad to get rid of it when I married Mr. Sprenkle. He was a gentleman and a gentle man. He grew prize roses. Do you like the roses in this carpet? They remind me of him. Have another brownie, Qwill.”