The last one was undoubtedly Homer Tibbitt’s contribution: How to Get Away with Anything, by Mayor Gregory Blythe.
After a few chuckles Qwilleran was feeling relaxed enough to retire, but first he would read a couple of installments of the Annie-Fanny correspondence. Next was the letter dated June 24:
Fourteen
Saturday, September 19 ‘The fish dies because he opens his mouth too much.’
WITH HIS FIRST CUP of coffee Qwilleran felt the urge to read another Annie-Fanny letter. He would read only one, he promised himself. It was dated September 30.
Fifteen
Sunday, September 2O ‘Contented Cows give the best milk.’
QWILLERAN WAS ACCUSTOMED TO spending Saturday and Sunday with Polly, but this weekend she needed a day to do things around the house, to catch up with correspondence, to organize her winter wardrobe. Qwilleran said he understood and called a friend to have Sunday brunch at Tipsy’s Tavern in Kennebeck.
It was a no-frills, limited-menu roadhouse in a sprawling log cabin, serving the best steak and the best fish. A recent innovation was a Sunday brunch offering the best ham and eggs and country fries and the best flapjacks with homemade sausage patties.
Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist, met him at Tipsy’s. He said, “Lots of vacant tables, considering the usual popularity of this brunch.”
“The fugitive scare,” Qwilleran surmised. “Yesterday we took the color tour, and there was hardly anyone on the road. But the autumn color was magnificent best ever!”
“Moose County has always had better color than Lockmaster.” Wetherby was a native of Horseradish, a town in the adjoining county.
“We have more trees,” Qwilleran explained. “After the lumbering companies had cleared the forests a century ago, the Klingenschoen family bought up huge tracts of worthless land and left it to reforest itself. Now the K Fund has it in conservancy, safe from developers who would use it for resort hotels, golf courses, race tracks, mobile home parks, and God forbid! asphalt plants. The streams are full of fish, and the woods are full of wildlife.”
“The Klingenschoens weren’t in lumbering or mining or quarrying. Where did they get their money?”
“Don’t ask.”
The ham was succulent; the eggs were fried without crusty edges or puddles of grease; the country fries had skins-on flavor and were toasty brown.
Wetherby asked, “When are you closing the barn? You’d better move to The Willows before the first blizzard.” He occupied Unit Three.
“We have a new neighbor in Unit Two,” Qwilleran said. “Have you met him?”
“No, but I’ve seen his car. Massachusetts tags.”
“He’s a rare book dealer from Boston. His name is Kirt Nightingale.”
“‘Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never Overt.”’ The weatherman always enlivened his predictions with snatches of poetry or songs.
“Wrong bird,” said Qwilleran. “It was written to a skylark.”
“Whatever. It was Keats at his best.”
“Sorry, friend. Wrong poet. Shelley wrote it. But speaking of blithe spirits, do you think Amanda will be able to unseat the mayor?”
“Absolutely! She’s tough! She’s honest! She’s a Goodwinter! And some of us have talked her into adopting a cat from the animal shelter to improve her image.”
Nora was expected to arrive at the barn with the beef pot pie at three o’clock. While waiting, Qwilleran read another Annie-Fanny letter, dated November 1:
Dear Fanny
Just a brief note to thank you for your enthusiasm about our baby and also for the darling booties. They’re the first item in our layette. It’s a long wait, but I’m making plans. I sold my piano to make room for a crib, but that’s all right. I’ll have a baby grand someday. Meanwhile, I’m reading classic literature for half an hour every evening, hoping to give my baby a love of good writing. I love the story of King Arthur and his court, and if my baby is a boy, I’m going to call him Merlin. Don’t you think that’s a beautiful name, his middle name will be James, which I think is very noble. Then my pet name for him will be Jamie. Forgive me for rambling on, but I know you’re interested.
Love from Annie
Qwilleran groaned as he recalled his youthful embarrassment over those names. “Merlin” was the name on his report card (that was bad enough) but it was his friend Archie who spread the vile lie that he was called “Jamesy” at home. There had been many a fistfight and many a trip to the principal’s office.
At three o’clock Celia phoned to say that Nora was on her way with the beef pot pie and some other goodies. “And I just wanted to tell you, Chief, that she has a terrible case of stage fright. You’re so famous, and the barn is so big, and your moustache is so ”
“Threatening,” he said. “Thanks for tipping me off. I’ll try not to growl at her.”
He planned an informal chat at the snack bar, with a glass of apple cider. He would introduce the Siamese and let her stroke Yum Yum. He would show her the mechanical bank and give her a coin to deposit; it always amused visitors.
When the red car pulled into the barnyard he went out to meet it and carry the cartons into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home,” he said casually. She stood rooted to one spot and gazed around the immense interior in awe and a little fear.
“Do you like apple cider?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Sit down at the snack bar, and we’ll have a glass of cider and talk.”
“Excuse me, sir, what is that thing?” She pointed to Kiltie, and he explained the bank and gave her a penny to deposit.
“Yow!” came a loud comment from the top of the refrigerator.
“Excuse me, sir, is that a cat?”
“Yes, he’s a male Siamese very smart. He wants you to start telling your tale…. Where did it take place?”
“Do you know Ugley Gardens, sir?”
“I’ve seen it on the county map. It’s spelled U-g-l-e-y.”
“Yes, sir. That was a man’s name. Oliver Ugley. He had acres and acres of land, and he rented it to poor farmers. Farm families came from the Old Country to have a good life, but the soil was no good, and it was swampy. All they could raise was turnips. They lived in huts and didn’t have anything to do with. They worked very hard.”
Qwilleran nodded. He had heard about Ugley Gardens. It had been called “the last pocket of deprivation in Moose County” until the K Fund acquired it and turned it around. The land was tiled for drainage, and goat farming was introduced; the huts were replaced by prefabricated housing; and the families became citizens of a community.
He asked, “Did your story take place before the goats came?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did you know about it?”
“I lived there and met a girl at prayer meeting. Her name was… Betsy.”
“Was there a church at Ugley Gardens?”
“No, sir. Families just got together and sang hymns.”
“Was there something special about Betsy?”
“Yes, sir. She was oldest of six kids and had to stay home and help her mother. She never went to school.”
Qwilleran thought, This doesn’t sound real in today’s world; it’s a fantasy a fiction. He said, “Don’t wait for me to ask questions, just go on with your story.”
“Yes, sir. When Betsy was thirteen she heard about a hotel that hired farm girls to cook and clean because they were hard workers, so she ran away from home. It was a nice job, cleaning rooms and making beds. She slept in the basement and got all her meals. One day the housekeeper told her to take some more towels to a man in one of the rooms. He was a nice man. He Said, ‘You’re pretty girl. Sit down and talk to me.’ Nobody ever called her pretty. She stayed a while, and he was very friendly. He gave her a big tip when she left, but the housekeeper bawled her out for taking so long, and after a few months she was fired for being pregnant.”