She responded with light laughter, while Qwilleran said to the artist, “And you look like the devil.”
“I feel like a penguin in these duds.”
“You don’t look like one. They have shorter legs.”
Polly interrupted the banter. “Paul, you’re a genius. You painted Lady Anne’s soul!”
“That’s my specialty. Painting souls.”
The police chief was wandering around the lobby looking dumbfounded at the decor. “Pretty fancy,” he said to Qwilleran.
“Your daughter deserves credit for doing a great job! The old hotel was grim.”
“But it was clean,” Brodie said.
“Will your department be busy next week, guarding the jewelsl”
“Nah. He doesn’t need anything from us. He’s been here lots of times without incident. It’s all private. Valuables kept in the hotel safe. No problem.”
Someone clutched Qwilleran’s arm and said, “That portrait spooks me!” It was Arch Riker. “It’s exactly how she looked when we were growing up. I’d go over to your house, and she’d play ‘Flight of the Bumblebee’ for me. I always listened with my mouth hanging open; how could fingers move so fast?”
“Yes, she was good at vivace, wasn’t she?”
“All you could play was ‘Humoresque’, double slow.”
“I was faster at stealing second base,” Qwilleran said ruefully. “I sometimes wish I’d practiced more, but the piano was not my forte.”
At that moment the publicity man interrupted. He wanted a shot of Qwilleran with the painting.
“Only if the artist is included,” he replied. “I’m here as an accident of birth; Skumble deserves the credit for doing the impossible.”
In a lobby alcove outfitted as a reading room Fran Brodie was giving a tour-guide spiel on Gustav Stickley. A portrait of the turn-of-the-century cabinetmaker hung on the wall; he wore a bow tie, pince-nez glasses on a cord, and a cryptic smile.
“What did that smile mean?” Fran asked her small audience, all of whom seemed enraptured by her melodious voice and stunning gown. “He was a writer, philosopher, and cabinetmaker, and yet he came from humble beginnings on a Wisconsin farm, the eldest of eleven children. Cruel fate made him head of the family at the age of twelve, and he had to drop out of school and work in a stoneyard. Still, he educated himself by reading. He hated stone and developed a passion for wood. His furniture designs with plain, honest structural lines and a reverence for wood were made from 1901 to 1915 and had many imitators… The framed pictures grouped over the trestle tables are enlargements of the ‘cozy cottage’ drawings in Stickley’s magazine, The Craftsman.”
Another center of attention in the lobby was the new reception desk with its front panel of iridescent ceramic tiles typical of the period. Behind it stood four young persons in black blazers with the Mackintosh crest. One of them was Lenny Inchpot, who had been on the desk when the bomb went off and a chandelier fell in the lobby. He still had a slight scar on his forehead. Now he was captain of the desk clerks, who worked in four six-hour shifts. He himself worked evenings. All were MCCC students.
Viyella, a vibrant young woman who worked afternoons, said, “I love meeting people! This is an exciting place to work.”
Marietta, on mornings, was intensely serious. She hoped to learn a lot on the job.
Boze, on duty midnight to six, was a big fellow with bland smile, “Hi!” he mumbled.
Larry said, “Boze will be tossing the caber at the Highland Games. We’re all rooting for him.”
“I’ll be there,” Qwilleran promised.
Polly drew him aside, “I want you to meet the liveliest, most sensible woman on my library board; Magdalene Sprenkle. She’s wearing the famous Sprenkle torsade tonight.”
“Should I know what that is?”
“A necklace of twisted strands. Hers is diamonds and pearls. She’s hoping to sell it to Mr. Delacamp this year. When her husband was alive, he wouldn’t let her part with something that had been in the family for generations.”
The woman in black velvet and a dazzling choker had a majestic build and hearty manner, and there were cat hairs on the front of her dress. “Call me Maggie,” she said, “because I’m going to call you Qwill.”
“Do you happen to have five cats?”
“I do, and I’d have more if I had more windows facing the afternoon sun. They’re all strays, adopted from the animal shelter, and they’re all ladies!”
“Do I detect gender bias?”
“You do, sir! The ladies are sweeter and cuddlier, and yet they stand up for their rights.”
He nodded as if in agreement. Actually he was thinking about Yum Yum with her sweet, ingratiating ways and her shrieks of indignation if she didn’t get what she wanted when she wanted it! “What are their names?” he asked, knowing that cat-fanciers liked to be asked.
“They’re all named after famous women in history; Sarah, Charlotte, Carrie, Flora, and Louisa May.”
“Hmmm,” he murmured, recognizing a challenge, “Name them again slowly.”
“Sarah.”
“Bernhardt?”
“Charlotte.”
“Bronte, of course”
“Carrie.”
“It’s got to be Nation.”
“Flora.”
“I hope it’s Macdonald.”
“And Louisa May.”
“That’s the easiest, Alcott.”
“You clever man! I’m going to give you a big hug!” She did, and several cat hairs were transferred from her black velvet to his dinner jacket. “You must come and meet my ladies-in-waiting, but no publicity, please.”
Polly said, “But how about telling him your great-grandmother’s story, Maggie? He’s collecting legends of Moose County for a book. Its title will be Short and Tall Tales.”
“When?” Maggie asked with her usual decisiveness.
“Friday?” He was never one to waste words.
The date was made. “Now I have to go and say hello to the mayor and give him a big hug,” she said. “I’m a political hypocrite.”
Qwilleran and Polly watched her cross the lobby and deposit some cat hairs on His Honor’s dinner jacket.
Although the Mackintosh Room would not be serving until Tuesday evening, it was brightly lighted to show off the clan tartan on the chair seats and the Mackintosh crest on the wall. Derek Cuttlebrink, the six-foot-four busboy who had become a six-foot-eight maitre d’, was standing at the host’s lectern, taking future reservations.
“Hi, Mr. Q! I see you’ve booked a table for next Saturday,” he said.
“I hope the lights are on a rheostat.”
“Oh sure. We’ll turn them way down when we serve. Have you seen the coffee shop? It’s kind of far-out for Pickax.”
Fran Brodie was now standing at the entrance to Rennie’s, the converted coffee shop, answering questions. “This was inspired by a Charles Rennie Mackintosh tearoom in Glasgow, designed in the early twentieth century…. Yes, it will be on network TV, but I don’t know exactly when…. Two magazines have already photographed it…. Well, I see Rennie’s as a stimulating place for an overnight guest to have breakfast, an exciting place for out-of-towners to have lunch or dinner, and a friendly place to have a snack after a tap-dance class…. Yes, you can go in and take a table. They’re serving refreshments.”
A framed photograph of the Scottish architect with flowing moustache and an artist’s flowing silk tie was hanging in the entrance.
Fran said to Qwilleran, “Ancestor of yours? You have his moustache and his eyes.”
The distinguishing feature of Rennie’s was the high backed Mackintosh chair, about four feet tall and tapered upward. Lacquered black, these chairs surrounded tables lacquered in bright blue or bright green. The white walls were decorated with black line drawings of oversize flowers. Napkins were a bold black-and-white stripe.