"It was left to me in her will, you may recall-a joke, I presume, because she knew I was no cook and never would be."
"I hate to say this," Susan said, "but I think it was taken by one of the museum volunteers. There were seventy-five of them - on maintenance, security, hosting, cataloguing, etc. Mitch Ogilvie was the manager then, and he put a notice in the volunteers' newsletter, pleading for its return-no questions asked. No one responded.... I'll have my man put a coat of oil on the sea chest for you, Qwill, and deliver it to the barn."
Qwilleran left with his cheese basket and visited the florist next door, pushing through a maze of greeting cards, stuffed animals, balloons, chocolates, and decorated mugs to reach the fresh-cut flowers.
"Hello, Mr. Q," said a young clerk with long silky hair and large blue eyes. "Daisies again? Or would you like mums for a change?"
"Mrs. Duncan has an overriding passion for daisies and unmitigated scorn for mums," he said sternly. "Why are you pushing mums? Did your boss buy too many? Or does he get a bigger markup on mums?"
She giggled. "Oh, Mr. Q, you're so funny. Most people like mums because they last longer, and we have a new color." She showed him a bouquet of dark red. "It's called vintage burgundy."
"It looks like dried blood," he said. "Just give me a bunch of yellow daisies without that wispy stuff that sheds all over the floor."
"You don't want any statice?" she asked in disbelief. "No statice, no ribbon bows, no balloons." Then, having asserted himself successfully, he relented and said in a genial tone, "You had some excitement across the street yesterday."
She rolled her expressive blue eyes. "I was paralyzed with fright! I thought it was an earthquake. My boss was in the back room working on a funeral, and he was as scared as I was." She added in a whisper, although there was no one else in the shop, "The police have been here, asking questions. The man that planted the bomb bought some flowers from us."
"Did you see him?"
"No. I was in the back room working on a wedding. Mr. Pickett waited on him. He bought mums in that new color."
"Well, tell your boss to stock up on vintage burgundy. There'll be a run on it when the public discovers it was the bomber's choice. Don't ask me why. It's some kind of wacky mass hysteria."
Somewhat behind schedule - because of the spilled honey and the unplanned meetings on Main Street and the purchase of the antiques - Qwilleran hastily chopped corned beef for the Siamese. The salty meat seemed to give them a special thrill. Then they inspected the cheese basket on the coffee table, its open weave making a crisp lineal pattern on the white surface.
"We will not chew this basket!" Qwilleran warned them. "It belonged to Mrs. Cobb. You remember Mrs. Cobb. She used to make meatloaf for you. Her basket deserves your respect."
Koko sniffed it and walked away with the bored attitude of a cat who has sniffed better baskets in his time. Yum Yum tried it on for size, however, and found it a perfect fit. She curled into it with her chin resting on the rim, a picture of contentment.
Qwilleran drove to Gingerbread Alley and found Polly dressed for her first walk but apprehensive. "I know it's silly to feel this way, but I do," she said apologetically.
"One turn around the block, and you'll be ready for another," he predicted. He gave her the flowers.
"Daisies!" she cried. "They're the smiley faces of nature! Looking at them always makes me happy. Thank you, dear." She deposited them casually into a square, squat vase of thick green glass that showed off the crisscrossed stems. "Daisies arrange themselves. One should never fuss with them."
Qwilleran noted a large pot of mums in the entrance hall. "Unusual color," he remarked.
"It's called vintage burgundy. Dr. Prelligate sent them. Wasn't that a thoughtful gesture?"
He huffed into his moustache. Previously, Polly had thought the man good-looking, charming, and intellectual; now he was thoughtful as well. Obviously he was trying to keep Polly from moving out of her on-campus apartment-all the more reason why she should relocate in Indian Village.
They walked down the street slowly, hand-in-hand. She said, "You know the neighbors will be watching and circulating rumors. In Pickax hand-holding in public is tantamount to announcing one's engagement."
"Good!" Qwilleran said. "That'll give them something else to think about besides the hotel bombing." He did most of the talking as she concentrated on her breathing and posture. He described his interview with Aubrey and the mysteries of honey production. "The poet hit the nail on the head when he wrote about the murmuring of innumerable bees."
"That was Tennyson," Polly said. "Perfect example of onomatopoeia."
"I won a fourth-grade spelling bee with that word once," he said. "They gave me a dictionary as a prize. I would have preferred a book about baseball."
"How are Koko and Yum Yum?"
"They're fine. I'm reading Greek drama to them - Aristophanes right now. They like The Birds... For sport Koko and I play Blink. We stare at each other, and the first one to blink pays a forfeit. He always wins, and I give him a toothful of cheese."
"Bootsie won't look me in the eye," Polly said. "He's very loving, but eye contact disturbs him."
The excursion was more therapeutic than social, and Polly was glad to return to her chair in the Victorian parlor. Lynette was busy in the kitchen, preparing a spaghetti dinner for the new assistant pastor of their church. Qwilleran was invited to make a fourth, but he was meeting Dwight Somers at Tipsy's Tavern.
Meanwhile, he went home and read some more Aristophanes to the Siamese. "Do you realize," he said to them, "that you're two of the few cats in the Western world who are getting a classical education?" They liked the part about Cloud-Cuckoo-Land, where the birds built a city in the sky. He embellished the text with birdcalls as he read about thirty thousand whooping cranes flying from Africa with the stones; curlews shaping the stones with their beaks; mud-larks mixing the mortar; ducks with feet like little trowels doing the masonry; and woodpeckers doing the carpentry. Yum Yum purred, and Koko became quite excited.
Tipsy's Tavern in North Kennebeck was a roadhouse in a sprawling log cabin-with rustic furnishings, bustling middle-aged waitresses, noisy customers, and a reputation for good steaks. Dwight ordered a glass of red wine, while Qwilleran had his usual Squunk water from a local mineral spring.
"Do you really like that stuff!' Dwight asked. "I've never tasted it."
"It's an acquired taste." Qwilleran raised his glass to the light, then sniffed it. "The color should be crystal clear; the bouquet, a delicate suggestion of fresh earth." He sipped it. "The taste: a harmonious blend of shale and clay with overtones of quartz and an aftertaste of... mud."
"You're losing it!" his dinner companion said.
Chiefly they talked about the plans for the Explo. The bombing had hurt morale downtown, but Dwight had jacked up the hype, and merchants were rallying around. That was the commercial aspect of Explo. There was more. He said:
"The K Fund, frankly, is afraid of being perceived as a year-round Santa Claus. That's why they're encouraging community fund-raising for charity. They're matching, dollar for dollar, all the money raised by the celebrity auction, bike-a-thon, pasty bake-off, etc. All proceeds will go to feed the needy this winter. There'll be more hardship than usual because of the financial scandal in Sawdust City."
"Who are the celebrities to be auctioned?" Qwilleran asked.
"The idea is to have five bachelors and five single women. In some cases, the dinner-date package will include a gift. Everything is being donated by restaurants, merchants, and other business firms. The public will pay an admission fee - high enough to discourage idle sightseers - and that'll add a couple of thousand to the take."