Qwilleran thought, Nine out of ten males in Moose County drive blue pickups and wear blue jackets; they also wear high-crowned farm caps advertising fertilizer or tractors. Baseball caps are worn chiefly by sport fishermen from Down
Below. The suspect's black one sounds like a Detroit Tigers cap; the letter D is in Old English script.
To Fran he said, "I think I'll take these hideous masks. Would you gift-wrap them and deliver them to Polly on Gingerbread Alley? I'll write a gift card."
Dubiously the designer said, "Will she like them? They don't represent her taste in decorative objects."
"Don't worry. It's a joke." On the card he wrote: "A pair of diet deities to bless your kitchen: Lo Phat and Lo Psalt."
10
As Qwilleran fed the cats on Tuesday morning, a hundred questions unreeled in front of his brain's eye:
Who had bombed the hotel - and why? Would he strike again?
What would happen to the hotel now? Would it ever be restored? Was this the beginning of the end for downtown Pickax?
Were mall developers from Down Below implicated in the bombing? Did they want to see the demise of downtown shopping?
What was J. Willard Carmichael's true reason for moving to Moose County? Did Pickax People's Bank have an interest in promoting mall development?
And what about Iris Cobb's cookbook? Would it ever be found?
And what about the Food Forum? Was it just another; of Hixie's harebrained ideas? Why should he waste his time dummying a column for her when he had problems of his own?
Feeding words and thoughts into the bottomless maw of the "Qwill Pen" was one problem. Feeding two fussy felines was another, more immediate, more exasperating problem. They had been on a seafood binge, and he had stocked up on canned clams, tuna, crabmeat, and cocktail shrimp. Today they were turning up their wet black noses at a delicious serving of top-quality red sockeye salmon with the black skin removed.
"Cats !" he muttered. Koko was the chief problem, having spent his formative years in the household of a gourmet cook. That cat wanted to order from a menu every day! Yum Yum merely tagged along with her male companion. She was the type of cat who could live on love: stroking, hugging, sweet words, a ready lap.
Qwilleran found himself yearning for other times, other places - when Iris Cobb was his housekeeper, when he lived in Robert Maus's high-class boarding house, when Hixie was managing the Old Stone Mill and sending the busboy over with cat-sized servings of the daily specials, He was aware of the conventional wisdom: If they get hungry enough, they'll eat it. But he, unfortunately, was the, humble servant of two sovereign rulers, and he knew it. He admitted it. What was worse, they knew it.
Qwilleran left the two plates of untouched salmon on the kitchen floor in the feeding station and went to breakfast at Lois's, knowing she often had interesting leftovers in the refrigerator, waiting to go into the soup pot. It was raining, so he drove his car.
He sat in his favorite booth and ordered pancakes. Lois's son was serving. The rather large adhesive bandage on his forehead indicated that he had looked up when the bomb exploded and the chandelier dropped.
"Will you be able to ride in the bike-a-thon Sunday?" Qwilleran asked him.
"I don't much feel like it, but everybody tells me I should." Lenny Inchpot had the lean and hungry look of a bike racer, the neatly groomed look of a hotel clerk, and the stunned look of a young man facing tragedy for the first time.
"If you bike, I'll sponsor you at a dollar a mile."
"Take it!" Lois shouted from the cash register. "Give him a green card!" It was not really a shout; it was Lois's usual commanding voice.
Qwilleran asked Lenny, "What's the best place to get some good pictures?"
"About a mile south of Kennebeck, where the road runs between two patches of woods. Know where I mean? We're just starting out - no drop-outs - no stragglers. It's some sight! You see a hundred bikers come over the hill! The paper's gonna print a map of the route on Friday, and everybody knows that's the best place to shoot, so get there early. Take a lotta film. There's a prize, you know, for the best shot."
As they talked, Qwilleran felt someone staring at them from a nearby table. It proved to be a husky man with a pudgy face and long white hair. He was eating pancakes.
"Good morning," Qwilleran said. "How are the flapjacks today?"
"They're good! Almost as good as my mom's. Lois always gives me a double stack and extra butter. I bring my own honey. D'you like honey on flapjacks? Try it. It's good." The beekeeper leaned across the aisle, offering Qwilleran a plastic squeeze bottle shaped like a bear-cub.
"Thank you. Thank you very much... How is Mr. Limburger? Do you know?"
"Yeah. I took him a jar of honey yesterday, and he threw it at the window, so I guess he's feeling pretty good. Coulda broke the glass. He wants to come home. The doctor says: No way!"
Qwilleran dribbled honey on his pancakes and staged a lip-smacking demonstration of enjoyment. "Delicious! Best I've ever tasted!" Then he noticed the front page of Monday's newspaper on Aubrey's table. "What did you think of the hotel bombing?"
"Somebody got killed!" the beekeeper said with a look of horror on his face. He stared at his plate briefly, then jumped up and went to the cash register.
"Aubrey, don't forget your honey!" Qwilleran waved the squeeze bottle.
The man rushed back to the table, snatched it, and left the lunchroom in a hurry.
Lenny ran after him in the rain. "Hey, you forgot your change!"
Lois said, "What's the matter with him? He didn't even finish his double stack."
"He's wacko from too many bee stings," her son said. "Well, you wash his table-good! It's all sticky... How'd you like the flapjacks, Mr. Q?"
"Great! Especially with honey. You should make it available to your customers."
"Costs too much."
"Charge extra."
"They wouldn't pay."
"By the way, Lois, could I scrounge a little something for the cats? Tack it on to my check."
"Don't be silly, Mr. Q. I always have a handout for those two spoiled brats. No charge. Is ham okay?"
With a foil-wrapped package in the trunk of his car, Qwilleran drove to the public library for a conference with Homer Tibbitt, but the aged historian was not to be found in his usual chair. Nor was he in the restroom, taking a nip from his thermos bottle. One of the clerks explained that rainy weather made his bones ache, and he stayed home.
A phone call to the retirement village where the nonagenarian lived with his octogenarian wife produced an invitation. "Come on over and bring some books on lake shipwrecks. Also the file on the Plensdorf family." At ninety-five-plus, Homer Tibbitt had no intention of wasting a morning.
The historian was sitting in a cocoon of cushions for his back, knees, and elbows when Qwilleran arrived. "I need all this padding because I'm skin and bones," he complained. "Rhoda's trying to starve me to death with her low-fat-this and no-fat-that. I'd give my last tooth for a piece of whale blubber."
"Homer, dear," his wife said sweetly, "you've always been as thin as a string bean, but you're healthy and productive, and all your contemporaries are in their graves." She served Qwilleran herb tea and some cookies that reminded him of Polly's dietetic delight.
He said to Homer, "Under these circumstances, my mission today may prove painful. I want to know what food was like in the old days, before tenderizers and flavor-enhancers."
"I'll tell you what it was like! It tasted like food! We lived on a farm outside Little Hope when I was a boy. We had our own chicken and eggs, homemade bread made with real flour, milk from our own cow, homegrown fruit and vegetables, and maple syrup from our own trees. I never even saw an orange or banana until I went away to normal school. That's what they called teacher training colleges in those days. I never found out why. Rhoda thinks it's a derivation from the French... What was I talking about?"