"They'll never make a go of it-not in this tank town! It's too fancy."
"I hear the prices are jacked up outasight."
"The mayor'll get his ugly mug in the paper again. Did you vote for him? I didn't."
"He's gonna be in that auction. I wouldn't let my wife bid a nickel to have dinner with that four-flusher!"
"Who needs a Pasty Parlor? What we need is a hot dog stand."
"Who's runnin' the soup kitchen? They must be nuts! Whadda they think this is - a hobo camp?"
"Why'd they string up all that ribbon? A coupla yards would be enough. They better not charge it to the taxpayers!"
If the sour comments were heard by Dwight Somers, they failed to dent his professional exuberance. He dashed around and talked on his cellular phone. "The school bus just arrived with the band. Alert the mayor to leave City Hall in five minutes." Then, seeing Qwilleran, he said, "How about this, Qwill? We're halfway through the Explo - and no more bombs, no homicides, no civil disturbance!"
"The game ain't over till it's over," Qwilleran quoted wryly. "The judges at the Pasty Bake-off could get food poisoning."
Larry Lanspeak pushed through the crowd to speak to the newsman. "The Celebrity Auction's a sellout! Carol is gonna bid on all the guys - just to inflate the bidding."
"Tell her to exercise caution," Qwilleran advised. "She might win Wetherby Goode. Are you staying open till nine tonight?"
"Sure! All the merchants are cooperating. Susan Exbridge didn't like the idea of idle browsers in her uppity-scale shop, but we talked her into it."
"Do you have any trouble with shoplifting, Larry?"
"Only in tourist season. One nice thing about a small town: Everybody is watching everybody."
The high school band was tuning up. A police siren could be heard, and the mayor's car approached. No one cheered; rather, the crowd became grimly silent. Then the band crashed into the Washington Post March with the confidence of young musicians who know most of the notes, and a police officer cleared the way for the mayor. Gregory Blythe was a middle-aged, well-dressed stockbroker, handsome in a dissipated way and insufferably conceited. Yet, he was always reelected; after all, his mother was a Goodwinter.
Dwight Somers led the applause as Blythe mounted a small podium and spoke into the microphone. "On this festive occasion I want to say a few words about the future of Pickax."
"Make it short!" someone yelled from the crowd.
"Excellent advice!" Blythe replied with a smile in the heckler's direction. Then he proceeded to speak too long, despite murmurs in the audience and the lack of attention.
Finally a child's shrill voice cried out, "Where's the balloons?"
"Let there be balloons!" the mayor decreed.
Two photographers rushed forward. Scissors were produced. The ribbon was snipped. Then, as the band struck up Stars and Stripes Forever, multicolor balloons rose from behind Stables Row, and the crowd converged on the new shops, which had promised souvenirs and food-tasting.
Qwilleran caught sight of a husky, heavily bearded young man lumbering about like a bear. "Gary!" he shouted. "What brings you to town? Souvenirs, refreshments or balloons?"
"Just checking on my competition," said the proprietor of the Black Bear Cafe. "I think I'll add pasties to my menu, but only the traditional kind. I know a woman who makes the crust with suet."
"What do you think of the Stables?"
"The building's neat. The Spoonery's a good idea. But the Pasty Parlor is off the wall. It's run by a couple from Down Below - nice kids - but they don't know a pasty from a pizza... Well, so long! Don't forget the bike-a-thon Sunday."
Qwilleran observed the crowds for a while and then: went into the shop that was attracting the fewest visitors. The Kitchen Boutique was being managed by Sharon J Hanstable.
"I loved your report on the turkey roast!" she greeted him. "Does it mean you're going to start cooking?"
"Only if hell freezes over. I attended the class under duress." He glanced around at the gadgets so foreign to his lifestyle: garlic presses, nutmeg grinders, pastry brushes. "What are those knives with odd blades?"
"Cheese knives," Sharon said. "The wide blade is for crumbly cheese; the pointed one for hard varieties; the narrow squarish one is for soft and semisoft."
"I'll take a set. Since Sip'n'Nibble opened, I'm becoming a cheese connoisseur. So are the cats!... What are those round things?" He pointed to some circles of floppy rubber imprinted with the name of the shop.
"Take one to Polly," she said. "They're for unscrewing hard-to-openjars and bottles. They really work!"
Both of them looked suddenly toward the entrance. The band had stopped playing, and there was a roar of voices, including some angry shouting.
"Sounds like a riot!" Qwilleran said, dashing for the door just in time to hear glass shattering. A siren sounded. People were flocking to the south end of the block; others were running away. Witnesses were yelling to the police and pointing fingers. And the young couple who had opened the Pasty Parlor were looking in dismay at their smashed window.
As Qwilleran looked on, Lori Bamba came up behind him. "What happened, Qwill?"
"An anti-pasty demonstration," he said. "Militant right-wingers protesting against subversive ingredients in the filling."
He left Pine Street with an uneasy feeling that things were changing in Pickax-too fast. The locals were not ready for "designer pasties." The economic development division of the K Fund was partly to blame. Their theories sounded good, but they failed to understand a community 400 miles north of everywhere. Their ideas needed to be screened by a local commission. There was no one with whom he could discuss his apprehension. His friends in the business community were afire with optimism, and he hesitated to be a wet blanket. His closest confidante was recuperating from major surgery, and it would be unwise to trouble her. He did, however, take Polly the jar opener, and he praised the soup at the Spoonery.
She said, "We're going to watch the fireworks from our upstairs porch tonight. Would you like to join us, Qwill? Lynette has invited her bridge club, and there'll be refreshments."
"Thank you," he said, "but when one has seen fireworks over New York harbor, it's hard to get excited about a shower of sparks over the Pickax municipal parking lot."
When he returned to the bam, he found a mess in the lounge area. Someone had destroyed the Lanspeaks' potted mums that had been standing on the hearth. Someone had uprooted the vintage burgundy blooms and scattered them allover the white Moroccan rug.
Koko was sitting on the fireplace cube, waiting for Qwilleran's reaction.
"You, sir, are a bad cat!" was the stem rebuke.
Koko flicked a long pink tongue over his black nose. Then Qwilleran relented. "I didn't think much of them myself. They look like dried blood... Sorry, old boy." He stayed home for the rest of the day. When his antique sea chest arrived from Exbridge & Cobb, he had it placed outside the back door to receive packages. Finding a weathered wood shingle in the toolshed, he made a crude sign for it: DELIVERIES HERE. For dinner he hacked enough meat for two cats and one man from the carcass of Bird Number One. Later he read to the Siamese. Koko chose Poor Richard's Almanac, which provided such pithy tidbits as A cat in gloves catches no mice.
As the evening wore on, however, Qwilleran frequently tamped his moustache and consulted his watch. Koko was nervous, too. He prowled incessantly after the reading. Did he sense the forthcoming fireworks as he did the approach of a storm? The merchants on Main Street would serve their cookies and punch until nine o'clock; then the crowd would move to the Stables block for the sky show.