"I'm sure she can. She donates generously to the library. The Plensdorfs made their fortune in lumbering in the early days, and I imagine she inherited a handsome amount."
"I see," Qwilleran said. "Do you know anything about her personal interests?"
"Only that she collects buttons."
"Buttons!" he repeated in disbelief. "Did I hear right?"
"Well, yes. Didn't you see her collection in the library display case last year? It was featured in your paper, too."
"I didn't see the display, and I didn't read the feature!" he declared defiantly.
"When are you taking her to dinner?"
"Monday night."
"If you want to bone up on buttons before then, you'll find one or two books on the subject at the library."
"Thank you for the suggestion, but... no thanks. I'll wing it."
Early rising was not a Qwilleran habit, but on Sunday morning he left the barn at seven-thirty and drove toward Kennebeck. The wooded hill south of the town was lined with cars, vans, and pickups on both shoulders. Those who had arrived early for a good vantage point were having tailgate breakfasts. By eight-thirty their cameras were at the ready.
First, a sheriff's car came slowly over the crest of the hill and started down the long gentle slope, followed by more than a hundred elegantly lightweight cycles with helmeted riders crouched over the handlebars. Qwilleran hoped he would not see Lenny's green jersey with number 19 on the back. There was a burst of applause for the gold and bronze medalists when they passed, but the silver medalist was nowhere in sight. The PPD had successfully grounded him; he might even be on his way to Duluth.
The ride was a joyful sight-until a rifle shot rang out. The crowd became suddenly silent. A second shot; was heard, and parents pushed their children into their vehicles. "Just a rabbit hunter," someone yelled. Still, the motorcycle escort talked into a cellular phone, and the sheriff's car returned.
Qwilleran thought, Everyone's edgy. All their lives they've been used to hearing hunters' rifle shots. What a difference a homicide makes!
When he returned to the barn, he took a quick look into the sea chest before unlocking the back door. To his surprise, there was a carton labeled: "Product of Cold Turkey Farm. Weight, 12 pounds. Keep frozen until ready to use, then defrost in refrigerator."
Payola, Qwilleran thought, but then he remembered that payola was a big-city breach of ethics. In the country, 400 miles north of everywhere, neighbors helped neighbors and received neighborly expressions of gratitude, which they accepted with good grace. The question was: What to do with the bird? Actually, as he remembered Mildred's demonstration, prepping a turkey was not a staggering problem, and the oven did the rest. If one followed the instructions, it could be no harder than changing a tire - easier, perhaps. He would need a large pan with a rack. There were two turkey roasters in the apple barn, but they were being used for other purposes. Meanwhile, the cats were yowling in five octaves, and he banished them to the broom closet until he could open the carton and put the plastic-wrapped turkey into the refrigerator.
On the hour he tuned in WPKX, expecting to hear a report on the bike-a-thon: how many riders had started, how many had dropped out, and what milepost the leaders had reached. Instead, he heard a startling news bulletin:
"A fisherman was found dead this morning, as a result of multiple bee stings. According to the medical examiner, the insects had attacked in such numbers that the victim was virtually smothered. The body was found in a rental cabin belonging to Scotten Fisheries on the bank of Black Creek. No further details are available at this time, but police say... he was not... a resident of Moose County."
That last statement, spoken with significant emphasis, was typical of WPKX. It meant: Relax; he was not one of us.
Qwilleran had a sudden urge to visit Aubrey Scotten. As usual, he liked to take the public pulse whenever an unusual happening occurred, so he stopped at the Dimsdale Diner. On a Sunday morning there were no pickups in the rutted parking lot and no farmers smoking and laughing around the big table. He sat at the counter on the only stool that still had a seat on its pedestal; the others stood like a row of grim stakes in a tank trap. To the half-awake counterman he said, "I'll have a cup of your famous bitter coffee and one of your special three-day-old doughnuts." The man shambled away to fill the order. A cheap radio spluttered in the background.
Qwilleran asked, "Where did you buy that radio? It has excellent tone."
"Found it," said the counterman.
"Did you hear about the guy who was stung to death by bees?"
"Yep."
"Who was he? Do you know?"
"Fisherman."
"Has that ever happened around here, to your knowledge?"
"Nope."
"Apparently he was allergic to bee venom."
"Guess so."
Someday Qwilleran would write a column about the laconic subculture in Moose County. Engaging them in conversation was a hobby of his. "Best coffee I ever drank! Great taste!" he declared. "What's your name?"
"AI."
"Thanks, AI. Have a nice day."
It was indeed a nice day, Moose County style: sunny - just cool enough for a sweater. On such a day Gustav
Limburger's red brick mansion rose out of its green weeds with a forlorn grandeur. He drove into the side yard and tooted the horn. The door of the honey shed was open, and after a second blast of the horn, a dejected figure appeared in the doorway. He was not the big, fleshy man who had enthused about his bees, Lois's flapjacks, and the German Bible he would inherit. His whole frame drooped, and his pudgy face sagged.
Qwilleran jumped out of his car and went toward him, saying, "Remember me? Jim Qwilleran. I came to buy a couple of jars of honey."
Without a word Aubrey disappeared into the shade of the shed and returned with two of the flattened jars. The transaction was made in silence.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" Qwilleran asked.
Aubrey looked around to see what kind of day it was, and then nodded absently.
"How's Mr. Limburger?"
"Same, I guess," he said in his squeaky voice.
"Did you hear that Lois has closed her restaurant?" The beekeeper nodded in a daze.
"How do you like your new job at the turkey fann?"
The man shrugged. "It's... okay."
"Look here, Aubrey! Are you all right? Is something worrying you?" Qwilleran asked out of curiosity and concern.
Two tears ran down the soft face and were wiped away with a sleeve.
Qwilleran slipped into his big-brother role. "Come on, Big Boy, let's sit down and talk about this. It'll do you good." He took the young man by the elbow and steered him to a weather-beaten bench outside the honey shed. They sat in silence for a few moments. "I was sorry to hear about the accident at your cabin. Did you know the man?"
Aubrey's breathing was a series of heavy sighs. "He was my friend."
"Is that so? How long had you known him?"
"Long time."
"Had he ever been up here before?" There was more weary nodding.
"And the bees had never bothered him?" There was no response.
"Where were you when it happened?"
"In the house." He jerked his head toward the brick mansion.
"He evidently did something that frightened or upset the bees."
Aubrey shrugged shoulders that seemed weighted by a heavy burden.
"I wish I could think of something to say or do that would help you, Aubrey. You must keep up your spirit. Go to see the old man in the hospital; do your job at the turkey farm; take care of your bees. It takes time to recover from the shock of a tragedy like this. Keep busy. Face one day at a time." While he was babbling platitudes, he was thinking about a recent morning at Lois's when the bombing was mentioned, and the sensitive young man said, "Somebody was killed." Then he rushed from the restaurant without finishing his pancakes. Now a longtime friend had been killed - and by his own bees, compounding the anguish. If bees died after stinging, did it mean that Aubrey had lost much of his swarm? He was a lonely person who seemed to yearn for a friend. He liked Lois because she was friendly; Gary at the Black Bear was friendly; his bees were his friends. Taking that thought as a cue, Qwilleran said, "At a time like this, it helps to talk to a friend, Aubrey. I want you to think of me as a friend and call me if I can help... Here's my phone number." The sincerity of Qwilleran's attitude said as much as his words.