"Have the police been talking to you again?"
Aubrey shook his mop of long white hair. "They come back, but I hid in the cellar."
"Well, let me give you some friendly advice. You should get away from here. Strangers will be coming up from Down Below, and they're worse than the police. Go and stay with your family for a while. Where do your brothers live?"
"Up the road."
"Okay, I'll drive you there. Do you want to pack a bag - or anything?"
"I don't need nothin'." Then, as Qwilleran steered him toward his car, Aubrey added, "I wanna go to my mom's."
"That's fine. That's even better. Tell me where to go."
On the way Aubrey mumbled brief, half-hearted answers to questions intended to fill the awkward silence: Does your mother live alone? Do you see her often? How long has your father been gone? Have you talked to her since the accident?
A large old farmhouse between Black Creek and Mooseville was the Scotten homestead. It had a well-kept lawn and what seemed like acres of mums in bloom, some of them the color of dried blood. It looked like a commercial flower business. A woman was digging up clumps of mums and transferring them to pots. When the car pulled into the long driveway, she stuck the pointed spade in the ground and came forward - a tall woman like her sons, but her weathered face was gaunt under a large straw hat. She wore denims, with kneepads buckled on her legs.
"You poor boy!" she said, throwing her arms around her big son. "You look terrible! You need something to eat!" She looked at Qwilleran's moustache. "Do I know you? You must be the man from the paper. You wrote about the bees."
"I'm also a customer of Aubrey's. I stopped at the house to buy honey and thought he looked in need of some home cooking."
"Poor boy! Come in the house and I'll make you a big stack of flapjacks," she said. "I'd better give you a haircut, too. How long since you went to the barber, son?"
Qwilleran caught her eye and mumbled, "I want to speak to you."
"Aubrey, go in and wash up. I'll get rid of these muddy boots and be right there."
Qwilleran said, "Don't let anyone know he's here, not even your sons. All sorts of people will be pestering him - for various reasons. Wait till it blows over. Can you keep him for a few days?"
15
Convinced that he was doing the right thing, Qwilleran left Aubrey with his mother and went home to dress for his dinner date with Sarah Plensdorf. First he fed the cats, scooping turkey chunks from the Spoonery carton and warming them in some of the broth, minus barley and carrots. "This will have to do," he told them, "till the real bird comes along."
Then he showered, shaved, trimmed his moustache, and dressed in his navy blue suit with white shirt and red paisley tie. He thought it was an appropriate getup for an evening with a button collector; whimsically, he chose a button-down collar.
On the way to Indian Village to pick her up, he reflected that she had donated $1,500 to charity for the privilege of a few hours in his company, and it was his responsibility to make the evening enjoyable, if not memorable. Making conversation with strangers or virtual strangers was no problem; it was one of his professional skills. In fact, asking questions and listening to the answers had made him a popular companion in Moose County. He hoped only that the cosmetician would not make the modest Sarah look like a china doll, or worse.
When he arrived at her apartment, she was ready and waiting-somewhat breathlessly, he thought. In her new rust-colored dress with Chanel jacket, she looked quite smart, and Brenda's Salon had given her a flattering hairdo and natural makeup that gave her a certain glow.
Gallantly he said, "I've been looking forward to this evening, Sarah."
"So have I, Mr. Q," she said excitedly. "Would you care for an ap‚ritif before we leave?"
"I'd like that, but we have a reservation for seven-thirty, and I think we should be on our way." Then he added sternly, "And if you don't start calling me Qwill, I'll cancel the reservation!"
Amused and pleased, she concurred. She wondered if she would need a wrap. He said it might turn chilly later in the evening, and it would be wise to take one.
While she went to pick up her handbag and, presumably, have a last look in the mirror, Qwilleran appraised the interior: large rooms, evidently two apartments made into one... heavy on blue... antique furniture, old oil paintings, good Orientals. He was surprised, however, to see a dog. Dogs were not permitted in apartments in the Village. This one was a Bassett hound. Strangely, it was standing on hind legs with forepaws on a library table. He stared at the dog, and the dog stared at him.
Sarah returned. "That's Sir Cedric," she said. "A Victorian piece, carved wood. Realistic, isn't it?"
"I must say it's unique," Qwilleran said. The table was dark pine with ordinary carved legs at one end, while the other end was supported by the dog, "Clever! Very clever!"
As they drove away he asked his passenger, "Do you like living in Indian Village?" It was not the most intelligent question he had ever asked, but it was a start.
"I do indeed," she replied. "Every season of the year has its delights. Right now it's the autumn color, especially beautiful this year."
"Polly Duncan, whom you must know, would take an apartment out here, if it weren't for the long drive into town."
"You tell her," Sarah said emphatically, "that it's no trouble at all, after one does it for a week or so."
"How do you like working at the newspaper?"
"It's most enjoyable! Everyone seems to be having so much fun, and yet they manage to put the paper out on time. It was Junior Goodwinter who suggested me for the job. It's the first one I've ever had."
"Is that so?" he asked in surprise. "You handle it with great aplomb."
"Thank you. I attended an Eastern college and could have had a fine position in Boston, but my parents wanted me at home. I was an only child, you see, and we had a lovely family relationship. I went to Europe with my mother and on business trips with my father, Then there was community service, which is both social and rewarding. So I've had a busy life. My one regret is... that I never had a career. I think I would have been quite successful."
"I'm sure of that!" he said. Then, to introduce a light note to the conversation, he added, "My only regret is... that I was born too late to see Babe Ruth at bat or Ty Cobb in centerfield."
"That's right! You're a baseball fan! I clip and save all your columns on baseball - for old time's sake. My father never missed a World Series, and he started taking me along when I was seven. My mother didn't care for spectator sports, so he and I flew allover the country, and I learned to keep a detailed scorecard and figure batting averages. I believe it gave me a knack for math and a taste for minutiae."
Qwilleran glanced at her with admiration. "Minutiae" was a word he had never heard on a blind date. He said, "Do you remember the historic game in 1969 when the Mets took the series from the Orioles?"
"I do! I do! In 1968 the Mets had ended in ninth place, and since Father and I always rooted for the underdog, we were strong Met supporters. When they won - after that last exciting game - I remember the Met fans running out on the field and digging up the grass.... Do you have any particular ball club allegiances, Mr. Q?... I mean, Qwill?"
"Well, I was a Chicago Cubs fan before I could walk, but I seldom see a big league game these days. Do you still follow the sport?"
"No," she said sadly. "Not since Father died. It was baseball that killed him. The 1975 Series between Cincinnati and Boston was unbearably suspenseful. It ran seven games. There were delays because of rain. Scores teetered back and forth. Incredible performances! Surprises and twists of fate! It was too exciting for Father. He had a heart attack." She sighed, and Qwilleran mumbled consolations.