The old man was rocking furiously, as he lost pa- tience with the nosy interviewer. He replied curtly, "Cook my own dinner."
"You do?" Qwilleran exclaimed with feigned admiration. "I envy any man who can cook. What sort of thing - "
"Wurst... schnitzel... suppe..." "Do you mind if I ask a personal question, Mr. Limburger? Who will get the hotel and this splendid house when you... kick the bucket, as you say?"
"None o' yer business."
Qwilleran had trouble concealing his amusement. The whole interview resembled a comic routine from vaudeville days. As he turned away to compose his facial expression and consider another question, he saw a large reddish-brown dog coming up the brick walk. "Is that your dog?" he asked.
For answer the old man shouted in his cracked voice, "Get outa here!" At the same time he reached for a stone on the railing and hurled it at the animal. It missed. The dog looked at the stone with curiosity. Seeing that it was inedible, he came closer. "Mis'rable mutt!" Limburger seized a stick that lay ready at his feet and struggled to stand up. Brandishing the stick in one hand and clutching a stone with the other, he started down the brick steps.
"Careful!" Qwilleran called out, jumping to his feet.
The angry householder went down the steps one at a time, left leg first, all the while yelling, "Arrrrgh! Get outa here! Filthy beast!" Halfway down the steps he stumbled and fell to the brick sidewalk.
Qwilleran rushed to his side. "Mr. Limburger! Mr. Limburger! Are you hurt? I'll call for help. Where's your phone?"
The man was groaning and flailing his arms. "Get the man! Get the man!" He was waving feebly toward the front door.
Qwilleran bounded to the veranda in two leaps, shouting "Help! Help!"
Almost immediately the door was opened by a big man in work clothes, looking surprised but not concerned.
"Call 911! He's hurt! Call 911!" Qwilleran shouted at him as if he were deaf.
The emergency medical crew responded promptly and proceeded efficiently, taking the old man away in an ambulance. Qwilleran turned to the big man. "Are you a relative?"
The answer came in a high-pitched, somewhat squeaky voice that seemed incongruous in a man of that size. He could have been a wrestler or football lineman. Also incongruous was his hair: long and pre- maturely white. The journalist's eye registered other details: age, about thirty... soft, pudgy face... slow-moving... unnaturally calm as if living in a daze. Here was a character as eccentric as Limburger.
The caretaker was saying, "I'm not a relative. I just live around here. I kinda look after the old man. He's gettin' on in years, so I keep an eye on him. Nobody else does. I go to the store and buy things he wants. He don't drive no more.
They don't let him drive. That's bad, when you live way out here like this. He's got a bad temper, but he don't get mad at me. He gets mad at the dog that comes around and dirties the sidewalk. I told him he'd fall down them steps if they wasn't fixed. I could fix 'em if he'd spend some money on mortar and a few bricks. All it would take is about ten new bricks."
With rapt attention, Qwilleran listened to the rush of.I words that answered his simple question.
The caretaker went on. "Last Halloween some kids come around beggin' like they do, and he chased 'em away with a stick, like he does the dog. Same night, a brick come through the front window. Somebody took a brick outa the front steps and threw it right through the window. I'm not sayin' it was the kids, but..." He shrugged his big shoulders.
Since they were on the subject of damaged property, Qwilleran asked, "What happened to the section of fence that's missing? Did someone drive a truck through it?"
The bland face turned to the gaping space. "Some lady wanted to buy a piece of it, so the old man sold it. I dunno what she wanted it for. I hadda deliver it in my truck, and she give me five dollars. She di'n't have to do that, but it was nice. D'you think it was nice? I thought it was nice, but the old man said she shoulda give me ten." Limburger's helper never referred to his boss by name.
"By the way, I'm Jim Qwilleran from the Moose County Something." He held out his hand. "I was interviewing Mr. Limburger about the hotel."
The fellow wiped his hand on his pants before shaking Qwilleran's. His eyes were riveted on the famous moustache. "I seen your picture in the paper. The old, man don't take the paper, but I read it at Lois's. I go there for breakfast It's yesterday's paper, but that don't matter. I like to read it. Do you eat at Lois's? Her flapjacks are almost as good as my mom's. D'you know my mom?"
Genially Qwilleran said, "I don't even know you. What's your name?"
"Aubrey Scotten. You know the Scotten Fisheries? My granddad started the business, and then my dad and uncles ran it. My dad died five years ago. My brothers run it now. I got four brothers. D'you know my brothers? My mom still lives on the Scotten farm on Sandpit Road. She grows flowers to sell."
"Aubrey is a good Scottish name." "I don't like it. My brothers got pretty good names- Ross, Skye, Douglas, and Blair. I asked my mom why she give me such a dumb name, and she di'n't know. She likes it. I think it's a dumb name. People don't even spell it right. It's A-u-b-r-e-y. In school the kids called me Big Boy. That's not so bad."
"It's appropriate," Qwilleran said. "Do you work with your brothers?"
"Nab, I don't like that kinda work no more. I got me some honeybees, and I sell honey. I'm startin' a real job next week. Blair got me a job at the new turkey farm. Maintenance engineer. That's what they call it. I don't hafta be there all the time. I can take care of my bees. The hives are down by the river. D'you like bees? They're very friendly if you treat 'em right. I talk to 'em, and they give me a lot of honey. It was a good summer for honey flow. Now they're workin' on goldenrod and asters, and they're still brooding. I re-queened the hives this summer."
"I'm sure the bees appreciated that." It was a flip remark intended to conceal ignorance. Qwilleran had no idea what the man was talking about. He recognized possibilities for the "Qwill Pen," however. "This is all very interesting, and I'd like to hear more about your friendly bees. Not today, though; I have another appointment. How about tomorrow? I'd like to write about it in the paper."
The garrulous beekeeper was stunned into silence.
On the way back to Pickax, Qwilleran rejoiced in his discoveries: two more "characters" for the book he would someday find time to write. Both were worthy of further acquaintance. The good-hearted fellow who didn't like his name had the compulsive loquacity of a lonely person who yearns for a sympathetic audience. It was easy to imagine a comic dialogue between the talkative young man and the grumpy oldster who was stingy with words as well as money. It was less easy, however, to imagine Aubrey Scotten as a maintenance engineer.
Qwilleran knew about the turkey farm, underwritten by the K Fund. His friend, Nick Bamba, had been hired as manager-with option to buy in two years. They had sent him to a farm in Wisconsin to learn the ropes. At last Nick could quit his unrewarding job at the state prison near Mooseville. While the original Hanstable turkey farm would continue to supply fresh turkeys to the prison and to local markets, the new "Cold Turkey Farm" would raise birds, fast-freeze them, and ship to markets Down Below.
Meanwhile, Nick's wife, Lori, had submitted an idea to the K Fund which was accepted, and she would open a small restaurant in Stables Row. Details had not been announced.
Qwilleran admired the energy and ambition of the young couple, who were rearing a family of three as well as tackling new challenges. He questioned the wisdom, however, of hiring Aubrey Scotten as maintenance engineer of the Cold Turkey Farm. As soon as he returned to the bam, he called directory assistance for the number of the new enterprise and phoned the manager.