Qwilleran said, “If I could be any artist who ever lived, I’d be Winslow Homer.”
“I’d be Mary Cassatt,” Polly said. Mildred nodded. “Her work had simplicity and charm.”
“Am I entitled to make a choice?” Arch asked. “I’d be Charles Schulz.”
The Rikers were driving Polly home, since all three of them lived in Indian Village. Qwilleran said to her, “Phone me when you have time. I want to know what you arranged with Paul Skumble.”
“I will. I will!” she said. She seemed particularly radiant.
-5-
Half an hour after Polly left Qwilleran’s barn with the Rikers, she phoned him, and her first words were, “I’m thrilled about having my portrait painted, Qwill! Thank you so much.”
“Let me remind you,” he said, “that I had to twist your arm before you’d agree. Apparently you approve of Skumble’s work.”
“Yes, and I like him, although I don’t care for the goatish beard. But he’s friendly and has a wry sense of humor. The question arose: whether to paint at the Art Center, which has a rather clinical atmosphere, or at my condo. He’d rather work in my own environment.”
“I didn’t know he made house calls.”
“Well, in fact, he’s coming out tomorrow evening to check the situation.”
“I see,” Qwilleran said, stroking his moustache. “How many sittings will he require?”
“It’s hard to say, until he starts the actual work. He does a preliminary sketch in charcoal and then the underpainting in grisaille, in the classic tradition. Tomorrow night he’ll look at my wardrobe, and we’ll decide what I should wear.”
“How about your new dress?” he said with a show of enthusiasm. He had helped her choose it at Aurora’s Boutique.
“That would be nice, but… you see, it’s fuchsia, and Paul was thinking of something blue to accentuate my eye color.”
“I hope you can wear your opals.”
“I’d love to - you know I would - but he says that pearls bring a certain luminosity to a woman’s portrait.”
“Good! I’m all in favor of luminosity,” he said dryly.
“I’ll call you again tomorrow evening, dear, as soon as Paul has left… Isn’t this exciting?”
When the conversation ended, Qwilleran patted his moustache nervously, and Koko, who had been sitting on the telephone desk listening to every word, put in an ambiguous “Yow!”
“Well, old boy, what do you think of that bucket of fish?” Qwilleran asked.
The cat rolled back on the base of his spine and scratched his ear with his hind leg.
Immediately the phone rang again, and the caller was a woman who sounded like Beverly Forfar. She asked to speak to Ronald Frobnitz.
“One moment, please,” he said, covering the mouthpiece while he experimented with a Frobnitzian voice.
After a suitable interval he said with an adenoidal twang, “Frobnitz speaking.”
“Mr. Frobnitz, we have wonderful news for you! This is the Art Center calling, and you’re the lucky winner of that magnificent intaglio by W. C. Wyckoff. Congratulations!”
“This is too good to be true,” he said nasally. “I’ve never won anything in my life. Are you sure there isn’t some mistake?”
“Oh, I assure you it’s a fact! And you’ll be happy to know it’s valued at a thousand dollars. That’s something you’ll need to know for insurance purposes. Are you a local resident? I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Her voice was ingratiating, and it was difficult to connect it with her forbidding row of bangs, but Qwilleran was not in the least confounded. A master of glib prevarication, he replied with less than a second’s hesitation. “I’m from San Francisco, visiting relatives here, and I just happened to attend your celebration. I recognized the intaglio as a superlative piece of work, never imagining I’d have the good fortune to own it.”
“How will you get it safely to San Francisco? Would you like us to crate it for you?”
“An excellent idea! You’ve been most kind, Ms… .
Ms “
“Forfar. Beverly Forfar. I’m the manager.”
“You have a splendid facility for the appreciation of art, and I’m sure much of the credit goes to you personally.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Frobnitz, but - “
“Now, let us see … my sister-in- law will have to pick it up and ship it to me, since I’m leaving first thing in the morning. When will it be ready? I don’t want to rush you.”
“Just give us till Wednesday. It’s been so nice talking to you, Mr. Frobnitz!”
“My pleasure, Ms. Forfar.”
Qwilleran hung up, chuckling. The conversation had reminded him of improvisation exercises in the college drama department, before he switched to journalism.
The Siamese were not amused, however. They had been listening to a person they knew, speaking in a voice they did not know.
“Sorry, you guys,” he said. He picked up Yum Yum and carried her around and around the main floor, speaking in soothing tones and massaging the scruff of her neck. Koko tagged along at his heels, twitching his ears this way and that.
The Frobnitz caper had done what such exercises were supposed to do - loosen one up - and Qwilleran went to his studio in a playful mood to write his coverage of the museum fiasco.
With that job finished, he phoned his neighbor in the Klingenschoen carriage house at the head of the lane. It was after eleven, but he knew she would be awake, reading spy fiction or baking cookies or talking to her grandson Down Below at late-night rates. Celia Robinson had found her way to Pickax through her acquaintance with the late Euphonia Gage, and she had found her way into local hearts through her volunteer work and cheerful disposition. Although Celia had the gray hair of age, she had the laughter of youth.
Besides supplying prepared dishes for Qwilleran’ s freezer, she occasionally fronted for him in matters that required his anonymity. She called him Chief; he called her Secret Agent 0013. She laughed uproariously at his simplest quips; he found her absolutely trustworthy.
“Hope I’m not phoning too late,” he said in a chatty voice.
“You know me, Chief! I’m a night owl. I’m boiling potatoes for salad - just a little catering job I lined up for tomorrow night. I’ve been at Virginia’s ever since church.”
“Her daughter is a Handy Helper, I believe.”
“Yes, a wonderful girl! Always dashing off to help some poor soul.”
“Did she say anything about removing graffiti from a farmhouse?”
“No. That’s part of their motto: just help; don’t talk about it.”
“A commendable policy.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, Chief?” He changed his delivery from neighborly to official, speaking crisply and slowly. “Your brother-in-law, Ronald Frobnitz … left a message with me when he couldn’t reach you… He’s returning to San Francisco early tomorrow… and wishes you to pick up something and ship it to him.” He paused while she shifted gears from potatoes to intrigue.
Celia was quick to comprehend. “Did he … did Ronald say what it is I’m supposed to pick up?”
“A work of art that he apparently won in a raffle at the Art Center today. It will be ready any time after Wednesday.”
“I wonder how big it is.”
“About thirty inches square and very flat. He wants you to keep it until he sends you an address label.”
“Glad to help, Chief. Do you know my brother-in-law very well?” Then she added, “Just in case someone asks.”
“He has a wife and three beautiful children. He teaches psychology at some university in California. His hobby is