As the landscaper had promised, there was now a “puddle” in the meadow - a large shallow saucer rimmed with flat rocks and filled with dry sand. According to the library book, it should be wet sand, but not too wet. Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Was he supposed to carry pails of water down from the barn every day? And what if too many inches of rain fell and oversoaked the sand? The book also recommended splashing the stone rim with stale beer.
At the Art Center the collagist was conducting a hands-on workshop in the main room, but the gallery was vacant, and he took the opportunity to view the exhibit without an elbow-to-elbow crowd. He saw the totem pole he had bought, now
marked with a red dot. He saw landscapes, still lifes, abstractions, portraits, and one brilliant painting signed “P. Sloan.” In the perfectly beamed spotlight its colors virtually leaped from the frame, and two blue-winged butterflies seemed ready to take flight. The label read: “Brazilian Morphy, acrylic, $150.” A red dot indicated it had been sold. There were not many red dots in the gallery.
Beverly Forfar rushed into the space; no one escaped her notice. “Hello, Mr. Q. I hear you’re interviewing Phoebe. Please don’t say anything about the parrot.”
“I believe we’ll be concentrating on lepidoptera,” he assured her. “I didn’t see you’ at the funeral this morning.”
“I don’t like funerals.” She tossed her helmet of hair, every strand of which remained perfectly aligned. “Some of the volunteers went, though. They said the dogs were there. I’m surprised they were allowed.”
“They were close friends of the deceased. The mayor was there, and he didn’t seem to object.” He waved an arm around the gallery. “Good show! My compliments!”
He was less amiable than usual, being somewhat annoyed by the prospect of irrigating the butterfly puddle. If they could take care of themselves in the wilds of Brazil, he saw no reason to pamper them with stale beer in Pickax.
Phoebe Sloan was concentrating on mixing colors when he entered her studio, leaving it to Jasper to greet him in his raucous voice: Hi, knucklehead! Got any dirty pictures? Ha ha ha ha ha!”
The artist jumped up and threw a blanket over the cage. “Naughty boy! Go to sleep! … Isn’t he gross? Come in, Mr. Q, and sit down. Sorry they don’t give us decent chairs. Do you mind a stool?”
“Do you mind a tape recorder?” he countered as he set it up between them.
“I’d rather not have it, if it’s okay with you,” she said, beseeching him with her lustrous brown eyes.
“No problem.” It saved him the trouble of taking notes and insured accuracy, but…
“What do you want to talk about?” she asked.
“Your paintings. Why do you specialize in butterflies?”
“I guess because I’m thrilled with the variety of hues. I love bright colors.” She flicked the collar of her tangerine blouse. “Beverly wants me to wear the Art Center smock, but it’s too dull - and too warm.” Her blouses were always sleeveless, Qwilleran had noted; they showed off her graceful arms. When she threw a blanket over the parrot’s cage, it was like a dance movement.
He was asking standard warm-up questions. “How did you become hooked on butterflies?”
“Well, I learned that collectors catch them in nets, chloroform them, and pin them in display trays, and I thought, How horrible! I’d rather preserve them in paint.”
“Did you study art?”
“I wanted to, but I’m an only child, and Dad expected me to attend a college of pharmacy for five years and then take over the drugstore. Five years! I thought, No way! We had an awful battle, but my grandmother was on my side, and we won. She sent me a book on painting with acrylics, and here I am! What I do isn’t great art, but it makes people happy, and it’s more fun than counting pills.”
“Why acrylics?” he asked. “They dry fast.”
“Tell me about the Brazilian Morpho.” “Isn’t it gorgeous? It’s the male that has those unusual wings in metallic blue. Morphos used to be used in making butterfly jewelry… Ugh!”
“I concur. What is the butterfly’s function in nature?”
“They pollenate wildflowers. Most people prefer lawns to meadows nowadays, and pretty soon butterflies will be extinct in America, if we don’t do something about it. I raise them in a box and then set them free. My grandmother sends me the caterpillars from California.”
To test her knowledge he asked some questions gleaned from the book: What do they feed on? Why do they have spots on their wings? Why do they rest with their wings together? What is their life cycle? He was beginning to feel vaguely dissatisfied with the interview. He was asking the wrong questions. She was not giving quotable replies. The subject matter failed to grab him. The stool was uncomfortable.
Finally he said, “Tell you what: Why not bring your butterfly box to the studio someday, and I’ll come back and have a look at it?”
“That would be neat,” she said. “I’m just starting a new hatch, but before you go, Mr. Q, could I ask your advice?”
There’ll be a slight charge,” he said lightly.
“Don’t you think I’m old enough to have an apartment of my own? I’m twenty-three, although I know I look younger. My boyfriend thinks I should have a place of my own where I can paint and raise butterflies and keep Jasper.”
“Are you saying your parents object to your moving out?” It was a common family problem in Moose County.
“Well, the main trouble is… they don’t like Jake. He’s only a bartender.”
“For what it’s worth, I worked my way through college as a bartender,” Qwilleran said. “Does he have long-range goals? What other skills does he have? Has he an adequate education?”
She cast her eyes down. “Not really, but he’s going to be promoted to manager of the restaurant, and” - she giggled - “he’s one sexy guy!”
He groaned inwardly. Why were young women always asking his advice? Just because he wrote columns on everything from jazz to beekeeping, they considered him a pundit. He cleared his throat. “Some of us are grown-up at age twelve; some of us never mature. It’s not a question of whether you’re old enough to make your own decision; are you old enough to take responsibility for the outcome if it turns out to be a bad decision?”
“You sound just like my dad,” she said. Qwilleran was glad to leave and return to his uncomplicated household where family members merely tore up newspapers and talked to crows.
He was having dinner that evening with Hixie Rice, promotion director of the Something and once a neighbor of his Down Below. She had won over the locals with her energy and personality, while retaining her big-city ideas. They were meeting at the Old Stone Mill, a picturesque restaurant converted from a historic grist-mill. The ancient waterwheel, wrecked during the spring floods, had been replaced by an accurate reproduction, but it would never be the same. As the purists said, “Old is old, and new is new.”
Taking guests out to dinner was one of Qwilleran’s favorite pastimes. Tonight he was the guest, and Hixie was treating on her expense account, which meant she was about to ask a favor. For the Ice Festival she had talked him into being grand marshal of the torchlight parade in sub-zero weather, but he was saved by the freak thaw.
As soon as the two news staffers were seated in their favorite alcove, an exuberant and extremely tall waitperson bounced up to their table. “Hi, you guys,” he hailed them with the flip disrespect he reserved for VIPs. “I’ve been offered a new job.”
“Here?” Qwilleran asked. “If they want to make you head chef, I’m taking my business elsewhere.”