Derek Cuttlebrink had the height (six feet eight) and the outgoing nature that gave him carte blanche around town, and he assumed that everyone was interested in his personal life. His customers enjoyed his breezy style; young women adored him; audiences at the theater club’s productions were wild about Derek’s performances. Now, to his credit, he had enrolled in the restaurant management program at the Moose County Community College. At last he was being viewed by serious observers as a “comer” and not just an engaging clown.
“So whaddaya think?” Derek persisted. “It’s the manager’s job at Chet’s Bar and Barbecue in Kennebeck. It’s a good deal.”
“Can you handle it and still finish school?” Qwilleran asked with genuine concern, being one of those who thought the young man had potential.
“I’ll have to cut back on classes, but it’ll look good on my resume - manager of a hundred-seat restaurant, you know.”
“It depends on the restaurant. This one has an upscale menu and a certain cachet. You work flexible hours. You get good tips… . Meanwhile, I think the lady would like a glass of white wine, Derek.”
“We have an acceptable little sauvignon blanc by the glass.”
Hixie took his recommendation, and Qwilleran ordered his usual Squunk water with a lemon twist. “Just the zest, not the pith,” he requested. To Hixie he said, as the waiter left the table, “What do you know about that joint in Kennebeck? Barbecue is not my favorite food.”
“It’s a dump. I’ve been there to get ad contracts signed, and Dwight and I had a meal there once. It’s very popular, and on Saturday nights it’s really rowdy, but the food is good: mountains of pork barbecue with baked beans and coleslaw, served on plastic plates with plastic forks. The office is upstairs - also an apartment, sort of a pied á terre for Chet. He has a girlfriend, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” Qwilleran said.
“He invited me in for a drink. It’s quite luxurious. He can be a charming host, but he’s a hard-driving businessman. He wanted Dwight to do his public relations, but Dwight’s agency doesn’t handle politicians.”
“Why do you suppose they offered Derek the job?”
“He has a personal following,” she said. “As manager he’ll bring in customers they’ve never had before.”
Derek returned with the drinks. “Are you interested in tonight’s specials? The soup is a chilled gazpacho garnished with crčme fraîche, and the entrées are quail stuffed with mushroom and prune duxelle, and roasted snapper with étouffée sauce and spinach.”
“Give us a moment to think about it,” Qwilleran said. Instead, they thought about Derek’s offer. How would his girlfriend react? She was a Chicago heiress who had breezed in the previous summer, discovered Derek, and decided to stay. It was she who had convinced him to enroll in MCCC and who, according to gossip, paid his tuition.
Qwilleran said, “A girlfriend with a large trust fund has a strong power of veto… But never mind that. What’s on your mind?”
“The adult spelling bee. What do you think of it?”
“Great idea! I won all the spelling bees when I was a kid. I taught myself to read by studying cereal boxes on the breakfast table. I could spell ‘ingredients’ when my peers were struggling with c-a-t.”
“You must have been unbearably precocious,” Hixie said.
“Cute, too. I had curls.” Hixie hooted with laughter. “I’d love to see an early picture of you.”
“My family pictures were all lost in a fire,” he said ruefully. It was an innocent prevarication, invented on the spur of the moment. Actually, all mementos of his past had disappeared during the Black Period of his life. He had not even a picture of his mother.
He was silent long enough for Hixie to change the conversation from flip to businesslike. “Want to hear the names of our sponsors? This restaurant, the bank, the funeral home, the drugstore, Gippel’s Garage, and XYZ Enterprises, plus four not-for-profit sponsors: the Art Center, Theatre Club, Pickax Boosters, and Farmers’ Collective.”
“If there’s something you want me to do, Hixie, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Well, we need four officials: a master of ceremonies, someone to pronounce the words, a judge, and a timekeeper.”
“I volunteer for timekeeper.”
“No no no! With your wonderful theater voice you’ll make a perfect wordmaster.”
“Why not Wetherby Goode? He has a wonderful radio voice.”
“He’s going to be emcee.” Derek, overhearing their conversation, said, “I’m going to be on the spelling team for the Theatre Club.
The boss here wanted me to spell for the Mill, but I may be gone by then.”
“What does your girlfriend think of your job offer?” Qwilleran asked.
“She wants me to do whatever’s best for me,” he said with a smile so smug that Qwilleran wished he had a cream pie handy.
-9-
There were times when Koko made Qwilleran’s head ache. It happened in the process of thought transference. The cat stared at the man’s forehead, and the latter suddenly remembered it was time to feed the cats or change the litter in their commode. If slow in remembering, he experienced a dull ache between the eyes as the staring intensified.
For example, one day Qwilleran was slumping on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, trying to think of a topic for the “Qwill Pen.” Writing more than a hundred original columns a year put a strain on his inventiveness. Suddenly he swung his feet to the floor. He had an idea! Why not write a thousand words in praise of “the ample moustache”? There had been many moustaches of amplitude, made famous by Mark Twain, Teddy Roosevelt, Pancho Villa, A. G. Spalding, Einstein, Groucho Marx, Simon Legree, British airmen in World War II… and Qwilleran himself knew a thing or two about the advantages and disadvantages of an ample moustache. He could easily milk a thousand words out of this topic.
He touched his forehead; the dull ache between the eyes was subsiding. He glanced at Koko, who was sitting on a large book on the coffee table. It was Qwilleran’s pleasure to have a few important books on display: new, large-format, and handsome. They were good for browsing, effective conversation starters when he had guests, and especially appreciated by the bibliocat. Koko liked to sit on a large book - “keeping it warm,” as Qwilleran said.
At this moment there were three books on the table: one on baseball history, one on Andrew Wyeth. The book that Koko was keeping warm was Mark Twain A to Z, a reference work with a jacket photo of the great American writer and his great moustache! Qwilleran slapped his forehead as the truth struck him: Koko had done it again! It was happening more and more in recent months. Qwilleran thought, Mine not to question how or why; just accept it and be grateful.
It happened again on the day after Maude Coggin’s funeral. He was lolling in the library, listening to tapes, and the Siamese were on hand, enjoying the propinquity of a family threesome. Yum Yum had her back turned, but Koko was watching Qwilleran intently. Halfway through the recording, it occurred to him that he had never listened to the taped conversation with Maude Coggin. Without finishing the reel, he switched to the reedy, high-pitched voice of the ninety-three-year-old. The cats were silent as she talked about her life - silent until the remark about “taters and beans.” It brought an unexpected yowl from Koko - imperative enough to make Qwilleran play the passage again:
“But how do you cultivate all this acreage, Mrs. Coggin?”
“Some young lads been tillin’ it since Bert passed on. Hunnerd acres, all-a-ways back to the river. With them big machines, it ain’t like it were. Good lads, they be. Paid me rent, they did, for twenty year, ‘thout missin’ a month.”