“I think I know them - the McBee brothers.”
“Don’t rent the land no more. Sold the whole caboodle! No more taxes to pay, an’ I can live here ‘thout payin’ rent. This new feller loves the soil, he does, like Bert did. He’s gonna plant food crops - taters an’ beans - “
Koko yowled again. Something about the message was bothering him, and Qwilleran was feeling tremors on his upper lip. He turned off the machine and phoned Rollo McBee. The farmer was in the barnyard, but his wife was eager to talk.
“Did you see the six o’clock news?” she asked excitedly. They showed the dogs, and Culvert, and the flowers, and the farmers, but not His Royal Highness, the mayor! Isn’t that a joke? Him and his limousine!”
“You can compliment Culvert on his handling of the dogs,” Qwilleran said. “And thank the pastor for his appropriate remarks - also the Farmers’ Collective for turning out in such numbers.”
“Yes, it was a nice mark of respect for the poor soul, wasn’t it?”
“Are you going to keep the dogs?”
“It looks like it. Culvert has decided he wants to be a veterinarian, so I guess we’re starting with a five-bed dog hospital.”
“Good for him! … By the way, I’m glad to hear the Collective is sponsoring a team in the spelling bee.”
“So am I. It’s a good cause. My sister-in-law is going to spell for the farmers, and Culvert would love to be on the team, but I told him it’s just for adults. I bet he could beat’ em all, though.”
“I believe it,” Qwilleran said. Then he edged into his reason for calling. “The organizers of the spelling bee would like to line up some Lockmaster sponsors, and I thought about Northern Land Improvement. Do you have their address and/or phone number?”
“Wait till I get the rent file, Mr. Q.” She returned with a phone number but no address - only a post office box.
As the conversation ended, Koko walked from the room with a resolute step and slightly lowered head. Qwilleran thought, There’s something on his mind; he’s going to do something rash… A moment later there was a crash, accompanied by a metallic, bell-like clatter.
Qwilleran rushed to the foyer and found the antique brass handbell on the stone floor. There was no damage to the bell - only a small chip out of the flagstone.
“Bad cat!” he scolded. “Very bad cat!”
Koko was not there to hear the reprimand.
The phone number of Northern Land Improvement was indeed a Lockmaster exchange, and Qwilleran called several times without getting an answer, or even an answering machine. Koko only made matters more irritating by bleating in a pessimistic monotone. Qwilleran said, “I wish you’d stop your eternal kvetching!” Yet he himself felt dispirited. He pounded his moustache with his fist. He was getting a hunch that Northern Land Improvement was a sub rosa division of XYZ Enterprises. It was the developers’ scheme to obtain prime land at a favorable price. Sellers always upped their asking price when XYZ showed an interest in buying. As it had happened, Maude Coggin was a pushover, and after fleecing the aged woman out of her property, the bogus company would dissolve. That was Qwilleran’s train of thought.
The Coggin farm backed up to the east fork of the Ittibittiwassee River, where water rushed over giant boulders and willows grew on the banks. It would be ideal for another Indian Village, closer to town. As for the rumors about a possible cemetery and an unsightly facility for the road commission, they could be no more than that - rumors, planted by XYZ.
Qwilleran had no respect for the organization that had botched Breakfast Island. Their residential projects made a good show but cut comers on construction. The Indian Village development in Suffix Township, where Qwilleran had bought a condo for winter use, was a case in point. Yet it was a moneymaker for XYZ.
His reflections were interrupted by a phone call from Derek Cuttlebrink’s girlfriend, Elizabeth Hart. She had used some of her inherited wealth to open a gift boutique in the resort town of Mooseville. It was a venture that only an heiress could afford; gift boutiques had never done well in this fishing, boating, camping mecca. Bait shacks and T-shirt shops were the best bet. Qwilleran could guess why she was calling, and he was right.
“Has Derek told you about his job offer?” she asked anxiously without polite preliminaries.
“Yes, and he seems quite flattered,” he replied.
“Flattered! Have you ever been to that place, Qwill? He look me there one night, and I refused to stay. Horrid food, cheap service, mindless noise, with everyone shouting and screaming, while two television channels blasted at each other! It would be a dreadful work environment for anyone with Derek’s qualities. I wish you would dissuade him from accepting, Qwill. He respects your judgment.”
“It’s not for me to interfere with his career choices,” Qwilleran said, “especially since I’ve never been to Chet’s, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do: although barbecue isn’t my favorite food, I’ll sacrifice my tastebuds for your sake and go there tonight.”
“Thank you, thank you, Qwill. I’m counting on your support.”
“How’s the boutique business?”
“My shop has just opened. When are you coming to see it?”
“This weekend.”
“How are the kitties?”
“They’re fine. Yum Yum is chief bug catcher, and Koko is taking singing lessons from the birds.”
Hanging up, Qwilleran turned to Koko, who was listening with ears pointed inquisitively. “That was Elizabeth Hart. She asked about you.”
As Qwilleran prepared dinner for the Siamese, they had their feline Happy Hour, chasing up and down the ramp. On the way up, Koko was the chaser and Yum Yum the chasee. At the top she slammed on the brakes and chased him all the way down, Time: sixteen seconds.
Qwilleran, dressed in grubbies for his dinner date at Chet’s Bar & Barbecue, watched them gobble their canned crabmeat garnished with goat cheese. He said to them, “You guys are dining better than I am tonight.”
There were two restaurants in Kennebeck, He and his friends patronized Tipsy’s Tavern, founded in the 1930s and named after the owner’s cat. Famous for high-caliber steak and fish, it occupied a sprawling log cabin. Chet’s, in a cinder block building down the street, advertised “Plain, Clean, and Friendly.”
When Qwilleran entered Chet’s for the first time, all the tables were filled, and the atmosphere was hazy with smoke. Wetherby Goode signaled him from the bar, Normally known as a snappy dresser, he looked suitably grungy for the occasion.
“It wasn’t easy,” he explained, “I threw everything out in the driveway and ran over it with the van a couple of times.”
“It’s crowded,” Qwilleran observed, “It’s always crowded. Let’s have a drink at the bar and grab the first table that is available.” He turned to the redheaded bartender, “Give the gentleman a Squunk water with a twist.”
“Hi, Mr. Q,” said the young man, “First time I ever seen you here.”
“I hope it won’t be the last,” Qwilleran replied with tactful ambiguity.
In the center of the backbar was a portrait of Chester Ramsbottom, the one that Paul Skumble had been painting at the Art Center, Surrounding it were ten framed watercolors of shafthouses, labeled with the names of the ten historic mines, now abandoned: Buckshot, Goodwinter, Moosejaw, Old Glory, Big B, Dimsdale, Black Creek, Honey Hill, Smith’s Folly, and Three Pines.
As Qwilleran analyzed the variations in light, shadow, ,angle, coloration, and season of the year, the bartender said, “My great-grandfather worked in the Buckshot.”
“It had a cave-in this year during the flood,” the weatherman said.
“Yeah… Say, you guys live in Indian Village, don’t you? I’m thinkin’ of buy in’ a condo there.”