The two customers glanced at each other. The condos at Indian Village, despite their questionable construction, were pricey and occupied by successful professionals or persons of independent means.
Qwilleran said, “They look good, but they’re poorly constructed. You might be sorry.”
“The windows rattle,” Wetherby said. “The floors bounce when a cat walks across them.”
“You can hear your next-door neighbor stirring sugar in his coffee.”
“I don’t care. I always wanted to live there,” said the bartender. Then he leaned across the bar and said in a confidential voice, “I’m gettin’ promoted. I’m gonna be manager. It’s a good deal… Hey! There’s an empty table!”
The men made a dash for it, and when they sat down, Wetherby remarked, “Chet must pay his manager good money if he can afford to live in Indian Village.”
“Somebody’s got his signals crossed,” Qwilleran said. “Derek Cuttlebrink’s been offered the job.”
An overworked waitress interrupted. “Pork, beef, or turkey? Sandwich or platter? Hot-mild, hot-hot or call 911? In a matter of seconds she was back with plastic plates piled high, while two fluffy white rolls teetered on the summit. “If you want seconds of any thin’, wave your fork.”
Everyone in the restaurant had to shout in order to be heard above the general din, and that resulted in a privacy of sorts - the privacy of deafening noise. Loudly Qwilleran and Wetherby talked about the dogs at the funeral, the parrot at the Art Center, and the weatherman’s cat, Jet Stream.
“I’ve built Jet-boy a screened porch outside the kitchen window,” Wetherby said. “It’s two-by-two-by-two feet, screened on three sides and carpeted wall-to-wall. The land slopes down to the river, so he has an aerial view.”
“Does he stare at you when he wants something?” Qwilleran asked.
“No, he stares at the refrigerator when he wants food and stares at the kitchen window when he wants out.”
“That makes sense… Koko and Yum Yum have developed an unnatural friendship with seven crows who hang around, strutting back and forth like a drill team, bouncing up and down and fluttering their wings. I don’t know exactly what’s going on.”
“I have a cousin in Virginia who’s a corvidologist, and she says crows are among the smartest of birds. She believes they’ll be the next big animal fad. We’ve had frogs, owls, monkeys, pigs, whales, and dinosaurs. Now she thinks we’re due for crow posters, crow T-shirts, crow jewelry, and who knows what else. Let’s face it, crows are neat!”
“Thoreau liked the sound of crows,” Qwilleran said. “Teresa - that’s my cousin - has an idea for an animated feature film about crows, but she needs someone to work up a scenario. Would you be interested?”
“It would be quite a challenge, quite an adventure.”
“She’s coming up here to visit family this summer, and we’ll get you two together. I think you’ll like her.”
The waitress kept returning, urging them to have more of this or more of that.
Wetherby said to Qwilleran, “Did you know that Chet’s father was a bootlegger during Prohibition? He had a blind pig in one of the abandoned shafthouses. The rule was: if you fall down the mineshaft, you’ve had too many.”
“I keep looking at his portrait and wondering if his expression is one of intelligence or craftiness. Paul Skumble is said to have a talent for revealing two sides of a persona. I’ve commissioned him to paint Polly’s portrait.”
“You’d better chaperon the sittings,” Wetherby said. “He also has a talent for charming the socks off his female subjects.”
“Thanks for warning me, Joe.” Wetherby Goode was an alias; his real name was Joe Bunker.
There was a scream at the other end of the room, and everyone in the restaurant joined in singing “Happy Birthday.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Qwilleran said. “I’ve had enough barbecue to last a lifetime.”
Outdoors, the silence of a small town fell on their ears like a blessing. As they were saying good night, Qwilleran asked Wetherby if he had ever heard of Northern Land Improvement in Lockmaster.
“No, but I’m not much into real estate,” the weatherman said.
“I have their phone number but don’t get an answer. If I could get in touch with the principals, I could throw some business their way. They must have registered their assumed name with the county clerk. Do you have any contact at the county building?”
“No, but I can track ‘em down easily enough… If you’re selling some of your lake frontage, I’ll make an offer.”
“You’ll have first refusal, Joe. Enjoyed the evening. Give Jet Stream my regards.”
-10-
Qwilleran’s dinner at Chet’s Bar & Barbecue was not a total loss. He always enjoyed the company of the WPKX meteorologist, a colorful character about town. Wetherby gave lectures to clubs, played cocktail piano at parties, and might enliven his weather forecast with a few glissandi from Rustle of Spring. Qwilleran himself would have given anything to be a jazz pianist and regretted his boyhood choice of batting practice over piano practice. Who but Wetherby Goode would have a corvidologist for a cousin? That was another plus added to the evening: the prospect of writing a scenario for an animated film about crows.
Equally rewarding was Qwilleran’ s introduction to Duff Campbell’s shafthouses, which he had previously considered local landmarks to be sold to vacationers as souvenirs, like the Cape Hatteras lighthouse and Eiffel Tower. In one watercolor, painted on a hazy day, one could virtually feel the humidity; in a bleak winter scene the shafthouse rose from monstrous snowdrifts, its many-angled rooftops blanketed with a foot of snow the picture of cold and loneliness.
Qwilleran looked up the artist in the telephone directory - there was a whole page of Campbells - and found a Duffield Campbell on Purple Point. The man who answered, after several rings, was indeed the Shafthouse King, and he seemed surprised and pleased to be called. He suggested the next morning for an appointment.
Purple Point was a peninsula extending two miles into the lake. In the boom years it had been a shipbuilding center, but that was a century ago. The economic collapse and decades of high winds and surf had changed it completely. Now it was a ribbon of sandy beach and vacation homes on the west shore, while the east shore was a strip of rocks.
Duff Campbell lived alone on the rocky beach, in a small weathered building that resembled a boathouse more than a dwelling. The man who came out to meet Qwilleran looked more like an aged fisherman than an artist. Although probably not more than sixty, he was thin to the point of frailty and slightly stooped from bending over his drawing board. It was a pleasantly warm day, but he wore two sweaters, and a stocking cap on his long gray hair.
“I’ll bet you see some extravagant sunrises,” Qwilleran said.
“No two alike,” he replied with pleasure.
“You have a picturesque cottage, I must say.”
“A derelict rescued from the waves,” the artist explained. “Moved it to higher ground and fixed it up - did it all myself. I was a lot younger then. Come around front and sit on the porch, and I’ll see if I can scare up a cup of coffee.”
The porch was a concrete slab overlooking the water, with two flimsy folding chairs woven with plastic webbing. Qwilleran lowered himself warily into one of them, which squeaked and shuddered as it adjusted to his height and weight. When the host returned, carefully carrying two plastic mugs filled to the brim, he set them on an upended crate between the chairs.
“Surely you don’t stay here in the winter, Mr. Campbell.”
“Call me Duff,” he said. “No, I used to have a room in town during bad weather. Now that I’m retired, I stay with relatives in Florida and teach at a university there.”