Qwilleran gave him a searching look as he set up his tape recorder on the crate. “How long have you been painting?”
“Can’t remember when I started. When I was a kid, they didn’t teach art in the school here, but I started drawing with a pencil. We lived near the Old Glory shafthouse in those days. It was a mysterious sight, with its towering height, old boards, and quirky shape. Must have sketched it a thousand times from different angles. Then I discovered some brushes and paints in a Sears Roebuck catalogue and asked my parents if I could have them. They let me send for them. I’ll never forget the thrill when the box arrived. Father was a preacher and I said the Lord worked in mysterious ways. Mother was proud of me and let me send away for a correspondence course in art. I learned a few things from it, made mistakes, read all the art books in the library, and painted every weekend for the next fifty years.”
“Did you have a job during the week?”
“Sure did! Forty years at Pickax Feed and Seed. Retired when my paintings started selling. A gallery in Lockmaster takes most of ‘em.”
“I must tell you, Duff, that your work has opened my eyes. You see things in those old wrecks that I didn’t know were there. Thank you for the experience.”
The artist smiled for the first time and nodded modestly. “Well, I’ve spent a lot of time looking at shafthouses - in thunderstorms, snow, sleet, scorching sun, dirty tornado weather, fog, sunrise, sunset, clear sky, cloudy sky…”
“I assume you paint on location.”
“Sure do! One thing to avoid, though, is wind. Blows stuff into the paint.”
“Why watercolors instead of oils?” Qwilleran found himself speaking in Duffs telegraphic style.
“Fast… spontaneous… no fussing. Sometimes people watch me, and they say, ‘Hey, hardly any thin’ to it. He don’t even cover the whole paper!’ You can’t help laughing at the dumb things they say.”
Qwilleran said, “I’d like to see you work. I promise not to make any dumb remarks.”
“Let’s go! Take my van,” Duff said.
They drove to Smith’s Folly, the minesite closest to Purple Point, and Duff set up his gear, including a golf umbrella with a long handle to stick in the ground. “Prefer painting in shade,” he explained. “Eliminates glare on the white paper. Paint doesn’t dry too fast…” For a taboret he used the bottom of the wooden crate that had transported a jar of brushes, a supply of water, tubes of paint, and a white china palette. He himself sat on a low folding stool. In front of him, at a lower level, was a painting board with rough white paper clipped in place.
When he began to paint, after making a rough pencil sketch, his arm and shoulder and wrist moved swiftly with ease and grace, brushing the paper with water and then flowing the color over it.
“Have to make fast decisions before it dries,” he noted tersely. “Have to know when to stop, too.”
Qwilleran saw orange, purple, and blue disappearing into the boards of the building that took form on the paper. He saw a dribble of water turning the painted surface into a row of weeds.
“How do you describe your style?” he asked as they drove back to the rocky beach.
“Descriptive but not realistic. Makes viewers use a little imagination. That’s good for ‘em. Imagination’s a muscle; needs exercise.”
At Duff’s cottage Qwilleran was invited indoors to see paintings tacked to the walls, awaiting frames. One scene, under a blue sky with puffy white clouds, had a deer grazing at the base of the architectural relic. Another, under a gloomy sky, showed a ghostly tower behind a high fence with a red DANGER sign; a hawk wheeled overhead.
“Different people like different mood-images,” Duff said.
“Well, I don’t mind telling you, I’m vastly impressed. The column will run Tuesday, and it’ll be a privilege and a pleasure to write. I hope we meet again.” They walked together toward Qwilleran’s van. “You may be interested to know what brought me here for an interview. Last night I saw the collection of ten shafthouses at Chet’s Barbecue.”
The artist’s face flushed alarmingly. “Didn’t get ‘em from me!” he exploded. “Must’ve bought ‘em in Lockmaster. Wouldn’t sell one to that snake for a million dollars!”
Qwilleran was momentarily speechless before recovering enough to ask innocently, “Do you have something against Mr. Ramsbottom?”
“Only that he ruined my family.”
“What do you mean?”
“He ruined my family! That’s all I’ll say.”
It was an awkward way to end an enjoyable visit. Qwilleran slid behind the wheel, mumbling something, and Duff Campbell turned away and trudged back to his meager cottage on the rocks.
The violent outburst from the gentle-mannered artist prompted Qwilleran to question Derek’s job offer that so concerned his girlfriend, especially since the bartender thought he was being promoted to manager. The county commissioner’s name often came up in the coffee houses. There were rumors that he bought votes and accepted kickbacks, as well as hints of a suppressed scandal. No details were ever disclosed. The locals kept their secrets from outsiders, as a measure of loyalty to their hometown, and Qwilleran was still an outsider from Down Below.
Now he headed for Mooseville and Elizabeth Hart’s boutique. The resort town was little more than a two-lane highway between the .Jake and a high sand dune. On the lakeside were the municipal docks, private marinas, and the Northern Lights Hotel. At the foot of the dune were the Shipwreck Tavern and other commercial buildings built of logs, or concrete cast and painted to resemble logs.
One of them was the Nasty Pasty, a cafe that served a superior version of the regional specialty: not too large, not too rich, with not too thick a crust and no turnips!
The controversy about pasty ingredients was forever ongoing, and Qwilleran expected some local politician (probably Chet Ramsbottom) to promote an ordinance prohibiting suet and making turnips mandatory. His, pasty platform would no doubt get him elected to state; legislator, then governor.
The Nasty Pasty was a light, cheerful cafe decorated with fishing nets, boat lines, and plastic seagulls perched on old piling.
“Hi, Mr. Q! Haven’t seen you for a while,” said the waitress. “Gonna have a pasty?” Assured that he was, she asked, “Would you like Dijon mustard or horseradish?”
“What! Did I hear you correctly?” he replied in consternation.
“That’s what some of the tourists ask for.”
He said, “I like pasties to taste like pasties, hot dogs to taste like hot dogs, and lamb chops to taste like lamb I chops. I’m a purist. If you put mustard and horseradish and ketchup and chopped onions and pickle relish on everything, it all tastes alike. No thanks!”
She served him a pasty neat and said, “Everybody’s sorry about the old lady. I would’ve liked to go to the funeral. It was on TV. Those old dogs broke my heart.”
Customers at nearby tables joined in. “That woman was a saint. Why is it that abandoned animals always know what house to go to? … Something should be done about homeless dogs. All we have is a part-time dogcatcher, and then what does he do with the dogs he picks up?”
“You should write letters to the paper,” Qwilleran said. “Lots of letters. That’s what it takes to get the politicians’ attention.”
The owner of the cafe came to his table with the coffee server. “Now or later, Mr. Q? What brings you to town?”
“Just looking around. What do you think of the new boutique?”
“It’s different. A bit citified for Mooseville, but God knows we don’t need any more T-shirt shops. Elizabeth’s nice - very enthusiastic. She came to a C. of C. meeting and spoke right up. Got herself on the beautification committee.”