“It’s strictly adult art, but I think you’re old enough to view it without damage to your morals,” he said, bracing himself for another shriek of laughter. Then, while Celia put the chili cartons in the freezer and the potato salad in the refrigerator, he removed the staples from the crated art and presented The Whiteness of White.
“What is it?” she asked after a moment’s hesitation.
“A snowflake, but it may have some erotic symbolism.”
“You’re kidding me, Chief. Why is it… ? How is it …?”
“It’s an intaglio. The design is pressed into the paper. Don’t ask me how. I merely bought a raffle ticket and won.”
“Where are you going to hang it?”
“Good question,” he said as he poured cranberry juice into stemmed wineglasses.
They took their drinks into the lounge area, and Celia rummaged in her oversize handbag until she found a business card. “How do you like this, Chief?”
It read: “Robin O’Dell Catering… Luncheons, Receptions.”
“Well! Congratulations!” he said. “That’s a pleasant-sounding name, sort of Sherwoodian.”
“If you say so.” She laughed.
“Does it mean Mr. O’Dell is involved?” She nodded happily. “We’re going to be partners. His house has a big kitchen.”
Qwilleran had suspected the two retirees were headed for some kind of partnership. They were well matched. “I hope this won’t interfere with the… undercover work you do for me.”
“Oh, no, no! Never! Is there anything I can do for you right now, Chief?”
“Yes, there is. Get out your notebook.” He waited while she dug into her handbag and finally found a pad and pencil. “There is a tract of land between Trevelyan Road and the river, bounded on the north by Cemetery Road and on the south by Base Line. I don’t want it known that I’m interested, but you might go to the county building and find out who owns it. If the owner is Northern Land Improvement, it’s supposed to be registered as an assumed name - in which case, get the names of the principals.” He stroked his moustache; he’d be willing to wager they were Exbridge, Young, and Zoller.
“That should be easy,” Celia said. “And if you’d like an assignment that’s challenging, try to get Lisa Compton to tell you about a Campbell scandal that happened a few years back. Commissioner Ramsbottom was involved.”
-11-
It was Saturday evening. The Siamese had dined royally on red salmon and had groomed themselves fastidiously when Qwilleran brought the checker set in from his van and set it up on the antique tavern table. Like hawks, the cats watched from an aerial vantage: she on the fireplace cube, he on the Pennsylvania German Schrank. As soon as the twelve red checkers and twelve black checkers were arranged on the squares, Koko came sailing down from the tall cupboard and landed on the checkerboard, sending the discs flying in all directions. Yum Yum came down too and hid one under a rug.
“Cats!” Qwilleran spluttered. He gathered up the set and put it in a safe place before dressing for dinner.
Polly lived in the rustic riverside development called Indian Village, as did many of their friends. Qwilleran himself owned a condominium for winter use when the barn was impractical. From there it was a short drive to Tipsy’s Tavern, where the menu was limited but the quality superb.
As soon as they were on the road, Polly said, “I’m afraid I have to report growing unrest at the library.”
“Because of the electronic cataloguing? I’m not surprised.”
“We offered a series of workshops to acquaint subscribers with its use, and only two persons signed up. And they were young, I might add. Now three of our volunteers have resigned because they feel uncomfortable with the new system, and you know how much we depend on volunteers. Most of them are of retirement age, and they seem to like the status quo.”
Qwilleran said, “If it’s a matter of being shorthanded, why not hire some teens for the summer? By the time they go back to school, everyone will be getting adjusted to automation. Get the board to budget a few extra dollars for a summer youth program.”
Tipsy’s Tavern was busy but not noisy; a happy rumble of voices set the tone. Qwilleran and Polly sat in the main dining room, under the oil portrait of Tipsy, the founder’s black-and-white cat. The furnishings and table settings were countrified; the waitpersons were older women who mixed neighborliness with roadhouse efficiency. “Steak or fish? How do you want it done? Anything from the bar?”
Qwilleran said to Polly, “Did you have your first sitting today? I ran into Paul Skumble at the Art Center this week, and he said you’ll be a joy to paint. He said one’s features express one’s thoughts, and you have lively mind.”
“How nice of him to say that! He’s a kind man … Speaking of portraits, did you read about Ramsbottom in the Newsbyte column?” Sandwiched between brief items about a runaway cow and a jackknifed truck, it had read:
A portrait of Chester Ramsbottom honoring his 25 years of public service was unveiled yesterday at a dedication ceremony at Chet’s Bar & Barbecue. City and county officials attended. The portrait was painted by Paul Skumble.
Polly said, “I knew that man would find a way to charge his portrait to the taxpayers! I wonder if Paul was paid with a Moose County check. I’ll ask him. He’ll tell me. I’ll be very sweet to him.”
“Not too sweet, please,” Qwilleran warned. “I’ve discovered that he likes a sip of brandy while he’s working.”
The salad was served: torn iceberg lettuce with French dressing, and she said, “One has to admit that this wonderful restaurant serves a sad salad. I always fork through mine, hoping to find half a cherry tomato or a slice of radish.”
“Your complaint is falling on deaf ears,” said Qwilleran, who avoided salads of any kind. “Tell me about your date with Skumble.”
“It was hardly a date, dear,” she said, reproving him with an arched eyebrow. “It was a business appointment resulting from your insistence on having my portrait painted.”
He shrugged an apology. “Okay, I retract that. Tell me about your business appointment.”
“Today he did the underpainting. I didn’t see it afterward. He turned the easel to the wall.”
“Weren’t you tempted to peek?”
“Paul’s advice is: ‘no peek-no critique - until it’s finished,’ and I concur.”
“What do you talk about during the sitting?”
There’s no real conversation. He concentrates on his painting, and I sit there reciting Hamlet to myself.”
Qwilleran chuckled. “I can imagine his confusion as your expression changes from the melancholy prince of Denmark - to the passionate Gertrude - to pompous Polonius - to gentle Ophelia. I suppose he’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”
“He promised to show up at one o’clock, but he’s not very punctual… . And I don’t know whether I should tell you this, Qwill, but he asked if he could stay overnight in the guestroom - to avoid the long commute. I told him, as politely as I could, that it wasn’t available on weekends.”
Qwilleran patted his moustache. “That was nervy, if you ask me! If he makes any more passes, let me know, and we’ll get someone else to paint over his underpainting.”
The entrées were served, and they were silent for a while. Polly asked for another wedge of lemon; Qwilleran asked for horseradish and then said, “Last night I took my life in my hands and went to Chet’s Barbecue with Wetherby. Derek has accepted a job as manager, and I wanted to check it out.”