Meanwhile, Qwilleran had a relatively quiet week. He went for daily rides on the Silverlight. He took the Siamese on trips to the gazebo and visits to the caterpillars in the guestroom. The larvae were still wiggling and stuffing themselves with green leaves. Although Koko was unimpressed, Yum Yum trembled with catly ecstasy. Even when the door to the guestroom was closed, she knew something vital was happening within, and she sat outside for hours.
Qwilleran also wrote his long-promised tribute to Mrs. Fish-eye. It was a preface to a “Qwill Pen” on the common hen’s-egg - that ovoid porcelain jewel with golden orb quivering in a puddle of transparent viscosity as it waited to be fried, scrambled, or poached. He quoted egg farmers, chefs, nursery rhymes, Shakespeare, and Cervantes, who advised against putting all one’s eggs in one basket.
When Qwilleran handed in his copy to Junior, just in time for the Friday noon deadline, the managing editor scanned it rapidly and said, “Up goes the price of eggs allover Moose County!”
Riding home on the Silverlight, Qwilleran was waved down by a motorist. He pulled over to the curb, and the driver parked ahead of him. Elizabeth Hart jumped out of the car, wearing a long colorless tunic over a long full skirt, equally colorless.
“What brings you to town?” he asked, removing his helmet.
“I had business at the bank, so I bought some tickets for the spell game. Derek is spelling for the Hams.”
“Has he started his new job?”
“Yes, and I don’t see very much of him. He works late and has morning classes.”
“What does he think of the restaurant?”
“Well, you know Derek; he’s really cool. Being an actor, he can adjust to situations. He plays a role.”
“Does he like his boss?”
“Mr. Ramsbottom rarely makes an appearance. Derek is in total charge. He says he takes a lot of phone messages from Mrs. Ramsbottom and also from a woman named Bunny.”
“Is the bartender as hostile as Derek anticipated?”
“Well, his girlfriend comes to the bar every night and stays till closing, and she likes to talk with Derek. The bartender doesn’t care for that greatly. Her name is Monkey.”
“I know her,” Qwilleran said. “She’s a successful artist.”
“Is she attractive?” Elizabeth asked, bristling slightly.
Tactfully he replied, “Not really.”
A police car pulled alongside, and the officer pointed to the No Parking sign. Elizabeth ran back to her car, and Qwilleran said, “Sorry, Officer. We had a little problem here. Nothing serious.”
“Take care, Mr. Q.”
He received two phone calls that afternoon - one conveying information he expected and one coming as an eye-opener.
First, Wetherby Goode called, as upbeat as ever, but brief and to the point. “My cousin is on cloud nine about collaborating with you, Qwill. She’s sending you some info on crows to give you an idea of the possibilities.”
“Sounds good. How soon will she be visiting here?”
“Late July… What do you think of the spell game? Hixie comes up with some neat ideas, doesn’t she?”
“That she does,” Qwilleran replied, aware that credit and discredit were always heaped on the hapless promotion director as her projects soared and crashed.
“But why I really called, Qwill … the county offices in Lockmaster don’t have any record of a business firm by the name of Northern Land Improvement.”
“Thanks, Joe. That’s all I wanted to know.”
The news merely confirmed his suspicions: the NLI was a front for XYZ Enterprises. Before he could give it a second thought, however, a call came from the owner of the department store.
“Qwill, will you be free and at liberty after five-thirty? Pender and I would like to have a few words with you.”
“Come on over! We’ll have a TGIF drink in the gazebo.”
“Okay - Right after store-closing.”
Qwilleran could guess what they had in mind. Both men were charter members of the new gourmet club, and they would want to hold the July dinner in the barn or even in the gazebo. It would mean serving twelve persons at three small tables - no problem, as long as they didn’t expect him to cook.
Larry Lanspeak was a successful merchant who lived with his wife, Carol, in the affluent suburb of West Middle Hummock, and they were spark plugs for the theater club as well as every new community project.
Pender Wilmot was an attorney without Moose County roots, who had recently moved his young family to the Hummocks. He would be spelling for the Ladders; the Lanspeaks’ daughter was the M.D. who would spell for the Pills.
When Larry’s station wagon pulled into the yard, Qwilleran went out to meet the two men and usher them around to the gazebo. The Siamese and a bar tray were already waiting there, and Koko was mimicking the birds’ evensong in spirit if not in the right key.
“I don’t believe it! That cat’s singing!” Pender said. “Is this the one that broke up the cheese party last winter?”
“Same one! He has a wealth of interests,” Qwilleran said. He served drinks: one wine spritzer, one rum and cola, and a ginger ale on the rocks.
“Qwill doesn’t have a lawn,” Larry remarked to Pender with a triumphant smile.
I like everything natural,” their host explained. “We came to the right place! … Qwill, as residents of West Middle Hummock and Planet Earth, we came here today with a humble suggestion for the ‘Qwill Pen’ column.”
“You don’t have to be humble. I’m always on the prowl for ideas.”
“Well, then… This is it: the whole thing about the Hummocks, as you know, is the natural landscape: rolling hills, meadows and pastures, winding dirt roads, quaint wooden bridges, patches of woods lining the streams, and wildflowers on the roadside.”
Larry was a man of moderate build with undistinguished facial features, but his great theater voice and the energy that infused him onstage were compelling whenever he expounded a cause.
“But something insidious has been happening in the last few years,” he went on. “New people are moving to the country and bringing their town ideas with them. They like broad green lawns that have to be fertilized and watered and weeded and mowed twice a week and - my God! - sprayed green!”
Pender said, “I have a third-grader at home who knows more about ecology than I do, and he comes running indoors, yelling, ‘Daddy! They’re spraying again!’ He knows all about chemical run-off in the water and pollution of the atmosphere. And it’s kids like Timmie who have a future that needs protecting.”
Qwilleran asked, “How prevalent is this green blight that you describe?”
“About thirty percent, but they’re very vocal at village meetings. They urge cutting down trees to straighten the roads, widening the bridges, mowing the roadsides once a month - all to make it safer! They tell how Mr. Fetter died in a car crash on a twisting road. They don’t mention that his son was driving seventy!” said Larry. “The Hummocks weren’t intended to be speedways or thoroughfares for eighteen-wheelers, but that’s what they’ll become if we don’t fight it.”
“Let me add something bizarre,” said Pender. “Natural landscaping is trendy Down Below, and backyard naturalists are challenging the so-called weed laws and winning their cases in court… But up here, 400 miles north of everywhere, a local politician wants to legislate against native grasses and wildflowers. He wants everyone to have a neat clipped lawn, sprayed green.”
Larry said, “He bought the Trevelyan house near us. He also wants the dirt roads paved, and he has a lot of pull.”