Pender added, “He’ll get a kickback, of course.”
“This is getting dirty. I’m going home,” said Larry, standing up.
“Who wants the roads paved?” Qwilleran asked. “Who bought the Trevelyan house?”
“Ramsbottom.”
“If he’s as crooked as people say, why does he keep getting reelected?”
“He saves the taxpayers money by opposing educational and cultural improvements. Then the K Fund steps in and underwrites the new facilities. He’s got it made!”
Qwilleran walked with them to their car.
“Think about it,” Larry told him. “Kevin Doane can tell you a lot about natural landscaping. He’s a real pro. And people will listen to what you say, Qwill.”
-13-
A Saturday night dinner at the Palomino Paddock would be a special occasion on anyone’s calendar, and Polly - for her date with Qwilleran - wore her pink silk suit and opal jewelry. She glowed with rosy happiness when he arrived at her condo.
“Pink looks remarkably good on you,” he said. He had disliked the insipid pink worn by the late Iris Cobb - when she was his landlady Down Below, then as his housekeeper in Pickax, and finally as manager of the Farmhouse Museum.
“It’s really hot pink,” Polly told him. “And I love your outfit!”
It was a summer suit in his favorite khaki, with a blue shirt and a daring tie (blue, pink, and white). Sartorially he had come a long way since his days Down Below.
Brutus and Catta came to see them off, looking vacantly at Qwilleran when he said, “Pax vobiscum!” To Polly he said, “Let’s drive your car. It’s more appropriate than a van with your pink suit and your opals.”
The route lay through quaint villages: Little Hope, early home of Maude Coggin; Wildcat, a community inhabited entirely by Cuttlebrinks; Black Creek Junction, with its lofty trestle bridge, site of many a train wreck.
Across the county border the terrain was less craggy and more agreeably sloped. Then came Flapjack, formerly a lumber camp and now a public recreation park. Here the route signs pointed left to Horseradish, birthplace of Wetherby Goode, and right to Whinny Hills and the celebrated Palomino Paddock.
En route Qwilleran asked, “How are you getting along with Skumble?”
“We’re becoming accustomed to each other, and he’s making progress.”
“On the canvas, I hope.”
“Of course, dear. It’s amazing how Paul uses red, blue, yellow, and gray to model the contours of the face. He uses yellow, rose, and blue to give life and lustre to pearls. Today I was deeply touched when he brought me a gift - a handkerchief that had belonged to his grandmother. It’s so delicate, I told him it must be woven of moonbeams and fairies’ wings.”
Qwilleran thought, Does he give one to each of his female subjects? What did he give to Commissioner Ramsbottom? His grandfather’s flask? … He huffed into his moustache; it sounded questionable… To Polly he said, “I’ve never heard you wax so poetic. How did he react?”
“I think he was flattered. Actually, I was trying to cajole him into revealing who paid for the commissioner’s portrait, but he wouldn’t tell.”
“That means the county treasurer paid for it - with your tax dollars and mine. At least he didn’t lie. How many more sittings will there be?”
“I haven’t inquired. I don’t want him to feel he’s being rushed. He says many thin coats of paint give transparency to the human skin, but they take time to dry. I’m getting to love the smell of turpentine.”
“How do Brutus and Catta react?”
“They simply disappear. He always says, ‘I thought ! you had cats.’ But they don’t make an appearance until he leaves.”
“Maybe it isn’t only the turpentine.”
“Oh, Qwill! You’re so cynical.”
“Does he ever say anything about his forebears? Some of the good folk up here aren’t always descended from the ancestors they claim. Did he say anything about this grandmother of his? Where do you suppose she got the handkerchief?”
“I’ll ask him,” she said impudently.
“I’ll tell him that Mr. Qwilleran wants to know, badly.”
The Palomino looked like a working stable, and the interior was down-to-earth, with bales of hay standing around and tack hanging on the walls. Polly and Qwilleran were seated at a preferred table in a stall, and menus were presented by an enthusiastic young stable girl moonlighting as a server. There were no prices on Polly’s menu, but they were known to be $$$$$ in the restaurant ratings, meaning extra-expensive. The evening’s special was tenderloin of ostrich with smoked tomatoes, herbed polenta, and black currant coulis.
“Are you sure it’s legal to eat ostrich?” Polly asked the server. “It seems rather… rather untoward.” The birds, she was told, were raised on a farm especially for the better restaurants.
Not entirely convinced, she ordered a vegetarian curry. Qwilleran took a chance on the big bird, medium rare.
She asked, “What have you been reading lately, dear?”
“Mark Twain, a writer after my own heart. That A-to-Z reference book you gave me has fired my interest. Eddington is dredging up all the Mark Twain he can find. Right now I’m reading Roughing It. That’s the one with the story about the big gray cat called Tom Quartz.”
“If you’ll forgive the trivia,” she said, “Theodore Roosevelt had a cat by that name.”
“Well, he got it from Roughing It, which was published in 1872. Tom Quartz hung around quartz mines. One day the miners were getting ready to blast and didn’t know he was sleeping on a gunnysack in the shaft. The explosion blew him into the sky, tumbling end over end. He landed right-side-up, covered with soot, and walked away in disgust.”
His attention wavered as a man and woman were shown to a stall across the room. Then he asked, “What were they gossiping about at the library this week?”
“The Pennant Race. Nothing else. My assistant’s husband is spelling for the Oilers.”
“How about the workshop? Did it teach your patrons to love the electronic catalogue?”
Polly groaned. “Only one attended, and there are rumblings of unrest among the volunteers. In fact, two of the oldest resigned. All the staff members, who are younger, love the computers, but…”
“As I told you, I prefer the old card catalogue myself, but since we all have to swing with the times, why not do something else to captivate the general public? You have to admit it’s a grim old building, and the chairs are too hard! Modern libraries go in for color, comfort, and a friendly look. Fran Brodie could give you some ideas, when she gets back from vacation, if ever.”
The entrées were served, and they applied themselves to the tastefully arranged plates of food. Qwilleran said the ostrich tasted exactly like filet of beef.
Polly said, “Everyone loved your column on hen’s-eggs and the tribute to Mrs. Fish-eye. Do you have any other surprises lurking up your sleeve? I won’t tell.”
“I’m raising a crop of butterflies in a box, hoping to write something intelligent on the subject. So far they don’t show much promise, but Phoebe Sloan is moving and can’t keep her incubator. So now I’m feeding caterpillars, which will metamorphose into chrysalises, which will metamorphose into Painted Ladies, which will be released to lay more eggs, which will produce more caterpillars… Would you excuse me a moment, Polly? Im not in the habit of doing this, but I’d like to speak to someone with malice aforethought.”
He walked across the room to the stall where a large man with a bloated face was sitting across from an attractive young female companion.
“Excuse me, Mr. Ramsbottom, it’s hard to catch you in the course of a normal day. I’m Jim Qwilleran of the Something.”