“I know. I know,” the man said with political affability mixed with annoyance.
“I’d like to make an appointment with you for an in-depth interview covering your twenty-five years of public service - its ups and downs, so to speak. I hear there have been some interesting downs.”
The commissioner waved the intruder away with an impatient gesture. “Don’t bother me this year. See me in election year.”
Qwilleran returned to his table, thinking, At least he knows he’s being watched by the hungry press. “Sorry,” he said to Polly. “Shall we order dessert?”
On Sunday afternoon, while Polly sat for the portrait artist, Qwilleran sat with the Siamese and the New York Times. He always picked up the Sunday edition at Sloan’s Drug Store, where they saved a copy for him under the counter. On this occasion Mrs. Sloan was alone in the store and eager to talk. “Where’ s your shiny bike, Mr. Q?” she asked.
“Never on Sunday, Mrs. Sloan,” he explained. “This newspaper weighs more than the bike. It might damage the spokes.”
“We were supposed to get rain,” she said ruefully. “My lawn needs it badly. I should really put in a sprinkler system.”
“Where do you live?”
“West Middle Hummock, and I have an acre of the most beautiful grass! Do you have a nice lawn, Mr. Q?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m a nature boy. I let nature takes its course.”
“Do you mean… you let it go to weeds?” she asked in mild horror.
“Frankly, I don’t know what weeds are. The landscape gardener has put in native grasses and wildflowers… and forbs,” he added mischievously, enjoying her perplexed frown. “Do you have any copies of the New York Times left?”
“I always save one for you, Mr. Q. You know that!”
“Everyone’s pleased to know you’re sponsoring a team in the Pennant Race, and having Dr. Diane spell for you is somewhat of a coup.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but she’s a dear, sweet person, just like her parents. They’re lucky to have her 1m out so well. Our assistant pharmacist is spelling for us, too, and we hoped to have our daughter, but she decided to spell for the Art Center, which is understandable, except that it was a disappointment. They have such a large membership to recruit from, and we’re so mall.”
“Why not get the superintendent of schools?” Qwilleran suggested. “He’d make a good Pill.”
She burst into laughter. Lyle Compton - always under attack by teachers, parents, and politicians - had adopted he persona of an old grouch, although he had an underlying sense of humor.
“Wouldn’t that be funny? Do you think he would?” Mrs. Sloan asked.
“I’ll ask him. It’ll be a crowd-pleaser, and he likes audience.”
“We’ll appreciate it no end, Mr. Q.” She rang up his sale, which included mouthwash and shaving lotion, then said in a sadder voice, “What do you think of our daughter’s choice of career, Mr. Q? We’d hoped to get her into health care-it’s so secure - but all she can think about is painting.”
Once again Qwilleran was being expected to play the pundit. Why? Because he wrote a column? Because he had inherited money? He found it somewhat absurd. “Well, Phoebe’s doing something she enjoys enormously, and she does it well, and it makes people happy. I know one collector who has eighteen of her butterflies. What more could you want for your daughter?”
“I guess… I could wish… that she chose her friends more carefully. I know you don’t have children, Mr. Q, but can you understand the pain of a parent whose only child goes off with a man of dubious reputation? It’s not just that he has no education or goals. We have other doubts about him. In a community like this, and with contacts like ours, we hear things, you know. What can I say? He’s handsome, and Phoebe is vulnerable! This is presumptuous of me, I know, but I wish you could talk some sense into her head. She thinks highly of you, and she’d listen.”
Qwilleran said, “You have my sympathy, I assure you, but I’ve always believed that young people of her age have to make their own choices and take responsibility for their decisions - “
He was interrupted by the jangling bell on the front door, as two customers entered, chattering noisily. He and the storekeeper exchanged apologetic glances, and he muttered a vague promise as he moved away. Leaving the store, he was grateful that he had only two cats, who could be banished to their room if they created a problem.
When Qwilleran unlocked the kitchen door and let himself in, he was alarmed by a scraping sound elsewhere on the main floor. He dropped his packages and hurried to the foyer. Yum Yum was batting something about the stone floor. A yo-yo! A few days earlier he had tossed it into the wastebasket when the cats reacted with boredom. That little scamp had fished it out, hiding it under the sofa while awaiting an auspicious time to use it as a hockey puck.
She was smart in her way - inventive, mischievous. While Koko sensed the who, why, what, and where of crime and tried to communicate his suspicions, she hid the evidence under the sofa or the rug. Qwilleran picked her up and stroked her soft fur. “When we run Catta for vice president,” he said, “you can be campaign manager.”
After changing into casual clothes, he took the Siamese and his Sunday paper to the gazebo. He was reading and they were monitoring the airborne traffic when their fawn-colored necks stretched, brown ears swiveled, and black noses pointed due east.
Qwilleran thought, Sunday afternoon trespassers! … They had the nerve to unlatch the gate and drive past the PRIVATE sign… They were coming up for some unauthorized sightseeing. Frowning, he went out to confront them.
As soon as the vehicle came into view, he recognized it: the commercial van with discreet lettering on the side, “Bushland Studio.”
“Bushy! What brings you in the back way?” he called out to the photographer.
“It’s confusing, Qwill. The front way from Main Street leads to your back door, and the back way leads to your front door.”
“I’ll have the barn turned around. Come on into the tiger cage and have a drink. What’s your pleasure?”
“Do you have a gin and tonic?”
“I have everything. Talk to the cats while I’m bartending.”
John Bushland was a talented young photographer who was losing his hair early; hence his affectionate nickname. On several occasions he had tried to shoot the Siamese for an annual cat calendar, but they had been pointedly uncooperative. No matter how cautiously he raised his camera, they instantly rolled from a lyrical pose into a grotesque muddle of hind legs and nether parts. After every disappointing effort he said, “I’m not licked yet!”
When the tray arrived with the drinks, he raised his glass in a toast. “Oogly wa waf That’s a Zulu blessing, or so I’ve been told.”
“Better get it confirmed in writing before you get into trouble,” Qwilleran advised. “How’s everything at the Art Center? Are the crowds breaking down the doors? Is Beverly making them take off their shoes?”
“That’s why I came up here. Did you go to the opening of the Click Club?”
“I tried, but it was too crowded.”
“Well, there’s been a breakin! Last night! No forced entry, just trespassing.”
“What did they take?”
“Nothing - not even a light bulb. But they used some of the equipment, and there was a smell of cigarette smoke.”
“Hmmm,” Qwilleran mused. “Any theories? Does Beverly know about it?”
“Oh, God! Yes! She went through the roof! We decided not to notify the police. Publicity would only lead to more trespassing, and somehow we think this is an inside job.”
“Do individual members of the Click Club have keys to the building?”
“No. Mostly they attend group functions, but there’s a ‘privilege key’ available for members who want to use the equipment to screen their own film. They sign for it and return it to the office when the screening is over. No one had signed it out for last night, but someone might have borrowed the key during the week and had dupes made. Beverly is looking into that possibility. I feel sorry for her. She takes these things so hard.”