“Had they misused the equipment?”
“No, they just failed to put it back properly. They’d used the VCR and the slide projector, and they’d left beer cans and cigarette butts in the wastebasket, obviously ignoring the No Smoking signs.”
Qwilleran asked, “What do you think they were viewing? Probably not Gone with the Wind.”
“Probably some kind of underground trash. The question is: Will they be back next weekend for another meeting of the Saturday Night After-Hours Art Film and Beer-drinking Society?” Bushy jumped up. “Thanks for the drink. I’ve gotta get back to my dark room. Freelancers work an eight-day week.”
Qwilleran walked with him to his van, and the photographer said, “Say! I may have found a way to shoot those ornery kids of yours! There was a camera lens patented a few decades ago - for use by photographers exploring primitive regions. Some cultures think they’ll lose their souls if their picture is taken. This was a right-angle lens employing mirrors. If I could find one in a vintage collection of photo equipment, the cats wouldn’t know I was shooting them.”
“Would it fit today’s cameras?”
“I’d have to get an adapter.”
“If you can find such a lens, I’ll buy it for you, Bushy. Full speed ahead!”
Later in the afternoon Qwilleran felt the need for exercise, and he walked down the lane to the Art Center, first taking the precaution of returning the Siamese to the barn.
It was nearly five o’clock, and there were few cars on the lot. Indoors he went to the gallery to look at the wood carving he had bought. To his indignation, it was gone. He went looking for Beverly Forfar.
“It’s in my office,” she explained. “Too many people wanted to buy it. They don’t understand what the red dot means. One man got rather nasty, so I took it out of the show.”
“May I take it home now?” he asked.
“Not until the whole exhibit is dismantled. Everything has to be checked out in proper order.”
“How was the turnout today?”
“It’s always good on Sundays. People come after church or after brunch, so they’re decently dressed.”
One of her complaints was the sloppy attire of many visitors. She herself always looked “spiffy,” to use Qwilleran’s word.
He asked, “What’s the public’s reaction to the photo show downstairs?”
She groaned. “Some unauthorized persons got in last night! We try so hard to give this town a fine facility, and someone has to abuse the privileges. Jut there’s good news, too. Daphne’s nudes have been returned!”
“All of them?” He recalled Thornton’s experience in the Shipwreck Tavern.
“About half of them, and they were returned to the bin where they belong.”
“Don’t let anyone touch them. It might be possible to get prints.”
“Would we all have to be fingerprinted? That would be embarrassing.”
The phone rang in her office, and Qwil1eran went to see the Butterfly Girl. Phoebe was sitting alone, concentrating on her palette.
“Good afternoon,” he said quietly. “I came to report on the caterpillars. They’re stuffing themselves and getting fatter and sassier every day.”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Q,” she said listlessly, glancing at him briefly and then back at her work.
He thought, She’s tired; she goes to the bar nightly and stays till closing; and who knows what they do after-hours? He said, “How’s Jasper?”
She shrugged. “He’s happy anywhere, as long as he gets his peanuts.”
“I have a condo in the Village. I’m in the Willows. Which is your building?” The clusters had been named after indigenous trees.
“The Birches.”
The Birches had more luxuries than other clusters. The construction was no better, but the details were posh, like marble lavatories and walk-in closets.
“I hear you’re spelling for the Daubers. Who else is on the team?”
“Thornton Haggis and Beverly.”
“You’ll have a good time… . Well, see you at the warm-up tomorrow night.”
Leaving the building and walking home, Qwilleran wondered about Phoebe’s lackluster spirit. She was not used to nightlife… She was feeling guilty about defying her parents… She was sulking. Beverly had succeeded in evicting Jasper and the caterpillars and may have pressured her into wearing the official smock: dull blue, long-sleeved, button-cuffed. It made Phoebe look drab. She probably felt drab, too.
At the barn Koko was jumping on and off the kitchen counter and looking out the window; it meant someone had left a delivery in the sea chest outside the kitchen door. Qwilleran investigated and found two meat pies, an envelope, and a 1966 book he had lent Celia Robinson: The Birds Fall Down, by Rebecca West. She would appreciate the spy story and perhaps the good writing. The note in the envelope read:
Dear Chief,
I catered a brunch in Black Creek today and” made a couple of extra meat pies for you. Hope you like them. It’s a new recipe. Thank you for letting me read the book. It was interesting. I never heard of her, but she’s a very good writer. Sorry to be late with the stuff you wanted. I’ve got a date with Lisa Compton tomorrow to find out about the Campbell case. The property you asked about isn’t listed under Northern Land Improvement, they told me at the county building. The owner is Margaret Ramsbottom.
Agent 0013
Qwilleran finished reading the note and made a dive for the Moose County telephone directory. He found only two Ramsbottom listings: one for Chester and Margaret, one for Craig and Kathy - all at the same address in West Middle Hummock. Ramsbottom probably had everything in his wife’s name. The news meant, however, that Qwilleran had lost a bet with himself. It was not XYZ Enterprises who had purchased the Coggin property. It was really “the commish” who had taken advantage of an old woman and had lost no time, after her death, in leasing twelve acres to the county. The board of commissioners would have to approve the deal, but no doubt the Barbecue King would arrange for them to vote right.
Qwilleran’s first thought was to share the news with Rollo McBee, but when he phoned the farm on Base Line Road, there was only a noncommittal message on the answering machine. He phoned Boyd McBee and heard the same message. This was unusual for a Sunday afternoon. Qwilleran grabbed his car keys and drove down to Base Line.
Rollo’s blue pickup was not in the barnyard, but another truck was there. Qwilleran parked and walked around behind the house, where a young man was feeding the raggle-taggle dogs who had come to live there.
“Hi, Mr. Q,” he said. “Lookin’ for Rollo? I’m Randy. I work for him.”
“Where is he? There’s no one at Boyd’s house, either.”
“They all went to a funeral in Duluth. Their brother was in a bad accident - two trucks and a tanker! They’ll be back Wednesday, maybe. Any thin’ I can do for you?”
“No thanks. I just wanted to chew the rag.” That was what the farmers did at the coffee shops. “I’ll call later in the week. How are the poor mutts doing?”
“Look at ‘em! Larky as a pack o’ puppies!”
Qwilleran returned to the barn and phoned his attorney’s home. The Ramsbottom connection was something Bart should be told, but his wife answered; her husband had flown to Chicago that morning for conferences with the K Fund.
To work off his frustration he read to the cats. Koko selected The Birds Fall Down. Qwilleran thought, Naturally! Wrigley’s been sitting on it, keeping it warm while Celia had it.