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So Phoebe and her redheaded boyfriend and disreputable parrot were living in Indian Village! It remained to be seen how they would synchronize with that quiet and eminently respectable neighborhood. They were young people who worked late and went on enjoying life after-hours, with Jasper’s racy squawks adding to the racket. Condo owners, on the other hand, tended to have established professional careers with somewhat regulated hours. After the eleven o’clock news the entire village blacked out.
The newcomers were living in The Birches, Phoebe had said. That was the cluster of condos where the Rikers had a desirable end unit. Qwilleran’s native curiosity and newshound instincts were prompting him to start asking questions. Perhaps, too, the unsettling sensation on his upper lip spurred him to action.
On Monday morning he drove downtown and handed in his copy for the Tuesday “Qwill Pen.” He was twenty-four hours ahead of deadline.”
“Wait till I pick myself up off the floor,” Junior said. “What happened?”
“I had a little extra time on my hands.”
“Are you all set for the warm-up tonight?”
“I spent the weekend in the bullpen, perfecting my delivery. I’m ready to pitch fast words, slow words, curve words - “
“How about spit words?”
“They’ve been outlawed.”
Next he looked up Mildred Riker at the food desk and started with a cooking question. “Did Iris Cobb’s personal recipe for macaroni and cheese ever turn up in her papers? I’ll never forget it. It had some secret ingredient.”
“I know. You’ve mentioned it before, but I haven’t found it. Evidently she’d prepared it so often, she didn’t need to write it down.”
He started to leave her office and then said, “By the way, Mildred, do you happen to know if the vacant unit at The Birches is still on the market? I know someone who might be interested.”
“Apparently not,” she said. “Someone moved in a few days ago. I don’t know who they are.”
“Who else lives in the building?”
“Susan Exbridge in Two and Amanda Goodwinter in Four. Susan is a wonderful neighbor - never gives parties, never plays loud music. You know how thin the walls are!”
On the way out of the building he passed the publisher’s office. Arch Riker called out, “Looks as if we’re home free! Only two days - till the spell game-and no calamities !”
“It’s not over till it’s over,” Qwilleran reminded him. “The auditorium balcony could collapse. Wasn’t it built by XYZ?”
Having acquired the information he needed, he headed for the central business district. Susan and Amanda! Two fussier neighbors could hardly be imagined for Phoebe and friends! He drove to Exbridge & Cobb Fine Antiques on Main Street.
The former wife of Don Exbridge was one of the most striking women in town, having alimony payments that she spent almost entirely on clothing from Down Below, and her interest in the theater club had given her a dramatic flair. “Darling! Where have you been?” she cried when she saw Qwilleran.
“Working,” he said morosely to arouse her sympathy.
“You poor dear! And what you do looks so easy and so much fun! Are you here to hunt for ideas or spend money?”
“It all depends. Do you have any unusual items that are not too old and not too new?”
“Are you interested in early scientific instruments?”
“Not really.”
“You’ll love the collection I bought from a little old billionaire in Dallas.” She unlocked a curio cabinet filled with objects of wood and brass.
“Who’s going to buy this stuff in Pickax?” he demanded.
“Darling, I’d go broke if I depended on sheep ranchers and perch fishermen. I advertise in exclusive antique magazines and sell to serious collectors allover the country.”
“What’s that round thing?” It looked like an attractive box, not too scientific. About three inches in diameter, the wood lid was fancifully inlaid with brass.
“A very old Italian compass with an interesting provenance.”
Skeptically he said, “I suppose it came over on the Nińa, the Pinta, or Santa Maria - or all three.”
“Wrong century, darling. It’s circa 1650.” She removed the lid, revealing an ornamental dial under glass. Its boldest feature was an eight-pointed star. The dial quivered.
Susan said, “It’s described as a pivoted thirty-two-point compass card, painted by hand. The north point is indicated by a star, the east by a cross.”
“How much?”
“You couldn’t afford it, darling.”
“I’ll take it!” he said and handed over his credit card. Then, while the transaction was being processed, he remarked in an offhand way, “I hear you have a new neighbor. I hear the celebrated Butterfly Girl moved in next door.”
Susan stiffened with indignation. “Is she the one who plays that godawful music at three in the morning? And has that screeching bird? I’ve complained to the manager three nights in a row. Last night someone called the sheriff!”
Goading her playfully, Qwilleran said, “But they’re young, Susan. Her boyfriend works late. They have to have some fun. Why don’t you ask your stingy ex-husband to install soundproofing in the walls?”
“Go home, darling,” she scolded. “Take your seventeenth-century compass and go homer!
He left the shop with a feeling of triumph. He had ruffled the aplomb of the unruffled Susan, and he had acquired a specimen of antiquity that would turn Arch Riker green with envy. From there he visited Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design, where Amanda herself sat scowling at the reception desk. Her usual bad temper was exacerbated by the long absence of her assistant. Feeling mischievous, he inquired if she had any paintings by the Butterfly Girl.
“You won’t find any butterflies in this shop until they carry me out!” she fumed. “I loathe butterflies in any form, and that includes that Sloan girl’s stuff.”
“They sell well, and you could get a good markup,” he persisted. “And now that she’s a neighbor of yours at The Birches…”
“What! Is that who’s been disturbing the peace every night? I phoned the sheriff last night about the yelling and screaming and so-called music. I said, ‘Either you get over here in five minutes and muffle these ruffians, or I load my shotgun!’ A deputy was there in less than five!”
“That’s why you keep getting reelected, Amanda. You know how to get results. You and Chester Ramsbottom.”
“That reptile! Don’t mention us in the same breath!”
“Is his wife a client of yours? I hear they bought the Trevelyan house in the Hummocks.”
“Margaret? She’s a nice woman. I don’t know how she lives with that man! I guess she doesn’t - much. He has all kinds of outside interests… I’ll say one thing for him, though. Doing over the Trevelyan house was a huge job, and I didn’t have to wait for my money.”
After lunching at the Spoonery, a place specializing in soups, Qwilleran was driving home across the theater parking lot when he saw Celia Robinson getting into her car. He tooted the horn to alert her, and she hurried to meet him with her usual excess of smiles and happiness.
“I got your story, Chief. Are you going to fire me for taking so long?”
“No, but you’ll be reassigned to New Zealand,” he said sternly.
This remark was greeted with gales of laughter. “But I did something naughty. I didn’t tell Lisa I was taping it. I used Clayton’s little recorder.”
“Under the circumstances, that’s not too naughty. Would you like to bring it to the barn later on - and have something wicked in the way of refreshments?”
After more merry laughter she declined, saying she was going to Mr. O’Dell’s to work on a catering job. “But I’ll give you the tape. It’s upstairs. Wait here. I can get it in a jiffy.”