She ran to the carriage house, while Qwilleran marveled at the energy and youthful exuberance she brought to her many activities.
Returning, she said, “I had to go to the Compton house to get the story. Lisa was afraid of being overheard at the office. So destroy it, Chief, after you’ve listened to it.”
“Is it okay if the cats hear it?”
Her laughter could still be heard as he drove away.
When Qwilleran arrived at the barn, he was greeted by two highly excited cats. They ran up the ramp and back down again to be sure he was following. He followed them. It was the guestroom on the second balcony that concerned them. They knew something was happening behind that door.
Stand back! And don’t rush in,” he warned. “Let’s not create any stress.”
He opened the door, and the cats rushed in. There were two butterflies flitting about the box, and three more were waiting to metamorphose. They looked like the Painted Ladies in the guidebook, all right. Now they would require fresh flowers sprinkled with sugar-water. He chased the Siamese out of the room, closed the door carefully, and drove into town to buy carnations.
“Only two?” the young florist asked.
“Well, make it three.”
“What color?”
The instruction manual had made no mention of the desired color. “Make it white,” he said.
Returning home, Qwilleran locked the cats in the broom closet while he mixed sugar and water, sprinkled it on the petals, opened the door of the butterfly box carefully, thrust the flowers in quickly, closed the box, and stood back. The Painted Ladies showed no interest at all!
He went down the ramp, apologized to the Siamese for the ignominious incarceration, and applied himself to the answering machine. There were several messages, one of them from Dawn McBee.
“Were you looking for Rollo?” she asked when Qwilleran returned the call. “We were in Duluth. Just got back. Rollo’s in the barnyard right now.”
“I heard about the tragedy in your family. You have my deepest sympathy.”
“It was really sad. He was doing so well - building a new house - kids ready for college… You can never tell, can you?”
“Very true. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Well, it’s about the spell game. One of the muckers has dropped out, and Culvert wants to know if he can substitute, seeing as how it’s an emergency.”
“Well… it might be an amusing twist to have a nine-year-old among all the adults - especially if he spells better than they do … Okay, bring him to the warm-up tonight.”
“He’s been studying his aunt’s wordlist,” Dawn said.
“Good! I think the fans will love the idea, and all the kids will be rooting for him.”
“Thanks, Qwill. Culvert will be tickled pink, and Rollo will be so proud! Do you want him to phone when he’s through with the chores?”
“Let’s wait till tomorrow, Dawn. It’s nothing urgent.”
The warm-up for the spell game was being held in the high-school auditorium to acquaint participants with the stage, the procedure, and the expected reaction from fifteen hundred fans. The overflow would have bleacher seats in the gym, watching the game on closed-circuit TV.
The auditorium played up the school colors: blue curtain, white walls, blue seats. The curtain was open when Qwilleran arrived, and on the stage were two rows of folding chairs, the second row elevated on a low platform. That was considered the dugout, where the teams would wait for their turn at the plate. A table for the coach and the pitcher was downstage left, with a second one downstage right for the umpire and the timekeeper. In the center, a floor-standing microphone was situated on a pentagonal mat like an oversized homeplate. What made the scene spectacular was the stageful of hanging banners in the team colors, each with a team name. There were ten of them: green for the Moneybags, pink for the Pills, black for the Diggers, as well as red, turquoise, orange, white, blue, yellow, and purple.
Qwilleran, who had a compulsion for counting everything and anything, observed an odd number of chairs: thirty-one instead of thirty. One of the stage managers explained that Scott Gippel, who weighed three hundred pounds, required two; Hixie had thought of everything!
Backstage a noisy horde of spellers was milling about in their baseball caps, which were also in the team color. The-T -shirts being printed in Mooseville had not yet arrived, and Qwilleran sensed the kind of snafu that plagued Hixie’s beautifully organized projects. He volunteered to camp out on the printer’s doorstep and even assist with the printing if necessary. As a temporary measure, the spellers wore their team names on cards pinned to their shirts.
Assisting Hixie backstage were two efficient staffers from the Something: Sarah Plensdorf, office manager, and Wilfred Sugbury, Riker’s secretary. They guided spellers and officials to their assigned seats onstage.
“There’s one speller missing,” Hixie said.
“Phoebe Sloan,” her teammates called out.
“She’s never very punctual,” Beverly Forfar added.
“I saw her yesterday at the Art Center,” Sarah shouted from the wings, “and she was quite excited about coming tonight.”
“Okay, we’ll start without her,” Hixie said, “and you guys - Beverly and Thornton - will have to tell her what: she missed… First of all, when the fans arrive on Wednesday night, the curtain will be closed, and preliminary entertainment will take place in front of it. Spellers and officials will be offstage… Got that? … At a given; signal, you will jog onstage single file like professional athletes. You’ve all seen the players make their entrance on television. As each one appears, there’ll be a burst of applause and cheers from the fans.”
“Can we rehearse the entrance?” someone asked.
“We sure can. Everyone offstage! Exit in orderly, fashion. Stay in line. Then turn around and jog back onstage. Wilfred will start you off, one every five seconds.”
Wetherby whispered to Qwilleran, “She’s good, isn’t she?”
“She directs plays for the theater club,” Qwilleran said, “and she not only knows what she wants, she has a way of inspiring cooperation.” To himself he said, I hope - I hope - I hope nothing goes wrong.
Those taking directions from her were an attorney, the CEO of a large firm, an M.D., and the superintendent of schools, as well as students, retirees, farmers, office workers, and one nine-year-old boy who would be ten in July.
Here she comes!” someone yelled.
“Here’s the late Phoebe Sloan!”
“Better late than never.”
“Sorry. I had to stop for gas,” Phoebe apologized as Sarah pushed her toward the one vacant chair.
“Okay, let’s continue,” said Hixie. “The teams have entered. They remain standing for the National Anthem. At a signal from the coach, you sit. I want thirty backsides to hit the chairseats simultaneously… Next, the coach calls a team to the plate. Three spellers jump to their feet and walk briskly to the mike. The pitcher throws out a word. The spellers go into a huddle and decide who’ll spell. The designated speller steps to the mike and spells. The umpire rules thumbs-up for a hit, thumbs-down for a strikeout.”
“Are we supposed to remember all this?” Derek asked.
“Sarah has printouts. Ask for one as you leave.”
“What does the timekeeper do?”
MacWhannell asked. “After a word is pitched, the team has sixty seconds to respond, or the timekeeper rings a bell, and the team is sent back to the dugout.”
“What happens if a speller strikes out?” Pender Wilmot asked.
“The team gets a second chance in the next inning, but - after two strikeouts, the team is sent to the showers; they leave the stage. As the field narrows down to fewer teams, it gets more exciting… Now we’ll run through a whole inning once; every team gets a turn at the plate.”