Everyone was having a good time. Then Derek left, saying he had to go back to work. Phoebe slipped out soon afterward. No one else wanted to leave. They wanted to practice walking briskly to the plate, jogging onstage, hitting the chairseats simultaneously. They had to be chased out.
Hixie said to Qwilleran, “It’s great of you to ride herd on the T-shirts. The shop is called Tanks and Tees, right behind the Shipwreck Tavern. You might double-check the names and numbers before you accept them, and be sure they have one XXXL for Scott Gippel.”
“Don’t worry. I proofread everything.”
Then Thornton said to him, “Why is Phoebe wearing long sleeves all of a sudden? She has pretty arms. Something’s rotten in Denmark.”
Qwilleran had asked himself the same question. “She’s not herself. What’s going on?”
Thornton said, “I’ve seen that boyfriend of hers, and he’s not the type I’d want for my daughter, if I had one… How are the butterflies coming along?”
“Just before I left,” Qwilleran said, “two of them hatched and were pumping up their wings, the way the manual said they would.”
Qwilleran was somewhat exhilarated when he returned from the warm-up. He would have phoned Polly, but she was out of town, attending a tri-county library conference in Lockmaster. He would have read aloud to the Siamese, but he was in no mood for The Red Badge of Courage, which was Koko’s choice. What he was in the mood for was a dish of ice cream with chocolate sauce and a few peanuts. After that he was in the mood for playing Celia’s tape:
LISA: Tell me again, Celia, why you want to hear this story.
CELIA: Well, I have a nephew Down Below who wants to invest some money in Moose County, and the deal involves a county official, but he heard a rumor of a scandal connected with this man. He’s very careful about things like that. He asked me to look into it. In strict confidence, of course.
LISA: Is it Ramsbottom?
CELIA: That’s the name.
LISA: We don’t like to talk about it, but… I know you’re not a gossip. It’s like this… He owns a bar and was once charged with watering the liquor, which could cost him his license. He claimed to know nothing about it and put the blame on his bartender. His name was Broderick Campbell. He was a very upright young man. His father was a church deacon, and his uncle was the pastor. He had a wife and three small children and was working two jobs to support them. We were all furious about Chet’s accusation, but we were stunned when Brod confessed!
CELIA: Oh, dear! I can imagine!
LISA: He was sentenced to a jail term, but Ramsbottom used his influence to get the sentence commuted, provided Brod left the county. He and his family left in disgrace - went somewhere Down Below. His parents were absolutely destroyed! His mother had a stroke and died, and his father went into a black depression. His uncle, the pastor, was distraught. As things went from bad to worse, Brod’s father was persuaded to go and live with the pastor’s family. Then one day he disappeared. The police hunted for two days before they found him hanging in the attic of the parsonage.
CELIA: Oh, Lisa! What a horrible story!
LISA: The pastor himself didn’t live long after that.
CELIA: But why the bad feelings about Mr. Ramsbottom? Didn’t he save Broderick from a jail term?
LISA: Yes, but there’s more to the story. One of the Campbell clan, traveling Down Below, found Brod in very successful circumstances. He was the owner of a large motel with swimming pool, restaurant, and everything. It was something he never could have afforded in a million years! Had Ramsbottom paid him to take the rap?
CELIA: If Brod was so honest, couldn’t he have refused?
LISA: He was trapped, coming and going. To try to stand up against that powerful man would have been virtual suicide.
MAN’S VOICE: Hello! Hello! What goes on here? Why so gloomy?
LISA: Celia, this is my husband… Lyle, Celia Robinson is one of our most valued volunteers. Her nephew is contemplating a financial deal with Ramsbottom …
MAN’S VOICE: Hah! Tell him not to touch it with a ten-foot pole! The man’s a crook! We all know he got a kickback from the new high-school building, and the cost overruns would have bankrupted the county if the K Fund hadn’t stepped in.
CELIA: Well! I’m much obliged for the information. I‘11 tell my nephew to steer clear.
Click.
Qwilleran turned to Koko, who was sitting on the arm of the chair and listening. “What do you think of that smelly mess?”
“Aaaaaaaaaaa,” the cat bleated in his new all-purpose monotone.
Qwilleran looked at his watch. It was late, but not too late to call Celia and congratulate her on a job well done. He phoned the carriage house.
When she answered with a flat hello, he asked, “Are you boiling potatoes for salad or putting a batch of brownies in the oven?”
“Oh, hello,” she said without any of her usual merriment.
“This tape,” he said, “is one of the best things you’ve ever done. I’m destroying it, as you asked, but I predict the story will become another Moose County legend in fifty or a hundred years.”
“Glad you liked it,” she replied without adding any chatty comment of her own. He sensed a problem. This was not his secret agent OO13 1/2. Was this why Koko had bleated his curious lament? Some news had deadened her spirit.
“Celia, are you feeling all right?” he demanded with the severity of a senior officer.
“Yes, I’m all right.”
“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked more gently.
His neighborly concern touched a nerve, and she whimpered something indistinctly.
“I’ll be right there, Celia! Pull yourself together!” Taking a flashlight, he jogged the short distance through the woods. There was a predatory owl that lived among the dark branches, and Qwilleran had taken care to wear his yellow baseball cap. On the way he reviewed what he knew about her: a widow living with her grown son and his family on a farm in Illinois. She had moved to Pickax to start a new life: doing volunteer service, cheering the old and infirm, singing in the church choir, doing small catering jobs. Qwilleran himself had a vested interest in Celia’s well-being. She not only supplied comfort food for his freezer and Kabibbles for the Siamese; she handled errands and inquiries for “the Chief when he required anonymity.
She also laughed uproariously at his mildest quips. What had happened? Bad news from the doctor? Death in the family?
At the carriage house he rang the doorbell, and a buzzer released the lock. The stairs were narrow and steep. At the top of the flight stood a husky cat named Wrigley, who challenged him to show his credentials.
“How’s the good boy?” Qwilleran asked. Wrigley recognized the voice and trotted ahead into the living room.
Soberly and with downcast eyes Celia murmured, “Would you like a glass of something?” Ordinarily she would have made a joking comment about his yellow baseball cap.
“No, thanks. Let’s just sit down and talk for a few minutes. Something is worrying you, Celia, and it will do you good to unburden yourself.”
Obediently - she was used to taking orders from him - but in a hopeless tone of voice she said, “I had a phone call from my son in Illinois. His wife has left him, and he wants me to go back to the farm and keep house for him.”
“Your grandson’s stepmother, right? They didn’t get along, right?”
She nodded. “Clayton wanted to come and live with me, you know, but his dad put his foot down. My son is a very strict father.”
“And how do you feel about leaving Pickax?”