“I don’t want to. I’ve been so happy here. But I feel an obligation to my family.”
“How old are you, Celia? I don’t usually ask women their age, but this is important.”
“Seventy,” she said shyly.
“Then you’ve paid your dues. You’ve raised a family and worked on a farm for half a century. You’re healthy. You have long years ahead of you. It’s your turn to live your own life.”
“But he’s my only son, and he needs me. My oldest was killed in the service.”
“Fate didn’t send you to Pickax to wait for your son’s wife to leave him. Fate sent you here to do good things for a large number of people. Your son’s wife may return; he may marry again. Meanwhile he can hire a housekeeper. As for Clayton, he’ll be going away to college soon. Your future is here! You’ve just started a business of your own - something you’ve always wanted. What does Mr. O’Dell think of this turn of events?”
“I haven’t told him,” she said softly. “I just found out tonight.”
“How do you think he’ll react?”
She shook her head, and tears came to her lowered eyes. “We were… talking about… getting married.”
“Then for God’s sake, Celia, live your own life! Your son’s in his prime; let him live his own life. Clayton is about to start his own life. And your life is yours to live.” Qwilleran stood up. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Chief,” she said, smiling and weeping at the same time.
-15-
The shop called Tanks & Tees was a shabby establishment behind the Shipwreck Tavern. The work space looked like a collection of flotsam and jetsam, while the staff looked like shipwreck survivors. Nevertheless, the thirty shirts were ready when Qwilleran arrived, and the proprietors were proud to be filling such a large order for such an important event.
“I was told to inspect them,” Qwilleran said. “The Pennant Race is a class act, and the promoters are fussy.”
The inspection revealed that the Daubers had their name misspelled; three shirts had to be redone. While waiting, Qwilleran had an early lunch at the Nasty Pasty and then wandered into Elizabeth’s boutique. It was Tuesday, and there were no customers.
She came running toward him. “Qwill, I saw Derek briefly this morning before his classes, and he had good news! The bartender was fired last night!”
“On what grounds?”
“I don’t know. Derek wasn’t told and didn’t ask. He was simply glad to get rid of that man - not to mention the awkward situation with Monkey, his girlfriend. She’s been there every night, wanting to talk to Derek.”
“Who’ll be the replacement?”
“Derek could make some recommendations, but his policy is to do a good job and learn all he can without getting involved. He wants to give it one full year. Then, if he takes my advice, he’ll put all his smelly clothes in a heap and have a bonfire.”
“Well, put a clothespin on your nose if necessary, but stick with Derek,” Qwilleran advised. “He has potential. Those who know him have always been convinced of that, but it remained for you to come on the scene and be the good influence.”
“Oh, Qwill! That’s so kind of you to say!”
When he delivered the T-shirts to Hixie, he picked up his fan mail from the office manager. She looked a trifle wan, as if the warm-up had been too strenuous for her.
He said, “You and Wilfred did an efficient job backstage last night.”
“Thank you,” she said demurely. “Would you like me to slit the envelopes for you?”
“I’d appreciate that.” Since she was not her usual talkative self, he left without pressing the conversation.
The Tuesday edition was newly off the press, and he picked up a copy in the lobby. There on the front page was an item that caused him to huff into his moustache:
PICKAX TO GET MEMORIAL PARK
A much-needed expansion to the Pickax Cemetery has been made possible through the sudden availability of a suitable site-four acres in the southeast corner of the intersection of Trevelyan and Cemetery roads. City Council voted last night to buy the land for $6,000 an acre.
A spokesperson for the city said, “It meets the specific needs of a cemetery - high land without rocks. It’s adjacent to the original burial grounds and away from city traffic, with plenty of roadside parking for funeral processions.”
Unlike the original cemetery with its assortment of monuments, the new extension will be a memorial park.
“This follows the trend to a broad expanse of lawn with grave markers recessed in the grass,” said the spokesperson. “Bereaved families will find welcome serenity in the uninterrupted sweep of beautiful lawn. Also, it will facilitate mowing, providing better maintenance at lower cost.”
Qwilleran pounded his moustache in annoyance and drove directly to Amanda Goodwinter’s design studio. He strode into the shop, waving the newspaper.
“I voted against it,” she said angrily, jumping up from the desk. “Six thousand an acre! Can you guess what that rat paid for it? I bet he gave the poor woman not more than eleven hundred an acre!”
“Do you know his identity?”
“Of course I know! And I wouldn’t trust that robber to hold my ice-cream cone!”
“The property was in his wife’s name.”
“Naturally!”
“He’d promised Mrs. Coggin he’d reserve the land for growing crops. It didn’t take him long to change his mind.”
“And I wouldn’t put it past him to bum down her house to speed matters!”
“That’s an incendiary remark, Amanda.”
” Arrgh!”
“Is there any chance of an investigation?”
“Nab! He’s got everybody in his pocket, including the mayor. Even Scott Gippel voted yes for the cemetery deal. D’you know why? He’s got a bid in to sell the county a fleet of maintenance trucks!”
“I heard somewhere that what’s-his-name was accused, at one time, of watering the liquor in his bar.”
“No comment!” she said, folding her arms across her chest and setting her jaw.
“But it turned out that the bartender was the culprit.”
“No comment!”
As Qwilleran started to leave the studio he asked, in a lighter vein, “Are you looking forward to the big bash tomorrow night?”
“In a word, no! But somebody has to do it,” she said grouchily. Amanda was one of the celebrities who would “add glamour” to the spell game. It was conventional wisdom in Pickax that she would go anywhere and do anything to get votes and/or publicity for her studio.
Before driving home, Qwilleran bought three more carnations. The florist was brimming with curiosity, although she knew not to ask questions. He returned to his van in time to see police and fire vehicles speeding down Main Street with sirens wailing. They were ahead of him as he drove toward Park Circle. Then he saw smoke - a thin column of it arising on the left - and the emergency vehicles were stopping. Northbound traffic was halted. He parked in a merchant’s driveway, leaving his press card under the windshield wiper, and ran toward a scene of general commotion.
The focus of the disturbance was the front of the library, where a dozen protesters were marching with picket signs. They seemed to be having a good time. Onlookers were laughing, and police and firemen had to struggle to control their grins. The signs read: “Pull the Plug.” “Down with Computers.” “We Want the Old Catalogue.” The smoke was coming from a backyard barbecue where patrons were burning their library cards.
Qwilleran himself felt sentimental about the old card catalogue and sympathized with the demonstrators, knowing their protest to be futile. Polly’s assistant stood on the top step, uncertain how to react. Obviously the media had been notified. Roger MacGillivray was there with his camera, and a WPKX news reporter was thrusting a mike in front of rebellious volunteers and patrons.