When the ritual was finished, Qwilleran announced “Gazebo!” They rushed to the coat hooks and looked up at the tote bag. Then, while they communed with the birds and bees, he settled down.to write another thousand-word opus for the “Qwill Pen.” Equipped with a legal pad, some pencils, and a little dog-eared book, he intended to start another Pasty War among readers of the Something.
The meat-and-potato turnover was a regional specialty 400 miles north of everywhere. Whether or not it should contain turnip was a hotly debated issue - and had been for more than a century. Now a historical recipe had turned up in a tattered book that Eddington Smith discovered among memorabilia from an old farmhouse. Excitedly he had phoned the barn, saying, “Qwill! Come quickly! I’ve found something!”
It proved to be a 1905 hardcover - thin as a slice of bread and brown with age and grease spots - and it contained a pasty recipe calling for “pig’s liver.” Qwilleran knew his readers would rise up in consternation. It would result in the biggest fracas since the controversy. over Tipsy’s feet in her portrait at the tavern. Now that the spell game was over, the public needed another electrifying topic to roil their passions.
The little book had been published, apparently, for families who raised hogs and did their own butchering. At one time in Moose County history that would include almost everyone. These folk would need ideas for using leftover ears, tails, entrails, and blood - from cattle and sheep as well as hogs. There were recipes for blood sausage, hog’s pudding, cow heels, and Scottish haggis. Qwilleran had eaten haggis at the annual Scottish night in Pickax, always curious about the ingredients. Now he knew and wished he had remained ignorant.
There were instructions for stuffing a boar’s head: “About the snout, you have to sew it to keep it shut. About the ears, you can stick a parsnip or carrot in them to keep their shape. And be sure that the head has a large collar.”
While concentrating on these esoteric details, Qwilleran became aware of a rumbling in Koko’s innards.
Then the ears of both cats pointed east as the crunch of footsteps was heard in the lane. Peevishly he set aside his writing pad and went out to confront the intruder. It was Culvert.
“Hi!” the boy said. “My mom sent you some cookies.” He handed Qwilleran a foil-wrapped package.
“Peanut butter and raisin. My favorite.”
“Well, thank you. Thank you very much!” said Qwilleran, whose list of favorites excluded peanut butter and raisin. “Tell your mother I appreciate her thoughtfulness.”
“Here’s a note.” It was signed “Dawn McBee,” and it read: “Rollo and I would like to say thank-you for everything you’ve done. You made Maude’s funeral important in ways no lone else could do. And her tombstone! - it’s so perfect, it makes me cry! Culvert was thrilled to see his pictures in the paper, and they actually sent him money, and when he was up on the stage with the Muckers, Rollo and I almost burst with pride. He spells that 28-letter word for everybody he meets. The Muckers are going to the World Series in September. Until then it’ll be kind of hard living with a ten-year-old who’s suddenly nine feet tall. He’s nine now, but he’ll be ten next month.”
Qwilleran said, “Congratulations on your spelling last night.”
“Do you want me to spell that word for you?”
“Not right now. I have work to do. Some other time… Would you like a cookie to eat while you’re walking home? Take two!”
On the way to the newspaper office to hand in his Friday copy, Qwilleran stopped at the library to drop off the butterfly guidebook. The parking lot was fairly well filled, and he assumed the patrons were gathering to commiserate over the death of the Butterfly Girl. At that time, the public assumed it was another accident at a dangerous bridge. They would be saying that something should be done about it; people should write letters to the paper; people should complain to the county commissioners; her parents must feel terrible; she was their only child; she painted those beautiful pictures.
That was what Qwilleran expected to hear, but such was not the case. There was an atmosphere of jollity in the library. Patrons were all smiles. Two volunteers who had been on the picket line were wheeling bookcarts and replenishing shelves. They waved and said, “Hi, Mr. Q!” Just then he stepped on a toy mouse.
He looked around and saw an orange cat lounging on the circulation desk with plumed tail drooping languidly over the edge. His fur was fluffy, and his large, gold, almond-shaped eyes brimmed with catly bliss. As Qwilleran approached the desk, a woman lifted a small boy up to drop pennies in a bowl already half filled with nickels, dimes, and quarters. She looked at Qwilleran and said, “He took these pennies out of his own bank to help feed the kitties.”
Other patrons were scribbling on small slips of paper and dropping them in a pair of gift boxes with slots cut in the lids. One of the clerks behind the desk said, “Would you like to help name he-cat and she-cat, Mr. Q? They’re our new mascots. That’s her up on the stairs. She likes to supervise.”
Polly, coming down the stairs, stopped to stroke the brown-and-black fluffy fur with tortoiseshell markings. She said to Qwilleran, “This is the best thing that’s happened since the Dewey decimal system! One of the local veterinarians is going to give them a health check without charge. They seem completely happy here. When I came in today, they were playing tag among the stacks. The female is such a flirt! She flops down and looks at people upside down, and they’re absolutely smitten. One man is going to construct an eight-foot carpeted cat-perch.”
“Did you call the paper?” Qwilleran asked.
“First thing! And Roger was here to take pictures.”
“I’ll call Bushy. He might be able to get them on a cat calendar.”
“Be sure to drop some names for them in the boxes,” Polly reminded him. “Have you found out who left them on your doorstep?”
“Not a thing! I predict it will go down in Moose County history as an unsolved mystery, like the fate of the lighthouse keepers on Breakfast Island.”
Qwilleran left the library without telling her that the Bloody Creek “accident” was really murder. She would hear the shocking news soon enough.
It was aired by WPKX on the six o’clock news: “The body found in a wrecked car in Bloody Creek early this morning was a victim of homicide, according to the medical examiner. He stated that Phoebe Sloan was killed about twenty-four hours before the car went into the gorge. A suspect has been arrested and will face arraignment tomorrow.”
In the late evening Qwilleran phoned the police chief at home and said, “Andy, if you haven’t gone on the wagon, how about putting on your shoes and coming over for a nightcap?”
Brodie lived conveniently close by, and in five min utes the headlights of his car came bouncing through the evergreen wood, monitored by Koko, standing on his hind legs in the kitchen window. The chief strode into the barn with the swagger of a bagpiper and the roaming eye of a law enforcement professional. The first thing he saw was the recumbent bicycle, leaning against the stone wall in the lounge area. “What do you expect to do with that weird contraption?” he demanded. “If you ride it on Main Street, motorists will be running up on the sidewalk and killing pedestrians!” He took a seat at the snack bar, where his glass of Scotch and a wedge of cheese were waiting. He raised his glass and said, “Cheers!”