“We had dinner in Maggie’s apartment, and I must compliment you on cramming so much stuff into the parlor without suffocating the guests.”
Amanda growled. “I give the customers what they want!”
“Did you ever stand under the chandelier and get a treatment?”
“Did Maggie feed you that hogwash? What else did she feed you?”
“A delicious bisque I’homard, filet de boeuf, and mousse chocolat blanc.”
“No wonder it’s good! Stebbins has been making that for dinner parties for the last ten years!”
The Morghans lived on Pleasant Street, a historic neighborhood in Pickax. Large frame houses in Carpenter Gothic style were lavished with gingerbread trim around porches, doors, windows, and gables, giving the street a festive appearance and enhancing property values.
When Qwilleran rang the old-fashioned jangling doorbell at one o’clock, the door opened promptly and he was confronted by two frisky little dogs and a bright yellow sunflower, four times lifesize. It was on the person of the bright-eyed Misty.
“Nice shirt,” he said.
“Batik,” she said. “Come in, and welcome to the doghouse. … Go back!” she ordered them, and they trotted away.
“Good dogs,” Qwilleran said. “What are their names?”
“Harold and Maude.”
“Yorkshire terriers?” They were tiny things shrouded in long straight hair down to the floor. Ribbons tied the hair back out of their large, bright eyes.
“Yes, they were developed two hundred years ago by Yorkshire miners who wanted a dog small enough to fit in a pocket-for killing rats! Now they’re just wonderful companions and full of pep.”
Qwilleran said, “I was here when MacMurchie had the place. He retired from plumbing and heating and moved to an apartment.”
“Yes, Iknow. The house has fabulous plumbing. I believe that’s why we bought it.”
“Where’s your studio? Let’s see where you work.”
He had never seen a batik studio before. He was familiar with the weaver’s loom, the potter’s wheel, the metalsmith’s anvil, and the painter’s easel, but… this! “What are those large, flat pans?” he asked, turning on his tape recorder.
“Those are vats for the dye baths,” she said. “The batik technique is a process of repeated tub dying. Using melted wax, you paint out the areas you don’t want to be dyed, and you repeat the process over and over until you have all the colors you want-where you want them.”
“Complicated!” he said.
“Fascinating! It takes an understanding of color mixing and overdying.” She showed him several squares of fabric like pillow tops, illustrating the development of the design from vat to vat. “I’ll use these in my demo at the art center.”
Qwilleran said, “Where has this art been all my life?”
“It’s been around for centuries, originally in the South Pacific, Asia, and parts of Africa.”
“My wall hanging has an allover crackled effect that makes it look antique.”
“That happens when the wax cracks in the dye bath. I do it intentionally. Are you enjoying your batik?”
“I must make a confession. In response to public demand I exchanged the one with worm for the one without worm.”
She shrugged. “That’s all right. That’s why I made two. Will you have coffee?”
They sat in large wicker chairs built close to the floor. He wondered how he would get out when the time came.
“You weren’t at the reception last night,” Misty said.
“I wasn’t invited. How was it?”
“Well… you know those affairs.” She fluttered her hand. “But they did one nice thing. They invited me to hang some of my batiks in the foyer of the club, and as a result I got a nice commission. I’m not supposed to talk about it, but it’s so exciting-and I know you won’t blab. They want large hangings of the ten shafthouses!”
“Sensational!” Qwilleran said. “Do you think you’ll join the club?”
“Theo’s partner will, but we’re more interested in the curling club. And the theatre club. We met the Lanspeaks-wonderful people. And a big man in a Scottish kilt who’s going to handle the accounting for the clinic. And the mayor-very handsome, but he’s had cosmetic surgery. And one poor man must have had a terrible accident; I can tell his whole face has been reconstructed. I can’t help it, I have an artist’s eye that sees more than it should see. Theo says it’s scary. Funny thing, though. All the men at the reception said they liked my artwork, and all the women said they liked my husband.”
When it was time to leave, Harold and Maude appeared to escort Qwilleran to the door, and Misty said, “Who sings the puppy song on WPKX?”
“Derek Cuttlebrink. It’s not his normal voice. He’s played many roles for the theatre club.”
“Does he write his own songs?”
“Uh … it would appear so.”
“Would he write a song about Harold and Maude and record it? I’d like to give it to Theo for his birthday.”
“Well… no harm in asking, but I happen to know he’s very busy-attending classes at MCCC and working evenings as maitre d’ in the Mackintosh Room.”
“I’ll work on it,” Misty said. “What did you say his name is. Derek … Cuttkbrink?’
Having collected inspiration for his next column, Qwilleran turned his attention to unanswered questions. The first led him to Lanspeaks’ department store, where he hoped to see Carol or Larry. He found Carol setting up a scarf display in the accessory department.
“Good-looking scarfs,” he said. “I’d like to buy one for Polly. What would she like?”
“Well… she has that new brown suit, and I have a silk scarf that would give it snap-an oversized houndstooth check in brown and white.”
“Sold!”
“You’re my favorite customer, Qwill. Gift-wrapped?”
“Please … How was the reception last night? I’ve just interviewed Misty Morghan, and she was quite enthusiastic.”
“The Morghans are a lovely couple! We hope to get them into the theatre club.”
Qwilleran said casually, “I thought the officers of the club usually attended those affairs, and yet last night I met Henry Zoller having fun at a private dinner party.”
Carol lowered her voice. “He resigned the presidency when he left XYZ. I’m afraid there’s some bad feeling.”
Qwilleran left the store with his purchase and the answer to one question.
His next objective: a piece of apple pie at Lois’s Luncheonette, a good source of local information and comfort food. The lunch crowd had left, and Lenny Inchpot was clearing tables. He helped his mother afternoons, attended morning classes at MCCC, and worked the registration desk at the Mackintosh Inn in the evening.
“Too late for the luncheon special!” Lots Inchpot yelled through the kitchen pass-through.
“I’ll settle for apple pie and coffee!” Qwilleran shouted in her direction.
Lenny asked, “Will it bug you, Mr. Q, if I sweep up?”
“Not if you split with me any money you find. … By the way, congratulations on winning the last race before snow flies.”
“Thanks. I did it for Mom. But don’t tell her.”
“Would she let you sit down and have a cup of coffee with me? Or is she cracking the whip today?”
“Who’s talkin’ about me behind my back?” came the gruff challenge through the pass-through.
Qwilleran chuckled; Lenny grinned and sat down; and the conversation began:
“Last night I met Dr. Zoller for the first time.”
“Niceguy. He’s been staying at the Inn. Big tipper.”
“I tried to reach him this morning, but he’d checked out.”
“Yeah. Funny time to be checking out-eleven-thirty P.M.”
“Unless he was catching a plane.”