“Then enjoy your lunch, and don’t order the pie.”
He signed the tab at the cash register, and the cashier said, “I heard that, Mr. Q. It was really funny.”
“It’s an old comic routine,” he explained. “I couldn’t resist. I like to tease Mrs. Exbridge once in a while… . I’ll buy lunch for her party. Put it on my tab.”
“What a pleasant surprise!” Polly said when she discovered they were dining at the Mackintosh Room. “I hear it’s impossible to get a reservation on Saturday night.”
“It helps if your middle name is Mackintosh.”
“Did you hear anything about the commotion last night, around midnight?”
“What kind of commotion?”
“In Kirt’s condo. I thought Wetherby might have heard it and mentioned it.”
“Wetherby was probably off on one of his mysterious weekends in Horseradish. What was the commotion?”
“Kirt was having a terrible row with another man. I looked out the bedroom window, but there was no car in the visitors’ slot.”
“Have you talked to him lately?” Qwilleran asked.
“No, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable with him. He mistook my small-town neighborliness for something else. Have you talked with him?”
“Not since Koko scared him out of his wits with a pot of geraniums.”
When they arrived at the Mackintosh Room, the maitre d’ showed them to the best table in the house, and Qwilleran slipped him a little something.
“May we bring you Scotch eggs-with our compliments?” Derek asked.
The traditional appetizer was a whole hard-cooked egg encased in well-flavored sausage meat-served in lengthwise quarters with mustard and a garnish.
“I could live on these,” Qwilleran told Polly. “Are you going to eat all of yours?”
“Of course! Is my name Duncan? What did you do today?”
Be careful, he told himself; don’t mention Susan and the natal chart; don’t mention Amanda’s campaign song. Even Ronald Frobnitz was a secret.
“Nothing much,” he said. “Just moseyed around downtown.”
“Mosey! That’s the first time I’ve heard you use that word. I must admit it sounds like what it means.”
They could talk for hours about words. There was a game they played at dinner. The word “delicious” was out of bounds. On this occasion the eggs were robust, the grilled salmon was succulent, the salad had verve, Polly’s blackberry cobbler had zest, and Qwilleran’s seven-layer chocolate cake had a certain nobility.
“Have you had any more crazy dreams?” she asked.
“Yes, I dreamed that Koko and Yum Yum gave a party for Brutus and Catta. And they invited Toulouse and Jet Stream because a successful party always has more male guests than female guests.”
Between her laughter she said, “I don’t know anyone who dreams as fancifully and creatively as you do!”
The truth was that he invented dreams to amuse her; there were so many things they could not discuss, despite their intimacy: his hunches that began as twitches in his moustache; Koko’s remarkable intuition; the unofficial investigations that interested both cat and man. Polly did not understand and would not believe. Arch Riker, his lifelong friend, was the same way, saying, “It’s none of your business. Don’t waste your time.”
Whether Qwilleran admitted it or not, there was a kind of loneliness in his life. About the cats he would say, “They’re all the family I’ve got.” There was his alias, Ronald Frobnitz, of course. But if I ever start conversing with him, Qwilleran told himself, I’m sick!
On Sunday afternoon the residents of Indian Village swarmed out of their condos on River Road and apartments on Woodland Trail and converged on the clubhouse for the rally. Carloads of Amanda’s supporters also arrived from Pickax.
The event was held in the great hall, which had the feeling of a ski lodge, with its imposing stone fireplace, high ceiling crisscrossed with log rafters, and bright red carpet. For the occasion a large banner with the candidate’s slogan spanned the fireplace wall.
It was a well-dressed crowd. There were no jeans, T-shirts, or running shoes.
Qwilleran and Polly had walked over with the Rikers. Just inside the door Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers were selling large lapel buttons-yellow, with Amanda’s frizzy-haired caricature and her campaign slogan. She needed no financial support and stipulated that proceeds should go to the Ruff Abbey Trust. Everyone was wearing a button, and a large glass apothecary jar was filling with personal checks and currency of large denomination.
Amanda herself was not there. She would make an entrance at a dramatic moment. Meanwhile, Wetherby Goode was at the piano, playing show tunes, ballads, and a little Strauss. The crowd was circulating, drinking wine punch or fruit punch, and wondering why Maggie
Sprenkle was not there; she and Amanda were longtime friends.
Elizabeth Hart, an heiress from Down Below who had discovered Moose County and Derek Cuttlebrink at the same time, said to Qwilleran, “I’m so glad my rya rug went to you. I inherited it from my father; he had such good taste. Someone was bidding against you, but you topped him at the last minute.”
“I’m glad to know its provenance,” he said. “If we find any diamond rings in the deep pile, we’ll know where to return them.”
Ernie Kemple, majordomo of the Citizens’ Fire Watch, was there with some of his Pleasant Street neighbors: Theo and Misty Morghan, and Burgess Campbell with Alexander, his guide dog.
Whannell MacWhannell was there with an attractive middle-aged woman who wore her dark hair drawn back into a chignon. Polly whispered, “I wonder who she is? Her hair is a little too dark for her age. Mac’s wife is very ill, you know. She requires round-the-clock care.
Most of the women were wearing maroon or grape or burgundy, proclaimed the colors of choice for that particular season. “Precisely why I bought a brown suit,” Polly said. “I love my houndstooth scarf, Qwill. You have such good taste!”
Gradually they moved over to the vicinity of Big Mac and his new friend. Introductions were made.
MacWhannell said, “Mrs. Young is from Baltimore. She’s joining our firm after the first of the year. She’s a certified accountant.”
Qwilleran said, “From Baltimore to Pickax is a giant step-forward, I hope.”
“I think so,” she said. “My son lives here and speaks highly of it. You probably know him. Cass Young.”
So this was Jeffa Young, astrologer. Little did she know he was the talented, generous, trustworthy Gemini whose life she had just charted.
The music stopped abruptly to grab everyone’s attention, before Wetherby swung into the old Al Jolson hit “Mandy.” The big doors opened, and Amanda entered, followed by her bodyguard, Susan Exbridge. Amid applause the candidate marched to the fireplace and faced the crowd. She was wearing a tan gabardine shirtdress with four pockets. All one could say for it was that it was neat and clean. Her hair still looked uncombed, and her face wore a scowl of grim determination.
She waited until the music and applause ended and then said, “I have no intention of making a long speech,” She paused for laughter; Mayor Blythe was noted for his boring oratory. “If elected, I will pursue issues to a conclusion instead of tabling them for three years.” More laughter. The reference was obvious. “And I guarantee the city hall roof will not leak.” This brought whoops of mirth from listeners who knew how to put two and two together.
Immediately Derek Cuttlebrink appeared by her side with his guitar and played her campaign song to the tune of “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain When She Comes.”
We’d rather have Amanda run our city! She isn’t very sweet or very pretty
But she always sticks to biz And tells it like it is! And she’s not afraid to face the nitty-gritty.