He left her before she could offer him a carrot stick and drove to the art center.
The parking lot was filled to overflowing, and the manager, Barb Ogilvie, greeted him with excitement. “Qwill! Look at the response to your column about batik-printing! Standing room only! Do you want to squeeze in? It’s almost over.”
He chose to wait in the downstairs gallery until the scraping of chairs, hubbub of voices, and chugging of departing vehicles told him the program was over. Misty was thrilled with the attendance and the number who signed up for the course: eight women and one man, some of them from Lockmaster County. “This is my week!” she said to Qwilleran. “First the really super column that you wrote-then the great turnout-and then, this afternoon, I sign the contract for ten shafthouse batiks. My patron doesn’t want the commission or his identity to be known until the project is finished, but I’ll give you a sneak peek at the sketches if you’ll promise not to tell.”
The ten shafthouses were basically similar, but the artist’s eye had discerned their individuality. The structures were sketched from different angles, and wildlife was introduced: a doe with fawn, a raccoon, crows chasing a hawk, an antlered buck, a pair of squirrels.
Misty said, “I normally ask two thousand for a three-by-four, custom-designed, but I’ll have to buy extra vats and hire students to help, and Theo thinks I should ask five thousand. But that sounds rather high to me.”
Qwilleran agreed with her husband. “Your patron sounds less like an art lover and more like an investor who thinks shafthouses will disappear from the landscape and the batiks will appreciate in value.”
On the way out he had a few words with the manager. Barb Ogilvie loved her new job, was teaching a class in art-knitting, and had started dating Misty’s brother-in-law.
Walking to the parking lot, Qwilleran said, “Hi!” to a tall man who was taking long strides toward the building. The tall man made an equally expressionless response. Wait a minute! Qwilleran told himself; that was Don Exbridge! He’s going in to sign the contract for ten batiks! He has no interest in art and had no interest in shafthouses until his recent letter to the editor-and that was of questionable sincerity.
Hurrying to the cell phone in his van, Qwilleran called the building he had just left and asked to speak with Misty.
Barb said, “She’s just gone into an important conference-“
“This is more important-and confidential, Barb. Qwill speaking. Have her take the call in your office. Don’t mention my name.”
Misty came to the phone with wariness in her hello.
“This is Qwill,” he said. “I saw your patron entering the building and know who he is-a shrewd operator. Take Theo’s advice. Ask five thousand. He can afford it, and the art is worth it. Also, ask innocently what he intends to do with them. His reaction should be revealing. If he gives you an answer, it should be interesting, though not necessarily honest.”
“You drive!” the weatherman said to Qwilleran when they met at six P.M. “I’ve got the jitters.” As they headed for the Nutcracker Inn, he explained. “I just got a bummer of a letter from my ex-wife - first one since the divorce five years ago. She wants us to get together again! How do I handle it? Ignore it? Tell her to drop dead? There’s no point in trying to explain reasonably; she’s like a bulldog - won’t let go. I like my lifestyle, my job, my friends, the idea of having relatives in Horseradish. Also, there’s a girl down there that I like a lot - nothing serious.”
Qwilleran said, “I suspected you didn’t go down there to visit your sisters and your cousins and your aunts. Why did your marriage break up, if I may ask?”
“She wanted me to go back to school, get another degree, and become a serious scientist. Let’s face it, I’m an entertainer, and weather is my gimmick! But she nagged and nagged and nagged. Why did your marriage break up, Qwill?”
“In-law trouble. She married me without her parents’ permission. In the first place they scorned the media, and I was a gypsy-journalist, working for a different paper every two years, taking assignments all over the globe. They talked her into divorcing me, saying I wasn’t good enough for her - I’d never amount to anything - I drank. Soon after, she had a nervous breakdown, for which I was blamed, of course. Her parents were loaded, but they sent me her hospital bills. After that I really hit the bottle. Couldn’t hold a job. Almost killed myself before I came to my senses and got help. … I usually don’t go into these details.”
“How would you feel, Qwill, if she suddenly suggested a reconciliation?”
“She died a few years ago-in an institution.”
For a while there was nothing to say, until Qwilleran remarked, “With so many failed marriages, one forgets how many are successfuclass="underline" the Lanspeaks, the MacWhannells, Junior and Jody Goodwinter, Fran Brodie’s parents, the MacGillivrays, Lori and Nick Bamba, the Buster Ogilvies, Homer Tibbitt and Rhoda-“
“The Tibbitts are practically newlyweds,” Wetherby said.
“At their age, every year counts ten… . What about the mayor? I never hear anything about his home life.”
“He has a wife, no kids. Betty’s a homebody; hizzoner goes out selling stocks and bonds, playing golf, and pressing the flesh. His wife runs a mail-order business for her handcrafts. Have you heard of Betty Blythe’s Bunwarm-ers?”
“No! And I’m gripping the steering wheel to avoid falling off the seat. What are they?”
“Handmade baskets with handwoven napkins for keeping dinner rolls warm. She advertises in craft magazines and does very well.”
Only one old building remained in Black Creek, which had been a thriving town on a busy water—
way in the nineteenth century. The Limburger mansion had been purchased by the Klingenschoen Foundation and was now making its debut as a country inn. There had been magnificent black walnut trees in the vicinity, and the mansion had the treasured black walnut woodwork. Hence the name: the Nutcracker Inn.
Qwilleran said to Wetherby, “I was in this house when the old man was alive-an eccentric old geezer. There was a cuckoo clock in the front hall. It’s gone.”
“A good thing, too!” was the reply. “It would have driven the guests crazy. Or perhaps I should say: cuckoo.”
When the innkeeper welcomed them, Qwilleran asked about facilities for lodging and was told there were four large rooms on the second floor, two suites on the third floor, and five semi-housekeeping cabins down by the creek.
“Open all year round?”
“That depends what happens after snow flies. The K Foundation will make the decision. I’m Chicago-based, under contract to train staff and get the place running, then hire permanent innkeepers from the locality.”
“I know the ideal couple,” Qwilleran said. “Lori and Nick Bamba have the personality for innkeeping and a certain amount of experience.”
“Good! Tell them to apply to the K Foundation.”
When they were seated in the dining room, Wetherby said, “I remember the Bambas. They had a B&B at Breakfast Island. What happened?”
“The weather didn’t cooperate. Lori is working at the Pet Plaza now.”
“Kennebeck is having its annual roundup of stray cats before the Big One moves in. Any stray that’s adopted will be spayed or neutered-with Tipsy’s Tavern paying for it.”
“Tipsy herself was a stray, seventy years ago,” Qwilleran said.
“Did you see that teaser ad for a new recreation center in Pickax? What do you suppose it is?”
“Who knows? They promise fun for the whole family.”
“And did you see the letters to the editor in Monday’s paper? They’re all nuts! Did you hear that we have a professional astrologer living in the Village? I’m thinking of having my horoscope done. She does it in depth. Why don’t you have yours done, Qwill? I’m a Scorpio, sexy and talkative. What are you?”