“Go east another mile to Old Glory Road,” Wetherby said.
“There’s a mine down there,” Qwilleran said. “Has it occurred to anyone that these fires are at minesites?”
“Well, the theory is that these abandoned mines are bordered by secluded dirt roads that kids use as lovers’ lanes. The chances are that they smoke and throw cigarettes out the window… . You don’t hear of any fires starting in daylight.”
Approaching the Old Glory Mine, they could see the taillights of a car receding in the distance.
Two
It was Hixie Rice’s idea to stage a Shafthouse Motorcade. She was promotion director for the Moose County Something, and the newspaper agreed to underwrite expenses as a public service. Dwight Somers, a public relations consultant, donated his services, and the third member of the planning committee was Maggie Sprenkle, the “anonymous” donor of the ten bronze plaques.
There were ten abandoned mines in Moose County, some dating as far back as 1850. Mining and lumbering had made it the richest county in the state before World War One. Now the minesites were expanses of barren ground enclosed in high chain-link fences and posted with red signs saying: DANGER-KEEP OUT. In the center of each site was the old shafthouse-a weathered wood tower about forty feet high. Architecturally, it looked like a lofty pile of sheds on top of sheds.
A tourist magazine had called it “a cubist artwork-so ugly, it’s beautiful!”
Artists painted impressions of the shafthouses in watercolors and oils. Visitors’ cameras clicked thousands of times-no, tens of thousands! Locals revered the shafthouses as monuments to the county’s distinguished past.
On the morning of the motorcade, while Qwilleran was preparing a particularly toothsome breakfast for the Siamese, he tuned in the hourly news briefs on WPKX and heard:
“Another wildfire in the vicinity of a minesite was reported during the night and brought under control by Kennebeck firefighters. The Old Glory Mine in Suffix Township was the scene of burning weeds and underbrush, threatening the shafthouse, one of the oldest in the county. All ten shafthouses will be honored as historic places this afternoon when the Shafthouse Motorcade winds through the back roads, dedicating the newly installed bronze markers. County commissioners will officiate.”
Without waiting for the high school football scores, he turned the radio off. Then the doorbell rang, and the most glamorous young woman in town was standing on the doorstep. “I got your message. I’m on my way to work. What’s the problem?”
Fran Brodie, a resident of Indian Village, was second in command at Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design. She was also the police chief’s daughter-a fact that counted for something in Qwilleran’s book.
“Come in and look around,” he said. “This place has been in mothballs all summer and looks neglected… . Cup of coffee?”
She accepted and walked around with it, studying the interior. “After snow flies,” she said, “the view from these windows will be all black and white. You could use a splash of red over the mantel, and I have a batik wall hanging, three-by-four, done by a new artist in town.” Noting the vacant look on her client’s face, she added, “As you probably know, that’s painting on fabric, using a wax-and-dye method, centuries old. We’ll repeat the red in some polished cotton toss pillows for the sofa-large plump ones. The cats will love them! And I’ll send you a bowl of red delicious apples for the coffee table. Don’t try to eat them; they’re painted wood.” She had a breezy manner with her male clients that intimidated some and entertained others. Qwilleran was always amused.
Shewenton. “Where did you get that copper lamp? Not from me! The shade is all wrong.”
It was the tall lamp on the chest in the foyer. “Don’t you like it? A local metalsmith had it in the craft show.”
“It’s all right, but it would look a hundred percent better with a brown shade-a square pyramidal shape to complement the square base. I’ll send one over with the batik and pillows.”
“And wooden apples,” Qwilleran reminded her.
“Who scattered the seating pieces like this?”
“Probably the painters when they repaired the water damage.”
“My installer will arrange it properly when he makes the deliveries. I’ll have him group it in a U-plan, facing the fireplace. Then all you need is an important rug.” Her well-made-up face that had been frowning in concentration suddenly brightened. “I know where you can get a lush Danish rya rug-handmade-six-by-eight-vintage design, circa 1950-“
For only ten thousand,” he said with a smirk.
Fran gave him a brief look of annoyance. “It’s in the silent auction tomorrow. You’ll have to bid on it. It’s a vetted sale, and I was on the selection committee. That’s how I know about it.”
“Should I know what a silent auction is?”
“Well, the way this one works… business firms and individuals have donated items to be sold, proceeds going to the Pickax animal shelter. They’ll be on display at the community hall. You buy an admission ticket, walk around and look at them, drink some punch, enjoy the entertainment, and socialize. If you see an item you like, you sign your name and the amount you want to bid. Someone else can come along and raise your bid. That’s what makes it exciting.”
“Hmmm,” Qwilleran mused. “How much do you think I should bid on the rug-that is, if I like it.”
“The minimum acceptable bid is five hundred. You can take it from there. It’s fun to go around and see who’s bidding on what-and how much. Friends raise each other’s bids-just for deviltry.”
“Arch Riker might like to attend,” Qwilleran said with malice aforethought.
“I hope you get the rug,” Fran said. “The cats will love it!” On the way out she saw the carved oak glove box alongside the copper lamp. “Is that where you store your old love letters?”
Qwilleran immediately phoned the Riker residence. Arch had been his lifelong friend, and now he was editor in chief and publisher of the Something; his wife, Mildred, was food editor. She answered.
“What’s Arch doing?” Qwilleran demanded.
“Reading out-of-town newspapers.”
“Puthimon.”
His friend came to the phone with the preoccupied attitude of one who is three days behind with his New York Times.
“Arch!” Qwilleran shouted to get his attention. “How would it be if the four of us went to Sunday brunch at Tipsy’s Tavern tomorrow? And then to the silent auction at the community hall? I hear they have some pretty good stuff.”
It was an irresistible invitation to a gourmand who was also a collector. “What time? Who drives? Do they take credit cards?” Arch asked.
Pleased with the arrangements, Qwilleran dressed for the motorcade and went downtown for an early lunch. Whatever time he had to kill before the push-off could be spent enjoyably at the used-book store. He had his favorite Reuben sandwich at Rennie’s in the Mackintosh Inn and was about to leave the building when he heard his name called.
“Qwill! I was just thinking about you!”
“Think of the devil… How’s everything with you, Barry?”
“Great!”
The K Fund, now owners of the inn, had sent Barry Morghan from Chicago to manage it.
“Are you ready for the Big One?” Qwilleran asked. As ready as I’ll ever be. It can’t be as bad as they say.” All that-and worse. But if you can survive the first three days, you’re home free. The county has a fleet of snow-handling equipment comparable to a Greek shipping magnate’s fleet of oil tankers-thanks to the K Fund.”
“Great! Do you have a couple of minutes to talk?”