At Qwilleran’s table they entertained themselves by bandying superlatives:
“Tipsy’s is the oldest restaurant in the county.”
“The Mackintosh Room at the inn is the newest-and best.”
“Lois’s Luncheonette is the shabbiest and friendliest.”
“Otto’s Tasty Eats-until it closed-took top honors for being the worst and the noisiest-“
“And probably made the most money. Otto has the building up for sale.”
“There’s a rumor it’s going to be an antique village-a cooperative where dealers rent spaces and take turns minding the store.”
Qwilleran knew his guests liked a Bloody Mary before brunch, and he ordered four. “But make mine without the vodka,” he said. “I’m underage.”
“Yes, sonny,” said the white-haired waitress.
When drinks were served, Arch proposed a toast to Lenny Inchpot, who had won “the last bike race before snow flies.”
“His mother will be thrilled,” Polly said.
“Lois will be serving free coffee tomorrow. Lenny’s a good kid. Ambitious. Hardworking. Conscientious.”
Mildred, the only Moose County native in the foursome, said, “He doesn’t take after his father. Mr. Inchpot never did a day’s work in his life. He was always ill, Lois said. She looked after him, raised their son, and supported them by running the lunchroom. And by the way,
her husband drank a little, saying it was good for his condition. One day he came out of a bar, stepped in front of a truck and was killed. Lois went all to pieces-until she found out the truth. Dr. Goodwinter didn’t tell her, but his nurse did. There’d never been anything wrong with Mr. Inchpot. He was a malingerer.”
Arch said, “That should lay to rest the notion that all the bad guys are in large cities, and all the good guys are in small towns. And how about the forgery ring, Millie?”
“That was way back when I started teaching. Three all-A students were signing report cards, writing absence excuses, and doing the other kids’ homework.”
The two men exchanged glances. They had grown up together in Chicago. Qwilleran said, “The only time we got into trouble, it was for humorous pranks.”
“Like putting glue on the teacher’s chair cushion,” Arch added.
“Cute!” said Mildred.
They ordered Eggs Tipsy all around, and the plates arrived in about two minutes.
“What took you so long?” Arch asked.
“Gotta wait for the hens to lay the eggs,” the white-haired waitress said.
The freshness of the eggs, flavor of the sausage, crisp-ness of the grilled muffins, and zippiness of the cheese were duly noted. Then conversation turned to the haiku contest being sponsored by Qwilleran’s column. His readers were invited to compose poems inspired by the Japanese style, mailing them on postal cards to the Something. Winners would have the thrill of seeing their entries printed on page two, and each would receive a fat yellow lead pencil stamped with “Qwill Pen” in gold.
Arch said, “Our mailroom is swamped! The response is double that of last year. That’s amazing, considering we don’t offer a two-week vacation in Hawaii or a year’s supply of chocolate-coated potato chips.”
Qwilleran said, “People of all ages and walks of life like haiku, because the form is written in plain language, about common experiences and emotions, and sometimes with a whimsical slant. An early Japanese poet wrote: Don’t worry, spider; my housekeeping is casual. And one of last year’s winners wrote: I never know what to say when I speak to a butterfly.”
He had promised that the winning haiku would be printed “before snow flies.”
“You didn’t give them much time to create masterpieces,” Mildred remarked.
“The shorter the deadline, the more response we get. Give them a month to think, and they forget all about it. What’s new at the art center, Mildred?”
“There’s an interesting new artist in town. Her husband is the new dermatologist from Chicago. She’s joined the art center. She specializes in batik wallhangings.”
“What are those?” Arch asked.
“It’s a centuries-old method of painting on fabric, using wax and dye,” Qwilleran informed him, enjoying his one-upmanship.
“How do you know?”
“I get around. I’m having dinner with her and the doctor Tuesday night. They want some advice on adjusting to the small-town culture.”
“How’d you like to write an advice column for the Something?” Arch came back. “You could call it Q Tips.”
They skipped the bread pudding, and there was
no lingering over coffee; their minds were on the auction. It was being staged at the community hall. Not only was the parking lot filled, but the police were allowing cars to park on both sides of Main Street.
At the entrance an older woman greeted Qwilleran with an exuberant hug and shook hands with his guests. She was Maggie Sprenkle, the same rich widow who had donated the bronze plaques, who served loyally on the library board, and who spent long hours at the animal shelter as a volunteer.
Many of those in attendance had bought tickets to support a good cause and spent their time circling the refreshment table in the center of the hall or making friends with the puppies and kittens waiting to be adopted, yipping and mewing, extending paws through the bars of their cages. Serious auction-goers headed for the bidding tables, where antiques, decorative objects, and handcrafted items were on display.
There were rows of folding chairs here and there, where guests would sit and sip punch. Maggie, a gracious hostess, would ask them, “How do you like the punch? I made it myself… . Are you doing any bidding? Keep an eye on the bidding sheets, and don’t let anyone top you… . Every item is worth at least twice the minimum bid.”
Qwilleran perused the offerings quickly until he found the Danish rya rug, draped over a rack and spread out over a table. The bidding sheet said “Minimum bid, $500; Minimum raise, $50.” No names had been signed to the sheet; no bids had been made. He signed for five hundred.
The Rikers came along and Arch said in surprise, “Are you bidding on that?”
A check of the bidding sheets indicated that Polly was bidding on a pair of Italian porcelain parrots.
Arch, who considered himself a serious and knowledgeable collector, was bidding on a piece of rusty tin.
Qwilleran said to him, “Are you bidding on that?”
“It’s a fabulous piece of folk art in painted tin,” he was informed. “It’s a matchbox. The idea is that the cat scares the mice away from the matches.”
Guarding the matchbox was the head of a cat with large, rapacious eyes; its tail formed a hook for hanging on a wall.
“What are they bidding on this?” Qwilleran asked.
“It’s up to two-fifty. I am willing to go three.”
“Three hundred?”
“Even at that it’s a steal!” A connoisseur of old painted tin, Arch had built an enviable collection Down Below, only to lose it in a divorce settlement. His ex-wife then had the effrontery to open an antique shop and name it Tin ‘n’ Stuff.
Qwilleran said, “Nice piece of tin. Hope you get it.”
He himself went back to the Danish rug to check the bidding. There was not a single name on the sheet, other than his own. Chuckling to himself, he raised his own bid and signed Ronald Frobnitz. Then he went in search of Polly.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“They’re pushing the prices too high. I’m dropping out. How about you, Qwill?”
“Someone else is bidding on the rug that Fran Brodie wanted me to have, but I’m keeping my eye on it.”
The crowd was moving toward the stage at the end of the hall, and he rounded up his party for a show featuring professional canines and their handlers.