-Scene Eleven-
Place: The Old Stone Mill
Time: Evening of the same day
Introducing: ALACOQUE WRIGHT,
architect from
Cincinnati
WHILE WAITING for Alacoque Wright to arrive, Qwilleran wrote two letters of condolence: one to Nigel Fitch on the loss of his son, and one to David and Jill on the loss of their brother. He had to work fast in order to seal the envelopes and affix the stamps before that maniac of a cat swooped in with his wet tongue. As soon as an envelope or stamp came out of the desk drawer, Koko stalked it with a quivering nose and an insane gleam in his eye.
Next, Qwilleran prepared for company. He straightened the gunboat picture over the sofa, removed used coffee cups and scattered newspapers, put on his best suit, and filled the ice bucket with cubes. "Cokey is coming," he said to the Siamese. "Try to be on your best behavior."
Koko made an ugly noise, halfway between a hiss and a snarl, and Qwilleran suddenly realized why. At that moment the doorbell sounded, and Cokey was admitted.
There were hugs and kisses appropriate under the circumstances, and then Qwilleran said, "I can't call you C-o-k-e-y any more. Koko will have a fit. He thinks it's his name being spoken. Cats are jealous of their names. Koko doesn't like anyone to touch his tail, pry open his mouth, or apply his name to any other entity-animal, vegetable or mineral. That's why we have only ginger ale around the house and not that other popular beverage."
"That's all right," said Alacoque. "Call me AI. That's what my husband always called me. How are you, Qwill? You're looking so healthy, it's indecent. I missed you the first time I was in town."
"I was Down Below, partying at the Press Club, inhaling polluted air and trying to get unhealthy again, so my old friends would recognize me."
"I must say there's something about country living that agrees with you."
"You've changed, too," Qwilleran said. "You're looking older and wiser, if you don't mind the dubious compliment." Formerly addicted to clothes that she made out of drapery samples, she was now the sleek, well-dressed, self-assured, city-bred, successful career woman -in pant - dressing suitable for climbing around a construction site.
"There's nothing like a good job and a bad marriage to make a girl look older and wiser," she admitted ruefully.
"I didn't know about your marriage. Are you divorced?"
"No, but I work in Cincinnati, and he's driving a truck in San Francisco, where he belongs."
She volunteered no details, and Qwilleran asked no questions. Walking to the small serving bar incorporated in the bookshelves, he remarked, "I suppose you're still drinking yogurt and prune juice."
"Lord, no! I'll take Irish neat, if you have it... Is that Koko? He looks older and wiser, too."
"The little one is Yum Yum. You've never met her." "She's adorable. How's your current love life, Qwill?"
"I don't know, frankly. I've been rather happy with a woman of my own age - a librarian - but she's beginning to resent the young woman I've hired as my interior designer."
"Stick with the librarian, Qwill. You know how I feel about interior designers! Remember when I was a reluctant assistant in Mrs. Middy's studio with all those calico lamp shades and mammy rockers?" Alacoque looked around the living room with approval. "I'm glad to see you've furnished in contemporary."
"I find it comfortable, especially with a few old books and old prints thrown in."
"Do you like living up here?"
"To my surprise, yes. I've always lived in big cities and had the big-city viewpoint, but people up here think differently and I find myself adjusting. Also, a town of this size has a human scale and a slower pace that I find comforting."
"That's the second time in a minute and a half that you've mentioned comfort. Is that a sign of growing older?"
"Older and smarter. In Pickax I walk a lot; I've lost weight, and I'm breathing better. We have fresh air, safe streets, minimal traffic, friendly people, boating in summer, skiing in winter..."
"Does Pickax need an architect? Young, talented, friendly female wishes to apply."
"I may need an architect soon," Qwilleran told her. "There's an old apple barn on my property that I'd like to convert into a place to live."
"I've always wanted to convert a barn."
"We're dining tonight at an old gristmill converted into a restaurant. I think you'll approve of it - both the food and the architecture. But first I'd like to give you a scenic tour of Moose County, whenever you're ready."
"Let's go," she said, draining her glass.
As they drove past farms, woods, lakes, and historic mine sites, Alacoque exclaimed over the grotesque shapes of weathered shafthouses, the stark remains of ghost towns, picturesque stone farmhouses, and a whole town of chinked log buildings on the lakeshore.
"And now we're coming into the Hummocks," Qwilleran said, "where the affluent families have their estates." The road swooped up and down nobby hills traced with miles of low, stone walls. Then he turned into a gravel road between stone pylons, marked PRIVATE. "This is the Fitch estate - hundreds of acres, in the family for generations. I've never been here before, but they say there are two interesting houses. One is a twenty-two-room mansion built in the twenties, and the other is a contemporary house that's been photographed for a national magazine."
The road curved around hills, ascended the rounded crests and dipped down again, winding between woodland and meadow.
"Gorgeous terrain!" Alacoque said. "Was it done by glaciers or bulldozers?"
They crested a hill, and suddenly in the valley below there appeared a sprawling stone house with many chimneys - and two police cars in the driveway.
"There was a murder here on Tuesday," Qwilleran explained.
"Was it a young banker and his wife?" Alacoque asked. "I heard the construction workers talking about it."
A sheriff's car backed out of the drive and blocked the road as Qwilleran approached, and a brown-uniformed deputy strolled over to speak to him. "This road is closed, sir. May I see your driver's license?" He glanced at the wallet Qwilleran offered, and his expression relaxed as he recognized the name and photograph of the richest man in the county, "Were you looking for someone, sir? There's no one here, and no one at the other house, either."
"My passenger is an architect from Cincinnati," Qwilleran replied. "She's merely interested in seeing the exterior of David Fitch's house. Its architecture has had national attention."
"I see," said the deputy slowly, as he thought about it, bobbing his head until the tassels on his broad-brimmed hat danced. "You can drive up there if you want to. I'll lead the way. There are some tricky forks in the road and some muddy spots."
The two cars proceeded slowly along the winding road. "Muddy spots!" Qwilleran said. "It hasn't rained for a week." There were no forks in the road, either.
Up and down the gentle hills they moved until the spectacular house came in view.
"Fantastic!" Alacoque cried. "It's inspired by those shafthouses at the old mines!"
The contemporary house was built of rough cedar. Five cubes, each smaller than the one below, were stacked to make an irregular five-story pyramid, until the top floor was merely a lookout over the valley below.
The sheriff ambled over. "You can walk along the terrace if you want to. It has a good view. You can see the big lake from here."
"Do you know who did the construction?" Alacoque asked.
"Caspar Young, ma'am."
"Do you know who designed it?"
"No, ma'am."
As she studied the house from all angles, she remarked on the use of massive timbers, the cantilevered decks, the integration with the terrain, the fenestration, massing and site orientation, the planes and angles and voids. The deputy, who accompanied them closely, appeared to be impressed.