He was explaining the situation to the receptionist at the clinic when the doorbell rang-three insistent rings. Only one person in Pickax rang doorbells like that. Amanda Goodwinter clomped up the stairway complaining about the weather, the truckdrivers on the construction site, and the design of the stairs - too steep and too narrow. The love of a good newspaperman had done nothing to improve her disposition or her appearance.
Wisps of gray hair made a spiky fringe under the brim of her battered golf hat, and her washed-out khaki suit looked unfitted and unpressed.
"I came to see if my free-loading assistant is making any progress," she said, "or is she just taking long lunch hours with clients?"
"I think you'll be pleased with what she's done," Qwilleran said.
"I'm never pleased with anything, and you know it!" She trudged around the apartment, glaring at the wallcoverings and built-ins and accessories, mumbling and grumbling to herself.
"Francesca plans to design some enclosures for the radiators," he said.
"Planning it is one thing; doing it is another." She straightened the gunboat picture, which Koko had tilted again. "Where did you get this print?"
"From an antique shop in Mooseville that's run by an old sea captain."
"It's run by an old flimflam artist! He never went farther than the end of the Mooseville pier! There are ten copies of this picture floating around the county-all cheap reproductions, not original prints. The only original is in the Fitch mansion, and it's there because I sold it to Nigel as a birthday present for Harley. Never did pay me for it!"
"I understand you helped the family with their decorating," Qwilleran said.
"There's nothing anyone could do with that place except burn it down. Did you ever see the junk old Cyrus collected? They're supposed to be treasures. Half of it's fake!"
"The paperhanger told me they have some pretty wild wallpapers."
"Arrgh! That tramp Harley married! I gave her what she wanted, but I made sure it's peelable wallpaper. I hope somebody has the sense to peel it off! They should go in with a backhoe and shovel out all the crap! All those mangy stuffed animals and molting birds and phony antiques! Don't know what they'll do with the old mausoleum now. Might as well dynamite the whole thing and build condos."
"Would you like to sit down, Amanda, and have a cup of coffee?"
"No time for coffee! No time to sit down!" She was still tramping back and forth like a nervous lioness. "Besides, that stuff you call coffee tastes like varnish remover."
"With the Fitch family virtually wiped out," Qwilleran said, "this community has suffered a great loss."
"Don't waste any tears over that crew! They weren't as perfect as the lunkheads around here like to think."
"But they were civic leaders - active in all the service clubs and all the fund-raising drives. They served the community unselfishly." He was aware that he was baiting her.
"I'll tell you what they were up to, mister; they were polishing their egos! Fund-raising - pooh! Just try to get any money out of their own pocketbooks, and it was a different story. And were they ever slow to pay their bills! I should've charged 'em the same interest the bank charges!"
Qwilleran persisted. "The daughter of the janitor at the bank is going to art school, and Nigel Fitch personally paid her tuition."
"The Stebbins girl? Hah! Why not? Nigel's her natural father! Stebbins has been blackmailing him for years!... Well, I can't stay here all day, completing your education." She started down the stairs. Halfway down she said, "I hear you're going to Chicago with my assistant."
"We have to choose some furniture for my bedroom," Qwilleran said. "By the way, when's the wedding?"
"What wedding?" she shouted and slammed the front door.
-Scene Two-
Place: The Black Bear Cafe
Time: Evening of the same day
Introducing: GARY PRATT, barkeeper,
sailor, and friend of
Harley Fitch
QWILLERAN had three reasons for driving to the Hotel Booze in Brrr on Thursday evening. He had a yen for one of their no-holds-barred hamburgers. Also, he wanted another look at the black bear that had scared the wits out of him at his birthday party. But mostly, he wanted to talk with Gary Pratt, the barkeeper who had sailed with Harley on the Fitch Witch.
He telephoned Mildred Hanstable, who lived a few miles west of Brrr, to ask if she would like to meet him for a boozeburger. She would, indeed! Women never declined Qwilleran's invitations.
She said, "I'd like to see what Gary's done to the hotel since his father let him take over."
"I hope he hasn't cleaned it up too much," Qwilleran said. "And I hope Thumbprint Thelma hasn't quit. I wonder if they still set ant traps under all the tables."
The Hotel Booze was built on a sandhill overlooking the lakeside town of Brrr. It was an old stone inn dating back to pioneer days when there were no frills, no room service, no bathrooms, and (on the third floor) no beds. In its "Publick Room" miners and sailors and lumberjacks gathered on Saturday nights to drink red-eye, eat slumgullion, gamble away their pay, and kill each other. From those turbulent days until the present the hotel had been distinguished by its rooftop sign. Letters six feet high spelled out the message: BOOZE
ROOMS FOOD.
Most of Moose County considered the Hotel Booze a dump. Nevertheless, everyone went there for the world's best hamburgers and homemade pie.
Qwilleran and his guest met in the parking lot and walked together into the Publick Room, now renamed the Black Bear Caf‚. At the entrance the bear himself stood on his hind legs, greeting customers with outstretched paws and bared fangs.
"The room looks lighter than before," Mildred observed.
Qwilleran thought it was because they had washed the walls for the first time in fifty years. "And they repaired the torn linoleum," he said, looking at the silvery strips of duct tape crisscrossing the floor. "I wonder if they reglued the furniture."
He and Mildred seated themselves cautiously on wooden chairs at a battered, wooden table. A sign on the empty napkin dispenser read: PAPER NAPKINS ON REQUEST, 5›.
Behind the bar was a hefty man with a sailor's tan, an unruly head of black hair and a bushy black beard, lumbering back and forth with heavy grace, swinging his shoulders and hairy arms as he filled drink orders calmly and efficiently.
Mildred said, "Gary's getting to look rather formidable. I'm glad he's taking an interest in the business. He didn't show much promise in school, but he made it through two years of college and stayed out of trouble, and now that his father is ill he seems to be showing some initiative."
Towering boozeburgers were served by a young waitress in a miniskirt. "Where's Thelma?" Qwilleran asked, remembering the former waitress who ambled out in a faded housedress and bedroom slippers.
"She retired."
Thelma had always served the toppling burgers with her thumb on top of the bun; now they were skewered with cocktail picks.
Mildred said, "I hope I didn't disgrace myself at the office party Saturday night."
"They were pouring the drinks too stiff. I had three corned-beef sandwiches and two dill pickles and regretted it later."
"I liked your column on Edd Smith, Qwill. It's about time he had some recognition."
"He's amazingly well-read. He quotes Cicero and Noel Coward and Churchill as easily as others quote the stars in TV serial. But how does he make a living in that low-key operation? Does he have a sideline? Extortion? Counterfeiting?"
"I hope you're only trying to be funny, Qwill. Edd is an honest, sweet-natured, pathetic little man..."