Sweat shirts! That was Qwilleran's cue. He headed for; the men's casual wear in the rear of the store. It meant zigzagging through the women's department with their seductive aromas and silky displays. Clerks who had sold him. sweaters, robes, and blouses in Polly Duncan's size brightened when they saw him.
"Morning, Mr. Q."
"Help you, Mr. Q? We just received some lovely silk scarfs. Real silk!"
In the sporting goods department a young man was leaning on a glass showcase, poring over a gun catalogue. His pigtail and Fu-Manchu moustache looked ludicrous for a conservative town like Pickax.
"Do you have any sweat shirts?" Qwilleran asked him.
"On the rack." The clerk jerked his head toward the casual wear with a look of boredom. "Do you have any in green?"
"What's on the rack, that's what we've got."
"How much are they?"
"Different prices. Whatever it says on the tag."
"I'm sorry, but I didn't bring my reading glasses,"
Qwilleran said. "Would you be good enough to help me?"
It was a lie, but he enjoyed irritating clerks who irritated him.
Reluctantly the young man left his gun catalogue and found a green sweat shirt in a large size and at a price that seemed fair. While the sale was being written up, QwilIeran looked at fishing rods and reels, bows and arrows, hunting knives, lifebelts, backpacks, and other gear that had nothing to do with his lifestyle. He spotted one item, however, that would be most inconvenient for a lazy clerk to reach: a pair of snowshoes hung high on the wall.
"Are those the only snowshoes you have?" he inquired.
"We don't stock snowshoes in spring."
"What are they made of."
"Aluminum."
"I'd like to examine them."
"I'll have to get a ladder."
"That sounds like a good idea," Qwilleran said, enjoying his script and performance.
After some exertion and disgruntled muttering the young man brought down the snowshoes, and Qwilleran studied them leisurely.
"How do you keep them on your feet?"
"Bindings."
"Which is the back and which is the front?"
"The tail is the back."
"That makes sense," Qwilleran said. "Is this the only kind you ever carry?"
"In winter we have some with wood frames and cowhide lacing."
"Do you do any snowshoeing yourself?"
"When I check my traps."
"Do you use aluminum or wood?"
"Wood, but I make my own."
"You make your own snowshoes? How do you do that?" There was a note of sincere amazement in the question.
The clerk showed some slight signs of life. "Cut down a white ash to make the frames. Kill a deer to get the hide for lacing."
"Incredible! How did you learn to do it?"
The fellow shrugged and looked half-pleased. "Just found out, that's all."
"How do you make a curved frame out of a tree?"
"Cut it to the right size, steam it and bend it, that's all."
"Amazing! I'm new in the north country," Qwilleran said, "but snowshoeing is something I'd like to try next winter. Is it hard to do?"
"Just put one foot in front of the other. And don't be in a hurry."
"How fast do you go?"
"Depends on the snow - hardpack or soft - and whether you're in underbrush. Four miles an hour is pretty fast."
"Do they come in different sizes?"
"Different sizes and different styles. I've made all kinds - Michigan, Bear Paw, arctic - all kinds."
"Do you make them to sell?"
"Never did, but..."
"I'd like to buy a handmade pair, if I could see a selection."
"I have some at my folks' house. I guess I could get a hold of them next week."
"Would you bring some samples to my apartment?"
"Where do you live?"
"Behind the Klingenschoen mansion, over the garage. My name is Qwilleran." He observed a spark of recognition in the clerk's hooded eyes. "And what's your name?'"
"Chad."
"When could you bring the samples?"
"Tuesday, maybe. After work."
"What time do you quit?"
"Five-thirty."
"I have a Theatre Club rehearsal at seven. Could you get to my place not later than six?"
"I guess."
Qwilleran left the store in a good frame of mind. He didn't really want a pair of snowshoes or even a green sweat shirt; he wanted to satisfy his curiosity about Chad Lanspeak.
That was Saturday morning.
Late Saturday night or early Sunday, vandals broke into the Pickax high school and destroyed a computer.
-Scene Three-
Place: The rehearsal hall at the
Pickax community center
Time: Late Monday evening
Cast: Members of the Theatre Club, rehearsing for Arsenic and Old
Lace
"SO LONG, kids, See you tomorrow night."
"G'night y'all. Anybody need a ride home?"
"Good night, Harley. Don't forget to bring your grandfather's bugle tomorrow night."
"Hope I can find it."
"Anyone want to stop at Bud's for a beer?"
"Darling, I'd love a beer... if you're buying."
"Listen, everybody, before you go! Have your lines tomorrow night. No excuses! We start work on the timing."
"Nighty-night, Francesca. You're a slave driver, but we love ya."
"Good night, David... Good night, Edd. Don't worry about anything. You're going to be just fine. Glad to have you in the company."
"Good night, Fran," said Qwilleran. "You're doing a good job of handling these clowns."
"Don't go yet, Qwill. I want to talk to you." She was watching the others leave - young and not so young, talented or simply stagestruck, affluent or working for the minimum wage - but they all looked alike in their non-descript rehearsal clothes: mismatched pants and tops, illfitting, well-worn, purposely ugly. Qwilleran felt too well-dressed in his new green sweat shirt. Even Fran, who was meticulously chic on the job, looked sloppy in faded tights, running shoes, and her father's old shirt. Eddington Smith was the only one who had reported for rehearsal in suit, white shirt, and tie.
Fran sat down next to Qwilleran and said, "Qwill, you're going to be the hit of the show when you roar 'Bully!' and 'Charge!' with your thundering voice. But I'd like to see a burst of energy when you gallop upstairs with an imaginary sword. Remember, you think you're Teddy Roosevelt charging up San Juan Hill."
"You don't know what you're asking, Fran. I'm laid-back by choice and by temperament, and getting more so every year."
"Make an adjustment," she said with the sweet smile she always employed to get what she wanted. "You'll be able to practice with the bugle tomorrow night if Harley remembers to bring it."
Qwilleran said, "The Fitch twins are the ones who'll steal the show - Harley in his Boris Karloff makeup, and David playing that slimy doctor like a perfect creep."
"They're two talented boys," Fran said, "and such good sports. They're really wasted on banking." She glanced at her watch, yet seemed in no hurry to leave.
"I'm glad you gave Eddington a part to play, even though he's terrified."
"He'll be perfect for old Mr. Gibbs, won't he? But I hope he learns to project. He speaks in a whisper."
"No one ever shouts in a bookstore, and that's where he's spent his whole life."
"Anyway, here's what I wanted to discuss, Qwill. We want to do Bell. Book and Candle for our summer show, and we'll need a cat to play Pyewacket. Do you think..."
"No, I don't think Koko would care for the role. He's extremely independent. He doesn't take direction. And he prefers his own script."
"Maybe we should announce a public audition and invite people to bring their cats."
"You'd have a riot!" Qwilleran said. "You'd have three hundred cat lovers with three hundred cats, all wailing and spitting and fighting and climbing up the curtain. And the humans would be even worse - pushy, indignant, belligerent. A company tried it Down Below, and they had to call the police."