MacWhannell said, "I had to monitor the situation constantly near the finish time. When the last patch of snow was the size of a saucer, I phoned the paper, and they sent a reporter, photographer, notary public from city hall, and Wetherby Goode. They stood around, watching it shrink and holding a stopwatch. It disappeared at three- eighteen exactly."
Qwilleran said, "One wonders if the hot breath of the onlookers hastened the finish time."
"Not enough to make a difference. The nearest guess was four-twenty-two p.m. The winner was a carpenter from Sawdust City. He won a year's subscription to the paper and dinner for two at the Old Stone Mill."
The emcee rapped for attention. The evening would include the reading of Robert Burns's poems and the serious business of drinking toasts to Scottish heroes. First there was a moment of silence, however, in memory of Willard Carmichael, who had connections with the Stewart clan. Brodie piped "The Flowers of the Forest" as a dirge.
Then Whannell MacWhannell stood up and announced, "Tonight we honor someone who came to Pickax from Down Below and made a difference. Because of him we have better schools, a better newspaper, better health care, a better airport, and a column to read twice a week for entertainment and enlightenment. If you pay him a compliment, he'll give credit to his mother, who was a Mackintosh. It gives us great pleasure to add a name to our roll of distinguished Scots: the son of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran!"
Qwilleran walked to the platform amid cheers in English and Gaelic. A photographer from the Something was taking pictures.
"Officers, members, and guests," he bean. "I've long admired the Scots - with their bagpipes, kilts, and tolerance for oatmeal porridge. For hundreds of years Scottish fighting men, shepherds, and outlaws have worn the kilt and wrapped themselves in the plaid on cold nights, out on the moor. Wearing kilts they faced the muskets of English redcoats at Culloden, brandishing their swords and howling their defiance. In World War One, regiments of soldiers in tartan kilts stormed the beaches, led by intrepid pipers. They plowed through icy water, cursed the choking smoke, and fell to enemy fire, but the Scots kept on coming - screaming their battle cries and urged on by the screeching pipes. The Germans called them `Ladies from Hell.'
"Gentlemen, I confess it has taken some heavy persuasion to get me into a kilt, but here I am, wearing the Mackintosh tartan as a tribute to Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran, a single parent who struggled heroically to raise an obstreperous male offspring. Anything I have achieved - and anything I have become - can be traced to her influence, encouragement, and devotion. In her name I accept this honor, proud to be among the Ladies from Hell!"
Brodie piped "Auld Lang Syne," and the audience stood up and sang, "We'll take a cup o' kindness yet."
Later in the evening, after circulating in the lounge and accepting congratulations, Qwilleran said to Gil MacMurchie, "If you're going home from here, I'll meet you there and write a check." In short while he was on Pleasant Street, and Gil was admitting him to a house that was emptier than before. Qwilleran followed him to the glass- topped display table, hopping aside to avoid stepping on Cody.
"Sorry. I thought she was a black rug," he said. The dog was flat out on the floor, belly on the floorboards, and all four legs extended.
"That's her froggy-doggy trick. I don't suppose you've found a home for her, have you?"
"Not yet, but I'm working on it."
The four dirks with scabbards and brass hilts were under the glass in the curio table, along with the two brooches.
"Was the table not locked?" Qwilleran asked.
"Hasn't been locked for years! The lock's broken. The key's lost." He wrapped the dirks and brooches in newspaper while Qwilleran wrote a check for a thousand.
The Siamese recognized the sound of the car motor when he drove into the attached garage, and they knew the sound of his key in the lock. They had forgotten their original scare at the sight of the kilt and bonnet. Their greeting was positive without being effusive.
When he unwrapped his purchases on the kitchen counter, both cats jumped up to investigate the large round stones in the brooches, the brass hilts of the dirks, and the brass-mounted scabbards. Qwilleran withdrew one dirk from its scabbard, and Koko went into paroxysms of excitement over the blade, baring his fangs and flattening his ears as he moved his nose up and down the blood grooves.
-9-
When Qwilleran returned home after Scottish Night, there were messages on the answering machine from friends who had heard about his honor on the eleven o'clock newscast, and there were phone calls the next morning. John Bushland was one who called with congratulations. Qwilleran said, "I saw you taking pictures at the dinner. Was that for the newspaper or the lodge?"
"Both. I'm doing a video for lodge members: Brodie playing the pipe, MacWhannell reading Burns's poetry, and everybody whooping it up."
"Did Polly call you about Lynette's birthday party?"
"Yes, and I've got an idea for a gift. See what you think...On New Year's Eve I got a great full-face color shot of her, talking with two guys - wineglass in hand, eyes sparkling, nice smile. The light balance was just right, and she looked young and happy."
"Who were the guys?"
"Wetherby Goode and Carter Lee James. I could blow it up and put it in a neat frame. Do you think she'd like it?"
"She'd be thrilled. Do it!" Qwilleran said.
Then Carol Lanspeak phoned congratulations and said, "You deserve a monument on the courthouse lawn, but that will come later."
"Much later, I hope," he said.
"Are you and Polly free on Sunday? I want to give a quiet little dinner for Danielle. I know it's short notice." When he hesitated, she added, "She thinks you're a super guy, and it would do her a world of good if you could be there. You always know exactly the right thing to say."
Qwilleran was thinking fast. Danielle would be at Lynette's birthday party, and one evening with Goggly Eyes would be enough in one week, if not too much. He said, "You're right about the short notice, Carol. I've invited guests for Sunday and couldn't possibly cancel."
"I wouldn't ask you to do that," she said, "but we'll do it another time, won't we?"
"How is Danielle?" He thought it only civil to inquire.
"She's holding up very well, and Carter Lee is coming back, so she won't be lonely. It's important for her to do something constructive, and the lead in Hedda Gabler is a real challenge."
Qwilleran thought, It's a disaster waiting to happen.
"She's a quick study. I wish the whole cast could learn lines as fast." Carol was directing the play. "The main problem is that she doesn't like the actor that we cast for Judge Brack. It's a personality clash."
"Who's playing Brack? George Breze? Scott Gippel? Adam Dingleberry?" Gippel weighed three hundred pounds; Dingleberry was about a hundred years old; Breze was a mess.
Carol was not amused. "We have the drama and debate coach from the high school, and he's good, but he's dropping out. Danielle would rather play opposite you."
"It's out of the question." He thought, She's used to having her own way because she's gorgeous.
"I understand, Qwill. Sorry you and Polly can't be with us on Sunday."
Qwilleran had some errands to do downtown. He always did Polly's grocery shopping on days when she was working at the library, in return for which she invited him to dinner frequently. It was one of the mutual advantages in living only three doors apart. He rolled her trash container to the curb once a week; she sewed on buttons for him; they fed each other's cats when necessary.
While downtown he stopped at the office of the Moose County Something to pick up a free newspaper. The day's edition had just been delivered from the printing plant, and he found the whole staff in a state of jocosity, grinning in slyly and making abstruse quips. The reason soon became clear.