On the front page was a full-length photo of Qwilleran in Scottish Highland attire. He groaned. Did they have to print it four columns wide and eighteen inches high? Did they have to headline it "Lady from Hell"? The ribbing from fellow staffers did nothing to ease his embarrassment:
"Hey Qwill, you look like an ad for Scotch!"
"Look at those knees!"
"What's that thing in his sock?"
"All he needs is a bagpipe!"
"Are you available for films and commercials, Qwill?"
He said, "Obviously it was a slow day on the newsbeat." He picked up an extra copy for Polly and left the building, briefly considering a week's vacation in Iceland. But then he drew upon the qualities that life had bestowed upon him: the aplomb of a journalist, the spirit of an actor, and the confidence of the richest man in northeast central United States. He parked in the municipal lot and entered Amanda's Design Studio through the back door, carrying a newspaper-wrapped package.
Fran greeted him, waving that day's edition of the Something. "Qwill! Your picture on the front page is fabulous! Marry me!"
"You'll have to wait your turn. Take a number."
"Dad even called me about it! He was all choked up with emotion - something that never happens. Everyone's talking about it."
"I'm afraid so. I'm thinking of leaving the country until it blows over."
"What do you have wrapped in newspaper?" she asked. "Fresh fish?"
He showed her the four dirks he had bought and asked how to display them on the wall. "I don't want them under glass. I want instant access in case of attack by the Pickax pilferer. He, or she, stole a dirk from Gil MacMurchie."
She unwrapped the dirks, frowned at them silently, then vanished into the stockroom, leaving Qwilleran to wander around the shop and look for a valentine gift for Polly. He found an oval jewel box shaped from natural horn and inset with a sunburst of brass.
Fran returned from the stockroom carrying an antique pine picture frame, a simple rectangle of wide flat boards mitered at the corners and waxed to a mellow golden brown. She said, "This was the base for an old ornate frame of gilded gesso, which was badly chipped. We stripped it down to the pine and gave it this nice finish. We can put a backing in it for mounting the dirks and then devise clamps or clips for holding them."
"Perfect! You're so clever, Fran."
"The bill will go out in the mail tomorrow."
"How's the play going?"
"Not splendidly. Danielle's become a temperamental star. We lost a good Judge Brack because of her. She wants someone exciting for the role, since they have so many scenes together." Fran looked at Qwilleran hopefully, and he could see where the discussion was leading.
He said, "Couldn't Larry play the judge?"
"He's playing Tesman."
"How about your friend Prelligate?"
"He's doing Lovborg."
"Why not switch Larry to the judge, let Prelligate do Tesman, and bring in Derek Cuttlebrink for Lovborg?"
"You're bonkers, Qwill. Derek is almost seven feet tall. It would be a joke."
"Derek playing Lovborg is no funnier than Danielle playing Hedda."
"Forget Derek!" she said with finality.
Qwilleran persisted. "In Macbeth he crumpled his figure so that he looked a foot shorter. That might work well for Lovborg, who has a crumpled reputation, so to speak. Furthermore, Derek is a popular actor, and you wouldn't have to worry about ticket sales. His groupies would attend every performance, and the K Fund wouldn't have to bail you out."
Fran rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Go away, Qwill. Just leave your dirks and go away! Leave the country! You need a change of climate."
Obediently he started for the back door, then returned, "Do you happen to know the family with the famous doll collection?"
"Of course I know the Kemples. I worked with Vivian Kemple on their house. It's on Pleasant Street. She and her husband are both involved in rare dolls."
"May I use your phone?" he asked, adding dryly, "You can add the charge to my bill."
A man with a particularly loud voice answered, and Qwilleran identified himself.
"Sure! We've met at the Boosters Club, Qwill. I'm Ernie Kemple." He was the Boosters' official backslapper and glad-hander, greeting members at every meeting.
"I'm calling about your doll collection, Ernie, as a possibility for the `Qwill Pen' column."
"Well, now... we don't like publicity. You know what happened to the Chisholm sisters' teddy bears."
"That was a freak situation," Qwilleran said.
"Yeah, but we had a doll stolen recently - not worth a lot in dollars but highly collectible. Makes you stop and think, you know... Tell you what: Come and see the collection for your own enjoyment. It's art; it's history; it's an investment."
"Thank you. I'll accept the invitation." It was a break for Qwilleran. He could satisfy his curiosity without having to write about... dolls.
"Tell you what," Kemple said. "Come over now, and I'll rustle up some refreshments. My wife's out of town, and I'm waiting for three o'clock so I can pick up my grandson from school. I retired January One. Sold Kemple Life and Accident to the Brady brothers."
"I'll be right there," Qwilleran said.
Pleasant Street looked particularly pleasant that afternoon. A new fall of snow had frosted the lacy wood trim on the houses, and the whole street was an avenue of white ruffles. The Kemple house, more attractive than most, was painted in two shades of taupe, reflecting Fran Brodie's educated taste.
"A most attractive house," Qwilleran said to Ernie Kemple when he was admitted. Like the exterior, the rooms showed the hand of a professional designer. Traditional furniture was arranged in a friendly contemporary manner; colors dared to depart from the historically correct; old paintings and engravings were hung with imagination. And there was not a single doll in sight!
Kemple replied in a booming voice that would make crystal chandeliers quiver. "You like it? I think it's pretty good myself. Comfortable, you know...But now my wife thinks maybe we should let Carter Lee James restore it to nineteenth-century authenticity. He and his assistant went through the house, making notes. But I hate to see it go down the drain. Vivian - that's my wife - says everybody on the street is going along with James. It's supposed to increase the value of the property, and maybe give us a tax break. What do you think, Qwill? This James fellow presents a convincing case. Of course, he's not doing it for nothing! But he seems to be knowledgeable, and people like him. What's your opinion?"
"I haven't heard his pitch firsthand, but Lynette Duncan is sold on him," Qwilleran said.
"The question is: Suppose we stick to our guns. Would we want to be the only holdout in the neighborhood?... Well, why are we standing here? Let's go in the kitchen and have some cake and coffee. I have a sweet tooth, and the Scottish bakers has this Queen Mum's cake that's unbeatable, if you like chocolate."
Qwilleran sat at the kitchen table and looked at a group of framed photos on a side wall. "Is the curly-haired blond boy your grandson? You don't look old enough to have grandchildren."
"Well, thanks for the compliment.
Yes, that's my little Bobbie. My daughter's divorced and living with us, and she works part-time, so Vivian and I get pressed into service as baby-sitters. And Qwill, I'm here to tell you it's the greatest thing that ever happened to a retired insurance agent! I have granddaughters, too, but they're in Arizona. That's where Vivian is now, visiting our son."
The kitchen was old-fashioned in its large size and high ceiling but updated in its cabinetry, appliances, and decorating. Slick surfaces made Kemple's great voice reverberate and made Qwilleran wince. "Have you ever been on the stage, Ernie?"
"Sure! I belonged to the theatre club for years. I played Sheridan Whiteside in The Man Who Came to Dinner. I left the club when we started doing a lot of traveling... Do you drink regular or decaf? We've got both. I grind the beans fresh."