Qwilleran said, "It looks as if you're ready to move out yourself. What will happen to the house then?"
"The restoration won't start until after spring thaw, but that's all right. By that time more property owners will have signed up, and there'll be a saving on labor costs. The work will be done by an out-of-town contractor. He specializes in restoration."
"That won't make the local construction industry happy," Qwilleran said.
"It makes sense, though. The job's too big for the little fellers around here XYZ Enterprises could handle it, but Carter Lee James isn't impressed by the kind of work they do. He's been staying, you know, in one of their apartment buildings."
"I know exactly what he means, Gil. I live in the Village, too."
Cody was listening, pancaked on the floor in her froggy-doggy pose.
"On your feet, young lady," Qwilleran ordered. "We're going for a ride."
On the way to the country, Cody rode up front in the passenger seat, standing on her hind legs and watching the snowy landscape whiz past. The Split Rail Goat Farm was in the Hummocks, where drifts swirled in grotesque configurations and made familiar landmarks unrecognizable. The split rail fence that gave the goat farm its name had disappeared under the hummocks of snow thrown up by county plows, and the long driveway was a narrow white canyon. As for the Victorian farmhouse with its menacing tower, it looked surreal against the white background. Strangest of all was the silence.
Mitch Ogilvie, looking bucolic in his rough beard and heavy stormwear, came from a low sprawling barn to meet them. A few years before, he had been a fastidiously groomed and properly suited desk clerk at the Pickax hotel. After that he was the casual but neat manager of the Farm Museum. Now he was the cheesemaker on a goat farm.
"Kristi's milking," he said, "but she told me to say hello. She's all excited about getting the pooch. What's his name?"
"Cody is a she. You'll like her," Qwilleran said. He carried her into the house, saying, "Here we are! Good dog1 Nice new home!"
Mitch piled her luggage in the middle of the kitchen floor. "Let her explore," he said. "We'll have some cheese and crackers while she decides if she wants to live here. I wonder how she feels about goat cheese."
"In my humble opinion, Mitch, any dog who eats popcorn and bananas won't balk at goat cheese."
They drank coffee and sampled several cheeses and listened for canine noises in other parts of the house. Occasionally there would be a musical moaning as Cody talked to herself about some questionable discovery.
After a while Qwilleran asked about the procedure in getting the house on the National Register. Built by a Civil War hero, it was the only edifice in Moose County to have official historic recognition. A bronze plaque in the driveway testified to the honor.
"There was a lot of red tape," Mitch replied, "and Kristi and I have a lot of sweat equity invested in it. Luckily we had the experts from the K Fund advising us. There was one government printout six yards long that really threw me for a loop. To me it was all gobbledy-gook...Why do you ask, Qwill? Are you going to try and get your barn registered?"
"No, it's been irreversibly modernized, but there's a whole neighborhood in Pickax that hopes to be registered, and I wondered about the procedure. Do you still have the six-yard printout? I wouldn't mind reading it."
"Sure. I'll dig it out for you. With your sense of humor you might have some fun with it in the `Qwill Pen' column."
Cody, having okayed the premises, returned to the kitchen where her lares and penates were till in the middle of the floor. Mitch found her dishes and put out water and food for her.
"She'll be happy here," Qwilleran said as he put on jacket, hat and gloves. "Take care of her, she comes from a good Scottish household. And tell Kristi I was sorry to miss her, but goats come before guests."
It was Qwilleran's responsibility to pick up the champagne and birthday cake for Lynette's party. In ordering the cake from the Scottish bakery, he had requested a Scots theme, and he expected the usual three-layer confection with a thistle design in pink and green icing. His reaction, when he picked it up, was: Ye gads! It was a foot-square sheet cake frosted in all all-over plaid in red, blue, green, and yellow; a skewer was stuck in the middle, flying a paper flag with an indecipherable message.
"That `Happy Birthday' in Gaelic," the baker said proudly. "It's the first I've ever done like this. Do you like it?"
"It's absolutely... unique!" he said with a gulp of dismay, as he wondered what Polly would say. She might have another heart attack.
"I'll wrap the flag in a bit of wax paper. You can stick it in the cake when you get home."
Polly was having her hair done at Brenda's, and he delivered the cake to her condo, letting himself in with his own key and explaining to Bootsie the legitimacy of his errand. He had been given instructions to leave it in the refrigerator, the only cat-proof vault in the house, and he took the precaution of taping a sign to the front of the appliance: OPEN DOOR WITH CARE! WILD CAKE INSIDE!
Lynette's birthday party lacked effervescence, despite the bubbles in the champagne that Qwilleran poured. The hostess worried about the prime rib she was roasting in a new and untested oven. The bereaved widow was resolutely glum. The guest of honor seemed nervous; did she fear her age would be revealed? Background music might have relieved the tension, but the stereo was out-of-order. According to Moose County custom, the right-hand end of the sofa was reserved for the guest of honor. Carter Lee sat at the other end, wearing one of his monogrammed shirts. Lynette looked as if she had dressed to dance the Highland fling: pleated green tartan, black velvet jacket, and ghillies with long laces wound about her white-stockinged legs.
They said all that could be said about the weather. Carter Lee had no desire to talk shop. Qwilleran's skill as an interviewer failed him; his questions produced no interesting answers. To fill the silences, Bushy hopped around with his camera, taking candids.
When Qwilleran suggested that Lynette open her gifts, she said firmly, "No! After dinner!" Fortunately the roast beef was superb, the Yorkshire pudding was properly puffy, and Lynette thought the plaid birthday cake was stupendous.
For coffee and cordials the diners moved back into the living room, and Lynette opened her gifts: violet sachets from Polly, a silver "poached egg" from Qwilleran, Bushy's framed photo, a bottle of wine from Danielle, and the smallest of small boxes from Carter Lee.
It was obviously a ring. Was that why Lynette had been self-conscious and Carter Lee had seemed unnaturally shy? When he slipped the ring on her left hand, Polly gasped audibly at the size of the diamond. Danielle merely tapped the floor with her uncommonly high-heeled shoe. Bushy took another picture or two. Qwilleran opened another bottle of champagne.
Then the couple answered questions: Yes, they had set the date... No, there would be no announcement in the paper until after the ceremony... Yes, it would be soon, because they were honeymooning in New Orleans and wanted to be there for Mardi Gras.. No, it would not be a church wedding - just a small affair at the Indian Village clubhouse... yes, that' where they had met, across a bridge table.
After the guests had left, Qwilleran's question to Polly was: "Did you know anything about his little bombshell?" He was helping her clear away the party clutter.
"Not an inkling! They haven't known each other very long. I hope she knows what she's doing."
"I thought she was deeply involved at the church. Why no church wedding?" he asked.
"I can guess why," Polly said. "I was in her wedding party twenty years ago when she was left waiting at the church - literally. She was in her grandmother's satin gown with yards of veil. She was carrying white roses and violets. Six attendants were in violet taffeta. The church was filled with wedding guests. But the groom and groomsman didn't arrive. Someone telephoned the hotel; they had left, so they must be on the way. The organist started playing voluntaries to reassure the fidgety guests. Someone called the police to inquire if there had been an accident. We waited in the afternoon, and waited, and waited. Lynette started looking pale, then she turned the color of our dresses and passed out. The groom never showed up."