"That was a brutal thing to do," Qwilleran said. "what was wrong with the guy?"
"He was a local boy from a good family, but he was afraid of marriage and afraid to break it off. His family was mortified."
"What happened to him? Did he ever show his face?"
"He joined the armed services and lost touch with everyone. Lynette was hospitalized. The worst part was returning the hundreds of wedding presents!"
Qwilleran said, "So we can assume that's why she doesn't want an item in the paper until after the ceremony."
"It appears so, doesn't it?" Polly agreed. "Danielle seemed less than happy about her cousin's engagement, it seemed to me."
"Someone should tell her she's not losing a cousin; she's gaining a cousin-in-law." Then, after a moment's reflection, he added, "Do you suppose Lynette is going to get her revenge by jilting Carter Lee?"
"Oh, Qwill! How can you be so cynical? She'd never do a thing like that!"
-11-
The morning after Lynette's birthday party and the surprising engagement announcement, Qwilleran was wakened by what he feared was a pounding heartbeat, but it was the thrum-thrum-thrum of Wetherby Goode's wake-up music on the Sousabox. The volume was low enough to eliminate all but the percussion, which reverberated along the steel beam running the length of Building Five. A brochure listing fifty Sousa marches, with dates, had been stuck behind Qwilleran's door handle by his friendly neighbor, but whether the morning selection was the "U.S. Field Artillery March" (1917) or "Pet of the Petticoats" (1883), one could not tell.
The Siamese, too, were awake and could hear and feel the thrum-thrum-thrum. Koko waiting for his breakfast sat on his haunches and slapped the carpet with his tail in time with the percussion.
A remarkable cat, Qwilleran thought; his tail was becoming more eloquent all the time. He fed them, brushed them, and joined them in a little active recreation. Although the day was cold, the sun was bright, streaming in the living room window and reviving the lone housefly that had come with the condo and was spending the winter in Unit Four, Building Five. In the game they played, Qwilleran stood with folded newspaper, ready to swat; the cats leaped and made futile passes and crashed into each other as the fly swooped playfully around the two-story living room. He had been living with them long enough to have a name, Mosca, and none of his pursuers really wanted to catch him.
For his own breakfast, Qwilleran had two sweet rolls from the freezer and several cups of coffee from the computerized coffeemaker. Then he got an early start on his column for February 1:
January is the jet lag of December, March wishes it were April, but February is its own month - noble in its peaceful whiteness, the depths of its snowdrifts, and the thickness of its ice. February is unique in its number of days. February is the only month that can be pronounced four different ways. It's the birthdate of presidents and the month of lovers. Let us all praise..
His typing was interrupted by the telephone, and he heard Celia Robinson's voice saying with unusual crispness, "Mr. Qwilleran, this is your accountant's office. The numbers you requested are two, eighteen, five, twenty-six, five. Repeat: two, eighteen, five, twenty-six, five."
"Thank you for your prompt assistance," he said.
"It was exactly as he had guessed. The code spelled B-R-E-Z-E. It was scoundrelly George Breze who suggested that Lenny Inchpot had "cracked up." According to conventional wisdom in Moose County, it was Old Gallbladder himself who was cracked - or crooked. Breze-bashing was a favorite pastime in the coffee shops, partly in fun and partly in earnest. He was suspected of everything, yet was never charged with anything, leading critics to believe that corrupting government officials was one of his crimes. Where did he get his dough, they wondered. On Sandpit Road he rented trucks, leased mini-storage units, ran a do-it-yourself car wash that was always out of detergent, cannibalized junk cars, and sold odds and ends of seasonal merchandise, such as rusty, bent, secondhand snow shovels.
Qwilleran returned to his typewriter. There was much to be said about February. It was second only to December as the favorite month of the greeting card industry. Commercially, valentines had an edge over year-end holiday greetings, which specialized in goodwill; valentines could be sentimental, passionate, flattering, comic, or insulting - something for everyone. Qwilleran described his own seven-year valentine feud that began in high schooclass="underline"
In my sophomore year there was a girl in Mrs. Fisheye's English Comp class who was brainy and aggressively disagreeable. The problem was that we were rivals for Top Dog status in the class. That year I received an anonymous homemade valentine that I knew came from her. A large red folder had these words printed on the cover. "Roses are red, violets are blue, and this is how I feel about you." Inside was one word - BORED! - along with a repulsive magazine photo of a yawning dog. I said nothing but saved it and mailed it back to her the following February, anonymously. In our senior year it returned to me, somewhat dog-eared but still anonymous. The charade continued annually all through college. Then I left Chicago, and that was the end of our silent feud. I don't remember the girl's name, but I think she really like me.
As Qwilleran typed, both cats were on his writing table: Yum Yum laying around on her brisket and enjoying the vibration transmitted through the wooden surface. Koko, the more cerebral of the two, watched the type bars jump and the carriage lurch, as if he were inventing a better way. Suddenly his ears alerted, and he looked toward the phone. A few moments later, it rang.
Qwilleran expected Polly to phone her day's grocery list. Instead, it was Lynette. "I had a wonderful time last night! Thank you again for that lovely brooch. I'll wear it to pin my clan sash on my wedding day."
"I'm glad you like it," he murmured.
"And the plaid cake was so clever! Polly said you brought it. Was it your idea?"
"I'm afraid I can't take the credit," he said tactfully.
"Now Carter Lee and I have a big favor to ask. Would you mind if we dropped by for a few minutes?"
"Not at all. Come at five o'clock and have a glass of wine."
After that, Qwilleran drove to Pickax to hand in his copy and have lunch at the Spoonery. He hoped also to see Brodie about Lenny's case, but the police chief was attending a law enforcement meeting. He attended quite a few of those, and Qwilleran wondered if they were held in ice fishing shanties on the frozen lake.
The Spoonery was a downtown lunchroom specializing in soups; it was the brainchild of Lori Bamba, an ambitious young woman who was always trying something new. Qwilleran sat at the counter and ordered the Asian hot and sour sausage soup. "How's Nick?" he asked Lori. "I never see him anymore."
"He' spending such long hours at the turkey farm, I hardly see him myself, but he's happy not to be working at the prison."
"For both you sakes, I'm glad he cut loose from that job. And how's the soup business?"
"I'm learning," she said with a good-natured shrug. "There's more demand for tomato rice and chicken noodle than for eggplant peanut."
"This, my friend, is Pickax," he reminded her.
"Do the kitties feel at home in Indian Village?" Lori had five of her own and was his mentor in affairs of the cat.
"Home is where the food is. Feed them at the appointed hour, and they'll be happy anywhere. There's one odd development, though. Our next-door neighbor plays Sousa marches, and not only does Koko beat time with the music, but he's started whacking the floor at other times."