What he heard when he played Celia's recording impressed him as a boy-meets-girl script for over-sixties. Her friendly voice alternated with a hoarse male twang:
"Are you Mr. Breze? Hi! I'm Celia Robinson from the manager's office." "Howdy! Sit down. Have a drink." "How do you like this weather? Pretty cold, isn't it?" "No good for the rheumatiz!" "That's a nice-looking shirt you're wearing. I like to see a man in a plaid shirt." "Wife give it to me eight years ago. `Bout ready to be washed. Heh heh heh." (Female laughter.) "Oh, Mr. Breze! You're so funny!" "Call me George. You're a nice-lookin' woman. You married?" "I'm a widow and a grandmother." "Have a slug o' whiskey. I'm divorced. Wife run off with a hoedown fiddler." "Is that why you're living in the Village?" "Yep. Gotta house on Sandpit Road - too big for just me. Know anybody with ninety thou to throw away?" "Ninety thousand! It must be quite a fine house." "Well, the roof don't leak. If I find me another woman, I'll keep the house and fix it up. There's a feller what says I can get money from the guv'ment to fix it up. Showed me some pitchers, what it'd look like. Mighty purty pitchers." "That sounds too good to be true, doesn't it? Who is this man?" "Young feller. Lives here in the Village. Don't know his name... Have a snort. I'm havin' another. What's your drink?" "Thanks, but I never drink on the job." "Don't go away. Be right back. (Pause.) Well, here's mud in yer eye! What's yer name?" "Celia Robinson. I'm substituting for Lenny Inchpot while he's away. Do you know him?" "Sure. He got thrown in jail for stealin'." "But people tell me he's a very honest young man. He's going to college part-time." "That don't make him honest. They found the goods on `im, di'n't they?" "I wonder who tipped off the police to look in Lenny's locker." "Warn't me!" "Do you know what kinds of things were stolen?" "Nope. Di'n't say on the radio. Maybe it said in the paper. Don't read the paper." "Why not, Mr. Breze? It's a very good one." "Call me George. It's a waste o' time readin' the paper. I'm a successful businessman. I don't need to read. I can hire people to read and write." "Are you telling me you can't read, Mr. Breze?... George?" "Could if I felt like learnin'. Never took the time. Too busy makin' money. Plenty o' people can read and write, but they're broke." "What kind of business are you in George?" "Any goldurned thing that'll make money. Wanna job? Can you cook?" (Click)
When the tape clicked off, Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. It was the old duffer he had tried to interview during the mayoralty campaign - the candidate who made news by polling only two votes. His house was an ugly, square, two-story barracks with a hip roof and a tall brick chimney rising from its center. Local wags said it looked like a plumber's plunger. A sad piece of real estate, it had no trees or shrubs, no grass, no window shutters, not even any paint. Breze himself was either pathetically naive or arrogantly ignorant.
Koko had been listening and making gurgling noises that sounded sympathetic, and Qwilleran suddenly felt sorry for Old Gallbladder. He had suspected the despised fellow on the basis of prejudice, not evidence. In fact, the moustache that was the source of Qwilleran's hunches had been entirely dormant during Operation Winter Breeze... So, if Breze didn't steal the goods and rig Lenny's locker and tip off the police, who did?
-13-
It was the weekend before the wedding, and Qwilleran and Polly were together again. As a peace offering he gave her the jewel box of polished horn and brass that he had been saving for February 14. For her valentine he had ordered a state-of-the-art stereo from a catalog.
Polly said one evening, "I always thought Lynette and Wetherby Goode might get together. She admires his whimsical weathercasting style, and they both play bridge, and he presents a good appearance, although slightly heavyset."
Qwilleran thought Wetherby's emcee personality might be too exuberant as a steady diet. "Carter Lee is laid-back, sophisticated, a perfect gentleman. Wetherby is the `Stars and Stripes Forever'; Carter Lee is Pachelbel's Canon."
"Did you know, Qwill, that Wetherby's real name is Joe Bunker?"
"That being the case, he was wise to change it," Qwilleran said sagely.
The Tuesday-night wedding took place in the social hall of the clubhouse. A white runner on the red carpet led to the fireplace, which blazed festively. Before it, a white-draped table held red and white carnations in a brass bowl and red candles in tall brass holders. A Valentine wedding, the guests said; so romantic! They stood on either side of the runner: chiefly Lynette's friends from the bridge club, the church, and the medical clinic, plus the Rikers and the Lanspeaks and John Bushland with his camera. Many of the men were in kilts; the women wore clan sashes draped from shoulder to hip.
When the recorded music - Scottish tunes for flute and dulcimer - suddenly stopped, the guests turned toward the entrance. The double doors opened, and Andrew Brodie in bagpiper's regalia piped the wedding party down the white aisle with the traditional strains of "Highland Wedding." First came the officiating clergyman, then the groom and groomsman and - after a few suspenseful moments - the bride and her attendant.
Lynette's clan sash, predominantly green, was a column of brilliant color fastened on her shoulder and cascading down the front and back of her long white dinner dress. She wore a wreath of stephanotis in her hair. The same green tartan figured in Polly's evening skirt and clan sash, worn with a white silk blouse. Qwilleran was resplendent in full Highland kit. Against the Duncan green and Mackintosh red, the groom's black dinner clothes looked ominously somber.
"He looks like a waiter," Riker later confided to? Qwilleran.
The ceremony was brief and flawless. There were no sentimental tears - only happiness - as the fire crackle on the hearth and the words were said. Then Brodie piped the triumphal "Scotland the Brave" and led the wedding party and guests to the dining hall. An oatcake was broken over the bride's head, and she made the first cut in the wedding cake with a dirk.
Champagne was poured and toasts were said and guests kissed the bride. Danielle was the first to kiss her cousin. "Give me a big hug," she said.
Even Qwilleran was kissed by many of the women including, of all people, Amanda Goodwinter. "This is turning into an orgy," he said to her.
"You said it!" she muttered. "Did you see how the Carmichael woman bussed her cousin? I hope Lynette knows what she's doing. It's bad luck to marry on Tuesday or marry in green."
"Don't worry," Qwilleran said. "With a silver coin in her shoe and oatcake crumbs in her hair, she's home safe."
Carter Lee was his usual charming self, flashing his winning smile at the guests in between fond glances at his bride. She was brimming with the joy she had lost twenty years before. When Brodie played a lively tune, she hoisted her skirt and danced the Highland fling.
Mac MacWhannell said to Qwilleran, "Too bad she didn't marry a Scot. Know anything about his genealogy?"
"No, but James is a good British name. You know: King James... P. D. James... and all those others."
"When they're back from their honeymoon," Big Mac promised, "we'll invite him to join the genealogy club." And then he said, "That was an interesting column on naming cats. We have two gray ones, Misty and Foggy, and our daughter in New Hampshire has a kitten called Arpeggio. It runs up and down the piano keys."
"The things you hear when you don't have a pencil!" Qwilleran said. "Send the names in on a postcard."
"No!" Arch Riker protested. "No more postcards! The mailroom is swamped! What are we supposed to do with them all?"
Mildred said, "My grandkids have a tomcat called Alvis Parsley. He likes rock and roll."
"I believe they tune in to a rhythmic beat," said the choir leader from the church. "Ours sits on the piano with her tail swinging to the music. We call her Metro, short for metronome."