The next morning Qwilleran deposited Celia's briefing in her mailbox at the gatehouse. Snowshoeing was out of the question. The temperature was in the unbelievable fifties, and a steady rain was turning the white landscape into a porous gray blanket. Walkways an pavements hemmed in by the shrinking snowbanks were becoming canals. In the mailroom the sudden thaw w the sole topic of conversation:
"What does this do to the Ice Festival?"
"The fuzzy caterpillars were right after all. They predicted a mild winter."
"Yeah, but their timing was off-by about ten weeks."
"How much of this can the storm sewers take?"
Qwilleran took his mail home to open, throwing most of the communications into his Procrastination File - a small drawer in the hutch cabinet. One was a letter from Celia's grandson, enclosing snapshots of the dowser and a transcript of a tape recording. The other was an invitation to an opening-night party at Danielle's apartment - just a cozy little afterglow. RSVP.
When the telephone rang, he was pleased to hear the good radio voice of his next-door neighbor:
"Qwill, things are getting pretty sloppy out there, but we have to eat, and they say the road to Kennebeck is not too bad. Are you free? Are you hungry? Would you like to go to Tipsy's?"
"I always like to go to Tipsy's, rain or shine, with friend or foe," said Qwilleran.
"Let's take my van. It's bigger and makes bigger rooster tails."
"Apparently no one has shot the messenger as yet."
"Not yet! But the promoters of the Ice Festival are monitoring the ice from hour to hour!... "
-15
The two men splashed down River Lane in Wetherby Goode's van. "Some weather!" the weatherman said.
"How did the landscape liquefy so fast?" Qwilleran asked.
"Warm rain. Like pouring hot tea on ice cubes."
"The county's gone from a beautiful swan to an ugly duckling overnight."
"And it's going to get uglier," Wetherby predicted. "The rain, it raineth every day."
"Is the Ice Festival doomed?"
"I'm not predicting. I'm not even opening my mouth. All I can say is: The fuzzy caterpillars knew something we didn't know. The parking lot at the Dimsdale Diner is underwater, and the people in Shantytown are being evacuated. They're afraid the old mine may cave in."
"How about the Buckshot mine on our road?"
"The situation's not so dangerous. The Dimsdale mine, you see, is in a fork between two rivers, the Ittibittiwassee and the Rocky Burn."
Qwilleran said, "Our river seemed to be rushing faster and making more noise, but I don't see much rise in the water level. In any case, I suppose the bank is high enough to protect us. And we have all those cats in Building Five; if they can predict an earthquake, they should be able to predict a simple flood."
"The only bad thing would be if a freak wave in the lake sent a surge up the river. It might reach Sawdust City, but it wouldn't reach us. You don't need to give your cats swimming lessons yet."
"The schools will have to close if the buses can't get through the mud on the back roads. Perhaps we should lay in a supply of emergency foods. My barn was prepared for power outages - with canned goods, a camp stove, bottled water, and batteries - but I have nothing here. I should buy for Polly, too."
Wetherby said, "We can shop at the Kennebeck Market after lunch, if there's anything left."
"I suggest we shop before lunch," Qwilleran countered.
The town of Kennebeck was situated on a hummock, and Tipsy's Tavern was high and dry on the summit. The restaurant had started in a small log cabin in the 1930s, named after the owner's cat. Now it was a sprawling roadhouse of log construction, with dining rooms on several levels. In one of them hung an oil portrait of the celebrated white cat with black markings. The food was simple and hearty; rustic informality prevailed; and the servers were older women who called customers by their first names and knew what they liked to drink.
After a Squunk water and a bourbon had been brought to the table, Qwilleran said to his companion, "I suppose you're a native, Joe."
"A native of Lockmaster County. I came from a town called Horseradish."
"In jest, I suppose."
"You think so? Look it up on the map," Wetherby said. "It's on the lakeshore. Not many people realize it was once the horseradish capital of the Midwest. That was back in the nineteenth century, of course, long before Lockmaster County became fashionable horse country. If there's any connection, I can't figure it out.
What's happened to Horseradish - it's all summer homes and country inns now. Some of my relatives still live there."
"What brought you to Moose County, Joe?"
"Well, after college I worked in television Down Below, and then I had a mid-life crisis ahead of schedule and decided to come back up north. My first thought was Lockmaster City, but then I saw what was happening to Pickax City, and I liked what I saw. So here I am, with Jet-boy. Before him I had another orange cat called Leon, with a head as big as a grapefruit, no neck, and a disposition like a lemon. We were a pair, let me tell you! But that was Down Below. My disposition improved after I came home."
Qwilleran asked the logical question. "What happened to Leon?"
"He stayed with my ex-wife. He probably reminds her of me... What are you ordering? I always get the steak sandwich on an onion roll." Then he started talking about Lynette She shocked the whole bridge club marrying so fast after being on the shelf so long."
"Do you know she s one of your greatest fans? She goes around quoting your daily quips The no wind doth blow and we shall have snow She's impressed!"
"Too bad I didn't know that!" Wetherby puffed out his chest. "What do you know about her husband?"
"Not much. I was invited to be best man because own a kilt."
Yeah I think I was invited to the reception because I play cocktail piano."
Willard Carmichael told me that Carter Lee's a highly regarded professional Down Below and could do great things for Pickax Did you know Willard?"
Only around the bridge table but he seemed like a good egg. I hated what happened to him."
The steak sandwiches were served, and Qwilleran pushed the condiment tray across the tabletop, saying, "Horseradish?" Then he asked, "Does your hometown have any local yarns or legends that make good telling? I'm working on a collection for a proposed book So far, I have stories from Dimsdale, Brrr, and Trawnto Beach."
"I have a great-uncle in Horseradish who could tell you some doozies. The town had a problem with lake pirates in the old days. It was the chief port for the whole county, and pirates would board the cargo ships and make their victims walk the plank. Bodies were always being washed up on the beach with hands tied behind their backs. They were buried, but the poor souls couldn't rest in peace, so Horseradish had a lot of ghosts. People were kept awake by the moaning and door-slamming and cold drafts... Is that the kind of thing you're interested in?"
"Keep right on going."
One day a man came into town riding on a mule, and said he had the power to de-haunt houses."
Qwilleran said, "That would make a good movie, if it already been done."
"Don't laugh! This really happened! People gave him money, and he went to work in the attics, throwing sand around and chanting mumbo jumbo. Then he suddenly disappeared, along with some of their treasures."
"How about the ghosts? Did they disappear, too?"
"No one really knows. The victims of the scam were too embarrassed to talk about it... Sorry I don't have more details."
"I'd like to meet your great-uncle, Joe. I'd like to go Horseradish with my tape recorder. Would he be willto talk?"