"But we need three aisle seats," she said.
"My husband is with the volunteer fire department and will have to leave if his beeper goes off. My sister has anxiety attacks and sometimes has to rush out in a hurry. And Grandpa Olson has a bad leg from the war and has to stretch it in the aisle." "Left leg or right leg?" Qwilleran asked.
"It's his left leg. He took shrapnel." "Then you'll have to take the left of the center section or the left of the right section." "Oh, dearie me! It's so confusing. There are so many people to please." Helpfully Qwilleran suggested, "Why not let me select a block of tickets for you, and if your family decides they're not right, bring them back for exchange." "That's a wonderful idea!" she cried gratefully.
"Thank you, Mr. Q. You have been so helpful. And I must tell you how much I enjoy your column in the paper." "Thank you," he said.
"That will be sixty dollars." "And now I need eight more for Saturday night," she said.
"They're for Jennifer's godparents and her boyfriend's family." It crossed Qwilleran's mind that Jennifer probably had two lines to speak, but diplomatically he asked, "Is your daughter playing Lady Macbeth?" "Oh! How strange you should mention that!" Mrs. Olson seemed flustered.
"She's really doing Lady Macduff, but..." "That's a good role. I'm sure you'll be proud of her." The woman scanned the lobby and then said confidentially, "Jennifer has learned all of Lady Macbeth's lines--just in case." "Was that her own idea?" Qwilleran was aware that understudies were a luxury the Theatre Club had never enjoyed. In a near-whisper she said, "Mr. Somers, the director, asked her to do it and not tell anyone. You won't mention this, will you?" "I wouldn't think of it," he said. When Jennifer's mother had left, he thought, So! Dwight is doubting Melinda's capability to play the lead!
And she's already making errors in prescriptions!
What is happening to her? Despite Qwilleran's desire to be rid of Melinda, he could hardly ignore her plight. They had been good friends once. Quite apart from that, he had a newsman's curiosity about the story behind the story. The towering clock in the theatre lobby finally bonged four, and he counted the money, balanced it against the number of tickets sold, locked up, hid the keys, and walked home slowly. Ambling through the cool woods he began to think about Bushy's photographs, particularly three Highland scenes. There was a lonely moor without a tree or a boulder or a lost sheep-totally empty and isolated except for a telephone booth in the middle of nowhere, and Bushy had added a woman digging for a coin in the depths of her shoulder bag. One was a haunting scene of a silvery loch in which floated an uninhabited island with a ruined castle reflected in the still water. In the background a gray, mysterious mountain rose steeply from the loch, and in the foreground a woman sat on a stone wall reading a paperback with her back to the view. Then there was a riot of flowers behind a rustic fence and garden gate, on which hung the Sign: Be ye mon or be ye wumin, Be ye gaun or be ye cumin, Be ye early, be ye late, Dinna fergit tac SHUT THE GATE!
In Bushy's picture there was a woman in the garden, and the gate stood open. The series ought to be titled "Tourism," Qwilleran thought, and as soon as he reached the barn he hunted up Bushy's yellow boxes and pulled out the three photos. Each one had its surface defaced by Koko's rough tongue, and in each photo the woman was Melinda.
Thirteen
That was the week that Moose County was discovered by the media.
Overnight it became the Teddy Bear Capital of the nation.
Qwilleran's story and Bushy's photographs ran in the Moose County Something with a teaser on the front page and the full treatment on the back page. It was picked up by the wire services and published in several major newspapers around the country, and a television crew flew up from Down Below on Thursday to film the collection and interview the collectors. During the week there was also a series of break-ins in the affluent Purple Point area, but this untimely happening was played down while the TV people were around. It was also the week of the Goodwinter tag sale, and on Friday afternoon Qwilleran attended the preview. Goodwinter Boulevard was a broad, quiet avenue off Main Street with two stone pylons at the entrance to give it an air of exclusivity. A cul-de-sac with a landscaped median and old-fashioned street lights, it extended the equivalent of three blocks, ending at a vest-pocket park with an impressive monument. The granite monolith rose about twelve feet and bore a bronze plaque commemorating the four Goodwinter brothers who founded the city. Their mansions--and those of other tycoons who had made fortunes in mining and lumbering--lined both sides of the boulevard.
Qwilleran usually found it a pleasant place for a walk, having interesting architecture and virtually no traffic--only an occasional car turning into a side drive and disappearing into a garage at the rear. Friday afternoon was different. The ban on curb parking was lifted, and both sides of the streets were lined with parked cars bumper-to-bumper, while other vehicles cruised hopefully and continually, waiting for someone to leave. Many had to give up and park on Main Street. As for the sidewalks, they teemed with individuals going to and from the preview, with a large group gathered in front of No. 180. Qwilleran approached a woman on the fringe of the crowd and asked her what was happening. She squealed in delight at recognizing his moustache and said, "Oh, you're Mr. Q!
They won't let us in until some of the others come out. I've been out here since eleven. Wish I'd brought my lunch." No one showed impatience. They chatted sociably as they edged closer to the entrance of the mansion. Qwilleran slipped around to the rear and used his press card for admittance, although the well-known overgrown moustache would have accomplished the same end. He entered a kitchen large enough to accommodate three cooks, where a Bid-a-Bit employee at the coffee urn offered him a cup. He accepted and sat down on a kitchen chair just as Foxy Fred walked in from the front of the house, wearing a red jacket and his usual western hat.
Qwilleran, turning on his tape recorder, asked him, "How do you size up this collection?" "Four generations of treasures going at giveaway prices!" said the auctioneer, who was not known for understatement.
"Most prestigious sale in the history of Moose County! Fifty or seventy-five years from now, our grandkids will be proud to say they own a drinking mug or a pair of nail clippers that belonged to a great twentieth-century humanitarian!" "But Fred, this kind of sale raises havoc with a quiet neighborhood," Qwilleran said.
"Why didn't you cart the goods away and hold an auction in a tent out in the country?" "The customer requested a tag sale, and the customer is always right," said Foxy Fred, gulping down a cup of coffee.
"Well, I gotta get back where the action is." In the large rooms on the main floor the ponderous heirloom furniture had been pushed back and rugs had been rolled up. Long folding tables were loaded with china, crystal, silver, linens, and bric-a-brac. The interior had the sadness of a house that had not seen a formal dinner, afternoon tea, or cocktail party for twenty-five years, the span of Mrs. Goodwinter's illness. Curious crowds moved up and down the aisles, examining the items, checking the prices and muttering comments, while red-jacketed attendants announced repeatedly, "Keep moving, folks! Lots more waiting to get in." There were also three roving security guards, making themselves highly visible and looking seriously watchful.