"I'm getting out of here," said the director.
"The line is the equivalent of twelve blocks long!" "Would you like to come over to the barn for a drink or a cup of coffee?" "I'd sure like to see your barn. I'm parked in the theatre lot." After he picked up his tin whistle from his car, they started out on foot through the woods.
"A hundred years ago," Qwilleran explained, "this barn serviced a large apple orchard." "Larry told me about the murder in the orchard following a Theatre Club party. That was quite a story!" "That was quite a party! Have you been lucky enough to plug into the Pickax grapevine?" "I'm not a full subscriber yet. I think I'm on probation." "The barn was used for storing apples and pressing cider originally, and even after it was renovated we could smell apples in certain weather. The orchard suffered a blight at one time, and the dead wood has been removed, but when the wind blows through the remaining trees, it sounds like a harmonica and frightens the cats." "How many do you have?" Dwight asked.
"Two cats.
Forty-seven trees." Dwight was properly impressed by the octagonal shape of the barn and the interior system of ramps and balconies surrounding the central fireplace cube. The Siamese, who usually disappeared when a stranger entered, did him the honor of approaching within ten feet, and Koko struck a pose like an Egyptian bronze.
"Beautiful animals," said the visitor.
"I used to have a Siamese--which enough I was married. Why is the little one staring at me like that?" "She's fascinated by your beard. She likes beards, moustaches, toothbrushes, hair brushes--was Qwilleran said.
"What'll you have to drink?" "It's early. Make it coffee." While they waited for the promising gurgle of the computerized coffeemaker, Qwilleran asked, "What brought you to Moose County, Dwight? Most people don't even know it exists." "To tell the truth, I'd never heard of it until the placement agency sent me up here. The company I worked for in Des Moines merged with another, and I was out sourced XYZ Enterprises was looking for a PR rep who could contribute to the community in some useful way and improve their corporate image, which is pretty grim right now." "I know. Developers frighten people.
The general public doesn't like to see changes in the landscape, for better or worse." "That's the truth! My chief asset was that I'd acted and directed in community theatre, so here I am, and I like it! Never thought I'd like living in a small town." "This is not your average small town," Qwilleran pointed out as he served the coffee.
"I can see that! Our basic idea is to make our presence felt in a positive way through participation. For example, we're collaborating with the hospital auxiliary on the first annual Distinguished Women Awards next Friday. A couple of your friends are on the list." "How's the play shaping up?" "On the whole I'm pleased with it. Wally To.whistle built some fabulous sets out of junk. Fran Brodie designed the costumes, and Wally's mother is making them.
Fran is co director--a very talented girl! Attractive, too--with those race-horse legs! Has she ever been married?" "I don't think so.
Do you know she designed the interior of this barn?" Dwight glanced at the square-cut contemporary furniture, the Moroccan rugs, the large-scale tapestries.
"She did a great job! She did Melinda's apartment, too. That girl must have spent a mint on it!" "Melinda has expensive tastes." Dwight had put his tin whistle on the coffee table, and Yum Yum was stalking it. With her body close to the floor she was creeping in slow motion toward the shiny black tube. Just before she pounced, Qwilleran shouted a sharp "No!" and she slunk away backwards as slowly as she had advanced.
"She'll steal anything that weighs less than two ounces," he explained.
Dwight said, "I brought the whistle to get your opinion, Qwill. I'm going to tape some weird tunes to play during the witches' scenes." He picked up the whistle and tootled some wild, shrill notes that sent Koko and Yum Yum hurtling up the ramp and out of sight, with their ears back and their tails bushed.
"I think you've hit it right," Qwilleran said.
"Even the cats' hair is standing on end... How did your Macduff turn out?" "Better than I expected, especially in his scene with Macbeth. When he has Larry to bounce off, he's really with it.
Larry is a superb actor." "And Lady Macbeth?" "Well..." the director said with hesitation.
"I have to tell you her performance is erratic. At one rehearsal she really gets inside the character, and the next night she seems diffused. Frankly, I'm disappointed.
She says she hasn't been sleeping well." "Do you think she's worrying about something?" Qwilleran asked, smoothing his moustache.
"I don't know. Another thing. She doesn't take direction very well," Dwight complained.
"Is that because she's a doctor? You can't tell them anything, you know. Was she difficult when she lived here before?" "No, she was fun to be with, and she had a great zest for life. When I inherited the Klingenschoen mansion, she staged a formal dinner party for me-with a butler, footmen, two cooks, musicians, sixteen candles on the table, and a truckload of flowers.
She had unbounded energy and enthusiasm then. Something must have happened to her in Boston." "I hate to mention this, Qwill, but I wonder if she's on drugs. I know there are hard-driving physicians who take diet pills to keep going, then downers so they can unwind.
They become addicted." Qwilleran recalled the new strangeness in Melinda's eyes.
"You could be right. One reads about health-care professionals becoming chemically dependent, as they say." "What can anyone do about it? She might get into serious trouble." "There are treatment centers, of course, but how would one convince her to get help? Assuming that's really her problem." The director said, "I'm concerned enough that I've coached someone to do Lady Macbeth in case Melinda doesn't make it on Wednesday night. Keep your fingers crossed!" He pocketed his tin whistle and stood up.
"This is all between you and me, of course. Thanks for the coffee.
You've got a fabulous barn." After he had left, the Siamese ambled down the ramp cautiously, and Yum Yum looked in vain for the tin whistle. Koko alarmed Qwilleran, however, by sniffing one of the light Moroccan rugs. With his nose to the pile, he traced a meandering course as if following the path of a spider. Qwilleran dropped down on hands and knees to intercept it, but there was nothing but an infinitesimal spot on the rug. Koko sniffed it, pawed it, nuzzled it.
"You and your damned spots!" Qwilleran rebuked him.
"You just like to see me crawling around! This is the last time I'm going to fall for it!" The next day, when Qwilleran went out for the Sunday papers, he walked past the entrance to Goodwinter Boulevard and was appalled at the condition of the exclusive enclave. Food wrappers and beverage containers littered the pavement and sidewalks. Lawns had been trampled and the landscaped median was gouged by tires. Melinda had made no friends among her neighbors. It would be Monday before the city equipment could undertake the cleanup, and the cartage trucks were yet to come. When Qwilleran picked up Polly for their dinner date that evening, she said, "For two days trucks will be backing into the Goodwinter driveway, running over curbs, ruining bushes, and knocking down stone planters." "Why did the city let them do it?" he asked.
"In the first place, no one asked permission, I suppose, and even if they did, who would speak up against the estate of the revered Dr.
Halifax? This is a small town, Qwill." To reach Linguini's restaurant they drove north toward Mooseville, and Qwilleran was describing Scottish Night at Brodie's lodge when his voice trailed off in mid-sentence. They were passing the Dimsdale Diner, and he spotted a maroon car with a light-colored license plate in the parking lot.
"You were saying..." Polly prompted him.