Dwight said, 'I'll give you a quick rundown. TV and print media will arrive by chartered planes from four major cities; they like to report on bizarre happenings in remote areas. They'll be met at the airport by limousines, and we'll make sure they know they're borrowed from the Dingleberry Funeral Home.
`The major event will be the ribbon cutting, with Mayor Amanda Goodwinter wearing her usual scarecrow clothing and putting on her usual bad-tempered act. There's nothing diplomatic about Amanda. She says ribbon cutting is stupid and she'll have none of it. The president of the city council will be there, and the fact that Scott Gippel weighs three hundred will be covered in the releases.'
Dwight stopped for a slug of Squunk water and said, 'Hey! This isn't bad! Refreshing!' Then he continued. 'Next, the Edd Smith Place. It's unusual for a commercial bookstore to give a third of the building to pre-owned books, with proceeds going to charity. Hundreds of books have been donated, including some rare titles worth as much as five thousand. The releases will cover the quaint feldspar building that stood on the site for a century and a half until destroyed by an arsonist. Mention is made of Winston Churchill, the bibliocat who dusted the dusty old books with his plumed tail and miraculously escaped the fire.
`And that leads up to the final story: Winston Park - a walk-and-learn park with paths meandering among two dozen evergreens of the pine, spruce, cedar, hemlock, and holly families - all suitable for our northern climate. The focal point of the park is the mystery statue that will be unveiled for the cameras.'
Qwilleran said, 'It makes me wish I were a reporter covering the story for the Daily Fluxion or Morning Rampage. How long will it take the crews to cover all the angles? And what about the ever-hungry press?'
`Glad you asked, Qwill. Lunch will be served in one of the public rooms of the bookstore, where there are tables and chairs. Lois's Luncheonette will cater, with Lois herself joshing and bullying the media as she slices a turkey and a roast of beef and makes sandwiches on real bread. Her son, Lenny, will serve the apple pie and coffee . . . Do you think we have a story, Qwill?'
When Qwilleran talked to Polly on the phone that evening, he said, 'Dwight Somers dropped in to give me a rundown on the press preview. He's a real pro! He told me everything except what's hidden under the tarpaulin in the park.'
`That's because he doesn't know. I know, but I'm not going to tell you,' she said with evident satisfaction, knowing that he deplored unanswered questions.
`And what did you do today that's not top secret?'
`Everyone's been guessing about the statue. The consensus is that it's a space capsule . . . But wait till you hear about the decision I made today! I've created another position, assistant to Dundee! You see, one of our Green Smocks - Peggy, who's moving into the Winston Park apartments - offered to come in seven days a week to take care of Dundee's needs. Suddenly it occurred to me that someone has to buy cat food and litter and police his commode and feed him twice a day. Why not assign one of the Green Smocks to that responsibility?'
`Is she completely reliable?'
`Definitely! And she adores Dundee. What do you think of it, Qwill?'
`I'd like to apply for the position of assistant to Dundee's assistant. What does it pay?'
Chapter 8
Grudgingly, Qwilleran chomped his bowl of cereal and sliced bananas that morning, instead of the sweet, sticky bachelor breakfast that had formerly ushered in his days. He wondered whether he would experience any increased productivity or brilliant ideas or improved writing skills. He doubted it .. . although an idea struck him while chomping, and he considered its possibilities. He had recently written three books - a collection of local legends, a compilation of cat lore, and the text for a portfolio of Moose County photographs - all published by the K Fund. Now, how about . . . ?
He phoned the county historian at home. 'Thorn, what do you know about the Hibbard Guest House?'
`I don't know what it is now, but I know what it used to be. The Hibbards are one of those four-generation pioneer families, you know. Old fellow who built the house was illiterate but rich; his great-granddaughter is a professor of literature and, I presume, well off.'
`What do you know about the house he built?'
`He was an eccentric duck. He built the largest house - on the highest hill in the county - in the most unusual style, and he built it entirely of wood. He owned sawmills. The amazing thing is that it's still standing! Why do you ask?'
`Do you think it would make a good book for the K Fund to publish?'
`I'm sure it's full of ghosts, if you can interview them. And as an example of nineteenth-century architecture, it's certainly unique.'
The historian had said the magic word; in Qwilleran's vocabulary, 'unique' meant newsworthy.
Qwilleran said to him, 'It seems to me, Thom, that you're one of those fourth-generation families - going on fifth.'
`Yeah, we've been thinking about rounding them all up for the Pickax sesquicentennial. But when we've got them rounded up, what do we do with them?'
`Good question,' Qwilleran agreed.
Upon returning to the kitchen to rinse his cereal bowl and tidy the counter, Qwilleran realized he had forgotten to put the banana peel under lock and key. Before he could go looking for it, the phone rang.
`Yes?' he barked into the mouthpiece.
`Qwill! You sound mad as a hornet! Want me to call back? This is Lisa.'
`Sorry. That's what bananas do to me. I called earlier to see if Violet Hibbard will be in today.'
`From two o'clock on. She's dying to meet you, Qwill.'
Both cats were probably guilty of the banana-peel misdemeanour; they failed to respond when he announced, 'Your uncle George is coming!' The attorney was coming for another shot in the arm.
At the dining table, Allen Barter opened his briefcase and reported on the Winston Park apartments, a property of the K Fund. All units had been rented, and tenants were moving in.
When it was Qwilleran's turn to report, he broached the idea of a book on the historic Hibbard House, said to be unique. 'It's one of the oldest houses in the county. The K Fund should publish it before it burns down.'
`Is that the big house on the hill?' the attorney asked. 'I pass the gate on my way downtown.'
`It's one of those four-generation families. I'm meeting with the last remaining Hibbard this afternoon. She's a retired professor; her great-grandfather - who amassed the fortune and built the house - was illiterate. I have yet to see the house, but I'm sure there are plenty of photo possibilities for John Bushland, and enough folktales to make a good text.'
`The Big Boys in Chicago are pleased with the sales of your other three titles,' Bart said. 'I'm sure they'll welcome another.'
When Qwilleran arrived at the Edd Smith Place, volunteers in green vests were bustling about and Dundee was investigating the computer. A woman in a tailored black pantsuit came forward with hand outstretched. 'I'm Violet Hibbard, and you're the redoubtable Mr Q.'
He took her hand, bending over it slightly in the courtly way he had with women of a certain age. 'I've always wanted to meet someone called Violet! Are you prepared to tell all?'
`I'm looking forward to it. Shall we repair to one of the meeting rooms?'
Qwilleran liked her vocabulary and her personality - not overly friendly, and not suspiciously charming, but . . . vibrant and intelligent. As they walked down the hall, Qwilleran detected a light scent that was probably violet. They sat in one of the meeting rooms.
For openers he said, 'There is talk about publishing a book on the Hibbard House as a historic masterpiece in Moose County.'