'Did you tell Jill about the new phone?'
'We didn't know about it while they were here,' Lisa said.
'Then call her at the paper and give her the number. Tell Jilclass="underline" if a cat answers, callers will be advised to press one and leave a message.'
'Oh, Qwill.' She laughed. 'Would they print that?'
'There's no harm in suggesting it; the readers like a laugh,' Qwilleran said. 'How did the shooting go?'
'They loved Dundee! He's such an extrovert. Dwight's release described him as "official bibliocat" and said the Edd Smith Place sold pre-owned books priced anywhere from two dollars to five thousand. Naturally, the photographers wanted to see what a five-thousand-dollar book looks like. Alden Wade had volunteered to help us, so we put him in charge of the jelly cupboard. He had the keys hanging around his neck like a wine steward, and he kept an eagle eye on any rare book he took out of the cupboard.'
'Don't forget I've spoken for the Dr Seuss book,' Qwilleran said.
The next call came from Wetherby Goode, who wanted to stop at the barn for a minute en route to the radio station.
When he arrived, Qwilleran asked, 'Do you have time for a libation?'
'Well ... just a nip.'
They sat at the snack bar, attended by two chummy Siamese, who liked the weatherman.
Qwilleran asked, 'What did you think of the unveiling?'
'They put on quite a show, didn't they? And the sculpture itself is a swell idea! I'm going to do a little tribute to Winston on my show tonight.'
'He's still living, you know, Joe. He lives with the Bethunes on Pleasant Street. What's the nature of your tribute?'
'Just a parody I wrote with apologies to my alma mater: "Dear Old Winston! Dear Old Winston!" Be sure to tune in at eleven.'
'I wouldn't miss it, Joe.' Then Qwilleran asked, 'Do you still go to Horseradish on weekends?' The weatherman had been spending an inordinate amount of time in his hometown without explaining why.
'Not any more! Things change!'
'Do you happen to know if they are talking about Ronnie's accident?'
'Yes, and they're in shock because of a nasty rumour that's circulating. People are whispering that it was caused by drugs and alcohol! His parents are crushed! And I'm furious! It can't be true!'
'It was in the medical examiner's report, Joe.'
'Look here! I grew up with Ronnie and he was always a health nut - eating the right food, taking vitamins, and never drinking anything stronger than a beer. You can't convince me those Lockmaster dudes could get him on drugs. Alden Wade called Ronnie's parents and offered sympathy. He couldn't believe the rumour either . . . Did you know that Alden's from Horseradish?'
`All you talented people . . .’ Qwilleran began.
`Yeah, there's something in the drinking water. But we all change our names when we go out into the real world. Alden was George; did you know that? He said that George is a good name for a political leader, but an actor needs a name with more sex appeal - like Alan, Alex, Alfie - names beginning with A-L. He had his name legally changed to Alden Wade. And the gals have been swooning over him ever since.'
Qwilleran asked, 'How about you, Joe? Was yours legally changed to Wetherby Goode?'
Nay, that's just a nickname. For a weather prognosticator, it's a lot better than Joe Bunker!'
`YOW!' was Koko's clarion comment.
Wetherby jumped up. 'Gotta get to the station . . . What's that on the floor?'
`Be careful!' Qwilleran picked it up. 'Koko collects banana peels. Does Jet Stream have any interesting hobbies?'
While the dedication ceremonies were still fresh in his mind, Qwilleran expressed his sentiments on the pages of his personal journal.
Thursday, September 25 - I agree with Amanda Good-winter: there must be a better way! To launch a seagoing vessel, a bottle of champagne is smashed on the hull. To dedicate a new building, ribbon is stretched across the facade, to be cut by a civic official, or a civic official's five-year-old daughter in a frilly dress.
Somehow - halfway between the champagne and the five yards of ribbon - there must be a sane compromise! . . . Anyway. . .
After the memorable unveiling of the Winston Park monument, the cameras turned to focus on the bookstore. Five yards of green ribbon were stretched across the glass doors and show windows of the building. Dwight Somers, swinging a large pair of shears, was jockeying the dignitaries into line. Polly and Bart, representing the K Fund, looked spiffy in a businesslike way. Burgess Campbell, on the board of the ESP, was striking in Highland attire: kilt, kneesocks, shoulder plaid, and cocky Glengarry bonnet. And, of course, he was accompanied by his guide dog, Alexander. Together they always steal the show when photographers are around.
But where were the two city officials? Dwight paced nervously and talked on a cell phone. Suddenly a police car drove up, and out stepped the pair representing city Hall. Her Honour, the mayor, had a golf hat jammed down on her straggly grey hair and looked as if she had been raking leaves on the City Hall lawn. The president of the city council -all three hundred pounds of him - was stuffed into a mechanic's greasy overalls.
Dwight escorted them into the lineup and presented the shears.
`Not me!' Amanda growled. 'No way!'
`I don't cut ribbons,' Scott Gippel muttered.
Without a moment's hesitation the attorney stepped forward and said, in his courtroom voice, 'It is traditional and appropriate for civic leaders to cut the ribbon as a gesture of welcome to a new business enterprise that will benefit the entire county.' That guy Bart! He managed to mix authority with an ingratiating manner. Polly looked relieved. Alexander whimpered.
And Scott said, 'Okay, gimme the dang clippers and I'll cut the dang ribbon!'
I don't know how much of the dialogue was picked up by the mikes, but it resounded all over the park.
Chapter 10
For the Siamese, it was a day like any other day; for the rest of the civilized population of Moose County, it was a breathless lull between the press preview and the public opening of the new bookstore. Qwilleran, being ahead of schedule with his writing, spent much of the morning brushing the cats' coats, entertaining them with a rollicking game of grab-the-necktie, and reading aloud to them from good literature. It was Koko's responsibility to select a title for reading and push it off the bookshelf. It was Qwilleran's responsibility to catch the book before it landed.
For reasons of his own, the cat had shown an interest in Balzac (in English), Emily Dickinson, and Zane Grey. Now he was on a Shakespeare kick. A complete set of the annotated plays in individual volumes had been given to Qwilleran by Polly, and they were a convenient format for pushing off a shelf. Othello and Hamlet had been Koko's selections in the last week.
After a dramatic reading of Hamlet's scene with his father's ghost, Qwilleran said, 'To be continued.' Then he added, 'Mrs Fulgrove is coming!' She was the industrious, competent, trustworthy housekeeper who came to the barn to 'fluff it up', as she said, between visits from the high-powered janitorial service. Qwilleran always tried to be absent when she was working; when he returned, he could expect a slight aroma of beeswax and whiffs of homemade metal polish - a simple compound of vinegar and salt - that reminded him of salad dressing.
It would be improved, he thought, with a touch of garlic, but he never mentioned the whimsical suggestion to the intensely serious housekeeper.
On this occasion he left Mrs Fulgrove a note about a strange odour on the first balcony, instructed the Siamese to stay out of her way, and departed for the newspaper office.
Space was always reserved on page two for the 'Qwill Pen' column, and Qwilleran always filed his copy as late as possible - mainly to incur the friendly wrath of his pal Junior Goodwinter, managing editor. After some mutual jibes, Junior showed him the page proofs of the bookstore coverage.