Shooting from a high stepladder, the photographer had caught a close-up of the bronze Winston in the lower left-hand corner and the new building in the background. For contrast there was a file-photo print of the 1850 bookstore that had burned down. Then there was a close-up of the vestibule doormat with its stern directive:
DON'T LET THE CAT OUT
In the background was the inner door, with Dundee peering through the glass. In another photo the bibliocat was sniffing a five-thousand-dollar copy of Hemingway's Death in the Afternoon. Then Junior scanned the 'Qwill Pen' copy and rang for the copyboy.
`Hi, Mr Q! I've got your book here!' Kenneth said.
`The conference room's empty. Meet me there.'
A few minutes later Qwilleran was autographing the book and scribbling an appropriate inscription while saying the usual - `Hope you enjoy it.'
`I've already read it twice! I learned a lot!' Kenneth said. 'If there's anything I can help you with, Mr Q, I have weekends off, and I'd do it for nothing, just for the experience. You know -legwork or anything like that.'
`It's unprofessional to work for nothing, so get that idea out of your head,' Qwilleran said. `So far, I've never needed a legman, but if I do . . . Give me your home phone.'
Qwilleran had to devise a plan to stay out of Mrs Fulgrove's way that afternoon. Lunch at the Luncheonette was the first solution. He said to Lois, 'I hear you made a big hit with those camera cowboys from Down Below.'
`Nice bunch o' boys. We had a lotta laughs. They took my picture.'
`Right now your visage is being flashed on TV screens from coast to coast.'
`Don't know about my visage. I thought they were shooting in my face.'
From there Qwilleran went to the public library to kill an hour, researching Lord Byron (Violet's favourite poet) and Tasso, the Italian poet after whom she named her watchdog. Brimming with more information than he really wanted, he returned to the barn to see if Mrs Fulgrove had solved the mystery. He found her note written with meticulous handwriting and correct spelling, but she had a grammatical habit that mystified him. She talked the same way. He called it `whichery'.
Dear Mister: I found a banana peel in one of your shoes, which you should keep your closet door closed. I put your shoes in the shed to air out, which you should leave them till morning. - Mrs Fulgrove
Before his dinner date with Violet, Qwilleran considered his wardrobe thoughtfully. Once upon a time he had lacked interest in sartorial style; appearing in public with Polly had changed all that. Now he had blazers in several colours, fashionwise shirts and ties, and more than one suit. Before dining out he and Polly would compare notes: 'What are you wearing?' As a result, their ensembles never clashed, and friends said, 'You two always look so good together!'
To play it safe on Friday night he wore his camel hair blazer with brown trousers, light tan shirt, and monochromatic striped necktie. It was a fortunate choice, since Violet appeared in a tailored suit of brilliant violet twill. No hat. Polly always wore a hat when dining in restaurants.
It had been Violet's idea - since she was helping Lisa at the ESP all afternoon - that she could drive downtown with Alden, Qwilleran would pick her up at the bookstore, and then he would drive her home to Hibbard House after dinner - for a glimpse of the famous building and a brief meeting with some of the residents. They all read the `Qwill Pen' column and were eager to meet Mr Q.
When he arrived at the bookstore at five-thirty, everyone was working late in a desperate attempt to be ready for the public opening.
Members of the staff said, 'You two look wonderful!'
Polly said in a polite voice, 'Have a nice . . . dinner.'
On the drive to the restaurant, Qwilleran asked if Violet had dined at the Grist Mill since returning to Moose County. She had not. He regaled her with the background of the owner, Liz Hart, and the maitre d', Derek Cuttlebrink, who had played Lady Bracknell in the recent play.
`You make everything sound so interesting!' she declared. 'I know you're going to write a fascinating book on Hibbard House!'
Derek greeted them with professional éclat but managed to throw a questioning glance at Qwilleran and a speculative glance at the sixtyish woman.
When the menus were presented, Qwilleran asked his guest, `What are they having for dinner at Hibbard House tonight?'
`If anyone has gone fishing, Cook prepares their catch for dinner, but there's always a backup of shrimp or lobster in the freezer.'
Skilfully, Qwilleran steered the table talk past domestic matters, personal chitchat, and the ordering of food. He said, 'Violet, I've been looking forward to hearing the history of your colourful family. Don't be reticent! You promised to tell all. And I happen to have a tape recorder in my pocket.' The following account was later transcribed:
My great-grandfather, Cyrus, came to this area when it was wilderness and when he was a young man filled with ambition. He had nothing but a sawyer's skills, but he had a genius for business. He eventually owned all the sawmills in towns along the coast - at the mouth of rivers and creeks, where logs were floated down from the forests. Like certain other self-made men in the past, he was eccentric. He never learned to read and write. And he undertook to build a house unlike any other in the area - or anywhere! While other successful entrepreneurs were building mansions of brick or stone, Cyrus built his entirely of wood - bigger, more original, totally unsafe. In an era of candles and fireplaces, it would certainly burn down! But it has outlasted three generations of Hibbards.
My grandfather, Geoffrey, was educated in private schools and lived the life of a country gentleman. My father, Jesmore, went to Harvard and lived the life of a gentleman scholar. But they all lived in the frame house that was expected to burn down! I grew up there - and returned there after a career in teaching.
Violet motioned to have the recording device turned off and then said, 'May I ask you a rude question, Qwill?'
`If you don't object to getting a rude answer.'
`Have you ever been married?'
`Once. Briefly. The details are withheld until the posthumous publication of my memoirs. How about you?'
`Almost . . . Early in my career I taught at an American university in Italy and almost married an Italian artist, but my father called me home because my mother was dying. I never went back. The rest of my teaching was done in this country.'
Qwilleran asked, 'What caused you to take early retirement?'
She paused before answering. 'My father was dying, and exacted a promise that I would live in the Hibbard House and preserve what he considered a sacred trust. I'm the last remaining Hibbard.'
Qwilleran said, 'I'm beginning to understand why you want a book written on the Hibbard House. I'm willing to write it. I'll have John Bushland call you to make a date for photographs. And the K Fund will publish it.'
After this solemn pledge there was a silence at the table, until Qwilleran asked, 'Alden tells me you've named your watchdog Tasso. Is that because of your Italian adventure?'
`Do you know Tasso?' she asked eagerly.
`Only through Lord Byron's epic.'
`I adore Byron! He's so romantic!'
`He's a little long-winded for me,' Qwilleran confessed. 'I have a short attention span. A sonnet is about my speed - fourteen lines.'
`Have you written any sonnets, Qwill?'
`No, but I consider myself a connoisseur of the form. I maintain that a good sonnet should not only paint a picture, express an emotion, or declare a philosophy; the words should feel good in the mouth when read aloud. Consonants and vowels should fit together in a smooth way. I won't mention any names, but consider this line: Earth has not anything to show more fair. Then compare it with the sibilance of: When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, which is difficult to say without spitting. In fact, when I read it to my cat, he hissed - the way he does at a garden snake . . . But I digress. We were talking about the Hibbard House. Do you happen to have any pictures of the exterior? I've never seen it.'