`I have a snapshot in my handbag.'
After some fumbling, Violet extracted a print that had Qwilleran struggling to compose himself. He had heard it called historic, unique, impressive, original, or just HUGE! No one had called it handsome or even attractive. Now he knew why. The celebrated Hibbard House was ugly.
Diplomatically, he said, 'I'm not completely familiar with architectural styles. Do you know what Hibbard House represents?'
`My grandfather, Geoffrey, called it eclectic.'
`Did he tell you who designed it?'
`He said that no one designed it, it just happened. Cyrus bought thirty acres in the Middle Hummocks and took a crew of carpenters to see the property. There was an elevation in the centre of the site, and that's where he wanted them to build him a large, square, three-storey house with a pyramid-shaped roof and an observation tower rising from the peak. He wanted several large brick chimneys, several verandas both upstairs and downstairs, a grand front entrance with four columns, and a ballroom on the third floor.'
`I see,' Qwilleran said, stroking his moustache. 'Shall we order dessert? I recommend the plum buckle.'
The night-time approach to the Hibbard House was along an unlighted country road in the wooded hummocks, and it loomed suddenly on its little hill, floodlighted and weird, in Qwilleran's opinion.
Will you come in and meet some of the guests, if they're still around?' Violet suggested.
She had left instructions for all the lights to be turned on, and she suggested a walk through the main rooms to get the effect.
It was unreal - a movie set, a fairy tale. 'Enchanting!' he said.
He was sure it was staged, probably by Alden Wade, who was playing the piano in the music room. Someone was reading in the library. A bridge game was in progress in the drawing room, and one of the players waved to Qwilleran; she was the cats' veterinarian. Two young men were coming upstairs from the ping-pong table on the lower level; Violet introduced them as `our duck hunters'! They invited him to go hunting with them some Sunday.
`I'm a washout with a rifle,' he said, 'but I'd be interested in duck habitat as a topic for the "Qwill Pen".'
`We've got a book at the office you can borrow. We'll dig it out.' And Alden went on playing Chopin. What a ham! was Qwilleran's reaction.
There was a tall, erect older man with snow-white hair who was introduced as Judd Amhurst, a retired engineer. 'He keeps us out of trouble,' Violet said, giving him an appreciative look.
`I know who he is!' said Amhurst. 'I'm one of his avid fans. I won a yellow pencil in one of his contests!'
The two men shook hands. 'Have another pencil!' Qwilleran reached into his inside coat pocket for one of the fat wooden gold-stamped Qwill Pen' pencils that he always carried.
Wait'll the boys at the bar hear this!' Judd said.
`He never drinks anything stronger than Squunk water,' Violet said, giving Judd a playful nudge.
`Are you hooked, too?' Qwilleran asked.
They pumped hands again, this time exchanging the fraternal handshake known only to `Squunkers'.
Qwilleran found the retired engineer congenial. So did Violet, apparently.
She said he had known her father and might be able to supply material for the book.
Qwilleran told Violet they should get together for dinner again and discuss Wordsworth and Chekhov.
After his dinner with the heiress of the Hibbard estate, Qwilleran wrote the following in his personal journaclass="underline"
Friday, September 26 — Why did I agree to write a book on that residential monstrosity? It's not only grotesque on the outside but hard to photograph on the inside! I must be slipping! After seeing the dark woodwork and ponderous furnishings, I made a feeble effort to postpone the project, but the dear lady seemed in a hurry to proceed. Did she think that — after all these years — the place would burn down in the next week?
Her great fear, I learned, was that the property would fall into the hands of developers, who would tear it down and build condos and a shopping mall. The publication of a book would give it the status of a national treasure, and the county might legislate against the commercial exploitation of the site . . . but national treasure?
Anyway, I promised to line up the photographer ASAP and read the trunkful of documents she gave me. They go back to circa 1925. Maybe I'll have an assignment for Kenneth sooner than either of us expected.
Later that night, Moira MacDiarmid called.
`Oh, Qwill! We saw Dundee on TV tonight. We're so proud of him!'
`He's an asset to the bookstore,' Qwilleran said. 'I don't know whether he'll increase the sale of books, but he'll surely promote the demand for marmalade cats! What can I do for you?'
`Our daughter, Kathie, has just flown in from Down Below to be maid of honour at her best friend's wedding tomorrow. She's dying to see Dundee in his new environment. She's the one who trained him for a public career, you know. But she has to fly back to school Sunday night, and we wondered if you could use your pull to sneak us in the back door of the bookstore Sunday afternoon.'
`I have a key. No problem. What time?' he asked.
Chapter 11
Qwilleran had set his alarm early for Saturday morning expecting Opening Day at the bookstore to be more of a problem than a success. He first phoned Polly in Indian Village, but a message on her answering machine said that she could be reached at the bookstore any time after eight A.M.
Store hours started at nine-thirty, leading Qwilleran to deduce that she had left home very, very early . . . or had spent the night in downtown Pickax - at the hotel or at a friend's apartment or (not likely) in a sleeping bag on the floor of her office.
He phoned The Pirate's Chest and listened to a message: 'Store hours are nine-thirty to five.'
He started the coffeemaker and fed the cats, but they showed no interest in the preparation of their food. Nervously they hopped on and off the kitchen counter, staring through the window with ears pricked to an angle denoting Full Alarm!
Stepping outdoors, Qwilleran realized the source of their anxiety. To the west, towards Main Street, there was a constant hum of traffic punctuated by the screaming and blasting of police and emergency vehicles. He grabbed his orange hat, press card, and cell phone and headed for the action.
The road through the woods debouched into the theatre parking lot. It was jammed! Main Street was clogged with cars, and all kerbs were parked bumper to bumper, legally or illegally. Sidewalks were thronged with pedestrians who had left their cars in the parking lots of churches and library and county buildings and were streaming towards the centre of town.
Qwilleran pushed through the crowd, barking, 'Coming through! Step aside, please!'
People made way for him joyfully. They were in a holiday mood. They said, 'Hi, Mr Q! Takin' Koko to meet Dundee?' They were on their way to see a real pirate's chest, a sculpture of Winston, a live bibliocat, and a five-thousand-dollar book.
Qwilleran continued on his way through the crowd, stopping once to shelter in a doorway and call on his cell phone.
'You're in early,' he said when Polly answered.
'Everyone's here to plan our strategy,' she said with her usual calm. 'All the staff is here, plus three security guards. The public will be admitted a few at a time and routed through the store, down the stairs to the ESP, and up the basement stairs to the north parking lot.'