As he entered the barn, it was nearing eleven P.M., the hour when Qwilleran used to call Polly or Polly used to call him. The pressures of her new job had dampened their camaraderie. He still shopped for her groceries once or twice a week, but she was always too busy or too tired for dinner dates, evenings of good music, or festive weekends.
Their get-togethers in recent weeks had been about inventory selecting and ordering and delivery of books. He had lived through all of Polly's anxieties about hiring and salaries. As folly's best friend, he was expected to advise her about aisle widths and customer comfort . . . As for classical music on the magnificent stereo system at the barn, she had been in no mood for relaxing moments. And now that the store was open and running, she was too excited to relax. What next?
The phone rang. It was exactly eleven o'clock and he always had the expectancy that it was Polly calling to get their nightly custom back on track.
But it was the police chief. 'Got some news for you!' he said.
`Good or bad?'
`Weird.'
'Why don't you pop over here for a wee dram,' Qwilleran invited.
At the snack bar, where Andy liked to do his imbibing, he laid out a bottle of Scotch, ice cubes, a cheese tray, and a glass of Squunk water for himself. Then on the bar top just above, he put the rare cat book from the locked drawer, hoping Koko would demonstrate his taste in literature.
In a matter of minutes the big, burly Scot in khakis burst through the kitchen door. 'Where's that smart cat? Got an assignment for him!'
`Sit down and pour yourself a nip, Andy. Did you play the pipes at Scottish Night?'
`Aye! You missed some good haggis!'
`So what's the news?'
'Theft at the ESP. A five-thousand-dollar book. A crook from Down Below, that's for sure - because of all that publicity on TV. We turned the case over to the state police.'
'What was the title? Who was the author?'
'Death in the Afternoon by what's-his-name.'
'Who reported it?'
'That new fella - Alden Wade. He works for Mrs Duncan and volunteers for the Edd Smith outfit downstairs.'
At that moment Koko, as if on cue, rose from the floor to the top of the bar with effortless grace and sat down on his book.
Qwilleran said, 'That's his own book. I bought it for him on the first day they were open for business.' No mention was made of the price; Brodie would have choked on his cheese.
'Good stuff. Tastes like Stilton.'
'That's what it is!'
Chapter 15
On Wednesday morning Qwilleran first fed the cats, a performance he repeated about seven hundred times a year. To make the ritual entertaining for himself, he spoke intelligently to them - a device said to raise their consciousness. Koko always listened thoughtfully with a slight inclination of his fine brown head; Yum Yum licked a certain spot on her chest.
On this occasion, Qwilleran tried a little Latin: Sic transit gloria mundi . . . E pluribus unum . . . Tempus fugit. It was not well received. Both cats toppled over on the floor and had a playful wrestling match. So much for higher education, Qwilleran decided.
He received a phone call while he was eating his own breakfast. Kenneth was calling from the newspaper.
'Hey, Mr Q! Breaking news!' he said in a muffled voice. 'Five-thousand-dollar book stolen! Same one Dundee was sniffing in the photo! It's gonna be on the front page!'
'That'll sell a few papers,' Qwilleran said. 'Lucky it was the book they stole and not the cat.'
'Yeah, well . . . I thought you'd want to know . . . And I've finished your research, Mr Q.'
`Good! I'll pick up the trunk this evening.'
`Peggy could drive me over with it. She's crazy to meet your cats!'
`What time?'
`Right after work.'
`See you then.' He had to chuckle over the hot breaking news. To Koko, who was hanging around waiting for a banana peel, he said, 'Your cousin Kenneth is coming over and bringing Dundee's handmaiden, who wants to meet you.' He wondered how Koko would react to the heavy bangs hanging almost to Peggy's eyebrows. To a cat they might look menacing, like a certain breed of dog.
He gave the Siamese a good brushing and then read to them from Fables in Slang, which came tumbling off the shelf again. The humour seemed no more captivating than before, and he looked up George Ade in the encyclopedia: 'Popular humorist and playwright (1866-1944).'
Next he phoned the county historian. Thornton Haggis had his finger on the pulse of all the old-timers,
`What do you know about George Ade?' he asked Thorn.
'My sons drink it on the soccer field. It renews their energy. Why do you ask?'
`Bad joke, Thorn . . . Are you and your wife attending the lit club meeting?'
`Wouldn't miss it. As I said before, she acts. like a middle-aged groupie at your lectures. I think it's your moustache she goes for.'
`I have another question. Did Haggis Monument Works do any gravestones for the Hibbard family?'
`We did 'em all! My grandfather, my father, and myself. They liked their headstones large, elaborate, and expensive. Why do you ask?'
`I'm writing a book about the Hibbard House, Thorn, and thought you might have some input.'
`You can write a whole chapter on the subject. There's a private cemetery on their property, and I can show you a record book with names, dates, and sketches of the proposed monuments. We carved angels, baskets of flowers, baby lambs, portraits of the deceased, and some lengthy inscriptions, based on No much per letter. There was only one plain marker: a flat slab for a daughter who died in disgrace.'
Qwilleran said, 'This is great information, Thorn. I'll follow through. When the time comes, I'd like to see those account books . . . Meanwhile, I saw something in the historic collection that only you would appreciate. The front page of an 1899 New York Times! It had been donated by Violet Hibbard's father. The headlines reported a bank robbery, a murder, a poisoning mystery, a fire in a manhole, and a billion-dollar corporate failure.'
`Which proves,' Thornton said, 'that things don't get worse, they're only different.'
Qwilleran said, 'And just to show you how different, Thorn, the Sunday Times, twenty-two pages, sold for a nickel!'
Later in the day Qwilleran was in Toodle's Market, picking up fruit and vegetables for Polly and bananas for himself, when a voice said, `Mr Q in person, I believe.' He turned and saw a clean-cut man of about forty, who introduced himself as Bill Turmeric. He was the Sawdust City teacher of English who wrote entertaining letters to the `Qwill Pen' and the editorial page.
Qwilleran shook the proffered hand. 'Glad to meet you! Have it banana. Dr Diane says they're good for you.'
'My wife is always promoting them, too. Her aunt, by the way, won a dinner date with you in a charity auction a few years ago and has never stopped talking about it.'
'Sarah Plensdorf,' Qwilleran said. 'Charming lady!'
`How are Koko and Yum Yum? I'm sure my kids would like to know.'
`Koko is cool, and Yum Yum is sassy; sometimes the other way around.' A small crowd of shoppers had gathered, listening and smiling, and he added, 'Let's move out of the way so these good people can buy some bananas.'
Once the two men and their shopping carts were in an open space, Qwilleran asked, `Do"you have time for coffee? I'm treating.'
'Best offer I've had all week.'
At the coffee bar they sat on uncomfortable stools designed to discourage loitering, and Qwilleran said, 'May I seize the moment and ask a question? Is there such a thing as a "dangling which"? My housekeeper says, "My daughter is coming to visit, which I can't clean next Wednesday." Is that Moose County patois?'