'No, it's a syntactical curiosity found elsewhere. The relative pronoun "which" is used to introduce a clause that has no antecedent in the previous clause. It's used as a short cut for "and in connection with that, you might say . . ." Does that answer your question?'
'In connection with that, you might say . . . more or less,' was Qwilleran's honest reply.
Wetherby Goode was among the callers that afternoon at the barn. He said, 'When are you going to move back to the Village so I can give you the hot news over the back fence?'
'What's the hot news I don't already know?'
'Unit Two has been purchased — for sure, this time.'
`By whom?'
'I'll drop in at the barn on my way to the station and tell you.'
For the rest of the afternoon Qwilleran racked his brain without answers. Unanswered questions drove him into a quiet frenzy. And when the weatherman drove into the barnyard, he was met by his favourite drink on a silver tray. 'Okay! Who is it?'
'Our veterinarian!'
'Dr Constable? She lives at the Hibbard Guest House! Did you get this information from the same impeccable source that misled you last time?'
'I'm gullible. I even believe my own weather forecasts.'
'What is her presumed reason for leaving the guest house?'
'She can't have pets there. Taking care of other people's animals and having none of her own is frustrating, she told the management at the Village. She'll have five resident patients in the Willows alone. I call that a neat situation, all the way around. We should give a big party for her when she arrives.'
'Don't overreact, Joe. Not until we find out if she makes house calls in the middle of the night.'
They went indoors and sat at the snack bar. Wetherby asked suddenly, 'Are you someone's first husband?'
'Someone's first and last. Why do you ask?'
'My sister in Horseradish has recently divorced her first husband, and she's joined a First Husband's Club. The gals get together and bash their first husbands. She says they have a ball!'
'I can imagine,' Qwilleran said. 'I'd like to hear a recording of the proceedings.'
`It's nothing nasty, only humorous.'
`I see . . . Is this organization exclusive with Horseradish? Or does it have chapters countrywide?'
`So far, I believe it's purely local. You know they're mostly berserk in that town . . . Well, I've got to get to the station. There's some violent weather in the offing.'
As Qwilleran walked with Wetherby to his car, another vehicle pulled into the barnyard bringing Peggy, Kenneth, and the trunkful of research. The three persons were introduced.
`Oh, Mr Goode!' she cried. 'Your weathercasts are . . . so good!'
`Thanks. Call me Joe.' He looked unusually pleased.
Peggy was wearing a slim-legged red jumpsuit and looked what Qwilleran considered 'fetching'. He said, 'Peggy is chief assistant to Dundee, the bibliocat. I'm her understudy. Kenneth is the new copy facilitator at the newspaper.'
`Wish I could stay,' Wetherby said with genuine regret, 'but I'm due at the station.'
As he went to his car, he threw a backward glance at Peggy, and as Qwilleran escorted the young couple to the barn, she threw a backward glance at Wetherby.
`Shall I bring the trunk, Mr Q?' Kenneth asked.
`Come in and see the barn first, and have some refreshments,' was the answer.
`Oh, wow! Oh, wow!' said the copy facilitator, flinging his arms wide.
`If you want a thrill, go to the top of the ramp and see the view from there. But watch your step; Koko has started stealing banana peels.'
Peggy was on her knees hugging the cats, who had come running. Qwilleran thought, Those rascals! They know a pushover when they meet one; they're playing it to the hilt.
She declined a drink, saying she had to feed Dundee and then work at her computer.
Kenneth obviously wanted to stay. He said he could walk home.
`Agreeable young woman,' Qwilleran said when she had driven away.
`She's nuts about cats,' the young man said.
`Everyone's nuts about something. It's clear she's not local. What brought her here - do you know?'
`She's from Vegas. A fortune-teller told her to come here. She'd been through a nasty divorce. You know how she has all that hair covering her forehead? It covers a bad scar that she blames her ex-husband for.'
`Well, I hope she's happy here. She seems to be an asset to the community . . . Would you like to bring in the trunk?'
The contents were in good order. Kenneth had done fine work, and Qwilleran remunerated him, saying he'd enlist his services again. 'How do you like your job at the Something? What brought you here in the first place? Not a fortune-teller, I imagine.'
The young man showed signs of wanting to talk but feared he should not. His eyes darted.
Qwilleran knew to keep silent and look sympathetic; something about his brooding gaze and drooping moustache inspired confidence.
`I've got a suspect under surveillance,' Kenneth said abruptly. His listener raised a hand. 'Say no more. I understand.' He understood only that this was a copyboy playing at being an investigator - or an investigator disguised as a copyboy. Either way, it would be unfair to spoil his game. Remembering Kenneth's interest in City of Brotherly Crime, he assumed he was a copyboy pretending to be undercover - just as Celia Robinson operated as a secret agent when she first came to Moose County.
It was almost eleven P.M. when the phone rang. Qwilleran was reading a bedtime story to the Siamese and he switched voices hopefully to the mellifluous 'good evening' that had given Polly a frisson of pleasure in the past, B.P.C. (Before Pirate's Chest).
`Qwill, you old geezer!' came the strident tones that he knew well.
`Lyle, you old dunderhead! You got back live from Saint Paul!'
`I've been back for a week - in time for all the hoopla downtown. Lisa was riding high until the news broke about the theft. What's your take on that little matter?'
`I agree with the police that it's an opportunist from Down Below. Tell Lisa: the good news is that the extra publicity will probably sell all the books in the jelly cupboard.'
`You always were a confounded optimist, Qwill! . . . Are you in good voice for tomorrow night?'
`Have no fear about the speaker, Lyle. Worry whether we'll have an audience, considering that we're not serving refreshments.'
To take his mind off the Edd Smith saga that had filled his head for the last forty-eight hours, Qwilleran selected a book from his journalism library that Violet Hibbard had wanted Io give him. It brought to mind that their first spirited dinner date would not be repeated. He had begun to see her as a successor to the longtime dining companion that he seemed to be losing. It was the quality and subject matter of the conversation that had made both women interesting.
Both Qwilleran and the retired professor liked Shakespeare, and he would be willing to give Lord Byron an educated try. But now the lady had acquired a husband. Was it Judd, the retired engineer at the guest house? He was the right age, and only a short meeting had proved him to be congenial and talkative -though probably not about sonnets and Russian plays.
Polly had spoiled him in that respect; she could happily spend a half hour discussing the meaning of a single word.
Chapter 16
On the morning of the lit club debut, Qwilleran met Alden Wade at the bookstore to discuss arrangements. Two of the lower-level meeting rooms would be thrown into one to accommodate fifty chairs, with a centre aisle for projection equipment.
At the front of the room would be a low platform and a lectern and a row of three potted plants sent to the bookstore by well-wishers. Behind the speaker, a plain white wall would make a scene for the slides - not as a picture show but as pictorial atmosphere. John Bushland would come in to test the facilities in advance.