Visuaclass="underline" Winston, dusting books with his tail.
The presence of a live-in cat was not entirely responsible for the food odours that mingled with the mustiness of old books. Besides Winston's sardines, there were Edd's favourites - liver and onions, canned clam chowder, and garlic potatoes.'
(Chuckles)
`There was a rickety wooden ladder, eight feet high - used by Edd for stocking shelves and by Winston for surveying noisy schoolchildren, and by the book scouts from Down Below, looking for two-dollar books worth a hundred in the rare-book market.
`Edd liked to tease the scouts. If I happened to be present he would tell outrageous lies about fabulous discoveries made on the upper shelves, and the book scout would almost fall off the ladder.'
(Ripple of amusement)
`Edd himself was not a reader, yet he quoted frequently from the great writers of the past. He confessed to me that he had taken the advice of a great British statesman: "If a man is not educated, he should own a book of quotations."'
(Amused murmur)
`He also repaired books for schools, public libraries, and private collections, and his bookbinding equipment was in the back room of the shop - along with his sleeping cot, a two-burner hot plate, and a portable ice chest.
`There was a cracked mirror above a rusty old sink, and a shelf with old-fashioned shaving tackle along with a handgun. Later in life he said he was glad he never had to use the handgun because . . . he never had any bullets.'
(Laughter)
Was that a serious sentiment from a little old man? Or was it tin example of pioneer humour? Edd, being descended from pioneers, had inherited their style of humour, although he was not a jokester like the country folk who keep everyone laughing in the coffee shops.
`Edd and I had a few adventures together. On one occasion we were threatened by an intruder intent on murder. I managed to subdue him, and I shouted to Edd, "Call the police!" In a hesitant voice he asked, "What shall I tell them?"'
(Laughter)
`On one of my visits to the bookstore, Edd told me some good news: the Boosters Club was naming him Merchant of the Year! "I can hardly wait to tell my father!" he said.
`I looked at him curiously, because I was sure his father was deceased.
"'I talk to him every night," he explained.
"'How long has he been gone?" I asked as calmly as I could.
"'Fourteen years," he replied. "He has gone to a better land -far, far away." And his sober face was suffused with quiet joy.'
The images on the back wall began changing in slow, tantalizing succession, with emphases on the blacksmith's oak tree and the pirate's chest found during excavation for the new bookstore.
`Now, my friends, the scandalous rumour that John B. Smith -the blacksmith who made the nails that helped build Pickax -was a weekend pirate! Can we believe that this hardworking husband and father who took his family to church twice a week and built them a house with his own hands and visited his old mother frequently - can we believe he put a red bandanna on his head and a gold hoop in one ear and forced victims at dagger-point to walk the plank?
'True, there were pirates preying on shipping in the big lakes. True, Edd's grandfather failed to return from a trip "to visit his old mother". True, a "pirate's chest" with iron straps was found under the big oak.
'But consider this: there were no banks in those days, and it was customary to bury one's money, usually behind the outhouse.'
(Chuckles)
`It's quite likely that the blacksmith built sturdy chests and sold them for that purpose. It's quite likely that he did visit his elderly mother at intervals to fix her roof, plant a garden, and scrub the floors. It's likely that Edd Smith was listening to the delirious babbling of a dying woman when he heard the scandalous secret.
'I say the scandalous secret of the blacksmith's wife is pure myth. Does anyone agree with me? If so, will you please stand?'
The county historian was the first to rise, followed by all the officers of the club, the college president, the K Fund attorney, the editor of the newspaper, teachers, and everyone else in the audience.
The lights came up, and Qwilleran stepped down from the platform and shook hands with the audience as they filed out.
The last to leave was Polly. `Qwill! You were wonderful! I was so proud I couldn't keep back the tears! . . . If you say it's a myth, I believe it's a myth! I've missed you so much in the last few weeks . . .’
'I've missed you, too, Polly. The eleven-o'clock phone calls . . . and the dinner dates with good conversation . . .’
'And the musicales afterwards.'
'I have a fabulous new recording of Tchaikovsky's Fifth. Would you like to come to the barn to hear it? I promise to get you home by a respectable hour.'
'It doesn't have to be respectable tonight,' she said. 'Tomorrow is my day off.'
Chapter 17
On Friday morning Qwilleran ate his cereal and sliced bananas without complaint, and he opened a festive can of cocktail shrimp for the cats. He and Polly were together again. They would be dining at the Grist Mill, listening to great music, having long discussions about words, phoning each other at eleven P.M.
At the barn, following the lit club meeting, there had not been a single word about the Book Log Computer System! And Qwilleran had given her the blue cashmere robe that celebrated her matriculation from public library to bookstore.
Now he wanted to close the barn for the winter and move to Indian Village. Unit Number Four at the Willows would be readied by Pat O'Dell's janitorial service and 'fluffed up' by the `be-whiching' Mrs Fulgrove.
Qwilleran walked with a light step to the newspaper office to file his Friday column before the noon deadline and then back downtown for lunch at the Mackintosh Inn. On the way he passed the Sprenkle Building, and a young man rushed out from the Wix & Wix Realty office, saying, `Mr Q! Mr Q! I have that book for you. Can you pop in for a minute?'
He was one of the duck hunters at the Hibbard Guest House who had invited him out for a weekend shoot.
'I'm a washout with a rifle,' he had told them, '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,' the younger Wix had said. 'We'll dig it out.'
So now he had drifted in, and they had dug out their copy of the duck book.
'Pleasant office,' Qwilleran said. 'Are you brothers? Is Wix a local family?'
`It's really W-I-C-K-E-S, but Bud and I decided the short spelling would be more eye-catching on a sign and easier for the public to remember. Alden has been telling us about your barn. If you ever want to unload it, Wix and Wix would like to list it.'
'Take a number,' Qwilleran said genially.
'Alden's a terrific guy! Not only is he a terrific shot with a duck rifle, he can play the piano. He can act. He can sing. The gals are wild about him. He's a good organizer. He has ideas . . . How's the Hibbard book coming?'
`It's been photographed, and I'm collecting material for the text. Do you have any stories to add?'
'Only what we talk about when we're out on the boat - just brainstorming, you know: Violet could develop her thirty acres if and when she gets tired of being a landlady. The house could be made into a spa - with upscale condos and apartments all around.'
'No shopping mall, I hope,' Qwilleran said with veiled sarcasm.
`No, but there'd be room for one or two good restaurants.' Qwilleran stood up. 'Thanks for the book. I'll return it. Sorry to dash off. I've got an appointment in Lockmaster.'