Qwilleran was the one invited spectator; after all, the name had been his idea. Roguishly he thought it would be a laugh if the workmen had made a typographical error - putting the A before the E, or the E before the R.
The new name marked the theatre club's new venture: a programme of classes in acting technique, voice culture, stage makeup, and set-building, under the direction of Alden Wade. Qwilleran wished them well, then rushed home to the barn to attend to his own programme: moving his household to Indian Village for the winter . . . and writing a book on the historic Hibbard House. He needed to collect stories about 'the big house on the hill' from people who had been there.
Once more he called upon Whiskers for legwork, although he had a private reason for wanting to speak with the young man.
The Siamese sensed that a friend was approaching through the woods, and they staged a welcoming demonstration in the kitchen window.
'What are they all excited about?' Kenneth asked when he walked in.
'You! Speak to them.'
'Hello, cats.'
Qwilleran said, 'Sit at the snack bar. I've thawed some sweet rolls from Celia Robinson. I hope you like your coffee strong. Do you know Celia Robinson? Remarkable woman. When I first moved up here and was doing a little private investigating, she was my undercover agent.' He watched for Kenneth's reaction. It was sudden but guarded.
'Now about the Hibbard House: your work with the documents was excellent. We need to collect personal memoirs from old-timers who visited the house and/or knew the family. Your first source: the historical collection at the public library. Next, call Thornton Haggis, the county historian, for names of members of the Old-Timers Club who are over eighty. I'll tell him to expect your call.'
Kenneth was taking notes.
'I'm going to tell Thorn - that's what he likes to be called -that three hot subjects are better than a dozen warm bodies. I suggest you do the interviews on weekends. You'll need a car.'
'I can borrow Peg's.'
'No. Keep this on a professional basis. Rent a car and put it on your bill. I'll give you a pocket tape recorder for the interviews. Any questions?'
Kenneth asked intelligent ones. Then Qwilleran asked one of him: 'Do you know a Kathie MacDiarmid in Lockmaster? She's in school now. She and her mother came to visit Dundee last weekend. Dundee came from Mrs MacDiarmid's cattery.' The short sentences were intended to allow the young man to collect his wits before the Big One. 'I took them to Granny's. You were there with Peggy. Kathie thought you were someone she knew.'
'Yeah, we were in high school at the same time.'
'But she thought your name was Wesley. I set her straight.'
Kenneth took time to gulp and look from side to side before answering. 'I had a family problem, sort of. I wanted to work for the Something, but I didn't want anyone to know I was here.'
With sympathy in his voice and understanding in his brooding eyes, Qwilleran said, 'I know how those things happen. If there's anything I can do to help, it's strictly confidential. Don't hesitate to ask.'
There was a long, pathetic silence until Kenneth said abruptly, 'What's he doing?'
Koko was butting Kenneth's ankles with the top of his head. 'Cats are smart. They know right from wrong. Koko has exceptional instincts in this regard. He knows the good guys from the bad guys. He approves of what you're doing. You don't have to explain.'
Kenneth went on gulping, and Koko went on butting his ankles.
`I want to talk about it,' he said. 'My stepfather is living here. I don't think he's to be trusted. There's nothing I can do about it. I don't have any proof - any evidence against him. All I can do is watch him. It's not just the way kids have always hated their stepfathers. It's just that . . . I don't know . . . am I wrong?'
Qwilleran put his hand to his moustache. 'I know what you mean. I have the same unexplainable reaction at times. I call it a hunch, and the strange thing is . . . the way it turns out, I'm always right. So what can I say? You have to play your hunches. Do what you're doing, but keep your eyes open and your mind alert. And if you want to talk about this again, you know you've got a sympathetic listener. Two listeners, including Koko.'
Kenneth's visit had left Qwilleran with a feeling of satisfaction about the Hibbard research; he would call Thornton Haggis and alert him to the need for interviews with old-timers.
On the other hand, the young man's emotional outpouring had left Qwilleran with a tingling sensation on his upper lip, and he found himself patting his moustache frequently. The wicked stepfather of fairy tales was obviously Alden Wade; Kenneth was obviously Wesley, whose father was a suicide and whose mother was the victim of a sniper's bullet.
Yet Alden Wade was lauded in Pickax for his charm, helpfulness, polished manners, and many skills. Qwilleran himself recognized his acting talent, fine voice, and well-organized mind. All the while, there were friends of Qwilleran's who called the newcomer a lady-killer, home breaker, and fortune hunter.
Qwilleran had two reasons to visit Maggie Sprenkle again, and he called to make an appointment. He would pick up his tape recorder with her memories of early days at the Hibbard House. And he would ask what she thought about Violet's sudden marriage.
On the phone, he asked casually if she had recalled any incidents from the good old days at Hibbard House.
`Yes, I have! And I was just thinking about you, Qwill. Would you care to come over for a cup of tea?'
He walked downtown - for the last time until April - and soon he was sitting in the plush Victorian parlour, drinking jasmine tea and listening to Maggie's Hibbard House memories. He heard about a Fourth of July bonfire that got out of hand and terrified everyone . . . a black bear that came to the back door and terrified the cook . . . a berry-picking party that got lost in the thirty-acre woods.
Qwilleran said, 'You've got the right idea, Maggie. Don't stop thinking. I'm moving to the Village for the winter and plan to start writing, but first I have to visualize the whole book and what I can do to make it distinctive.' He drained his teacup and stood up.
`Wait a minute! Sit down!' she said.
He sat down.
`What do you think about Violet's sudden marriage, Qwill?' `What can I say? Love is like lightning. It can strike anywhere.'
`You're being polite. You know this was a marriage of convenience! Violet is twenty years his senior and extremely wealthy! And I told you about her health problem. Lately she's been having headaches and touches of numbness that worry me. I'm sure they worry her, too, although she's careful not to show it. I know her, Qwill! When we were growing up, we were like sisters. We're still close friends. Why didn't she tell me about her intentions! Did she think I'd try to stop her? . . . What do you know about Alden Wade, Qwill?'
`Only that he has many talents and a pleasing personality—' `And a taste for older women with money!'
In a flash, Qwilleran remembered Janice's confidential gossip that the marriage announcement was being delayed until Violet could change her will. He also remembered the realty man's dream of 'developing' the Hibbard property.
Maggie had stopped for breath; her face was reddening.
`Calm down, Maggie. Take a deep breath. Violet is an intelligent woman, and she must know what she's doing. Who's her attorney? She must be getting good advice.'
The family always retained the Hasselrich people. After the old man died, I'm sure she stayed with the firm.'
`They're highly reputable. They wouldn't let Violet do anything foolish.'
`I'm sorry, Qwill. Excuse my outburst. It's just that . . . I haven't had anyone to talk to.'
`I understand perfectly. And the K Fund has a stake in the future of. Hibbard House now. I'll draw it to their attention. Has Violet been in touch with you since yesterday's announcement?' `No. I tried to call her. I think she's avoiding me.'
`It's been only twenty-four hours.'
`You're right, Qwill. You've said exactly what Jeremy would have said if he were here.'
That evening, when Qwilleran and Polly drove to the Boulder House Inn on the lakeshore, it was their first genuine Saturday-night dinner date in a long time. There was no mention of the Book Log Computer System.
`How's Dundee?' Qwilleran asked.
`Oh, he's so happy! Not frisky - just happily interested in whatever is happening in the store. You know the table where we feature the book of the week? Well, recently we did a table on A Place Called Happiness, and Dundee jumped up and presided over it like an author waiting to "pawtograph" his books.'
`Who wrote it?'
`A psychologist, Dr Dori Seider. It's selling very well and is up for discussion at the next meeting of the lit club. One of the Green Smocks thinks we should send a copy, anonymously, to our cranky mayor.'
`Amanda wouldn't read it,' Qwilleran said. 'She'd throw it at the messenger.'
`Dr Seider has two cats, you'll be glad to know. I have an autographed book that you can borrow, Qwill. She quotes John Milton's Paradise Lost: "The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven." What do you think of that?'
Qwilleran later recorded the rest of the evening in his personal journal.
Saturday, October 4 - There's something magical about the Boulder House: the lake view, walking on the beach, the sky full of sunset, Squunk cocktails on the parapet. Not to mention Rocky, the cat, who always greets us with ankle rubbing, a high compliment.
Polly's soft voice and musical laugh have returned. First I gave her a limerick I wrote a few weeks ago, when her sense of humour was below par:
A literacy maven named Polly
Says slang expressions are folly.
She refuses to say
Drop dead!' or 'No way!'
Or Dingbat' or `Oops!' or 'By golly!'
Then I gave her a brilliant new recording of Saint-Saens's Third Symphony, and we went to the barn and listened to it.