Qwilleran hung up with satisfaction. Starting an unfounded rumor was one of the chief pleasures 400 miles north of everywhere.
At six o’clock he ambled along the creek to Cabin One, where the Underhills were waiting outside Hannah’s porch.
“She’s putting her face on,” Wendy said. “She bought a new pantsuit to wear tonight, and she looks splendiferous!”
Doyle said, “Have you seen our new neighbors in Cabin Four? They claim to be fly-fishermen, and one was fly-casting in the creek this morning, but I think they’re cops, working on the Hackett case.”
“Here she comes!”
Hannah did indeed look handsome, a far cry from the dumpy, dowdy character in the opera. Her fans applauded and shouted “Bravo! . . . Congratulations! . . . Will you give me an autograph?”
She responded with smiles and admirable poise.
They walked up to the inn with an escort of squirrels, expecting peanuts.
“They multiply like rabbits,” Doyle said. “What happens when the inn has ten thousand on the premises?”
“They transport them to Canada,” Qwilleran said, “under cover of darkness.”
At the inn Cathy Hooper was enjoying her responsibility as interim manager. “Mr. and Mrs. Bamba are in Mooseville,” she said, “taking Lovey and Grandma to church and out to Sunday dinner.”
Qwilleran’s party was seated at his favorite table in the window, and he ordered a bottle of champagne for his guests and a split of “poor man’s champagne” for himself (an extra-dry ginger ale). He had also arranged for a floral centerpiece with Hannah’s name on the tag. Glasses were raised to Hannah, and compliments flowed like the wine.
Then Qwilleran said, “I have something to report about the video of ‘Pirates’ that you lent me, Hannah. It has an unusual appeal for my male cat, although he’s never attracted to the TV screen unless the programming is about tropical birds. I’ve played it twice, and both times he’s become quite excited.”
“Keep it for a while,” she said. “Although I enjoyed rehearsing and performing, I’m glad it’s over and I can do other things. You don’t need to return it until you leave.”
Wendy asked, “What other things are you going to do?”
The reply was hesitant. “Well . . . right now I’m concerned about the boy next door. He’s awfully neglected and I can’t help thinking about my grandson who’s his age. I keep some books and games and puzzles for his visits, and I’m going to ask Marge if he can come over for milk and cookies and Chinese checkers.”
They placed their orders (roast loin of lamb for the women, lamb shank for the men). Then Qwilleran brought up the subject of the old books in the cabins. “I assume you all have a shelf of popular classics. I suggest an exchange program. I have an Alice in Wonderland. Any takers?”
Hannah said, “I could read it to my grandkids when they come visiting.”
Doyle said, “If anyone has a Fanny Hill, I’ll trade two to one.”
“Would you settle for Lolita in French?” Qwilleran asked.
Wendy asked, “Would anyone like The Picture of Dorian Gray? I think it’s by Ogden Nash.”
“Oscar Wilde,” Qwilleran said. “I’ll take it. My favorite is Trollope.”
Jules Verne and Henry James went on the block.
The books were forgotten when the entrees were served, but after a while Qwilleran inquired about the Bushland photo show in Pickax.
Doyle said, “That guy has great talent, and he’s real down-to-earth. He invited us for a cruise on his boat.”
Hannah said, “I know Bushy. He photographed my miniatures. His ancestors were commercial fishermen.”
Qwilleran asked Doyle, “Are you satisfied with the wildlife shots you’re getting?”
“Well, I’m limited, shooting from the creek. Most species are inland, but Wendy doesn’t want me to go into the woods.”
“There are bears and wolves in the woods,” she said. “And swamps. I don’t want him going ashore alone. Anything could happen. He could break a leg, and who would know—”
“I could take a cell phone.”
“That would do a lot of good if a black bear came up behind you while you were shooting her cubs. Female bears can be very protective, very savage. You’ve seen that huge mounted bear at the Black Bear Café! . . . What do you think, Qwill?”
What could he say? “It would seem prudent to have a partner.”
Hannah said, “Qwill, do you remember the bears that used to come to the dump in Mooseville? They were a big tourist attraction. But they were feeding the bears, and the wildlife people objected. Then the dump was replaced by a modern disposal system. And the bears disappeared.”
Doyle guessed, “Probably sent to zoos around the country.”
“I know what happened to them!” Wendy said with her brown eyes flashing. “A friend of mine is a forest ranger. She told me the bears were transported to the Black Forest Conservancy, where they can have a natural diet—and proliferate!!”
“Wendy always overreacts,” her husband said.
“He never listens to me! And he knows it stresses me when he takes chances!”
There was a moment of awkward silence until Qwilleran signaled for the plates to be removed and said, “Shall we look at the dessert menu. I recommend the black walnut pie.”
Doyle was cool, but Wendy’s face was flushed.
“Speaking of pie,” Hannah said hastily, “I’ve been reading nursery rhymes to Danny, and he wanted to know how the blackbirds could sing if they’d been baked in a pie.”
That reminded Qwilleran that Danny had come to see if the cats had found their mittens.
There was more uncomfortable small talk while they waited for three orders of pie; Wendy had decided against having dessert. And the festive spirit of the occasion never revived.
They walked back down the hill—Hannah chattering to Doyle, Qwilleran trying to cheer up Wendy—and they forgot to exchange books.
chapter eleven
Early on Monday morning Qwilleran went to the inn for a quick breakfast, taking his review of Pirates to be faxed. He also told the Bambas about the plans for the black walnut heirlooms at the Antique Village.
Nick said, “I’ll send two guys to Sandpit Road to get them out of hock—right away!”
“Not so fast!” Qwilleran said. “Arrangements have to be made. And when you pick up the stuff, you should be one of the guys. We don’t want the cracked mirrors to be shattered. The way they’re cracked, they’re mysterious; if shattered, they would be just a mess.”
“Will we get a credit line for the exhibit?”
“A tasteful card,” Qwilleran told him, “will say that the pieces were found in a turret at the Nutcracker Inn, where they had been locked up for a hundred years. It will also be mentioned in the leaflet handed out to visitors.”
Lori said, “Qwill, you’d make a wonderful publicity man!”
“Watch your language! To a journalist, them’s fighting words.”
Janelle was waiting in the office of the Antique Village when Qwilleran arrived with his tape recorder. She poured two cups of coffee. The painting itself had been brought from the display case and was propped on the desk. Briefly he tried to analyze its fascination. Although it had been painted long ago and far away, the people on the beach seemed so real that one was teleported into the scene. Sunning, digging in the sand, and reading all without a beer cooler or topless swimmer.
“Okay, how did you happen to acquire this painting?” he asked Janelle.
“Well,” she began, “when I was attending MCCC, a classmate and I went to Chicago on spring break. First time! We gawked at the tall buildings, squealed when we rode the elevated, giggled on escalators, and ate food we’d never heard of before. One day we ventured into a big gallery selling furniture from European castles and paintings as big as billboards. But I saw this little painting among the giants and couldn’t stop staring at it. A man was walking around with his hands behind his back, and I asked about it. He said it came in a large shipment and was smaller than they usually handled, but if I liked it I could have it for ten dollars! I felt weak in the knees!”