Qwill—I stayed in the lab until I got all the rest of Doyle’s stuff printed. Here’s everything. Better you should have it. You’ll know what to do with it. God! I hope they find that guy! I was going to take him and Wendy out on my boat this weekend. About these prints—some are very good (I like the one with the two squirrels) and some are not so good, but that’s to be expected. Also some nice portraits of Wendy and some snapshots taken at a picnic, with you eating a hot dog. I called Barter. He’s canceling.
Bushy
The eight-by-ten prints filled three flat yellow boxes. Qwilleran took them out to the porch. Now he would discover if it had really been a good idea to include Doyle in The Beauty of Moose County.
The first print in the first box was the two squirrels, photographed in profile, sitting on a tree stump face-to-face, like two elder statesmen in conference, their bushy tales arched in perfect symmetry. What were they discussing? The nut situation?
They were in the foreground, with the forest as a backdrop. Doyle had obviously used a telephoto lens.
A rumble in Koko’s throat interrupted these ruminations. It was a feline alarm system that announced anyone approaching the premises, friend or foe. (Qwilleran regarded Koko as a battery-operated electronic detection device disguised as a Siamese—very few on the market—used extensively by the military—might eventually replace dogs.)
In this case, the suspected individual was Hannah Hawley, walking more briskly than usual.
Qwilleran went out to meet her, first replacing the covers on the yellow boxes; he knew Koko’s fondness for glossy photo-prints. “Sorry, old boy,” he said. “These are for viewing, not tasting.”
“Any news?” were her first words.
“Nothing.”
“Wendy’s mom arrives at the airport at five P.M., and I made a reservation for her at the Friendship Inn.” It was a motel on the Pickax medical campus catering to the families of patients.
“Come onto the porch and have a glass of bottled water.”
As soon as Hannah sat down, Yum Yum was in her lap, turning around three times before settling down. Koko jumped to the table and sat guarding the yellow boxes.
“The reason I’m here,” she said as soon as the glasses of water were served, “is to tell you the latest from Cabin Two. Marge came over this morning—she never does that!—and asked if I could spare any milk for Danny. Joe was supposed to take her shopping last night, but something else came up. She seemed hungover—or doped by the medication she claims to be taking. . . . Qwill, when someone sings a flat note, it makes my flesh crawl, and Joe makes my flesh crawl.” She hummed a melody from Gilbert & Sullivan that he recognized: Things are seldom what they seem. / Skim milk masquerades as cream.
“You think Joe’s a phony?” He patted his moustache as Hannah’s flat-note theory began to sound like his own hunch.
“Well, I talked to my relatives in the commercial fishing fleet, and they said the chartered trollers don’t go out this time of year—except maybe weekends—”
“Food for thought,” Qwilleran murmured.
“Well, you’re probably busy . . . and I have a meat loaf in the oven.”
“Yow!” said Koko.
“He knows the words ‘meat loaf.’ I’ll send him a slice.”
“Is there anything I can do for Wendy? Would flowers be in order?”
“Best thing you can do is hope and pray that Doyle is safe. When her mother comes, I’ll feel much relieved.”
“Should I pick her up at the airport and deliver her to the Friendship Inn?”
“That would be very kind of you, Qwill.”
“What’s her name?”
“Wendy’s maiden name was Satterlee.”
Hannah went home to her meat loaf, and Qwilleran thought, If Joe didn’t go fishing every day, as he claimed, what exactly was he doing? Prospecting for gold illegally? Was Hackett his partner—or competitor? Did Joe conk him on the head, throw him in the creek, and steal his car? The trunk was probably filled with gold rocks. But who drove it away? A third person must have driven it out of the state and switched the license plates.
It was time to stop inventing a scenario and dress for the MCCC luncheon. He would wear the gray polo shirt and slacks combination that accentuated his pepper-and-salt moustache—along with his summer jacket in the Mackintosh tartan. It always drew admiring glances, and although he exhibited nonchalance, he was not averse to admiring glances. Polly had said he should wear more gray, because it made his eyes look gray. . . . This bit of trivia he always remembered when dressing. (Vanity! Vanity!) Nevertheless, when he arrived at the inn, both Cathy and Lori told him he looked wonderful. The postcard he picked up was “Independence Hall” again. The message read:
Dear Qwill—All this and Greenfield Village, too! Acres and acres of history! Home soon. Wish you could meet Walter. You’d like him.
Love, Polly
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Walter was beginning to sound like a member of the family.
The foyer was filled with men and women heading for the private dining room—exchanging loud greetings, hearty handshakes, even hugs! It was surprising that the prospect of lunch at the Nutcracker could inspire such a festive mood. Especially since they would be getting only chicken potpie. Qwilleran waited until they were all seated around the long tables perpendicular to the speaker’s table. Nell met him with effusive greetings. “You look wonderful, Qwill—but you always do!” She escorted him to the head table, where he was seated between a buxom woman with dyed red hair and an elderly man with a goatee and one gold earring. Their names were not familiar, although they knew his. As a columnist he was accustomed to this one-sided acquaintance.
Still, their friendliness, flamboyant modes of dress, and occasional shrieks of laughter seemed to him somewhat . . . unscholarly.
Then Nell tapped a water glass with a spoon and called the meeting to order. “Welcome to the annual tri-county luncheon of the Moustache Cup Collectors Club!”
Qwilleran gulped. How could he have made such a miscalculation? While keeping up a conversation with the red hair and the goatee, he tried to rework his limerick.
Nell was saying, “We are privileged to have as our speaker the leading authority on the collectibles so near and dear to our hearts.” (Applause.) “And our distinguished guest-of-honor is the newspaper columnist whose wit and wisdom brighten our lives every Tuesday and Friday.” (More applause—a trifle louder and more enthusiastic, Qwilleran noted with misgiving.) “How much time did he have to compose a moustache cup limerick? Moustache, dash, panache.
Nell was saying, “But first, let us relax and enjoy the delicious lunch that the chef has prepared especially for us!” (Applause again. Did they know it would be only chicken potpie?)
Hoping to pick up inspiration for his limerick, Qwilleran did what journalists do: He asked questions and listened to answers.
Moustaches, he learned, always increased in popularity following a war. The first moustache cup was introduced in England in the 1800s. Men waxed their moustaches and, when drinking hot tea, found the wax melting and running down the chin, or dripping into the beverage. The moustache cup—with a hole through which to sip—should not be confused with the shaving mug, which has three holes.
The man to Qwilleran’s left claimed to have about fifty moustache cups; he had lost count. The woman to his right had just acquired a lustreware cup with hand-painted yellow roses. Nell said she specialized in cups with inscriptions, such as “Dear Papa, I love you best.”