“He smells my glue,” said Mrs. Hawley with some amusement. “He can’t hurt anything.”
“Glue?” The cat had a passion for adhesives and could smell a postage stamp across the room.
“I make miniature furnishings for doll houses.”
“You do?” He stroked his moustache as his mental computer recognized an idea for the “Qwill Pen.” “I’d like to talk to you about your craft. Perhaps you’d have dinner with me at the inn tonight.”
“I’d love to!”
“I’ll call for you at six o’clock,” Qwilleran said as he coaxed Koko away from the glue pot.
He waited for Lori to be alone in her office and then went in to say, “Have you heard the good news?”
“We’re going to be on the front page!” she cried. “I’m thrilled!”
“They wanted the old furniture out of the way, so it was moved to Sandpit Road in the middle of the night as Nick probably told you. And do you know what, Lori? I believe we’ve discovered the source of the bad vibes you were getting! According to the history of the place, those particular items of furniture were connected with the family tragedy.”
“I knew it!” she cried. “There was a negative influence at work, but this morning the pall has been lifted!”
“I feel euphoric myself,” Qwilleran said, to be agreeable. Actually, he attributed it to the eggs Benedict.
“Do you find your suite comfortable, Qwill?”
“I have no complaint, but I’m afraid Koko’s yowling will annoy lodgers on the second floor. He can even be heard in the lobby. A cabin would be more suitable—with its screened porch, windows on four sides, and proximity to the water and wildlife. Will there be a vacancy soon? Otherwise, we may have to return to Pickax.”
“I understand,” she said.
“They’re accustomed to a huge barn with three balconies and overhead beams and rafters. It isn’t fair to coop them up like this. They’re all the family I’ve got, and I have to consider their welfare.” His impassioned plea was not solely altruistic. He, too, would prefer a cabin and the idea of taking meals at the inn for two weeks appealed mightily.
Fingering the guest register, she said, “Mr. Hackett is supposed to check out of cabin number five today, but he hasn’t returned his key. His car is gone, and when the housekeeper went down there to check, she found his luggage half packed. He may have gone to church, and someone invited him home to dinner.”
“Ye-e-ess,” Qwilleran said doubtfully, and he patted his moustache. “Who is he? Do you know?”
“A business traveler. The name of his company sounds like building supplies. We have his credit card number and can’t turn him out if he wishes to stay. He really should let us know his plans.”
“Meanwhile,” Qwilleran said, “I’ll state the case to the guys upstairs and entreat their cooperation.”
On the way, he stepped into the library. During the Limburgers’ residence the shelves had been filled with gold-tooled, leather-bound volumes, probably unread. Now there were mellow old books that guests might enjoy reading: Gone with the Wind and Wuthering Heights, and titles of that sort. Qwilleran borrowed a collection of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales to read to the Siamese and keep them quiet.
It worked! They listened in fascination as he read the story of the ugly duckling that grew up to be a beautiful swan. There were plenty of animals in the tale, and Qwilleran had a talent for impersonating the peeping duckling, his quacking mother, clucking hen, meowing cats, cawing ravens, and so forth. It was ironic that the beautiful swans communicated with hair-raising screeches! Exhausted by the excitement of it all, Koko and Yum Yum crept away for their naps.
Just as Qwilleran was congratulating himself, he received a phone call from Lori. “Qwill, is everything all right up there?”
“Everything’s fine! I’ve been reading to the cats, and I believe it calmed them down.”
“That’s strange. We had a phone call from a guest, saying that something terrible was happening in 3FF.”
“Someone must be watching television,” he said.
When the time came for dinner with Mrs. Hawley, Qwilleran walked down the hill with a tape recorder in his pocket. On the way he watched for mother squirrels carrying their babies, but all he saw was father squirrels chasing mother squirrels.
Hannah was waiting for him on the porch, gaily clad in a blouse printed with oversized hibiscus blossoms. She was an expert at makeup and looked quite attractive.
“Where do you spend your winters?” he asked as they started to walk up the hill. He knew the answer.
“In Florida,” she said. “My daughter runs a restaurant on the Gulf Coast, and I give her a hand. But this is where I belong. All my relatives and friends are here. The Scotten and Hawley families.”
“The fishocracy of Moose County,” he said. “Is Doris still selling home-baked goods?”
“Yes, but Magnus is getting ready to retire. She’s my sister-in-law.”
“And Aubrey. Is he still keeping bees?”
“He’s my nephew.”
“I knew him when he was taking care of old Gus Limburger, and I admired his patience with the old curmudgeon.”
“Gus had a cuckoo clock in the entrance hall, and he promised to leave it to Bree, but he never got it. Someone around here must have taken it when Gus died.”
Qwilleran made a mental note to find out what happened to Aubrey’s cuckoo clock. “Since I know your whole family, I’m going to call you Hannah, and you must call me Qwill. I take it, you’re here for the entire summer. Do you know the people in the other cabins?”
“Only Wendy and Doyle Underhill in the middle cabin. Nice young couple. Both teachers. She’s writing a family history. He goes around photographing wildlife.”
“There’s a small boy in the cabin next to you.”
“Yes. Poor Danny. He has no one to play with, and his parents don’t seem to give him any attention. I took a plate of cookies over there and introduced myself. Danny’s mother said she’s recuperating after surgery, and her husband spends his time deep-sea fishing on the charter boats. I think she watches a lot of TV. I asked if my singing bothered her, and she said no.”
After they had been seated in the dining room, and after they had ordered from the menu, Qwilleran placed his tape recorder on the table. “Mind if I tape this interview?”
“Are you really going to write about my hobby?”
“If you give intelligent answers to my dumb questions. For starters, what attracted you to doll houses?”
“Well, my mother let me fix up my own room when I was in high school, and I secretly took a correspondence course in home decorating. I was in my early twenties when I married Jeb, and I went to work on the old Scotten house we got for a wedding present. It was so plain and so gloomy! I painted and wallpapered and slip covered and made curtains, and that’s where we raised our family.”
“What did Jeb think about your efforts?”
“Oh, he was very proud of me!” She bit her lip. “After he drowned, I sold the house and went to Florida to be with my daughter. And that’s where I discovered this doll house store! They sold miniature furnishings and equipment for do-it-yourselfers! That was me! I learned all about paint and glue and handling fabrics and cutting moldings.”
“Did you find it difficult to think small?” Qwilleran asked.
“Not really. On a one-to-twelve scale, one inch equals one foot. You can paint a whole room with half a cup of paint.”
“And a very small brush, I imagine. . . . Where did you start? What was your first project?”
“An old-fashioned dining room. I bought the table, six chairs, a sideboard, a mantelpiece and a gaslight style of chandelier. I stained the furniture, rubbed it with ash to look old, stenciled the walls to look like wallpaper, upholstered the chair seats, and so forth. For a rug I daubed designs on a nine-by-twelve-inch piece of velvet.”