For Jim Qwilleran, veteran journalist, it was one of the most appalling moments of his career. Years before, as a war correspondent, he had been strafed on the beaches; as a crime reporter he had been a target of the Mob. Now he was writing restaurant reviews for a midwestern newspaper, the Daily Fluxion, and he was not prepared for the shocking situation at the Press Club.
The day had started well enough. He had eaten a good breakfast at his boarding house: a wedge of honeydew melon, an omelette fines herbes with saut‚ed chicken livers, cheese popovers, and three cups of coffee. He planned to lunch with his old friend Arch Riker at the Press Club, their favorite haunt.
At twelve noon Qwilleran bounded up the steps of the grimy limestone fortress that had once been the county jail but now dispensed food and drink to the working press. As he approached the ancient nail-studded portal, he sensed that something was wrong. He smelled fresh varnish! His sharp ear detected that the massive door no longer creaked on its hinges! He stepped into the lobby and gasped. The murky, smoky ambience that he loved so well was now all freshness and sparkle.
Qwilleran was aware that the Press Club had been closed for two weeks for something called annual housekeeping, but no one had hinted at this metamorphosis.
It had happened while he had been out-of-town on assignment.
His luxuriant pepper-and-salt moustache was rampant with rage, and he pounded it into submission with his fist. Instead of the old paneled walls, black with numberless coats of cheap varnish, the lobby was wallpapered with something resembling his grandmother’s tablecloths. Instead of the scarred plank floor rippled with a century of wear, there was wall-to-wall carpet over thick rug padding. Instead of fluorescent tubes glaring on the domed ceiling, there was a chandelier of polished brass. Even the familiar mustiness was missing, replaced by a chemical smell of newness.
Gulping down his shock and dismay, the newsman dashed into the bar, where he always lunched in a far dark corner. There he found more of the same: creamy walls, soft lighting, hanging baskets of plastic plants, and mirrors. Mirrors! Qwilleran shuddered.
Arch Riker, his editor at the Daily Fluxion, was sitting at the usual table with his usual glass of Scotch, but the scarred wooden table had been sanded and varnished, and there were white paper placemats with scalloped edges. The waitress was there promptly with Qwilleran’s usual glass of tomato juice, but she was not wearing her usual skimpy white uniform with frilly handkerchief in the breast pocket. All the waitresses were now dressed as French maids in chic black outfits with white aprons and ruffled caps.
“Arch! What happened?” Qwilleran demanded. “I don’t believe what I’m seeing!” He lowered his substantial bulk into a chair and groaned.
“Well, the club has lots of women members now,” Riker explained calmly, “and they got themselves appointed to the housekeeping committee so they could clean the place up. It’s called reversible renovation. Next year’s housekeeping committee can rip out the wallpaper and carpet and go back to the original filth and decrepitude….” “You sound as if you like it. Traitor!” “We have to swing with the times,” Riker said with the bored equanimity of an editor who has seen it all. “Look at the menu and decide what you want to eat. I’ve got a meeting at one-thirty. I’m going to order the lamb curry.” “I’ve lost my appetite,” Qwilleran said, his disgruntled expression accentuated by the downcurve of his moustache. He waved an arm at the surrounding scene. “The place has lost all its character. It even smells phony.” He raised his nose and sniffed. “Synthetic!
Probably carcinogenic!” “You’re getting to have a nose like a bloodhound, Qwill. No one else has complained about the smell.” “And another thing,” Qwilleran said with belligerence. “I don’t like what’s happening at the Fluxion either.” “What do you mean?” “First they assigned all those women to the copy desk in the City Room and switched all those men to the Women’s Department. Then they gave us unisex restrooms. Then they moved in all those new desks in green and orange and blue. It looks like a circus! Then they took away my typewriter and gave me a video display terminal that gives me a headache.” Riker said in his soothing tone: “You never forgot those old movies, Qwill. You still want reporters to type with their hats on and poke the keys with two fingers.” Qwilleran slumped in his chair. “Look here, Arch. I’ve been trying to make up my mind about something, and now I’ve made a decision. I’ve got three weeks of vacation coming and two weeks of comp time. I want to add some leave-of-absence and go away for three months.” “You’ve gotta be kidding.” “I’m tired of writing flattering hogwash about restaurants that advertise in the Fluxion. I want to go up north and get away from city hype and city pollution idea for a book. I’d like to try writing a novel-with lots of sex and violence. All the good stuff.” Riker could only stare and search his mind for more objections. “It would cost you a bundle. Do you realize the rent they’re getting for summer cottages?” “Actually,” Qwilleran said with a note of triumph, “it won’t cost me a cent. I’ve got an old aunt up there, and she has a cabin I can use.” “You never told me about any old aunt.” “She’s not really a relative. She was a friend of my mother’s, and I called her Aunt Fanny when I was a kid. We lost touch, but she saw my byline in the Fluxion and wrote to me. We’ve been corresponding ever since…. Speaking of bylines, my name was spelled wrong in yesterday’s paper.” “I know, I know,” Riker said. “We have a new copy editor, and no one told her about that ridiculous W. We caught it in the second edition.” The waitress brought the coffee – a brew as black as the sooty varnish concealed by the new wallpaper – and Riker studied his cup in search of clues to Qwilleran’s aberrant behavior. “How about your friend? The one who eats health foods. What does she think about your sudden insanity?” “Rosemary? She’s in favor of fresh air, exercise, all that jazz.” “You haven’t been smoking your pipe lately. Is that her idea?” “Are you implying I never have any ideas of my own? What happened, I realized how much trouble it is to buy tobacco, fill a pipe, tamp it, light it, relight it two or three times, knock out the ashes, empty the ashtray, clean the pipe…” “You’re getting old,” Riker said.
After lunch the restaurant reviewer went back to his olive-green desk with matching telephone and VDT, and the feature editor attended the meeting of assistant editors, sub- editors, group editors, divisional editors, managing editors, and executive editors.
Qwilleran was pleased that his announcement had jarred Riker’s professional cool.
Admittedly the editor’s questions had dented his resolve. How would he react to three months of the simple life after a lifetime of urban chaos? It was true he planned to do some writing during the summer, but how many hours a day can one sit at a typewriter?
There would be no lunches at the Press Club, no telephone calls, no evenings with friends, no gourmet dinners, no big league ballgames, no Rosemary.
Nevertheless, he needed a change. He was disenchanted with the Fluxion, and the offer of a lakeside hideaway for the entire season appealed to his thrifty nature.
On the other hand, Aunt Fanny had mentioned nothing about comforts and conveniences.
Qwilleran liked an extra-long bed, deep lounge chairs, good reading lamps, a decent refrigerator, plenty of hot water, and trouble-free plumbing. He would undoubtedly miss the amenities of Maus Haus, the glamorous boarding house where he occupied a luxury apartment. He would miss the Robert Maus standard of elegant dining and the camaraderie of the other tenants, especially Rosemary.
The green telephone on his desk buzzed, and he answered it absent-mindedly.
“Qwill, have you heard the news?” It was Rosemary’s velvet voice, but it had the high pitch of alarm.
“What’s happened?” There had been two homicides at Maus Haus in the last year, but the murderer was now behind bars, and the residents had settled down to pleasurable living and a sense of security.
“Robert is selling the building,” Rosemary said plaintively, “and we’ve all got to move out.” “Why is he selling? Everything was going so well.” “Someone made him a wonderful offer for the property. You know he’s always wanted to give up his law practice and open a fine restaurant. He says this is his chance. It’s prime real estate, and a developer wants to build a high-rise apartment house.” “That’s really bad news,” Qwilleran agreed. “Robert has spoiled us all with his Chateaubriand and his lobster thermidor and his artichoke hearts Florentine. Why don’t you come over to Number Six when you get home? We’ll talk about it.” “I’ll bring a bottle. Chill the glasses,” Rosemary said. “We just got a shipment of pomegranate juice.” She was part-owner of a specialty food store called Helthy-Welthy, a coy spelling that Qwilleran found obnoxious.
He replaced the receiver thoughtfully. The bad news had been a message from the fates, telling him to go north. He left the office early that afternoon with a small bag of turkey from the Press Club and a tape measure from the Blue Dragon antique shop.
The River Road bus dropped him at a used car lot, and he went directly to a row of small fuel-efficient automobiles. Methodically he moved from one vehicle to the next, opening the door and measuring the floor space behind the driver’s seat.
A salesman who had been watching the performance sauntered into the picture.
“Interested in a compact?” “It all depends,” Qwilleran mumbled with his head buried in the back seat. He made a mental note: twelve by fifteen.
“Looking for any particular model?” “No.” The drive-shaft seemed to be the problem. Thirteen by fifteen.
“You want automatic or stick?” “Doesn’t matter,” Qwilleran said as he busied himself with the tape measure again.
Thirteen by sixteen. After years of driving company cars from newspaper garages, he could drive anything; his selectivity had been numbed.
The salesman was studying the heavy drooping moustache and the mournful eyes. “I know you,” he finally said. “Your picture’s in the Fluxion all the time. You write about restaurants. My cousin has a pizza place in Happy View Woods.” Qwilleran grunted from the innards of a four-door.
“I’d like to show you a job that just came in. We haven’t even cleaned it up yet. Last year’s model-only two thousand miles. Came from an estate.” Qwilleran followed him into the garage. There stood a green two-door, not yet sprayed with New Car Scent. He ducked into the back seat with his tape measure. Then he moved the
driver’s seat back to accommodate his long legs and measured again. Fourteen by sixteen.
“Perfect,” he said, “although I might have to cut off the handles. How much?” “Come in the office and we’ll work out a deal,” the salesman said.
The newsman drove the green car around the block and noted that it lurched, bounced, chugged, and rattled less than any company car he had ever driven. And the price was right. He made a down payment, signed some papers, and drove home to Maus Haus.
As he expected, there was a letter in his mailbox from Robert Maus, written on the man’s legal stationery. It explained with the utmost compunction that the property heretofore known as Maus Haus had been purveyed, after due deliberation, to a syndicate of out-of-town investors who would be pursuing extensive plans requiring, it was regretted, the eviction of present tenants at a date not later than September 1.
Qwilleran, who had torn the envelope open on the spot, shrugged and climbed the stairs to his apartment on the balcony. As he unlocked the door to Number Six he was accompanied by a delicate essence of turkey that should have brought two hungry Siamese to meet him, prancing in leggy circles and figure eights, crowing and wailing in a discordant duet of anticipation. Instead, the two ingrates sat motionless on the white bearskin rug in a conspiracy of silence. Qwilleran knew why. They sensed an upheaval in the status quo.
Although Koko and his accomplice Yum Yum were experts at devising surprises of their own, they resented changes originated by others. At Maus Haus they were perfectly satisfied with the wide sunny windowsill, the continuous entertainment provided by neighborhood pigeons, and the luxury of a bearskin rug.
“Okay, you guys,” Qwilleran said. “I know you don’t like to move, but wait till you see where we’re going! I wish we could take the rug but it doesn’t belong to us.” Koko, whose full name was Kao K’o Kung, had the dignity of an Oriental potentate. He sat regally tall with disapproval in every whisker. Both he and Yum Yum were aware of how magnificent they looked on the fluffy white rug. They had the classic Siamese coloring and conformation: blue eyes in a dark brown mask, pale fawn-colored fur of a quality that made mink look second-rate, elegantly long brown legs, and a graceful whip of a tail.
The man chopped the turkey for them. “C’mon and get it! They sliced it off an actual turkey this time.” The two Siamese maintained their frigid reserve.
A moment later Qwilleran raised his nose. He identified a familiar perfume, and soon Rosemary knocked, on the door. He greeted her with a kiss that was more than a perfunctory social peck. The Siamese sat in stony immobility.
Pomegranate juice was poured over ice with a dash of club soda, and a toast was drunk to the condemned building in memory of everything that had happened there.
“It was a way of life we’ll never forget,” Qwilleran said.
“It was a dream,” Rosemary added. “And occasionally a nightmare.” “I suppose you’ll accept your aunt’s offer now. Will the Fluxion let you go?” “Oh sure. They may not let me come back, but they’ll let me go. Have you made any plans?” “I may return to Canada,” Rosemary said. “Max wants to open a natural food restaurant in Toronto, and if I can sell my interest in Helthy-Welthy I might go into partnership with him.” Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Max Sorrel! That womanizer! He said: “I was hoping you’d come up north and spend some time with me.” “I’d love it if I don’t get involved in Toronto. How will you get up there?” “I bought a car today. The cats and I will drive up to Pickax City to say hello to Aunt Fanny and then go on up to the lake. I haven’t seen her for forty years. Judging from her correspondence she’s a character. Her letters are cross-written.” Rosemary looked puzzled.
“My mother used to do cross-writing. She’d handwrite a page in the usual way, then turn the paper sideways and write across the original lines.” “What for? To save paper?” “Who knows? Maybe to preserve privacy. It isn’t easy to read…. She’s not my real aunt,” he went on. “Fanny and my mother were doughnut girls in World War I. Then Fanny had a career of some kind – never married. When she retired she went back to Pickax City.” “I never heard of the place.” “It used to be mining country. Her family made their fortune in the mines.” “Will you write to me, Qwill dearest?” “I’ll write-often. I’ll miss you, Rosemary.” “Tell me all about Aunt Fanny after you meet her.” “She calls herself Francesca now. She doesn’t like to be called Aunt Fanny. She says it makes her feel like an old woman.” “How old is she?” “She’ll be ninety next month.”
-2-
Qwilleran packed the green car for the trek north: two suitcases, his typewriter, the thirteen-pound dictionary, five hundred sheets of typing paper, and two boxes of books.
Because Koko refused to eat any commercial product intended for cats, there were twenty- four cans of boned chicken, red salmon, corned beef, solid pack white tuna, cocktail shrimp, and Alaska crabmeat. On the back seat was the blue cushion favored by the Siamese, and on the floor was an oval roasting pan with the handles sawed off in order to fit between the drive-shaft and the rocker-panel. It contained an inch-thick layer of kitty gravel. This was the cats’ commode. After their previous commode of hand-painted tole had rusted out, Robert Maus had donated the roasting pan from his well-stocked kitchen.
The furniture in Qwilleran’s apartment belonged to an earlier tenant, and his few personal possessions – such as the antique scale and a cast-iron coat of arms were now stored for the summer in Arch Riker’s basement. Thus unencumbered, the newsman started for the I north country with a light heart.
His passengers in the back seat reacted otherwise. The little female howled in strident tones whenever the car turned a corner, rounded a curve, crossed a bridge, passed under a viaduct, encountered a truck, or exceeded fifty miles an hour. Koko scolded her and bit her hind leg, adding snarls and hisses to the orchestrated uproar.
Qwilleran drove with clenched jaw, enduring the stares and glares of motorists who passed him, their fretful horn-honking and hostile tailgating.
The route passed through a string of suburbs and then the winding roads of horse country. Beyond that came cooler temperatures, taller pine trees, deer-crossing signs, and more pickup trucks. Pickax City was still a hundred miles ahead when Qwilleran’s jangled nerves convinced him to stop for the night. The travelers checked into a tourist camp, where rickety cabins of pre-motel vintage were isolated in a wooded area. All three of them were in a state of exhaustion, and Koko and Yum Yum immediately fell asleep in the exact center of the bed.
The next day’s journey was marked by fewer protests from the back seat. The temperature dropped still further, and deer-crossings became elk-crossings. The highway gradually ascended into hilly country and then plunged into a valley to become the main thoroughfare of Pickax City. Here majestic old houses reflecting the wealth of the mining and lumbering pioneers lined both sides of Main Street, which divided in the center of town and circled a little park. Facing the park were several impressive buildings: a nineteenth century courthouse, a library with the columns of a Greek temple, two churches, and a stately residence with a polished brass house number that was Aunt Fanny’s.
It was a large square mansion of fieldstone, with a carriage house in the rear. A blue pickup truck stood in the driveway, and a gardener was working on the shrubs. He stared pointedly at Qwilleran with an expression the newsman could not identify. In the front door there was an old-fashioned mail slot framed in brass and engraved with the family name: Klingenschoen.
The little old lady who answered the doorbell was undoubtedly Aunt Fanny: a vigorous eighty-nine, tiny but taut with energy. Her white, powdery, wrinkled face wore two slashes of orange lipstick and glasses that magnified her eyes. She gazed at her visitor and, after focusing through the thick lenses, flung her arms wide in a dramatic gesture of welcome. Then from that little woman came a deep chesty growl: “Bless my soul! How you have grown!” “I should hope so,” Qwilleran said genially. “The last time you saw me I was seven years old. How are you, Francesca? You’re looking great!” Her exotic name was in keeping with her flamboyant garb: an orange satin tunic embroidered with peacocks and worn over slim black trousers. A scarf, also orange, was tied around her head and knotted on top in a way that added height to her four-feet- three.
“Come in, come in,” she growled pleasantly. “My, how glad I am to see you!… Yes, you look just like your picture in the Fluxion. If only your dear mother could see you now, rest her soul. She would adore your moustache. Are you ready for a cup of coffee? I know you journalists drink a lot of coffee. We’ll have it in the sun parlor.” Aunt Fanny led the way through a high-ceilinged hallway with a grand staircase, past a formal drawing room and ornate dining room, past a paneled library and a breakfast room smothered in chintz, into an airy room with French windows, wicker furniture, and ancient rubber plants.
In her chety voice she said: “I have some divine cinnamon buns. Tom picked them up from the bakery this morning. You adored cinnamon buns when you were a little boy.” While Qwilleran relaxed on a wicker settee his hostess trotted away in little black Chinese slippers, disappearing into a distant part of the house, continuing a monologue that he could only half-hear. She returned carrying a large tray.
Qwilleran sprang to his feet. “Here, let me take that, Francesca.” “Thank you, dear,” she barked. “You were always such a thoughtful little boy. Now you must put cream in your coffee. Tom picked it up from the dairy farm this morning. You don’t get cream like this in the city, my dear.” Qwilleran preferred his coffee black, but he accepted cream, and as he bit into a doughy cinnamon bun his gaze wandered to the French windows. The gardener was leaning on his rake and peering into the room.
“Now you’re going to stay for lunch,” Aunt Fanny said from the depths of a huge wicker rocking chair that swallowed her tiny figure. “Tom will go to the butcher to pick up a steak. Do you like porterhouse or Delmonico? We have a marvelous butcher. Would you like a baked potato with sour cream?” “No! No! Thank you, Francesca, but I have two nervous animals in the car, and I want to get them up to the cabin as soon as possible. I appreciate the invitation, but I’ll have to take a rain check.” “Or maybe you’d prefer pork chops,” Aunt Fanny went on. “I’ll make you a big salad.
What kind of dressing do you like? We’ll have crˆpes suzette for dessert. I always made them for gentlemen callers when I was in college.” Qwilleran thought: Is she deaf? Or doesn’t she bother to listen? The trick is to get her attention. “Aunt Fanny!” he shouted.
She looked startled at the name and the tone. “Yes, dear?” “After we’re settled,” he said in a normal voice, “I’ll come back and have lunch with you, or you can drive up to the lake and I’ll take you to dinner. Do you have transportation, Francesca?” “Yes, of course! Tom drives me. I lost my license a few years ago after a little accident. The chief of police was a very disagreeable person, but we got rid of him, and now we have a charming man. He named his youngest daughter after me…” “Aunt Fanny!” “Yes, dear?” “Will you tell me how to reach the cabin?” “Of course. It’s very easy. Go north to the lake and turn left. Watch for the ruins of a stone chimney; that’s all that’s left of an old log schoolhouse. Then you’ll see the letter K on a post. Turn into the gravel driveway and follow it through the woods. That’s all my property. The wild cherries and sugarplums should be in blossom now. Mooseville is only three miles farther on, You can drive into town for restaurants and shopping. They have a charming postmistress, but don’t get any ideas! She’s married…” “Aunt Fanny!” “Yes, dear?” “Do I need a key?” “Goodness, no! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a key to the place. It’s just a little old log cabin with two bunkrooms, but you’ll be comfortable. It will be nice and quiet for writing. It was too quiet for my taste. I was in clubwork in New Jersey, you know, and I had scads of people around all the time. I’m so happy you’re writing a book, dear.
What is the title? Your dear mother would be so proud of you.” Qwilleran was travel-weary and eager to reach his destination. It required all his wiles to disengage himself from Aunt Fanny’s overwhelming hospitality. As he left the house the gardener was doing something to the bed of tulips around the front steps. The man stared, and Qwilleran gave him a mock salute.
His passengers celebrated his return with howls of indignation, and Yum Yum’s protests continued as a matter of principle even though there were no turns, bridges, viaducts, or large trucks. The highway ran through desolate country, some of it devastated by forest fires; skeletons of ravaged trees were frozen in a grotesque dance. Behind a sign advertising Hot Pasties, a restaurant had collapsed and was overgrown with weeds. Traffic was sparse, mostly pickup trucks whose drivers waved a greeting to the green two-door.
The sites of defunct mines – the Dimsdale, the Big B, the Goodwinter – were marked by signs warning Danger – Keep Out. There was no Klingenschoen mine, Qwilleran noticed. He tuned in a local station on the car radio and turned it off in a hurry.
So Aunt Fanny had been a clubwoman! He could visualize her bustling about at afternoon teas, chairing committees, wearing flowered hats, being elected Madame President, presiding at conventions, organizing charity balls.
His ruminations were interrupted by a glance in the rearview mirror. He was being followed by a blue pick-up truck. Qwilleran reduced his speed, and the truck slowed accordingly. The game continued for several miles until he was distracted by the appearance of a farm with several low sheds. Their rooftops as well as the farmyard itself were in constant motion – a bronze-colored mass, heaving and rippling. “Turkeys!” he said to his passengers. “You’re going to live near a turkey farm, you lucky guys.” When he glanced again in the rearview mirror the blue pickup was nowhere to be seen.
Farther on he passed a large cultivated estate – well-kept lawns and flower beds behind a high ornamental fence. Set far back on the property were large buildings of an institutional nature.
The highway ascended a hill. Immediately two heads were raised in the back seat. Two noses sniffed the first hint of water, still a mile away. Irritable yowls changed to excited yips. Then the lake itself came into view, an endless stretch of placid blue water stretching to meet an incredibly blue sky.
“We’re almost there'” Qwilleran told his restless passengers.
The route now followed the shoreline, sometimes close to the beach, sometimes dipping back into the woods. It passed a rustic gate guarding the private road to the Top o’ the Dunes Club. Half a mile beyond was the crumbling chimney of the old schoolhouse-and the letter K on a post. Qwilleran turned into a gravel driveway that snaked through a forest of evergreens and oaks. Occasional sunlit clearings were filled with wild flowers, tree stumps, and fragrant flowering shrubs. He wished Rosemary were with him; she noticed everything and appreciated everything. After climbing over a succession of sandy dunes the driveway ended in a clearing with a sudden view of the lake, dotted with sailboats far out near the horizon.
There, perched on top of the highest dune and dwarfed by hundred-foot pine trees, was the picturesque cabin that would be his home for the summer. Its logs and chinking were dark with age. A screened porch overlooking the lake promised quiet hours of thought and relaxation. A massive fieldstone chimney and an ample woodpile suggested lazy evenings with a good book in front of a blazing fire.
The entrance to the cabin was through a second screened porch facing the woods and the clearing that served as parking lot. As Qwilleran approached it a squirrel ran up a tree, looked down at him, and scolded. Flurries of little yellow birds darted and twittered. On top of the woodpile a tiny brown animal sat up, cocked its head, and looked at the man inquiringly.
Qwilleran shook his head in disbelief. All these mysterious pleasures of nature, this peaceful country scene – they were his for three months.
A ship’s bell in gleaming brass bung at the entrance to the porch. Its dangling rope tempted him to ring it for sheer joy. As he walked toward it, something slimy and alive dropped off a tree onto his head. And what was that hole in the screened door? Jagged edges bent inward as if someone had thrown a bowling ball through the wire mesh. He pressed the thumb latch of the door and stepped cautiously onto the porch. He saw a grass rug and weatherproof furniture and antique farm implements hanging on the back wall – and something else. There was a slight movement in a far corner. A beady eye glistened. A large bird with a menacing beak perched on the back of a chair, its rapacious claws gripping the vinyl upholstery: A hawk? It must be a hawk, Qwilleran thought. It was his first encounter with a bird of prey, and he was glad he had left the Siamese in the car; the bird might be injured – and vicious. Powerful force had been necessary to crash through that screen, and the piercing eyes were far from friendly.
The implements hanging on the wall included a primitive wooden pitchfork, and Qwilleran reached for it in slow motion. Quietly he opened the screened door and wedged it. Cautiously he circled behind the bird, waving the pitchfork, and the hawk shot out through the doorway.
Qwilleran blew a sigh of relief into his moustache. Welcome to the country, he said to himself.
Although the cabin was small, the interior gave an impression of spaciousness. An open ceiling of knotty pine soared to almost twenty feet at the peak, supported by trusses of peeled log. The walls also were exposed logs, whitewashed. Above the fieldstone fireplace there was a moosehead with a great spread of antlers, flanked by a pickax and a lumberjack’s crosscut saw with two-inch teeth.
Qwilleran’s keen sense of smell picked up a strange odor. Dead animal? Bad plumbing?
Forgotten garbage? He opened doors and windows and checked the premises. Everything was shipshape, and soon the cross-ventilation brought in the freshness of the lake and the perfume of wild cherry blossoms. Next he examined the window screens to be sure they were secure. Koko and Yum Yum were apartment cats, never allowed to roam outdoors, and he was taking no chances. He looked for trap doors, loose boards, and other secret exits.
Only then did he bring the Siamese into the cabin. They advanced warily, their bellies and tails low, their whiskers back, their ears monitoring noises inaudible to humans. But by the time the luggage was brought in from the car, Yum Yum was somewhere overhead leaping happily from beam to beam while Koko sat imperiously on the moose head, surveying his new domain with approval. The moose – with his long snout, flared nostrils, and underslung mouth – bore this indignity with sour resignation.
Qwilleran’s approval of the cabin was equally enthusiastic. He noted the latest type of telephone on the bar, a microwave oven, a whirlpool bath, and several shelves of books. The latest issues of status magazines were on the coffee table, and someone had left a Brahms concerto in the cassette slot of the stereo. There was no television, but that was unimportant; Qwilleran was addicted to the print media.
He opened a can of boned chicken for his companions and then drove into Mooseville for his own dinner. Mooseville was a resort village stretched out along the lakeshore. On one side of Main Street were piers and boats and the Northern Lights Hotel. Across the street were commercial establishments housed largely in buildings of log construction. Even the church was built of logs.
At the hotel Qwilleran had mediocre pork chops, a soggy baked potato, and overcooked green beans served by a friendly blonde waitress who said her name was Darlene. She recognized him from his picture in the Daily Fluxion and insisted on serving second helpings of everything. At the office he had frequently questioned the wisdom of publishing the restaurant-reviewer’s photograph, but it was Fluxion policy to print headshots of columnists, and at the Fluxion, policy was policy.
It was not only Qwilleran’s moustache that made him conspicuous at the Northern Lights Hotel. In the roomful of plaid shirts, jeans, and windbreakers his tweed sports coat and knit tie were jarringly out-of-key. Immediately after the gelatinous blueberry pie he went to the General Store and bought jeans, sports shirts, deck shoes… and a visored cap. Every man in Mooseville wore one. There were baseball caps, nautical caps, hunting caps, beer caps, and caps with emblems advertising tractors, fertilizer, and feed.
Qwilleran chose hunter orange, hoping it would prove an effective disguise.
The drug store carried both the Daily Fluxion and its competitor, the Morning Rampage, as well as the local paper. He bought a Fluxion and a Pickax Picayune and headed back to the cabin.
On the way he was stopped by a police roadblock, but a polite trooper said: “Go right ahead, Mr. Qwilleran. Are you going to write about the Mooseville restaurants?” “No, I’m on vacation. What’s happening here, officer?” “Just routine war games,” the trooper joked. “We have to keep in practice. Enjoy your vacation, Mr. Qwilleran.” It was June. The days were long in the city and even longer in the north country.
Qwilleran was weary and kept looking at his watch and checking the sun, which was reluctant to set. He slipped down the side of the dune to inspect the shore and the temperature of the water. It was icy, as Riker had warned. The lake was calm, making the softest splash when it lapped the beach, and the only sound was the humming of mosquitoes. By the time Qwilleran scrambled frantically up the hill he was chased by a winged horde. They quickly found the hole in the screen and funneled into the porch.
He dashed into the cabin, slammed the door, and made a hurried phone call to Pickax.
“Good evening,” said a pleasant voice. “Francesca, just want you to know we arrived safely.” Qwilleran talked fast, hoping to get his message across before her attention wandered. “The cabin is terrific, but we have a problem. A hawk crashed through the screen and left a big hole. I shooed him off the porch, but he had messed up the rug and furniture.” Aunt Fanny took the news calmly. “Now don’t you worry about it, dear,” she growled sweetly. “Tom will be there tomorrow to fix the screen and clean the porch. No problem at all. He enjoys doing it. Tom is a jewel. I don’t know what I’d do without him. How are the mosquitoes? I’ll have Tom get you some insect spray. You’ll need it for spiders and hornets, too. Let me know if the ants invade the cabin; they’re very possessive. Don’t kill any ladybugs, dear. It’s bad luck, you know. Would you like a few more cassettes for the stereo? I have some marvelous Chicago jazz. Do you like opera? Sorry there’s no television, but I think it’s a waste of time in the summer, and you won’t miss it while you’re busy writing your book.” After the conversation with Madame President, Qwilleran tried the cassette player. He punched two buttons and got the Double Concerto with excellent fidelity. He had once dated a girl who listened to nothing but Brahms, and he would never forget good old Opus 102.
The sun finally slipped into the lake, flooding the water and sky with pink and orange, and he was ready for sleep. The Siamese were abnormally quiet. Usually they indulged in a final romp before lights-out. But where were they now? Not on the moose head or the beams overhead. Not on their blue cushion that he had placed on top of the refrigerator. Not on the pair of white linen sofas that angled around the fireplace. Not on the beds in either of the bunkrooms. Qwilleran called to them. There was no answer.
They were too busy watching. Crouched on a windowsill in the south bunkroom they stared out at something in the dusk. The property had been left in a wild state, and the view offered nothing but the sand dune, underbrush, and evergreens. A few yards from the cabin there was a depression in the sand, however – roughly rectangular. It looked like a sunken grave. The Siamese had noticed it immediately; they always detected anything unusual.
“Jump down,” Qwilleran said to them. “I’ve got to close the window for the night.” He chose the north bunkroom for himself because it overlooked the lake, but – tired though he was – he could not sleep. He thought about the grave. What could be buried there? Should he report it to Aunt Fanny? Or should he just start digging. There was a toolshed on the property, and there would be shovels.
He tossed for hours. It was so dark! There were no street lights, no neon signs, no habitations, no moon, no glow from any nearby civilization-just total blackness. And it was so quiet! No rustling of trees, no howling of wind, no crashing of waves, no hum of traffic on the distant highway-just total silence. Qwilleran lay still and listened to his heart beating.
Then through his pillow he heard an irregular thud-thud-thud. He sat up arid listened carefully. The thudding had stopped, but he could hear voices – a man’s voice and a woman’s laughter. He looked out the window into the blackness and saw two flashlights bobbing on the beach at the foot of the dune, bound in an easterly direction. He lay down again, and with his ear to the pillow he heard thud-thud-thud. It had to be footsteps on the packed sand. The sound gradually faded away.
It was well after midnight. He wondered about the prowlers on the beach. He wondered about the grave. And then there was a crackling in the underbrush – someone climbing a tree-footsteps on the roof, clomping toward the chimney.
Qwilleran leaped out of his bunk, bellowing some curse he had learned in North Africa.
He turned on lights. He shouted at the cats, who flew around the cabin in a frenzy. He punched buttons on the cassette player. Brahms again! He banged pots and pans in the kitchen…. The footsteps hurried back across the roof; there was scrambling in the underbrush, and then all was quiet.
Qwilleran sat up reading for the rest of the night until the sun rose and the birds began their dawn chirruping, tweeting, cawing, and skreeking.
-3-
Mooseville, Tuesday
Dear Arch, If I get any mail that looks personal, please forward it c/o General Delivery. Will appreciate. We arrived yesterday, and I’m a wreck. The cats yelled for four hundred miles and drove me crazy. What’s more, I bought a car to fit their sandbox, and they didn’t use it once!
They waited till we got to where we were going. Siamese! Who can figure them out?
This is beautiful country, but I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I’m suffering from culture shock.
Fortunately Mooseville gets the outstate edition of the Fluxion. The Pickax Picayune is just a chicken-dinner newspaper.
Qwill
Looking haggard, but buoyed by the excitement of a new environment, Qwilleran drove into Mooseville for breakfast. On the way he was stopped by another roadblock. This time a friendly character in a moose costume handed him a Welcome to Mooseville brochure and urged him to visit the tourist information booth on Main Street.
At the bank Qwilleran opened a checking account. Although the log building was imitation antique, he could detect the characteristic aroma of fresh money. The teller was a sunburned blonde named Jennifer, almost unbearably friendly, who remarked that the weather was super and she hoped he was going fishing or sailing.
At the post office he was greeted by a young woman with long golden hair and a dazzling smile. “Isn’t this gorgeous weather?” she said. “I wonder how long it will last.
They say there’s a storm brewing. What can I do for you? I’m Lori, the postmistress.” “My name is Jim Qwilleran,” he told her, “and I’ll be staying at the Klingenschoen cabin for three months. My mail will come addressed to General Delivery.” “Yes, I know,” she said. “Ms. Klingenschoen informed us. You can have rural delivery if you want to put up a mailbox.” Precisely at that moment Qwilleran’s nostrils were assaulted by the foulest odor he had ever encountered. He looked startled, mumbled “no thanks,” and bolted from the building, feeling sick. Other postal patrons who had been licking stamps or unlocking numbered mailboxes made their exit quietly but swiftly. Qwilleran stood on the sidewalk gulping fresh air; the others walked away without comment or any visible reaction to the experience. There was no explanation that he could imagine. In fact, there were many unexplained occurrences in this north country.
For example, everywhere he went he seemed to be haunted by a blue pickup truck. There was one parked in front of the post office, its truck-bed empty except for a rolled tarpaulin. There was another in front of the bank, hauling shovels and a wheelbarrow. On the highway the driver of a blue truck had tooted his horn and waved. And the truck that had followed him on the Pickax Road the night before was blue.
Tugging the visor of his orange cap down over his eyes he approached a log cabin with
a freshly painted sign: Information Center – Tourist Development Association. The interior had the pungent odor of new wood.
Behind a desk piled with travel folders sat a pale young man with a very black beard and a healthy head of black hair. Qwilleran realized that his own graying hair and pepper-and-salt moustache had once been equally black. He asked: “Is this where tourists come to be developed?” The young man shrugged apologetically. “I told them it should be tourism. But who was I to advise the Chamber of Commerce? I was only a history teacher looking for a summer job. Isn’t this great weather? What can I do for you? My name is Roger. You don’t need to tell me who you are. I read the paper.” “The Daily Fluxion seems to have a big circulation up here,” Qwilleran said. “The Fluxion was almost sold out at the drug store yesterday, but they still had a big stack of the Morning Rampage.” “Right,” said Roger. “We’re boycotting the Rampage. Their travel editor did a write-up on Mooseville and called it Mosquitoville.” “You have to admit they’re plentiful. And large.” Roger glanced aside guiltily and said in a lowered voice: “If you think the mosquitoes are bad, wait till you meet the deer flies. This is off-the-record, of course. We don’t talk about deer flies. It’s not-exactly good for tourism. Are you here to write about our restaurants?” “No, I’m on vacation. I’ll be around for three months. Is there a barber in town?” “Bob’s Chop Shop at the Cannery Mall. Men’s and women’s hair styling.” Roger handed Qwilleran another copy of the Mooseville brochure. “Are you a fisherman?” “I can think of things I’d rather do.” “Deep-sea fishing is a great experience. You’d enjoy it. You can charter a boat at the municipal pier and go out for a day or half a day. They supply the gear, take you where the fish are biting, even tell you how to hold the rod. And they guarantee you’ll come back with a few big ones.” “Anything else to do around here?” “There’s the museum; it’s big on shipwreck history. The flower gardens at the state prison are spectacular, and the prison gift shop has some good leather items. You can see bears scrounging at the village dump, or you can hunt for agates on the beach.” Qwilleran was studying the brochure. “What’s this about a historic cemetery?” “It’s not much,” Roger admitted. “It’s a nineteenth century burial ground, abandoned for the last fifty years. Sort of vandalized. If I were you, I’d take a fishing trip.” “What are these pas ties everyone advertises?” “It’s like a turnover filled with meat and potatoes and turnips. Pasties are traditional up here. The miners used to carry pasties in their lunch buckets.” “Where’s a good place to try one?” “Hats-off or hats-on?” “What?” “What I mean-we have some restaurants with a little class, like the hotel dining room, and we have the other kind – casual -where the guys eat with their hats on. For a good hats-off place you could try a little bistro at the Cannery Mall, called the Nasty Pasty.
A bit of perverse humor, I guess. The tourists like it.” Qwilleran said he would prefer real north country atmosphere.
“Right. So here’s what you want to do: Drive west along the shore for about a mile.
You’ll see a big electric sign that says FOO. The D dropped off about three years ago.
It’s a dump, but they’re famous for pasties, and it’s strictly hats-on.” “One more Question.” Qwilleran touched his moustache tentatively, as he did when a situation was bothering him. “How come there are so many blue pickup trucks in this neck of the woods?” “I don’t know. I never really noticed.” Roger jumped up and went to the side window overlooking the parking lot of the Shipwreck Tavern. “You’re right. There are two blue pickups in the lot…. But there’s also a red one, and a dirty green, and a sort of yellow.” “And here comes another blue one,” Qwilleran persisted. It was the truck with the shovels. The agile little man who jumped out of the driver’s seat wore overalls and a visored cap and a faceful of untrimmed gray whiskers.
“That’s old Sam the gravedigger. He’s got a lot of bounce, hasn’t he? He’s over eighty and puts away a pint of whiskey every day – except Sunday.” “You mean you still dig graves by hand?” “Right. Sam’s been digging graves and other things all his life. Keeps him young…
. Look at that sky. We’re in for a storm.” “Thanks for the information,” Qwilleran said. “I think I’ll go and try the pasties.” He glanced at his wrist. “What time is it? I left my watch at the cabin.” “That’s normal. When guys come up here, the first thing they do – they forget to wear their watches. Then they stop shaving. Then they start eating with their hats on.” Qwilleran drove west until he saw an electric sign flashing its message futilely in the sunshine: FOO…FOO… FOO. The parking lot was filled with pickups and vans.
No blue. He thought: Why am I getting paranoid about blue pickups? The answer was a familiar uneasiness on his upper lip.
The restaurant was a two-story building in need of paint and shingles and nails. A ventilator expelled fumes of fried fish and smoking hamburgers. Inside, the tables were filled, and red, green, blue, and yellow caps could be seen dimly through the haze of cigarette smoke. Country music on the radio could not compete with the hubbub of loud talk and laughter.
Qwilleran took a stool at the counter not far from a customer with a sheriff’s department patch on his sleeve and a stiff-brimmed hat on his head.
The cook shuffled out of the kitchen and said to the deputy: “We’re in for a big one.” The brimmed hat nodded.
“Another roadblock last night?” Two nods.
“Find anything?” The hat waggled from side to side.
“We all know where the buggers go.” Another nod.
“But no evidence.” The hat registered negative.
The waitress was standing in front of Qwilleran, waiting wordlessly for his order.
“A couple of pasties,” he said.
“To go?” “No. To eat here.” “Two?” Qwilleran found himself nodding an affirmative.
“You want I should hold one back and keep it hot till you eat the first one?” “No, thanks. That won’t be necessary.” The conversation at the tables concerned fishing exclusively, with much speculation bout an approaching storm. The movement of the lake, the color of the sky, the behavior of the seagulls, the formation of the clouds, the feel of the wind – all these factors convinced veteran fishermen that a storm was coming, despite predictions on the local radio station.
When Qwilleran’s two pasties arrived they completely filled two large oval platters.
Each of the crusty turnovers was a foot wide and three inches thick. He surveyed the feast. “I need a fork,” he said.
“Just pick’ em up,” the waitress said and disappeared into the kitchen.
Roger was right. The pasties were filled with meat and potatoes and plenty of turnip, which ranked with parsnip at the bottom of Qwilleran’s list of edibles. He chomped halfway through the first pasty, lubricating each dry mouthful with gulps of weak coffee, then asked to have the remaining artifacts wrapped to take home. He paid his check glumly, receiving his change in dollar bills that smelled of cigar smoke.
The cashier, a heavy woman in snugly fitting pants and a Mooseville T-shirt, leered at his orange cap and said: “All ready for Halloween, Clyde?” Glancing at her blimplike figure he thought of an apt retort but curbed his impulse.
He returned home with one and a half pasties in soggy waxed paper and discovered some new developments. The damaged screen in the porch door had been replaced, and the hawk- spotted furnishings had been cleaned. There was a can of insect spray in the kitchen.
Additional cassettes were stacked on the stereo cabinet. And his watch was missing. He clearly remembered placing it on a bathroom shelf before showering. Now it was gone. It was an expensive timepiece, presented to him by the Antique Dealers’ Association at a testimonial dinner.
With mystification and annoyance muddling his head he sat down to think. Koko rubbed against his ankles, and Yum Yum jumped upon his knee. He stroked her fur absently as he reviewed the last twenty-four hours.
First there was the sunken grave; the cats were still mesmerized and kept returning to their vantage point in the guest-room window. Next there were the footsteps on the roof; the intruder was heading for the chimney when frightened away by light and noise. This morning there had been the incredible odor at the post office. And why did Roger discourage him from visiting the old cemetery? The Chamber of Commerce brochure recommended it to history buffs, photographers, and artists interested in making rubbings of nineteenth century tombstones.
And now his watch had been stolen. He had another he could use, but the missing watch was gold and had pleasant associations. Would Aunt Fanny’s trusted employee attempt a theft so easily traceable? Perhaps he had a light-fingered helper; after all, a lot of work had been accomplished in a very short time.
Qwilleran’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of a vehicle moving slowly up the driveway, tires crunching on gravel. It had the purring motor of an expensive car.
The cats were alerted. Koko marched to the south porch to inspect the new arrival. Yum Yum hid under one of the sofas.
The man who stepped out of the car was an alarming sight in this northern wilderness.
He wore a business suit, obviously tailor-made, and a white shirt with a proper striped tie. There was a hint of cologne, a conservative scent. His long thin face was somber.
“I presume you are Miss Klingenschoen’s nephew,” he said when Qwilleran advanced. “I’m her attorney… ” “Is anything wrong?” Qwilleran cut in quickly, alarmed by the funereal tone.
“No, no, no, no. I had business in the vicinity and merely stopped to introduce myself. I’m Alexander Goodwinter.” “Come in, come in. My name is Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran.” “So I am aware. Spelled with a W,” the attorney said. “I read the Daily Fluxion. We all read the Fluxion up here, chiefly to convince ourselves that we’re fortunate to live four hundred miles away. When we refer to the metropolitan area as Down Below, we are thinking not only of geography.” He seemed entirely at ease in the cabin, seating himself on Yum Yum’s sofa and crossing his knees comfortably. “I believe a storm is imminent.
They can be quite violent up here.” The newsman had learned that any conversation in the north country opened with comments on the weather, almost as a matter of etiquette. “Yes,” he said with a declamatory flourish, “the texture of the lake and the lambency of the wind are rather ominous.” When the attorney gave him a wary look, Qwilleran quickly added: “I’d offer you a drink, but I haven’t had a chance to stock up. We arrived only yesterday.” “So Fanny informed me. We are pleased to have one of her relatives nearby. She is so very much alone – the last of the Klingenschoens.” “We’re not… really… relatives,” Qwilleran said with a slight lapse of concentration. He could see Yum Yum’s nose emerging stealthily under the skirt of the sofa, not far from the attorney’s foot. “She and my mother were friends, and I was encouraged to call her Aunt Fanny. Now she disclaims the title.” “Fanny is her legal name,” Goodwinter said. “She was Fanny when she left Pickax to attend Vassar or Wellesley or whatever, and she was Francesca when she returned forty years later.” He chuckled. “I find the name Francesca Klingenschoen a charming incongruity. Our firm has handled her family’s legal affairs for three generations. Now my sister and I are the sole partners, and Fanny retains Penelope to handle her tax-work and lawsuits and real estate transactions. We have been urging her to sell this place.
Anyone who owns shore property has a gold mine, you may be aware. Fanny should liquidate some of her holdings to expedite – ah – future arrangements. She is, after all, nearing ninety. No doubt you will be seeing her during the summer?” “Yes, she promised to come up for lunch, and I have a rain check on a steak dinner in Pickax.” “Ah, yes, we all know Fanny’s steak dinners,” Goodwinter said with a humorous grimace.
“She promises steak, but when the time comes she serves scrambled eggs. One forgives her eccentricities because of her – ah – energetic involvement in the community. It was Fanny who virtually blackmailed the city fathers of Pickax into installing new sewers, repairing the sidewalks, and solving the parking problem. A very – ah – determined woman.” Yum Yum’s entire head was now visible, and one paw was coming into view.
The attorney went on: “My sister and I are hoping you will break bread with us before long. She reads your column religiously and quotes you as if you were Shakespeare.” “I appreciate the invitation,” Qwilleran said, “but it remains to be seen how sociable I will be this summer. I’m doing some writing.” He waved his hand toward the dining table across the room, littered with books, typewriter, paper, pens, and pencils. As he did so, he noticed Yum Yum’s paw reaching slowly and cautiously toward the attorney’s shoelace.
“I applaud your intentions,” Goodwinter said. “The muse must be served. But please remember: the latchstring is out at the Goodwinter residence.” After a small cough he added: “Did you find Fanny looking – ah – well when you visited her?” “Remarkably well! Very active and spirited for a woman of her age. Only one problem: It’s hard to get her attention.” “Her hearing is excellent, according to her doctor. But she seems preoccupied most of the time-in a world of her own, so to speak.” The attorney coughed again. “To be perfectly frank – and I speak to you in confidence – we have been wondering if Fanny is – ah – drinking a little.” “Some doctors recommend a daily nip for the elderly.” “Ah, well… the truth of the matter is… the druggist informs me she has been buying a considerable amount of liquor lately. A bottle of good sherry used to take care of her needs for two months, I am told, but the houseman who does her shopping has been picking up hard liquor two or three times a week.” “He’s probably drinking it himself,” Qwilleran said.
“We doubt that. Tom has been under close observation since coming to Pickax to work for Fanny, and all reports are good. He’s a simple soul but dependable – a competent handyman and careful driver. The local bar-owners assure me that Tom never drinks more than one or two beers.” “What kind of liquor is he buying?” “Rye, gin, Scotch. No particular label. And only a pint at a time. You might keep this confidential matter in mind when you see Fanny. We all consider her a community treasure and feel a sense of responsibility. Incidentally, if she asks your advice, you might suggest selling the large house in Pickax and moving into smaller quarters. She has had a few fainting spells recently – or so she describes them. You can see why we are all concerned about this gallant little lady. We don’t want anything to happen to her.” When the attorney had said goodbye and had tied his shoelace and had driven away, Koko and Yum Yum gave Qwilleran the hungry eye. He scooped the filling from half a pasty, mashed it into a gray paste, warmed it slightly, and spread it on what looked like a handmade raku plate. The Siamese approached the food in slow motion, sniffed it incredulously, walked around it in an effort to discover its purpose, withdrew in disdain, and looked at Qwilleran in silent rebuke, shaking their front paws in a gesture of loathing.
“So much for pasties,” he said as he opened a can of red salmon.
An evening chill was descending and he tried to light a fire. There were twigs and old newspapers in a copper coal scuttle, split logs in the wood basket, and long matches in a brass holder, but the paper was damp and the matches only glowed feebly before expiring.
He made three attempts and then gave up.
After the nerve-wracking drive from Down Below and two sleepless nights, he was weary.
He was also disoriented by the sudden change from concrete sidewalks to sand dunes, and by odd situations he did not I understand.
He went to the row of windows overlooking the lake – a hundred miles of water with Canada on the opposite shore. It shaded from silver to turquoise to deep blue. How Rosemary would enjoy this view! As he tried to imagine it through her eyes he heard an eerie whistling in the tops of the tallest pines. There was no breeze – only the soft shrill hissing. At the same time, the Siamese – who should have been drowsy after their feast of salmon – began prowling restlessly. Yum Yum emitted ear-splitting howls for no apparent reason, and Koko butted his head belligerently against the legs of tables and chairs. Within minutes the lake changed to steel gray dotted with whitecaps. Then a high wind rushed in without warning. The whitecaps became breakers crashing in maelstroms of foam. When the tall pines started to sway, the maples and birches were already bending like beach grass. Suddenly rain hit the windows with the: staccato racket of machine gun fire. The gale howled; the surf pounded the shore; tree limbs snapped off and plunged to the ground.
For the first time since his arrival Qwilleran felt really comfortable. He relaxed.
The peace and quiet had been insufferable; he was used to noise and turmoil. It would be a good night to sleep.
First he had an urge to write to Rosemary. He put a sheet of paper in the typewriter and immediately ripped it out. It would be more appropriate to write with the gold pen she had given him for his birthday.
Rummaging among the jumble on his writing table he found yellow pencils, thick black Fluxion pencils, cheap ballpoints, and an old red jumbo fountain pen that had belonged to his mother. The sleek gold pen from Rosemary was missing.
-4-
Qwilleran slept well, lulled by the savage tumult outdoors. He was awakened shortly after dawn by the opening chords of the Brahms Double Concerto. The cassette was still in the player, and Koko was sitting alongside it, looking pleased with himself. He had placed one paw on the “power” button, activating a little red light, and another on “play.” The storm was over, although the trees could be heard dripping on the roof. The wind had subsided, and the lake had flattened to a sheet of silver. Everywhere there was the good wet smell of the woods after a heavy rain. The birds were rejoicing.
Even before he rolled out of bed Qwilleran’s thoughts went to the stolen pen and the stolen watch. Should he report the theft to Aunt Fanny? Should he confront Tom? In this strange new environment he felt it was a case of foreign diplomacy, requiring circumspection and a certain finesse.
Koko was the first to hear the truck approaching. His ears snapped to attention and his body became taut. Then Qwilleran heard the droning of a motor coming up the hilly, winding drive. He pulled on some clothes hastily while Koko raced to the door and demanded access to the porch, his official checkpoint for arriving visitors. Qwilleran’s tingling moustache told him it would be a blue truck, and the message was correct. A stocky little old man was taking a shovel from the truck-bed.
“Hey, what’s going on here?” Qwilleran demanded. He recognized the gravedigger from the parking lot of the Shipwreck Tavern.
“Gotta dig you up,” said Old Sam, heading for the grave on the east side of the cabin.
“What for?” Qwilleran slammed the porch door and raced after him.
“Big George be comin’ soon.” “Who told you to come here?” “Big George.” Old Sam was digging furiously. “Sand be heavy after the storm.” Qwilleran spluttered in a search for words. “What – who -look here! You can’t dig up this property unless you have authorization.” “Ask Big George. He be the boss.” Sand was flying out of the shallow hole, which was becoming more precisely rectangular. Soon the shovel hit a concrete slab. “There she be!” After a few more swings with the shovel Old Sam climbed out of the hole, just as a large dirty tank truck lumbered into the clearing that served as a parking lot.
Quilleran strode to the clearing and confronted the driver. “Are you Big George?” “No, I’m Dave,” said the man mildly, as he unreeled a large hose. “Big George is the truck. The lady in Pickax – she called last night. Told us to get out here on the double.
Are you choked up?” “Am I what?” “When she calls, we jump. No foolin’ around with that lady. Should’ve pumped you out last summer, I guess.” “Pumped what?” “The septic tank. We had to get Old Sam outa bed this morning, hangover and all. He digs; we pump. No room for the back-hoe in here. Too heavily wooded. You new here? Sam’ll come and fill you in later. He doesn’t fill all the way; makes it easier next time.
Unless you want him to. Then he’ll level it off.” Old Sam had driven away, but now a black van appeared in the clearing, driven by a slender young man in a red, white, and blue T-shirt and a tall silk opera hat.
Qwilleran stared at him. “And who are you?” “Little Henry. You having trouble? The old lady in Pickax said you’d catch on fire any minute. Man, she’s a tough baby. Won’t take no excuses.” He removed his topper and admired it. “This is my trademark. You seen my ads in the Picayune?” “What do you advertise?” “I’m the only chimney sweep in Moose County. You should be checked every year….
Is that your phone ringing?” Qwilleran rushed back into the cabin. The telephone, which stood on the bar dividing kitchen from dining area, had stopped ringing. Koko had nudged the receiver off the cradle and was sniffing the mouthpiece.
Qwilleran grabbed it. “Hello, hello! Get down! Hello?” Koko was fighting for possession of the instrument. “Get down, dammit! Hello?” “Is everything all right, dear?” the deep voice said after a moment’s hesitation. “Did the storm do any damage? Don’t worry about it; Tom will clean up the yard. You stick to your typewriter. You’ve got that wonderful book to finish. I know it will be a bestseller. Did you see Big George and Little Henry? I don’t want anything to go wrong with the plumbing or the chimney while you’re concentrating on your writing. I told them to get out there immediately or I’d have their licenses revoked. You have to be firm with these country people or they go fishing and forget about you. Are you getting enough to eat? I’ve bought some of those divine cinnamon buns to keep in your freezer. Tom will drive me up this morning, and we’ll have a pleasant lunch on the porch. I’ll bring a picnic basket. Get back to your writing, dear.” Qwilleran turned to Koko. “Madame President is coming. Try to act like a normal cat.
Don’t answer the phone. Don’t play the music. Stay away from the microwave.” When Big George and Little Henry had finished their work, Qwilleran put on his orange cap and drove to Mooseville to mail his letter to Rosemary and to buy supplies. His shopping list was geared to his culinary skills: instant coffee, canned soup, frozen stew. For guests he laid in a supply of liquor and mixes.
In the canned soup section of the supermarket he noticed a black-bearded young man in a yellow cap with a spark-plug emblem. They stared at each other.
“Hi, Mr. Qwilleran.” “Forget the mister. Call me Qwill. Aren’t you Roger from the tourist bureau? Roger, George, Sam, Henry, Tom, Dave… I’ve met so many. people without surnames, it’s like biblical times.” “Mine’s a tough one: MacGillivray.” “What! My mother was a Mackintosh!” “No kidding! Same clan!” “Your ancestor fought like a lion for Prince Charlie.” “Right! At Culloden in 1746.” “April sixteenth.” Their voices had been rising higher with surprise and pleasure, to the mystification of the other customers. The two men pumped hands and slapped backs.
“I hope that’s Scotch broth you’re buying,” Roger said.
“Why don’t we have dinner some night?” Qwilleran suggested. “Preferably not at the FOO.” “How about tonight? My wife’s out-of-town.” “How about the hotel dining room! Hats-off.”
Qwilleran returned to the cabin to shower and shave in preparation for the visit of Aunt Fanny and the remarkable Tom – gardener, chauffeur, handyman, errand boy, and petty thief, perhaps. Shortly before noon a long black limousine inched its way around the curves of the drive and emerged triumphantly in the clearing. The driver, dressed in work clothes and a blue visored cap, jumped out and ran around to open the passenger’s door.
Out came Indian moccasins with beadwork, then a fringed suede skirt, then a leather jacket with more fringe and beadwork, then Aunt Fanny’s powdered face topped with an Indian red turban. Qwilleran noticed that she had well-shaped legs for an octogenarian soon to be a nonagenarian.
“Francesca! Good to see you again!” he exclaimed. “You’re looking very… very…
sexy.” “Bless you, my dear,” she said in her surprising baritone voice. “Little old ladies are usually called chipper or spry, and I intend to shoot the next fool who does.” She reached into her fringed suede handbag and withdrew a small pistol with a gold handle, which she waved with abandon.
“Careful!” Qwilleran gasped.
“Dear me! The storm did a lot of damage. That jack pine is almost bare. We’ll have to remove it…. Tom, come here to meet the famous Mr. Qwilleran.” The man-of-all-work stepped forward obediently, removing the blue cap that advertised a brand of fertilizer. His age was hard to guess. An old twenty or a young forty? His round scrubbed face and pale blue eyes wore an expression of serene wonder.
“This is Tom,” Aunt Fanny said. “Tom, it’s all right to shake hands with Mr.
Qwilleran; he’s a member of the family.” Qwilleran gripped a hand that was strong but unaccustomed to social gestures. “How do you do, Tom.
I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.” Thinking of the missing watch and pen he looked inquiringly into the man’s eyes, but their open innocent gaze was disarming. “You did a fine job with the porch yesterday, Tom. How did you do so much work in such a short time? Did you have a helper?” “No,” Tom said slowly. “No helper. I like to work. I like to work hard.” He spoke in a gentle, musical voice.
Aunt Fanny slipped something into his hand. “Go into Mooseville, Tom, and buy yourself a big pasty and a beer, and come back in two hours. Bring the picnic basket from the car before you leave.” “Tom, do you know what time it is?” Qwilleran asked. “I’ve lost my watch.” The handyman searched the sky for the sun, hiding in the tall pines. “It’s almost twelve o’clock,” he said softly.
He drove away in the limousine, and Aunt Fanny said: “I’ve brought some egg salad sandwiches and a thermos of coffee with that marvelous cream. We’ll sit on the porch and enjoy the lake. The temperature is perfect. Now where are those intelligent cats I’ve heard so much about? And where do you do your writing? I must confess, I’m awed by your talent, dear.” As a newsman Qwilleran was expert at interviewing difficult subjects, but he was defeated by Aunt Fanny. She chattered nonstop about shipwrecks on the lake, bears in the woods, dead fish on the beach, caterpillars in the trees. Questions were ignored or evaded. Madame President was in charge of the conversation.
In desperation Qwilleran finally shouted: “Aunt Fanny!” After her startled pause he continued: “What do you know about Tom? Where did you find him? How long has he worked for you? Is he trustworthy? He has access to this cabin when I’m not here. You can’t blame me for wanting to know.” “You poor dear,” she said. “You have always lived in cities. Life is different in the country. We trust each other. Neighbors walk into your house without knocking. If you’re not there and they want to borrow an egg, they help themselves. It’s a friendly way of living. Don’t worry about Tom. He’s a fine young man. He does everything I tell him to do and nothing more.” A bell rang – the clear golden tone of the ship’s bell outside the south porch.
“That’s Tom,” she said. “He’s right on time. Isn’t he a marvel? You go and talk to him while I powder my nose. This has been such a pleasant visit, my dear.” Qwilleran went into the yard. “Hello, Tom. You’re right on time, even without a watch.” “Yes, I don’t need a watch,” he said quietly, his face beaming with pride. He stroked the brass bell. “This is a nice bell. I polished it yesterday. I like to clean things. I keep the truck and the car very clean.” Qwilleran was fascinated by the singsong inflection of his voice.
“I saw your truck in Pickax. It’s blue, isn’t it?” “Yes. I like blue. It’s like the sky and the lake. Very pretty. This is a nice cabin.
I’ll come and clean it for you.” “That’s a kind offer, Tom, but don’t come unless I call you. I’m writing a book, and I don’t like people around when I’m writing.” “I wish I could write. I’d like to write a book. That would be nice.” “Everyone has his own talents,” Qwilleran said, “and you have many skills. You should be proud of yourself.” Tom’s face glowed with pleasure. “Yes, I can fix anything.” Aunt Fanny appeared, good byes were said, and the limousine moved carefully down the drive.
The Siamese, who had been invisible for the last two hours, materialized from nowhere.
“You two weren’t very sociable,” Qwilleran said. “What did you think of Aunt Fanny?” “YOW!” said Koko, shaking himself vigorously.
Qwilleran remembered offering Aunt Fanny drink before lunch – a whiskey sour, or a gin and tonic, or a Scotch and soda, or dry sherry. She had declined them all.
Now he had four hours to kill before dining with Roger, and he had no incentive to start page one of chapter one of the book he was supposed to be writing. He might watch the bears at the village dump or visit the prison flower gardens or study shipwreck history at the museum, but it was the abandoned cemetery that tugged at his imagination, even though Roger had advised against it – or perhaps because Roger had advised against it.
The Chamber of Commerce brochure gave directions: Go east to Pickax Road and turn south for five miles; enter the cemetery on a dirt road (unmarked) through a cobblestone gate.
The route passed the landscaped grounds that were evidently the prison compound, It passed the turkey farm, and Qwilleran slowed to watch the sea of bronze-feathered backs rippling in the farmyard. Ahead of him a truck was. turning out of a side road and
heading toward him, one of those ubiquitous blue pickups. As it passed he waved to the driver, but the greeting was not returned. When he reached the cobblestone gate he realized the truck had come from the cemetery.
The access to the graveyard was merely a trail, rutted and muddy after the storm. It meandered through the woods with a clearing here and there, just big enough for a car to pull off and park; there was evidence of picnicking and beer-drinking. Eventually the trail branched in several directions through a meadow dotted with gravestones. Qwilleran followed the set of ruts that appeared to have been recently used.
Where the tire marks stopped he got out of the car and explored the burial ground. It was choked with tall grasses and vines, and he had to tear them away to read the inscriptions on the smaller stones: 1877-1879, 1841-1862, 1856-1859. So many infants were buried there! So many women had died in their twenties! The larger family monuments bore names like Schmidt, Campbell, Trevelyan, Watson.
Trampled grasses suggested a slight path leading behind the Campbell stone, and when he followed it he found signs of recent digging. Dried weeds had been thrown across freshly turned soil, barely concealing the brown plastic lid of a garbage pail. The pail itself, about a twelve-gallon size, was buried in the ground. Qwilleran removed the cover cautiously. The pail was empty.
He returned the hiding place to its previous condition and drove home, wondering who would bury a garbage pail in a cemetery – and why. The only clue was a tremor on his upper lip.
Before going to dinner in Mooseville he prepared a dish of tuna for the Siamese.
“Koko, you’re not earning your keep,” he said. “Strange things are happening, and you haven’t come up with a single clue.” Koko squeezed his blue eyes languidly. Perhaps the cat’s sleuthing days were over. Perhaps he would become nothing but a fussy consumer of expensive food.
At that moment Koko’s ears pricked up, and he bounded to the checkpoint. The distant rumble of an approaching vehicle became gradually louder until it sounded like a Russian tank. A red pickup truck was followed by a yellow tractor with a complicated superstructure.
The driver of the truck jumped out and said to Qwilleran: “You got a jack pine that’s ready to fall on the house? We got this emergency call from Pickax. Something about the power lines. We’re supposed to take the tree down and cut it up.” The tractor extended its skybox; the chain saws whined; three men in visored caps shouted; Yum Yum hid under the sofa; and Qwilleran escaped to Mooseville half an hour before the appointed time for dinner.
The Northern Lights Hotel was a relic from the 1860s when the village was a booming port for shipping lumber and ore. It was the kind of frame building that should have burned down a century ago but was miraculously preserved. In style it was a shoebox with windows, but a porch had been added at the rear, overlooking the wharves. Qwilleran sat in one of its rustic chairs and indulged in his favorite pastime: eavesdropping.
Two voices nearby were in nagging disagreement. Without seeing the source Qwilleran guessed that the man was fat and red-faced and the woman was scrawny and hard-of-hearing.
“I don’t think much of this town,” the man said in a gasping, wheezing voice. “There’s nothing to do. We could’ve (gasp) stayed home and sat on the patio. It would’ve (gasp) been cheaper.” The woman answered in a shrill voice, flat with indifference. “You said you wanted to go fishing. I don’t know why. You’ve always hated it.” “Your brother’s been blowing off about the fishing up here for (gasp) six years. I wanted to show him he wasn’t the only one (gasp) who could land a trout.” “Then why don’t you sign up for a charter boat, the way the man said, and stop bitching?” “I keep telling you – it’s too expensive. Did you see how much they want (gasp) for half a day? I could buy a Caribbean cruise for (gasp) that kind of dough.” Qwilleran had checked the prices himself and thought them rather steep.
“Then let’s go home,” the woman insisted. “No sense hanging around.” “After driving all this way? Do you know what we’ve spent on gas (gasp) just to get up here?” Roger appeared at that moment, wearing a black baseball cap.
“I see you’re dressed for evening,” Qwilleran said. “You didn’t tell me it was formal.” “I collect ’em,” Roger explained. “I’ve got seventeen so far. If you’ve got any enemies, I should warn you about that orange cap of yours; you’d make a perfect target.” They hung their caps with a dozen others on a row of pegs outside the hotel dining room, then took a side table underneath a large tragic painting of a three-masted schooner sinking in a raging sea.
“Well, we had a perfect day,” Qwilleran said, opening with the obligatory weather report. “Sunny. Pleasant breeze. Ideal temperature.” “Yes, but the fog’s starting to roll in. By morning you won’t be able to see the end of your nose. It’s no good for the trolling business.” “If you ask me, Roger, the artwork in this room isn’t any good for the trolling business. Every picture on the wall is some kind of disaster at sea. It scares the hell out of me. Besides, the charter boats charge too much – that is, too much for someone like me who isn’t really interested in fishing.” “You should try it once,” Roger urged. “Trolling is a lot more exciting, you know, than sitting in a rowboat with a worm on a hook.” Qwilleran looked at the menu. “If the lake is full of fish, why isn’t there one local product on the menu? Nothing but Nova Scotia halibut, Columbia River salmon, and Boston scrod.” “It’s all sport-fishing here. The commercial fisheries down the shore net tons of fish and ship them out.” To Nova Scotia, Massachusetts, and the state of Washington, Qwilleran guessed.
Roger ordered a bourbon and water; Qwilleran, his usual tomato juice. A cranky-looking couple took a table nearby, and he noted smugly that the man was red-faced and obese and the woman wore a hearing aid.
Roger said: “Is that all you drink? I thought newsmen were hard drinkers. I studied journalism before I switched to history ed…. Say, you’ve got me counting blue pickups, and I found out you’re right. My wife always says people in northern climates like blue…. Do you live alone?” “Not entirely. I’ve adopted a couple of despotic Siamese cats. One was orphaned as the result of a murder on my beat. The female was abandoned when she was a kitten. They’re both purebred, and the male is smarter than I am.” “I have a hunting dog – Brittany spaniel,” Roger said. “Sharon has a Scottie….
Were you ever married, Qwill?” “Once. It wasn’t an overwhelming success.” “What happened?” “She had a nervous breakdown, and I tried to pickle my troubles in alcohol. You ask a lot of questions, Roger. You should have stuck to journalism.” The newsman said it with good humor. He had spent his entire career asking questions, and now he enjoyed being interrogated.
“Would you ever get married again?” Qwilleran allowed the glimmer of a smile to twitch his moustache. “Three months ago I would have said no; now I’m not so sure.” He rubbed the backs of his hands as he spoke; they were beginning to itch. The bartender at the Press Club had predicted he would get hives from drinking so much tomato juice, and perhaps Bruno was right.
The fat man at the next table seemed to be listening, so Qwilleran lowered his voice.
“The police set up a roadblock Monday night. What was that all about? There was nothing in the paper or on the radio.” Roger shrugged. “Roadblocks are a social activity up here, like potluck suppers. I think the cops do it once in a while when things get dull.” “Are you telling me there isn’t enough crime in Moose County to keep them busy?” “Not like you have in the city. The conservation guys catch a few poachers, and things
get lively at the Shipwreck Tavern on Saturday nights, but the cops spend most of their time chasing accidents – single-car accidents mostly. Someone drives too fast and hits a moose, or kids get a few beers and wrap themselves around a tree. There’s a lot of rescue work on the lake, too; the sheriff has two boats and a helicopter.” “No drug problem?” “Maybe the tourists smoke a few funny cigarettes, but – no problem, really. What I worry about is shipwreck-looting. The lake is full of sunken ships. Some of them went down a hundred years ago, and their cargoes are on public record. The looters have sophisticated diving equipment – cold-water gear, electronic stuff, and all that. There’s valuable cargo down there, and they’re stripping the wrecks for private gain.” “Isn’t that illegal?” “Not yet. If we had an underwater preserve protected by law it would be a big boost for tourism. It could be used by marine historians, archaeologists, and sport-divers.” “What’s holding you back?” “Money! It would take tens of thousands for an archaeological survey. After that we’d have to lobby for legislation.” Qwilleran said: “It would be a tough law to enforce. You’d need more boats, more helicopters, more personnel.” “Right! And by that time there wouldn’t be any sunken cargo to protect.” The men had ordered a second round of drinks, but Qwilleran stopped sipping his T J.
He rubbed his itching hands and wrists surreptitiously under the table.
Roger lowered his voice. “See those two guys sitting near the door? They’re wreck- divers. Probably looters.” “How do you know?” “Everybody knows.” When the food was served, Qwilleran rated it E for edible, but the conversation was enlightening. At the end of the meal he remarked to Roger: “Do you think there might be a skunk living under the post office? I went in there yesterday, and the odor drove everyone out of the building.” “Probably some hog farmer picking up his mail,” Roger said. “If they come into town in their work-clothes, the whole town clears out. You wouldn’t believe the way some of their kids come to school. They’re not all like that, of course. One of my hunting partners raises hogs, No problem.” “Another mystery: A hawk flew through a screened door at the cabin and left a big hole. I can’t figure it out.” “He was diving for a rabbit or chipmunk,” Roger explained, “and he didn’t put on the brakes fast enough.” “You think so?” “Sure! I’ve seen a hawk carry off a cat. I was hunting once and heard something mewing up in the sky. I looked up, and there was this poor little cat.” Qwilleran thought of Yum Yum and squirmed uncomfortably. There was a moment of silence, and then he said: “A couple of nights ago I heard footsteps on the roof in the middle of the night.” “A raccoon,” Roger said. “A raccoon on the roof of a cabin like yours sounds like a Japanese wrestler in space boots, I know! My in-laws have a cottage near you. One year they had a whole family of raccoons in their chimney.” “Do your in-laws give wild parties? I’ve heard some hysterical laughing late at night.” “That was a loon you heard. It’s a crazy bird.” The fog was thickening, and the view from the dining room windows was almost obliterated. Qwilleran said he should get back to the cabin.
“I hope my wife doesn’t try driving home tonight,” Roger said. “She’s been on a buying trip Down Below. She has a little candle and gift shop in the mall. How do you like this money clip? It came from Sharon’s shop.” He paid his half of the check with bills from a jumbo paper clip that looked like gold.
Qwilleran drove home at twenty miles an hour with the fog swirling in front of the windshield. The private drive up to the cabin was even more hazardous, with tree trunks suddenly appearing where they were not supposed to be. As he parked the car he thought he saw two figures moving away from the cabin, down the slope toward the beach.
“Hello!” he called. “Hello there!” But they disappeared into the fog.
Indoors he first checked the whereabouts of the Siamese. Koko was huddled on the moose head, and Yum Yum cautiously wriggled out from underneath the sofa. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, but he detected the aroma of pipe tobacco. In the guestroom there was a slight impression in one of the bunks, where the cats took their naps, and one of his brown socks was on the floor. Yum Yum had a passion for his socks. Everything else seemed to be in order.
Then he found a note in the kitchen, scribbled on one of his own typing sheets: “Welcome to the dunes. I’m Roger’s mother-in-law; See foil package in your fridge.
Thought you might like some roast turkey. Come and see us.” That was all. No name. Qwilleran checked the refrigerator and found a generous supply of sliced turkey breast and chunks of dark meat. As he started chopping a portion of it for the cats’ dinner, Yum Yum squealed in anticipation, and Koko pranced back and forth, warbling an aria of tenor yowls and ecstatic gutterals.
Qwilleran watched them eat, but his mind was elsewhere. He liked Roger. Under thirty, with coal-black hair, was a good age to be. But the young man had been remarkably glib on the subject of hawks, loons, raccoons, blue trucks, and police roadblocks. How many of his answers were in the interest of tourism? And if the official brochure encouraged tourists to visit the old cemetery, why did Roger try to discourage it? Did he know something about the pail? And if there was no crime in Moose County, why did Aunt Fanny make a point of carrying a gun?
-5-
Qwilleran was wakened by Yum Yum. She sat on his chest, her blue eyes boring into his forehead, conveying a subliminal message: breakfast. The lake view from the bunkroom windows had been replaced by total whiteness. The fog had settled on the shore like a suffocating blanket. There was no breeze, no sound.
Qwilleran tried to start a blaze in the fireplace to dispel the dampness, using Wednesday’s paper and some book matches from the hotel, but nothing worked. His chief concern was the condition of his hands and wrists. The itching was unbearable, and blisters were forming as large as poker chips. Furthermore he was beginning to itch here, there, and everywhere.
He dressed without shaving, fed the cats without ceremony, and – even forgetting to wear his new cap – steered the car nervously through the milky atmosphere.
There was a drug store on Main Street, and he showed his blisters to the druggist.
“Got anything for this?” “Yikes!” said the druggist. “Worse case of poison ivy I’ve ever seen. You’d better go and get a shot.” “Is there a doctor in town?” “There’s a walk-in clinic in the Cannery Mall. You know the mall? Two miles beyond town-an old fish cannery made into stores and whatnot. In this fog you won’t be able to see it, but you’ll smell it.” There was hardly a vehicle to be seen on Main Street. Qwilleran hugged the yellow line, watching the odometer, and at the two-mile mark there was no doubt he had reached the Cannery Mall. He angle-parked between two yellow lines and followed the aroma to a bank of plate glass doors opening into an arcade.
The medical clinic, smelling appropriately antiseptic, was deserted except for a plain young woman sitting at a desk. “Is there a doctor here?” he asked.
“I’m the doctor ,” she replied, glancing at his hands. “Where did you go to get that magnificent case of ivy poisoning?” “I guess I picked it up in the old cemetery.” “Really? Aren’t you a little old for that kind of thing?” She threw him a mischievous glance.
He was too uncomfortable to appreciate badinage. “I was looking at the old gravestones.” “A likely story. Come into the torture chamber, and I’ll give you a shot.” She also gave him a tube of lotion and some advice: “Keep your hands out of hot water. Avoid warm showers. And stay away from old cemeteries.” Leaving the clinic Qwilleran was in a sulky humor. He thought the doctor should have been less flip and more sympathetic. By the time he inched his car back to town through the fog, however, the medication was working, bringing not only relief but a heady euphoria, and he remembered that the doctor had attractive green eyes and the longest eyelashes he had ever seen.
At the hotel, where he stopped for coffee and eggs, four men at the next table were complaining about the weather. “The boats won’t go out in this soup. Let’s get a bottle of red-eye and play some cards.” At the table behind him a familiar voice said: “We’re not leaving here (gasp) till we go fishing.” A shrill flat voice answered: “Why are you so stubborn? You don’t even like to fish.” “This is different, I told you. We go out (gasp) on thirty-six-foot trollers and catch maybe twenty-pound trout.” “You said it was too expensive.” “The prices at the main dock are highway robbery, but I found a boat (gasp) that’ll take us for fifteen bucks.” Qwilleran’s thrifty nature sensed an opportunity, and the combination of the medication and the unnatural atmosphere gave him a feeling of reckless excitement. When the couple left the dining room he followed them. “Excuse me, sir, did I hear you say something about a troller that’s less expensive?” “Sure did! Fifteen bucks for six hours, Split three ways (gasp) that’s five bucks apiece. Not bad. Two young fellahs (gasp) own the boat. You interested?” “Is fishing any good in this weather?” “These young fellas say it doesn’t make any difference, By the way,” he wheezed, “my name’s Whatley – from Cleveland – wholesale hardware.” He then introduced his wife, whose manner was frosty, and he volunteered to drive, since he knew the way to the dock. “The boat ties up outside of town. That’s why (gasp) it’s cheaper, You have to shop around to get a good buy.” The trip to the dock was another slow agonizing crawl through earthbound clouds, At one point the three giant electric letters of the FCC glowed weakly through the mist.
Farther on, the Cannery Mall announced itself strongly although the building was invisible. Then there were miles of nothing. Each mile seemed like five. Whatley drove on grimly. No one talked, Qwilleran strained his eyes, peering at the road ahead, expecting to meet a pair of yellow foglights head-on or the sudden taillights of a stalled logging truck.
“How will you know when you get there?” he asked.
“Can’t miss it. There’s a wreck of a boat (gasp) where we turn off.” When the wreck eventually loomed up out of the mist, Whatley turned down a swampy lane bordering a canal filled with more wrecks.
“I’m sorry I came,” Mrs. Whatley announced in her first statement of the day.
Where the lane ended, a rickety wharf extended into the lake, and the three landlubbers groped their way across its rotting planks. The water lapped against the pilings in a liquid whisper, and a hull could be heard creaking against the wharf.
Previously Qwilleran had seen the gleaming white fishing fleet at the municipal pier.
Boats with names like Lady Aurora, Queen of the Lake, and Northern Princess displayed posters boasting of their ship-to-shore radios, fishing sonars, depth-finders, and automatic pilots. So he was not prepared for the Minnie K. It was an old gray tub, rough with scabs of peeling paint. Incrustations on the deck and railings brought to mind the visits of seagulls and the intimate parts of dead fish. The two members of the crew, who
were present in a vague sort of way, were as shabby as their craft. One boy was about seventeen, Qwilleran guessed, and the other was somewhat younger. Neither had an alertness that would inspire confidence.
There were no greetings or introductions. The boys viewed the passengers with suspicion and, after collecting their money, got the boat hastily under weigh, barking at each other in meaningless syllables.
Qwilleran asked the younger boy how far out they were planning to cruise and received a grunt in reply.
Mrs. Whatley said: “This is disgusting. No wonder they call these things stink-boats.” “Whaddaya want for five bucks?” her husband said. “The Queen Elizabeth?” The passengers found canvas chairs, ragged and stained, and the Minnie K moved slowly through the water, creating hardly a ripple. Mr. Whatley dozed from time to time, and his wife opened a paperback book and turned off her hearing aid. For about an hour the boat chugged through the total whiteness in apathy, its fishy emanations blending with exhaust fumes. Then the engine changed its tune to an even lower pitch, and the boys lazily produced the fishing gear: rods with enormous reels, copper lines, and brass spoons.
“What do I do with this thing?” Qwilleran asked. “Where’s the bait?” “The spoon’s all you need,” Whatley said. “Drop the line over the rail (gasp) and keep moving the rod up and down.” “And then what?” “When you get a bite, you’ll know it. Reel it in.” The Minnie K moved through the placid lake with reluctance. Occasionally the engine died for sheer lack of purpose and started again unwillingly. For an hour Qwilleran waved the fishing rod up and down in a trance induced by the throbbing of the engine and the sense of isolation. The troller was in a tight little world of its own, surrounded by a fog that canceled out everything else. There was no breeze, not even a splash of water against the hull – just the hollow putt-putt of the engine and the distant moan of a foghorn.
Whatley had reeled in his line and, after taking a few swigs from a flask, fell asleep in his canvas chair. His wife never looked up from her book.
Qwilleran was wondering where they were – and why he was there – when the engine stopped with an explosive cough, and the two boys, muttering syllables, jumped down into the hold. The silence became absolute, and the boat was motionless on the glassy lake. It was then that Qwilleran heard voices drifting across the water – men’s voices, too far away to be distinguishable. He rested the rod on the railing and listened. The voices were coming closer, arguing, getting louder. There were shouts of anger followed by unintelligible torrents of verbal abuse, then a sharp crack like splitting wood…
grunts… sounds of lunging… a heavy thump. A few seconds later Qwilleran heard a mighty splash and a light patter of spray on the water’s surface.
After that, all was quiet except for a succession of ripples that crossed the surface of the lake and lapped against the Minnie K. The fog closed in like cotton bat- ting, and the water turned to milk.
The crew had their heads bent over the contraption that passed for an engine. Whatley slept on, and his wife also dozed. Wonderingly Qwilleran resumed the senseless motion of the fishing rod, up and down, up and down, in exaggerated arcs. He had lost all sense of time and his watch had been left at home because of his itching wrists.
Thirty minutes passed, or an hour, and then there was a pull on the line, sending vibrations down the rod and into his arms. He shouted!
Whatley waked with a start. “Reel it in! Reel it in!” At that magic moment, with the roots of his hair tingling, Qwilleran realized the thrill of deep-sea fishing. “Feels like a whale!” “Not so fast! Keep it steady! Don’t stop!” Whatley was gasping for breath, and so was Qwilleran. His hands were shaking. The copper line was endless.
Everyone was watching. The young skipper was leaning over the rail. “Gaff!” he yelled, and the other boy threw him a long-handled iron hook.
“Gotta be fifty pounds!” Qwilleran shouted, straining to reel in the last few yards.
He could feel the final surge as the monster rose through the water. “I’ve got him! I’ve got him!” The huge shape had barely surfaced when he lost his grip on the reel.
“Grab it!” cried Whatley, but the reel was spinning wildly. As it began to slow, the skipper pulled pliers from his pocket and cut the line.
“No good,” he said. “No good.” “Whaddaya mean?” Whatley screamed at him. “That fish was thirty pounds (gasp) if it was an ounce!” “No good,” the skipper said. He swung himself up to the wheelhouse; the younger boy dropped into the hold, and the engine started.
“This whole deal is a fraud!” Whatley protested. His wife looked up from her book and yawned.
“I don’t know about you people,” Qwilleran said, “But I’m ready to call it a day.” The boat picked up speed and headed for what he hoped would be dry land. On the return voyage he slumped in the canvas chair, engrossed in his own thoughts. Whatley had another swig and dozed off.
Qwilleran was no fisherman, but he had seen films of the sport, and this experience was hardly typical. His catch didn’t fight like a fish; when it broke the surface it didn’t splash like a fish; and it certainly didn’t look like a fish.
Back in Mooseville he headed straightway for the tourist bureau. He was not feeling amiable, but first he had to engage in the weather amenities. “You were right about the fog, Roger. How long do you think it will last?” “It should clear by noon tomorrow.” “Did your wife get home all right?” “One-thirty this morning. Took her two hours to drive the last twenty miles. She was a basket case when she finally got in. What have you been doing in this fog, Qwill?” “I’ve been trolling.” “What! You’re hallucinating. The boats didn’t go out today.” “The Minnie K went out. We were out for four hours, and that was three hours too many.” Roger reached for a file. “I never heard of the Minnie K. And she’s not here on the list of registered trollers. Where did you find her?” “A guest at the hotel lined up the expedition. His name is Whatley.” “Yeah, I know him. Overweight, short of breath. He’s been in here three times, complaining. How much did they charge? I assume you didn’t catch any fish.” “No, but I caught something else,” Qwilleran said. “It didn’t behave like a fish, and when I got it to the surface, the skipper cut my line and took off for shore in a hurry.
He didn’t like the look of it, and neither did I. It looked like the body of a man.” Roger gulped and stroked his black beard. “It was probably an old rubber tire or something like that. It would be hard to tell for sure in the fog. The boaters lash tires to the side of the wharf – to act as bumpers, you know. They can break loose in a storm.
We had a big storm Tuesday night…” “Knock it off, Roger. We all know the Chamber of Commerce writes your script. I’d like to report this -this rubber tire to the police? Where do I find the sheriff?” Roger flushed and looked guilty but not contrite. “Behind the log church. The building with a flag.” “By the way, I got a surprise last night,” Qwilleran continued in a more genial humor.
“Your mother-in-law left some turkey and a note at my cabin, but she didn’t sign her name. I don’t know how to thank her.” “Oh, she’s like that – scatter-brained. But she’s nice. Laughs a lot. Her name’s Mildred Hanstable, and she lives at Top o’ the Dunes, east of you. I should warn you about something. She’ll insist on telling your fortune and then expect a donation.” “Isn’t that illegal?” “It’s for charity. She’s helping to raise money for some kind of heart machine at the Pickax Hospital.” “Count me in,” Qwilleran said. “I’ll need the machine before this restful vacation is over.” When he returned to the cabin, it was still daylight, filtered through fog. Indoors he smelled vinegar, reminding him of the homemade brass polish used by antique dealers. Sure enough, the brass lantern hanging over the bar was newly polished. Tom had been there in spite of the stipulation; he had been told not to come to the cabin until called.
Qwilleran had left his old watch and some loose change on the dresser in the bunkroom, and they were still there. He shrugged.
When he called to his friends, Yum Yum came running from the guest room, but Koko was too busily engaged to respond. He was perched on the moose head, fussing and talking to himself in small musical grunts that originated deep in his snowy chest.
“What are you doing up there?” Qwilleran demanded.
Koko was shifting position on the antlers, standing on his hind legs and reaching up with a front paw as if searching for a toehold. The moose head was mounted on a varnished wooden plaque that was hung ‘on the uneven log wall. Koko was trying to thrust his paw into one of the crevices behind the plaque. After some experimental footwork he finally braced himself well enough to reach the aperture. His paw ventured warily into the opening. Something rattled inside. Koko tried harder, stretched longer, still muttering to himself.
Qwilleran walked closer, and when the prize fell out of the crevice and bounced off the antler, he caught it. “What’s this? A cassette!” It was a blank tape that had been used for home-recording. Side A was inscribed 1930 Favorites in what appeared to be Aunt Fanny’s handwriting. Side B was labeled More 1930 Favorites. There was no dust on the clear plastic case.
Qwilleran took the cassette to the stereo and removed the Brahms concerto that had been in the player ever since he arrived. “Wait a minute,” he said aloud. “This is not the way I left it.” The cassette had been reversed, and the flip side, offering Beethoven, was faceup.
Koko’s trophy produced bouncy music: renditions of My Blue Heaven, Exactly Like You, and others of the period, all with the dubious fidelity of old 78s. It was a strange collection to hide behind a moose head.
Qwilleran finished listening to Side A and then flipped it over. There was more of the same. Then half- way through Little White Lies a voice interrupted – an unprofessional voice – an ordinary man’s voice, but forceful. After a brief and surprising message, the music resumed. He rewound the cassette and played it again.
The demanding voice cut in: “Now hear this, my friend. You get busy or you’ll be sorry! You know what I’ll do! You gotta bring up more stuff. I can’t payoff if you don’t come up with the loot. And we’ve gotta make some changes. Things are gettin’ hot. You come and see me Saturday, you hear? I’ll be at the boat dock after supper.” The tape had been used recently. It was only the day before that Koko had stepped on the buttons and played the Brahms. Someone had been there in the meantime and had either taped the message or listened to it, afterwards replacing the Brahms concerto upside- down. Someone had also stolen a gold watch and a gold pen, but that had happened earlier.
Unidentified visitors were walking in and out of the cabin in the casual way that Aunt Fanny found so neighborly.
Someone had undoubtedly climbed on a bar stool to reach the moose head, and Qwilleran checked the four pine stools for footprints, but the varnished surfaces were clean.
Koko was watching intently as Qwilleran tucked the cassette into a dresser drawer.
“Koko,” the man said, I don’t like this open-door policy. People are using the place like a bus terminal. We’ve got to find a locksmith… And if you are ever in danger, or if Yum Yum is in danger you know what to do.” Koko blinked his eyes slowly and wisely.
-6-
Mooseville, Friday
Dear Arch, I’m too tight to buy you an anniversary card, but here’s wishing you and your beautiful bride a happy twenty-fourth and many more to come. It seems only yesterday that you dropped the wedding ring and I lost your honeymoon tickets.
Well, since coming to Mooseville I’ve discovered that all civilization is divided into two parts: Up Here and Down Below. We have friendly people up here who read the Fluxion – also mysterious incidents that they try to cover up.
Yesterday I went fishing and hooked something that looked like a human body.
When I reported it to the sheriff’s office, no one seemed particularly concerned. I know it wasn’t an accidental drowning. I have reason to believe it was homicide – manslaughter at least. I keep wondering: Who was that guy in the lake? Why was he there? Who tossed him in?
I got into some poison ivy, but I’m okay now. And early this morning I thought someone was stealing my tires, but it was a seagull making a noise like a car-jack.
The eateries up here are so-so. For a restaurant reviewer it’s like being sent to Siberia.
Qwill P.S. Koko has some new tricks-answering the phone and playing the stereo. In a few years he’ll be working for NASA.
The fog was lifting. From the windows of the cabin it was possible to see nearby trees and the burial place of the septic tank. Although Old Sam had filled the depression and leveled it neatly, the cats had resumed their previous occupation of staring in that direction.
When the telephone rang on Friday morning Koko leaped from the windowsill and raced to the bar. Qwilleran was close behind but not fast enough to prevent him from dislodging the receiver. It fell to the bar top with a crash.
The man seized it. “Hello? Hello?” “Oh, there you are,” said the gravel voice from Pickax. “I was worried about you, dear. I called yesterday and the phone made the most unusual noises. When I called back I got a busy signal. I finally told the operator to cut in, and she said the phone was off the hook, so I sent Tom out there to investigate. He said the receiver was lying on the bar – and no one was home. You should be more careful, dear. I suppose you’re pre- occupied with your book. How is it progressing? Are you still…” “Aunt Fanny!” “Yes, dear?” “I spent the day in town. and my cat knocked the receiver off. It’s a bad habit he’s developed. I’m sorry about it. I’ll start keeping the phone in the kitchen cupboard. if the cord will reach.” “Be sure to close the windows whenever you go out, dear. A squall can come up suddenly and deluge the place. How many chapters of the book have you written? Do you know when it will be published? Tom says the big jack pine has been cut down. He’ll be out there tomorrow with a log-splitter. Have you noticed the canoe under the porch? The paddles are in the toolshed. Don’t go out in rough weather, dear, and be sure to stay close to shore.
Now I won’t talk any more because I know you want to get back to your writing. Some day you can write my life story, and we’ll both make a fortune.”
Wearing his orange cap, of which he was getting inordinately fond, Qwilleran drove to Mooseville to mail the letter to Arch. At the post office he sniffed warily but detected only fresh floor wax.
His next stop was the Cannery Mall, where he decided the aroma of smoked fish was not entirely unpleasant after all. At the medical clinic the young doctor was sitting at the reception desk, reading a gourmet magazine. He was right about her green eyes; they sparkled with youth and health and humor.
“Remember me?” he began, doffing his cap. “I’m the patient with the Cemetery Syndrome.” “Glad to see you’re not as grouchy as you were yesterday.” “The shot took effect immediately. Do you get many cases like mine?” “Oh, yes,” she said. “Ivy poisoning, second-degree sunburn, infected heel blisters, rabid squirrel bites – all the usual vacation delights.” “Any drownings?” “The police emergency squad takes care of those. I hope you’re not planning to fall in the lake. It’s so cold that anyone who falls overboard goes down once and never comes up.
At least, that’s the conventional wisdom in these parts.” She closed her magazine. “Won’t you sit down?” Qwilleran settled into a chair and smoothed his moustache nervously. “I’d like to ask you a question about that shot you gave me. Could it cause hallucinations?” “Extremely unlikely. Do you have a history of hallucinating?” “No, but I had an unusual experience after the shot, and no one believes I saw what I saw. I’m beginning to doubt my sanity.” “You may be the one person in ten million who had an abnormal reaction,” the doctor said cheerfully. “Congratulations!” Qwilleran regarded her intently, and she returned his gaze with laughing eyes and fluttering eyelashes.
He said: “Can I sue you for malpractice? Or will you settle for a dinner date?” “Make it a quick lunch, and I can go right now,” she said, consulting her watch. “I never refuse lunch with an interesting older man. Do you like pasties?” “They’d be okay if they had flaky pastry, a little sauce, and less turnip.” “Then you’ll love the Nasty Pasty. Let’s go.” She threw off the white coat that covered a Mooseville T-shirt.
The restaurant was small and designed for intimacy, with two rows of booths and accents of fishnet, weathered rope, and stuffed seagulls.
Qwilleran said: “I never thought I’d be consulting a doctor who is female and half my age and easy to look at.” “Better get used to the idea,” she said. “We’re in plentiful supply…. You’re in good shape for your age. Do you exercise a lot?” “Not a great deal,” he said, although “not at all” would have been closer to the truth. “I’m sorry, doctor, but I don’t know your name.” “Melinda Goodwinter.” “Related to the attorney?” “Cousin. Pickax is loaded with Goodwinters. My father is a GP there, and I’m going to join his office in the fall.” “You probably know Fanny Klingenschoen. I’m borrowing her log cabin for the summer.” “Everyone knows Fanny – for better or worse. Maybe I shouldn’t say that; she’s a remarkable old lady. She says she wants to be my first patient when I start my practice.” “Why do you call her remarkable?” “Fanny has a unique way of getting what she wants. You know the old county courthouse?
It’s an architectural gem, but they were ready to tear it down until Fanny went to work and saved it – single-handedly.” Qwilleran touched his moustache. “Let me ask you something, Melinda. This is beautiful country, and the people are friendly, but I have a gnawing suspicion that something is going on that I don’t comprehend. Am I supposed to believe that Moose County is some kind of Utopia?” “We have our problems,” she admitted, “but we don’t talk about them – to outsiders.
This is not for publication, but there’s a tendency up here to resent visitors from Down Below.” “They love the tourists’ dollars, but they don’t like the tourists, is that right?” She nodded. “The summer people are too smooth, too self-important, too aggressive, too condescending, too different. Present company excepted, naturally.” “You think we’re different? You’re the ones who are different,” Qwilleran objected.
“Life in the city is predictable. I go out on assignment, eat lunch at the Press Club, hurry back to the paper to write the story, have dinner at a good restaurant, get mugged on the way home… no surprises!” “You jest. I’ve lived in the city, and country is better.” The pasties were a success: flaky, juicy, turnipless, and of comfortable size.
Qwilleran felt comfortable with Melinda, too, and at one point he smoothed his moustache self-consciously and said: “There’s something I’d like to confide in you, if you don’t mind.” “Flattered.” “I wouldn’t discuss it with anyone else, but since you’re a doctor…” “I understand.” “How shall I begin?.. Do you know anything about cats? They have a sixth sense, you know, and some people think their whiskers are a kind of extrasensory antenna.” “Interesting theory.” “I live with a Siamese, and I swear he’s tuned in to some abstruse body of knowledge.” She nodded encouragingly. Qwilleran lowered his voice. “Sometimes I get unusual vibrations from my moustache, and I perceive things that aren’t obvious to other people.
And that’s not all. In the last year or so my sense of smell has been getting unusually keen – disturbingly keen, in fact. And now my hearing is becoming remarkably acute. A few nights ago someone was walking on the beach a hundred feet away – on the soft sand – and I could hear the footsteps through my pillow: thud thud thud.” “Quite phenomenal,” she said.
“Do you think it’s abnormal? Is it something I should worry about?” “They say elephants can hear the footsteps of mice.” “I hope you’re not implying that I have large ears.” “Your ears are very well proportioned,” Melinda said. “In fact, you’re quite an attractive man – for your age.” On the whole Melinda Goodwinter was enjoyable company, although Qwilleran thought she referred to his age too frequently and even asked if he had grandchildren. Nevertheless he was feeling good as he drove home to the cabin; he thought he might start work on his book, or get some exercise. The fog had all but disappeared. Intermittent gusts of offshore breeze were pushing it out to sea, and the lake had a glassy calm. Perfect canoeing weather, he decided.
Qwilleran had not been canoeing since he was a twelve-year-old at summer camp, but he thought he remembered how it was done. He found paddles in the toolshed and chose the longest one. It was easy to drag the aluminum canoe down the sandy slope to the beach, but launching it was another matter, involving wet feet and a teetering lunge into a wobbly and uncooperative craft. When he finally seated himself in the stern and glided across the smooth glistening water, he sensed a glorious mix of exhilaration and peace.
He remembered Aunt Fanny’s advice and turned the high bow, which rose out of the water considerably, to follow the shore. A moment later a gust of offshore wind caught the bow, and the canoe swiveled around and headed for open water, but its course was quickly corrected when the breeze abated. He paddled past deserted beaches and lonely dunes topped with tall pines. Farther on was the Top o’ the Dunes Club, a row of substantial vacation houses. He fancied the occupants watching and envying him. Two of them waved from their porches.
The offshore breeze sprang up again, riffling the water. The bow swung around like a weathervane, and the canoe skimmed in the direction of Canada a hundred miles away.
Qwilleran summoned all his remembered skills, but nothing worked until the wind subsided again.
He was now farther from shore than appeared wise, and he tried to turn back, but he was out of the lee of the land, and the offshore gusts were persistent, swiveling the bow and making the canoe unmanageable. He paddled frantically, digging the paddle in the water without plan or purpose, desperately trying to turn the canoe. It only drifted farther out, all the while spinning crazily in water that was becoming choppy.
He had lost control completely. Should he jump overboard and swim for shore and let the canoe go? He was not a competent swimmer, and he remembered the reputation of the icy lake. There was no time to lose. Every second took him farther from shore. He was on the verge of panic.
“Back-paddle!” came a voice riding on the wind. “Back-paddle… back-paddle!” Yes! Of course! That was the trick. He reversed his stroke, and while the bow still pointed north the canoe made gradual progress toward shore. Once in the lee of the land, he was able to turn the canoe and head for the beach.
A man and a woman were standing on the sand watching him, the man holding a bullhorn.
They shouted encouragement, and he beached the canoe at their feet.
“We were really worried about you,” the woman said. “I was about to call the helicopter.” She laughed nervously.
The man said: “You need a little more practice before you try for the Olympics.” Qwilleran was breathing heavily, but he managed to thank them.
“You must be Mr. Qwilleran,” the woman said. She was middle-aged, buxom, and dressed in fashionable resortwear. “I’m Mildred Hanstable, Roger’s mother-in-law, and this is our next-door neighbor, Buford Dunfield.” “Call me Buck,” said the neighbor.
“Call me Qwill.” They shook hands. “You need a drink,” Buck said. “Come on up to the house. Mildred, how about you?” “Thanks, Buck, but I’ve got a meat loaf in the oven. Stanley is coming to dinner tonight.” “I want to thank you for the turkey,” Qwilleran said. “It made great sandwiches. A sandwich is about the extent of my culinary expertise.” Mildred laughed heartily at that and then said: “I don’t suppose you found a bracelet at your cabin – a gold chain bracelet?” “No, but I’ll look for it.” “Otherwise it could have dropped off when I was walking on the beach.” “In that case,” Buck said, “it’s gone forever.” Mildred gave a hollow laugh. “If the waves don’t get it, those girls will.” The two men climbed the dune to the cottage. Buck was a well-built man with plentiful gray hair and an authoritative manner. He spoke in a powerful voice that went well with a bullhorn. “I’m sure glad to see that fog let up,” he said. “How long are you going to be up here?” “All summer. Do you get fog very often?” “A bad one? Three or four times a season. We go to Texas in the winter.” The cottage was a modern redwood with a deck overlooking the lake and glass doors leading into a littered living room.
“Excuse the mess,” the host said. “My wife went to Canada with my sister to see some plays about dead kings. The gals go for that kind of stuff…. What’ll you have? I drink rye, but I’ve got Scotch and bourbon. Or maybe you’d like a gin and tonic?” “Just tonic water or ginger ale,” Qwilleran said. “I’m off the hard stuff.” “Not a bad idea. I should cut down. Planning on doing any fishing?” “My fishing is on a par with my canoeing. My chief reason for being here is to find time to write a book.” “Man, if I could write I’d write a best-seller,” Buck said. “The things I’ve seen! I spent twenty-five years in law enforcement Down Below. Took early retirement with a good pension, but I got restless – you know how it is – and took a job in Pickax. Chief of police in a small town! Some experience!” He shook his head. “The respectable citizens were more trouble than the lawbreakers, so I quit, I’m satisfied to take it easy now. I do a little woodworking. See that row of candlesticks? I turn them on my lathe, and Mildred sells them to raise money for the hospital.” “I like the big ones,” Qwilleran said. “They look like cathedral candlesticks.” They were sitting at the bar. Buck poured refills and then lighted a pipe, going through the ritual that Qwilleran knew so well. “I’ve made bigger sticks than that,” he said between puffs. “Come on downstairs and see my workshop.” He led the way to a room dominated by machinery and sawdust. “I start with one of these four-by-fours and turn it on the lathe. Simple, but the tourists like ’em, and it’s for a good cause. Mildred finished one pair in gold and made them look antique. She’s a clever woman.” “She does a lot for the hospital, I hear.” “Yeah, she’s got crazy ideas for fund-raising, That’s all right. It keeps her mind off her troubles.” The pipe smoke was reaching Qwilleran’s nostrils, and he remarked: “You get your tobacco from Scotland.” “How did you know? I order it from Down Below.” “I used to smoke the same blend, Groat and Boddle Number Five.” “Exactly! I smoked Auld Clootie Number Three for a long time, but I switched last year.” “I used to alternate between Groat and Boddle and Auld Barleyfumble.” Buck swept the sawdust from the seat of a captain’s chair and pushed it toward his guest. “Put it there, my friend.” Qwilleran slid into the chair and enjoyed the wholesome smell of sawdust mixed with his favorite tobacco.
“Tell me, Buck. How long did it take you to adjust to living up here?” “Oh, four or five years.” “Do you lock your doors?” “We did at first, but after a while we didn’t bother.” “It’s a lot different from Down Below. The surroundings, the activities, the weather, the customs, the pace, the attitude. I never realized it would be such a drastic change.
My chief idea was to get away from pollution and congestion and crime for a while.” “Don’t be too sure about that last one,” Buck said in a confidential tone.
“What makes you say that?” “I’ve made a few observations.” The retired policeman threw his guest a meaningful glance.
Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. “Why don’t you drop in for a drink this weekend? I’m staying at the Klingenschoen cabin. Ever been there?” Buck was relighting his pipe. He puffed, shook his head, and puffed again.
“It’s on the dune, about a half mile west of here. And I’ve got a bottle of rye with your name on it.” When Qwilleran paddled the canoe home through shallow water, he was thinking about the man who had saved his life with a bullhorn. Buck had denied ever being at the Klingenschoen cabin, and yet… On the evening when Mildred left her gift of turkey, two figures had disappeared into the fog, headed for the beach, and one of them had been smoking Groat and Boddle Number Five.
-7-
The muffled bell of the telephone rang several times before Qwilleran roused enough to answer it. The instrument was now housed in a kitchen cupboard, and Koko had not yet devised a means of unlatching the cupboard door.
Qwilleran was not ready for a dose of directives from Madame President before his morning coffee, and he shuffled to the phone reluctantly.
A gentle voice said: “Hello, Qwill dearest. Did I get you out of bed? Guess what! I can drive up to see you if you still want me?” “Want you! I’m pining away, Rosemary. When can you come? How long can you stay?” “I should be able to leave the store after lunch today and arrive sometime tomorrow, and I can stay a week unless someone makes a firm offer for Helthy-Welthy. I’m being very nice to Max Sorrell, hoping he’ll offer cash.” Qwilleran’s response was a disapproving grunt.
There was a pause. “Are you there, dearest? Can you hear me?” “I’m speechless with joy, Rosemary. I sent you the directions to the cabin, didn’t I?” “Yes, I have them.” “Drive carefully.” “I can hardly wait.” “I need you.” He missed Rosemary in more ways than one. He needed a friend who would share his pleasures and problems. He was surrounded by friendly people, yet he was lonely.
He kept saying to the cats: “Wait till she sees the cabin! Wait till she sees the lake! Wait till she meets Aunt Fanny!” His only regret was the fishy odor wafting up from he beach. During the night the lake had deposited a bushel or more of silvery souvenirs, which began to reek in the morning sun.
When he drove into town for breakfast he waved breezy greetings to every passing motorist. Then, fortified by buckwheat flapjacks and lumbercamp syrup, he went in search of the candle shop at Cannery Mall. He detected the thirty-seven different scents even before he saw the sign: Night’s Candles.
“Are you Sharon MacGillivray?” he asked a young woman who was arranging displays. “I’m Jim Qwilleran.” “Oh, I’m so glad to meet you! I’m Sharon Hanstable,” she said, “but I’m married to Roger MacGillivray. I’ve heard so much about you.” “I like the name of your shop.” He thought a moment and then declaimed: ” ‘Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain.'” “You’re fabulous! No one else has ever noticed that it’s a quote.” “Maybe fishermen don’t read Shakespeare. How do they feel about scented candles?” Sharon laughed. “Fortunately we get all kinds of tourists up here, and I carry some jewelry and woodenware and toys as well as candles.” Qwilleran browsed through the narrow aisles of the little shop, his sensitive nose almost overcome by the thirty-seven scents. He said: “Roger has a good-looking money clip. Do you have any more of them?” “Sorry, they’re all gone. People bought them for Father’s Day, but I’ve placed another order.” “How much for the tall wooden candlesticks?” “Twenty dollars. They’re made locally by a retired policeman, and every penny goes to charity. It was my mother’s idea.” “I met your mother on the beach yesterday. She’s very likable.” Sharon nodded. “Everyone likes Mom, even her students. She teaches in Pickax, you know. We’re all teachers, except Dad. He runs the turkey farm on Pickax Road.” “I’ve seen it. Interesting place.” “Not really.” Sharon wrinkled her nose in distaste. “It’s smelly and messy. I took care of the poults when I was in high school, and they’re so dumb! You have to teach domesticated turkeys how to eat and drink. Then they go crazy and kill each other. You have to be a little crazy yourself to raise turkeys. Mom can’t stand them. Has she offered to tell your fortune?” “Not yet,” Qwilleran said, “but I’ve got a few questions I’d like her to answer. And I’ve got one for you: Where can I find a locksmith?” “I never heard of a locksmith in Mooseville, but the garage mechanic might be able to help you.” He left the store with a two-foot candlestick and a stubby green candle and drove home inhaling deep draughts of pine scent. When he placed the candlestick on a porch table, Koko sniffed every inch of it. Yum Yum was more interested in catching spiders, but Koko’s nose was virtually glued to the raw wood as he explored all its shapely turnings.
His ears were swept backward, and occasionally he sneezed.
It was mid-afternoon when the blue pickup truck snaked up the driveway. Tom was alone in the cab.
“Where’s the log-splitter?” Qwilleran asked cheerily.
“In the back of the truck,” Tom said with his mild expression of pleasure. “I like to split logs with a maul, but this is a big tree. A very big tree.” He gazed out at the lake. “It’s a very nice day. The fog went away. I don’t like fog.” The log-splitter proved to be a gasoline-powered contraption with a murderous wedge that rammed the foot-thick logs to produce firewood. Qwilleran watched for a while, but the noise made him jittery and he retreated to the cabin to brush the cats’ fur. Their grooming had been neglected for a week.
At the cry of “Brush!” Koko strolled from the lake porch where he had been watching the wildlife, and Yum Yum squirmed out from under the sofa where she had been driven by the racket in the yard. Then followed a seductive pas de deux as the two cats twisted, stretched, writhed, and slithered ecstatically under the brush.
When Tom had finished splitting the wood, Qwilleran went out to help stack it. “So you don’t like heavy fog,” he said as an opener.
“No, it’s hard to see in the fog.” Tom said. “It’s dangerous to drive a car or a truck. Yes, very dangerous. I don’t drive very much in the fog. I don’t want to have an accident. A man in Pickax was killed in an accident. He was driving in the fog.” Tom’s speech was slow and pleasant, with a musical lilt that was soothing. Today there was something different about his face – a three-day growth on his upper lip.
Qwilleran recognized the first symptom of a moustache and smiled. Searching for something to say he remarked about the quality of sand surrounding the cabin – so fine, so clean.
“There’s gold in the sand,” Tom said.
“Yes, it sparkles like gold, doesn’t it?” “There’s real gold,” Tom insisted. “I heard a man say it. He said there’s a gold mine buried under this cabin. I wish this was my cabin. I’d dig up the gold.” Qwilleran started to explain the real-estate metaphor but thought better of it.
Instead he said: “I often see people picking up pebbles on the beach. I wonder what they’re looking for.” “There isn’t any gold on the beach,” Tom said. “Only agates. The agates are pretty. I found some agates.” “What do they look like?” “They look like little stones, but they’re pretty. I sold them to a man in a restaurant. He gave me five dollars.” They worked in silence for a while. The tall tree had produced a huge amount of firewood, and Qwilleran was puffing with the exertion of stacking it. The handyman worked fast and efficiently and put him to shame.
After a few minutes Tom said: “I wish I had a lot of money.” “What would you do with it?” “I’d go to Las Vegas. It’s very pretty. It’s not like here.” “Very true,” Qwilleran said. “Have you ever been there?” “No. I saw it on TV. They have lights and music and lots of people. So many people! I like nightclubs.” “Would you want to work in a nightclub if you went to Las Vegas?” “No,” Tom said thoughtfully. “I’d like to buy a nightclub. I’d like to be the boss.” After Tom had raked up the wood chips, Qwilleran invited him in for a beer. “Or would you rather have a shot? I’ve got some whiskey.” “I like beer,” Tom said.
They sat on the back porch with their cold drinks. Koko was entranced by the man’s soothing voice, and even Yum Yum made one of her rare appearances.
“I like cats,” the handyman said. “They’re pretty.” Suddenly he looked embarrassed.
“What’s the matter, Tom?” “She told me to come up here and look at the telephone, That’s why I came. You told me not to come. I didn’t know what to do.” “That’s perfectly all right,” Qwilleran said. “You did the right thing.” “I always do what she tells me.” “You’re a loyal employee, Tom, and a good worker. You can be proud of your work.” “I came up here to look at the telephone, and the big cat came out and talked to me.” “That’s Koko. I hope he was polite.” “Yes, he was very polite.” Tom stood up and looked at the sky. “It’s time to go home.” “Here,” Qwilleran said, offering him a folded bill. “Buy yourself some supper on the way home.” “I have my supper money. She gave me my supper money.” “That’s all right. Buy two suppers. You like pasties, don’t you?” “Yes, I like pasties. I like pasties very much. They’re good.” Qwilleran felt saddened and uneasy after the handyman’s visit. He heated a can of Scotch broth and consumed it without tasting it. He was in no condition to start writing his novel, and he was relieved when another visitor arrived – this time from the beach.
Buck Dunfield, wearing a skipper’s cap, climbed up the dune in the awkward way dictated by loose sand on a steep slope. “You promised me a drink,” he called out, “and I’m collecting now while I’m still a bachelor, My wife gets home tomorrow. How’s it going?” “Fine. Come in on the porch.” “I brought you something, Just found it.” He handed Qwilleran a pebble. “It was on your beach, so it’s yours. An agate!” “Thanks, I’ve heard about these. Are they valuable?” “Well, some people use them to make jewelry. Everybody collects them around here. I brought you something else.” Buck drew a foil package from his jacket pocket. “Meatloaf – from Mildred. Her husband never showed up last night.” In a lower voice he added: “Just between you and me, she’s better off without him.” They settled down in canvas chairs on the porch, with a broadside view of the placid lake. Buck said: “Let me give you a tip. If you use this porch much, remember that voices carry across the lake when the atmosphere is still. You’ll see a fishing boat out there about half a mile, and you’ll hear a guy say ‘Hand me another beer’ just as clear as on the telephone. But don’t forget: He can hear you, too.” There were several boats within sight on the silvery lake, which blended into a colorless sky. The boats seemed suspended in air.
“Do you do much fishing, Buck?” A little fishing, a little golf…. Say, I see you’ve got one of my candlesticks.” “Picked it up this morning at Sharon’s candle shop.” “I’ll tell Mildred. She’ll be tickled. Nice little shop, isn’t it? Nice girl, Sharon.
Roger’s a good kid, too.” He took out his pipe and began the business of lighting it.
Pointing the stem at the beach he said: “You’ve got some dead fish down there.” “You don’t need to tell me. They smell pretty ripe when the breeze is off the lake.” “You should bury them. That’s what I do. The stink doesn’t bother me; I’ve got chronic sinus trouble, but my wife objects to it, so I bury the fish under the trees. Good fertilizer!” “If you don’t have a good nose,” Qwilleran said. “how can you enjoy that pipe? The aroma used to be the big attraction for me.” “Just a nervous habit.” Buck watched two long-legged girls strolling down the beach with heads bowed, studying the sand underfoot. “See? What did I tell you? Everybody collects agates. In the middle of summer it’s like a parade along this beach.” He had another look at the girls. “They’re a little twiggy for me. How about you?” Qwilleran was thinking, smugly: Wait till he sees Rosemary! He said: “Do you know the woman who owns this cabin?” Buck rolled his eyes expressively. “Lord, do I ever! She hates my guts. I got her license revoked after she rammed a hole in the Pickax police station. She didn’t know forward from reverse. I hope she’s not your grandmother or something.” “No. No relation.” “Just because she’s got all the money in the world, she thinks she can do anything she pleases. A woman of her age shouldn’t be allowed to carry a firearm. She’s crazy enough to shoot up a city council meeting some day.” He puffed on his pipe aggressively. “Her name’s Fanny, but she calls herself Francesca, and anybody who names their kid after her gets written in her will. There are more Francescas in Pickax than in Rome, Italy.” When the second drink was poured Buck leaned over and said confidentially: “All foolin’ aside, how do you size up this place?” “What do you mean?” “Mooseville. Do you think everything is out in the open?” From the man’s conspiratorial manner it was clear that he was not talking about the landscape. Qwilleran stroked his moustache. “Well… they have a tendency, I would say, to gloss over certain situations and explain them away very fast.” “Exactly! It’s their way of life. The Picayune didn’t even report it when some tourists were mauled by bears at the village dump. Of course, the stupid jerks climbed the fence and teased the bears, and after that the town put up a double fence. But nothing was ever printed in the paper.” “I’m wondering if this vacation paradise is as free of crime as they want us to believe.” “Now you’re talking my language.” Buck glanced around quickly. “I suspect irregularities that should be investigated and prosecuted. You’ve worked on the crime beat; you know what I mean. I’m friendly with a few detectives Down Below, and they speak highly of you.” “Do you know Lieutenant Hames?” “Sure do.” Buck chuckled. “He told me about your smart cat. That’s really far-out! I don’t believe a word of it, but he swears it’s true.” “Koko’s smarter than I am, and he’s sitting under your chair right now, so be careful what you say.” “Cats are all right,” Buck said, “but I prefer dogs.” “Getting back to the subject,” Qwilleran went on, “I think the authorities up here want to operate in their own way without any suggestions or embarrassing questions from outsiders.” “Exactly! The locals don’t want any hotshot city-types coming up here and telling them what’s wrong.” “What do you think is wrong?” Buck lowered his voice again and looked over his shoulder twice. “I say there are crimes that are being conveniently overlooked. But I’m working on it – privately. Once a cop, always a cop. Did you ever eat at the FOO? The customers are a mixed bag, and the battleax that runs the joint has larceny in her heart, but it’s hooked up to the best grapevine in the country…. Now, mind you, I’m not going to stick my neck out. I’m at the age when I value every day of my life. I’ve got good digestion, a good woman, and something useful to do. Know what I mean? Only… it would give me a lot of satisfaction to see a certain criminal activity cleaned up. I’m not saying the police are corrupt, but they’re hogtied. Nobody wants to talk.” Qwilleran sat in silence, grooming his moustache with his knuckles as the panorama of his adventure on the Minnie K unreeled before his mind’s eye.
“I had an interesting experience the other day,” he began. “It might support your theory, although I have no actual evidence. How about you?” “I’ve been doing some snooping, and I’m getting there. Something may break very soon.” “Okay. Let me tell you what happened to me. Did you ever hear of a boat called the Minnie K?” The newsman went on to recount the entire fog-bound tale, not missing a single detail.
Buck listened attentively, forgetting to relight his pipe. “Too bad we don’t know the name of the boat where the guys were having the fight.” “It probably docks in the same godforsaken area where we boarded the Minnie K. It was a sleazy part of the shoreline. I haven’t been back there since the fog lifted, so I don’t know how much activity there is in the vicinity.” “I know that area. It’s the slum of the waterfront. Mooseville would like to see it cleaned up, but it’s beyond the village limits. Want to drive out there with me – some day soon?” “Be glad to. I’m having company from Down Below for about a week, but I can work it in.” “Gotta be going,” Buck said. “Thanks for the booze. I’ve gotta get rid of a sinkful of dirty dishes before the old gals get home and give me hell. I’ve got a wife and a sister on my tail all the time. You don’t know how lucky you are.” He looked at the sky. “Storm tonight.” He left the same way he had come, slipping and sliding down the dune to the beach. The leggy girls were returning from their walk, and Buck fell into step behind them, throwing an OK finger-signal to Qwilleran up on the porch.
Koko was still sitting under the chair, very quiet, folded into a compact bundle.
There was something about the visitor that fascinated him. Qwilleran also appreciated this new acquaintance who spoke his language and enjoyed the challenge of detection. They would have a few investigative adventures together.
The day was unusually calm. Voices could be heard from the fishing boats: “Anybody wanna beer?… Nah, it’s time to go in.” There was something portentous about the closeness of the atmosphere. One by one the boats slipped away toward Mooseville. There was a distant rumble on the horizon, Koko started throwing himself at the legs of tables and chairs, while Yum Yum emitted an occasional shriek. By nightfall the storm was overhead. The rain pelted the roof and windows, claps of thunder shook the cabin, and jagged bolts of lightning slashed the night sky and illuminated the lake.
-8-
When the sirens went screaming down the highway, Qwilleran was having his morning coffee and one of Aunt Fanny’s cinnamon buns from the freezer, thawed and heated to pudding consistency in the microwave. Several acres of woods separated the cabin from the main road, but he could identify the sound of two police cars and an ambulance speeding eastward. Another accident! Traffic was getting heavier as the vacation season approached. Vans, recreation vehicles, and boat trailers were turning a country road into a dangerous thoroughfare.
That morning Qwilleran had lost another round in his feud with the fireplace. Why, he asked himself, can a single cigarette butt start a forest fire when I can’t set fire to a newspaper with eleven matches? When he finally managed to ignite the sports section, smoke billowed from the fireplace and flakes of charred newsprint floated about the room before settling on the white linen sofas, the oiled wood floors, and the Indian rugs.
