Polly said, "I'm transferring my medical records to Dr. Diane. I didn't like the man who replaced Dr. Melinda."
The train was rolling along at a comfortable excursion clip through typical Moose County landscape: fields of potatoes and pastures dotted with boulders and sheep.
The waiters kept pouring champagne, and Qwilleran produced a bag of snacks to accompany the drinks. "I'd like you to taste these," he said. "A friend of mine made them."
"Who?" Polly asked too quickly.
"A woman I know in Florida." He was purposely taunting her with incomplete information.
"They're very good," Riker said. "I'll have another handful."
"They're rather salty," Polly murmured.
Mildred, who wrote the food column for the newspaper, said they were actually croutons toasted with parmesan cheese, garlic salt, red pepper, and Worcestershire sauce. Qwilleran said, "Koko and Yum Yum think they're the cat's meow."
The food expert nodded. "They detect the anchovy in the Worcestershire."
In a far corner of the car, out of the path of the bustling waiters, a white- haired accordionist was playing show tunes with the blank demeanor of one who has played the same repertoire at thousands of banquets.
Polly said, "His lack of passion is refreshing. We attended a Mozart concert in Lockmaster where the string ensemble was so passionate, they almost fell off their chairs."
"I watched their antics," Qwilleran said, "and forgot to listen to the music."
"It's the same way in art," Mildred declared. "The artist is becoming more important than the art. I blame the media."
"We get blamed for everything," Riker said. They discussed the curriculum at the Moose County Community College: No music. No art. Plenty of English, accounting, data processing, office systems, and business management. Introductory courses in psychology, economics, history, sociology, etc. No cosmetology. No real estate. No tennis.
Polly said, "They're making giant strides with the remodeling of the campus. The administration offices are staffed and operating, and I introduced myself to the president. Dr. Prelligate is a very interesting man."
"In what way?" Qwilleran asked bluntly. "He combines a solid academic background with a most congenial personality. He's from Virginia and has that ingratiating Southern charm."
"I adore Southern men," Mildred said girlishly. "Is he married?"
"I don't believe so."
"But you are!" Riker informed his wife. Polly had more to report. "Dr. Prelligate's staff has been feeding a dirty orange-and-white stray who looks exactly like Oh Jay. I phoned the Wilmots and learned that Oh Jay disappeared last November, right after they moved from Goodwinter Boulevard."
Riker said, "That's called 'psi trailing.' He's been on the road nine months, panhandling and living off the land! That's a fifteen-mile hike!"
"Well, the Wilmots said he can stay on campus," Polly said in conclusion, "and he's going to be the college mascot."
"And the school colors," Qwilleran guessed, "will be orange and dirty white."
The soup course was served: jellied beef consomm‚. It was rather salty, according to Polly. The Chateaubriand was an excellent cut of beef, and everyone agreed that neither the meat nor the chef could have come from Mudville.
Meanwhile, the cars rolled gently from side to side, the whistle blew at grade crossings, and the conversation in the dining room was animated. Eventually the landscape became craggy, and there were dramatic views never seen from the highway. The tracks ran through the town of Wildcat, then down a steep grade to the Black Creek gorge, and across a high bridge. Now they were in Lockmaster County with its rolling hills and lush woods. By the time the cheesecake and coffee had been served, the train pulled into Flapjack, an early lumbercamp converted into a public recreation park.
The TV crew from Minneapolis was waiting. They wanted to video the train owner with his handsome companion on the observation platform of the private car, but Trevelyan vetoed that. He preferred to put on a striped railroad cap and lean out of the engineer's cab. In addition, there were sound bites of the Chicago heiress in her souffl‚ of a hat and Whannell MacWhannel1 in his kilt, each describing the thrill of riding behind old No.9.
Polly told the portly Scot that he cut a magnificent figure in his tartan, and she wished Qwilleran would buy a kilt.
"Your man has the right build," Big Mac assured her, "and his mother was a Mackintosh, so he's entitled."
Riker explained with the authority of an old friend, "It's the idea of wearing a skirt that bugs Qwill, and you'll never convince him otherwise."
Qwilleran was relieved when Dwight Somers put an end to the kilt claptrap by inviting them to see the private railcar. "The corporate jet of its day!" he said.
No one was prepared for its splendor: the richly upholstered wing chairs in the lounge, the dining table inlaid with exotic woods, the bedrooms with brass beds and marble lavatories. All of the woodwork was carved walnut, and the window transoms and light fixtures were Tiffany glass.
Dwight said, "The Lumbertown Party Train would be" great for a wedding. Have the ceremony in the club car and the reception in the diner en route to Flapjack. Then uncouple the private car and leave the newlyweds on a siding for a week, with access to the golf course, riding stables, hiking trails, and so forth. At the end of the week the train returns with the wedding guests whooping it up in the club car, and they all huff- puff-puff back to Moose County and live happily ever after.... You should keep it in mind, Qwill," he added slyly.
Ignoring the remark, Qwilleran asked with mock innocence, "Is the woman with Floyd his bookkeeping daughter?"
"No, that's his knee-crossing secretary," Dwight said with a polite leer. "He met her in Texas while he was shopping for rolling stock."
"Was she a cheerleader?"
"Something like that" was the cryptic reply. The brass bell of No.9 clanged, and the commanding voice of the conductor swept the passengers back on board. As the train chugged north, waiters handed out souvenir whistles - long wooden tubes that duplicated the shrill scream of a steam locomotive. For a while the dining car reverberated with ear-splitting noise. Then the accordionist started playing requests. Mildred asked for "The Second Time Around." Qwilleran requested "Time After Time" for Polly. She might not know the lyrics, but the melody was unmistakably affectionate.
By the time the train rumbled through the outskirts of Pickax, the excitement was winding down, and conversation reverted to the usuaclass="underline" " Are you going to the boat races?... Have you tried the new restaurant in Mooseville?... How are your cats, Qwill?"
"After a lifetime of sharing a dinner plate with Koko," he replied, "Yum Yum suddenly demands separate dishes. I don't know what's going on in that little head."
Mildred said, "She's had her catsciousness raised." Qwilleran groaned, Polly shuddered, and Arch said, "There are good puns and bad puns, and that's the worst I've ever heard.... Conductor! Throw this lady off the train!"
Then he asked Polly about her house. "They're supposed to pour the concrete this week. Once the trenches are dug for the footings, they don't lose any time because a rainstorm could cause an earthslide. It's all so exciting! I've always lived in small, rented units, but now I'll have a guestroom and family room and two-car garage."
"Who's your builder?"
"The name on the contract is Edward P. Trevelyan. He's a big shaggy fellow with a full beard and a mop of black hair, and his grammar is atrocious! Incidentally, his father owns this train."