As Qwilleran set out for a North Middle Hummock that didn’t exist and a Black CreekLane that was called something else, he marveled at the information programmed in the heads of Moose County natives for instant retrieval. If Mr. O’Dell could recite the directions in such detail, Senior Goodwinter, who had driven the tortuous route every day, would know every jog in the road, every pothole, every patch of loose gravel. It was not likely that Senior had wrecked his car accidentally.
Qwilleran heard no whistling or moaning at the Buckshot Mine, but the old plank bridge did indeed rattle ominously. Although the parapets were built of stone, the roadbed was a loose strip of lateral planks. The “hanging tree” was well named — an ancient gnarled oak making a grotesque silhouette against the sky. Everything else checked out: the church, the rubble, the white fence, the sheep meadow.
The farmhouse at the end of Black CreekLane was a rambling structure of weathered gray shingles, set in a yard covered with the gold and red leaves of maples. Clumps of chrysanthemums were still blooming stubbornly around the doorstep.
Qwilleran lifted a brass door knocker shaped like the Greek letter pi and let it drop on the yellow door. He had taken the risk of dropping in without an appointment, country style, and when the door opened he was greeted without surprise by a pleasant young woman in a western shirt.
“I’m Jim Qwilleran,” he said. “I couldn’t attend the funeral, but I’ve brought some flowers for Mrs. Goodwinter.”
“I know you!” she exclaimed. “I sued to see your picture in the Daily Fluxion before I moved to Montana. Come right in!” She turned and shouted up the staircase. “Mother! You’ve got company!”
The woman who came down the stairs was no distraught widow with eyes red from weeping and sleeplessness; she was a hearty type in a red warm-up suit, with eyes sparkling and cheeks pink as if she had just come in from jogging.
“Mr. Qwilleran!” she cried with outstretched hand. “How good of you to drop in! We’ve all read your column in the Fluxion, and we’re so glad you’re living up here.”
He presented the flowers. “With my compliments and sympathy, Mrs. Goodwinter.”
“Please call me Gritty. Everyone does,” she said. “And thank you for your kindness. Roses! I love roses! Let’s go into the keeping room. Every other place is torn up for inventory ... Pug, honey, put these lovely flowers in a vase, will you? That’s a dear.”
The hundred-year-old farmhouse had many small rooms with wide floorboards and six-over-six windows with some of the original wavy glass. The mismatched furnishings were obviously family heirlooms, but the interior was self-consciously coordinated: blue-and-white tiles, blue-and-white calico curtains, and blue-white china on the plate rail. Antique cooking utensils hung in and around the large fireplace.
Gritty, said, “We’ve been hoping you would join the country club, Mr. Qwilleran.”
“I haven’t done any joining,” he said, “because I‘m concentrating on writing a book.”
“Not about Pickax, I hope,” the widow said with a laugh. “It would be banned in Boston ...Pug, honey, bring us a drink, will you? ... What will you have, Mr. Qwilleran?”
“Ginger ale, club soda, anything like that. And everyone calls me Qwill.”
“How about a Coke with a little rum?” She was tempting him with sidelong glance. “Live it up, Qwill!”
“Thanks, but I’ve been on the wagon for several years.”
“Well, you’re doing something right! You look wonderfully healthy.” She appraised him from head to foot. “Are you happy in Moose County?”
“I’m getting used to it — the fresh air, the relaxed lifestyle, the friendly people,” he said. “It must be a comfort to you, during this sad time, to have so many friends and relatives.”
“The relatives you can have!” she said airily. “But, yes — I am fortunate to have good friends.”
Her daughter brought a tray of beverages, and Qwilleran raised his glass. “With hope for the future!”
“You’re so right!” said his hostess, flourishing a double old-fashioned. “Would you stay for lunch, Qwill? I’ve made a ham-and-spinach quiche with funeral leftovers. Pug, honey, see if it’s ready to come out of the oven. Stick a knife in it.”
The visit was not what Qwilleran had anticipated. He was required to shift abruptly from condolence to social chitchat. “You have a beautiful house,” he remarked.
“It may look good,” Gritty said, “but it’s a pain in the you-know-what. I’m tired of floors that slope and doors that creak and septic tanks that back up and stairs with narrow treads. God! They must have had small feet in the old days. And small bottoms! Look at those Windsor chairs! I’m selling the house and moving to an apartment in Indian Village — near the golf course, you know.”
Pug said, “Mother is a champion golfer. She wins all the tournaments.”
“What will you do with your antiques when you move?” Qwilleran asked innocently.
“Sell them at auction. Do you like auctions? They’re the major pastime in Moose County — next it potluck suppers and messing around.”
:Oh, Mother!” Pug remonstrated. She turned to Qwilleran. “That big rolltop desk belonged to my great-grandfather. He founded the Picayune.”
“It looks like a rolltop coffin,” her mother said. “I’ve been doomed to live with antiques all my life. Never liked them. Crazy, isn’t it?”
Lunch was served at a pine table in the kitchen, and the quiche arrived on blue-and-white plates.
Gritty said, “I hope this is the last meal I ever eat on blue china. It makes food look yukky, but the whole set was handed down in my husband’s family — hundreds of pieces that refuse to break.”
“I was appalled,” Qwilleran said, “when the Picayune offices burned down. I was hoping the paper would continue to publish under Junior’s direction.”
“Poo on the Picayune,” said Gritty. “They should have pulled the plug thirty years ago.”
“But it’s unique in the annals of journalism. Junior could have carried on the tradition, even if they printed the paper by modern methods.”
“No,” she said. “That boy will marry his midget, and they’ll both leave Pickax and go Down Below to get jobs. Probably in a sideshow,” she added with a laughter. “Junior is the runt of the litter.”
“Oh, Mother, don’t say such things,” Pug protested. To Qwilleran she said, “Mother is the humorist in the family.”
“It hides my broken heart,” the widow said with a debonair shrug.
“What will happen to the Picayune building now? Were they able to salvage anything?”
“It’s all gone,” she said without apparent regret. “The building is gutted, but the stone walls are okay. They’re two feet thick. It would make a good minimall with six or eight shops, but we’ll have to wait and see what we collect on insurance.”
Throughout the visit thoughts were racing through Qwilleran’s mind: Everything was being done too fast; it all seemed beautifully planned. As for the widow, either she was braving it out or she was utterly heartless. “Gritty” affected him les like a courageous woman and more like the sand in the spinach quiche.
Returning home, he telephoned Dr. Zoller’s dental clinic and spoke with the young receptionist who had such dazzlingly capped teeth.
“This is Jim Qwilleran, Pam. Could I get an appointment this afternoon to have my teeth cleaned?”
“One moment. Let me find your card ... You were here in July, Mr. Q. You’re not due until January.”
“This is an a emergency. I’ve been drinking a lot of tea.”
“Oh ... Well, in that case you’re in luck. Jody just and cancellation. Can you come right over?”