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…