“Did you hear the one about the two bulls in the ”
He was interrupted by the waitperson’s announcement, “You didn’t say if you wanted fries, so I brought you some anyway. What else can I get for you… gentlemen?”
Dutcher asked for red pepper sauce; Qwilleran wanted horseradish.
“Did you hear that?” the agent asked. “She called us gentlemen!”
“They’ve been instructed not to refer to customers as ‘you guys’ any more. How do you react to being called a gentleman?”
“It comes as a shock. Maybe it’ll help me keep my elbows off the table. My wife will approve.”
“How’s the family?”
“All fine, thank you. The boy’s going out for football. The girl enrolled at MCCC. She’s decided she wants to be a large-animal vet, which is funny because she’s such a little thing…. But let me tell you the latest! Becky’s working parttime as housekeeper’s aide at the inn, and she’s the one who found the body Friday morning!”
“That must have been a jolt for a college freshman.”
“You’re right! It doesn’t happen every day!… You see, her instructions were to make up the 301 suite and 301A every morning between seven-thirty and eight-thirty, while the occupants were downstairs at breakfast. As usual she knocked before using her passkey, but the door was chained! She went to the other room and got right in!… We’re not supposed to talk about this, Qwill, but I know it won’t go any further.”
“Don’t worry.”
“First thing, she noticed the assistant’s bed hadn’t been slept in. She opened the connecting door, and there he was lying in bed with a pillow over his head! She backed out, reported to the housekeeper, told the police everything they wanted to know, and kept her cool. But then she went to pieces and had to be driven home.”
“Good for Becky! She performed like a Trojan.”
“Who do you think did it, Qwill?”
“I believe all the suspicion points to someone from Down Below.”
“Yeah,” said the agent. “That’s the consensus at the Diner.”
Before leaving the inn, Qwilleran bought a newspaper in the lobby and sat in the Stickley alcove to peruse it. Alternately he approved of the coverage and huffed into his moustache with adverse reactions. He approved generally of the handling of the Scottish Gathering and Homer Tibbitt’s ninety-eighth birthday, but did they have to continue using a thirty-year-old photo of the old gentleman? And were they overdoing the praise heaped on the gold medal winner? Boze was a naive young man, and it could go to his head. And did they have to use that photo of “two unidentified Scots eating bridles”? Everyone in the county knew the faces of Qwilleran and MacWhannell; it was all too coy. They should have given more space to Andrew Brodie and the pibroch. And why was the lone male dancer overlooked? Even the editorial was too soppy in Qwilleran’s opinion about the youth who lacked family advantages but had persevered to finish school, hone his athletic skills, enroll in college, and take a responsible parttime job…. Still. It was not a columnist’s privilege to edit the paper. Qwilleran went on to read the letters to the editor:
To the Editor Come November, another, election… with voters staying home as usual. Do you know why? Because they’re used to being served refreshments in public places: at meetings and exhibits, in banks and stores, at church and funerals. To get a good turnout on Election day, just advertise: “Vote Tuesday Refreshments Served.” All you need are a few cookies and some weak punch. Herbert Watts.
To the Editor Bixby County wants to build a “gaming” casino to bolster its economy and create jobs. Is that a euphemism for “gambling” or is it true that Bixbyites can’t spell? Whatever, they plan to build it half a block from the county line. Since gambling establishments are prohibited in Moose County, our good folk will beat a path to the “gaming” casino, and it will be Moose County money that bolsters the Bixby economy. Smart thinking, guys! Mitch Campbell.
To the Editor I am a woman 40 years old. I have just learned to read and write. It gives me a wonderful feeling. I hope I will get better jobs now. I always tried to hide my secret. I was afraid to get married because my husband would find out. I want to thank my tutor for being so kind and helpful. (Name withheld.)
Qwilleran’s last scheduled stop for Monday was Ittibittiwassee Estates, where he would pay his annual birthday visit to the county’s most prominent nonagenarian. The development was nowhere near the picturesque river after which it was named. It occupied a ridge between Chipmunk Road and Bloody Creek, neither of which would make an appealing name for a retirement community. The main building was a large four-story structure with a steeply pitched roof that gave the impression of a resort hotel in Switzerland or the Rockies.
Homer Tibbitt and his wife, Rhoda, had moved there in order to have assisted care, when and if necessary. Qwilleran found them on the top floor. Rhoda a sweetfaced, white-haired octogenarian with a hearing aid greeted him warmly. “It wouldn’t be a birthday without a visit from you, Qwill. Homer is waiting for you in his lair.”
A sneeze came from an adjoining room. “Come into my library,” came a reedy, high-pitched voice, “if you’re not allergic to dust!” Scrawny and angular, Homer sat like a potentate in a pile of soft pillows cushioning his bony frame. His face had the furrows and wrinkles of his age, but his spirit was still lively. Now official historian for Moose County, he had been a high school principal and a lifelong bachelor when he retired. Not too long ago he had married a retired teacher ten years his junior.
“He married me because I still had a driver’s license,” she said sweetly.
“She married me because she thought I had a future,” said Homer. “She was a wild thing at eighty-two. I tamed her.”
“Shall we have tea?” she asked with her gentle smile.
When she left the room, Qwilleran set up his tape recorder on the tea table. “Well, Homer, do you have any profound thoughts to share on the occasion of your natal day? Anything fit to print?”
The old man cleared his throat at great length before saying, “Glad you asked. It so happens I came upon my childhood bankbook a few days ago, and it loosed a flood of memories. I was born in the town of Little Hope, but I had the grand hope of becoming rich and having my own horse and saddle. My father could afford to give me spending money ten cents a week and I always took a penny to the general store and bought a week’s supply of candy. The rest went into my cast-iron bank. It was like an apple, with a cork in the bottom, which I removed twice a week in order to count my growing fortune. When I had amassed fifty pennies, I deposited them in my bank account. The teller would write the total in the right-hand column so I could always see my net worth at a glance. Sometimes the bank added a few pennies interest. I was always amazed and overjoyed to get something for nothing.”
“Did you ever save up enough to buy your horse?” Qwilleran asked.
“No, but I bought a two-wheeled bike a dollar down and a dollar a month. I couldn’t believe it when they said I could take it home and ride it before it was paid for! It seemed like incredible largesse on the part of the general store.”
Rhoda had poured the tea and handed him a cup, saying, “Stop talking and drink it while it’s hot.”
“She’s a tyrant about hot tea! Wants me to scald my gums!”
She murmured to Qwilleran, “He forgets to drink it and then complains because it’s cold. I didn’t know about his quaint foibles when I married him.”
“Bosh! You knew everything! You’d been chasing me for years!”
“You didn’t run very fast, dear.”