Qwilleran interrupted the comedy routine that the happy couple repeated on every visit. “I suppose there was no income tax in those days.”
“Not until I had my first teaching assignment. It was in a one-room schoolhouse with a pot-bellied stove. I didn’t earn much money, and at the end of the year the government took four dollars away from me. For income tax, they said. I thought I’d been robbed! Now all you hear from Washington is: seventy million… twelve billion… six trillion! Sounds like the old Kingfish character on the radio. You don’t remember him. You’re too young.”
Qwilleran said, “Homer, you should start writing your autobiography.”
“There’s plenty of time for that,” the old man said testily. “I intend to live until that villain in the mayor’s office is thrown out on his ear!”
“Then you’ll live forever, dear,” said Rhoda, explaining to Qwilleran, “Mr. Blythe is automatically reelected every term because his mother was a Goodwinter.” Between sips of tea she was snipping a scrap of black paper with tiny scissors.
“May I ask what you’re doing?” Qwilleran asked.
“Cutting a silhouette of you. My grandmother taught me how. It was a popular art in Victorian days. She had a silhouette signed by Edouarte that would be quite valuable today, and she promised to leave it to me, but my cousin in Ohio got it.”
“Rhoda and her rascally relatives!” Homer complained. “They’re driving me to an early grave!”
Qwilleran said, “I have no relatives at all, and I’d gladly settle for a couple of rascals.”
“Take some of Rhoda’s, Qwill! Take her two cousins in Ohio.”
She said, “But… the Aunt Fanny you inherited from…”
“She was my mother’s best friend not my real aunt.”
“And how is dear Polly? I haven’t seen her since we moved out here. I used to drive Homer to the library every day, and I always had a little chat with Polly.”
“Do you find it stimulating enough living out here?”
“Oh, yes! We have book clubs and discussion groups and lectures. Last week we had a speaker from the Literacy Council. Do you know it’s easier to teach adults how to read than to teach children? Adults have developed certain skills and talents and are more realistic.”
Homer was showing sings of drowsiness, and Qwilleran thought it was time to leave. Rhoda gave him his silhouette in an envelope, saying, “Put this in a little frame and give it to Polly. She’ll want to put it on her desk at the library. Your head has very good lines.”
As soon as he reached the parking lot he opened the envelope. The silhouette was hardly larger than a postage stamp, yet it was a recognizable likeness. The moustache protruded more than he thought it should. Perhaps it needed trimming. The head was a little flat on top, but generally he agreed that the lines of his head were good. On the way home he stopped at Lanspeak’s and bought a small frame in the gift shop.
In the the early evening, as Qwilleran was preparing the cats’ dinner, Koko muttered a small growl and jumped to the counter to peer out the window. In a minute or two a small red car came out of the woods Celia Robinson’s car. Yet he always welcomed her with anticipation, not growls.
Going out to meet the vehicle, Qwilleran saw a strange woman at the wheel. She rolled the driver’s window down and said, “Mr. Qwilleran? Celia Robinson wanted me to deliver some things. She’s very busy.” She handed over the three cartons that were on the passenger seat.
“That was thoughtful of her. Are you her new assistant?”
“Yes sir.” He summed her up as healthy-looking but plain, with glasses and with hair drawn tightly back.
“And what is your name?” he asked pleasantly.
“Nora, sir.”
“Thank you, Nora… Follow the driveway around the big tree, and you’ll be headed back to Main Street.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
As soon as the cartons were in the refrigerator Qwilleran phoned Celia and told her how much he appreciated the food delivery.
“I’m working on a big luncheon for tomorrow and thought you wouldn’t mind if I sent Nora. What did you think of her?”
“What can I say? She seems to be neat and clean and polite.”
“Yes, she has nice manners,” Celia said. “She worked for the Sprenkles for years as a housemaid and also helped the cook. She’s the student I tutored.”
“Is she the one whose letter ran in today’s paper?”
“Did they print it? She’ll be thrilled!”
“Did you help her with it, Celia?”
“Only with punctuation and the spelling of a couple of words. Did you open the cartons? The tuna salad is for sandwiches. The bread pudding is laced with chocolate sauce. And I made you a lovely ham loaf.”
“What’s the difference between a lovely ham loaf and an unlovely one?”
Her shrill laugh pierced his left ear, and he scowled at the receiver.
“Go back to your chicken a la king,” he said.
When she went back to her kitchen and he went to stock the refrigerator, his mind was not on ham loaf or bread pudding. He was thinking, How did that cat know it was not Celia driving Celia’s car?
Ten
Tuesday, September 15 ‘A carriage without a horse goes nowhere.’
FOR THE MORNING READING session Koko selected ‘Oedipus Rex’ again, and his choice was vetoed for the third time. Qwilleran thought, It’s more than fish glue in the old binding that attracts him. There might be a hundred-dollar bill leafed between the pages, or a love letter, or the deed to a gold mine. (A brief Gold Rush had been part of Moose County’s history.) Riffling through the pages he found nothing not even a coffee stain or smear of chocolate, confirming his guess that the book had never been read. So the Sophocles volume went back on the shelf, and Qwilleran read from Mark Twain’s autobiography the part about the two tomcats fighting on the roof.
Later he went downtown to buy supplies for the evening’s cocktail party. He was inviting Barry Morghan to meet some of the town’s movers and shakers. Barry had met Polly on Labor Day. Now he would meet Hixie Rice, promotion director for the Something; Dwight Somers, local public relations counsel; and Maggie Sprenkle, who had connections with all the old moneyed families. After cocktails the guests would be taken to dinner at the Old Stone Mill the best restaurant in the county until the Mackintosh Room opened.
At the Sip ‘n’ Nibble Shop Qwilleran purchased champagne (the best label) and mixed nuts (the luxury blend, with plenty of pecans and Brazil nuts). Thoughtfully he bought half a pound of almonds for Polly and anyone else on a diet. Jack Nibble and Joe Sipp were both in the store, talkative as usual. Longtime partners, they had the habit of completing each other’s thoughts. They said:
“Didn’t know Pickax could be so exciting!”
“New hotel, gold medal winner, and murder ”
“All in one week.”
“The guy they killed came in here once ”
“Looking to buy rum ”
“Ticked off because we handle only wine.”
“Bought some luxury mix, though.”
“His assistant, or whatever, tagged along after him, demurely.”
“His kind likes that kind.”
While Qwilleran was downtown, Pat O’Dell’s janitorial service gave the barn what they called a fluff-up: quick tidying, superficial dusting, and vaccuuming here and there.
To stay out of their way, Qwilleran killed an hour at Lois’s Luncheonette, having a slice of apple pie and reading the Tuesday Something. Lenny, he expected, would barge in after classes, howling for coffee and pie. Instead, the young man slouched into the lunchroom and went directly to the kitchen for quiet words with his mother. When he emerged with a plate and a mug, Qwilleran hailed him. “Anything wrong, Lenny?”