“Take it easy,” Qwilleran said. “Did Boze say why she wanted ‘the old guy’ killed?”
“She said he was sick… he was dying… he was in pain… it would be kind to help him die.”
“What did you say, Lenny?”
“What could I say? I felt rotten. Poor Boze! Such an easy make! I just told him I had to go home and get some sleep. I said I have an early class tomorrow. So he drove me back to my truck, and I wished him well in Brazil. I think I told him to send me a postcard. I don’t know what I said, Mr. Q. I. was really shook up.”
“You handled it well under the circumstances,” Qwilleran said.
“What do I do now”
“Tell the story to Allen Barter first thing in the morning. He’ll know the proper action to take. It’ll be a hard bullet to bite, but you’re required to report such information or be guilty of complicity.”
Lenny groaned, “I told you I’m jinxed.”
“And I told you not to use that word again! You’re like Lois; you always survive setbacks and come out stronger than ever. I’ll call Bart at home early. Meanwhile, you go up to the guestroom on the second balcony and get some sleep. Would you like a warm drink before you turn in? At the risk of sounding like your mother. I recommend cocoa.”
Eleven
Wednesday, September 16 ‘A cat once bitten by a snake will fear even a rope.’
AT SEVEN AM, QWILLERAN telephoned G. Allen Barter at home and said in a tone of urgency, “Are you aware that the hero of the Highland Games has been AWOL from his job at the inn? The captain of the desk clerks has a disturbing explanation to relate. It has to do with the Delacamp homicide. You need to hear his tale and take proper action at once.”
“I can be in my office by nine o’clock, Qwill.”
“Forget the formalities, Bart. Jump into a sweatsuit and drive to my barn. The witness is here, and the murderer is at large in the woods.”
Qwilleran knocked on Lenny’s door and told him the attorney was on his way. He was not fond of being everybody’s uncle, and yet the rising generation seemed to have cast him in that role, unloading their confidential problems and expecting advice. It was partly because of his standing in the community, partly because of his sympathetic mien and willingness to listen. There was also a journalist’s need to hear everything and hear it first. He fed the cats and watched them devour their breakfast with all the slurping and gobbling and crunching of ordinary felines. Yet, one of them had licked three snapshots the night before. Koko’s raspy tongue had ruined shots of Boze tossing the caber, Boze receiving the gold medal, and Boze riding triumphantly on the shoulders of his teammates. Was it some coincidence? Or was he tuned in to the unknowable? It was not the first time such a mystifying “coincidence” had occurred.
When the attorney arrived, he left him with Lenny and went about his errands. He shopped for Polly’s groceries and put the sacks in the trunk of her car in the library parking lot. He killed some time at Eddington’s bookstore and found a secondhand book on How to Trace Your Family Tree. In mid-moming he dropped in the Dimsdale Diner, where Benny, Doug, Sig, and others in the farming community met to solve the world’s problems and drink the world’s worst coffee. Disparaging it was an ongoing under-the-table joke. “Brewed from the finest quality of motor sludge” and “Produced and distributed by Pottle’s Hog Farm” brought roars of laughter, interrupted only by a bulletin on the radio.
“Police are searching for a local suspect in the Delacamp murder case. No further details have been released at this time.”
“Benny did it,” said Calvin.
“Spencer did it,” said Doug.
Sig suggested it was a police ploy to mislead the real suspect Down Below. “What do you think, Qwill?”
“Time will tell,” Qwilleran said.
Next came the weekly luncheon of the Boosters Club in its new venue, the ballroom of the Mackintosh Inn. It was still a soup-and-salad affair served very fast; most members were shopkeepers, managers, and professionals with no time to waste.
Barter was there, and he drew Qwilleran aside to say, “I took the young man to the prosecutor’s office to tell his story, and we both decided he should leave town for a few days for his own protection. He can go to his aunt in Duluth.”
“How will this be explained to his boss?”
“I had him phone Barry and ask for a week’s leave, saying there had been a death in the family and he was needed to help an elderly relative. This whole situation is troubling.”
Qwilleran agreed. “The truth, when it comes out, will be painful. They’ve made Boze such a hero!”
At the tables the conversation was friendly but brief, geared to fit between bites of food before the presiding officer banged the gavel.
Susan Exbridge, the antiques dealer, sat next to Qwilleran and said, “Darling! It’s been so long!” Since joining the theatre club she had become dramatic in speech and gesture.
“I’ve been in Mooseville,” he said.
“How’s Polly?”
“She’s fine. What’s new in antiques?”
“I’m liquidating a collection of mechanical banks.”
“What are they?”
“Small cast-iron banks for saving coins.”
“Expensive?”
“One is valued at fifty thousand.”
He took a swallow or two before asking. “What do they look like?”
“Some are cute. Some are ugly. Come and see them at my shop.”
BANG! BANG! BANG! The meeting was called to order. The Boosters Club had accepted the responsibility of the Mark Twain Festival, and the various committees were reporting on progress:
About the parade; “The idea is to have characters from Mark Twain stories marching in costume. So far we’ve signed up Soldier Boy, the horse; Aileen, the dog; Tom Quartz, the cat (to be drawn in a wagon); and more than fifty Tom Sawyers. The question arises; How many clones do we want?”
About the lecture series; “We invited a well-known Mark Twain expert in California, but he’s lukewarm. He says he never heard of Pickax and can’t find it on the map. Also, his fee is quite high. Question; Should we reconsider? Someone like Jim Qwilleran could probably give the lectures, if he did a little research.”
Shouts of “Hear! Hear!”
About the dedication of Mark Twain Boulevard; “We thought to honor the author by naming a historically important, architecturally attractive street after him, but the forty-seven property owners on Pleasant Street are protesting violently to any name change. There was a near-riot at city council meeting last week. We can’t name some grubby little backstreet after him, can we? The committee would welcome input.”
About the proposed Mark Twain Suite at the Mackintosh Inn; “Well, you all know what happened in the suite a few days ago, virtually under the portrait of the Great Man. The management of the inn deems it inappropriate to draw attention to the presidential suite at this time probably next year.”
About lapel buttons to be sold at the festival; “Unfortunately our fifteen thousand polar bear lapel buttons couldn’t be used when the ice festival melted down. We proposed having them reworked with Mark Twain’s portrait, but the cost of reworking would be higher than starting from scratch. The committee would welcome ideas for using the polar bear buttons.”
A husky man raised a hand and requested the door.
“The chair recognizes Wetherby Goode.”
The WPKX meteorologist said, “As the messenger who brings bad news, I expect to be shot… but it’s my duty to report that the long-range forecast for October gives thumbs-down to picnics, soccer games, parades, and outdoor festivals. We all remember the freak thaw last February. Everything points to freak weather in October; blizzards, sleet storms, sub-zero temperatures, high winds, and several feet of snow. Need I say more?”