The newcomer, dubious about Qwilleran’s seriousness, changed the subject. “This is my first experience in a small town. Do you have any advice for me? I mean it! I want to get off on the right foot.”
“The main thing,” Qwilleran began, “is to remember that everyone knows everyone. Never speak ill of someone; you may be talking to his cousin or son-in-law or fellow clubmember. Play it safe by keeping your eyes and ears open and your mouth closed.”
“Great… And one more question. My older brother likes winter sports and wouldn’t mind moving up here. He’s a doctor. He’d open a clinic”
“What kind of doctor?”
“Well, that’s a family joke. My mother was an RN in obstetrics, and she wanted my brother to be an OB, but he chose to go into dermatology because his patients don’t call him up in the middle of the night.”
Qwilleran chuckled. “All kidding aside, we need your brother. The nearest dermatologist is in the next county.”
“Great!… He considers a small town a good place to raise a family away from the muggings, car thefts, and shootings that make city life hairy.”
“Yow!” came a loud comment in a minor key.
Three
Saturday, September 5 ‘Birds of a feather flock together.’
FOR THE FIRST TIME the daily adage on Culvert’s calendar was accidentally apt. In the evening all the prominent birds of Moose County would wear their finest feathers to a charity reception benefiting the cause of literacy. They would be the first to inspect the new Mackintosh Inn and would see their names in the Moose County Something on Monday perhaps even their photos.
For this special occasion Qwilleran dressed in Highland evening attire: a kilt in the Mackintosh tartan, a silver-mounted fur sporran, and a dagger in the cuff of his kilt-hose this with the usual dinner jacket and black tie. Polly wore her white dinner dress with opal jewelry and a shoulder-sash in the Robertson tartan. If asked, she would be pleased to explain that (a) she was a Duncan by marriage and (b) the chief of the Robertson clan had been Duncan of Atholia, a descendent of Celtic earls and kinsman of Robert the Bruce. It amused her to tell them more than they really wanted to know.
They drove to the reception in her sedan, which seemed more compatible with a white dress and opals more suitable than a big brown van. She said, “The mayor will be there. How do you think he’ll react to Amanda’s challenge”
“He’s a cool cucumber. He won’t let on he knows his goose is cooked.”
At the carriage entrance of the inn they were met by a valet crew of MCCC students who parked their car, leaving them to walk across a red carpet between a battery of media cameras.
“Just like a Hollywood premiere,” Qwilleran remarked.
“Not exactly,” she said, glancing at the vintage finery worn by the older guests. These last remaining descendants of the old moneyed families might be aged and infirm but they always turned out in evening attire to support a good cause. The Old Guard, they were affecttionately called. Local wags called them the Mothball Brigade; a faint aroma of PCB hovered around the paisley shawls, sable stoles and outdated dinner jackets that came out of deep storage for the occasion.
The carriage entrance opened into a ground-level lobby with a grand staircase; half a fight up to the main lobby, half a flight down to the ballroom where the champagne was flowing. Like everyone else, Qwilleran and Polly took the descending fight, stopping partway to survey the subterranean hall. It was a scene of glowing chandeliers, huge bouquets of flowers, and hors d’oeuvre tables lighted by candles. Guests stood in clusters, holding champagne glasses. A string trio was playing Viennese waltzes. Servers circulated with trays of champagne and white grape juice.
There were hot and cold hors d’oeuvre tables, and Arch and Mildred Riker were standing at the former, crytiquing the bite-size morsels. She was food editor of the Something; her husband was publisher of the paper. Both had the appearance of being happily well-fed.
Qwilleran said to Arch, “I knew I’d find you feeding at the trough.” They were lifelong friends with a license to banter.
“Don’t worry, I’ve left a few scraps for you.”
Mildred said, “Try these delightful little crabmeat nothings! I must ask the chef his secret.”
“He won’t tell you,” her husband said.
“Oh, yes, he will! I interviewed him yesterday, and we turned out to be soulmates. Read all about it on Thursday’s food page, dear.”
Qwilleran said, “How would you two like to be our guests in the Mackintosh Room next Saturday night? I’ll reserve a table.”
“They’re booked solid,” Arch said. “You’re too late.”
“Want to bet? The manager and I are soulmates.” He spoke confidently, having made the reservation the day before.
He and Arch had been bickering chums since boyhood, and sparring was an ongoing way of expressing their friendship.
“Listen!” Mildred said, “They’re playing The Skater’s Waltz. It always makes me feel young and thin.”
“Nothing ever makes me feel young and thin,” Arch complained.
Eventually the foursome drifted away from the crabmeat souffes, quiche tartlets, smoked trout canapes and goat cheese puffs. They mingled with the other guests; Mayor Blythe, being overly charming.
Amanda Goodwinter, looking dowdy in her thirty-year-old dinner dress. She scowled at the admirers who clustered about her.
Whannell MacWhannell, the tax consultant, a big Scot wearing a kilt.
Don Exbridge, the developer, wearing a plaid cummerbund that was all wrong, Big Mac and Qwilleran agreed.
Fran Brodie, glamorous in a silvery sheath slit to mid-thigh.
Dr. Prelligate, president of MCCC, being overly attentive to Fran.
Carol and Larry Lanspeak, modestly inconspicuous as usual, although they were leading lights in the community.
Polly introduced Qwilleran to members of her library board, and he introduced the innkeeper to Polly.
The young man said, “Lucky I brought my tux! I didn’t think I’d need it 400 miles north of everywhere, but my mother said I might want to get married.”
Polly whispered to Qwilleran, “He won’t have long to wait. He has good looks and personality.”
“And a good job,” Qwilleran mumbled. Suddenly the music stopped, the lights blinked for attention, and a bagpiper swaggered into the hall playing Scotland the Brave, He was Andrew Brodie, the police chief, doing what he liked best.
Then the mayor stepped to the microphone and thanked the Klingenschoen Foundation for revitalizing downtown’s foremost landmark. G. Allen Barter thanked Fran Brodie for her creative input. She thanked the K Fund for supplying the wherewithal so generously. And Barry Morghan thanked his lucky stars for bringing him to Pickax as innkeeper. “You’re invited to tour the facility from bottom to top,” he told the guests, “and continue to enjoy our hospitality here and in Rennie’s coffee shop.” There was a stampede up the stairs to the main lobby.
When Polly saw the portrait, she cried, “Qwill! She’s lovely! So serene! So distinguished! I’m going to call her Lady Anne, after the heroine of the Scottish Rebellion. I must congratulate Paul Skumble!”
The artist, looking like a gnome in his bifurcated beard, was talking to prospective patrons. He had painted Polly’s portrait earlier in the year, and when he saw her he opened his arms wide and said, “Baby, you look like an angel!”