Qwilleran had first met her on Breakfast Island, where she was unhappy and unfocused after the death of her father. In moving to Moose County she had found her niche, and it was a pleasure to see her live up to her potential.
Her boutique, though invitingly rustic, was not truly in tune with the campers, boaters, and fishermen who vacationed in the area. It was Saturday afternoon, however, and several of them were browsing in the shop when Qwilleran entered. There were no souvenir mugs, plastic seagulls, or raunchy bumper stickers, but there was a “rainy day corner” with paperback books, indoor games, toys, and jigsaw puzzles. Otherwise the stock represented Elizabeth’s own taste: a case of antique jewelry and other curios; exotic hats, vests, caftans and tunics from other continents; and a table of tarot cards, horoscopes, booklets on numerology and handwriting analysis, rune stones, and aromatherapy oils.
Elizabeth was talking with animation to a trio of bemused hikers when she spotted Qwilleran. She excused herself and beckoned him to the rear of the shop. In a desperate whisper she said, “It’s too late, Qwill! He’s taken the job!”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said, “but bear in mind that he’s intelligent and six feet eight and will be able to handle any situation that arises.”
“That’s not what I worry about. He’ll come home with his clothing reeking of cigarette smoke and stale beer!”
“Does anyone know why the previous manager left?” “His wife got a job Down Below, closer to her parents, who are elderly.”
“I see.”
“Another thing that bothers me, Qwilclass="underline" the bartender had been promised the manager’s job, and Derek expects some hostility in that quarter.”
“I see.” She said with a sigh, “It’s such a disappointment. I have some capital to invest, and I’ve dreamed of backing Derek in an upscale dining club as soon as he finishes school. But now he’ll have to cut back on classes-and for what good reason? A barbecue is no background for running a fine restaurant.”
Qwilleran was genuinely sympathetic and searched for some comforting words. “I applaud your ambition, Elizabeth. Don’t give up; this detour could be shorter than you think. Sometimes a setback can lead to an unexpected leap ahead. Remember: if you hadn’t been bitten by that snake at Breakfast Island, you wouldn’t be here today. You’re good for Derek, and everything will work out well, I’m convinced. Think positive thoughts.”
He said to himself, Here I go again with platitudes - playing kindly uncle to distressed youth. It was a role he avoided, yet his willingness to listen and the concerned look in his brooding eyes inevitably involved him.
To cheer her up he said, “You have some unusually interesting things in your shop. How’s business?”
“Weekends I draw mostly the browsers, but that’s all right. Traffic is important. My best customers come during the week - Chicagoans vacationing at the Grand Island Club. They come over here in their yachts, have a drink at the Shipwreck Tavern, and lunch at the Nasty Pasty. They think it’s all so quaint! Then they come in here and tell me about it and spend some money. I’ve sold quite a few pieces of jewelry that belonged to my paternal grandmother and great-grandmother. And I had two sterling silver cigarette cases that I sold to a collector of old silver… The checker set is unusual. The board is inlaid ebony and teak; the red men are cinnabar and the black men are jet. It’s a conversation piece, even if you don’t play. Does Koko play checkers? I remember he played dominoes on the island.”
“And he played a mean game of Scrabble Down Below… Let me think… I’m getting an idea. I have an eighteenth-century English tavern table that’s just standing around with nothing on it. It’s important enough to demand something of equal status on its surface. At least, that’s what my designer says. I’ll take it!”
“I’m happy to see it going to you, Qwill. I just want it to have a good home. It belonged to one of my ancestors, a railroad magnate, who saved it from the great Chicago fire in 1871.”
“Elizabeth, I don’t question your veracity,” Qwilleran said, “but you sound exactly like a hard-core antique dealer.”
“It’s true! And it comes in its own leather case. I’ll put it together for you.”
When the transaction was completed and Qwilleran was leaving the shop, he said, “Seriously, Elizabeth, if Derek is going to sidetrack his career to work for Mr. Ramsbottom, I think he should have some sort of agreement in writing. Who’s your attorney?”
“He’s in Chicago.”
“Do you know him well enough to phone him and ask for some informal advice?” He smoothed his moustache as he spoke.
“He’s my godfather.”
“Then do it!”
She snatched a yo-yo from the toy display. “Take this to the kitties-with my compliments.”
On the way home Qwilleran wondered about the viper - or was it a serpent? - who had ruined Duff Campbell’s family and was now about to be Derek’s employer. How this ruin had been accomplished was a tantalizing question, and unanswered questions bothered Qwilleran more than hunger, thirst, or deerflies. Any inquiry had to be handled with circumspection. In no way did he want to be associated with such a nosey search. He was too prominent a figure in the community, and anything he did or said was bandied about with glee.
Amanda Goodwinter might know the answer. She was a politician herself and a foe of Chester Ramsbottom for some unexplained reason. She was city; he was county.
Or Fran Brodie, the police chiefs daughter, could be approached in strict confidence… but she was still on vacation.
Or Brodie himself might talk if invited over for a nightcap.
Or Polly could sound out her assistant, who was an encyclopedia of local secrets.
Or Lisa Compton would definitely know. Her maiden name was Campbell, but would she talk? Celia Robinson could get her to talk. They both worked at the Senior Care Facility - Celia as a volunteer - and they were good friends. Furthermore, Celia liked undercover assignments. Celia was the solution.
Arriving at the barn, Qwilleran found Yum Yum rifling wastebaskets and Koko watching crows through the foyer window.
“Treat!” he announced, and the two responded at once, racing to the kitchen and colliding broadside.
After they had crunched their Kabibbles, he produced Elizabeth’s yo-yo and bounced it up and down for their amusement, saying, “A friend of yours sent this to you. Jump for it!” They followed the rise and fall of his hand with dreamy inattention, sitting side by side on their briskets. They were only mildly curious about this latest eccentricity of the person who provided their bed and board.
“Come on! Let’s play! Jump! Oompah! Oompah!”
They looked at each other as if questioning his sanity. “Cats!” he muttered and threw the yo-yo into the wastebasket.
It was Saturday; Polly would have had her first session with the portrait artist, wearing her blue silk dress, sitting in a highback Windsor in front of leather-bound books inherited from the family of her late husband, and holding a volume of Hamlet. Even before the picture was painted, Qwilleran could see it in his mind’s eye, and he was eager to hear the details of its making.
Meanwhile, a phone call from Celia Robinson demanded his attention. “Are you there?” she asked.
“No, I’m only a reasonable facsimile of the person you called.”
Her shrill laughter made him move the receiver away from his ear. “I have some things for you, Chief. Okay if I bring them down there now?”
“Please do, and I hope you can stay for a glass of fruit juice.”
The Siamese knew she was driving through the evergreen woods long before the little red car appeared.
Qwilleran went out to meet her. “Look in the backseat,” she said. “It’s my brother-in-law’s picture, and I’ve got some things for your freezer. Are you going to show me the picture? … Or is it something you think I shouldn’t see,” she added slyly.