Elizabeth said, “Qwill, you should buy one of Barb’s lovely vests for Polly as a welcome-home gift. They’re unique. I’m sure she’d like a white one with sculptured surface texture. When is she due to return ?”
“I pick her up at the airport Monday.”
“Barb could do a custom design for you… Barb! Conference, please!” To Qwilleran she whispered, “She’s not herself today. Something’s wrong. A special order might perk her up.”
He agreed that the flippant, flamboyant ex-balloon-chaser with mischievous eyes was looking subdued.
Elizabeth took charge of the conference. She explained that Qwilleran’s friend was returning from a long vacation on Monday, and he wanted a very special gift for her. She was a woman with excellent taste and would be thrilled with a Barb Ogilvie original. Her size was fourteen. She said, “Why don’t you drop everything, Barb? Go home and start the needles flying. I’ll finish the window for you.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said the knitter, and after some aimless puttering, she left and drove away in her pickup. Qwilleran thought, She’s argued with Alice about smoking… or she’s having man-trouble again… or she’s received an upsetting letter from Florida.
Elizabeth, on the other hand, was elated. “We’ve had some good news,” she said. “Ernie called this morning and asked Derek to take her some recipe books from the RV parked behind the restaurant. She wants to open next Tuesday - with a whole new menu, except that skewered potatoes will still be featured at lunchtime. Why don’t you buy some skewers, Qwill? I know you don’t cook, but Polly will enjoy using them when she comes up on weekends, and they’re decorative when hung on the kitchen wall. They’re handmade, you know, by Mike Zander, who did your copper sailboat. I suggest a group of five for the best effect. The fingergrips have five motifs: fish, bird, shell, boat, and tree, designed to hang on brads.”
Qwilleran was fascinated by his protégée’s transformation from a shy, bewildered young woman to a forceful and successful businesswoman - and a weaver of spells when it came to selling merchandise.
“Whatever you say,” he agreed. “But I’ve just finished the complicated task of buying two nails at Huggins Hardware and borrowing a hammer. I don’t know how they’ll feel about selling five brads.”
“You’re a dear, Qwill,” she said. “I’ll give you five, and you can borrow one of Derek’s hammers.”
Qwilleran went to the crooked door and saw Derek ripping out the hairdresser’s plumbing fixtures. “You have an abundance of skills, young man.”
“Hi, Mr. Q! Come in and grab a pipe wrench.”
“No, thanks. I prefer to cheer from the sidelines.”
“I’m trying to finish this job for Liz before the restaurant opens Tuesday. Some people will say it’s too soon, but Ernie says people will rally around while the tragedy is fresh in their minds. If you delay, they cool off.”
“Frankly, I’m glad to have you back in business. Save me a table for two Tuesday night… . How much more work do you have to do here?”
“Me? Just paint the pink walls in a kind of nothing color. The tile will be covered with carpet. The shelves are on order. The books have been shipped from Chicago. Liz inherited them from her dad, you know.” Derek put down his wrench and approached Qwilleran in a confidential manner. “Ernie needs some cash flow. That’s why we’re opening next week, and she wants to sell the boat. I wish you’d have a look at it. Maybe you know somebody interested in a good cash deal.”
“Where is the boat?”
“Near the marina office, with a for sale sign in the windshield. It’s the Suncatcher.”
“Suncatcher?” Qwilleran stroked his moustache with sudden interest.
“Yeah. You’d think Owen would call it Bottoms Up!”
Clutching his package of skewers and one of Derek’s hammers, Qwilleran walked briskly to the marina, and there was the Suncatcher, gleaming white in the sun. Whether it was the one that had trafficked with Fast Mama was hard to tell. All cabin cruisers looked alike to a confirmed landlubber, and the name was a common one. Its pristine whiteness was marred only by a faint stain on the deck - very faint - about the size of a spilled glass of red wine. One of the white waterproof seat cushions appeared to be missing, and an eagle eye could detect a few tiny spots on the transom. Otherwise it seemed to be shipshape.
What interested Qwilleran was: Whether or not it had been involved with Fast Mama, and why. He also wondered about the speedboat’s home port. He had a sudden impulse to drive to the resort town of Brrr, several miles to the east.
Brrr was the coldest spot in the county in winter and the breeziest in summer. Built on a promontory with an excellent harbor, it had the famous Hotel Booze on its summit, a historic landmark for boaters and fishermen. Now the hotel was owned by Gary Pratt, whose Black Bear Café served the county’s best burger.
Gary was behind the bar when Qwilleran slid cautiously onto a rickety barstool. The shabbiness of the cafe was one of its attractions. Another was the mounted black bear at the entrance. Still another was the owner himself, whose shaggy hairiness and shambling gait gave him an ursine persona.
Is it too late to get a bearburger?” Qwilleran asked him.
“Never too late for you, Qwill, even if I have to grill it myself. And while you’re waiting, how about a slug of that poison you drink?”
As Gary disappeared into the kitchen and Qwilleran poured a bottle of Squunk water into a glass of ice cubes, a man on a nearby bars tool said, “Good stuff you’re drinkin’, mister. Been drinkin’ it all my life.”
“Seems to agree with you,” Qwilleran said. The other customer, though white-haired and wrinkled, spoke briskly and sat with a straight spine.
“Yep. Just had my ninetieth birthday.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?” Qwilleran said jovially.
The advocate of Squunk water moved closer and flashed his driver’s license for proof. “I was ten years old when my grandpaw discovered the stuff you’re drinkin’.”
Qwilleran sensed another story for Short & Tall Tales. “Mind if I tape this conversation? I’m Jim Qwilleran with the Moose County Something.”
A bony hand shot forward. “Haley Babcock. Land surveyor, retired.”
They shook hands - the man had a firm grip - and the recorder was placed on the
bar between them. “Where did Squunk water get its name, Mr. Babcock?”
“Well, now… my grandpaw’s farm was rocky pastureland, good for sheep and goats, but not a tree or shrub in sight! Grandmaw always wished she had a nice shady porch for sittin’ and knittin’. One day Grandpaw came home from livestock market with some green twigs wrapped in wet paper. He’d paid a Canadian feller a dollar for ‘em - big money in those days. It was called Squunkberry vine and supposed to be fast-growin’ and healthy for livestock.”
Gary brought the bearburger and said, “Glad you guys got together. Haley’s got a good yarn for your book, Qwill.”
“Did the green twigs do the trick?” Qwilleran asked.
“Yep. They grew a foot overnight! With big green leaves! In two weeks the vine covered the whole porch and started creepin’ over the roof. Grandpaw cut it back, but the dang stuff crept across the yard, over the dog kennels, over the outhouse, over the fences. The whole family had to fight it every day with axes. Couldn’t stop it!”
“Sounds like a Hitchcock movie,” Qwilleran said. “How about the livestock? Couldn’t they help keep it under control?”
“That’s the joke! They wouldn’t touch it! You’d think it was poison. Come winter, it died down, and Grandpaw hoped the snow and ice would freeze it out. No luck! In spring, it started up again. There was a big ditch out in front, and it filled the whole ditch. Then one day Grandpaw thought he heard bubblin’ and gurglin’ in the ditch. He put a pipe down and pumped up good clean water! The folks at the county tested it, and it was full of healthy minerals. Neighbors came from all over with jugs to fill up … free.”