After the yellow bus had wheeled down the driveway, Qwilleran took the file of crow literature to the lake porch and read it carefully, hoping to find something anything - that would suggest a scenario to Tess’s specifications. He was disappointed. There was nothing that made crows seem glamorous or heroic or inspirational. They had some repulsive feeding habits. They could be nasty to other species or even other crows who happened to be outside their family cooperative. They enjoyed pulling the tails of dogs, sheep, and birds of a different feather. Some of their hobbies bordered on the kinky, like encouraging ants to run through their feathers.
“Please!” he said in repugnance. He thought about the friendly family of seven who visited the beach daily and amused the Siamese. They cawed, and Koko cawed right back. They strutted. They showed off. They seemed to have innocent fun.
Now, in the cold light of research, crows seemed snobbish, antisocial, prejudiced, and nauseous in some relationships. Qwilleran threw the dossier aside and drove into Mooseville to buy red wine and fruit juices for sangria - and to see if Tess had been arrested. He found the yellow bus on the hotel parking lot surrounded by excited tourists. Tess, in her crow T-shirt, stood on the bottom step of the bus and answered questions. A patrol car cruised slowly past the scene.
As he listened to her captivating her audience, Wayne Stacy came up to him. “She’s a friend of yours? She asked permission to park on the lot and said she was visiting you.”
“She’s Wetherby’s cousin from Down Below. She’s here to visit her family in Horseradish.”
“I told her she could park there for an hour. Anything that pleases the tourists is good for business. But after that we have to clear the lot and paint lines on the asphalt for the dogcart event - lanes for racers, you know. We use a temporary kind of marker and then hope it won’t rain tonight and wash it away. A big storm is expected, coming down from Canada, but Wetherby says it isn’t due till Sunday. He appreciates your filling in for him, Qwill, and so do we.”
There was a ripple of applause around the bus as the crowd started to dissolve, and Qwilleran moved away before Tess could see him. According to schedule, it was time for her to go home and start cooking the lamb. He went to Elizabeth’s Magic to inquire about his special order.
“Barb assured me she’ll finish it on time,” Elizabeth said. “And thank you, Qwill, for sending me that delightful Dr. Bunker. She loved everything in my shop and bought several things: goofy socks for her cousin and her cat-sitter, skewers for herself, and a Thai caftan for her grandmother in Horseradish, who’s celebrating her hundredth birthday.”
“Did she talk about crows?”
“Enthusiastically! We discussed the possibilities for crow-oriented souvenirs. I said I would relax my rule against Tshirts and would be willing to sell one like hers if the proceeds went to scientific research.”
“Good for you!”
“Come and see a new item that a friend of yours brought in - Janelle Van Roop.”
“Oh?” What else could he say?
In the craft section there was a display of small stuffed creatures called Kalico Kittens and made of rosebud-patterned cotton. Eight inches long including tail, they were primitive but appealing, having splayed legs, a spike of a tail, and oversized ears. Eyes, whiskers, and tiny mouth were embroidered, not too carefully.
Elizabeth said, “Their lopsided features make them amusing and rather lovable, don’t you think? Dr. Bunker called them contemporary folk art and bought several for gifts.”
“Who makes them?”
“The elderly ladies at Safe Harbor. I’m handling them without commission. It was my idea to give each kitten a name - nothing cute or faddy but traditional and dignified - like Clarence, Martha, Spencer, Agatha, and so on. Why don’t you buy one for the cats?”
He knew they would be quickly vetoed by the Siamese, who ignored velvet mice, rubber frogs, and tinkling plastic balls. They preferred a necktie with a man on the other end… “Okay,” he said, “I’ll take this one. Gertrude.”
Tess would be returning to the cabin to prepare dinner - she knew where to find the key - and Qwilleran intended to stay out of sight lest he be asked to peel potatoes. He sat on the hotel veranda to read Friday’s paper and consider the crow scenario. He was definitely cooling off. The question was: How to break the news to Tess? She was a nice woman - the cousin of a good friend. If he reneged, it should be done with grace: a few ideas, a little advice, a lot of encouragement.
He would conclude the matter after the play. Then she could leave after breakfast, and he could return to Pickax after the dogcart races.
All went well that evening: Qwilleran thought the lamb shank superb; Tess loved the play. Afterward, he served sangria on the lake porch and said, “Tess, your visit has been memorable! I only wish I could work on your project. Unfortunately, I have other commitments. But I can visualize the possibilities - and the problems - and the decisions to be made.”
“I understand,” she said, with less disappointment than he had anticipated. “What kind of decisions do you mean?”
“In regard to the plot: Who or what will provide the conflict? Other species of birds? Other wildlife? Humans? Mechanical equipment? Scarecrows? … First of all, will it be an all-bird cast? I would think not. Crows seem to hang around cow pastures; do they have any relationships with cattle other than scatological? Who are the crows’ friends, and who are their foes?”
Tess asked, “What about dialogue? How “anthropomorphic do we want to get?”
“Well… you might have all the animals in the cast speak in their own voices - with a human voice - over translating their caws and clucks and woofs.”
“What language do you suppose scarecrows, speak?”
Qwilleran said, “That’s one for the language department at your university.” He smoothed his moustache as an idea began to form. “The scarecrow’s job is to protect the crops from the crows - right? Suppose he makes friends with the crows and starts an underground movement in their behalf. His collaboration is discovered, and he’s condemned to death. If he’s made a sympathetic character, this could be a highly emotional situation.”
Tess said, “I’m getting the weeps already.”
They discussed names for the characters. The breeding pair could be Queen Croquette and her consort Prince Chromosome.
“I love it! I love it!” she cried.
“May I refresh your drink, Tess?”
It was a happy corvidologist who took the electric lantern and found her way to the Snuggery. Before saying goodnight, she said, “Do you realize you have thimbleberries behind the tool shed? I could pick some and make thimbleberry pancakes, for breakfast.”
“Splendid idea!” Qwilleran said. “And Grott’s Grocery had some beautiful rib-eye steaks. I bought two, thinking we could have steak au poivre tomorrow night - with skewered potatoes.” Before Qwilleran could react, she said, “Do you realize one of the skewers is missing? There were five.”
-15-
After the thimbleberry pancakes, Tess took the yellow bus to the unsuspecting town of Brrr to propagandize for the Republic of Crowmania. Qwilleran drove to Mooseville for the dogcart races. Traffic was unusually heavy on the lakeshore road. Even before he reached the city limits he saw cars, vans, and pickups parked in farmyards, as well as on both shoulders of the road. Droves of pedestrians were walking toward downtown, where three blocks were blockaded. Only racing units and the cars of officials were admitted. Qwilleran showed his press card and was told to park in the marina lot. He had never seen so many kids in one place: clamoring for attention; shrieking for joy; crying; jumping up and down; getting lost; tussling. Adults, who were in the minority, had tots in arms, toddlers in strollers, and infants in backpacks. Both hotel lots were cleared for official use: one marked as a racetrack, the other serving as a paddock.