When Qwilleran returned for dinner at six-thirty, Brutus rubbed against his ankles; Catta squealed and hopped about. They knew he had a treat in his pocket.
Polly’s harried voice came from the kitchen. “Qwill, I’m running a little late. Would you be good enough to feed the cats? Open a can of the Special Diet for him and the salmon in cream gravy for her… . And you might put a CD on the stereo. Not Mozart.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Minestrone and lasagna.”
“How about mandolin music?”
Polly had put a butterfly table and two ladderback chairs in one of the large windows, setting it with Regency silver and Wedgwood.
After adding a plentiful garnish of Parmesan to the soup, Qwilleran asked, “What’s the latest news in the stacks?” He knew that the library was the unofficial hub of the Pickax grapevine.
“Everyone’s concerned about the brushfires,” she said. “The Big B Mine was owned by Maggie Sprenkle’s great-grandmother, you know, and if anything happened to the shafthouse, she’d have a heart attack!”
Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. “Has there ever been a threat to a shafthouse in the past?”
“Not that I know, and I’ve lived here since college.”
“It’s ironic that last night’s incident should coincide with the dedication of the plaques.” Ten bronze plaques, donated anonymously, had been installed at the historic minesites.
“That’s exactly what Maggie said. She was the donor, you know, although she doesn’t want it known. You won’t mention it, will you?”
“Of course not.” He had already heard the rumor from three other sources.
When the lasagna was served, conversation turned to the art center’s new manager-Barb Ogilvie, the art-knitter.
“A very good choice,” Polly said. “She’s well organized and has a pleasant personality. She’s going to teach a class, and she’ll be able to do her own knitting on the job, which will make up for the modest salary they pay. At the craft fair, I bought several pairs of her goofy socks for Christmas gifts.”
Not for me, I hope,” Qwilleran said. “By the way, my compliments on the lasagna. It’s one of the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“Thankyou. It’s from the deli,” she said smugly, countering his brash remark about the socks. “Beverly Forfar was never right for the manager’s job, although I liked her as a person. I wonder where she is now.”
“She found work in a large university town, I happen to know,” Qwilleran said. “She won’t have to worry about chickens crossing the road, or tractors dumping mud on the pavement.”
“She had a strange haircut, didn’t she?”
“Yes, but good legs.”
“Help yourself to the sauce, Qwill. Mildred made it. The recipe came from the chef at the Mackintosh Inn.”
“The local Clan of Mackintosh presented the inn with an antique Scottish curling stone-did you know? It’s in a glass case in the lobby,” he said. “Is Nightingale still staying at the inn?”
“No, the moving van finally arrived from Boston, with his furniture and books. How could it have taken them so long?”
“They got lost,” Qwilleran guessed. “They couldn’t find Pickax on the map. They had a triple load and delivered here by way of Miami and St. Louis.”
They had met Kirt Nightingale at a welcoming party in the Village and were impressed by his expertise, although they found him ordinary in appearance and without much personality. He intended to publish his own catalogue and do mail-order business from his condo.
Qwilleran, a collector of old books, had asked a question about Dickens, and the dealer said, “If you’re interested, I can get you three volumes of Sketches by Boz for thirty thousand. Two were printed in 1836 and the third a year later.”
Qwilleran nodded seriously. He never paid more than three or five dollars for a preowned classic at the used-book store in Pickax.
When he and Polly recalled the incident over dinner at the butterfly table, she said, “Don’t you think it gives us a certain eclat to have a rare-book dealer in our midst?”
“How much eclat do you want?” he asked. “We already have you and me and the WPKX meteorologist and the publisher of the newspaper and a city council member-and the Indian Village developer himself!” The last one was added with sarcasm; Don Exbridge was not highly admired by the residents. They blamed him for the thin walls, leaking roofs, rattling windows, and bouncing floors. But it was, they told themselves, a good address.
After the dessert-fresh pears and Gorgonzola-Qwilleran built a fire in the fireplace, and they had their beverages in front of the comforting blaze: tea for her, coffee for him. He knew her so well but not well enough to ask, “What kind of coffee do you use? How long has it been in the house? How do you store it? What brewing method do you use?”
She asked, “How’s the coffee, dear?” She knew he was a connoisseur.
“Not bad,” he replied, meaning it was drinkable.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s only instant decaf.”
Later, when he was leaving, he noticed a carved wooden box on the foyer table. It was long compared to its other dimensions, and the hinged lid was carved with vines and leaves surrounding the words LOVE BOX.
“Where did you get the box?” he asked.
“Oh, that!” she said with a shrug. “On the day the moving van came, I thought it would be neighborly to invite Kirt in for a simple supper, and the box was a thank-you, I suppose.”
She had shortened the man’s splendiferous name to a single syllable. “What is its purpose?” he asked crisply.
“It’s for gloves. The first letter is half-hidden by the leaves. It had belonged to his mother, and he wanted me to have it. It seemed like a rather touching gesture.”
“Hmff,” he muttered.
“Actually I don’t care for the light oak and stylized carving. It seems rather mannish, and I have a lovely needlepoint glove box that my sister made…. I wish you’d take it, Qwill.”
“How old is it?”
“Early twentieth century, I’d guess… But whatever you do, don’t let Kirt know I gave it away! We’ll put it in a large plastic bag, in case he’s looking out the window when you carry it home.”
The glove box looked good on the sleek modern chest of drawers in Qwilleran’s foyer-old enough to be interesting but not old enough to look fussy. He immediately filled it with his winter gloves: wool knit, leather, fur-lined. It stood alongside a handmade lamp from the craft exhibit-a tall square column of hammered copper. The Siamese sensed something new and came to investigate. Koko’s nose traced the letters on the lid from right to left. “He reads backwards,” Qwilleran always said.
Then-abruptly-the cat’s attention was distracted. He jumped down from the chest and went to a southeast window, where he stretched his neck, raised his head, and sniffed, while his tail switched nervously.
Without waiting to hear the scream of the police sirens and urgent bleat of the fire truck, Qwilleran ran out to his van just as his neighbor, the weatherman, was returning from his late-evening report.
Qwilleran rolled down the car window. “Joe! Quick! Get in!”
Wetherby Goode was a husky, happy-go-lucky fellow, always ready for an adventure-no questions asked. Settled in the passenger seat, he asked casually, “Where to?”
“I think there’s another fire-to the southeast. Open the window and see if you smell smoke.”
“Not a whiff… but southeast would be across the river. Turn right at the gate and right again at the bridge.”
That took them to the intersection of Sprenkle and Quarry roads. They stopped and looked in three directions and sniffed hard. There was no traffic on these back roads at this hour.