They stepped into a reading alcove in a secluded corner of the lobby, close by the full-length lifesize portrait of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran.
“What’s on your mind?” Qwilleran asked.
“My brother and his wife are here. They wanted to get settled before snow flies… . Listen to me! I’m beginning to talk like a native!”
“Where are they living?”
“They bought one of those big old houses on Pleasant Street. Fran Brodie is fixing it up for them. And the clinic is almost ready to open: Moose County Dermatology, it’s called. My sister-in-law is an artist, you know. She does batik wall hangings, and Fran is representing her.”
“Interesting!” Qwilleran said. “Is there anything I can do to welcome them?”
“Well, yes,” Barry said. “When I first came here, you gave me some great advice about getting along with folks in a small town, and I’d appreciate it if you’d repeat it.”
“Behappyto.”
“If we could get together at my apartment for dinner some evening, Chef Wingo would cater it, and we’d have more privacy than in a restaurant.”
“Great!” Qwilleran said.
It was still too early to report to the courthouse, so he strolled to the used-book store. It was located behind the post office-on a back street that the city’s founding fathers, in their wisdom, had named Back Street. It was hardly more than an alley and only a block long, being dead-ended at north and south by busy thoroughfares. In the middle of the block huddled a stone edifice resembling a grotto, built of feldspar that sparkled in the sunlight. No wonder it was Number One on every tourist’s sightseeing list. It was originally a smithy, but the blacksmith’s grandson had operated it as a used-book store for more than fifty years, and to celebrate its golden jubilee the city of Pickax renamed the block Book Alley.
Edd’s Editions, it was called. Entering the shop and blinking to adjust from exterior sunshine to interior gloom, Qwilleran stood still and inhaled the familiar aroma of old books from damp basements, clam chowder being heated for the bookseller’s lunch, and leftover sardines in the cat’s dish. A large dust-colored longhair patrolled the premises, dusting the books with his plumed tail. He knew Qwilleran.
“Good morning, Winston,” he said. “I bet I know what you had for breakfast!”
Eddington Smith heard the voice and came from the back room, where he had his bookbinding equipment and living quarters. Qwilleran had been back there when he was writing a column on bookbinding, and he remembered the man’s narrow cot, the cracked mirror over the washbowl, old-fashioned shaving tackle, a two-burner gas stove, a large box of matches-and a small handgun.
Eddington had a slight build that was shrinking with age. His hair was gray; his skin had a gray pallor; and his drab clothing blended in with the gray covers of old books that were stacked on tables, shelves, and floor.
“My best customer!” he said when he had adjusted his glasses and recognized Qwilleran. “I’ve found something special for you!” He hurried back into the inner sanctum. There was another customer in the store-a stranger with a flashlight, risking his life on the rickety wooden stepladder. Qwilleran thought, He’s a book scout, hunting for buried treasure.
When Eddington returned, he was clutching a large-format book to his chest. “You’re interested in Egypt, Mr. Q. Here’s a beautiful volume-not terribly old, good condition, scholarly text, well illustrated. Mysteries of the Egyptian Pyramids.”
Qwilleran glanced at the stepladder; the stranger was listening. He was looking for a book he could buy for three dollars and sell to an antiquarian bookseller for fifteen, after which it would go into the catalogue for two hundred-or two thousand.
“I’ll take it, sight unseen,” Qwilleran said. “How much?”
“How about twenty-five cents?” Edd said with a twinkle in his eye; he had playful moods. The stranger dropped his flashlight. “Isn’t that a little high, Edd?” Qwilleran was playing the game. “I’ll give you twenty cents,” he said. He slipped twenty-five dollars into the bookseller’s hand.
“You’re my best customer,” Eddington said. “I’m leaving my store to you in my will.” He always said that.
“Does the bequest include Winston?” Qwilleran asked. “I’m not sure I could afford to feed him.”
They were walking toward the door. Obviously the stranger was still listening.
Eddington said, “He’s an old cat and doesn’t eat much,
but he likes to go out to dinner once in a while-at a good restaurant.” Edd had never been in such a giddy mood.
Qwilleran took the handsome book, gave Edd the okay sign, and went on his way to another adventure.
The Shafthouse Motorcade lined up around Park
Circle in front of the courthouse: a sheriff’s car, three limousines for dignitaries, an airport rental vehicle for the TV crew from Down Below, three cars for news photographers, and a florist’s van.
Qwilleran, Hixie Rice, and Dwight Somers would be chauffeuring the limousines borrowed from the local funeral home. Their distinguished passengers would include three county commissioners, the president of the historical society, the county historian and his wife, five direct descendants of the original mine owners, and a fairly large dog.
The five direct descendants were Maggie Sprenkle, the rich widow; the elderly Jess Povey, who called himself a gentleman farmer, although Maggie said he was no gentleman; Amanda Goodwinter, businesswoman and council member; Leslie Bates Harding, age six; and Burgess Campbell, a lecturer on American history at the college. Blind from birth, he was always accompanied by his guide dog, and both were well known in Pickax-Burgess for his sense of humor, and Alexander for his good manners. On this occasion the proud Scot was wearing Highland dress: kilt, sporran, shoulder plaid, and glengarry bonnet.
“Burgess, you look splendid!” Qwilleran complimented him.
“So do you,” he quipped.
There was confusion about who would ride with whom. Maggie refused to ride in the same limousine with Jess Povey. Leslie wanted to ride with the dog. Amanda shouted above the hubbub, “I don’t care if I ride on the hood! Let’s get this show on the road!”
It was decided that Qwilleran’s passengers would be Maggie, Leslie, and the ninety-eight-year-old historian Homer Tibbitt, with his wife.
Leslie’s mother straightened his tie and combed his hair, saying, “You’ll have your picture taken, and it’ll be in the newspaper! Grandma will be so proud of you! I’ll be here to pick you up when it’s over. You’ll be riding with that nice man with the big moustache, and he’ll take good care of you.”
Qwilleran looked askance at the youngster squirming in his little long-pant suit, white shirt, and bow tie. Huffing into his moustache, he said to Maggie, “No one told me I’d have to baby-sit.”
She and Leslie took the seat behind the driver, leaving the roomier backseat for the Tibbitts: Homer and his attentive wife, Rhoda. She had brought pillows to make a nest for his bony frame. Leslie, who had never seen anyone so old, knelt on the seat and rode backwards, staring at the furrowed, fretful face.
After a while he pointed a finger at the old gentleman, pulled an imaginary trigger and said, “Ping.’”
Maggie said, “Turn around and sit down, Leslie, and fasten your seatbelt. We’re going to start moving.”
The signal was given, and the motorcade pulled away from the courthouse and proceeded up Main Street, where shoppers stood on the curbs and cheered. This was an important event for Moose County. For the next four hours the vehicles zigzagged through the countryside, past the ten minesites on back roads and lightly traveled highways.
The first destination was the Big B Mine that had been owned and operated by Maggie’s great-grandmother. When the motorcade stopped, all the car doors opened simultaneously, and the passengers piled out, gathering around the bronze marker. Like all the mines, it was now only an expanse of barren ground, fenced and posted with warnings, the only relic being a weathered wood tower about forty feet high. There was something mysterious, even scary, about the silent, lonely shafthouses.