Koko immediately assumed his Egyptian-cat pose on the tall pedestal that he considered his own. Yum Yum ran around, batting insects on the outside of the screen. Qwilleran lounged in a chair and propped his feet on a footstool.
After a while Koko emitted a throaty rumbling and pointed his ears to the east. In a few moments a pair of beach walkers approached, looking for agates and dropping them in a small plastic sack.
Qwilleran went out to the top of the sand-ladder and shouted, “Would you two trespassers like to come up for a cold drink?”
Lisa and Lyle Compton, both wearing “BRRR 200” T-shirts, gladly accepted.
They sat on the porch, and Qwilleran served Squunk water with a dash of cranberry juice. The Siamese were comfortable with the Comptons and paid them the compliment of ignoring them—Yum Yum batting her bugs, Koko preening himself all over.
Lyle said, “I’m looking forward to seeing your show on the Great Storm. My elders lived through it but weren’t inclined to talk about it. They had the pioneer tendency to make light of hardships, even telling jokes about unfortunate happenings.”
Lisa agreed. “My grandfather lived through the Great Storm. On the stormiest night, the high winds destroyed his chicken coop and sent a board sailing through the kitchen window. The family was asleep upstairs and didn’t know about it until morning, when they went downstairs and found all the chickens in the kitchen, roosting on the nice, warm stovepipe.”
Lyle said, “And then there’s the story that everyone tells about a couple of fellows named Alf Kirby and Bill Durby, who worked for the railroad as fireman and brakeman. Two or three nights a week they had to sleep over, and the company let them use a two-room cottage between the tracks and the lakefront. Durby, having seniority, had the room overlooking the lake—the only trouble being that the lake breezes rattled the windows on a cold night and there was frost on the ceiling in the morning. On the night of the Great Storm, Durby offered Kirby five dollars to exchange rooms, and Kirby agreed, always interested in a good deal. But the winds were of gale force on that night, and they turned the little cottage around on its foundation, so that Durby was still on the cold side minus five bucks.”
“Yow!” came a strong reaction from Koko on his pedestal.
“What does that mean?” Lyle demanded.
“Koko thinks it’s a good tale, but he doesn’t believe a word of it. I’d like to know about Scottish Night at the Brrr celebration.”
Lisa, whose maiden name was Campbell, and Lyle, whose mother was a Ross, were eager to report the details: It would be a preview of the two-month celebration. All the clans would be there in Highland attire. The park across from the hotel would be strung with Japanese lanterns—festive in daylight, magical after dark. In the bandstand, bagpipers would pipe, dancers would do the Highland Fling, and a Scottish quartet would sing tearjerkers. And Miss Agatha Burns would throw the switch to light the ten-foot birthday cake with its two hundred electric candles.
“Should I know her?” Qwilleran asked. He was quickly informed that she was a retired teacher, a hundred years old, now confined to a wheelchair and living at the Senior Care Facility.
Lisa said, “Three generations of students have annually voted Miss Agatha their favorite teacher. She had charisma. She made us want to learn.”
Qwilleran asked, “What did she teach?”
Lyle said with unusual fervor, “What the State Board of Ed called dead languages! Can you believe that my father had four years of Latin and a year of classical Greek—here in the boondocks? The state made us eliminate those two subjects, consolidate with Pickax High School, and buy a fleet of school buses that would pollute the atmosphere! Kids used to walk two or three miles to school and thought nothing of it.”
Qwilleran asked, “What did she teach after that?”
“English,” said Lisa, “but she taught us the Latin roots of English words.”
“Would a ‘Qwill Pen’ column on Miss Agatha be a good idea to coincide with the opening of Brrr Two Hundred?”
“Perfect!” said Lyle. “But she’s had a stroke and doesn’t speak. It would be better to interview her former students. There are plenty of them in the Old-Timers Club and at Ittibittiwassee Estates.”
“Would Alicia’s grandmother be one of them?”
“She’s quite reserved,” Lisa said. “She wouldn’t be easy to interview.”
That was no obstacle to a veteran columnist.
He had a talent for winning confidences from the most reticent subjects. His rich, mellow voice made them feel good. He listened attentively, nodded sympathetically, and gazed at them with a brooding expression that won their trust.
He asked, “Have you ever been in the Carrolls’ house?”
“Once,” Lisa said. “She never did much entertaining, but this was a tea for a church benefit. It’s a beautiful house, filled with American and English antiques: Chippendale, Newport, Duncan Phyfe, Queen Anne—you name it!”
Lyle said, “If she has a sentimental notion that her granddaughter will leave Milwaukee and live in it, she’s dotty. Alicia will sell the antiques to a New York dealer and the house to a developer, who’ll carve it into apartments and build condos on the grounds.”
“Yow!” came an imperious interruption from the pedestal.
The guests stood up. “He’s telling us to go home.”
Qwilleran had an idea, and he was in a hurry to put it into action. Back at the barn, he inscribed a copy of Short & Tall Tales to Dr. Wendell Carroll, Dr. Hector Carroll, and Dr. Erasmus Carroll—the three generations of medics who had served Moose County since pioneer days. He enclosed a note—and his unlisted phone number. This he clipped to the legend titled “Housecalls on Horseback” and then had the book delivered by motorcycle messenger to Ittibittiwassee Estates.
It was not long before the phone rang, and a sweet, cultivated voice said, “Mr. Qwilleran, this is Edythe Carroll. We have never met, and I am deeply touched that you should send me this splendid book. The account of the pioneer doctors is so true! It might have been handed down from Dr. Erasmus!”
For one who was considered reticent and aloof, Mrs. Carroll was remarkably talkative. Qwilleran murmured the right things.
“And you mentioned in your note, Mr. Qwilleran, that you have an idea you wish to discuss. Would you do me the honor of taking tea with me tomorrow?”
Qwilleran trimmed his moustache, dressed properly for tea with Dr. Wendell’s widow, and drove to the retirement village.
She received him graciously in an apartment that was clearly furnished with her own heirlooms. She had white hair, attractively styled for her age, and she wore a lavender silk dress and a little color on her cheeks.
“Do you like antiques?” she asked as she ushered Qwilleran into the small sitting room.
“I admire the design and fine woods of individual pieces,” he replied frankly, “but most people crowd too many into a given space. You handle them with great taste.”
“Thank you,” she said with obvious delight. “My late husband disliked clutter, too.”
He had caught a glimpse, as he passed a china cabinet, of a number of small decorated china objects, like saltcellars. On second glance, they proved to be miniature shoes.
He stopped and said, “This is a remarkable collection! I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“Miniature porcelain shoes are quite collectible,” she said, “and my husband and I had a romantic interest in collecting, but I won’t bore you with that! Come and sit at the tea table, and I’ll bring the tea.”