Her sister--taller and thinner and plainer--wore a small gold teddy bear with ruby eyes. The pair headed directly toward him, and the bejeweled sister said in a raspy voice, "You're Mr. Qwilleran! I recognized the moustache from your picture in the paper. We always read your column." She looked up at him brightly.
"I'm Grace Utley, and this is my sister, Zella. We're Chisholms. You must have heard of the Chisholms. Our grandfather built the Moose County courthouse. yes!" "How do you do," he said with a gracious bow.
"My mother was a Mackintosh." "We collect teddy bears!" she said, eagerly awaiting a newsman's reaction to this newsworthy credential.
"Very interesting," he said stolidly.
"Yes... We have a button-in-ear Steiff that's very rare." At that moment he was aware that Melinda Goodwinter was entering the parlor; he caught a whiff of her familiar perfume. As a doctor and a Goodwinter she was being greeted with suitable respect, but her eyes wandered around the room until she spotted Qwilleran. Within seconds she was at his side.
"Hello, lover," she said coolly.
"Melinda, have you met Grace Utley and Zella Chisholm?" he asked.
"Ladies, do you know Dr. Melinda Goodwinter?" "We do indeed... yes!" said Mrs. Utley.
"How are you, dear heart? We were distressed to hear about your father. You have our deepest sympathy." The waiter reappeared with his tray of champagne and orange juice, and while the older women were momentarily distracted, Melinda managed to draw Qwilleran aside, saying, "Alone at last! You're looking great, lover!" "How did you like Boston?" he asked, avoiding any lingering eye contact.
"It's good of you to come back and take over your father's clinic." "Boston served its purpose, but I'm glad to be home. I heard you've converted the Klingenschoen barn, and you're living in it." "For a while, at any rate." "Do you still have the cats?" "I provide their bed and board." Koko, he recalled, had not cared for Melinda, always telling her to go home in his subtle, catly way. Trying to keep the conversation impersonal, Qwilleran asked, "How do you like Moose County's new newspaper?" "Big improvement." Melinda gulped the rest of her champagne.
"Aren't you the one who's financing it?" "The Klingenschoen Foundation is behind it," he corrected her.
"Arch Riker is editor-and-publisher. Have you met him? He and I are old friends, and we're sharing accommodations on this tour... Arch!
Come over here!" The publisher caught the significance of the situation and rose to the occasion.
"We met at the funeral," he said when Qwilleran introduced him.
"I'm glad you're taking over your father's practice, Melinda. We need all the doctors we can get. They keep inventing new diseases. I hope you brought your little black bag on this trip, in case anyone chokes on the porridge or gets bitten by a haggis..." Good old Arch!
Qwilleran thought.
"May I bring you some champagne, Melinda?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he slipped away toward the bar and before he could complete his mission, Irma clapped hands for attention, and the group gathered around the map.
"Welcome to Scotland," she said.
"I hope you will have a joyous time on the Bonnie Scots Tour. We'll be traveling in Bonnie Prince Charlie country, a region brimming with history and romance." Qwilleran heard a veiled grunt of protest from Lyle Compton.
"Some of the places we'll visit," Irma went on, "are not open to the average tourist, and most of the inns are off the beaten path, but because of my connections we'll be made welcome. I would like to make one suggestion at this time. For two weeks we'll be traveling as one big happy family, and it would be friendly to alternate seats in the bus and at the table when we stop for meals.
Is that agreed?" There was a vague murmur among the group.
"Day One starts tomorrow morning at seven o'clock when we meet in the hotel coffee shop for breakfast. Your bags should be packed and outside the door of your room not later than six-thirty. I suggest you request wake-up calls for five-thirty to give you ample time." Fivethirty! Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Irma concluded her speech to polite applause, and Qwilleran grabbed Riker's arm.
"Round up Amanda and Polly, and let's go to dinner," he said.
"I've found a good Indian restaurant. I'll meet you in a taxi in front of the hotel." He made a quick escape. The restaurant, in true Anglo-Indian style, had white tile floors, tinkling fountains, hanging brass lamps, an assertive aroma of curry, and a background of raga music played on the sarod, tabla, and tamboura. The plucked strings, rhythmic percussion, and hypnotic drone of the instruments provided a soothing background for conversation. Polly was looking handsome in her blue batwing cape, but Amanda--noto matter how carefully she tried to dress--always looked as if she had just washed the car or cleaned the basement. Riker, with his bent sense of humor, thought it was part of her attraction.
"What would it take," she grumbled, "to get them to turn off the music and the fountains?" "Quiet, Amanda," he said with amusement suffusing his ruddy face.
"When in Glasgow, do as the Glaswegians do." Qwilleran suggested ordering samos as with the drinks, saying they were meat-filled pastries. Then he recommended mulligatawny soup and a main course of tandoori murghi and pulao, with a side order of dal.
"All spicy dishes, I don't need to tell you," he warned.
"Why, this is nothing but roast chicken with rice and lentils," Amanda announced when the entree was served. Riker nudged her.
"Just enjoy it, and don't editorialize.
" As conversation focused on the forthcoming tour, he remarked, "Compton really knows his Scottish history. He gave a talk at the Boosters Club last month." "I hope he won't be too argumentative," Polly said with concern.
"Irma accepts the romantic version of Scots history, but Lyle is a militant revisionist." "I like the idea of having a historian on board," Riker said.
"Not to mention a professional photographer and a physician." "Don't you think Melinda is looking rather world-weary?" Polly asked.
"Her eyes look strange.
" "She's stopped wearing green contacts and three sets of false eyelashes," said her cousin Amanda with tart authority.
"Will someone explain the Chisholm sisters?" Qwilleran asked. Amanda had the whole story. The Chisholms and the Utleys represented "old money" in Moose County, the former having rebuilt most of Pickax following the fire of 1869. The Utleys, as owners of fisheries, were several rungs down the social ladder but grew rich on trout and whitefish. Grace's late husband invested the family fortune cleverly and, it was rumored, illegally, returning from mysterious business trips with lavish gifts of jewelry for his wife. Amanda grumbled, "You could buy a fifty-foot yacht with what she's wearing around her neck, but she's slow in paying her decorating bills... Yes!" she added mockingly. Over a dessert of ga jar hal va which Amanda insisted was nothing but carrot pudding, the conversation turned to Charles Rennie Mackintosh.
"He wore flowing silk ties and had a prominent moustache," Qwilleran reported, preening his own, "and he liked cats." "How do you know?" "There was one small clue in the Mackintosh house, which has been reconstructed by the university.
The designer and his wife lived there in the early 1900's, and he had the guts to transform a Victorian townhouse into light, airy living spaces! In the drawing room everything is white--walls, carpet, fireplace, furniture, everything--except for two gray cushions on the hearth, for their two Persian cats." "How charming!" Polly said.