"Apart from Humpty Dumpty's great fall, is there any other world-shaking news in Moose County?" "We're still grieving over the suicide of Dr.
Halifax. Dr. Melinda returned for her father's funeral and has decided to stay. Everyone's pleased about that." It was a small-town custom to use the honorific when a local son or daughter had earned it.
Melinda Goodwinter had been Polly's predecessor in Qwilleran's affection--as everyone in Pickax knew--and he was careful not to react visibly. Casually he asked, "Will she take over Dr. Hal's patients?" "Yes, she's already sent out announcements." Polly spoke of Melinda with studied detachment.
"How about dinner tonight at the Old Stone Mill?" he asked, changing the subject to conceal his personal concern about Melinda redux.
"I was hoping you'd suggest it.
I have something exciting to discuss." "About what?" She smiled mysteriously.
"I can't tell you right now. It's a wonderful surprise!" "Where shall I pick you up? And at what time?" "Shall we say seven o'clock?" Polly suggested.
"I'd like to go home to change clothes and feed Bootsie." "Seven o'clock it is." "Are you sure you aren't too tired after all that driving?" "All I need is a strong cup of coffee, and I'll be swinging from the chandeliers." "I've missed you, dear. I'm so glad you're home," she said softly.
"I've missed you, too, Polly." He started to leave her office and paused on the threshold, from which he could see the reading tables. A white-haired woman sat knitting laboriously with arthritic hands; an elderly man was bent over a stack of books; a younger man with an unruly beard was leafing idly through a magazine.
"Who's the fellow with the beard?" Qwilleran mumbled behind his hand as he stroked his moustache.
"I don't know. The woman is Mrs. Crawbanks; her granddaughter always drops her off here while she does errands. Now that we have an elevator we've become a day-care center for grandparents. Homer Tibbitt--you know him, of course--is doing research for the Historical Society. The younger man, I don't know." Qwilleran strode through the reading room to speak to the thin and angular Mr. Tibbitt, who was in his nineties and still active, despite creaking joints.
"I hear you're digging into Moose County's lurid past, Homer." The retired school principal straightened up, his bony frame clicking in several places.
"Got to keep the old brain cells functioning," he said in a cracked voice.
"No one's ever recorded the history of the Goodwinters, although they founded Pickax one hundred fifty years ago. There were four branches of the family, some with good blood and some with bad blood, sorry to say.
But the clan's dying out in these parts. Amanda's the last of the drinking Goodwinters. Dr. Halifax had two children, but the boy was killed in an accident a few years ago, and if Dr. Melinda marries and produces sons, they won't continue the family name. Of course," he continued after a moment's reflection, "she could do something unconventional; you never know what the young ones will do these days.
But at present, Junior Goodwinter is the only hope. He's produced one son so far..." Mr. Tibbitt would have rambled on, but Qwilleran noticed that the bearded man had left the reading room, and he wanted to follow him. Excusing himself, he bolted down the stairs and out of the building, dodging preschoolers, but the car with the Massachusetts plate was pulling out of the parking lot.
From the library he took the back street to the police station, hoping to avoid acquaintances who would question his premature return from the mountains. He found Andrew Brodie, the big, broad shouldered chief of police, hunched over a computer, distrustfully poking the keys.
"Who invented these damn things?" Brodie growled.
"More trouble than they're worth!" He leaned back in his chair.
"Well, my friend, you hightailed it back to Pickax pretty fast!
How'd you do it?" "By flying low, bribing cops, and not giving my right name," Qwilleran retorted in the familiar bantering style that Brodie liked.
"How's it going, Andy? Have you logged any more reports of prowlers?" "Nary a one! The incident on Goodwinter Boulevard is hard to figure.
Can't say that I buy your theory, Qwill.
Kidnapping is something we've never had around here, except once when a father snatched his kid after a custody battle." "There was a stranger loitering in the reading room outside Polly's office a few minutes ago, a youngish man with a bushy beard and a gray sweatshirt.
He was driving a car with a Massachusetts license plate, but he pulled out of the lot before I could catch the number." "Could it be Dr. Melinda's car? She's back in town." "This was an old model, and muddy. I'm sure she drives something new and antiseptic-looking." "If you see it again, get the number and we'll run a check on the registration just for the hell of it. Did you get a description?" "All I can tell you is that it's a medium-sized car in dull maroon, and it looks as if it's been on dirt roads lately." "Not hard to do in this neck o' the woods." Qwilleran looked over Brodie's shoulder toward the coffeemaker.
"Could the taxpayers afford a cup for a weary traveler?" "Help yourself, but don't expect anything like that liquid tar that you brew!" Qwilleran pushed open the gate into the enclosure, poured a cup of weak coffee, and sat down in another hard institutional oak chair.
"Did you play your bagpipe at Dr. Hal's funeral, Andy?" The chief nodded soberly.
"Everybody broke up! Men, women, and children--all in tears! There's nothing sadder than a dirge on a bagpipe. Dr. Melinda requested it.
She said her dad liked the pipes." Switching to a confidential tone, he went on.
"She thinks she's gonna take over his patients, but the guys around here won't warm up to the idea of stripping and being examined by a woman doctor. I'm squeamish about it myself. I'll find me a male doctor even if I have to go down to Lockmaster. How about you?" "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," Qwilleran said carelessly, although he knew the situation would be awkward in his own case.
"Our health care setup will improve when the Klingenschoen Professional Building is finished. We'll be able to lure some specialists up here from Down Below. After all, it's a good place to raise a family; you said so yourself." His effort to divert attention from Melinda was unsuccessful. Brodie regarded him sharply.
"You and her were pretty thick, I understand, when she was here before." "She was the first woman I met when I came to Moose County, Andy, but that's ancient history." "I don't know why you and Polly don't get hitched. It's the only way to live, to my way of thinking." "That's because you're a dedicated family man. Try to get it through your skull that some of us make rotten husbands. I found it out the hard way, to my sorrow. I lost several years of my life, and ruined another life in the process." "But Polly's a good woman. Damn shame to see her wasted." "Wasted! If she knew you called her life wasted, she'd tear up your library card! Polly is living a useful and rewarding life.
She's the lifeblood of the library. And she chooses to be independent.
She has her women friends and her bird-watching and a comfortable apartment filled with family heirlooms..." And she has Bootsie, Qwilleran said to himself as he walked from the police station to the newspaper office. He huffed into his moustache. It was his impression that Polly lavished too much maudlin affection on the two-year-old Siamese. When Bootsie was a kitten, she babied him unconscionably, but now he had outgrown kittenish ways and she still babbled precious nonsense in his ear. In Qwilleran's household, the Siamese were sophisticated companions whom he treated as equals, and they treated him the same way. He addressed them intelligently, and they replied with expressive yips and yowls. When he discussed problems in their presence, he felt their sympathy. He regularly read aloud to them from worthwhile books, news magazines, and--on Sundays--the New York Times.