There they washed their paws and whiskers before dinner. When Qwilleran spread the pate on a plate and placed it on the floor, he watched them with fascination as they devoured it. They were masterpieces of design: sleek fawn bodies on long brown legs; incredibly blue eyes in seal-brown masks; expressive brown tails tapered like rapiers. To Qwilleran they seemed to have more elegance than Bootsie, who was being overfed to compensate for the loneliness of his solitary life. At seven o'clock he called for Polly at her carriage-house apartment behind the Gage mansion, and as he climbed the narrow staircase, Bootsie was waiting at the top with ears back and fangs bared.
"Greetings, thou paragon of animals," Qwilleran said, thinking a phrase from Shakespeare would please Polly. Bootsie hissed.
"You must forgive him," she apologized.
"He sensed danger when the prowler was outside, and he's been edgy ever since." After a warm, silent, meaningful embrace that would have astonished the library patrons and started the Pickax grapevine sizzling, Qwilleran presented Polly with a tissue-wrapped bundle.
"Sorry it isn't giftwrapped," he said.
"I brought it from the mountains. It looked like your shade of blue." Polly was thrilled.
"It's a batwing cape! It's handwoven! Who did it?" "One of the mountaineers," he said, shrugging off the question.
"They're all weavers and potters and woodworkers in the mountains." He avoided mentioning that the weaver was an interesting young woman whom he had taken to dinner and who had rescued him twice when he was in trouble on mountain passes.
Polly had shed the drab suit she wore at the library and was looking festive in a summer dress of mixed polka dots, red-on-white and white-on-red.
"You're sure it isn't too bold for me?" she asked when Qwilleran complimented her.
"Irma Hasselrich helped me choose it." They drove to the restaurant in the rental car that had brought him from the mountains.
"My own car broke down," he explained, "and I left it there." The tale was loosely true; the car had bogged down in mud, and he had given it to the young mountain woman, who would be able to haul it out with her swamp buggy. The restaurant called the Old Stone Mill occupied a historic gristmill. There was enough affluence in Pickax--and there were enough educated palates--to support one good eatery, and it was owned by a syndicate of businessmen who needed an unprofitable venture for tax purposes. It paid its chefs handsomely and offered a menu worldly enough for local residents who had dined in San Francisco, New Orleans, and Paris. After Qwilleran and Polly were greeted and seated at their usual table, a six-foot-seven busboy, who towered above customers and staff alike, shuffled up to the table with a water pitcher and basket of garlic toast. His name was Derek Cuttlebrink.
"Hi, Mr. Q," he said in friendly fashion.
"I thought you were going away for the summer." "I came back," Qwilleran explained succinctly.
"I'm taking two weeks in August to go camping." "Good for you!" "Yeah, I met this girl, and she has a tent. Blue nylon, seven-by-eight, with aluminum frame. Sets up in five minutes." "Take plenty of mosquito repellent," Qwilleran advised.
"Stay away from poison ivy. Watch out for ticks." Polly asked, "Have you given any more thought to college, Derek?" "Well, you know, it's like this, Mrs. Duncan. I've decided to stay in the food business. I'm getting promoted to the kitchen, end of the month--in charge of French fries and garlic toast." "Congratulations!" said Qwilleran. When the busboy had sauntered away, Polly wondered, "Do you think Derek will ever amount to anything?" "Don't give up hope," Qwilleran said.
"One of these days he'll meet the right girl, and he'll become a famous brain surgeon.
I've seen it happen." He ordered dry sherry for Polly and, for himself, a local product called Squunk water--from a flowing well in Squunk Corners. He always drank it on the rocks with a twist. Polly raised her glass.
"Slainte!" "Ditto," Qwilleran said.
"What does it mean?" "I don't know exactly. It's a toast in Gaelic that Irma Hasselrich always uses." Polly often quoted her new friend.
Personally, Qwilleran had his doubts about Irma Hasselrich. In her forties, she still lived at home with her parents, her father being senior partner in the law firm of Hasselrich, Bennett and Barter.
She was the chief volunteer at the Senior Care Facility, and Qwilleran had met her while interviewing an aged patient. At that time, he thought her a handsome woman. She had a Junoesque figure, a polished appearance, and a charming manner. Since Polly was spending the summer in England, he tried to take Irma to dinner, but his invitation was pointedly avoided. He was not accustomed to being rejected, and his reaction was distinctly negative. Recently the two women had discovered a mutual interest: They often went birdwatching with binoculars and notebooks on the banks of the Ittibittiwassee River or in the wetlands near Purple Point.
Furthermore, the well-groomed, well-dressed Irma was influencing Polly to wear brighter colors and touch up her graying hair.
"You're looking especially young and attractive tonight," he remarked as they sipped their aperitifs.
"Soon you'll be joining the Theatre Club and playing ingenue roles." "Not likely," she said with her musical laugh.
"But did you hear that the club is doing Macbeth in September?" "That's a surprise!" "Why? It's a highly dramatic play with witches, ghosts, swordplay, a sleepwalker, and some ghastly murders, and it has plenty to say about temptation, human failure, spiritual evil, and compulsive ambition." "But according to superstition, it brings bad luck to the company that stages it." "No one around here is aware of that, so don't enlighten them," Polly advised.
"Of course, it's almost certain that Larry will play the title role." "He'll have to grow a beard again. He won't like that.
Who's directing?" "A new man in town, Dwight Somers, who's taken a position with XYZ Enterprises. He's had theatre experience and is said to be very nice.
Auditions have been announced, and it's rumored that Dr. Melinda is going to read for Lady Macbeth." The Pickax library was a major listening post in the local grapevine.
Qwilleran wanted to ask: Have you seen Melinda? ... How does she look?
... They say she's changed a lot. He deemed it wise, however, not to exhibit that much interest, so he asked casually, "Would she be any good in that role?" "Quite possibly. I saw her at Dr. Hal's funeral and thought she was looking... much older. The Goodwinter face--long and narrow, you know--has a tendency to look haggard. It doesn't age well." They ordered jellied watercress consomme and grilled swordfish with pineapple-jalapeno salsa, and Qwilleran asked, "What's the surprise you have for me tonight?" "Well!" she began with evident relish.
"Irma and I had dinner one night while you were away, and we were talking about Scotland. She went to art school there and still has connections, whom she visits frequently.
I mentioned that I've always wanted to see Macbeth country, and that started a train of thought. Why not organize a group tour of Scottish Isles and Highlands, with a percentage of the tour cost going to the Senior Care Facility, tax deductible?" "Sounds okay.
Who'd manage it?" "Irma is plotting the itinerary, and she'll make the reservations and act as tour guide." "Is she experienced at handling group tours?" "No. But she's in charge of the volunteer program at the facility, and she's a natural leader, well organized, and certainly knowledgeable about Scotland, especially the Western Isles and Highlands." "How will you travel in Scotland?" "By chartered minibus. The Lanspeaks and the Comptons have signed up, and Irma and I will share a room. The price of the tour is based on double occupancy, but singles are available." Qwilleran said to himself, It's a good idea for Polly to leave the country until the prowler threat blows over.