"You'll like the Highlands. I spent my honeymoon there. As I recall, the food wasn't very good, but that was quite a long time ago, and when you're a newlywed, who cares? ... Would you like me to feed Bootsie while you're away?" She regarded him hopefully.
"We were thinking... that you might... join the tour." The suggestion caught him off-guard, and he stared into space for a few moments before answering.
"How long is the trip? I've never left the cats for more than a couple of days. Who'd take care of them?" "Is there someone you could trust to move into your barn for two weeks?
My sister-in-law is going to stay with Bootsie." Qwilleran stroked his moustache with uncertainty.
"I don't know.
I'll have to think about it. But whatever I decide, the K Foundation will match whatever you raise for the Senior Facility. Will it be advertised?" "Irma says it's better to make it invitational to ensure a compatible group. We'll go in late August when the heather is in bloom. The tour will start in Glasgow and end in Edinburgh." "Glasgow?" Qwilleran echoed with interest.
"I've been reading about the Charles Rennie Mackintosh revival in Glasgow. My mother was a Mackintosh, you know." Polly knew, having heard it a hundred times, but she asked sweetly, "Do you think you might be related to him?" "I know nothing about my maternal ancestors except that one of them was either a stagecoach driver who was killed by a highwayman, or a highwayman who was hanged for murdering a stagecoach driver. As for Charles Rennie Mackintosh, I know only that he pioneered modern design a hundred years ago, and he sounds like an interesting character." "If you wish to extend your time in Glasgow, you can do that," Polly said encouragingly.
"Carol and Larry will go early and see a few plays in London." "Okay, sign me up for a single," he said.
"I'll find a cat-sitter. Lori Bamba would be perfect, but she has kids, and they'd fall off the balconies. The barn was designed for cats and adults." The soup course arrived, and they savored it in silence as they thought about the forthcoming adventure. When the swordfish was served, Qwilleran said, "I've heard a rumor about Irma Hasselrich, although not from a reliable source. Perhaps you could set me straight." Polly stiffened noticeably.
"What have you heard?
And from whom?" "I protect my sources," he said, "but the story is that she shot a man twenty-odd years ago and was charged with murder, but the Hasselriches bribed the judge to let her off without a sentence." Drawing a deep breath of exasperation, Polly replied, "Like most gossip in Pickax, it's only ten percent accurate. The motive for the shooting was what we now call date rape. In court, Hasselrich defended his daughter brilliantly. The jury found her guilty of manslaughter but recommended leniency, and the judge was more understanding than most jurists at that time; he gave her probation, plus an order to do three years of community service... Does that answer your question?" Detecting annoyance in the curt explanation, he said, "I'm sorry. I simply repeated what I had heard.
" More softly Polly said, "After completing her community service, Irma went on to devote her life to volunteer work. She'll do anything for charity! She's raised tons of money for good causes." "Quite admirable," Qwilleran murmured, but it crossed his mind that "anything" was a strong and suspect word. He ordered strawberry pie for dessert, and Polly toyed with a small dish of lime sorbet. She had eaten only half of everything that was served.
"I'm watching my diet," she explained.
"I've lost a few pounds. Does it show?" "You're looking healthy and beautiful," he replied.
"Don't get too skinny." After dessert they went to her apartment for coffee, and then did some reading aloud. They read two acts of Macbeth while Bootsie sniffed Qwilleran's trouser legs with distaste. It was late when Qwilleran returned to the apple barn, and two indignant Siamese met him at the door. Sensing that he had been associating with another cat, they walked away with a lofty display of superiority.
"Come off it, you guys!" he rebuked them.
"I have news for you. I'm taking a trip to Scotland, and you're not going!" "Yowl" Koko scolded him.
"That's right. You're staying here!" "Not-not-now!" shrieked Yum Yum.
"And you're not going, either!"
Two
The day following his evening with Polly, Qwilleran regretted his impulsive decision to go to Scotland and leave the Siamese for two weeks. As he brushed their silky coats-- Yum Yum with hindlegs splayed like a Duncan Phyfe table, and Koko with tail in a stiff Hogarth curve--he thought of canceling his reservation, but an inner voice deterred him, saying: You're a two-hundred-pound man, and you're allowing yourself to be enslaved by eighteen pounds of cat!
That evening he was reading aloud with the female cuddling contentedly on his lap and the male perched on the arm of his chair, when the telephone rang.
"Excuse me, sweetheart," he said, lifting Yum Yum gently and placing her on the warm seat cushion he had just vacated. It was Irma Hasselrich on the line, speaking with the syrupy, formal charm that was her style. She said, "Mr. Qwilleran, I learn with a great deal of pleasure that you wish to join the Bonnie Scots Tour." "Yes, it strikes me as an interesting adventure. My mother was a Mackintosh. And by the way, please call me Qwill." "Needless to say, Mr. Qwilleran," she continued as if she had not heard, "we're delighted that the Klingenschoen Foundation is offering a matching grant. We want to create a park for the patients at the facility, with flower beds, winding paths for wheelchairs, and a pavilion with tables for picnic lunches and games." "Very commendable," Qwilleran murmured.
"How many persons do you expect to enlist for the tour?" "Our goal is sixteen. That number will fill a minibus." "Did Polly tell you I want to spend some time in Glasgow?" "Yes. Several participants want to extend their stay abroad, so I suggest that we all make our own flight arrangements and meet on Day One at a prescribed location in Glasgow." "How many have signed up so far?" "Eleven. Perhaps you can suggest other compatible travelers that we might contact." Qwilleran thought for a few seconds.
"How about John and Vicki Bushland? They have a summer place in Mooseville, although they're residents of Lockmaster, where he has a commercial photography studio." "We would love to have a professional photographer along! May I call them and use your name?" "By all means." "As soon as it was known that you were joining the tour, Mr. Qwilleran, I was able to sign up three others: Mr. and Mrs.
MacWhannell--he's the CPA, you know--and Dr. Melinda Goodwinter.
Aren't we fortunate to have a doctor with us?" Qwilleran cringed inwardly and combed his moustache with his fingertips. He had visions of the importunate Melinda tapping on his hotel door at a late hour and inviting herself in for a chat. She was a persistent young woman, and, according to Arch Riker, who had met her after her father's funeral, she was still carrying the torch for him, Polly or no Polly. Qwilleran veiled his distress by inquiring about the weather in Scotland, and Irma assured him that she would send all pertinent travel information in the mail. When the conversation ended, he immediately phoned Arch Riker at the office of the Moose County Something. The two men had grown up together in Chicago and had pursued separate careers in journalism Down Below. Now they were reunited in Pickax, where Riker was realizing his dream of publishing a small-town newspaper.
"Arch, how would you like to knock off for a couple of weeks and go to Scotland with a local group?" Qwilleran proposed.
"We could save a few bucks by sharing accommodations." He added a few details and dropped some important names: Hasselrich, Lanspeak, Compton, Goodwinter, MacWhannell. Riker liked the idea, saying that he'd always wanted to play the seventeenth hole at St. Andrews.