Melinda came in yesterday. She wants me to buy Dr. Hal's library, but she's asking too much money." That evening, as Qwilleran sat in his favorite lounge chair with Memoirs, the cats arranged themselves for a read: Koko on the wide upholstered arm of the chair and Yum Yum on his lap with forelegs extended and paws crossed prettily.
Sixty years of assorted household odors made the book fascinating to the Siamese. Qwilleran was enthralled by the incredible account of four motherless children--ages two, four, seven, and fourteen-setting out to find their father, who had left to fight for Prince Charlie.
After walking 150 miles, being on the road for three months, begging for food and shelter, they learned that he had fallen in battle at Culloden. Absorbed in their predicament, Qwilleran was almost too stunned to answer when the telephone rang, until Koko yowled in his ear.
"Uh... hello," he said vaguely.
"Hello, lover.
Is that you? You sound far away. Do you recognize a voice from your high-flying past?" "Who is this?" he asked in a flat voice, although he knew.
"Melinda!" "Oh... hello." "Am I interrupting something important?" "No. I was reading a book." "It must be pretty good.
What's the title?" "It's... uh... Memoirs of an Eighteenth Century Footman by John Macdonald." "Sounds like hot stuff. Someone told me you're collecting old books now." "I have a few." He was trying to sound like a poor prospect, not to mention a dull and uninteresting person.
"I'm selling my father's library. Are you interested?" "I'm afraid not. I pick up one book at a time, here and there." "Why don't you meet me at the house for a look at Dad's library. You might see-something--you like. I'm living at Indian Village, but I could run into town." "That's a good idea," he said with misleading enthusiasm.
"I'll see when Polly Duncan's available, and we'll make an appointment with you. She's my guru when it comes to old books." There was a pause on the other end of the line.
"Okay. I'll get in touch with you later, if the books are still available... I hear we're going to Scotland on the same tour, lover." "Yes, Polly talked me into x." "Well, don't let me keep you away from your exciting book." "Thanks for calling," he said in a routine voice.
"Nightynight." Melinda never called back about the books, for which Qwilleran was thankful, but her name was frequently mentioned around town. One afternoon he dropped into Amanda's Studio of Interior Design to scrounge a cup of coffee and use the telephone, as he often did when Fran Brodie was in-house. Fran was assistant to Amanda Goodwinter but younger, more glamorous, and betterdispositioned. As a member of the Theatre Club and daughter of the police chief, she had still another attraction: She could always be relied upon for the latest gossip--or local information, as Qwilleran preferred to call it. Fran greeted him with welcome news: "You've just missed Melinda! She came in to try to sell us her father's books. I don't know what she thought we could do with them.
Cup of coffee?" She served it in a mug stenciled with the letter Q, a mischievous reference to his habitual freeloading.
"I'm glad you dropped in, Qwill. I've found something that you simply must have! It's you!" "I should know the free coffee is never free," he said.
"What is it?" She opened a flat box with exaggerated care.
"This is an acid-free box, and this is acid-free tissue," she explained, as she unwrapped a drab fragment of cloth.
"What the devil is that?" "It's a Scottish relic--a fragment of a Mackintosh kilt that was worn by a Jacobite rebel at the Battle of Culloden in 1746!" "How do you know it is? It looks like a reject from a trash can." "It's documented. It belonged to an old family in Lockmaster, who came here from Canada. Their ancestors were exiled to the New World during the Scottish Clearances." "And what am I supposed to do with this faded rag? It wouldn't even be good enough to wash the car!" "We'd preserve it in a protective frame for you, as they do in museums, and you could put it on display. Of course, we'd have to pick a location without much daylight or artificial light." "That limits us to the broom closet and the cats' bathroom," he said.
"How much is it worth?" "It's expensive, but you can afford it, considering all the money you save on coffee and phone calls." "I'll kick it around." "Do that," Fran said, refilling his coffee mug.
"So you're going to Scotland with my boss! I hear they're having trouble filling all the seats. Is that because Amanda is one of the passengers? Or because Irma Hasselrich is the tour director?" "Doesn't Irma have much of a fan club?" Qwilleran asked.
"I'm afraid people think she's snobbish and bossy, and her perfect grooming frightens some of the casual types around town. Amanda says she looks like a peeled egg... One thing I'd like to know: Why did Irma schedule the tour to overlap our rehearsals of Macbeth? Our three most important people are taking the trip: the two leads and the director!" "Is Melinda playing Lady Macbeth?" Fran nodded with disapproval.
"Several women read for it, and Carol was my choice, but Dwight Somers wanted Melinda. He's sort of goggle-eyed about Melinda. She's probably the reason he signed up for the Scottish tour." Qwilleran thought, Good! I hope he monopolizes her and keeps her out of my hair.
One evening shortly after that, when he and Polly were dining at Tipsy's Tavern in North Kennebeck, Melinda was seated at a table in the same room. He avoided looking in her direction but was aware that her escort was a man with a neat beard.
Polly said it was Dwight Somers.
"They're both going on the Bonnie Scots Tour. Melinda is a longtime friend of Irma, you know." "Is that so?" Qwilleran remarked inanely, wincing at the prick of his vanity; he thought that he himself was Melinda's reason for signing up.
Polly was saying, "I had a physical at her office today. I remember her fifteen years ago when she brought her high school assignments to the library, and it's difficult to relate to her as a doctor, but Irma says we women must be supportive. My sister-in-law works in the office at the Goodwinter clinic, and I've learned that Dr. Hal's male patients are transferring their records to a man in Lockmaster, an internist and urologist." Qwilleran said, "If you want my guess, it's their wives who don't want them going to a young woman doctor." He was going to say "young attractive woman doctor" but edited his own dialogue. As if on cue, Melinda passed their table on the way to the restroom.
"Hi, lover," she said breezily, pausing for a moment that seemed too long. Qwilleran rose from his chair and said something trite.
"Dr. Goodwinter, I presume.
" He rose courteously, but he kept one hand on the back of his chair and stood in a semi crouch ready to sit down again when she moved on, which he hoped would be soon.
"Are you all excited about our trip together?" she asked with a sly glance, addressing him directly.
"Polly and I are both looking forward to it." He nodded graciously to his guest.
"Then I'll see you on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, lover," Melinda said as she sauntered away, drawing a manicured hand suggestively across their tabletop. The whiff of fragrance that she left behind was the same she had worn three years before.
"Indeed!" Polly said with raised eyebrows.
"What was the significance of that pretty performance?" "She's half-bombed," Qwilleran said with a sense of relief. He had feared he might find Melinda as appealing as before, but the impudent manner that formerly enchanted him now annoyed him; her hair was done in a trendy style he disliked; and she was too thin. His taste had changed. Lest his silence be misconstrued, he quickly said to Polly, "I don't know about you, but I've never traveled with a group, except for a bunch of hyper reporters on a press junket, so I'm hoping for the best and expecting the worst on this excursion." "We'll enjoy it," she assured him and then said, "Do you remember the bronchitis I had when I spent the summer in England? On this trip I'm taking vitamin C as a preventive. The pharmacist told me about a high-potency capsule, and I respect his advice." "Did you discuss it with--your doctor?" Qwilleran was dubious of vitamins, broccoli, and anything else said to be salubrious.