Sitting at the snack bar, the two men poured their own drinks, and Andy said, 'Still drinkin' Squunk water? You're gonna turn into a Squunk.'
`Better than turning into a casualty at the Black Creek bridge,' Qwilleran said. Did Fran say anything about it?'
`Haven't seen her. M'wife and two other daughters saw the show. They said it was good.'
`Do you know if Fran went out celebrating with the other actors after the matinee?'
`Nope.'
Qwilleran said, The fellow who was killed had been coming down from Lockmaster for rehearsals, and he should have known about the tricky curve at the bridge.'
`They shouldn't bring in outsiders for the Pickax shows,' Brodie said. 'Y'never know what they're up to. The medical examiner said the driver was on drugs. Drugs and alcohol - that's murder! Larry and Carol don't allow no drugs in the club. Their youngest kid was on drugs when he ran his car into the side of a moving freight train.'
`I'm shocked to hear about the medical report, Andy. I wonder if the Lanspeaks know?'
`They'll have a fit when they find out . . . Say, this is good cheese!'
Chapter 7
Qwilleran walked downtown to file his Tuesday `Qwill Pen' column before the noon deadline and returned by way of Granny's Sweet Shop. His recent ruminations about banana splits had given him the urge to try one for lunch. He reasoned that it would provide his banana for the day. And he was in a good mood when he returned to the apple barn in time to hear the phone ringing.
A man's voice said, 'Mr Qwilleran? Mrs Duncan gave me your phone number.'
`Don't tell me! Let me guess! You're Jack Worthing aka Ernest.'
`You have a good ear, sir.'
`You have a distinctive voice, sir. What can I do for you?'
`Mrs Duncan has assigned me to start a literary club under the auspices of the bookstore, and she thinks you will have some input. Could you spare some time this afternoon?'
`Gladly! At the store? Or here?'
`With only two days to go before the press preview, things are a little hectic over here—'
`Then come to the barn. Do you know where it is?'
`Behind the theatre and through the woods?'
`Are you in the mood for coffee or a cold drink?'
`I think I'd like to try your infamous coffee.'
Without ever having met the man, Qwilleran liked the timbre of his voice and his economy with words. A few minutes later they were shaking hands in the barnyard and exchanging first names.
Alden gazed up at the lofty octagonal building. 'This is beyond my wildest imaginings, Qwill. And you live here alone?'
`No, I live with two Siamese cats, who are the equivalent of a large family.' Glancing at his visitor's briefcase, he added, 'Shall we sit at the conference table?'
Papers were spread out and coffee was served at the dining table, hardly ever used for anything but small meetings and large cocktail parties, such as the famous cheese-tasting at which Koko went bananas and literally trashed the whole scene. The black-tie crowd who had paid three hundred dollars a ticket - for charity - never forgot it.
Alden said, 'We have a list here of fifty persons who have shown an interest in a lit club, patterned after the one in Lockmaster.'
Glancing at the list, Qwilleran saw the names of the school superintendent, the president of the community college, two attorneys, doctors, retired academics, a professional astrologer, and artists. 'What kind of programming do you propose?'
`Book reviews, lectures, discussions of pre-assigned books. The names on this list will be invited to attend a planning session. At this meeting everyone would like you to be our first speaker.'
‘Hmmm . . .’ Qwilleran mused. 'Any suggested topic?'
`How about a profile of Eddington Smith, since you probably knew him better than any other customer.'
`How many hours can I have?' Qwilleran asked.
That settled, they went on to talk of other matters.
About Mrs Duncan, as he called her with unnecessary formality: 'A charming woman. Cultivated voice. Good executive.'
About Ronald Dickson: 'Sad! Very sad! He had his theatre training in my class at the academy. He was a natural when it came to acting, but he lacked confidence. He thought popping pills would solve the problem. Not true! I don't approve of amphetamines. There are techniques to be learned. But he wanted short cuts. Poor Ronnie.'
Qwilleran said to his guest, 'Have you found a satisfactory place to live?'
`The Hibbard House. Excellent accommodations. A good cook. Charming hostess. Congenial guests. One can always find four for bridge or a party for duck hunting. There's a good library . . . and a music room with a Steinway.'
`Any pets?' Qwilleran asked.
`No personal pets. But Violet has a watchdog named Tasso that has won me over. In fact, I've asked her permission to take full responsibility for him. I've always had at least two dogs, and I miss them.'
`I know how you feel,' Qwilleran said, thinking about Koko and Yum Yum.
`There's one strict rule. No smoking on the premises -anywhere. The house is over a hundred years old and built completely of wood. There are fire extinguishers everywhere, some disguised as art objects.'
Qwilleran said, 'About the dog: where does he hang out in this magnificent place?'
`He has a separate room, just off the kitchen, and his own screened porch. He's an Italian breed, a Bracco, and one of the best gun dogs I've ever hunted with. You must come with us some weekend.'
`How did you find this choice place, Alden?'
`Violet Hibbard is on the ESP board, and Mrs Compton introduced us.' There was much sympathy for the widower, and he happened to be a good-looking man with polished manners. It was common knowledge that there was a waiting list for accommodations. Lisa had apparently pulled strings.
By the time the polished guest left, he had lined up the first speaker for the literary club.
Only then did Qwilleran realize that the Siamese had not made an appearance while Alden was on the premises. Did they sense he was a dog person? Now they were walking with the stiff-legged gait and stiffened tails that denoted disapproval.
And yet the Siamese always welcomed Culvert McBee, the farmboy who lived on the back road, and he always had dogs. He sheltered old, unwanted dogs in a shed on the family farm, a hobby that his parents encouraged. So did Qwilleran, who maintained a Koko Fund to cover veterinary expenses. To raise money for dog food, Culvert sold small handcrafted items, his mother's cookies, and fruit from their ancient pear tree, said to be older than Pickax. Pears ranked next to bananas on Qwilleran's least-favoured-fruit list, but they were welcomed by fellow staffers at the Something.
So it was not Alden Wade's canine connection that turned off the Siamese. Was he wearing a scent discernible only to a cat's sensitive nose? Did his lofty mode of speech offend their delicate ears? Yum Yum had not even made her usual stealthy search for something small and shiny to steal. Qwilleran's puzzlement only increased his curiosity about the new man in town.
Altogether it was a busy afternoon at the apple barn: first, Alden Wade with stimulating news about the Hibbard House . . . then Culvert with another bag of pears . . . and finally Dwight Somers with news about Thursday's press preview at The Pirate's Chest. The publicist from Down Below had a knack for dramatizing events in the boondocks.
`Glass of wine?' Qwilleran offered him.
`Not this time, thanks. I have work to do tonight. But I'll try a glass of that stuff you drink.'
They sat at the snack bar with Squunk water on the rocks, with a twist, and Dwight pulled papers from his briefcase: press releases for four separate news events.