'It wouldn't work,' Qwilleran protested. 'Most of my columns are of local, topical interest in Moose County.'
`Nothing wrong with that,' the editor said. 'It could be the beginning of a healthy link between our two counties - instead of the mutual snobbery that keeps us apart. Both counties could benefit. Think about it. Are you having dessert?'
The MacDiarmids lived in a planned neighbourhood, circa 1940, of two-storey colonials with attached garages on cosy cul-de-sacs. There was nothing like that in Moose County. On the way there, Qwilleran recalled Polly's comment: 'Be prepared for a much more vivacious Moira since she has her career as cat breeder and their daughter has gone away to college. She's dropped the wife-and-mother role.'
When he arrived, Moira flung open the door and cried, `Come in! Come in! Dundee is ready to go - along with his impedimenta. He's downstairs in the cattery, saying goodbye to his confreres. Go and sit in the family room, Qwill. I'll bring him up, and the two of you can get acquainted before you take off.'
Qwilleran, meanwhile, could hear Moira's falsetto pep talk to the marmalade brood below.
When she reappeared she was preceded by a handsome marmalade yearling. He had the leanness of youth, the greenest of green eyes, and a cocky swagger. He went directly to Qwilleran's chair and checked out the famous moustache.
`Yours is the first moustache he's ever seen,' Moira said. 'He has a wonderful, outgoing, fearless personality.' Then to the cat she said, 'This is your uncle Qwill, Dundee! He's going to take you to a bookstore where you'll be the official bibliocat.'
`Is there anything I should tell Polly?'
`We've been in touch by phone regularly. She's as excited as we are! He'll travel in his own carrier and take his own favourite scratching post. It's covered in green carpet. She has a basket-bed for him, but we're sending his own cushion for it.'
At this point, Dundee jumped on Qwilleran's lap and presented him with a small rag doll, well chewed and still damp.
`Isn't that sweet?' Moira said. 'He's giving you Rebecca, his favourite toy! Polly said we should send all his familiar playthings. He even has an old toothbrush that he dearly loves. He parades around importantly with it clamped crosswise in his little jaws . . . Now let's talk about something else and ignore him for a while.'
`For starters,' Qwilleran said, 'tell me about rose-watching. Is it a joke?'
`Not at all! You should introduce it in your column, Qwill. It's a simple, private way of calming the nerves in these days of terrorists and snipers.'
`Are you a rose-watcher, Moira?'
`Definitely. And Kip finds it an aid to problem-solving; it clears the mind.'
Hmmm, Qwilleran mused; that faker never admitted he watched roses! Casually, he asked Moira, 'Do you think Alden Wade is a rose-watcher?'
`That poor man! It would help him, I know. And to make things worse, when his stepson came home for the funeral, there was a nasty scene at the funeral home, and the boy stomped out. Kathie hasn't heard from him since. She says he never got along with his stepfather. Wesley idolized his real dad and resented it when his mom married so soon.'
Qwilleran said, `So apparently Alden married an older woman.'
`Yes, but you'd never guess it. She was a horsewoman and in excellent condition . . . All of this is confidential, of course.'
`Of course.'
Driving back to Pickax with a contented cat in the carrier beside him, Qwilleran pulled off the road to phone Polly at the library and was told she had left early to handle an emergency at the bookstore.
He phoned the bookstore. 'I've got him!' he reported. 'We've just crossed the county line. We'll be there in twenty-eight minutes.'
`Is he nervous?' she asked anxiously.
`Not as nervous as I am. He lounges in his carrier and doesn't say a word. No yowling! No shrieking!'
`He'll be a good bibliocat. Did Moira send some of his things?' `Yes. His cushion . . . and his scratching post . . . and his toothbrush. See you shortly. Roll out the red carpet.'
The new bookstore occupied the site of Eddington Smith's quaint shop, where he had sold pre-owned books, done bookbinding in the back room, and kept a bibliocat in sardines. It was a strange piece of property - a block long but squeezed between Book Alley and Walnut Street - a miscalculation on the part of the founding fathers, it was said, after too much fish-house punch.
The new bookstore had to be long and narrow, but it turned its back to Book Alley, had parking lots at both ends, and faced the park across Walnut Street. The exterior was grey stucco to harmonize with the old stone buildings of Pickax, but it had a red tile roof, and the name of the store was spelled out in block letters of aluminium mounted directly on the grey stucco:
THE PIRATE’S CHEST
The entrance doors, flanked by display windows, were in the centre of the building. Inside, there were books to the right and books to the left, but straight ahead was a wide, inviting staircase leading to the lower level and - mounted on the wall above it -a real pirate's chest of ancient wood with iron straps. It had been buried on the property for a century and a half.
Staffers in green smocks were still unpacking books and stocking the shelves when Qwilleran walked in with the cat carrier, but they swarmed around, crying, 'Here he is! Here's Dundee! . . . Isn't he gorgeous?'
`Don't overwhelm him!' Polly said. 'Take him into the office, Qwill, and let him wander out when he feels like it.'
Half an hour later, Dundee made his formal appearance. He had inspected his quarters, had a bit to eat, tested the 'facilities', and then walked confidently into the selling area, with his toothbrush clamped firmly between his jaws.
Late that evening before Qwilleran could phone Polly, she called him. 'I'm going to bed early and turning the phone off. I didn't want you to worry.' Only once before had he seen her push herself too far, and she had landed in the hospital.
`But I am definitely worried about you, Polly. Make up your mind to phase out the library. They'll never let you go if you don't cut the cord. And one more thing. Don't - set - your - alarm - clock!'
`I won't, dear. Thank you, dear.'
Chapter 3
`Your uncle George is coming,' Qwilleran said to the Siamese as he brushed their silky coats. 'Be on your best behaviour. Mind your manners. Don't interrupt conversations with irrelevant remarks.'
The more one speaks to cats, the smarter they become, Qwilleran believed. What one says to them doesn't matter; it's the tone that counts: serious, purposeful.
Uncle George was a private joke. A new attorney from Down Below, named George Barter, had joined the prestigious Hasselrich law firm to represent Qwilleran in all matters concerning the Klingenschoen Fund. In a slip of the tongue the WPKX announcer identified the new attorney as 'George Breze . . . uh, correction: George Barter.' Once more WPKX had slipped on a banana peeclass="underline" George Breze was a local character of dubious integrity, a certified oddball. He was once quoted as saying, 'Why should I learn to read and write? I can hire somebody to do it.'
After the WPKX faux pas, the jokers in the coffee shops guffawed for a week, and the attorney changed his business cards to 'G. Allen Barter.'
He would henceforth be known to locals as Allen, although he would always be George to the IRS and Social Security.