Mr Geoffrey was master of the house back then; that's what they were called then. Lavinia said he was a nice man. The mistress was kind of hard to please. They had one daughter, and she was a problem. In those days she was just called a bad girl. She ran off with a man to Milwaukee, or someplace like that. No one was allowed to speak her name.
(Cough)
Well, he turned out to be a wife beater, and she came back to Hibbard House with her baby. Of course, she was in the doghouse. Her mother kept saying, 'I told you so!' Lavinia felt sorry for her.
(Cough)
One of Lavinia's jobs was to give the baby some fresh air, weather permitting. They had a real fancy baby carriage, and she wheeled it around and around the dirt roads on the property. There was no pavement in those days. Automobiles were just coming in. The Hibbards had one -all open, with side curtains.
One day Lavinia was pushing the carriage when suddenly an automobile came up alongside. Almost frightened her to death. There were two men in it, and one jumped out and grabbed the baby! Then they took off in a cloud of dust! Lavinia went screaming into the house. `They stole the baby! They stole the baby!' She thought it was her fault, and she was so sick, they put her to bed. Mrs Hibbard said to her disgraced daughter, 'I told you so!' And the poor girl went out to a pond on the property and drowned herself.
(Cough)
Lavinia didn't want to work there any more, so she left, but she told us that no one knew what happened to the baby, and no one tried to find out.
`Good story, Ken! Get a few more as good as that, and we'll list you as assistant editor.'
`You mean that? Mr Haggis steered me to another story — how Hibbard House survived the worst snowstorm of the century, before snowploughs and telephones and radio. There's a woman at the Senior Care Facility whose grandmother worked for the Hibbards. I thought I'd go to see her tomorrow after work, but visitors aren't allowed in the evening. So I asked the boss if I could get a couple of hours off — after the paper's put to bed, you know. I told him it was for you. He said okay.'
They had dinner at the small table in the window, and the cats hung around.
Qwilleran explained, 'They're not begging — just being sociable.'
The two men chewed in friendly silence for a while, and then Kenneth asked, 'Who else lives in this row?'
`Mrs Duncan from the bookstore, a doctor from the pet clinic, and the weatherman.'
Wetherby Goode? He's crazy!'
`He's from Horseradish, and they're all slightly crazy! He has a cat named Jet Stream, a name that's appropriate for more reasons than one . . . Speaking of Horseradish, the last remaining Hibbard has just married a native of that town. It was announced in Friday's paper. Everyone's talking about it.'
Qwilleran paused, sensing a change in his guest's genial mood. Then he continued. 'He's a lot younger than she is — and talented and personable, so he's considered quite a catch. But she's the sole heir to the Hibbard fortune — charming and intelligent — so she's a pretty good catch, too'. . . especially since she's not in the best of health. Everyone is puzzling over their respective motives.'
It was the kind of gossip that Qwilleran used to enjoy at the Press Club, where rumours and impolite facts were exchanged freely.
Kenneth had stopped eating. His face was reddening. Finally he interrupted. 'He's my stepfather.'
`Is that so?' Qwilleran feigned surprise, although he had guessed as much. 'Then his previous wife, who was killed by a sniper, was your mother!'
In a choked voice Kenneth said, 'She married him right after my father died. A lot of people in Lockmaster raised their eyebrows. And then, in a couple of years, she was killed by a sniper while riding her horse on a country trail. The sniper was never apprehended. So you know what people were saying!
`My stepfather is a duck hunter, and he has all kinds of guns, including a Remington "Thirty Aught Six", which would be good for a sniper.'
`How about the official investigation?'
`Insufficient evidence. That's why I went to a police academy out west instead of J school.'
`I can understand your feelings.' It was said in the deeply sympathetic tone that brought forth confidences, confessions, and sometimes just tears. Kenneth jumped up and started walking around the room with his hands in his hip pockets.
`Shall we have some dessert?' Qwilleran asked.
`Thanks, but I've gotta get home.'
Qwilleran said, 'Anything that's said within these walls goes no further, Ken.'
The boy left, and the Siamese followed him to the door. They had been listening.
Qwilleran spent the afternoon making something out of nothing - his way of referring to the `Qwill Pen'. The duck hunting book lent to him by the Wix brothers would be the inspiration, and a column on duck habitat would be appropriate during 'Duck Season', as the hunters called it. The problem was that the book - filled with gorgeous colour photographs - was all about hunting, as its title implied. And hunting was not one of Qwilleran's many interests.
When the Wix brothers had invited him to join one of their shoots, he had said, 'I'm a washout with a rifle.' It was a fib. In his earlier days he had won Kewpie dolls at carnivals for shooting BBs at moving targets, and his marksmanship was much admired by the girls to whom he gave his prizes.
He had been born and bred in a metropolitan area where wildlife was for viewing in a zoo, not for shooting. He could not see himself pointing a gun at a furred or feathered creature.
As for ducks, he remembered the friendly brood that visited him daily when he was vacationing at Black Creek.
Ducks and ducklings skimmed across the quiet water without making a ripple or a splash. He could not imagine taking them home for dinner.
The book told him more than he wanted to know about `waterfowling' - guns, camouflage jackets, waders, duck blinds, and decoys. He learned that a drake is a male duck, and the female is a hen . . . that the daily bag limit allows for more drakes than hens . . . that there were divers, fishers, puddlers, and tree ducks. Species that sounded familiar were the mallards, mergansers, pintails, ring-necks, and buffleheads.
The book was informative as well as handsome, but it told him more than he needed to know - for the `Qwill Pen'.
Chapter 21
Qwilleran filed his Tuesday copy for the `Qwill Pen' by motorcycle messenger - to avoid running into Kenneth. There had been something embarrassing about his outburst the previous evening - his outpouring of family secrets and unthinkable suspicions. It was nothing that could be blamed on `too much to drink' because Qwilleran had served nothing stronger than Squunk water. Kenneth's facts or fancies had been building up over a period of time. They had been suppressed, one could imagine, until that moment when encouraged by sympathetic listening. It would be prudent to let the matter cool for a while.
He also gave the motorcycle messenger the duck hunting book to return to Wix & Wix Realty. The Tuesday `Qwill Pen' was all about ducks without a single word about duck hunting. No matter. The Something had an outdoor writer whose job was to address the subject of hunting.
All these thoughts were formulated and decisions made while Qwilleran ate his cereal and sliced bananas. They were interrupted by a phone call from the attorney.
`Nothing to worry about, Qwill. The Hibbard House is legally protected. Full speed ahead!'
Even so, he felt uneasy and disorganized. He remembered his mother's philosophy: 'When you don't know what to do with yourself, do something for someone else.'
Qwilleran went to Unit Two and rang the doorbell. 'Do you need anyone to do backbreaking labour without charge?' he asked. 'I'm available. Offer good for today only.'