Purposely he arrived at the theatre late, parking in the space reserved for the press. The audience was already seated and the houselights were beginning to dim when he strode down the aisle and slipped into the critic's traditional seat in row five.
There was a moment of silent anticipation, and then the curtain rose slowly, and during the breathless stillness Qwilleran heard two whispering voices behind him.
`That's Mr Q.'
`He's gonna write it up for the paper.'
`He's alone.'
`Where's his friend?'
`Maybe they broke up.'
The scene onstage was a posh bachelor flat in nineteenth-century London. A butler with painfully rigid dignity entered in slow motion, carrying a silver platter of cucumber sandwiches.
The whisperer in row six said, 'He owns the department store.'
When the glamorous Gwendolen entered, it was whispered, `Her dad's the police chief.'
Everyone in the immediate vicinity was restless with annoyance, and Qwilleran wondered how to squelch the commentary without resorting to violence. Then one of the actors spoke some pithy lines in a rich baritone, and the voice said, 'That's him! That's him! His wife was shot!'
And a booming voice in the same row bellowed, 'Shut up!'
The whispering stopped. The dialogue onstage never missed a beat. And the audience went on responding to the witty lines and ludicrous characters with chuckles and murmurs of delight. Lady Bracknell, with a Queen Mary hat adding inches to her height, was received with quiet amusement.
During intermission, when Qwilleran went to the lobby to stretch his legs, he met the Comptons at the drinking fountain. Lyle was superintendent of schools; Lisa was a retired educator now serving as volunteer captain of the Edd Smith People.
Lyle said, 'What did you think of the fracas in the sixth row? No wonder Lockmaster people think we're barbarians in Moose County.'
Lisa said, 'That was our intrepid Ernie Kemple who came to the rescue. It took nerve to do what he did, but it didn't faze the members of the cast.'
Qwilleran said, 'Actors can't afford to be distracted by disturbances in the audience. Once I was onstage with an actress in Noel Coward's Private Lives and a loud guffaw in the front row made her forget her lines - completely! I'll never forget that experience, and it was thirty years ago!' The lobby lights blinked. He added quickly, 'Lisa, could you meet me at the bookstore for an interview about the ESP?'
`I'll be there all day tomorrow.'
They returned to the auditorium.
-The two seats behind Qwilleran remained vacant for the rest of the show.
How Polly would have enjoyed the play! In a way it was his own fault that she was not there, he decided. He should never have had the K Fund underwrite a bookstore for Polly to manage. He had suggested it only because she was disenchanted with her work at the library. She had allowed herself to be consumed by the new challenge.
He missed dining out with Polly two or three times a week . . . weekend walks on the lakeshore and on the banks of the Ittibittiwassee, and evenings of classical music at the apple barn, where the music system was superb and the acoustics were fabulous. Once, he recalled, they were dining at the Grist Mill and spent ten minutes discussing the meaning of 'perspicuity' and `perspicacity'; then they skipped dessert in order to hurry home and consult Webster's Unabridged. Should they go to her place or his place?
She had the newest edition, the third; he had the second edition, which he really preferred. He had bought the third edition, he explained, but it was in the cats' quarters, where they used it as a scratching pad.
Soon, Qwilleran now hoped, his life with Polly would return to normal. He went home and had a large dish of ice cream - diet or no diet.
Chapter 4
On Saturday morning Qwilleran walked to the bookstore to interview Lisa Compton - through the patch of woods in his property, up Main Street, and around behind the post office. In motor-minded Pickax, he was a familiar sight in his orange baseball cap. For him it was a safeguard - not only in traffic but in the woods, where a predatory owl might otherwise mistake his good head of hair for furry prey.
The bookstore turned its back to the post office loading docks and faced Walnut Street - the grey stucco edifice blending with the century-old stone buildings of the city. Double doors opened into a vestibule with a large doormat, obligatory in a town called the Buckle of the Snow Belt. Custom-imprinted, the mat did not say 'Welcome to The Pirate's Chest' or 'Please Wipe Your Feet' but . . . 'Don't Let The Cat Out!'
For further practical reasons it had been decided to carpet the interior in charcoal grey instead of a lively green to match the bibliocat's magical eyes, but lively green smocks on the personnel were an acceptable compromise. They bustled about their bookish chores, but there was no sign of Polly. Either she had taken his advice and slept late or she had ignored his advice and was putting in a few more hours at the library.
Neither surmise was true. 'Mrs Duncan is out having her hair done,' Qwilleran was informed. 'Mrs Compton is waiting for you downstairs.'
There was nothing downbeat about 'downstairs' at the bookstore. One experienced a sense of majesty in walking down the broad staircase, stepping on the wide treads, and gazing up at the pirate's chest on the wall above - the real chest, which had been buried on the site since the 1850s.
To the right was the flexible suite of meeting rooms. To the left was Edd Smith's Place. Volunteers wearing green vests with the ESP logo busied themselves at the computer, on the stepladder, or at other tasks made enjoyable by Dundee's presence. Lisa Compton made introductions and then whisked Qwilleran away to a meeting room, where he taped the following:
What was the first book in the history of Moose County? Make a guess.
Probably a prayer book belonging to a pastor who came here with his flock. The early settlers were intrepid and hardworking, but few were literate. Even in the boom years, the owner of all the sawmills along the coast could neither read nor write. In the late nineteenth century wealthy families built mansions with impressive libraries, the status symbol of the day. The shelves were filled with leather-bound, gold-tooled books that they would never read. Then, in the twentieth century a middle class emerged, and they read for pleasure.
What did they read?
The classics - but also the new romances, mysteries, adventure stories. They bought books on art, poetry, and etiquette. Edd Smith's father sold books door-to-door for nickels and dimes. These are the books that are being donated to the ESP today.
How does the ESP work?
The Pirate's Chest has allocated half of the lower level for the Edd Smith Place. Volunteers, called the Edd Smith People, will staff the shop, and proceeds go to the Literacy Council and the annual Eddington Smith scholarships.
Are folks donating enough books to stock the shelves?
Well! For starters there was the front-page announcement that a prominent citizen had donated a hundred books. Although no name was mentioned, everyone guessed it was you and wanted to participate. Volunteers have also solicited books from acquaintances, picked them up, and catalogued them. In memory of Eddington Smith . . . that dear little man! Everyone wants to carry on his work!
Isn't it a formidable task, managing this operation, Lisa?
I couldn't do it without a dedicated board of directors. They help me make decisions, solve problems, and maintain enthusiasm among the volunteers. Burgess Campbell, Maggie Sprenkle, Dr Abernethy, and Violet Hibbard. I'm deeply grateful for their support.