Qwilleran turned off the tape recorder. 'I've never met Violet Hibbard,' he said in an aggrieved tone. As a journalist, he expected to know everyone and everything on his beat.
`She's a wonderful woman, recently retired after a career teaching English lit in eastern colleges.'
`How old is she?'
`About our age. She took early retirement when she inherited the Hibbard House. She's the last of the Hibbards, and a developer wanted to buy it, tear it down, and build condos. The thought of it makes me shudder! Do you know the Hibbard mansion, Qwill?'
`I know where it is, but I've never seen it. I understand it's been pictured in national magazines.'
`Yes. In a county filled with stone mansions, it's built entirely of wood, and miraculously it has survived forest fires, lightning, arson and accidents with wood-burning stoves and fireplaces, and human carelessness. Violet has undertaken to preserve it as a high-class guest house . . . There's a story for you, Qwill. And Violet would love to meet you. She adores your column!'
Qwilleran automatically liked readers who adored his column. With a nonchalant shrug he said, 'Give me a ring when she's going to be in the shop. I'll drop in.'
When Qwilleran walked home from the bookstore and emerged from the woods, Koko was doing his jumping-jack act in the kitchen window. It meant that there was a message on the answering machine. Sure enough, the red light was blinking, and the message was from Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist (real name: Joe Bunker).
`Hey, Qwill! This is Joe. Did Polly tell you the latest from Indian Village? I'll pop in on my way to the studio and we'll shoot the breeze. Will you be there around four-thirty? Leave a yes or no on the answer box.'
Qwilleran's answer was yes. What was the news that Polly hadn't told him?
Indian Village was an upscale residential area outside the city limits: rustic condos and apartment clusters in a wooded setting. There were nature trails along the Ittibittiwassee River, and there was a clubhouse with a bar, a bridge club, an occasional lecture, and a bird-watchers' society.
In the winter when the apple barn was impossible to heat, Qwilleran lived in Unit Four of a strip of condos called the Willows. Wetherby was his next-door neighbour, along with his cat, Jet Stream. Polly lived in Unit One with her Brutus and Catta. For a while Unit Two had been occupied by an ailurophobe, but he left suddenly. 'Allergic to cat hair,' his neighbours said with a wink. There was more to the story than they cared to discuss.
When Wetherby 'popped in' at four-thirty, they sat at the bar, and he had a beer while Qwilleran had a ginger ale, asking, 'Did you see the play last night, Joe?'
`Yeah! They did a swell job! I imagine it was a challenge for the actors, but Carol is a great director.'
Did you hear the commotion in the audience at the beginning?'
`Sure did! Only Ernie Kemple would have the guts to shut them up the way he did. He has a voice like a foghorn.'
Qwilleran said, 'Apparently, the culprits were offended; they didn't return for the second act.'
`Well, you know, Qwill, people get used to talking while watching TV, and they think it's okay to do it at the theatre. They left because their feelings were hurt.'
Koko jumped on the adjoining bar stool as if wanting to join in the conversation.
`How's Jet Stream?' Qwilleran asked.
`He wants to know when you guys are moving back to the Village.'
`Usually the first of November . . . But what's the big news? Did the bird-watchers spot a yellow-bellied sapsucker?'
The scuttlebutt is that Unit Two has been purchased - by Alden Wade! Better lock up your girlfriend! He has a reputation as a lady-killer.'
Why had Polly not mentioned this? Qwilleran wondered. She was always the first to hear a rumour. But calmly he remarked, `It's about time they found a buyer for Unit Two. It downgrades a neighbourhood if a property is vacant too long . . . Another drink, Joe?'
`No thanks. I've got to amble over to the station.'
`I hope the new neighbour likes cats,' Qwilleran said, making light of the situation.
He wondered, after Wetherby had driven away, if Polly had been the one who suggested Unit Two to the personable widower who was going to work at the bookstore part-time, and who was said to be a lady-killer. Wetherby was a native of Lockmaster. He should know.
The Siamese were standing shoulder to shoulder, waving their tails in unison - a polite reminder that it was dinnertime.
Qwilleran said, 'How would you guys like to move back to the Village earlier this year?'
He spent the evening writing his review for Monday's paper, being careful not to praise the two actors from Lockmaster more than hometown members of the theatre club. He also consulted his watch frequently.
At ten o'clock he phoned Polly. There was no answer. He left a message.
He had given the cats their bedtime treat and escorted them to their suite on the third balcony when Polly called. Her exhilaration was a far cry from her previous weariness.
`Qwill! You'll never guess where I've been tonight! To the Oscar Wilde play! Since Alden, one of our staffers, is in the cast, I thought it appropriate to take the Green Smocks, as we call the girls, to see the show. My treat! They loved it! They had all read your Tuesday column, stimulating their interest.' She paused for breath.
He said, 'I'm glad to see you recovered from last night's doldrums. Do we credit Oscar Wilde or your hairdresser?'
`Both!' she said with a trilling laugh that he had not heard for some time - not since she had started studying her encyclopedic manual on how to run a bookstore. Before he could comment, she asked, 'How was your interview with Lisa Compton?'
`Quite enlightening. There are some things I'd like to discuss with you. How about Sunday brunch at Tipsy's tomorrow and then a musicale at the barn? I have a new recording of "La Symphonie Fantastique" that you'll like.'
`Well . . . I really should get out my winter wardrobe and prepare for cold weather.'
`Smart idea! I'm thinking of moving back to the Village earlier because of the weather forecast . . . By the way, I hear that Unit Two is being purchased.'
She hesitated before saying, 'Oh, really?' It was her all-purpose expression indicating uneasiness, suspicion, alarm, and a desire to evade the subject.
`I don't know who it is, except that it's a single man. I hope he likes cats,' he added in jest.
`Where did you hear it?' she asked — defensively, he thought.
`I don't recall. Either at the theatre last night or at the bookstore today. It will be good to have the unit occupied. I hope he's congenial . . . Well, sleep well. A bientôt!
A bientôt', she echoed with a noticeable lack of spirit.
Now Qwilleran was sure that Polly had suggested Unit Two to the new man in town. She was always discovering 'interesting' men: a Chicago architect, a Canadian professor, an antiques dealer from Ohio . . . and now it appeared to be an actor! Why were women so easily mesmerized by actors? His own mother had fallen for an actor in a travelling company, but that was not all bad.
Qwilleran had a strong desire for a large dish of ice cream, but in the kitchen there was an aroma of overripe bananas. He had not been observing the doctor's advice. There were three bananas in the bowl on the bar, a handcrafted ceramic from the local art centre. When empty it looked 'arty'. With three brownish bananas in it, it looked like a garbage receptacle!
He dumped them and had a large dish of ice cream.
Chapter 5
On Sunday Qwilleran was a willing guest at an impromptu dinner party, the purpose of which was to empty the Rikers' refrigerator. Mildred Riker was the food editor of the Moose County Something; her husband, Arch, was editor in chief — and a longtime friend of the `Qwill Pen' columnist. The couple had made a sudden decision to close their house at the lake and return to winter quarters in Indian Village.