Thanking her briefly, Qwilleran dashed out to the car and dropped the cats into their travel coop again. “Sorry. You’re going for another ride,” he announced.
They headed for downtown Mooseville, three miles to the west, where the Huggins Hardware Store made duplicate keys.
The proprietor said, “Spending the summer up here, Mr. Q?”
“Only if I can get the chill out of the cabin, Cecil. Where can I find a repairman for a wall-heater?”
“Glinko’s got “em all tied up,” said the storekeeper. “See Glinko.”
Mildred had said that Glinko’s place of business was right behind the post office, and Qwilleran found only one building in that location: a garage-a greasy, shabby garage with a large door standing open. There was a car inside, with its hood raised. Under the hood a pair of spindly legs in old ragged trousers could be seen waving aimlessly, while the torso was buried among the valves, spark plugs, and cylinders. There was no visible head.
“Excuse me,” Qwilleran said to the waving feet. “Where-can I find Glinko?”
The torso reared up, and the head came into view-a face almost obscured by a wild set of whiskers, a rat’s nest of hair under a greasy beret, and a pair of bright, merry eyes. The gnomelike character slid across the fender and landed nimbly on the concrete floor. “Standin” right here,” he said with a toothless grin. “Who be you?”
“My name is Qwilleran, and I’m staying at the Klingenschoen cabin near Top o” the Dunes.”
The gnome nodded wisely. “That be the place with a K on a post.”
“Correct,” said Qwilleran. “I have a heating problem. I need a repairman.”
“See the wife,” said the little man, nodding toward the house in the rear. “She be the one does all that.”
Qwilleran grunted his thanks and found his way to the house, picking his way through tall weeds, chunks of concrete, and auto parts. Three other cars were parked in the weedy lot, waiting for Glinko’s attention, and they were all in the $40,000 class.
The house was no less dilapidated than the garage. The front steps had caved in, and Qwilleran climbed cautiously through the remaining boards and rapped on the torn screened door. The woman who waddled over to greet him, ample flesh bouncing and tentlike dress billowing, was all smiles and affability.
He introduced himself and said, “I understand you operate a service network.”
“Network!” she hooted, her plump cheeks trembling with merriment. “That’s a good one! Wait’ll I tell Glinko. Ha ha ha! Come in and join the club. You wanna beer?”
“Thank you, but I have two friends waiting for me in the car,” he declined.
She ushered him into a dingy living room where there was nothing to suggest a business operation. “Two hun’erd to join,” she stated. “Fifty a year dues, or a hun’erd if you wanna be on the fast track.”
Qwilleran thought the fee exorbitant, but he gave his name and the address of the cabin and opted for priority service. “Right now I need a wall-heater repaired in a hurry. How quickly can you dispatch a repairman?”
“Dispatch!” she cried with glee. “That’s a good one! Gotta use that! … Lemme see … In a hurry for a plumber, eh?” She gazed upward as if reading file cards on the water-stained ceiling. “Ralph, he went off to Pickax for a load o” pipe.
. ., Jerry, he come down with hay fever so bad he can’t see to drive…
Little Joe’s workin” out your way, puttin” in a new toilet for the Urbanks. I’ll radio out there.”
“Do you bill me for the work?” Qwilleran asked.
“Nope. You pay Little Joe when the work’s done. But you gotta gimme a key.”
He handed over the new key with reluctance. “I’ll write you a check for three hundred. Is that right?”
Mrs. Glinko shook her head and grinned. “Gotta have cash.”
“In that case I’ll have to go over to the bank. Do you want to write down my name and address? It’s spelled Q-w-i-1-1-e-r-a-n.”
“Got it!” she said, tapping her temple. “I’ll dispatch Little Joe after dinner.
Dispatch! Ha ha ha!”
“Not until after dinner?” he protested.
“We eat dinner. You folks eat lunch. Ha ha ha!”
After picking up some cash at the bank for Mrs. Glinko, Qwilleran drove to a parking lot overlooking the municipal marina. There he released the cats from the hamper. “No point in going home yet,” he told them. “We’ll give the guy time to fix the heater. Let’s hope the Glinko system works.”
He bought a hot dog and coffee at the refreshment stand and consumed it behind the wheel, offering the Siamese a few crumbs which they delicately declined.
Together they watched the craft rocking at the piers: charter fishing boats, small yachts, and tall-masted sailboats. There was plenty of money rolling into Mooseville, he concluded. Soon the natives would get rich and start spending winters in the South. He wondered where the Glinkos would idle away the winter.
Palm Springs? Cancel Bay?
At two o’clock he drove slowly to the cabin, skeptical about Mrs. Glinko’s reliability and efficiency. To his relief he found a van parked in the clearing-a rusty, unmarked vehicle with doors flung wide and plumbing gear inside.
The cabin doors were also open, front and back, and warm June air wafted through the building. Little Joe had been smart enough to ventilate the place. Good thinking on his part, Qwilleran had to acknowledge. Why didn’t I do that?
The access door on the front of the heater was open, and in front of it a body lay sprawled on the floor. Qwilleran first noticed the muddy field boots, then the threadbare jeans. By tr)e time his eyes reached the faded red plaid shirt, he knew this, was no repairman.
“Hello,” he said uncertainly. “Are you the plumber?”
The body rolled over, and a husky young woman with mousy hair stuffed into a feed cap sat up and said soberly, “There was a dead spider in the pilot light.
Whole thing’s dirty inside. I’m cleanin” it out. Gotta broom? I made a mess on the floor.” This was said without expression in her large, flat face and dull gray eyes.
“You surprised me,” Qwilleran said. “I was expecting some fellow named Joe.”
“I’m Joanna,” she said. “My daddy was Joe, so we were Big Joe and Little Joe.”
She lowered her eyes as she spoke.
“Was he a plumber, too?”
“He was more of a carpenter, but he did all kinds of things.”
Noticing the past tense, Qwilleran sensed a family tragedy. “What happened, Joanna?” he asked in a sympathetic tone that was part genuine interest and part professional curiosity. He was thinking that a female plumber would make a good subject for the “Qwill Pen.”
“My daddy was killed in an accident.” She was still sitting on the floor with her eyes cast down.
“I’m sorry to hear that-very sorry. Was it a traffic accident?” She shook her head sadly and said in her somber voice, “A tailgate fell on him-the gate on a dump truck.”
“Terrible!” Qwilleran exclaimed. “When did it happen?”
” Coupla months ago.”
“You have my sympathy. How old was he?” Joanna appeared to be about twenty-five.
“Forty-three.” She turned back to the heater as if wanting to end the painful conversation. She lighted the pilot, closed the door and scrambled to her feet.
“Where’s the broom?”
Qwilleran watched her sweep, noting that she was very thorough. Joanna was a strong, healthy-looking young person, but she never smiled.
“Be right back,” she said as she carried a small toolkit to her van. When she returned, she mumbled, “That’ll be thirty-five.”
Assuming that she, like Mrs. Glinka, preferred cash, he gave her some bills from his money clip and accepted a, receipt marked “Paid-Jo Trupp.” He thought the charge was high, but he was grateful to have the heater operating.