“It was a pleasure to write,” he said, “and here’s a small thank-you for sharing your story about Punkin.”
“Oh!” she cried. “I never had any .’. . flowers in … green paper. We never had … money for … fancy things.”
“May I ask, after you went to college, did you teach school?”
“Yes. The school had … one room. There was … a potbellied stove … and oil lamps …”
He tried to ask questions that would focus her attention and jog her memory, but her answers were hesitant and vague. “You told the story of Punkin very well. Do you remember any other tales?’”
“I used to know … a lot of stories. … I wrote them down … I don’t know where they are.”
“Emma, honey,” said the volunteer, “they’re safe and sound in your room upstairs.” She caught Qwilleran’s eye and tapped her watch. Emma was looking weary.
“We’ll have another visit someday,” he said. “Until then, goodbye.” He clasped her cold hands in his.
“Goodbye,” she said in a wisp of a voice.
As Emma was wheeled away, clutching her daisies, he went to the reception desk to speak with Irma Hasselrich. “She seems to be failing,” he said.
“But you never know!” she said brightly. “These farm-women have tremendous stamina.” Optimism was the policy of the canaries.
“The newspaper is interested in running more memoirs of old-timers. How many residents do you have?”
“Sixty-five, and others on the waiting list.”
“Would it be possible to screen them? The volunteers probably know who has a reliable memory and who has a story to tell.”
“I’ll raise the question at a staff meeting this week,” she said, “but we wouldn’t want to discriminate, would we? We might hurt the feelings of some of these dear folks. They’re like children.”
Her gentleness was attractive, Qwilleran thought, yet she bad a cultivated sophistication. He was curious about this stunning woman, probably about forty, who had never married, who dedicated her life to helping others, and who still lived with her parents in Indian Village. This much he had gleaned from her father, the jovial attorney for the Klingenschoen Fund.
He said, “You could help a great deal with this project, if you could be good enough to give me some background information on policies of the facility.
Perhaps you would be free for dinner some evening.”
“Unfortunately,” she said, “I’ll be on the desk every evening this week, but it’s charming of you to ask.”
“How about Saturday night?”
“I would really love it, but it’s Father’s birthday.”
Before Qwilleran could huff into his moustache, a voice called out, “Mr. Qwilleran! Mr. Qwilleran! I’m glad I caught you.” It was Emma’s canary, waving a shopping bag. “Emma wants you to have these things-to keep.”
“What are they?”
“Just little mementoes, and some stories about her life.”
“Shouldn’t she give them to her family?”
“Her family isn’t really interested, but Emma says you’ll think of something to do with them. There’s a candy box that was a valentine from her husband, probably seventy years ago.”
“Give her my thanks,” he said. “Tell her I’ll write her a letter.”
When he turned back to finish his conversation with the Chief Canary, she had walked away from the desk, replaced by a lesser canary in a yellow smock. “Ms. Hasselrich was needed in a meeting,” she said. “Is there a message?”
There was no message. He carried Emma’s keepsakes to the parking lot, thinking, What am I doing here? I could have been an investigative reporter Down Below.
At the cabin Koko was immediately attracted to the shopping bag and its contents. He took a vital interest in anything new, anything different, any addition to the household, and Mrs. Wimsey’s mementoes-having been on a farm for seventy years-probably retained an enticing scent. Among the notebooks and envelopes and loose papers was the candybox, covered in faded pink brocade that was almost threadbare and topped with a heart outlined in yellowed lace-a pathetic reminder of bygone happiness. Qwilleran stuffed the documents back into the shopping bag and added the candybox to the clutter on the dining table, where Koko applied his inquisitive nose to every inch of the old silk and lace, all the while tapping the table with his tail. Tap tap tap.
CHAPTER 13.
ON MONDAY MORNING as Qwilleran was preparing to serve the Siamese their minced beef mixed with cottage cheese and laced with tomato sauce, there was an explosion in the woods, and a rusty pickup with camper top lurched into the clearing.
“Iggy’s back!” Qwilleran proclaimed in a tone of excitement mixed with dread.
“He must have run out of cigarette money.”
Although eager to confront the man with questions and rebukes, he restrained his urges. He waited until the carpenter oozed out of the truck. As Iggy ambled toward the building site at the pace of a tired snail, Qwilleran followed. “Nice day!” he remarked to the prodigal workman.
“Should be able to finish THEM SUCKERS TODAY,” said Iggy.
“To which suckers are you referring?” Qwilleran asked politely.
“Them boards!” He pointed to the siding.
“Good! And I wish you’d dispose of that rubbish.” Qwilleran indicated the scraps of shingles and torn wrappings. “I have business in Pickax today, but I’ll be back in time to pay your day’s wages. See you after lunch.”
He strode back to the cabin to finish working on the cats” breakfast but found them on the kitchen counter, finishing the job themselves. Before leaving for Pickax he glanced automatically around the interior, checking for feline temptations, locking up toothbrushes, hiding copies of the Moose County Something, closing all drawers, hiding the telephone in a kitchen cabinet, and leaving no socks lying around.
“Keep an eye on the carpenter,” he told them. “Don’t let him burn down the house.”
He locked the doors, front and back, as he left. There was no need for Iggy to have access to the cabin.
The business in Pickax was the monthly luncheon meeting of the trustees for the Klingenschoen Fund. He stopped at his apartment to pick up some more books, dropped into the newspaper office to trade comradely insults with the staff in the city room, then reported to the meeting place in the New Pickax Hotel, built in 1935. Since that time it had never been redecorated, and the menu had never changed. The natives of Pickax were creatures of habit and tradition.
At the luncheon table Qwilleran remarked, “I see they’ve warmed up the 1935 chicken a la king again.” His humor brought no response from the bankers, accountants, investment counselors, and attorneys who administered the fund, but the high-spirited Mr. Hasselrich said he thought the chicken was rather good.
Following the luncheon the trustees reviewed the Fund’s philanthropies and considered new applications for grants and loans. It was Qwilleran’s money, in the long run, that they were handling, but his mind wandered from the business at hand. He kept combing his moustache with his fingers; something was calling him home to the lakeshore.
He drove back to the beach faster than usual, with the car windows wide open, and the closer he came to the lake, the fresher and more invigorating the air.
When he started up the driveway, however, the atmosphere changed. His eyes started to itch and smart unaccountably. At the same time he became aware of a foul odor … It was smoke! But not wood smoke! He detected noxious fumes from something burning-something toxic. He took the curves and hills of the drive like a roller coaster and jammed on the brake at the top of the dune. The clearing was filled with black, acrid smoke. Iggy’s truck was there, and the carpenter was behind the wheel, blissfully asleep.