-15-

The shop called Tanks & Tees was a shabby establishment behind the Shipwreck Tavern. The work space looked like a collection of flotsam and jetsam, while the staff looked like shipwreck survivors. Nevertheless, the thirty shirts were ready when Qwilleran arrived, and the proprietors were proud to be filling such a large order for such an important event.

“I was told to inspect them,” Qwilleran said. “The Pennant Race is a class act, and the promoters are fussy.”

The inspection revealed that the Daubers had their name misspelled; three shirts had to be redone. While waiting, Qwilleran had an early lunch at the Nasty Pasty and then wandered into Elizabeth’s boutique. It was Tuesday, and there were no customers.

She came running toward him. “Qwill, I saw Derek briefly this morning before his classes, and he had good news! The bartender was fired last night!”

“On what grounds?”

“I don’t know. Derek wasn’t told and didn’t ask. He was simply glad to get rid of that man - not to mention the awkward situation with Monkey, his girlfriend. She’s been there every night, wanting to talk to Derek.”

“Who’ll be the replacement?”

“Derek could make some recommendations, but his policy is to do a good job and learn all he can without getting involved. He wants to give it one full year. Then, if he takes my advice, he’ll put all his smelly clothes in a heap and have a bonfire.”

“Well, put a clothespin on your nose if necessary, but stick with Derek,” Qwilleran advised. “He has potential. Those who know him have always been convinced of that, but it remained for you to come on the scene and be the good influence.”

“Oh, Qwill! That’s so kind of you to say!”


When he delivered the T-shirts to Hixie, he picked up his fan mail from the office manager. She looked a trifle wan, as if the warm-up had been too strenuous for her.

He said, “You and Wilfred did an efficient job backstage last night.”

“Thank you,” she said demurely. “Would you like me to slit the envelopes for you?”

“I’d appreciate that.” Since she was not her usual talkative self, he left without pressing the conversation.

The Tuesday edition was newly off the press, and he picked up a copy in the lobby. There on the front page was an item that caused him to huff into his moustache:


PICKAX TO GET MEMORIAL PARK

A much-needed expansion to the Pickax Cemetery has been made possible through the sudden availability of a suitable site-four acres in the southeast corner of the intersection of Trevelyan and Cemetery roads. City Council voted last night to buy the land for $6,000 an acre.

A spokesperson for the city said, “It meets the specific needs of a cemetery - high land without rocks. It’s adjacent to the original burial grounds and away from city traffic, with plenty of roadside parking for funeral processions.”

Unlike the original cemetery with its assortment of monuments, the new extension will be a memorial park.

“This follows the trend to a broad expanse of lawn with grave markers recessed in the grass,” said the spokesperson. “Bereaved families will find welcome serenity in the uninterrupted sweep of beautiful lawn. Also, it will facilitate mowing, providing better maintenance at lower cost.”


Qwilleran pounded his moustache in annoyance and drove directly to Amanda Goodwinter’s design studio. He strode into the shop, waving the newspaper.

“I voted against it,” she said angrily, jumping up from the desk. “Six thousand an acre! Can you guess what that rat paid for it? I bet he gave the poor woman not more than eleven hundred an acre!”

“Do you know his identity?”

“Of course I know! And I wouldn’t trust that robber to hold my ice-cream cone!”

“The property was in his wife’s name.”

“Naturally!”

“He’d promised Mrs. Coggin he’d reserve the land for growing crops. It didn’t take him long to change his mind.”

“And I wouldn’t put it past him to bum down her house to speed matters!”

“That’s an incendiary remark, Amanda.”

” Arrgh!”

“Is there any chance of an investigation?”

“Nab! He’s got everybody in his pocket, including the mayor. Even Scott Gippel voted yes for the cemetery deal. D’you know why? He’s got a bid in to sell the county a fleet of maintenance trucks!”

“I heard somewhere that what’s-his-name was accused, at one time, of watering the liquor in his bar.”

“No comment!” she said, folding her arms across her chest and setting her jaw.

“But it turned out that the bartender was the culprit.”

“No comment!”

As Qwilleran started to leave the studio he asked, in a lighter vein, “Are you looking forward to the big bash tomorrow night?”

“In a word, no! But somebody has to do it,” she said grouchily. Amanda was one of the celebrities who would “add glamour” to the spell game. It was conventional wisdom in Pickax that she would go anywhere and do anything to get votes and/or publicity for her studio.

Before driving home, Qwilleran bought three more carnations. The florist was brimming with curiosity, although she knew not to ask questions. He returned to his van in time to see police and fire vehicles speeding down Main Street with sirens wailing. They were ahead of him as he drove toward Park Circle. Then he saw smoke - a thin column of it arising on the left - and the emergency vehicles were stopping. Northbound traffic was halted. He parked in a merchant’s driveway, leaving his press card under the windshield wiper, and ran toward a scene of general commotion.

The focus of the disturbance was the front of the library, where a dozen protesters were marching with picket signs. They seemed to be having a good time. Onlookers were laughing, and police and firemen had to struggle to control their grins. The signs read: “Pull the Plug.” “Down with Computers.” “We Want the Old Catalogue.” The smoke was coming from a backyard barbecue where patrons were burning their library cards.

Qwilleran himself felt sentimental about the old card catalogue and sympathized with the demonstrators, knowing their protest to be futile. Polly’s assistant stood on the top step, uncertain how to react. Obviously the media had been notified. Roger MacGillivray was there with his camera, and a WPKX news reporter was thrusting a mike in front of rebellious volunteers and patrons.

Hurrying back to his van, Qwilleran apologized to the shopkeeper for parking in the drive and was immediately forgiven; no one ever begrudged the Klingenschoen heir a small favor. To avoid the traffic snarl around Park Circle, he then turned around and drove home the back way, via Trevelyan Road.

At the Art Center he saw Thornton’s van in the parking lot and went into the building, where he found the white-haired volunteer at the reception desk in the foyer.

“What are you doing here?” Qwilleran asked.

“Making visitors wipe their feet, answering questions, and trying to sell memberships. And what are you doing here, if I may ask?”

“I’m on my way home after witnessing a remarkable incident: library volunteers picketing to protest automation, and patrons burning their library cards.”

“That’s no great shake; we’re all getting new plastic cards anyway… Did you see the cemetery news on page one?”

“I certainly did! Why not come to the barn when you’re through here, and we’ll talk about it.”

When Thornton finally appeared, they settled in the library area with coffee, and the stonecutter began his harangue: “So the city fathers are giving bereaved families a memorial park! I’ve been working with bereaved families for three decades, and I don’t see they’re going to derive much comfort from four acres of well-clipped grass! What they want is a ten-foot Celtic cross or a slab of granite with some words of solace chipped into the polished face - a visible memorial they can visit and talk to and point out to their grandchildren - plus, maybe, a memorial bench where they can sit and meditate.”

Qwilleran said, “Did you ever see a traditional cemetery in the late afternoon, with all the stones facing west and the sun hitting them? It’s a sight to stir the emotions. Is it a thing of the past?”

“Looks like it. We’re phasing out our stonework and concentrating on sand and gravel. Do you know who sold the land to the city? There was no name in the paper.”

“Chester Ramsbottom, although the property was in his wife’s name.”

“That old sharpie! No doubt he bought it for practically nothing.” Thornton peered across the room. “Is that a checker set? I wouldn’t figure you for a checker player. Chess, maybe, but not checkers.”

“It’s just an interesting relic,” Qwilleran said. “I pick ! up old things that appeal to me. Would you like to see a seventeenth-century compass?”

The treasure was safely stored in a desk drawer, away from inquisitive paws. He put it on the desktop. “Come and look at it under the lamp. It has some very fine detail.”

Koko thought he was included in the invitation, and the three of them watched the compass card quivering and rotating under the glass.

“When it settles down, it’ll be pointing to the dining room, which is north.”

Thornton was impressed. “Can you imagine anything so delicate lasting all those years? I have a plastic compass that’s brand-new and not worth a tinker’s dam. They don’t make things as good as they used to.”

Stealthily, Koko was moving his nose closer to the strange object. Qwilleran was watching him. The nose twitched; the whiskers curved forward; the card started to quiver and move. In a few moments the north star was pointing toward the kitchen.

“That’s west!” Thornton exclaimed. “Is that what you call animal magnetism? How do you explain it?”

“What cats do can never be explained,” said Qwilleran lightly, at the same time wishing he could confide in someone about Koko’s uncanny talents. He picked up the squirming, protesting cat, and the star returned to the north.

“Try it with the female,” Thornton suggested. Yum Yum was lifted to the desktop and showed interest in the shiny brass inlay of the lid but ignored the instrument itself. “Try it once more with the male!”

Again Koko’s nose sent the card slowly moving until the star pointed west.

I’m going home,” he said. “This is getting spooky! Will you sign an affidavit, Qwill? My wife will never believe me.”

“Before you go, you must see Phoebe’s butterflies. They’re on the second balcony.”

They walked up the ramp, followed by the Siamese, waving tails like flags. In the guestroom, two Painted Ladies were flitting about their enclosure, while three future ladies remained in the chrysalis stage, clinging to the ceiling of the box. Yum Yum was the most excited of the four observers; she knew they were insects, and insects of all kinds were her specialty. Koko was bored. With all the birds of the forest attending his gazebo parties, why should he flick a whisker over a butterfly? Thornton was impressed and declared he would buy some caterpillars for his grandchildren.

As the two men walked toward Thornton’s van, Qwilleran asked, “Was Phoebe in her studio today?”

“Not a sign of her. I hope she’s not getting cold feet about the spell game. She strikes me as being a little flighty.”

“Papilionaceous,” Qwilleran said. “If you say so.”

When his visitor had gone, Qwilleran could think of many things to discuss with Rollo McBee: the Northern Land Improvement hoax; Ramsbottom, not XYZ, as purchaser of the Coggin land; the sale to the city at six thousand an acre; and increasing doubts about the commissioner’s integrity. This was not an auspicious hour to go looking for a farmer, however. The trick was to catch him between supper and evening chores.

Meanwhile, he sat down to deal with his fan mail. There was one businesslike envelope with a California postmark and the address in large print. The name in the lefthand corner was Martha V. Snyder. He read that one first:


Dear Jim,

I remember you when your name was Merlin and your ambition was to play with the Chicago Cubs. I know you remember me, although by another name. I am your Mrs. Fish-eye, and I have been following your column in the Moose County Something. I have a granddaughter who trains race horses in Lockmaster, and she sends me everything you write. Not only do I applaud your writing skills but I am enormously flattered to know that I was a good influence. When I was teaching you and your unpromising classmates in Chicago, it was no secret that the entire student body called me by a descriptive but uncomplimentary nickname. Fortunately, I had a sense of humor. Unfortunately, the prominent feature that inspired the sobriquet failed me in later life, and I am now a VIP - visually impaired person. This letter is being dictated to a talking computer, and since electronic spell-checks are less reliable than retired teachers of English, someone will proofread this letter. I’m sure you know the story, possibly apocryphal, about a newspaper item concerning the beautiful paramour of a famous man. A semi-literate computer produced a memorable gaffe referring to his beautiful power-mower. Your recent column expressing your gratitude to Mrs. Fish-eye was doubly appreciated, coming forty years after the fact. Keep up the good work. Your columns are read aloud by gracious volunteers at the residence where I am comfortably ensconced, and they enjoy them, too. Give my regards to Koko and Yum Yum.

Gratefully, Martha V. Snyder


At the bottom of the letter there was a handwritten note by the volunteer proofreader, saying, “The computer spelled your cat’s name Coco. Mrs. Snyder says it knows more about Chanel than about Gilbert and Sullivan.”

After the shock and pleasure of hearing from Mrs. Fish-eye, he made himself a cup of coffee and lounged in his favorite chair, thinking. He thought about school-days, his early success in journalism, his foolishness in throwing it all away, his struggle to regain his career, and his present good fortune. Whimsically he thought of Mrs. Fish-eye and Aunt Fanny Klingenschoen as a pair of bookends supporting the volumes of his adult life. In this mood of reverie he completely forgot Rollo McBee until Koko climbed on the back of his chair and yowled in his ear.

When he phoned the farm, a young voice answered, and he said, “This is Jim Qwilleran. Is your father there?”

“Yep, he’s here.”

There was a pause.

“May I speak to him?”

“Okay… DAD!”

The farmer came to the phone, and Qwilleran said, “First I want to tell you how sorry I am about the tragedy in your family.”

“It was hard to take,” Rollo said. “The family was planning a cruise to Alaska. Had their tickets and everything. It happened just like that!” Rollo snapped his fingers. “How’re things with you?”

“I have some information to share. How busy are you?”

“Just finished supper.”

“If I walk down to my mailbox, would you care to meet me there?”

“Sure. Say when.”

“Give me fifteen minutes, Rollo.”

Before starting out, Qwilleran fed the cats, realizing that Koko’s yowl had been about food and not about Rollo.

The farmer was waiting on the shoulder of the road. He kicked the post supporting Maude’s dilapidated mailbox. “How long does this baby have to stay there? I could use the post on the farm.”

“It would improve the neighborhood if you disposed of that eyesore - and the newspaper sleeve, too.”

“She never got much mail,” Rollo said. “I used to check it every day and take her newspaper to her. She got it free. Who knows if she read it? She rolled the papers up tight, tied ‘em with twine, and soaked ‘em in water. When they dried out, she used ‘em for firewood.”

“Speaking of newspapers, did you see today’s front page?”

“Haven’t had time to look at it yet.”

“Well, four acres of Maude’s land, up at the intersection of Cemetery and Trevelyan, has been sold to the city for six thousand an acre.”

Rollo banged the old mailbox with his fist. “I knew that Northern Land Improvement bunch was out to gyp her!”

“There’s no such firm. The purchaser was Chester Ramsbottom.”

“It figgers! Any time you smell a dunghill, you know he’s gone in the dairy business.”

Qwilleran said, “There’s a rumor that Ramsbottom is also going to lease twelve acres to the county for a workyard.”

“Nobody ever said a word to Boyd and me about any of this, and we’d paid rent for the second quarter. That really bums me!”

“I’m seeing the attorney as soon as he gets back from Chicago. I’ll ask him what recourse you have.”

The farmer had turned away and was gazing across the burned field, now smothered in weeds. Finally he said, “Do you know the fire chief?”

“I knew Bruce Scott, but I’ve never met the new one.”


“When someone’s killed in a fire, you know, the chief has to report it to the state fire marshal, whether it’s arson or not. We’re pretty sure, Boyd and me, that the new guy didn’t report the Coggin fire. At least there wasn’t any follow-up, as far as we know. We thought it was off-base, but we didn’t challenge his decision - didn’t want to get in bad with the new chief.”

Qwilleran said, “I know what you’re getting at. Coming right after the vandalism, it looked to me as if it might be arson. That’s another bug I’ll put in the attorney’s ear. What’s the name of the new chief?”

“Gumboldt. Roy Gumboldt.”

“Do you think he could be in cahoots with Ramsbottom?”

“Hell! He’s Chet’s brother-in-law!” Then, before Qwilleran could react, he said calmly, “I’ll go get some tools and dig up these two babies. The mailbox is set in concrete. I planted it for Maude twenty years ago.”

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