The octagonal gazebo stood in the bird garden, screened on all eight sides. In the evening there were birds and small four-legged creatures to amuse the Siamese, and when darkness fell there were night noises and night smells. Qwilleran stayed with them for a while, then went indoors to do some more work on the ‘Qwill Pen’ column.
From time to time he received phone calls from friends who wanted to talk about the Hollywood celebrity: from Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist; from Celia Robinson O'Dell, his favorite caterer; from Susan Exbridge, antique dealer; the Lanspeaks, owners of the department store.
At one point he was interrupted by a phone call from Lisa Compton, wife of the school superintendent.
“Lyle and I were wondering if you know what’s going into the old opera house?”
“No, I know only what’s coming out. Maybe they’re going to bring Mark Twain back. He hasn’t been here since 1895.”
“I know,” Lisa said. “And my grandmother was still raving about him sixty years later. She loved his moustache—just like yours, Qwill. His wit and humor brought down the house! Her favorite was the one about cross-breeding man with the cat:
“She told me that carriages used to draw up to the entrance of the hall, and women in Mrs and jewels would step out, assisted by men in opera cloaks and tall hats. Can you imagine that—in Pickax, Qwill?”
“That was over a hundred years ago,” Qwilleran said. “Things change.”
“So true! Before World War One the economy had collapsed. Pickax was almost a ghost town, and the opera hall was boarded up. In the Twenties it was a movie theatre for a few years. During World War Two the government took it over—all very hush-hush and heavily guarded. They removed the rows of seats and leveled the raked floor, my family told me”
Qwilleran said, “The old building has had a checkered career.”
“Yes, since then it’s been a roller rink, a dance hall, a health club, and finally a storage warehouse. Who knows what’s next?”
“If you get any clues, let me know,” he said.
I'll do that... How are the kitties, Qwill?”
“Fine. How’s Lyle?”
“Grouchy. He’s crossing swords with the school board again.”
Qwilleran was treating himself to a dish of ice cream when Polly phoned. “How was your meeting?” he asked. “What did you have for dinner?”
“Robin-O'Dell catered some meat pies. Food always suffers in the transportation, you know, but they were acceptable.”
“Did you learn anything about chickadees that you didn’t already know?”
She wailed in exasperation. “There was more discussion about that Thackeray woman than about birds!... There was one thing that I found rather amusing, though. The realty agent who sold her the house was there; he and his wife are avid birders. At first he was reluctant to talk—professional confidentiality, you know—but after a few glasses of wine he relaxed. He said she bought it sight unseen, after they sent photos and specifications... They lined up Mavis Adams to check legal details and Fran Brodie to handle the redecorating. In fact, Fran flew to California for a conference.”
Qwilleran asked, “Did he say why she needs such a large house?”
“He claimed not to know. But it would be interesting to talk to Fran, wouldn’t it?”
Feigning a lack of interest, he mumbled something and reminded Polly that they were dining with the Rikers the next night. “I've made a reservation at the Mackintosh Inn. We’ll meet here at the barn at six o’clock.”
“I'm looking forward to it,” she said. “
“
Before bringing in the Siamese from the gazebo, Qwilleran flicked the single switch that lighted the entire interior of the barn with uplights and down-lights. A ramp spiraled dramatically around the inside walls, connecting the three balconies. In the center of the main floor stood a giant white fireplace cube with white stacks rising to the cupola.
The Siamese were waiting, torn between the enchantment of the night and the prospect of a bedtime snack. As soon as they were indoors, they jumped out of the tote bag and raced up the ramp Koko chasing Yum Yum all the way to the top. Then she turned and chased him down again. Qwilleran clocked them: thirty-seven seconds for the entire course.
Then the three of them piled into the big reading chair and listened to a recording of
Chapter 2
Just before waking on Wednesday, Qwilleran dreamed about the old opera house. The elite of Pickax were arriving in horse-drawn carriages. Every seat in the house was taken with opera-lovers excited about hearing
