He said, "I can understand your concern, but don't let it interfere with your concentration on your new job. My advice would be to send Doris a handsome get-well card and enclose a note explaining what happened to your ?engagement' and tell her you want to return her ring. Ask how she wants you to go about it. Enclose your phone numbers at home and at the office. Send the card by motorcycle messenger."
When they ordered dessert - cherries jubilee for her, strawberry shortcake for him - Derek flamed the cherries at the table with a flourish that impressed Clarissa.
"He has style," she whispered.
"He's an actor in the theatre club," Qwilleran explained. "He's currently playing the villain in
So it went - an evening of excitement for the newcomer. On the way back to the barnyard she was quiet, however, and just before she left in her new little used car she said, "Qwill, I've had a wonderful time, and you've been so kind that I feel guilty. There are things I should explain. It's easier to say in writing, so I left a note for you - on the top of the bar."
Clarissa drove away, and Qwilleran hurried indoors faster than usual. . . . There was no note, but Koko sat on the bar, looking guilty.
It was not until Tuesday morning that Qwilleran brought the stepladder to the living room and found Clarissa's letter, complete with fang marks, on the top of the fireplace cube.
Chapter 12
Another week! Another
Qwilleran still remembered how the attorney served tea before commencing any business meeting in his mahogany-paneled office. His secretary would bring teapot and cups on a silver tray, and the elderly gentleman insisted on pouring the tea with his trembling hands into his grandmother's Victorian porcelain teacups.
Did anyone know what had happened to those precious teacups that rattled in their saucers when the old man passed them to his clients?
Lisa Compton had done the research on Hasselrich. Qwilleran labored to give balance to the thousand-word profile: Osmond Hasselrich had been a pioneer's son . . . educated by the largesse of grandparents in Philadelphia . . . a struggling young lawyer in the straggling town of Pickax . . . his life included half a century of hard work and genuine concern for his clients . . . eventually he had three partners and a richly paneled office.
A researcher's note said, "Qwill, rumour has it that Fanny Klingenschoen had a torrid romance with Osmond before he went to law school and before she became a belly dancer in Atlantic City, but I don't think you want to mention that. - Lisa."
Qwilleran filed his Tuesday copy by motorcycle messenger, leaving him time for desk chores. Then at two o'clock he walked down the trail to the back road, where there was a rural mailbox and a newspaper sleeve. Clarissa's first feature story would be on page one. How much space would they give her? How big a byline? What position?
He well remembered his first assignment on a Chicago paper. It was buried in a back section; the copy was butchered; his name was misspelled. But that was Chicago, and this was Pickax.
The first of four installments on the Heirloom Auction appeared on the front page above the fold. And the illustration was a large photo of an Abraham Lincoln portrait - in copper - actually a printer's copperplate from which thousands of black-and-white prints had been pulled. There was also a teaser, saying, "Watch for another pedigreed antiquity in tomorrow's
Clarissa would be walking on air, and Qwilleran could enjoy her pleasure vicariously.
He was sitting on the porch of the art centre and was not surprised when volunteer Thornton Haggis burst out of the building saying, "How long have you been sitting here? We charge for parking!"
"How much do you want for the bench? I'll buy it," Qwilleran retorted.
