Thorn sat down alongside him, and Qwilleran said, "Do you remember the young couple visiting me, who bought one of your wood turnings? You entertained them with local history. This is the girl. She's living here now."
The historian looked at the mug shot and remembered them very well. "They are related to the Ledfields."
"And thereby hangs a tale, Thorn. The Ledfields have become quite reclusive, I hear."
"Oh, they never made the big social scene, Qwill. They're one of the last fine-old-families worthy of the name, and I think it weighs heavily on Nathan that the Ledfields are dying out. His brother, who was killed in an accident recently, was a blight on the family name; I don't know about the man's son. Is he the one with all the hair who came down here and bought one of my bowls?"
"He's the one!"
"Wel-l-l!" His inflections expressed plenty.
"Doris Ledfield was on Polly's board of directors at the library for a short time, Thorn, but she resigned."
"Yes, Doris is sweet but shy. She worships the ground Nathan walks on. In fact there is a story that I wouldn't repeat to anyone but you, Qwill. When Doris found out she was barren, she offered Nathan a divorce so he could continue the bloodline elsewhere. It's to his credit that he was appalled at the suggestion. Oh, he's a gentleman! And he lives by a rigorous code of ethics."
"Have you heard him play the violin?"
"He could be on the concert stage, Qwill! . . . Excuse me." Thornton was called indoors to the phone, and Qwilleran walked back up the lane more slowly and thoughtfully than he had walked down.
Around six PM Qwilleran phoned Maggie Sprenkle at home, when she would be having a bowl of hot chicken soup and a green leafy salad after a hard day at the animal shelter. Her dining table seated six, and he could imagine her five ladies keeping her company, one on each chair, sitting quietly. In a Victorian palace, even the cats behaved like royalty. They never even spoke until spoken to - and then only with ladylike mews.
When assured that he was not interrupting dinner, Qwilleran asked, "Did you see the spread on the auction in today's paper?"
"I did indeed! Who wrote it? The name is new to me."
"The new feature writer from California, who has just arrived with her cat, a British Shorthair. She'll be assigned to cover the kitty auction, no doubt, and she'll do a good job. Clarissa would feel honored to meet your ladies, having admired them from across the street."
"How did she happen to find Pickax, Qwill?"
"Interesting story! The Ledfields' nephew brought her here as his fiancée, and since he had given her no ring, Doris gave her one of her diamonds. However, Harvey turned out to be a cat hater, and Clarissa dropped him."
"I can well imagine," Maggie said vehemently.
"But she liked it here, and the newspaper was glad to get her. However, a problem has arisen; she'd like to return the ring, and she can't reach Doris. Only secretaries and housekeepers come to the phone."
Maggie said, "There's one thing about Nathan Ledfield that Jeremy and I had to learn. He's a perfectionist - and very proper. Everything has to be just so! To appear in public with the sniffles and a box of tissues - as I sometimes do - would be unthinkable for Nathan, and Doris has to live by his rules. So . . . when they're suffering from allergies - the polite word for coughs and sneezes - it's understandable why Nathan wouldn't want Doris to talk on the phone."
Maggie said with finality, "Tell the young lady to come and see me about the kitty auction, and we'll have a nice long talk."
When Qwilleran conveyed the invitation, he told Clarissa, "Maggie is from the moneyed families of Purple Point. Her great-grandmother owned a successful coal mine; she wore a long black dress with a little lace collar and carried a shotgun. Maggie prefers to live in the city and do humanitarian work. She's made it fashionable to volunteer at the animal shelter, and families now visit the shelter in their Sunday-best clothes on weekends, to see the cats and dogs, since we have no zoo. I warn you, Clarissa! Maggie has a very persuasive personality, and she doesn't even carry a shotgun."
The hot topic of conversation in coffee shops, at bridge clubs, and on the grapevine during late June was the Heirloom Auction - particularly the anonymity of donors.
The Lincoln copperplate in Tuesday's paper, the grandfather clock on Wednesday, the Victorian teacups on Thursday . . . who had donated them? Why the secrecy? The guesses and arguments that resulted constituted the best publicity the auction could have enjoyed!
Qwilleran knew the provenance of the three teacups, and he prepared to outbid any and all. He would give them to three women he knew.
Such was the suspense engendered by the Heirloom Auction series that tickets were sold out by Thursday night.
