The subject changed to the grand plans for Brrr’s birthday party. Lisa and Mildred were collaborating on a stunt to be called Marmalade Madness.
“You tell it,” said Lisa.
“No, it was your idea. You tell it.”
“Well . . . Brrr was founded by Scots, you know, and we have a sizable Scottish population. Some of the families have housekeeping manuals, handwritten, that go back as much as two centuries. They keep them in lockboxes at the bank and bring them out for anniversaries. All the books contain tips on making orange marmalade, and—believe me!—there are scores of different theories. Marmalade Madness would combine an exhibit of these artifacts—”
“Under armed guard, I hope,” Arch interrupted.
“Absolutely! And the guard will look particularly fierce in kilts and plaids—with antique weapons,” Lisa assured him.
“There will also be marmalade-tasting, with people voting for their favorite—all homemade, of course. And the public can buy small jars, proceeds going to charity.”
“Where will this be held?” Polly asked.
“Gary Pratt is giving us one of the rooms on the main floor. The ballroom will be used for a variety of happenings, I understand, including Qwill’s one-man show.”
After brunch, Lyle wanted to walk down to the beach to smoke a cigar, and Qwilleran went along to skip a few stones over the placid water.
“You’ve got a good pitching arm, Qwill. You missed your calling.”
They walked a few yards down the beach. Qwilleran skipped a few more stones and then asked, “When I inquired about wild turkeys, was I getting the whole story?”
“There are some things we don’t mention in front of Mildred, but . . . there was a rumor that the wild turkeys were poisoned. Crop farmers and sheep ranchers said they were pests; families objected to the constant gunfire, as hunters knocked off a couple of birds for dinner; and Mildred’s first husband, who raised domestic turkeys for the market, said the wild birds were cutting into his profits.”
“Was there any investigation about the poisoning?” Qwilleran skipped a few more stones.
“No, the public and officialdom preferred to think the turkeys died of natural causes. You know how they are around here.”
As Qwilleran and Polly drove back to Pickax, she said, “The architect is flying up from Chicago tomorrow on the late shuttle. He’s asked me to make his hotel reservation for two nights. That will give him one whole day to talk to the builders and work out problems.”
Qwilleran asked, “Is your rapport with him strictly business, or is it partly social? In the latter case, I should pick him up at the airport. Otherwise, he can take the airport limousine.”
“Let him take the limousine,” Polly said. “He does, however, want desperately to see your barn and Boulder House Inn, both of which he considers architecturally impossible. So, if it’s agreeable with you, the builders could drop him off at the barn at the end of the day.”
“Do they know where the barn is?”
“Dear,
“Anything you say,” he said agreeably, relieved to know that her interest in Benson Hedges—or was it Hodges?—was strictly business.
FIVE
For Qwilleran, Tuesday turned out to be an “interesting” day—an adjective he was not prone to use if he could possibly think of a better one.
First, Polly phoned before leaving for the library, reporting briefly that Benson Hodges, the Chicago architect, had checked into the Mackintosh Inn the previous evening and would spend all day conferring with the builders of the bookstore but would have to fly home without having dinner at Boulder House.
“He wants to see your barn, however, and perhaps you can offer him a drink before he catches his shuttle flight.”
“I’m not shedding any tears over Benson, Polly. You and I will have dinner at Boulder House. I’ll pick you up at the Village at six.”
The next caller had the high-pitched voice of Gary Pratt.
“Hi, Qwill! They’re back! Lish and Lush!”
“I’ll drive up there with my tape recorder and the old scripts—just to test her skills. The new script—about the Great Storm—should be ready to rehearse in another week.”
“I warn you, Qwill! Meeting Lish for the first time is like a plunge into the lake off the end of the hotel dock!”
“I’ll wear a wet suit,” Qwilleran said.
When he arrived at the Hotel Booze at the appointed hour for the “plunge” he was pleased to see a prize-winning limerick from the “Qwill Pen” column enlarged and framed in the lobby:
