Boulder House was more than a century old—built of boulders as big as bathtubs, piled one on another without an apparent plan. The dining-room floor was one huge slab of flat stone that had been there forever. There was a resident cat named Rocky, who climbed up the exterior of the building like a mountain goat. And there was a jolly innkeeper, Silas Dingwall, who seemed straight out of a medieval woodcut. He gave Qwilleran and Polly a table in a window overlooking the lake and served them complementary appetizers: two plates of french-fried oysters.
Since Polly was allergic to mollusks, Qwilleran had to consume both servings.
While he chewed, Polly entertained him with salient facts about bookstore design:
“Do you realize that there is a certain psychology in the width of bookstore aisles? If too wide, they destroy the feeling of coziness that is part of the bookstore allure. If too narrow, they make the customer feel jostled and uncomfortable.”
Qwilleran murmured something, and she went on:
“I’ve just learned that impulse purchases account for half of all sales in a small bookstore. That calls for intriguing displays and a chance to pick up books and read the jackets.”
After the entrées and the salads, and while they were waiting for dessert, Mr. Dingwall said, “The photographer was here today, taking pictures of the inn for the Brrr souvenir book. We bought four pages.”
Polly said, “I hope Rocky was photographed.”
“Oh, yes! There’s a picture of him peeking into one of the upstairs bedrooms like a naughty Peeping Tom.”
“Who was the photographer?” Qwilleran asked.
“Mr. Bushland. A very fine gentleman. And he had a nice young lady helping with the lights.”
“He’s the best!” Qwilleran said. “He’s won national prizes. Rocky may wind up on the cover of a photo magazine.”
Later, he said to Polly, “That’s the first time I’ve heard a photographer called a gentleman—and a fine one at that!”
“I wonder who the nice young lady was,” she said.
At one point, a waitress hurried from the kitchen and whispered to Mr. Dingwall, who rushed into his office. After that his cheerful manner changed to one of sober concern.
“Is there anything wrong, Mr. Dingwall?” Qwilleran asked.
With a glance at nearby tables, the innkeeper said in a lowered voice, “Plane accident! One of our shuttle flights crashed somewhere in Wisconsin. It was the five-thirty to Chicago. No details.”
Polly shuddered and put her face in her hands. “How terrible!” she kept saying.
Qwilleran signaled for the check. “Don’t get upset,” he told her, “until I phone the paper.”
When they were in the car, he called the night editor.
“No one hurt,” said the deskman. “It was a forced landing. The pilot brought the plane down in an open field.”
To Polly, Qwilleran said, “This will cramp the style of the airport wits and their jokes about Scotch tape and bailing wire.”
“What do you suppose Benson will say about it?” she wondered.
“I know that he’ll say ‘Interesting.’ ”
SIX
On Wednesdays, the
Also, it was a good excuse to drop into the Scottish bakery for scones and marmalade and coffee. “Best marmalade I’ve ever tasted,” he said to the rosy-cheeked woman at the cash register. “Do you make it here?”
“Aye, laddie,” she replied. “It’s made from my great-grandmother’s receipt. It makes a big difference how long you boil the oranges in the sugar water. And how are the wee little kitties, Mr. Q?”
When Qwilleran arrived home with the newspaper, some cookies, and a jar of homemade marmalade, Koko met him at the door and was all over the place—on and off the kitchen counter, on and off the bar. There seemed to be no reason.
“Why do you think you can throw your weight around, young man?” Qwilleran asked. “You’re only a wee little kitty.” He had to chuckle.
But Koko was never wrong. There was a message on the answering machine, and the cat seemed to know it was important.
The throaty voice of Lish Carroll was even less attractive when recorded:
“Clarence is driving me to Milwaukee. I will work on your project. Back in time for rehearsals.”
Qwilleran was pleased. She had a positive attitude about the show . . . and she might solve the nagging mystery about Koko’s background and even his unusual talents. That being the case, what was the cat’s antagonism toward Lish? Was it the sound of her voice? Did he remember her pointing finger? Or (and this was ridiculous) did he resent intrusion into his heritage?
“All aboard for the gazebo!” he announced.
It required two trips to transport cats, coffee, cordless phone, typewriter, and Thornton’s thick file of research material. And it would take two hours to select and organize the information and interviews involved.
