They sat on the porch, and Qwilleran served Squunk water with a dash of cranberry juice. The Siamese were comfortable with the Comptons and paid them the compliment of ignoring them—Yum Yum batting her bugs, Koko preening himself all over.
Lyle said, “I’m looking forward to seeing your show on the Great Storm. My elders lived through it but weren’t inclined to talk about it. They had the pioneer tendency to make light of hardships, even telling jokes about unfortunate happenings.”
Lisa agreed. “My grandfather lived through the Great Storm. On the stormiest night, the high winds destroyed his chicken coop and sent a board sailing through the kitchen window. The family was asleep upstairs and didn’t know about it until morning, when they went downstairs and found all the chickens in the kitchen, roosting on the nice, warm stovepipe.”
Lyle said, “And then there’s the story that everyone tells about a couple of fellows named Alf Kirby and Bill Durby, who worked for the railroad as fireman and brakeman. Two or three nights a week they had to sleep over, and the company let them use a two-room cottage between the tracks and the lakefront. Durby, having seniority, had the room overlooking the lake—the only trouble being that the lake breezes rattled the windows on a cold night and there was frost on the ceiling in the morning. On the night of the Great Storm, Durby offered Kirby five dollars to exchange rooms, and Kirby agreed, always interested in a good deal. But the winds were of gale force on that night, and they turned the little cottage around on its foundation, so that Durby was still on the cold side minus five bucks.”
“Yow!” came a strong reaction from Koko on his pedestal.
“What does that mean?” Lyle demanded.
“Koko thinks it’s a good tale, but he doesn’t believe a word of it. I’d like to know about Scottish Night at the Brrr celebration.”
Lisa, whose maiden name was Campbell, and Lyle, whose mother was a Ross, were eager to report the details: It would be a preview of the two-month celebration. All the clans would be there in Highland attire. The park across from the hotel would be strung with Japanese lanterns—festive in daylight, magical after dark. In the bandstand, bagpipers would pipe, dancers would do the Highland Fling, and a Scottish quartet would sing tearjerkers. And Miss Agatha Burns would throw the switch to light the ten-foot birthday cake with its two hundred electric candles.
“Should I know her?” Qwilleran asked. He was quickly informed that she was a retired teacher, a hundred years old, now confined to a wheelchair and living at the Senior Care Facility.
Lisa said, “Three generations of students have annually voted Miss Agatha their favorite teacher. She had charisma. She made us want to learn.”
Qwilleran asked, “What did she teach?”
Lyle said with unusual fervor, “What the State Board of Ed called dead languages! Can you believe that my father had four years of Latin and a year of classical Greek—here in the boondocks? The state made us eliminate those two subjects, consolidate with Pickax High School, and buy a fleet of school buses that would pollute the atmosphere! Kids used to walk two or three miles to school and thought nothing of it.”
Qwilleran asked, “What did she teach after that?”
“English,” said Lisa, “but she taught us the Latin roots of English words.”
“Would a ‘Qwill Pen’ column on Miss Agatha be a good idea to coincide with the opening of Brrr Two Hundred?”
“Perfect!” said Lyle. “But she’s had a stroke and doesn’t speak. It would be better to interview her former students. There are plenty of them in the Old-Timers Club and at Ittibittiwassee Estates.”
“Would Alicia’s grandmother be one of them?”
“She’s quite reserved,” Lisa said. “She wouldn’t be easy to interview.”
That was no obstacle to a veteran columnist.
He had a talent for winning confidences from the most reticent subjects. His rich, mellow voice made them feel good. He listened attentively, nodded sympathetically, and gazed at them with a brooding expression that won their trust.
He asked, “Have you ever been in the Carrolls’ house?”
“Once,” Lisa said. “She never did much entertaining, but this was a tea for a church benefit. It’s a beautiful house, filled with American and English antiques: Chippendale, Newport, Duncan Phyfe, Queen Anne—you name it!”
Lyle said, “If she has a sentimental notion that her granddaughter will leave Milwaukee and live in it, she’s dotty. Alicia will sell the antiques to a New York dealer and the house to a developer, who’ll carve it into apartments and build condos on the grounds.”
“Yow!” came an imperious interruption from the pedestal.
The guests stood up. “He’s telling us to go home.”
