“Hmmm,” Qwilleran murmured into his moustache. “You know a great deal about the subject, considering you don’t handle it in your shop.”
“I’ve been spending long hours with Edythe,” Susan explained. “After her husband died, she asked me to help her update the catalogue of her antiques in Mount Vernon. Most were handed down in her family. She was a Goodwinter, you know. And now that she’s decided to donate the house and contents to the community, as a museum, it’s important to have accurate descriptions and values. When she moved to Ittibittiwassee, I helped her select the pieces she wanted to keep. Most important was the china cabinet filled with shoes. Why am I telling you all this?”
“Because you know I’m interested and concerned.”
“And you’re not a gossip. Darling!” She returned to the brittle style she affected. “Are you sure you don’t want to buy something before you leave?”
“How much do you want for that ten-foot breakfront?”
“You couldn’t afford it!” She chased him out of the store.
For Scottish night, Qwilleran wore a kilt in the Mackintosh tartan—red with a fine green line. Polly wore a tartan sash looped under one arm and pinned on the opposite shoulder with a cairngorm; the Duncans shared a colorful tartan with the Robertson clan.
“Qwill! You look so wonderful. I think I shall cry!” she said.
“It’s a matter of the swagger that comes with a kilt. The devil-may-care tilt of a glengarry bonnet over the right eye, the toughness of knowing there’s a dagger in the cuff of one’s knee hose, and the pride of being a Mackintosh.”
“I’ve noticed that persons not entitled to wear Scottish attire seem very . . . ordinary by comparison,” Polly observed with a note of pity in her voice.
The ordinary ones stayed home Thursday night and watched the festivities on television. The TV crews had been in town all day.
In the early evening, the streets radiating from the Hotel Booze were filled with canny Scots who had parked on the outskirts and were walking toward the hub of activity. It was a kaleidoscope of clan tartans in vibrant reds, greens, blues, yellows, and combinations thereof. The wearers all had the quiet pride that Qwilleran had mentioned. He and Polly stopped to have a few words with the MacGillivrays, then the Campbells, the Ogilvies, the MacLeods, and more Campbells.
A hush fell on the crowd when the bell in the tower of the town hall tolled seven times. All eyes turned toward the hotel, and out came Chief Andrew Brodie with the lofty feather bonnet of a bagpiper, swaggering with a shoulder full of plaid and an armful of pipes. He was playing “Scotland the Brave.” Following him was Mayor Ramsey, pushing a wheelchair. The occupant was the centenarian, Miss Agatha Burns—fragile, calm, smiling. How many hearts turned over at the sight of her. Even those who had not been in one of her classes knew about the Burns mystique.
Arriving at a low platform near the bandstand and the birthday cake, the mayor accepted a microphone and declared that the historic town of Brrr had reached its two-hundredth year. Miss Agatha pressed a button, and the two hundred electric candles on the wooden cake were dazzling in the approaching dusk.
After that there were refreshments in the hotel and some serious marmalade tasting . . . entertainment in the park . . . conversation among Scots . . .
Lisa and Lyle Compton were there. (She was a Campbell—her husband a Ross.) Polly said they looked splendid in tartans. Lyle applauded the “Qwill Pen” column on Miss Agatha Burns. Qwilleran asked, “Lyle, are you both attending the dedication of the Carroll Memorial Museum Sunday afternoon?” He said they wouldn’t miss it for anything! Lisa said that Edythe would turn over the keys to Mount Vernon, and someone would give her an armful of roses. Then they discussed the Marmalade Madness and the merits of each. Polly said the bookstore was getting a marmalade mascot named Dundee.
When Qwilleran drove Polly back to Indian Village, he declined her invitation to come in for some music.
Polly said with a sigh, “I should really bear down on my studying. I’m learning some amazing facts. Do you realize that a bookstore grossing fifty thousand dollars will need one-point-eight persons on the staff?”
“Where do you get eight-tenths of a person?” Qwilleran said. “I feel that way myself sometimes, but I wouldn’t admit it to a prospective employer.”
Polly, who had become an expert at ignoring his levity, went on: “What do you think about having the cashier and service counter on the left as one enters? They say traffic flows in normally to the right and continues out on the other side.”
“Will Dundee have a location of his own? Or will he be free to wander at will?”
“That topic hasn’t been covered in my manual,” Polly said. “Mac and Katie at the library have simply adopted the circulation desk as their headquarters.”
