Qwilleran stepped forward, took her carry-on, and said he would collect her other luggage—if they could find the can opener to open the baggage compartment. They were discreet in their personal greetings; gossips were always watching for a sign of romance between the librarian and the newsman.
“Decent flight?”
“Bearable,” she replied. “How was the groundbreaking?”
“Predictable. The chest was empty.”
“It should go on permanent display in a glass case in the bookstore.”
“Would you like to stop for brunch at Tipsy’s?”
“I think not, dear,” Polly said. “There has been much wining and dining, in addition to intensive work sessions. I just want to go home, hug my cats, have some cottage cheese and fruit, and get myself together for work tomorrow. . . . It’s so peaceful here!”
They were driving to Indian Village, past sheep ranches, potato farms, and abandoned mine shafts. After a brief silence she added, “Benson is coming here this week.”
“Who?”
“The architect of the bookstore. He wants to confer with the builders. And he’s dying to see your barn. I described it, and he said it sounded architecturally impossible. He’s a very interesting man.”
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Every time Polly left Pickax, she met an “interesting” man. First it was the horse trainer in Lockmaster, then the professor in Montreal, and the antiques dealer in Virginia, and now an architect in Chicago.
Polly went on. “The K Fund thinks we should name the bookstore The Phoenix, after the mythical Egyptian bird that rose from the ashes and was reborn.”
“Are they serious? The locals would want to know why we named it after the capital of Arizona. I think we should have a countywide contest for a name.”
“I think you’re right, but I wanted to hear you say it. . . . Did you look in on Brutus and Catta?”
“They’re happy, but I believe your cat-sitter is overfeeding them. As you asked, I filled your refrigerator with everything on your list.”
They were suddenly silent as they drove through the gates of Indian Village—past the gatehouse on the right, past the clubhouse on the left, and onto River Road with its clusters of condos.
Qwilleran parked in front of Unit One of The Willows. “You run in and hug your cats,” he said. “I’ll take the luggage.”
“Would you like to stay for some cottage cheese and fruit?” she asked in the soft, vibrant voice that had first attracted him. Cottage cheese was far from his favorite food. He hesitated a fraction of a second. “Yes, I believe I would.”
Later in the afternoon Qwilleran took a legal pad and some yellow pencils—along with the Siamese and the cordless phone—to the gazebo. It was an octagonal summerhouse, screened on all eight sides—located in the bird garden a few yards from the barn. He drafted his Tuesday column; Yum Yum pursued her hobby of batting insects on the outside of the screen; Koko huddled on the floor and watched a family of seven crows strutting back and forth for his benefit. Were they the same ones that had visited the previous summer? Qwilleran wondered; all crows look alike, he thought. He called them the Bunkers, after Dr. Teresa Bunker, corvidologist. He considered her slightly nutty, like her cousin Joe, the WPKX meteorologist. Joe called himself Wetherby Goode and spiced his weather predictions with jokes and jingles.
Qwilleran’s ruminations were interrupted by a phone call.
It was his friend Thornton Haggis—retired stonecutter, history buff, and indefatigable volunteer.
“Hi, Qwill! Are you busy? I have something for you—and something to discuss.”
“Where are you?”
“I’ve been helping out at the Art Center. I can be there in five minutes.”
“We’re in the gazebo. Care for a glass of wine?”
“Not tonight. We’re having company. My wife invited the new pastor and a couple of people from the church.”
The art center was at the far end of the former apple orchard, connected by an old wagon trail, and soon Thornton’s shock of white hair, like a dust mop, could be seen approaching. The Siamese watched and waited with eagerness; they had never figured out the purpose of that white thing on his head.
Thornton was clutching what looked like a dumbbell, and he set it down on a table. “This is for you! A belated birthday present.”
“It’s spectacular!” Qwilleran said. “I can’t believe you turned this on your lathe!”
Wood turning was Thornton’s latest hobby.
“It’s spalted olive wood. It’s sort of a candy dish, but you can use it to feed the cats if you want to.”
The Siamese were on the table, appraising the object with quivering noses. A saucer-like dish, over a sculpted stem and a round base, was turned from a single piece of wood, with the pronounced grain spiraling upward and ending in squizzles and splotches that nature had given to an olive tree.
Qwilleran said, “I’m overplussed and non-whelmed, or vice versa. I’ll keep it on my desk for stray paper clips, rubber bands, and gold coins. . . . Now, sit down and let’s hear what’s on your mind.”
