with several counts of robbery, the locals vented their emotions loudly in the supermarkets and other public places:
“I don’t believe it! Somebody made a mistake! He’s a good kid!”
“What’ll happen to him? Will he go to jail? It’ll kill his poor mother.”
“Not Lois! Most likely his poor mother will go out and kill the judge with a frying pan!”
Two days later Danielle Carmichael returned to town, and the gossip was less kind:
“Nobody’s seen her wearin’ black.”
“I’ll bet he left her well fixed.”
“What’ll she do with that big house he bought? Open a bed-and-breakfast or something?”
“Or something! That’s about the size of it.”
Qwilleran checked in at the design studio to get an update from Fran Brodie.
“Yes, Danny-girl is back. I’ve talked to her on the phone, but I haven’t seen her. The things I ordered for her house are trickling in—all contemporary, of course. That was the big quarrel between her and Willard. When I dropped her off in Detroit, she couldn’t wait to dump the traditional furniture his first wife had bought. He’d had it in storage.”
“How soon can she move into her house?” he asked, hoping for her early departure from Indian Village. She was too close for comfort; she would become increasingly chummy.
“Not soon. The drifts are so deep in the Hummocks, even our delivery truck couldn’t get in. Besides, her lease at the Village has a few months to run. Meanwhile, she intends to work with Carter Lee. Amanda thinks they’ll cut into our business, but she just likes to carp. Actually, the whole restoration project on Pleasant Street will be good for us.”
“In what way?”
“When Carter Lee recommends an authentic wall-covering, window treatment, and rug, the order will be placed through our studio, which gets a designer discount. Likewise, when he suggests an antique pier mirror as a focal point, Susan Exbridge will scout for it.”
“And in both cases he gets a kickback,” Qwilleran presumed.
“The word is commission, darling,” Fran corrected him loftily.
“Has he returned as yet?”
“He’ll be here at the end of the week.”
“And what news about Hedda Gabler? Are you going ahead with your insane idea?”
Fran threw him an expressive scowl she had learned from her father. “Frankly, that’s why Danielle returned so soon. She attended rehearsal last night and read lines.”
“And?. . . ”
Fran’s scowl changed to involuntarily laughter. “When the snooty Hedda says She’s left her old hat on the chair in Danielle’s rusty-gate voice, it’s hard to keep a straight face.”
“I warned you it would turn into a farce,” Qwilleran said. “The only Ibsen drama ever played for laughs!”
“Don’t panic! We’ll work it out. Unfortunately, she doesn’t like the man who’s playing Judge Brack. She’d rather play opposite you, Qwill.”
“Sure. But she’s not going to play opposite me. I’m the drama critic for the paper, remember? I can’t have one leg on the stage and the other in row five.”
“But she’s right. You’d be a perfect Brack, and you have such a commanding voice. Also, to be grossly mercenary about it, your presence in the cast would sell tickets.”
“If you’re chiefly interested in the box office, the K Fund will be glad to buy out the house for all nine performances.”
“Forget I mentioned it,” Fran said.
* * *
The four o’clock lull at Lois’s Luncheonette would be an auspicious time to visit the suspect’s mother, Qwilleran thought. Would she be fighting mad or pained beyond words? To his surprise, Lenny himself was the only one in sight. He was mopping the new vinyl floor, a hideous pattern of flowers and geometrics that had been donated to the lunchroom and installed by devoted customers.
“Mom’s in the kitchen, prepping dinner,” Lenny said. Though in work clothes, he looked more like a club manager than a mop-pusher.
“Don’t disturb her,” Qwilleran
“I don’t believe it! Somebody made a mistake! He’s a good kid!”
“What’ll happen to him? Will he go to jail? It’ll kill his poor mother.”
“Not Lois! Most likely his poor mother will go out and kill the judge with a frying pan!”
Two days later Danielle Carmichael returned to town, and the gossip was less kind:
“Nobody’s seen her wearin’ black.”
“I’ll bet he left her well fixed.”
“What’ll she do with that big house he bought? Open a bed-and-breakfast or something?”
“Or something! That’s about the size of it.”
Qwilleran checked in at the design studio to get an update from Fran Brodie.
“Yes, Danny-girl is back. I’ve talked to her on the phone, but I haven’t seen her. The things I ordered for her house are trickling in—all contemporary, of course. That was the big quarrel between her and Willard. When I dropped her off in Detroit, she couldn’t wait to dump the traditional furniture his first wife had bought. He’d had it in storage.”
“How soon can she move into her house?” he asked, hoping for her early departure from Indian Village. She was too close for comfort; she would become increasingly chummy.
“Not soon. The drifts are so deep in the Hummocks, even our delivery truck couldn’t get in. Besides, her lease at the Village has a few months to run. Meanwhile, she intends to work with Carter Lee. Amanda thinks they’ll cut into our business, but she just likes to carp. Actually, the whole restoration project on Pleasant Street will be good for us.”
“In what way?”
“When Carter Lee recommends an authentic wall-covering, window treatment, and rug, the order will be placed through our studio, which gets a designer discount. Likewise, when he suggests an antique pier mirror as a focal point, Susan Exbridge will scout for it.”
“And in both cases he gets a kickback,” Qwilleran presumed.
“The word is commission, darling,” Fran corrected him loftily.
“Has he returned as yet?”
“He’ll be here at the end of the week.”
“And what news about Hedda Gabler? Are you going ahead with your insane idea?”
Fran threw him an expressive scowl she had learned from her father. “Frankly, that’s why Danielle returned so soon. She attended rehearsal last night and read lines.”
“And?. . . ”
Fran’s scowl changed to involuntarily laughter. “When the snooty Hedda says She’s left her old hat on the chair in Danielle’s rusty-gate voice, it’s hard to keep a straight face.”
“I warned you it would turn into a farce,” Qwilleran said. “The only Ibsen drama ever played for laughs!”
“Don’t panic! We’ll work it out. Unfortunately, she doesn’t like the man who’s playing Judge Brack. She’d rather play opposite you, Qwill.”
“Sure. But she’s not going to play opposite me. I’m the drama critic for the paper, remember? I can’t have one leg on the stage and the other in row five.”
“But she’s right. You’d be a perfect Brack, and you have such a commanding voice. Also, to be grossly mercenary about it, your presence in the cast would sell tickets.”
“If you’re chiefly interested in the box office, the K Fund will be glad to buy out the house for all nine performances.”
“Forget I mentioned it,” Fran said.
* * *
The four o’clock lull at Lois’s Luncheonette would be an auspicious time to visit the suspect’s mother, Qwilleran thought. Would she be fighting mad or pained beyond words? To his surprise, Lenny himself was the only one in sight. He was mopping the new vinyl floor, a hideous pattern of flowers and geometrics that had been donated to the lunchroom and installed by devoted customers.
“Mom’s in the kitchen, prepping dinner,” Lenny said. Though in work clothes, he looked more like a club manager than a mop-pusher.
“Don’t disturb her,” Qwilleran
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