Who was Thelma Thackeray?
It was April first, and it sounded like an April Fool's
joke.
Had anyone by that name ever lived in Moose County, 400
miles north of everywhere?
Yet, there it was, in black and white-in the newsbite
column of the Moose County Something:
return of the native
Thelma Thackeray, 82, a native of Moose County, has
retired after a 55-year career in Hollywood, CA, and is
returning to her native soil. "I'm coming home to die,"
she said cheerfully, "but not right away. First I want to
have some fun."
It was followed by less startling items: The sheriff had
purchased a stop-stick to aid deputies in high-speed car
chases....The Downtown Beautiful committee had decided on
hot-pink petunias for the flower boxes on Main
Street....The sow that escaped from a truck on Sandpit
Road had been discovered in the basement of the Black
Creek Elementary School.
Immediately the lead item was being discussed all over
town, via the grapevine. In coffeehouses, on street
corners, and over backyard fences the news was spread: "A
Hollywood star is coming to live in Pickax!"
Jim Qwilleran, columnist for the newspaper, was working at
home when his phone started ringing. "Who was Thelma
Thackeray?... Was she really a movie star?... Did the
press know more than they were telling?"
"It sounds like a hoax," he told them. He remembered the
April Fool's prank that his fellow staffers had played on
the Lockmaster Ledger a year ago. They phoned a tip that a
Triple Crown winner was being retired to a stud farm in
Lockmaster under terms of absolute secrecy. Reporters at
the Ledger had spent a week trying to confirm it.
Nevertheless, Qwilleran's curiosity was aroused. He phoned
Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor, and said
sternly, "What was the source of the Thelma Thackeray
newsbite?"
"She phoned our night desk herself-from California. Why do
you ask? Do you have a problem with that?"
"I certainly do! The name sounds phony! And her remark
about dying and having fun is too glib for a person of her
apparent age."
"So what are you telling me, Qwill?"
"I'm telling you it's a practical joke played by those
guys in Lockmaster in retaliation for the horse hoax. Have
you been getting any reader reaction?"
"Sure have! Our phones have been ringing off the hook! And-
hey, Qwill! Maybe there really is a Thelma Thackeray!"
"Want to bet?" Qwilleran grumbled as he hung up.
Qwilleran had a sudden urge for a piece of Lois Inchpot's
apple pie, and he walked to the shabby downtown eatery
where one could always find comfort food at comfortable
prices-and the latest gossip. Lois herself was a buxom,
bossy, hardworking woman who had the undying loyalty of
her customers. They took up a collection when she needed a
new coffeemaker and volunteered their services when the
lunchroom walls needed painting.
When Qwilleran arrived, the place was empty, chairs were
upended on tables, and Lois was sweeping up before
dinner. "Too early for dinner! Too late for coffee!" she
bellowed.
"Where's your busboy, Lois?"
Her son, Lenny, usually helped her prepare for dinner.
"Job hunting! He finished two years at MCCC, and he'd
really like to go to one of them universities Down Below,
but they're too expensive. So he's job hunting."
Qwilleran said, "Tell Lenny to apply to the K Fund for a
scholarship. I'll vouch for him." The young man had faced
personal tragedy, a frame-up, and betrayal of trust-with
pluck and perseverance.
With a sudden change of heart she said, "What kind of pie
do you want?"
"Apple," he said, "and give me that broom and I'll finish
sweeping while you brew the coffee."
The middle-aged man pushing the broom and righting the
chairs would have been recognized anywhere in three
counties as James Mackintosh Qwilleran. He had a pepper-
and-salt moustache of magnificent proportions, and his
photo appeared at the head of the "Qwill Pen" column every
Tuesday and Friday. He had been a highly regarded
journalist in major cities around the country; then he
inherited the vast Klingenschoen fortune based in Moose
County and he relocated in the north country. Furthermore,
for reasons of his own, he had turned the inheritance over
to a philanthropic institution. The Klingenschoen
Foundation, popularly called the K Fund, was masterminded
by experts in Chicago, where Qwilleran was recognized as
the richest man in the northeast central United States.
Around Pickax he was Mr. Q.
Eventually Lois returned from the kitchen, carrying two
orders of apple pie and a coffee server; forks, napkins,
and mugs were in her apron pockets. They sat in a booth
near the kitchen pass-through, so she could shout
reminders to the woman who cooked dinner. Lois herself
would wait on tables, take the money, and serve as
moderator of the free-for-all talk show carried on among
the tables.
"Well, Mr. Q," she began, "you missed a good chinfest this
afternoon. Everybody's excited about the movie star comin'
to town. Do you think she'll come in here to eat?"
Still suspecting a Lockmaster trick, he replied
evasively, "Just because she's lived in Hollywood for
fifty years, it doesn't make her a movie star. She could
be a bookkeeper or policewoman or bank president."
Whatever she is, he thought, she must be loaded-to buy a
house on Pleasant Street.
Lois shouted at the pass-through, "Effie! Don't forget to
thaw the cranberry sauce!... Funny thing, though, Mr. Q-
nobody remembers a Thackeray family in these parts."
Facetiously he said, "It would be interesting to know if
she's related to William Makepeace Thackeray."
"Don't know anybody of that name. Who is he?"
"A writer, but he hasn't done anything recently."
She yelled, "And, Effie! Throw some garlic powder in the
mashed potatoes!"
Qwilleran said, "Sounds delicious. I'd like to take a
turkey dinner home in a box."
Lois yelled, "Effie! Fix a box for Mr. Q-and put in some
dark meat for his kitties."
"By the way," he said, "what's all the action in the next
block? All those trucks coming and going."
"They're movin' out!" she said. "Good riddance! It don't
make sense to have a place like that downtown."
He waited for his "box" and walked to the corner of Church
and Pine streets, where large cartons were being loaded
into trucks and carted away. According to the logos on the
cartons they were refrigerators, washers and dryers,
kitchen ranges, and television sets.
He said to the man directing the loading, "Either you're
moving out, or you've sold a lot of appliances this week."
"We got a new building on Sandpit Road-steel barn with
real loading dock. Plenty of room for trucks."
The edifice they were vacating was a huge stone hulk,
wedged between storefronts of more recent vintage. That
meant it was more than a century old, dating back to the
days when the county's quarries were going full blast and
Pickax was being built as the City of Stone. It was the
first time he had scrutinized it. There were no windows in
the side walls, and the front entrance had been boarded
up. Qwilleran crossed the street and appreciated the
design for the first time: Four columns were part of the
architecture, topped by a pediment and the simple words
inscribed in the stone: opera house.
Then he realized that the smaller buildings on either side
had been vacated also. Something was happening in downtown
Pickax!
Qwilleran went home to his converted apple barn, which was
as old as the opera house. It occupied a wooded area on
the outskirts of town-octagonal, forty feet high, with
fieldstone foundation and weathered wood shingles for
siding. As he drove into the barnyard two alert cats were
watching excitedly in the kitchen window. They were sleek
Siamese with pale fawn bodies and seal-brown masks and
ears, long slender legs, and whiplike tails. And they had
startlingly blue eyes.
Yum Yum was a flirtatious little female who purred, rubbed
ankles, and gazed at Qwilleran beseechingly with violet-
tinged eyes. She knew how to get what she wanted; she was
all cat...Koko was a cat-and-a-half. Besides being long,
lithe, and muscular, he had the bluest of blue eyes,
brimming with intelligence and something beyond that-an
uncanny intuition. There were times when the cat knew the
answers before Qwilleran had even thought of the
questions. Kao K'o Kung was his real name.
When Qwilleran walked into the barn, Yum Yum was excited
about the turkey, but Koko was excited about the answering
machine; there was a message waiting.
A woman's voice said, "Qwill, I'm leaving the library
early and going to the dinner meeting of the bird club.
It's all about chickadees tonight. I'll call you when I
get home and we can talk about Thelma Thackeray. A
bientôt."
She left no name, and none was needed. Polly Duncan was
the chief woman in his life. She was his own age and
shared his interest in literature, being director of the
Pickax public library. It was her musical voice that had
first attracted him. Even now, when she talked, he felt a
frisson of pleasure that almost overshadowed what she was
saying.
Qwilleran thanked Koko for drawing his attention to the
message and asked Yum Yum if she had found any treasures
in the wastebasket. Talking to cats, he believed, raised
their consciousness.
The dark meat of turkey was minced and arranged on two
plates under the kitchen table, where they gobbled it up
with rapture. Afterward it took them a long time to wash
up. The tastier the treat, the longer the ablutions,
Qwilleran had observed.
Then he announced loudly, "Gazebo Express now leaving for
all points east!" Yum Yum and Koko jumped into a canvas
tote bag that had been purchased from the Pickax public
library. It was the right size for ten books or two cats
who are good friends.
The octagonal gazebo stood in the bird garden, screened on
all eight sides. In the evening there were birds and small
four-legged creatures to amuse the Siamese, and when
darkness fell there were night noises and night smells.
Qwilleran stayed with them for a while, then went indoors
to do some more work on the "Qwill Pen" column.
From time to time he received phone calls from friends who
wanted to talk about the Hollywood celebrity: from
Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist; from Celia
Robinson O'Dell, his favorite caterer; from Susan
Exbridge, antique dealer; the Lanspeaks, owners of the
department store.
At one point he was interrupted by a phone call from Lisa
Compton, wife of the school superintendent.
"Lyle and I were wondering if you know what's going into
the old opera house?"
"No, I know only what's coming out. Maybe they're going to
bring Mark Twain back. He hasn't been here since 1895."
"I know," Lisa said. "And my grandmother was still raving
about him sixty years later. She loved his moustache-just
like yours, Qwill. His wit and humor brought down the
house! Her favorite was the one about cross-breeding man
with the cat: It would improve the man but be deleterious
to the cat."
"She told me that carriages used to draw up to the
entrance of the hall, and women in furs and jewels would
step out, assisted by men in opera cloaks and tall hats.
Can you imagine that-in Pickax, Qwill?"
"That was over a hundred years ago," Qwilleran
said. "Things change."
"So true! Before World War One the economy had collapsed.
Pickax was almost a ghost town, and the opera hall was
boarded up. In the Twenties it was a movie theatre for a
few years. During World War Two the government took it
over-all very hush-hush and heavily guarded. They removed
the rows of seats and leveled the raked floor, my family
told me."
Qwilleran said, "The old building has had a checkered
career."
"Yes, since then it's been a roller rink, a dance hall, a
health club, and finally a storage warehouse. Who knows
what's next?"
"If you get any clues, let me know," he said.
"I'll do that.... How are the kitties, Qwill?"
"Fine. How's Lyle?"
"Grouchy. He's crossing swords with the school board
again."