Jackson, Braun Lilian

"Don't ask me. She's your woman!" Nick said with a grin.

"Like hell she is! She blew in with the hurricane, and I don't know what she expects ... Well, never mind, I'll figure something out."

The Double-Six chugged back to the island, and Qwilleran faced Liz squarely. "Are you sure you want to go to Pickax and not to this charming town of Mooseville with its quaint Northern Lights Hotel? There's a maritime museum and a mall in a fish cannery and a good little restaurant called the Nasty Pasty."

"No, I find Pickax City more appealing," she said.

Huffing unobtrusively into his moustache, Qwilleran opened the passenger door for her, "We have to stop at the airport to pick up my friend, who's coming in on the seven-thirty-five shuttle. And now that you're here, Liz, what are your plans?"

"I'm going to drop "Appelhardt." I like "Cage" better. It was the maiden name of my paternal grandmother."

"I mean, where do you want to live? What kind of people would you like to meet? How long do you think you'll stay? What do you want to do while you're here?"

"I don't know. Do you have any suggestions?"

He groaned inwardly. He should never have gone to tea at The Pines. "You might take an apartment in Indian Village. They have a clubhouse and golf course, and a lot of young people live there."

"I prefer older people," she said, looking at him appreciatively.

"A lot of older people live there, too. Do you play bridge?"

"No, cards don't appeal to me."

"Wherever you live, you'll need a car. It's a necessity in Moose County. There are no taxis."

"Would there be any objection to a horse and carriage? I could have Skip shipped over here, and William would let me have the physician's phaeton."

"In order to stable a horse, you'd have to live in the country, and you'd still need a car. I assume you have a driver's license."

"I'm afraid it's expired. Mother didn't want me to drive."

"Well, you'll have to renew it."

"Is there a foreign car dealer in Pickax? I'd like a Bentley. William has a Bentley."

Nothing had been settled by the time they reached the airport. Qwilleran parked at the passenger-pickup curb and told Liz to sit tight while he made a phone call and picked up his friend's luggage. In the terminal he called Fran Brodie, the interior designer. "Fran! Have I got a client for you! She's loaded! She's young! She wants to live in Pickax! . . . Don't ask questions. Just listen. She's checking into the Pickax Hotel in half an hour, and I want you to take her under your wing and see that she gets a good apartment, furniture, a car, knives and forks, everything! Her name is Elizabeth Cage. Call her early tomorrow, or even tonight, before she does something impulsive. I've gotta hang up. I'm at the airport. I'm meeting a plane."

When the shuttle taxied to the terminal, eight passengers deplaned, and Qwilleran—in a state of preoccupation—greeted Polly with less enthusiasm than she probably expected. He took her carry-on tote and a long roll of something, saying, "You have one other bag to claim, don't you?"

"That and two cartons. I bought a few things."

While trundling the luggage cart to the curb, he said casually, "I have a hitchhiker who wants to be dropped at the Pickax Hotel."

"Really? I thought you never picked up hitchhikers, Qwill."

"This one is different. I'll explain later."

He introduced Ms. Cage to Mrs. Duncan, and Polly looked at the Gauguin hat and said a stiff how-do-you-do. She was automatically jealous of any woman younger and thinner than she. To his relief, the younger woman had the good manners to relinquish her seat. "Let me sit with the cats," she said.

Polly requested, "When you put my impedimenta in the trunk, Qwill, be careful with that long roll." It looked as if it might be a wall map of the United States.

"I'm sorry, but all your luggage will have to go inside the car," he explained. "The trunk is jam-packed."

As they drove away from the airport, Polly half-turned and asked the other passenger politely, "Did you fly in?"

"No," said Liz in her ingenuous way, "Qwill and I came over on a boat from Grand Island. We were trapped in a strange inn during the hurricane—with no windows or lights or water. It was quite an adventure!"

"Really?" Polly looked at Qwilleran questioningly. "I'm not familiar with Grand Island."

"How was your flight?" he asked forcefully. "Tolerable. Were you covering the hurricane for the paper?"

"Not officially. Did you see any puffin birds in Oregon?"

On the way into town the conversation struggled through a quagmire of bewilderment, evasion, awkwardness, and non sequiturs until they reached Goodwinter Boulevard. Then Qwilleran said, "If you don't mind, Polly, I'll drop you off first. We have a luggage problem to contend with in the trunk, and I know you're tired and want to get home."