The Cat… Who 06 – The Cat Who Played Post Office – Braun, Lilian Jackson

Lilian Jackson Braun – The Cat Who Played Post Office

1

A CAUCASIAN MALE – fiftyish, six-feet-two, weight two-thirty, graying hair, bushy moustache – opened his eyes and found himself in a strange bed in a strange room. He lay still, in a state of peculiar lassitude, and allowed his eyes to rove about the room with mild curiosity. Eyes that might be described as mournful surveyed the steel footboard of the bed, the bare window, the hideous color of the walls, the television on a high shelf. Beyond the window a tree was waving its branches wildly.

He could almost hear his mother’s musical voice saying, “The tree is waving to you, Jamesy. Wave your hand like a polite little boy.” Jamesy? Is that my name? It doesn’t sound – exactly – right…. Where am I? What is my name?

The questions drifted across his consciousness without arousing anxiety – only a vague perplexity.

He had a mental picture of an old man with a Santa Claus beard standing at his bedside and saying, “You haft scarlet fever, Jamesy. Ve take you to the hospital and make you veil.” Hospital? Is this a hospital? Do I have scarlet fever?

Although undisturbed by his predicament, he was beginning to have an uncomfortable feeling that he had neglected something of vital importance; he had failed someone close to him. His mother, perhaps? He frowned, and the wrinkling of his brow produced a slight hurt. He raised his left hand and found a bandage on his forehead. Quickly he checked other parts of his anatomy. Nothing was missing and nothing seemed to be broken, but the movement of his right knee and right elbow was restricted by more bandages. There was also something unusual about his left hand. He counted four fingers and a thumb, and yet something was wrong. It was baffling. He sighed deeply and wondered what it could possibly be that he had neglected to do.

A strange woman – plump, white haired, smiling – bustled into the room with noiseless steps. “Oh, you’re awake!

You had a good night’s sleep. It’s a beautiful day, but windy. How do you feel, Mr. Cue?” Cue? Jamesy Cue? Is that my name?

It sounded unlikely, if not absurd. He passed his hand over his face experimentally, feeling a familiar moustache and a jaw he had shaved ten thousand times. As a voice test he said aloud to himself, “I remember the face but not the name.” “My name? Toodle,” the woman said pleasantly. “Mrs. Toodle. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Cue? Dr.

Goodwinter will be here in a few minutes. I’ll take your jug and bring you some fresh water. Are you ready for brekky?” As she left the room with the jug in hand, she called over her shoulder, “You have bathroom privileges.” Bathroom privileges. Brekky. Toodle.

They were foreign words that made no sense. The old man with a beard had told him he had scarlet fever. Now this woman was telling him he had bathroom privileges. It sounded like some kind of embarrassing disease. He heaved another sigh and closed his eyes to wait for the old man with a Santa Claus beard. When he opened them again, a young woman in a white coat was standing at his bedside, holding his wrist.

“Good morning, lover,” she said. “How do you feel?” The voice had a familiar ring, and he remembered her green eyes and long eyelashes. Around her neck hung a tubular thing, the name of which escaped him. Hesitantly he asked, “Are you my doctor?” “Yes, and more – much more,” she said with a wink.

He began to feel familiar sensations. Is she my wife? Am I a married man? Am I neglecting my family? Again he felt a twinge of guilt about the responsibility he was shirking, whatever it might be. “Are you – are you my wife?” he asked in a faltering voice.

“Not yet, but I’m working on it.” She kissed an unbandaged spot on his forehead. “You still feel groggy, don’t you?

But you’ll be A-OK soon.” He looked at his left hand. “Something’s missing here.” “Your watch and ring are in the hospital safe until you’re ready to go home,” she explained gently.

“Oh, I see…. Why am I here?” he asked fearfully, worrying about the indelicate nature of his disease.

“You fell off your bicycle on Ittibittiwassee Road. Do you remember?” Ittibittiwassee. Bathroom privileges. Brekky. Groggy.

What language, he wondered, were these people speaking? He ventured to ask, “Do I have a bicycle?” “You did have a bike, lover, but it’s totaled. You’ll have to buy a ten-speed now.” Totaled. Ten-speed. Toodle, He shook his head in dismay. Clearing his throat, he said, “That woman who came in here said I have bathroom privileges. What is that? Is it – is it some kind of – ” “It means you can get out of bed and walk to the bathroom,” said the doctor with a smile twitching her lips. “I’ll be back when I’ve finished my rounds.” She kissed him again.” Arch Riker is coming to see you. He’s flying up from Down Below.” Then she walked from the room with a long leggy stride and a chummy wave of the hand.

Arch Riker. Down Below. What was she talking about? And who was she? To ask her name would have been embarrassing under the circumstances. He shrugged in defeat, hoisted himself out of bed, and hobbled to the bathroom.

There in the mirror were sad eyes, graying temples and an oversized pepper-and-salt moustache that he recognized. Still, the name eluded him.

When the woman who called herself Toodle brought a tray of what she called brekky, he ate the blob of something soft and yellow, the two brown patties that were salty and chewy, the triangular slabs of something thin and crisp, which he smeared with something red and sweet. But he was glad to lie down again and close his eyes and stop trying to think.

He opened them suddenly. A man was standing at his bedside – a paunchy man with thinning hair and a ruddy face that he had seen many times before.

“You dirty bird!” the visitor said genially. “You gave us a scare! What were you trying to do? Kill yourself? How do you feel, Qwill?” “Is that my name? I can’t remember.” The man gulped twice and turned pale. “All your friends call you Qwill. Short for Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a Q-w.” The patient studied the information and nodded slowly. “Don’t you remember me, Qwill? I’m Arch Riker, your old sidekick.” Qwilleran stared at him. Sidekick. Another baffling word. “We grew up together in Chicago, Qwill. For the last few years I’ve been your editor at the Daily Fluxion. We’ve had a million lunches at the Press Club.” The light began to penetrate Qwilleran’s foggy mind. “Wait a minute. I want to sit up.” Riker pressed a button that raised the head of the bed and pulled up a straight chair for himself. “Melinda called me and said you fell off your bike. I came right away.” “Melinda?” “Melinda Goodwinter. Your latest girl, Qwill, Also your doctor, you lucky dog.” “What is this place?” Qwilleran asked, “I don’t know where I am.” “This is the Pickax Hospital. They brought you here after your accident.” “Pickax? What kind of a hospital is that?” “Pickax City – four hundred miles north of everywhere. You’ve been living here for the last couple of months.” “Oh, , , , Is that when I left Chicago?” “Qwill, you haven’t lived in Chicago for twenty years,” Riker said quietly. “You’ve lived in New York, Washington – all around the country since then.” “Wait a minute. I want to sit in that big chair.” Riker picked up a red plaid bathrobe with ragged edges, “Here, get into this. It looks like yours. It’s the Mackintosh tartan. Does that ring a bell? Your mother was a Mackintosh.” Qwilleran’s face brightened, “That’s right! Where is she? Is she all right?” Riker drew a deep breath. “She died when you were in college, Qwill.” He paused to formulate a plan, “Look here.

let’s go back to the beginning. I’ve known you ever since kindergarten. Your mother called you Jamesy. We called you Snoopy. Do you remember why?” Qwilleran shook his head.

“You were always snooping into other kids’ lunch boxes,” He searched Qwilleran’s face for a glimmer of recollection.

“Do you remember our first-grade teacher? She was thin at the top and fat at the bottom. You said, ‘Old Miss Blair looks like a pear,’ Remember that?” There was a slight nod and half smile in response.

“You were always good with words, You were playing with words when the rest of us were playing with water pistols.” With patience Riker went on with the nostalgic recital, hitting the highlights of his friend’s life. “You were spelling champ for three years…. In junior high school you discovered girls…. In high school you played baseball-outfield, good slugger.

And you edited the school paper.” “The North Wind,” Qwilleran murmured. “That’s it! That’s the name!… After graduation you went into the service and came out with a trick knee, so that was the end of baseball. In college you sang in the glee club and got interested in acting.” The years rolled by in a matter of minutes. “We both went into journalism, but you got the glamour assignments.

You were tops as a crime reporter, and whenever there was any trouble overseas, they sent you to cover the hot spots.” With each revelation Qwilleran’ s mind became sharper, and he responded with more awareness.

“You won journalism prizes and wrote a book on urban crime. It actually got on the best-seller list.” “For about ten minutes.” Relief showed in Riker’s face. His friend was beginning to sound normal. “You were my best man when I married Rosie.” “It rained all day. I remember the wet confetti.” “You were in Scotland when you married Miriam.” Again Qwilleran felt the vague uneasiness. “Where is she? Why isn’t she here?” “You were divorced about ten years ago. She’s somewhere in Connecticut.” The mournful eyes gazed into space. “And after that everything fell apart.” “Okay, let’s face it, Qwill. You developed a drinking problem and couldn’t hold a job, but you snapped out of it and came to work for the Daily Fluxion, writing features. You turned out some good stuff. You could write about art, antiques, interior design – anything.” “Even if I didn’t know anything about it,” Qwilleran put in.

“When you started writing restaurant reviews, you could make food sound as interesting as crime.” “Wait a minute, Arch! How long have I been away from my desk? I’ve got to get back to work!” “Hey, man, you quit several weeks ago!” “What! Why did I quit? I need the job!” “Not anymore, my friend. You inherited money – a bundle of it – the Klingenschoen fortune.” “I don’t believe it! What am I doing? Where do I live?” “Here in Pickax City. Those were the terms of the will. You have to live in Moose County for five years. You inherited a big house in Pickax with a four-car garage and a limousine and – ” Qwilleran grabbed the arms of his chair. “The cats! Where are the cats? I haven’t fed the cats!” That was the thing that had been troubling the edges of his mind. “I’ve got to get out of here!” “Don’t get excited. You’ll split your stitches. The brats are okay. Your housekeeper is feeding them, and she’s making up a room for me so I can stay overnight.” “Housekeeper?” “Mrs. Cobb. I wouldn’t mind going there right now for a little shut-eye. I’ve been up since four o’clock this morning.” “I’ll go with you. Where are my clothes?” “Sit down, sit down, Qwill. Melinda wants to run a few tests. I’ll check back with you later.” “Arch, no one but you could have dredged up all that ancient history.” Riker grabbed his friend’s hand. “Are you feeling like yourself now?” “I think so. Don’t worry.” “See you later, Qwill. God! I’m glad to see you functioning again. You gave me a bad scare.” After Riker had left, Qwilleran tested himself. Sidekick, shut-eye, brekky. Now he knew the meaning of all the words.

He could remember his own telephone number. He could spell onomatopoeia. He knew the names of his cats: Koko and Yum Yum, a pair of beautiful but tyrannical Siamese.

Yet, there was a period of a few hours that remained a blank. No matter how intensely he concentrated, he could not recall anything immediately before or immediately after the accident. Why did he falloff his bike? Did he hit a pothole or some loose gravel? Or did he pass out while pedaling? Perhaps that was Melinda’s reason for wanting to run tests.

He was too tired to concentrate further. Recollecting his entire past had been an exhausting chore. In a single morning he had relived more than forty years. He needed a nap. He needed some shut-eye. Smiling to himself because he now knew all the words, he fell asleep.

Qwilleran slept soundly, and he had a vivid dream. He was having lunch in a sunny room, all yellow and green. The housekeeper was serving macaroni-and-cheese flecked with green pepper and red pimiento. He could picture everything distinctly: the brown casserole, the housekeeper’s bright pink sweater. In the dream the colors were so vibrant they were disturbing.

Qwilleran was telling Mrs. Cobb that he might take a bike ride on Ittibittiwassee Road.

“Be careful with that rusty old crate,” she said in a cheerful voice. “You really ought to buy a ten-speed, Mr. Q… a ten-speed, Mr. Q… a ten-speed, Mr. Q…” Suddenly he was awake; his bandaged brow was cold and wet. The sequence had been so real, he refused to believe it was a dream. There was only one way to be sure.

He reached for the telephone and dialed his home number, and when he heard his housekeeper’s cheery hello he marveled at the audio-fidelity of his dream. “Mrs. Cobb, how’s everything at the house? How are the cats?” “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Q,” she squealed. “Thank goodness you’re all in one piece! The cats? They miss you. Koko won’t eat, and Yum Yum cries a lot. They know something’s wrong. Mr. Riker is here, and I sent him upstairs to take a nap. Is there anything you want, Mr. Q? Anything I can send you?” “No, thanks. Not a thing. I’ll be home tomorrow. But just answer a couple of questions, if you will. Did you serve macaroni-and-cheese yesterday?” “Oh Lord! I hope it wasn’t the lunch that caused your spill.” “Don’t worry. Nothing like that. I’m just trying to recall something. Were you wearing a pink sweater yesterday?” “Yes, the one you gave me.” “Did I discuss my plans for the afternoon?” “Oh, Mr. Q! This sounds like one of your investigations. Do you have some suspicions?” “No, just curious, Mrs. Cobb.” “Well, let me think…. You said you were going to take the old bike out for a ride, and I said you ought to buy a new ten-speed. You’ll have to buy one now, Mr. Q. The sheriff found your old one in a ditch, and it’s a wreck!” “In a ditch?” That’s strange, Qwilleran thought, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. He thanked the housekeeper and suggested some delicacies to tempt Koko’s appetite. “Where is he, Mrs. Cobb? Put him on the phone.” “He’s on top of the refrigerator,” she said. “He’s listening to every word I say. Let me see if the phone cord will reach.” There was an interlude in which Mrs. Cobb could be heard making coaxing noises, while Koko’s familiar yowl came through with piercing clarity. Then Qwilleran heard a snuffling sound coming from the receiver.

“Hello there, Koko old boy,” he said. “Are you taking care of Yum Yum? Are you keeping the house safe from lions and tigers?” A throaty purr came over the line. Koko appreciated intelligent conversation.

“Be a good cat and eat your food. You’ve got to keep up your strength to fight off all those jaguars and black buffalos.

So long, Koko. I’ll be home tomorrow.” “YOW!” came a sharp cry that stabbed Qwilleran’s eardrum.

He replaced the receiver and turned to find Mrs. Toodle standing there in wide-eyed astonishment. Her voice was wary. “I came to see… if you’d like to have… your lunch now, Mr. Q.” “If there’s no objection,” he replied, “I’d prefer to go !down to the cafeteria. Do you suppose they’re serving consomm‚ with poached plover eggs or a salpicon of mussels today?” Mrs. Toodle looked alarmed and hurried out. Qwilleran chuckled. He was feeling euphoric after his brief brush with amnesia.

Before going in search of food he combed his hair and thought about Mrs. Cobb’s remark: The sheriff found the bicycle in the ditch! The drainage ditch was a good thirty feet from the pavement to allow for future widening of the new highway. If he had blacked out or if he had hit some obstruction, he and his bike would have toppled over on the gravel shoulder. How did the bicycle end up in the ditch? It was a question he might pursue later, but first he needed food.

Wearing his Mackintosh bathrobe, Qwilleran headed for the elevator, walking with a slow and dignified step dictated by his legful of bandages. He was thankful he had not landed on his bad knee. On second thought, he realized he now might have two bad knees.

Everyone in the corridor seemed to know him. Orderlies and ambulatory patients greeted him by name – or, rather, by initial – and one of the nurses said, “Sorry about your room, Mr. Q – the color of the walls, I mean. It was supposed to be antique pink, but the painters got their signals crossed.” “It’s not very appetizing,” Qwilleran agreed. “It looks like raw veal, but I can live with it for another twenty-four hours.” In the cafeteria he was greeted with applause from the nurses, technicians, and doctors who were lunching on cottage cheese salads, bowls of chili, and braised cod with poached celery. He acknowledged their greetings with courtly bows and exaggerated salutes before taking his place in line. Ahead of him was a white-haired country doctor with two claims to fame: He was Melinda’s father, and he had swabbed throats, set bones, and delivered babies for half of Moose County.

Dr. Halifax Goodwinter turned and said, “Ah! The celebrated cyclist! Glad to see you’re still among the living. It would be a pity if my daughter lost her first and only patient.” A nurse standing behind Qwilleran nudged his elbow. “You should wear a helmet, Mr. Q. You could’ve been killed.” He carried a tray of chili and corn muffins to a table occupied by three men he had met at the Pickax Boosters Club: the hospital administrator, a genial urologist, and a banker who served on the hospital board of trustees.

The doctor said, “Planning to sue anybody, Qwill? I can steer you to a couple of ingenious ambulance chasers.” The banker said, “You can’t sue the manufacturer, That kind of bike hasn’t been made for fifty years.” The administrator said, “We’re taking up a collection to buy you a new bike – and maybe a new bathrobe.” Patting the lapels of his ratty red plaid, Qwilleran said in his best declamatory style, “This is a vintage robe with a noteworthy provenance, gentlemen. The distress marks merely add to its associative value.” The truth was that Koko had gone through a wool-eating phase, nibbling chair upholstery, neckties, the Mackintosh robe, and other handy items.

Qwilleran felt at ease with the hospital badinage. It was the same kind of jocular roasting he had enjoyed at the Daily Fluxion. Everyone in Pickax City seemed to like him, and why not? He was an affable companion, a sympathetic listener, and the richest man in the county. He had no delusions on that score. As a feature writer for the Fluxion he had been courted by lobbyists, politicians, businessmen, and media hounds, He accepted their attentions graciously, but he had no delusions.

After lunch the lab took blood samples, and Qwilleran had an EKG, followed by another nap and another dream.

Again it was vivid – painfully so. He was climbing out of a ditch near a lonely highway. His clothing was soaked; his pants were tom; his legs were bleeding. Blood was trickling into his right eye as he stumbled onto the highway and started to walk. Soon a red car stopped, and someone in a blue shirt jumped out. It was Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor of the Pickax Picayune. Junior gave him a ride back to town and talked incessantly on the journey, but Qwilleran could say nothing. He struggled to answer Junior’s questions, but he could find no words.

The dream ended abruptly, and the dreamer found himself sitting up in bed, sweating and shivering. He mopped his face and then reached for the telephone and called the newspaper office.

“Qwill! You pulled through!” shouted Junior into the phone. “When I picked you up yesterday, you weren’t exactly dead, but you weren’t alive either. We had the type all set up to print an obit if you kicked off.” “Thanks. That was decent of you,” Qwilleran said. “Are you hitting on all eight? You sound okay.” “They sewed me together, and I look like the Spirit of ’76. Where was I when you picked me up, Junior?” “On Ittibittiwassee Road, beyond the Buckshot mineshaft. You were wandering around in the middle of the pavement in a daze – going in the wrong direction. Your clothes were all ripped and muddy. Your head was bleeding. You really had me worried, especially when you couldn’t talk.” “Did you see my bike?” “Tell the truth, I wasn’t looking for it. I just concentrated on getting you to the hospital. I hit a hundred ten.” “What were you driving?” “My Jag, luckily. That’s why I could kick it up to one-ten so fast.” “Thanks, Junior. Let’s have lunch next week. I’ll buy.” Another dream checked out! Even the color of the car was accurate. Qwilleran knew that Junior’s Jaguar was red.

He discussed his dreams with Melinda Goodwinter and Arch Riker that evening when they came to the hospital to have dinner with him in the cafeteria. Without her white coat and stethoscope Melinda looked more like the young woman he had been dating for the last two months.

Qwilleran asked her, “Do you kiss all your bedridden I male patients?” “Only those of advanced age,” she retorted with a sweetly I malicious look in her green eyes.

“Funny thing,” he said, “but some of the details I couldn’t remember came back to me in dreams this afternoon.

There’s only one blank left in my memory – the actual circumstances that caused the accident.” “It wasn’t a pothole,” Melinda said. “That’s a brand-new highway, smooth as glass.” Riker said, “It’s my guess that you swerved to avoid hitting something, Qwill, and skidded on the shoulder. A skunk or raccoon, perhaps, or even a deer. I saw a lot of dead animals on the road, coming in from the airport.” “We’ll never know for sure,” Qwilleran said. “How’s everything at the house? Did you get some sleep? Did Mrs. Cobb give you lunch? Did you see Koko?” “Everything’s fine. Koko met me at the front door and gave me a military inspection. I guess I passed muster, because he allowed me to enter.” Late that night, when the hospital corridor was silent, Qwilleran dreamed his final dream. It was the missing link between the macaroni-and-cheese and the red Jaguar. He saw himself pedaling at a leisurely pace along a deserted highway, appreciating the smooth asphalt and the lack of traffic and the gently rolling hills. Pedaling uphill was easy, and coasting down was glorious.” He passed the abandoned Buckshot Mine with its rotting shaft house and ominous signs: Danger… Keep Out…

Beware of Cave-ins. The deserted mines that dotted the lonely landscape around Pickax City were a source of endless fascination for Qwilleran. They were mysterious – silent – dead.

The Buckshot was different, however. He had been told that, if one listened intently, one could hear an eerie whistling sound coming from the shaft where eighteen miners had been buried alive in 1913.

In the dream he pedaled slowly and silently past the Buckshot. Only a tick-tick in the rear wheel and a grinding sound in the sprocket broke the stillness. He turned his head to gaze at the gray ghost of the shaft house… the sloping depression at the site of a cave-in… the vibrant green weeds that smothered the whole scene. He was staring so intently that he was unaware of a truck approaching from the opposite direction – unaware until its motor roared. He looked ahead in time to see its burst of speed, its sudden swerve into the eastbound lane, a murderous monster bearing down upon him. In the dream he had a vivid picture of the grille, a big rusty thing that seemed to be grinning. He yanked the handlebars and plunged down toward the roadside ditch, but the front wheel hit a rock and he went sailing over the handlebars. For an interminable moment he was airborne.

Qwilleran wrenched himself from sleep in a fright and found himself sitting up in bed, sweating and shouting.

An orderly hurried into the room. “Mr. Q! Mr. Q! What’s the problem? A bad dream?” Qwilleran shook himself in an effort to dispel the nightmare. “Sorry. Hope I didn’t disturb the other patients.” “Want a drink of water, Mr. Q?” “Thanks. And will you raise the bed? I’d better sit up for a while.” Qwilleran leaned back against his pillow, reliving the dream. It was as graphic as the others. The sky was blue. The weeds around the deserted mine were poison green. The truck had a rusted grille.

Like the other dreams, it had actually happened, he realized, but there was no one he could phone for verification.

One thing was clear. What happened on Ittibittiwassee Road was no accident. He thought, I’m well liked in Pickax… but not by everyone.

2

IT WAS MIDSUMMER when the richest man in Moose County fell off his antiquated bicycle. Two months before that incident he was far from affluent. He was an underpaid feature writer working for a large midwestem newspaper noted for its twenty-four-point bylines and meager wage scale. As a frugal bachelor he lived in a one-room furnished apartment and was making payments on a used car. He owned a fifty-year-old typewriter with a faulty shift key, and his library consisted of the odd titles found on the twenty-five-cent table in secondhand bookstores. His wardrobe, such as it was, fitted comfortably in two suitcases. He was perfectly content.

Jim Qwilleran’s sole extravagance was the care and feeding of two Siamese cats who shunned catfood, preferring beef tenderloin, lobster, and oysters in season. Not only did they have aristocratic sensibilities and epicurean appetites, but Koko, the male, showed unusual intelligence. Tales of his extrasensory perception had made him legendary at the Daily Fluxion and the Press Club, although nothing of the cat’s remarkable attribute was mentioned outside the profession.

Then, without ever buying a lottery ticket, Qwilleran became a multimillionaire virtually overnight. It was a freak inheritance, and he was the sole heir.

When the astonishing news reached him, Qwilleran and his feline companions were vacationing in Moose County, the northern outpost of the state. They were staying in a lake shore cabin near the resort town of Mooseville. As soon as he recovered from the shock he submitted his resignation to the Daily Fluxion and made arrangements to move to Pickax City, the county seat, thirty miles from Mooseville.

But first he had to clean out his desk at the Fluxion office, say goodbye to fellow staffers, and have one last lunch with Arch Riker at the Press Club.

The two men walked to the club, mopping their brows and complaining of the heat. It was the first hot spell of the season.

Qwilleran said: “I’m going to miss you and all the other guys, Arch, but I won’t miss the hot weather. It’s ninety-five degrees at City Hall.” “I suppose the photographers are frying their annual egg on the sidewalk,” Arch remarked.

“In Moose County there’s always a pleasant breeze. No need for air-conditioning.” “That may be, but how can you stand living four hundred miles from civilization?” “Are you under the impression that today’ s cities are civilized?” “Qwill, you’ve spent less than a month in that northern wilderness,” Arch said, “and already you’re thinking like a sheep farmer…. Okay, I’ll rephrase that question. How can you stand living four hundred miles from the Press Club?” “It’s a gamble,” Qwilleran admitted, “but those are the terms of Miss Klingenschoen’s will: Live in Moose County for five years or forfeit the inheritance.” At the club, where the air conditioner was out of commission, they ordered corned beef sandwiches, gin and tonic for Riker, and iced tea for Qwilleran.

“If you forfeit the inheritance,” Riker went on, “who gets it?” “Some outfit in New Jersey. I don’t mind telling you, Arch, it was a tough decision for me to make. I wasn’t sure I wanted to give up a job on a major newspaper for any amount of money.” “Qwill, you’re unique – if not demented. No one in his right mind would turn down millions.” “Well, you know me, Arch. I like to work. I like newspapering and press clubs. I’ve never needed a lot of dough, and I’ve never wanted to be encumbered by possessions. It remains to be seen if I’ll be comfortable with money – I mean Money with a capital M.” “Try!” Riker advised. “Try real hard. What are the encumbrances that might ruin your life?” “Some complicated investments. Office buildings and hotels on the East Coast. A couple of shopping malls. Acreage in Moose County. Half of Main Street in Pickax City. Also the Klingenschoen mansion in Pickax and the log cabin in Mooseville where we spent our vacation.” “Rotten luck.” “Do you realize I’ll need a housekeeping staff, gardeners, maintenance men, and probably a secretary? Not to mention an accountant, a financial adviser, two attorneys, and a property management firm? That’s not my style! They’ll expect me to join the country club and wear tailor-made suits!” “I’m not worried about you, Qwill. You’ll always be your own man. Anyone who’s convinced his cat is psychic will never conform to conventional folkways…. Here’s the mustard. Want horseradish?” Qwilleran grunted and squirted a question mark of mustard on his corned beef.

Riker went on. “You’ll never be anything but what you are, Qwill – a lovable slob. Do you realize every one of your ties is full of moth holes?” “I happen to like my ties,” Qwilleran countered. “They were all woven in Scotland, and they’re not moth-eaten. Before Yum Yum came to live with us, Koko was frustrated and started chewing wool.” “Are those two cats playing house? I thought they were both neutered.” “Yes, but Siamese crave companionship. Otherwise they get neurotic. They do strange things.” “If you ask me,” Riker said, “Koko is still doing some very strange things.” At that moment two photographers from the Fluxion stopped at the table to commiserate with Qwilleran. “Man, do you know what you’re getting into up north?” one of them said. “Moose County is a low-crime area!” “No problem,” Qwilleran replied. “They import an occasional felon from down here, just so the cops won’t get bored.” He was accustomed to being ribbed about his interest in crime. Everyone at the Press Club knew he had helped the police crack a few cases, and everyone knew that it was Koko who actually sniffed out the clues.

Qwilleran applied his attention to his sandwich again, and Riker resumed his questioning. “What’s the population of Pickax?” “Three thousand persons and four thousand pickup trucks. I call it Pickup City. The town has one traffic light, fourteen mediocre restaurants, a nineteenth-century newspaper, and more churches than bars.” “You could open a good restaurant and start your own paper, now that you’re in the bucks.” “No thanks. I’m going to write a book.” “Any interesting people up there?” “Contrary to what you think, Arch, they’re not all sheep farmers. During my vacation I met some teachers and an engineer and a lively blond postmistress (married, unfortunately) and a couple of attorneys – brother and sister, very classy type. Also there’s a young doctor I’ve started dating. She has the greenest eyes and longest eyelashes you ever saw, and she’s giving me the come-on, if I’m reading the signals right.” “How come you always attract women half your age? Must be the overgrown moustache.” Qwilleran stroked his upper lip smugly. “Dr. Melinda Goodwinter, M.D…. not bad for a Saturday night date.” “Sounds like a character in a TV series.” “Goodwinter is the big name in Moose County. There’s half a page of them in the telephone directory, and the whole phone book is only fourteen pages thick. The Goodwinters go back to the days when fortunes were being made in mining.” “What supports the economy now?” “Commercial fishing and tourism. A little farming. Some light industry.” Riker chewed his sandwich in somber silence for a while. He was losing his best writer as well as his lunchtime companion. “Suppose you move up there, Qwill, and then change your mind before the five years are up? What happens then?” “Everything goes to the people in New Jersey. The estate is held in trust for five years, and during that time all I get is the income…” “Which amounts to…” “After taxes, upwards of a million, annually.” Riker choked on the dill pickle. “Anyone should… be able to… scrape by with that.” “You and Rosie ought to come up for a week. Fresh air – no hustle – safe environment. I mean, they don’t have street crime and random killings in Pickax.” He signaled the waitress for the check. “Don’t expect me to pay for your lunch today, Arch. I haven’t seen a penny of that inheritance yet. Sorry I can’t stay for coffee. Gotta get to the airport.” “How long does it take to fly up there?” “Forever! You have to change planes twice, and the last one is a hedgehopper.” After some quick handshaking and backslapping with denizen of the Press Club, Qwilleran accepted a sizable doggie bag from the kitchen and said a reluctant farewell to his old hangout. Then he caught the three o’clock plane.

In flight his thoughts went to Arch Riker. They had been friends long enough to have genuine concern for each other, and today Arch had been unduly morose. The editor usually exhibited the detached cool of a veteran deskman, punctuated with good-natured raillery, but today something was bothering him. Qwilleran sensed that it was more than his own departure for the north country.

The flight was uneventful, the landing was smooth; and in the pasture that served as the airport’s long-term parking lot, his car was waiting as he had left it. No one had slashed the tires or jimmied the trunk. Driving from the airport he knew he was back in Moose County; pickup trucks – many of them modified for rough terrain – outnumbered passenger cars two to one.

The temperature was ideal. Qwilleran was glad to escape the city heat and city traffic. As he neared Mooseville, however, he began to feel the familiar anxiety: What might have happened in his absence?

He had left Koko and Yum Yum alone in the cabin on the lakeshore. A cat-sitter had promised to visit twice a day to feed them, give them fresh drinking water, and make polite conversation. But how reliable was the woman? Sup- pose she had broken a leg and failed to show up! Would the cats have enough water? How long could they live without food?

Suppose she had carelessly let them out of the cabin and they had run away! They were indoor cats – city cats. How would they survive in the woods? What defense would they have against a predatory owl or hawk? Suppose there were wolves in the woods! Koko would fight to the death, but little Yum Yum was so timid, so helpless…

It was a highly nervous man who arrived at the cabin and unlocked the door. There they were – both cats sitting on the hearth rug, rump to rump, like bookends. They looked calm and contented and rather fat around the middle.

“You scoundrels!” he shouted. “You conned her into giving you too much food! You’ve been gorging!” It was July, and the strong evening sun slanted into the cabin, backlighting the cats’ fur and giving each of the reprobates an undeserved halo. With brown legs tucked confidently under fawn bodies, with brown ears cocked at an impudent angle, with blue eyes gazing inscrutably from brown masks, Koko and his accomplice defied Qwilleran to criticize their Royal Catnesses.

“You don’t intimidate me in the slightest,” he said, “so wipe that superior look off your face-both of you! I have news for you two characters. We’re moving to Pickax in the morning.” The Siamese were staunch supporters of the status quo and always resented a change of address. Nevertheless, early the next morning Qwilleran packed them and their belongings into the car and drove them – protesting at the rate of forty howls per mile – to the Klingenschoen mansion, thirty miles inland.

The historic K mansion, as the locals called it, was situated on the Pickax Circle, that bulge in Main Street that wrapped around a small park. On the perimeter were two churches, the Moose County Courthouse, and the Pickax Library, but none was more imposing than the hundred-year-old Klingenschoen residence.

Large, square, and solidly built of glistening fieldstone, it rose regally from well-kept lawns. A circular driveway served the front entrance, and a side drive led to the carriage house in the rear, also built of fieldstone with specks of quartz that sparkled in the sun.

Qwilleran drove to the back door of the house. He knew it would be unlocked, according to the friendly Pickax custom.

Hurriedly he carried two squirming animals into the big kitchen, placed their blue cushion on top of a refrigerator, and pointed out the adjoining laundry room as the new location of their drinking water and their commode. Cautioning them to be good, he closed both kitchen doors and then brought in the rest of the baggage, glancing frequently at his watch. He carried his two suitcases upstairs, and piled his writing materials on the desk in the library, including his ancient typewriter and a thirteen-pound unabridged dictionary with a tattered cover.

Previously Qwilleran had been impressed by the lavish furnishings of the mansion, but now he saw it with a proprietary eye: the high-ceilinged foyer with grandiose staircase; the dining room that could seat sixteen; the drawing room with its two fireplaces, two giant crystal chandeliers, and ponderous antique piano; the solarium with its three walls of glass. The place would cost a fortune to heat, he reflected.

Precisely at the appointed hour the doorbell rang, and he admitted the attorneys for the estate: Goodwinter & Goodwinter, a prestigious third-generation law firm. The partners – Alexander and his sister Penelope – were probably in their mid-thirties, although their cool magisterial manner made them appear older. They shared the patrician features and blond hair characteristic of Goodwinters, and they were conspicuously well dressed for a town like Pickax, dedicated to jeans, T-shirts, and feed caps.

“I just arrived myself,” said Qwilleran, breathing hard after his recent exertion. “We’re now official residents of Pickax. I flew up from Down Below last night.” In Pickax parlance, Down Below referred loosely to the urban sprawl in the southern half of the state.

“May we welcome you to Moose County,” Alexander Goodwinter said pompously, “and I believe I speak for the entire community. By establishing yourself here without delay, you do us a great favor. Your presence will ameliorate public reaction to the Klingenschoen testament, a reaction that was not exactly – ah – favorable. We appreciate your thoughtful cooperation.” “My pleasure,” Qwilleran said. “Shall we go into the library to talk?” “One moment!” Alexander raised a restraining hand. “The purpose of our visit,” he continued in measured tones, “is simply to make your transition as comfortable as possible. Unfortunately I must emplane for Washington, but I leave you in the capable hands of my sister.” That arrangement suited Qwilleran very well. He found the junior partner a fascinating enigma. She was gracious, but haughtily so. She had a dazzling smile and provocative dimples, but they were used solely for business purposes. Yet, on one occasion he had found her quite relaxed, and the only clue to her sudden friendliness had been a hint of minty breath freshener. Penelope piqued his curiosity; she was a challenge.

In making his departure Alexander concluded, “Upon my return you must break bread with us at the club, and perhaps you will allow me to recommend my barber, tailor, and jeweler.” He cast a momentary glance at his client’s well- worn sweatshirt and untrimmed moustache.

“What I really need,” Qwilleran said, “is a veterinarian – for preventive shots and dental prophylaxis.” “Ah… well… yes, of course,” said the senior partner. He drove away to the airport, and Qwilleran ushered Penelope into the library, enjoying the scent she was wearing – subtly feminine yet not unprofessional. He noted her silky summer suit, exquisitely tailored. She could pass for a fashion model, he thought. Why was she practicing law in this backwoods town? He looked forward to researching the question in depth.

In the library the warm colors of Bokhara rugs, leather seating, and thousands of books produced a wraparound coziness. The attorney took a seat on a blood-red leather sofa, and Qwilleran joined her there. Quickly she placed her briefcase on the seat between them.

“This will be an inspiring place in which to do your writing,” she said, glancing at the bookshelves and the busts of Shakespeare and Homer. “Is that actually your typewriter? You might consider treating yourself to a word processor, Mr.

Qwilleran.” Being frugal by nature, he resented advice on how to spend his own money, but his irritation was lessened by Penelope’s dimpled smile.

Then she frowned at the big book with tattered cover. “You could use a new dictionary, too. Yours seems to have had a great deal of use.” “That happens to be the cats’ scratching pad, ” Qwilleran said. “There’s nothing better than an unabridged dictionary, third edition, for sharpening the claws.” The attorney’s aplomb wavered for an instant before she recovered her professional smile and opened her briefcase.

“The chief reason for this meeting, Mr. Qwilleran, is to discuss financial arrangements. Point One: Although the estate will not be settled for a year or more, we shall do everything in our power to expedite the probate. Meanwhile, our office will handle all expenses for household maintenance, employee wages, utilities, taxes, insurance, and the like. Invoices will come directly to us, obviating any inconvenience to you.

“Point Two: You have been good enough to sever ties with the Daily Fluxion and take up residence here immediately, and in so doing you have curtailed your income from that source. Accordingly we have arranged with the bank to provide a drawing account of several thousand a month until such time as the estate is settled – after which the monthly cash flow will be considerably greater. We can work out the terms of the drawing account with Mr. Fitch, the trust officer at the bank.

If you have need of a new car, he will arrange it. Is that agreeable, Mr. Qwilleran?” “It seems fair,” he said casually.

“Point Three: Our office will arrange for landscape and maintenance services, but you will need a live-in housekeeper plus day help, and the choice of such personnel should be your own. Our secretary will be glad to send you applicants for these positions.” Qwilleran sat facing the door, and he was surprised to see a cat walk past the library with perpendicular tail and purposeful step. Both animals had been penned in the kitchen, and yet Koko had easily opened a door and was exploring the premises.

“Point Four: The servants’ quarters in the carriage house have been neglected and should be renovated – at the expense of the estate, of course. Would you be willing to work with our interior designer on the renovation?” “Uh… yes… that would be fine,” said Qwilleran. He was taking a mental inventory of breakables in the house and expecting to hear a shattering crash at any moment.

“Do you have any questions, Mr. Qwilleran? Is there anything we can do for you?” “Yes, Miss Goodwinter,” he said, wrenching his attention away from the impending catastrophe. “I would like to make my position clear. Point One: I have no desire for a lot of money. I don’t want a yacht or private jet. I’m not interested in reading the fine print or watching the bottom line. All I wish is time to do some writing without too much interruption or annoyance.” The attorney appeared cautiously incredulous.

“Point Two, Miss Goodwinter: When the estate is settled, I intend to establish a Klingenschoen Foundation to distribute the surplus income within Moose County. Organizations and individuals would be eligible to apply for grants, scholarships, business development loans – you know the kind of thing.” “Oh, Mr. Qwilleran! How incredibly generous!” cried the attorney. “What a brilliant idea! I can hardly express what this will do for the morale and economic health of the county! And it will pacify the groups that had been promised bequests and then been disappointed. May we announce your proposal in the newspaper at once?” “Go ahead. I’ll count on your office to work out the details. We might start with an Olympic-size swimming pool for the high school, and I know the marine history buffs want backing for an underwater preserve, and the public library hasn’t had a new book since Gone with the Wind.” “When Alex returns, your proposal will be the first item on our agenda. I’ll telephone him in Washington tonight to break the good news.” “That brings me to Point Three,” Qwilleran said genially. “May I take you to lunch?” “Thank you, Mr. Qwilleran. I would enjoy it immensely, but unfortunately I have a previous luncheon engagement.” The dimpling process had subsided abruptly.

“How about dinner some evening this week?” “I wish I could accept, but I’ll be working late while Alex is out of town. Double work load, you know. Another time, perhaps.” As she spoke, a snatch of music came from the drawing room – a few clear notes played on the antique piano.

“Who is that?” she inquired sharply.

“One of my feline companions,” Qwilleran said with amusement. “That’s just the white keys. Wait till he discovers the black ones.” The attorney glanced at him askance. The sound had not surprised Qwilleran. He knew that Koko would never jump on the keyboard with a discordant crash. That approach was for ordinary cats. No, Koko would stand on his hind legs on the piano bench and stretch to reach the keys, pressing a few of them experimentally with a slender velvet paw. Having satisfied his curiosity, he would jump down and go on to his next investigation.

What Koko had played was a descending progression of four notes: G, C, E, G. Qwilleran knew the notes of the scale. As a boy he had practiced piano when he would have preferred batting practice. Now he recognized the tune as the opening phrase of “A Bicycle Built for Two.” “That piano rendition leads me to Point Four,” he said to the attorney. “The doors in this house are so old that they don’t latch securely. I’d like to be able to confine the Siamese to the kitchen on occasion.” “No problem at all, Mr. Qwilleran,” she said. “We’ll send Birch Trevelyan to do the necessary repairs. You will find him an excellent workman, but you must be patient. He would rather go fishing than work.” “Another thing, Miss Goodwinter. I know Pickax considers it unfriendly to lock the back door, but this house is filled with valuables. Now that tourists are coming up here from Down Below, you never know who will prowl around and get ideas. You people in the country are entirely too trusting. The back door here has a lock but no key.” “A new lock should be installed,” she said. “Discuss it with Birch Trevelyan. Feel free to ask him about any problem that arises.” Later Qwilleran wondered about her real reason for declining to dine. Most young women welcomed his invitations.

He preened his moustache at the recollection of past successes. Was Penelope maintaining professional distance from a client? His doctor was eager for his invitations; why not his attorney? He also wondered why she flicked her tongue across her lips whenever she mentioned Birch what’s-his-name.

After she left, he found Koko in the dining room, sniffing the rabbits and pheasants carved in deep relief on the doors of the huge sideboard. Yum Yum had crept cautiously from the kitchen and was exploring the solarium with its small forest of rubber plants, cushioned wicker chairs, and panoramic view of birdlife.

Qwilleran himself went to inspect the fieldstone building that had once stabled horses and housed carriages. Now there were stalls for four automobiles. Besides his own small car and the Klingenschoen limousine there was a rusty bicycle with two flat tires, and there was a collection of garden implements completely foreign to an apartment dweller from the Concrete Belt.

Climbing the stairs to the loft, he found two apartments. In the days when servants were plentiful, these rooms would have been occupied by two couples-perhaps butler and cook, housekeeper and chauffeur. In the first apartment the drab walls and shabby furniture made a sorry contrast with the grandeur of the main house…. But the second apartment!

The second apartment burst upon the senses like an explosion. The walls and ceiling were covered with graffiti in every color available in a spray can. Giant flowers that looked like daisies were sprayed on every surface, intertwined with hearts, initials, and references to “LUV.” There was so much personality expressed in this tawdry room that Qwilleran half expected to meet the former occupant coming out of the shower. What would she look like? “Dizzy blonde” was the phrase that came instantly to mind, but he dismissed it as archaic. No doubt she dyed her hair green and wore hard-edge makeup. On second thought, it was difficult to imagine green hair in Pickax, and certainly not on a housemaid at the K mansion.

How could anyone live in such a cocoon of wild pattern? Still, there was artistry in its execution. The motifs were organized as thoughtfully as a paisley shawl or Oriental rug.

Qwilleran knew that the previous owner had employed only a houseman, so… who was this unknown artist? How long ago had she painted these supergraphic daisies?

He touched his moustache; it always bristled when he made a discovery of significance. And now he was recalling the tune Koko had played on the piano. He hummed the four notes, and the lyric ran through his mind. Daisy, Daisy! An amazing coincidence, he thought. Or was it a coincidence?

3

THE THREE NEW residents of the K mansion were systematically adjusting to their drastically altered environment.

Qwilleran found a bedroom suite to his liking-eighteenth- century English with Chippendale highboys and lowboys and a canopied bed – and he was learning to heat water for instant coffee in the vast, well-equipped kitchen. Yum Yum claimed the solarium as her territory. Koko, the investigator, after inspecting the luxurious precincts upstairs and downstairs, finally selected the staircase as his special domain. From this vantage point he could watch the front door, keep a constant check on the foyer, monitor traffic, guard the approach to the second floor, and listen for promising sounds in the kitchen.

He was sitting on the stairs in a comfortable bundle when applicants for the housekeeping position began to arrive.

Qwilleran, during his career in journalism, had interviewed prime ministers, delivery boys, Hollywood starlets, vagrants, elderly widows, rock stars, convicted rapists, and – he had forgotten what else. He had never interviewed, however, a prospective employee.

“You’ve got to help me screen them,” he said to Koko. “She should be fond of cats, cook fairly well, know how to care for antiques, and be agreeable. But not too agreeable.” Koko squeezed his eyes shut in approval and assent. The first applicant was a white-haired woman with an impressive resume and excellent references, but she could no longer lift anything, walk up stairs, or stand on her feet for any length of time.

The second interviewee took one look at the staircase and screamed, “Is that a cat? I can’t stand cats!” “So far we’re batting zero,” Qwilleran said to his monitor on the stairs, and then the third applicant arrived.

She was a rosy-cheeked, clear-eyed young woman in jeans and T-shirt, obviously strong and healthy in every way.

Her plodding gait indicated she was more accustomed to walking over a plowed field than an Oriental rug. Qwilleran could picture her milking a herd of cows, feeding a kitchenful of farmhands at harvesttime, and frolicking in the hayloft.

The interview took place in the reception area of the foyer, where French chairs were grouped around the ornate console table under a carved gilt mirror. The young woman sat quietly on the edge of a Louis XV rococo bergere, but her eyes were in constant motion, taking in every detail of the foyer and its furnishings.

She gave her name as Tiffany. “This is a pretty house,” she said.

“Do you have a surname?” Qwilleran inquired.

“A last name?” he added when she hesitated.

“Trotter.” “And what experience have you had as a housekeeper?” “I’ve done everything.” Her eyes roamed up the staircase, around the amber-colored tooled leather walls of the foyer, and up and down the eight-foot tall case clock.

Qwilleran surmised that she was either a spy for the assessor’s office or the advance woman for a ring of thieves from Down Below, disguised as a farmer’s daughter. If anything dire happened in the near future, Tiffany Trotter would be the first suspect. The name was undoubtedly an alias.

“How long have you been doing housekeeping?” He guessed her age at not more than twenty.

“All my life. I kept house for my dad before he got married again.” “Are you working now?” “Part-time. I’m a cow-sitter, and I help my dad with the haying.” “A cow-sitter?” Qwilleran was reluctant to appear naive. “Do you have many clients?” She shrugged. “Off and on. Some people keep a family cow, and when they go on vacation I go twice a day to milk her and feed her and clean out. I’m taking care of the Lanspeaks’ Jersey now. They went to Hawaii.” For the first time during the interview Tiffany showed enthusiasm, looking Qwilleran full in the face with her eyes sparkling. “I like Jerseys.

This one has lots of personality. Her name is Stephanie.” The family she mentioned owned the local department store. “Why would the Lanspeaks want to keep a cow?” Qwilleran asked. “Fresh milk tastes better,” she replied promptly and with conviction. “And they like homemade butter and homemade cheese.” Tiffany left her telephone number and drove away in a pickup truck.

Next came a Mrs. Fulgrove, a scrawny woman who virtually vibrated with energy or nervousness. Without waiting for questions she said, “I ain’t aimin’ to be a live-in housekeeper ’cause ‘twouldn’t be right, you bein’ a single man and me a widow, but seein’ as how they said you ain’t a drinkin’ man, I’d be willin’ to clean and iron three days a week, which I worked here when the Old Lady was alive and I had to do the work of two seein’ as how the reg’lar girl wouldn’t lift a finger if I didn’t snitch on her to the Old Lady, which the young ones today drink and smoke and dance and all that, and I’m glad I was born when folks had some self-respect, so I always work six days a week and go to church three times on Sunday.” Qwilleran said, “Your industry and dedication are to your credit, Mrs. Fulgrove. What did you say was the name of the regular girl who was so lazy?” “She was one of them Mull girls, which the Mulls was never respectable, not that I want to gossip, bein’ a charitable woman if I do say it myself, and the Old Lady was fixin’ to fire her, but she up and left of her own will, leavin’ her rooms in an awful mess with the devil’s own pictures painted allover the walls and dirt most everywhere, which the Old Lady was mad as a hornet, but ’twas good riddance, not that I’m sayin’ she was wild, like others do, but she gallivanted around and stayed up late and wouldn’t work, which I had to clean out her rooms after she run away.” After the woman had given a telephone number – a neighbor’s, not her own – she left the house with a determined step, looking neither this way nor that. Immediately Qwilleran felt a strong desire to revisit the apartment with the devilish pictures. He knew there was an island of Mull off the coast of Scotland, and if the young woman happened to be Scottish, she couldn’t be totally reprehensible.

In the garage loft he studied the initials scattered among the daisies and hearts on walls and ceilings: BD, ML, DM, TY, RR, AL, WP, DT, SG, JK, PM, and more. If these were the men in her life, she had been a busy girl. On the other hand, they might be the fabric of fantasy. RR might be a movie star, or a president.

Back at his desk in the library he looked up Mull in the fourteen-page telephone directory, but the name was not listed.

Forty-two Goodwinters but no Mulls. He telephoned Penelope.

“Miss Goodwinter, you’re right about the servants’ quarters. How do I get in touch with your interior designer?” “Her name is Amanda Goodwinter, and our secretary will ask her to call you for an appointment,” the attorney said.

“Did you see the announcement of the Klingenschoen Foundation in yesterday’s Picayune?” “Yes, and it was very well stated. Have you had any reaction?” “Everyone is delighted, Mr. Qwilleran! They call it the best news since the K Saloon closed in the 1920s. When my brother returns, we shall explore the ramifications. Meanwhile, have you interviewed any prospective housekeepers?” “I have, and will you tell your secretary not to send us anymore octogenarians or ailurophobes or cow-sitters? By the way, do you know who painted the graffiti in the servants’ quarters?” “Oh, that atrocity!” Penelope exclaimed. “It was one of those girls from Dimsdale. She was housemaid for a short time.” “‘What happened to her? Did she get a job painting subway trains?” “I hear she left town after defacing her apartment,” the attorney said briskly. “Speaking of transportation, Mr.

Qwilleran, wouldn’t you like to replace your little car with something more… upscale? Mr. Fitch at the bank will cover the transaction.” “There’s nothing wrong with the car I have, Miss Good- winter. There’s no rust on the body, and it’s economical to operate.” Qwilleran ended the conversation hurriedly. While Penelope was talking he became aware of unusual noises coming from another part of the house – a miscellany of plopping, pattering, fluttering, swishing, and skittering. He rushed out of the library to track it down.

Beyond the foyer with its majestic staircase there was a vestibule of generous proportions, floored with squares of creamy white marble. Here was the rosewood hall stand with hooks for top hats and derbies, as well as a rack for walking sticks. Here was a marble-topped table with a silver tray for calling cards. And here was the massive front door with its brass handle and escutcheon, its brass doorbell that jangled when one turned a key on the outside, and its brass mail slot.

Through this slot were shooting envelopes of every size, and shape, dropping in a pile on the floor. Sitting on the cool marble and watching the process with anticipation were Koko and Yum Yum. Now and then Koko would put forth a paw and scoop a letter from the pile, and Yum Yum would bat it around the slick floor.

As Qwilleran watched, the cascade of envelopes stopped falling, and through the sidelights he could see the mail carrier stepping into her Jeep and driving away.

His first impulse was to call the post office and suggest some other arrangement, but then he observed the pleasure that the event afforded the cats. They jumped into the pile like children in a snowbank, rolling over and skidding and scattering the mail. Nothing so wonderful had ever happened in their young lives! Letters slithered across the marble vestibule and into the parquet foyer, where Yum Yum tried to push them under the Oriental rug. Hiding things was her specialty.

One letter was gripped in Koko’s jaws, and he paraded around with an air of importance. It was a pink envelope.

“Here, give me that letter!” Qwilleran commanded.

Koko ran into the dining room with Qwilleran in pursuit. The cat darted in and out of the maze of sixty-four chair legs, with the man chasing and scolding. Eventually Koko tired of the game and dropped the pink envelope at Qwilleran’s feet.

It was a letter from the postmistress he had met in Mooseville during his vacation. Beautifully typed, it put to shame his own two-fingered efforts, which had not improved despite twenty-five years of filing news stories. The letter read:

Dear Qwill, Congratulations on your good fortune! You and the Siamese will be a wonderful addition to Moose County.

We hope you will enjoy living up here.

Nick and I have some exciting news, too. I’m pregnant at last! He wants me to quit my job because I’m on my feet so much (the doctor says I must be careful), so here’s an idea. Could you use a part-time secretary? It would be fun to be a secretary to a real writer.

Say hello to Koko and Yum Yum for me.

Catfully yours, Lori Bamba

It was obvious what had happened. Koko had selected the pink letter from the pile of mail because it carried the scent of someone he knew. Lori had established a rapport with the cats during their visit in Mooseville; they were entranced by her long golden braids tied with blue ribbons.

In a moment or two Koko appeared with another letter and bounded away when Qwilleran reached for it. Then the chase was on – again.

“You think this is a game,” Qwilleran shouted after him, “but it could get to be a bore! I’ll start picking up my mail at the post office.” This time the letter was from a former landlady Down Below. One memorable winter Qwilleran had rented an apartment above her antique shop, in an old building that smelled of baked potatoes when the furnace was operating.

Koko had recognized the scent of his former residence. The hand-written note read:

Dear Mr. Qwilleran, Rosie Riker told me about your inheritance, and I’m very happy for you, although we’ll all miss your column in the Daily Fluxion.

Don’t drop dead when I tell you I’ve sold my antique shop! My heart wasn’t in the business after my husband died, so Mrs. Riker is taking over. She’s a smart collector, and she’d always wanted to be a dealer.

My son wants me to move to St. Louis, but he’s married now, and I might be in the way.

Anyway, I got a crazy idea yesterday and stayed awake all night thinking about it. Here goes –

Mrs. Riker says you inherited a big house full of antiques: and will need a housekeeper. I can cook pretty well, you remember, and I know how to take care of fine antiques Also – I have my appraiser’s license now and could do some up-to-date appraisals for you – for insurance purposes. I’m serious! I’d love to do it. Let me know what you think.

Yours truly, Iris Cobb P.S. How are the cats?

Qwilleran’s salivary glands went into action as he remembered Mrs. Cobb’s succulent pot roasts and nippy macaroni- and-cheese. He remembered other details: cheerful personality – dumpy figure – fabulous coconut cake. She believed in ghosts; she read palms in a flirtatious way; she left a few lumps in her mashed potatoes so they’d taste like the real thing.

He immediately put in a phone call to the urban jungle Down Below. “Mrs. Cobb, your idea sounds great! But Pickax is a very small town. You might find it too quiet after the excitement of Zwinger Street.” Her voice was as cheerful as ever. “At my age I could use a little quiet, Mr. Qwilleran.” “Just the same, you ought to look us over before deciding. I’ll buy your plane ticket and meet you at the airport. How’s the weather down there?” “Sweltering!” Koko had listened to the conversation with a forward tilt to his ears, denoting disapproval. Always protective of Qwilleran’s bachelor status, he had resented the landlady’s friendly overtures in the past.

“Don’t worry, old boy,” Qwilleran told him. “It’s strictly business. And you’ll get some home-cooked food for a change.

Now let’s open the rest of the mail.” The envelopes scattered about the vestibule included messages of welcome from five churches, three service clubs, and the mayor of Pickax. There were invitations to join the Ittibittiwassee Country Club, the Pickax Historical Society, the Moose County Gourmets, and a bowling league. The administrator of the Pickax Hospital asked Qwilleran to serve on the board of trustees. The superintendent of schools suggested that he teach an adult class in journalism.

Two other letters had been pushed under the rug in the foyer. The Volunteer Firefighters wished to make Qwilleran an honorary member, and the Pickax Singing Society needed a few more male voices.

“There’s your chance,” he said to the cat. Koko, as he grew older, was developing a more expressive voice with a gamut of clarion yowling, guttural growling, tenor yodeling, and musical yikking.

That afternoon Qwilleran met another Goodwinter. While writing about “beautiful living” for the Daily Fluxion, he had met all kinds of interior designers-the talented, the charming, the cosmopolitan, the fashionable, the witty, and the scheming, but Amanda Goodwinter was a new experience.

When he answered the doorbell – after three impatient rings – he found a scowling gray-haired woman in a baggy summer dress and thick-soled shoes, peering over her glasses to examine the paint job on the front door.

“Who painted this door?” she demanded. “They botched it! Should’ve stripped it down to the wood. I’m Amanda Goodwinter.” She clomped into the vestibule without looking at Qwilleran. “So this is the so-called showplace of Pickax!

Nobody ever invited me here.” He ventured to introduce himself. “I know who you are! You don’t need to tell me. Penelope says you need help. The foyer’s not too bad, but it needs work. What fool put that tapestry on those chairs?” She prowled from room to room, making comments. “Is this the drawing room I’ve heard about? The draperies have got to go; they’re all wrong…. The dining room’s too dark.

“Looks like the inside of a tomb.” Qwilleran interrupted politely. “The attorney suggested that you might redecorate the rooms over the garage.” “What!” she screeched. “You expect me to do servants’ quarters?” “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I want to use one of the garage apartments myself – as a writing studio – and I’d like it done in good contemporary.” The designer was pacing back and forth in the foyer like a caged lioness. “There’s no such thing as good contemporary! I don’t do contemporary. I loathe the damn stuff.” Qwilleran cleared his throat diplomatically. “Are there any other designers in town who are competent to work with contemporary?” “I’m perfectly competent, mister, to work in any style,” she snapped.

“I don’t want to upset you…” “I’m not upset!” “If you feel uncomfortable with contemporary, I know designers Down Below who will undertake the entire commission, including the mansion itself after the garage apartments are finished.” “Show me the garage,” she said with a scowl. “Where is it? How do we get out there?” He showed her to the rear of the house. As she passed the library she gave a grunt of begrudging approval. She sniffed at the yellow and green breakfast room and called it gaudy. Poking her head into the kitchen, she stared without comment at the top of the refrigerator, where the Siamese were striking sculptural poses on their blue cushion.

In the garage they climbed the stairs to the loft, and Qwilleran pointed out the drab apartment he wanted converted to a studio.

“Hasn’t been touched for twenty years,” she grumbled. “Plaster’s all shot. Needs a lot of work.” “If you think this one needs a lot of work,” he said, “wait until you see the other suite.” Amanda gave one look at the daisy extravaganza groaned. “Don’t tell me! Let me guess! It was the Mull girl who did this. What a mess! She came to work here after I let her go.” “Did she work for you?” “I paid her wages, dammit, but she didn’t work! Her art teacher wanted me to take her on. Big mistake. Cute girl, but not a brain in her head. Her scruffy friends were always hanging around the studio, too. Then she got sticky fingers, so I gave her the sack. Those Mulls! Not a one of them ever amounted to anything…. Look at this abomination! It’ll take three coats to cover it, maybe four.” Koko’s tune rang through Qwilleran’s mind. Daisy, Daisy. “Hold everything,” he said. “Forget this apartment for the time being and concentrate on my studio.” “You’ll have to come downtown to pick out colors and look at samples,” she said irritably.

“Let’s make it easy. Just rip out the rugs and furniture and cart the whole shebang to the dump. Then carpet the floor in dark brown, like my shoes.” “Hmmm, you’re a casual cuss,” the designer said. “And paint the walls the color of my pants.” “Mojave beige?” “Whatever you call it. And let’s have some of those adjustable blinds with thin slats. After that we’ll talk about furniture.” After the designer had stomped down the stairs, mumbling to herself, Qwilleran had another look at the intricate daisy design and regretted the artist had left town. During his career as a crime reporter he had won the confidence of many characters outside the law – or on the borderline – and this girl, with her talent and her questionable reputation, interested him.

Daisy, Daisy. Fingering his moustache in perplexity, he wondered why and how Koko had touched those particular keys on the piano. True, the cat was fascinated by push buttons, switches, and typewriter keys, but this was the first piano Koko had ever seen, and he had played a recognizable tune.

Returning to the house, Qwilleran found something else to ponder, Koko” guarding the house from his post on the grand staircase, was sitting on the third stair, Out of a flight of twenty-one stairs, he always chose the third.

4

NO JETS LANDED at the Pickax airport. There was no VIP lounge in the terrninal – not even a cigarette machine for nervous passengers. Moose County travelers were grateful to have shelter and a few chairs.

While waiting for Mrs. Cobb’s plane, Qwilleran recalled that much of his education about antiques had come from the Cobbs’ establishment when he was covering the “junk beat” for the Daily Fluxion. What he remembered of the lady herself was a composite of bustling exuberance, plump knees, and two pairs of eyeglasses dangling from ribbons around her neck.

When she stepped off the plane in her travel-weary pink pantsuit, he found her thinner and somewhat subdued, and her glasses had new frames studded with rhinestones.

“Oh, Mr. Qwilleran, how good to see you!” she cried. “What lovely weather you have here! It’s suffocating in the city, Isn’t this a quaint airport!” “Everything’s quaint in Pickax, Mrs. Cobb, Do you have luggage?” “Only this carryon. It’s all I need for an overnight.” “You’re welcome to stay longer, you know.” “Oh, thank you, Mr. Qwilleran, but I have to go back tomorrow to close the deal with Mrs. Riker. She’s going to live in your old apartment over the shop.” “She is going to live there?” Qwilleran repeated, “What about her husband? What about their house in the suburbs?” “Didn’t you know? She’s getting a divorce.” “I had lunch with Arch a few days ago, and he didn’t say a word about it… but I remember he looked troubled, I wonder what happened.” “I’ll let him tell you the story,” Mrs. Cobb said, and she pursed her lips with finality.

On a relentlessly straight highway they drove across the lonely landscape of Moose County – through evergreen forests and rockbound wasteland, past abandoned mines and unnatural hillocks that had once been slag heaps.

“Very rocky,” Mrs. Cobb observed.

“Pickax is built almost entirely of stone,” said Qwilleran.

“Is it really? Tell me about your house. Is it sumptuous?” “It’s a big chunk of fieldstone three stories high, I call it Alcatraz Provincial,” he began. “All the rooms are huge, The foyer would make a good roller rink if we took up the Oriental rugs… Every bedroom has a canopied bed and its own sitting room, dressing room, and bath…. There’s an English pub in the basement, and the top floor was supposed to be a ballroom, but it was never finished…. The kitchen is so big you have to walk a mile to prepare a meal, It includes a butler’s pantry, a food storage room, a laundry, a half bath, and a walk-in broom closet. The whole service area, as well as the solarium, is floored in square tiles of red quarry stone.” “Any ghosts?” Mrs. Cobb asked with some of the old twinkle in her eyes, “Every old house should have a ghost.

Maybe you remember the one we had on Zwinger Street. She never materialized, but she moved things around in the middle of the night. She was very prankish.” “I remember her very well,” Qwilleran said. “She put salt shakers in your bedroom slippers.” He also remembered that her ghostly pranks were an ongoing practical joke that C. C. Cobb had played on his gullible wife.

“How’s Koko?” she asked.

“He’s fine. He’s taking piano lessons.” “Oh, Mr. Qwilleran,” she laughed. “I never know whether to believe what you say.” They approached Pickax via Goodwinter Boulevard, lined with the stately stone houses that wealthy mining pioneers had built in the heyday of the city. Then came Main Street, the circular park, and the majestic K mansion.

Mrs. Cobb gave a little scream.” Is this it? Oh! Oh! I want the job!” “You don’t know how much it pays,” Qwilleran said. “Neither do I.” “I don’t care. I want the job.” When they entered the foyer, the amber walls were glowing and the brass-and-crystal chandelier was sparkling.

The furnishings looked almost self-consciously pedigreed.

“Why, it’s like a museum!” “It’s a little rich for my taste,” Qwilleran admitted, “but everything is the real thing, and I have respect for it.” “I could do a real museum catalogue for you. That rosewood-and-ormolu console is Louis XV, and I’ll bet it’s a signed piece. The clock is a Burnap – brass works, moonphase, late eighteenth.” “Are you ready for the dining room?” Qwilleran switched on the twenty-four electric candles mounted on two staghorn chandeliers. It was a dark room, richly paneled, and the furniture was massive.

“Linenfold paneling!” Mrs. Cobb gasped. “Austrian chandeliers! The furniture is German, of course.” “That’s the original furniture,” Qwilleran said, “before the Klingenschoens became serious collectors and switched to French and English.” When they crossed the foyer to the drawing room, she stared in awed silence. Chandeliers festooned with crystal were ablaze in the afternoon sun. Mellowed with age, the red walls made a handsome background for oil paintings in extravagant frames: French landscapes, Italian saints, English noblemen, and one full-length, life-size portrait of an 1880 beauty with bustle and parasol. On the far wall a collection of Chinese porcelains filled the shelves in two lofty arched niches.

“I think I’m going to faint,” Mrs. Cobb said.

“You should rest for a while,” Qwilleran suggested. “There are four suites upstairs, each done in a different period.

I’ll bring your overnight bag up to the French suite in a few minutes.” While she climbed the stairs in a daze, he dashed off a note to his friend Down Below.

Dear Arch, Mrs. Cobb just broke the bad news. I don’t need to tell you how terrible I feel about it. Why don’t you take a week off and fly up here? It’ll be a change of scene, and we can talk.

Qwill

He was addressing the envelope when he heard cries of alarm upstairs. “What are they doing? What are they doing?” Mrs. Cobb carne rushing down the stairs, babbling incoherently, and he ran to meet her.

“That truck in the back drive!” she cried. “I looked out the window. They’re stealing things from the garage. Stop them!

Stop them!” “Don’t get excited, Mrs. Cobb,” Qwilleran said. “This isn’t Zwinger Street. Those are porters from the design studio, cleaning out the junk before we redecorate.” “It’s not junk! Stop them!” They both hurried to the garage, where a truck was being loaded with rolled rugs, an old mattress, and odds and ends of furniture.

“That’s a Hunzinger!” Mrs. Cobb shouted, pointing to an odd-looking folding chair. “And that’s a real Shaker rocker!” She rushed about – from an early trestle table to a Connecticut dower chest to a Pennsylvania German schrank.

Qwilleran stopped the porters. “Take it all back except the mattress. Put everything in one of the garage stalls until we can sort it out.” Mrs. Cobb was weak with shock and excitement. “What a narrow escape,” she said, over a cup of tea. “You know, there was a period when Americana wasn’t appreciated. These people must have moved their heirlooms to the garage when they bought their French and English antiques. It’s strange that your decorator didn’t recognize their current value.” Maybe she did, Qwilleran thought. Later in the afternoon he conducted the prospective housekeeper on a walking tour of downtown Pickax. “How do you like the French suite?” he asked.

“I’ve never seen anything so grand! There’s a Norman bonnet-top armoire that must be early eighteenth century!” Hesitantly she added, “If I come to work here, would you mind if I did a few appraisals for other people on the side?” “Not at all. You can even open a tearoom in the basement and tell fortunes.” “Oh, Mr. Qwilleran, you’re such a joker.” Downtown Pickax was a panorama of imitation Scottish castles, Spanish fortresses, and Cotswold cottages. “All real stone,” he pointed out, “but somehow it looks fake, like a bad movie set.” They passed Amanda’s studio (pure Dickens) and the offices of the Pickax Picayune (early monastery). Then he steered her into the office (Heidelberg influence) of Goodwinter & Goodwinter.

The junior partner was conferring with a client but consented to step out of her private office for a moment.

Qwilleran said, “I want to introduce Iris Cobb. I’ve convinced her to move up here from Down Below and manage our household. Mrs. Cobb, this is Penelope Goodwinter, attorney for the estate.” “Pleased to meet you,” said the housekeeper, extending her hand. Penelope, glancing at the rhinestone-studded I glasses, was a fraction of a second slow in shaking hands: and saying, “How nice.” Qwilleran went on. “Mrs. Cobb is not only experienced in household management, but she’s a licensed appraiser and will catalogue the collection for us.” His former landlady beamed, and Penelope said, “Oh, really? We must discuss salary, of course. When do you wish to start your employment, Mrs. Cobb?” “Well, I’m flying home tomorrow, and I’ll drive up here in my van as soon as I pack my reference books.” “I suggest,” the attorney said, “that you defer your arrival until your apartment is redecorated. At present it’s in deplorable condition.” “No problem,” Qwilleran interjected. “Mrs. Cobb will have the French suite in the house. I plan to fix up the garage apartment for myself.” The attorney’s reaction started with shock, faded into disapproval, and recovered enough to muster a half smile. “I hope you will both be comfortable. Let us talk about terms and contracts tomorrow.” “I’m taking Mrs. Cobb to dinner at the Old Stone Mill tonight,” Qwilleran said. “Would you care to join us?” “Thank you. Thank you so much, but I have a previous engagement. And now… if you will excuse me…” “Oh my!” Mrs. Cobb said afterward. “She’s a very smart dresser, isn’t she? I didn’t know they had clothes like that in Pickax.” Qwilleran reported the incident to Melinda Goodwinter after putting the housekeeper on the plane the next day. The young doctor with green eyes and long eyelashes telephoned to invite him to dinner.

“My treat,” she said. “I’d like to take you to Otto’s Tasty Eats.” “Never heard of it. How’s the food?” “Ghastly, but there’s lots of it. It’s a family restaurant – no liquor – and you can sit in the smoking section or the screaming section, depending on whether you want to ruin your lungs or your eardrums.” “You make the invitation irresistible, Melinda.” “To tell the truth, I have an ulterior motive. I want to see your house. I’ve never seen the interior. The Klingenschoens and the Goodwinters weren’t on the same wavelength socially. Could you meet me at Otto’s at six-fifteen? I’ll reserve a booth.” At the appointed hour Qwilleran was wedging his green economy-model car into the crowded parking lot when Melinda pulled up in a silver convertible.

“When are you going to buy a gold-plated Rolls?” she greeted him.

“Do I look like a sheikh? Don’t let the moustache mislead you.” “You really made a hit when you proposed giving away your money,” she said. “There’s a rumor that Pickax will be renamed Qwillville. All the women in Moose County will be chasing you, but remember – I found you first.” Otto’s Tasty Eats occupied a former warehouse in the industrial area of Pickax. The wrinkled carpet suggested old army blankets. Long institutional tables – at least an acre of them – were covered with sheets of stiff white paper. Lights glared. Noise reverberated. Customers flocked in by the hundreds.

In the center of the room was a veritable shrine to gluttony: twelve-gallon crocks of watery soup, bushels of tom iceberg lettuce, mountains of fried chicken and fried fish, tubs of reconstituted mashed potatoes, and a dessert table that was a sea of white froth masquerading as whipped cream.

“Do you come here often?” Qwilleran asked.

“Only when I entertain supercilious urban types.” Overstuffed diners were making three or four trips to the buffet, but Melinda insisted on ordering from the menu and having table service.

“I don’t imagine,” Qwilleran said, “that your cousins from the law office are frequent diners at Otto’s Tasty Eats.” He described the meeting between the attorney and Mrs. Cobb. “Penelope was a trifle perturbed when I told her the housekeeper would occupy the French suite and I’d live over the garage.” Melinda’s green eyes brimmed with merriment. “She probably went into shock. She and Alex are the last of the hard- line Goodwinter snobs. They consider themselves the superior branch of the family. Did you know that Penny is the one with brains? Alex is just a tiresome bore with an inflated ego, and yet she defers to him as if he were the mastermind.” “He’s a good-looking guy. Is he involved in politics? He seems to go to Washington a lot.” “Well, it’s like this,” Melinda explained. “There’s a lot of Old Money in Moose County, and Alex steers campaign donations to friendly pols. He loves the importance it gives him in the Capitol and at Washington parties. Have you met any other Goodwinters?” “Junior at the newspaper, for one. He’s a bright kid, and he majored in journalism, but he’s wasted at the Picayune. It looks like an antebellum weekly. I told him he’s got to get the classified ads off the front page.” “I hear that cousin Amanda is going to redecorate your garage apartment. Did she kick you in the shins or just call you a twelve-letter word?” “I don’t understand how that woman stays in business. She has the personality of a hedgehog.” “She has a captive clientele. There’s no other decorator within four hundred miles.” They could talk freely. Their booth was an island of privacy in a maelstrom of ear-splitting noise. The animated conversation of happy diners and the excited shrieks of children bounced off the steel girders and concrete walls, and the din was augmented by the Tasty Eats custom of pounding the table with knife handles to express satisfaction with the food.

The waiter was deferential. Melinda was not only a Goodwinter; she was a doctor. He brought a lighted candle to the table-a red stub in a smoky glass left over from Christmas. He persuaded the kitchen to broil two orders of pickerel without breading, and he found a few robust leaves of spinach to add to the sickly salad greens.

Qwilleran said to Melinda, “I wish you would do me a favor and explain the Goodwinter mystique.” “It’s simple,” she said. “We’ve been here for five generations. My great-great-grandfather was an engineer and surveyor. His four sons made fortunes in the mines. Most speculators grabbed their money and went to live abroad, so their daughters could marry titles, but the Goodwinters stayed here, always in business or the professions.” “Too bad none of them ever opened a good restaurant. Are there any black sheep in the family?” “Occasionally, but they’re always persuaded to move to Mexico or change their name.” “Change it to Mull, I suppose.” Melinda gave him an inquiring glance. “You’ve heard about the Mulls? That’s an unfortunate social problem. They worked in the mines a hundred years ago, and their descendants have lived on public assistance for the last three generations. They lack motivation-drop out of school – can’t find jobs.” “Where did they emigrate from originally?” “I don’t know, but they were miners when the pay was a dollar and a half a day. They worked with candles in their caps and had to buy their own candles from the company store. The miners were exploited by the companies and by the saloons. You can read about it in the public library.” “Did any of the Mulls ever break out of the rut?” “The young ones often leave town, and no one ever hears about them again – or cares. There’s a lot of poverty and unemployment here. Also a lot of inherited wealth. Have you noticed the cashmeres at Scottie’s Men’s Store and the rocks at Diamond Jim’s Jewelry? Moose County also has more private planes per capita than any other county in the state.” “What are they used for?” “Mostly convenience. Commercial airlines have to route passengers in roundabout ways through hub cities. My dad flew his own plane before he became diabetic. Alex Goodwinter has a plane. The Lanspeaks have two – his and hers.” Melinda bribed the waiter to find some fresh fruit for dessert, and after coffee Qwilleran said, “Let’s go to my place. I’d like to show you my graffiti.” Melinda brightened, and she batted her long lashes. “The evening begins to show promise.” They drove both cars to the K mansion, and she asked if she might park the silver convertible in the garage. “It would be recognized in the driveway,” she explained, “and people would talk.” “Melinda, haven’t you heard? This is the last quarter of the twentieth century.” “Yes, but this is Pickax,” she said with raised eyebrows.

“Sorry.” When Qwilleran escorted his guest upstairs to the servants’ quarters, she walked into the jungle of daisies in a state of bedazzlement. “Ye gods! This is stupendous! Who did it?” “A former housemaid. One of the Mulls. Worked for Amanda before she came here.” “Oh; that one! I guess she was a one-woman disaster at the studio. Amanda fired her for pilfering.” “After doing these murals she left town,” Qwilleran said. “I hope she found a way to use her talent.” “It’s really fantastic! It’s hard to believe it was done by Daisy Mull.” “Daisy?” Qwilleran echoed in astonishment. “Did you: say Daisy Mull?” A melody ran through his mind, and he wondered if he should mention it. Previously he had hinted to Melinda about Koko’s extrasensory perception, but a piano-playing cat seemed too radical a concept to share even with a broadminded M.D.

“You’ve never met Koko and Yum Yum,” he said. “Let’s go over to the house.” When he conducted his guest into the amber-toned foyer, she gazed in wonder. “I had no idea the Klingenschoens owned such fabulous things!” “Penelope knew. Didn’t she ever tell you?” “Penelope would consider it gossip.” “The rosewood-and-ormolu console is Louis XV,” Qwilleran mentioned with authority. “The clock is a Burnap. Koko is usually sitting on the staircase to screen arriving visitors, but this is his night off.” Melinda commented on everything. The sculptured plaster ceilings looked like icing on a wedding cake. The life-size marble figures of Adam and Eve in the solarium had a posture defect caused by a calcium deficiency, she said. The Staffordshire dogs in the breakfast room were good examples of concomitant convergent strabismus.

“Want to see the service area?” Qwilleran asked. “The cats often hang out in the kitchen.” Yum Yum was lounging on her blue cushion on top of the refrigerator, and Melinda stroked her fur adoringly. “Softer than ermine,” she said.

Koko was conspicuously absent, however. “He could be upstairs, sleeping in the middle of a ten-thousand-dollar four- poster-bed,” Qwilleran said. “He has fine taste. Let’s go up and see.” While he hunted for the cat, Melinda inspected the suites furnished in French, Biedermeier, Empire, and Chippendale.

Koko was not to be found.

Qwilleran was beginning to show his nervousness. “I don’t know where he can be. Let’s check the library. He likes to sleep on the bookshelves.” He ran downstairs, followed by Melinda, but there was no sign of the cat in any of his favorite places – not behind the biographies, not between the volumes of Shakespeare, not on top of the atlas.

“Then he’s got to be in the basement.” The English pub had been imported from London, paneling and all, and it was a gloomy subterranean hideaway.” They turned on all the lights and searched the bar, the backbar, and the shadows.

No Koko!

5

FRANTICALLY QWILLERAN SCOURED the premises for the missing Koko, with Melinda tagging along and offering encouragement.

“He’ll be in one of four places,” he told her. “A soft surface, or a warm spot, or a high perch, or inside something.” None of these locations produced anything resembling a cat. Calling his name repeatedly, they peered under sofas and beds, behind armoires and bookcases, and into drawers, cupboards, and closets.

Qwilleran dashed about with increasing alarm, looking in the refrigerator, the oven, the washer, the dryer, then the oven again.

“Slow down, Qwill. You’re stressing.” Melinda put a hand on his arm. “We’ll find him. He’s around here somewhere.

You know how cats are.” “He’s got to be in the house… unless… you know, the back door can’t be locked. Someone could come in and snatch him. Or he might have eaten something poisonous and crawled away in a comer.” Melinda, wandering in aimless search, stepped into the back entry and called, “What’s this stairway? Where does it go?” “What stairway? I never noticed any stairway back there.” Hidden by the broom closet and closed off by a door that latched poorly, it was the servants’ stairs to the second floor- a narrow flight with rubberized treads. Qwilleran bounded to the top, followed by Melinda, and they emerged in a hallway with a series of doors. Two doors stood ajar. One opened into a walk-in linen closet. The second gave access to another flight of ascending stairs, wide but un- finished and dusty. “The attic!” Qwilleran exclaimed. “It was supposed to be a ballroom. Never finished.” Flipping wall switches, he scrambled to the top, sneezing. Melinda ventured up the stairs cautiously, shielding her mouth and nose with her hand.

The staircase ended in a large storage room illuminated faintly by fading daylight through evenly spaced windows and by eight low-wattage light bulbs dangling from the ceiling.

Qwilleran called the cat’s name, but there was no answer. “If he’s up here, how will we find him among all this junk?” The space was littered with boxes, trunks, cast-off furniture, framed pictures, rolls of carpet, and stacks of old National Geographics.

“He could be asleep, or sick, or worse,” he said.

“Could we lure him out with a treat?” Melinda suggested.

“There’s a can of lobster in the food pantry. Open it and bring it up.” When she had run downstairs, Qwilleran stood still and listened. The floorboards had stopped creaking. The hum of traffic on Main Street seemed far away He held his breath. He could hear a familiar sound. What was it? He strained to listen. It was scratching – the whisper of claws gliding over a smooth surface. He followed the sound noiselessly.

There, in a far comer of the attic, stood a large carton, and Koko was on top of it with his hind end elevated and his front assembly stretched forward as he scratched industriously.

“Koko! What are you doing up here?” Qwilleran demanded in the consternation that followed his unnecessary panic.

Then a prickling sensation on his upper lip caused him to investigate the scene of the action. A corrugated carton that had once contained a shipment of paper towels was tied with twine and labeled with a tag on which was a name in excellent handwriting: Daisy Mull.

By the time Melinda returned with the lobster, Qwilleran had untied the carton and was tossing out articles of clothing.

“This is astonishing!” he shouted over his shoulder. “There’s something important about this box, or Koko wouldn’t have found it.” Out of the carton came a musty-smelling jacket of fake fur in black and white stripes unknown to any animal species, along with a woolly stocking hat that had once been white and a pair of high red boots with ratty fur trim. There were faded flannel shirts, well-worn jeans, two maid’s uniforms, and a sweatshirt printed with the message: TRY ME. A small item wrapped in a wad of newspaper proved to be an ivory elephant with Amanda’s studio label on the bottom of the teakwood base.

Qwilleran said, “Obviously she went south when she cleared out – to some climate where she wouldn’t need winter clothing. Probably California. Dreamers always head for California, don’t they? And she left her uniforms behind, so she didn’t plan a career as a domestic.” “But why would she leave the elephant? If she liked it enough to steal it, wouldn’t she like it enough to take it along?

You can tell it’s valuable.” “Smart question,” Qwilleran said as he piled the clothing back into the carton. “You take the elephant; I’ll carry Koko – if I can find him. Where did he go?” Having finished the can of lobster, the cat was cleaning his mask, whiskers, ears, paws, chest, underside, and tail.

“Either he was trying to tell us something about Daisy Mull,” Qwilleran said, “or he thought of a sneaky way to get an extra meal.” The three of them returned to the main floor, carefully closing the door to the attic stairs. It immediately popped open.

“That’s typical of old buildings,” Qwilleran complained. “The doors never fit properly. There are too many places for an inquisitive animal to get lost.” “He wasn’t lost,” Melinda said with a smug smile. “It’s simply that you couldn’t find him.” “For that astute observation you’ll be rewarded with a nightcap. Would you like Scotch, bourbon, white grape juice, a split of champagne? I also have beer, in case Penelope’s maintenance man ever shows up to fix the doors.” “What are you drinking?” “Club soda with a twist.” “I’ll have a split.” Qwilleran carried the tray of drinks into the library and slipped the ivory elephant into a desk drawer. “Would you enjoy some music? There’s a prehistoric stereo here, and an odd assortment of records that you could use for paving a patio.

This house came equipped with seven television sets, and I’d like to trade in six of them for a new music system.” “Don’t you like TV?” “I’m a print man. The printed word does more for me than the small screen.” After some grinding and humming and a loud clunk the record changer produced some romantic zither music, and they sat on the blood red leather sofa that Qwilleran had recently shared with Penelope Goodwinter, but there was no briefcase between them and considerably less space.

He said, “Koko has an uncanny talent for finding objects of significance. I don’t usually mention it because the average person wouldn’t believe it, but I feel I can confide in you.” “Any time,” Melinda said with an agreeable inflection in her voice.

“It’s good to have a confidante.” His mournful eyes met her inviting green gaze and the world stood still, but the magic moment was interrupted by a simulated catfight in the foyer. Qwilleran huffed into his moustache, and Melinda sipped her champagne and looked at the three walls of bookshelves.

“Nice library,” she said. “Yes. Good bindings.” “Mostly classics, I suppose.” “It appears so.” “Did the Klingenschoens read these?” “I doubt it… Melinda, did you ever see Daisy Mull? What did she look like?” “Hmmm… tiny… reddish hair… pouty mouth. Daisy was quite visible in Pickax. She and her girlfriend used to stand outside the music store and giggle when cars tooted their horns, Her clothes were flashy by Pickax standards, but that was a few years ago. Things have changed. Today even the middle-aged women in Pickax have given up lavender sweater sets and basket bags.” Qwilleran draped an arm over the back of the sofa, musing that a firm, shiny, slippery upholstery left something to be desired. A loungy, down-filled, velvety sofa would be more seductive; at least, that had been his experience in the past.

“Why did you name your cats Koko and Yum Yum?” Melinda asked. “Are you a Savoyard?” “Not especially, although I like Gilbert and Sullivan, and in college I sang in The Mikado.” “You’re an interesting man, Qwill. You’ve lived every, where and done everything.” He groomed his moustache self-consciously, “It helps you’ve been around as long as I have. You’ve always dated young squirts from medical school.” “Not true! I’m always attracted to older men. Eyelids with a middle-aged droop turn me on.” He leaned closer to add champagne to her glass. There was a sense of pleasurable propinquity, and then the tall case clock started to bong eleven times and Koko walked into the library. Walking with a stiff-legged gait and tail at attention, he looked at the pair on the sofa and uttered an imperious “YOW!” “Hello, Koko,” Melinda replied. “Are you and I going to be friends?” Without a reply he turned and left the scene, and a moment later they heard another insistent howl. “Something’s wrong,” Qwilleran said. “Excuse me.” He followed the cat and found him in the vestibule, staring at the front door.

“Sorry, Koko. Wrong time of day. The mail comes in the afternoon.” Returning to the library, Qwilleran explained the cats’ obsession with the mail slot. Casually he was maneuvering to resume the intimate mood that had been interrupted, when Koko stalked into the room a second time. Looking sternly at Melinda, he said, “nyik nyik nyik YOW!” And again I he marched to the front door.

“Does he want to go out?” “No, he’s an indoor cat.” “He has a noble face, hasn’t he?” She glanced at her watch.

“Siamese are a noble breed.” The third time Koko made his entrance, scolding and glaring at the guest, she said, “He’s trying to tell me something.” She jumped up and trailed after the determined animal, who plodded resolutely toward the front of the house, stopping at intervals and looking back to be sure she was following. In the vestibule he stared pointedly at the door handle.

“Qwill, I believe he’s telling me to go home.” “This is embarrassing, Melinda.” “That’s okay. I have the early shift at the clinic tomorrow.” “My apology! He likes the lights turned out at eleven. Next time we’ll lock him up somewhere.” “Next time,” she corrected him, “we’ll go to my place – if you don’t mind sitting on the floor. I don’t have any furniture yet. Only a bed,” she added with a sidelong glance. “How soon is next time?” “After the medical conference. When I come back from Paris I’m leaving the Mooseville clinic. I’m tired of taking fishhooks out of tourists’ backsides.” “What do you plan to do?” “Join my father’s office in Pickax.” “I’ll be your first patient. Can you check cholesterol, heart, and all that?” “You’ll be surprised what I can do!” She threw him another of her provocative green-eyed glances.

Qwilleran escorted Melinda to her silver convertible parked discreetly in the garage – not a bad idea, as it turned out.

When she finally drove away, he walked back to the house with a buoyant step and found Koko waiting for him with a smug look of accomplishment.

“You’re not as smart as you think you are,” Qwilleran said to him, preening his moustache with satisfaction.

Early the next morning he walked downtown to Amanda’s studio to order a sofa. The crotchety designer was out on a house call, but a friendly young assistant produced some catalogues of contemporary furniture. Within five minutes Qwilleran had ordered a slouchy sofa in rust-colored suede, a brown lounge chair and ottoman, and some reading lamps – for his new studio.

“You have good taste,” the assistant said, “and I’ve never seen a client make such speedy decisions. I’d love to your carriage house when it’s finished.” “And what is your name?” he asked.

“Francesca Brodie. My father knows you – by reputation, that is. He’s the police chief. Aren’t you sort of a detective?” “I like to solve puzzles, that’s all,” Qwilleran said. “Did you ever know a Daisy Mull who worked here?” “No, I’ve only been here four months.” For the next two days Qwilleran spent most of his time answering the letters that came shooting through the mail slot in great number, much to the delight of the Siamese. Koko personally delivered an envelope addressed in red ink, and he was not surprised that it came from a building in which they had recently lived.

The letter was written by another tenant, a young woman who used to speak French to Koko and who was subject to problems with weight and problems with men. She wrote:

Dear Qwill, Arch Riker gave me your address. Congratulations in striking oil. We miss you.

Want to hear my good news? I’m dating a chef now, and he’s not married – or so he says. The bad news is that I’ve gained ten pounds. I’m still hacking copy at the ad agency, but I’d kill to get into the restaurant business. If you’d like to open a restaurant in Pickax, let me know. Have chef; will travel. Say bon jour to Koko.

Hixie Rice

Other letters arrived faster than Qwilleran could poke out answers on his old typewriter. The telephone rang constantly. And there were other interruptions, as when a young man in white coveralls suddenly appeared at the door of the library, carrying a six-pack of diet cola.

“Hi!” he said. “Mind if I put this in your fridge? This is a big job. Lots of spackling and patching and scraping, and some of the woodwork’s bleeding.” He had the wholesome look of a Moose County native, raised on bushels of apples, milk right from the cow, vegetables from the garden, and unlimited fresh air.

“I assume you’re a painter employed by Amanda Goodwinter,” Qwilleran said.

“Yeah, I’m Steve. She’s always telling people I’m slow, but I do good work. My grandfather worked on this house when the Old Lady was alive. He showed me how to paint without laps or drips or sags or pimples. Hey, do you really live in this joint? I live in a mobile home on my father-in-law’s farm.” There were other reasons for Qwilleran’ s discontent. Mrs. Cobb had not arrived. There was no sign of anyone to fix the doors. Melinda had left for Paris. And an exasperating melody kept running through his mind: Daisy, Daisy.

Then a schoolteacher he had met in Mooseville telephoned and said, “Hi, Qwill, this is Roger. How does it feel to be filthy rich?” “Arduous, frustrating, and annoying-so far. But give me another week to get used to it. How’s everything at the lake?” “Oh, you know…lots of tourists and happy merchants.” “Is business good at your wife’s shop?” “Not bad, but she puts in long hours. Say, want to meet me for dinner somewhere tonight? Sharon’s working late.” “Sure. Why don’t you drive down here to the Bastille?” Qwilleran suggested. “I’ll give you a conducted tour of the dungeons and pour you a drink. Then we can find a restaurant.” “Great! I’d like to see inside that rockpile. We can eat at the Hotel Booze.” “That’s a new one to me.” “Oldest flophouse in the county. They have a twelve-ounce bacon cheeseburger with fries that’s the greatest!” Roger MacGillivray, whose Scottish name appealed to Qwilleran, arrived in the early evening. He was a young man with a clipped black beard and vigorous opinions, and he exclaimed about the size of the rooms, the number of windows, the height of the ceilings, and the extent of the property. “It’ll cost an arm and a leg to maintain this place,” he predicted.

“Who’s going to clean all those windows and dust all those books?” “The landscape service alone costs more than I earned at the Daily Fluxion,” Qwilleran informed him. “There’s always a green truck in the driveway and a guy in a green jumpsuit riding around on a little green tractor.” He poured Scotch for his guest and white grape juice for himself, and they sat in the big wicker chairs in the solarium.

Roger stared at Qwilleran’s stemmed glass. “What are you drinking?” “Catawba grape juice. Koko likes it, so I bought a case of it.” “You really pamper that animal.” Roger glanced around apprehensively. “Where is he? I’m not comfortable with cats.” Koko, hearing his name, sauntered into the solarium and positioned himself in Roger’s view.

“He won’t bother you,” Qwilleran said. “He enjoys listening to our conversation, that’s all. He likes the tone of your voice.” Koko moved a little closer. “Who looks after these rubber plants, Qwill? They look healthier than I do.” “The green jumpsuit comes in and sticks a meter in the soil and takes a reading,” Qwilleran said. “The whole horticultural scene is too esoteric for me. I’ve spent all my life in apartments and hotels.” “I think your gardener is Kevin Doone, a former student of mine. He goes to Princeton now and does gardening during summer vacation. You’ve got a pretty good-sized lot.” “Half a block wide and half a mile long, I estimate. There’s an orchard back there and an old barn that would make a good summer theater.” Roger gripped the arms of his chair. “Why is he looking at me like that?” “Koko wants to be friends. Say something to him.” “Hello, Koko,” Roger said in a weak voice.

The cat blinked his eyes shut and emitted a squeaky, nonthreatening “ik ik ik.” “He’s smiling,” Qwilleran said. “He likes you…

How’s your mother-in-law, Roger?” “She’s fine. She’s gung ho. about a new craft project now – designing things with a Moose County theme, for Sharon to sell in her shop. Pot holders and toys and stuff. The idea is to have the Dimsdale women make them by hand – sort of a cottage industry. She wanted to get a grant from the state, but there was too much red tape. Besides that, the people in Dimsdale don’t want to work. Do you know that place?” “I’ve seen the remains of the Dimsdale Mine, ” Qwilleran said, “and I’ve eaten at the decrepit diner at the intersection, but I thought it was mainly a ghost town.” “Officially Dimsdale doesn’t exist, but there’s a bunch of shanties back in the woods – squatters, you know. In fact, I think they’re on Klingenschoen property, your property. You’d never believe it, Qwill, but a hundred years ago Dimsdale was a thriving town with hotels, a sawmill, housing for miners, stores, even a doctor.” “You know a lot about local history, Roger.” “I ought to! That’s what I teach…. Say, he’s a good-looking animal, isn’t he? Very well behaved.” “His real name is Kao K’o Kung. He was named after a thirteenth-century Chinese artist.” Knowing he was the topic of conversation, Koko casually ambled over to Roger’s chairside.

“If you’ve never stroked a Siamese,” Qwilleran said, “you don’t know what fur is all about.” Cautiously Roger extended a hand and patted the silky fawn-colored back. “Good boy!” he said. “Good boy!” The cat looked at Qwilleran, slowly closing one eye, and Qwilleran thought, Score another one for Koko.

The two men finished their drinks and then drove from the palatial splendor of the K mansion to the stolid ugliness of the Hotel Booze. It was a stone building three stories high, with the plain shoebox architecture typical of hotels in pioneer towns. A sign, almost as big as the hotel itself, advertised booze, rooms, and food.

“In this hotel,” Roger said, “a miner could get a man-sized dinner and a bed on the floor for a quarter, using his boots for a pillow, or a sack of oats if he was lucky.” The dim lighting in the dining room camouflaged the dreary walls and ancient linoleum floor and worn plastic tables.

Nevertheless, the room hummed with the talk of customers wearing feed caps and wolfing down burgers and beer.

Qwilleran tried three chairs before finding one with all its legs and rungs. “I’ll have the Cholesterol Special,” he told the waitress, a homey-looking woman in a faded housedress.

“Make it two, Thelma,” said Roger.

The sandwich proved to be so enormous that she served it with her thumb on top of the bun to hold it all together.

“We call her Thumbprint Thelma,” Roger whispered. Qwilleran had to admit that the burger was superior and the fries tasted like actual potatoes. “Okay, Roger, how about a history lesson to take my mind off the calories? Tell me about the abandoned mines around here.” “There were ten of them in the old days – all major operations. Shafts went a thousand feet deep, and the miners had to climb down on a ladder! After a long day underground, with water dripping all around, it took half an hour to climb back up to the surface.” “Like climbing a hundred-story building! They must have been desperate for work.” “Most of them came from Europe – left their families behind – and hoped to send money home. But – what with payday binges at the saloon and buying on credit at the company store -they were always in hock.” Thelma brought coffee, and Roger – without much difficulty – persuaded Qwilleran to try the wild thimbleberry pie.

“Picked the berries myself this morning,” the waitress said.

The men savored each forkful in the reverent silence that the pie merited and ordered second cups of coffee.

Qwilleran said, “I suppose the old saloons had gambling in the back room and girls upstairs.” “Right! And a bizarre sense of fun. When a customer drank too much and passed out, his pals carried him outside and nailed his boots to the wooden sidewalk. And there was always an old soak hanging around the saloon who would do anything for a drink. One of these characters used to eat poison ivy. Another would bite the head off a live chipmunk.” “This isn’t the best dinner-table conversation I’ve ever heard, Roger.” “I’m telling it like it was! The K Saloon was notorious.” “Is that what you teach in your history classes?” “Well, it grabs their attention. The kids eat it up!” Qwilleran was silent for a moment before he asked, “Did you ever have a student by the name of Daisy Mull?” “No, she dropped out before I started teaching, but my mother-in-law had her in art class. She said Daisy was the only Mull who would ever amount to anything – if she applied herself. She was kind of goofy.” Qwilleran told him about the graffiti – then about his plans for a studio over the garage – and then about his search for a housekeeper.

“How do you figure you’ll adjust to a live-in housekeeper?” Roger asked him. “I suppose it’s like having a wife, without the fringe benefits.” “Speak for yourself, Roger.” “Are you getting along okay with G&G?” “So far, so good. Penelope is the one handling the estate. I haven’t figured her out yet.” “She’s the bright one in the family. What do you think of her brother?” “Alexander hasn’t been around much. He’s gone to Washington again.” Roger lowered his voice. “There’s a rumor he’s got a woman down there. If he’s serious, it’s big news. Alex has always been a confirmed bachelor.” “Is Penelope involved with anyone?” “Why? Are you interested?” “No thanks. I’ve got all I can handle at the moment.” “She never bothers with guys,” Roger said. “Strictly careerist. Too bad. She’s really got it together.” Qwilleran picked up the check and paid the cashier on the way out. She was a large woman in a patterned muumuu splashed with oversize black-eyed Susans. Qwilleran found himself whistling Daisy, Daisy.

Instantly the hubbub in the dining room dissolved into silence, and the cashier wagged a finger at Qwilleran. “That’s a no-no.” She pointed to a sign over the cash register: No credit. No checks. No spitting. No whistling.

“Sorry,” Qwilleran said.

“It’s bad luck,” Roger explained. “It used to be considered unlucky to whistle in the mines, and the superstition stuck.

There’s no whistling in Pickax – by city ordinance.

6

HE HAD NEVER been much of a whistler, but as soon as Qwilleran learned that whistling was forbidden in Pickax he felt a compulsion to whistle. As he prepared the cats’ breakfast he whistled an air from The Mikado causing Koko to twist his ears inside out and run into the back entry hall. Yum Yum went slinking into the laundry room and crouched behind their commode.

The cats’ commode was an oval roasting pan containing a layer of kitty gravel-an unorthodox but substantial piece of equipment that worked well. Their water dish was an lmari porcelain bowl that Qwilleran had found in the butler’s pantry.

Their food he arranged on a porcelain dinner plate with a wide blue and gold border-appropriate because the border matched the ineffable blue of Yum Yum’s eyes, and because the gold-embellished crest bore a K.

Qwilleran put a plate of canned red salmon on the floor in the laundry room and called the cats. Yum Yum reported immediately, but there was no response from Koko. “Drat him! He’s gone up to the attic again,” Qwilleran muttered. It was true. The door to the attic stairs stood ajar, and Koko was on the third floor, sharpening his claws on a roll of carpet.

Qwilleran made a lunge for him, but the cat eluded his grasp and bounded to the top of an Art Nouveau chifforobe, where he assumed a challenging posture. Then it was an insane chase around the dusty storeroom – Koko streaking over a General Grant bed, under a bowlegged Chinese table, around a barricade of steamer trunks, with Qwilleran breathing heavily in stubborn pursuit.

Koko finally allowed himself to be caught, while crouching defiantly on a cheap cardboard suitcase patterned to resemble tweed. Qwilleran’s moustache sent him a signal: another item of significance! He grabbed an unprotesting cat in one hand and the suitcase in the other and descended to the kitchen, where Yum Yum was washing up after finishing the whole can of salmon.

Attached to the broken handle of the luggage there was a tag written in the perfect penmanship he had seen before: Daisy Mull. The contents had the same musty odor he remembered from opening her carton of winter clothing. This time the collection included sandals, T-shirts, cutoffs, a faded sundress, underpants dotted with red hearts, and the briefest of swimsuits.

Qwilleran could explain why the girl had abandoned her cold-weather gear, but why had she left her summer wearabIes as well? Perhaps she had lined up a situation that would provide an entirely new wardrobe – either a job or a generous patron. Perhaps a tourist from some other part of the country had come up here and staked her to a getaway – for better or worse. Qwilleran wished the poor girl well.

There were other items in the suitcase: a paper bag containing tasteless junk jewelry as well as one fourteen-karat gold bracelet, heavy enough to make one wonder. Had she stolen it? And if so, why had she left it behind? Another paper bag was stuffed with messy cosmetics and a toothbrush; she had left in a hurry!

There was one more surprise in the suitcase. In a shopping bag with the Lanspeak’s Department Store logo Qwilleran found a pathetic assortment of baby clothes.

He sat down in a kitchen chair to think about it. Had she left town hurriedly to have an abortion? After starting a sentimental collection of bootees and tiny sweaters with rosebuds crocheted into the design, why had she decided to end her pregnancy? And what had happened to her? Why had she not returned? Did her family know her fate? Did they know her present whereabouts? Did she even have a family? If so, did they live in that shantytown near the old Dimsdale Mine site? Unanswered questions tormented Qwilleran, and he knew he would never stop probing this one until he had an answer.

His ruminations were interrupted by the sound of a vehicle in the service drive. Dropping the gold bracelet into his pocket, he stuffed the rest of Daisy’s belongings back into the sad excuse for a suitcase – broken handle, tom lining, scuffed comers. Then he went outdoors to greet Mrs. Cobb. Her van was filled to the roof with boxes of books, which he began to carry into the house.

She was happy to the point of tears. “I’m so thrilled, I don’t know where to begin.” “Get yourself settled comfortably,” he said. “Then make a list of what you need for the refrigerator and pantry. The cats are looking forward to your Swedish meatballs and deviled crab.” “What do you like to eat, Mr. Qwilleran?” “I eat everything – except parsnips and turnips. I’ll take you out to lunch this noon, and then I have an appointment at my attorney’s office.” The meeting that Penelope had scheduled included Mr. Fitch from the bank and Mr. Cooper, accountant for the estate. The banker was well tanned; Mr. Cooper was ghastly pale in spite of the sunshine that was parching Moose County. Mr. Fitch graciously congratulated Qwilleran on his proposal to start an eleemosynary foundation. He also inquired if Qwilleran golfed.

“I’m afraid I’m a Moose County anomaly,” was the answer. “Non-golfing, non-fishing, non-hunting.” “We’ll have to do something about that,” said the banker cordially. “I’d like to sponsor you for the country club.” The first order of business concerned the opening of a drawing account at the bank. Then Penelope suggested to Qwilleran that he start sifting through any documents he might find in the house. “It would be wise,” she said, “to acquaint yourself with insurance coverage, taxes, household inventories, and the like before turning them over to our office.” He squirmed uncomfortably. He despised that kind of paperwork.

“Is everything progressing smoothly?” she asked, smiling and dimpling.

“The housekeeper arrived this morning,” he said, “and she agrees we should have some day help.” “I recommend Mrs. Fulgrove. She works for us a few days a week and is very thorough. Has Birch Trevelyan made contact with you?” “Never showed up. All the doors need attention, and we definitely need a lock on the back door.” “That Birch is a lazy dog,” said the banker. “You have to catch him atone of the coffee shops and twist his arm.” Penelope threw Mr. Fitch a reproving glance. “I’ll handle it, Nigel. I think I can put a little diplomatic pressure on the man…. Do you have any questions, Mr. Qwilleran?” “When does the city council meet? Sitting in on a meeting is a good way to get acquainted with a new community.

Mrs. Cobb might like to go, too.” “In that case,” Penelope said quickly, “I’ll take the lady as my guest. It wouldn’t be appropriate for you to escort her.” “Oh, come on, Penny,” said the banker with a half laugh, and she threw him one of her sharp glances.

Turning to the silent accountant, she asked, “Do you have anything to add, Mr. Cooper?” “Good records,” he said. “It’s important to have good records. Do you keep good records, Mr. Qwilleran?” Qwilleran had visions of more paperwork. “Records of what?” “Personal income, expenditures, deductions. Be sure to keep receipts, vouchers, bank statements, and such.” Qwilleran nodded. The accountant had given him an idea. After the meeting he drew the man aside. “Do you have the records of domestic help at the Klingenschoen house, Mr. Cooper? I’d like to know the dates of employment for one Daisy Mull.” “It’s all in the computer,” the accountant said. “I’ll have my secretary phone you with the information.” In the ensuing days Qwilleran enjoyed the housekeeper’s home cooking, answered letters, and bought new tires for the bicycle in the garage. He also telephoned the young managing editor of the Picayune. “When are you going to introduce me to coffee shop society, Junior? You promised.” “Any time. Where do you want to go? The best place is the Dimsdale Diner.” “I had lunch there once. I call it the Dismal Diner.” “You’re not kidding either. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at ten. Wear a feed cap,” the editor advised, “and you’d better practice drinking coffee with a spoon in the cup.” Although Junior Goodwinter looked like a high school sophomore and always wore running shoes and a Pickax varsity letter, he had graduated from journalism school before going to work for his father’s newspaper. They drove to the diner in his red Jaguar, the editor in a baseball cap and Qwilleran in a bright orange hunting cap.

“Junior, this county has the world’s worst drivers,” he said. “They straddle the centerline; they make turns from the wrong lane; they don’t even know what turn signals are for. How do they get away with it?” “We’re more casual up here,” Junior explained. “You people Down Below are all conformists, but we don’t like anybody telling us what to do.” They parked in the dusty lot at the diner, among a fleet of vans and pickup trucks and one flashy motorcycle.

The Dismal Diner was an old railroad freight car that had been equipped with permanently dirty windows. The tables and chairs might have been cast-offs from the Hotel Booze when it redecorated in 1911. For the coffee hour, customers pushed tables together to seat clubby groups of eight or ten – all men wearing feed caps. They helped themselves to coffee and doughnuts on the counter and paid their money to a silent, emaciated man in a cook’s apron. Cigarette’ smoke blurred the atmosphere. The babble of voices and raucous laughter was deafening.

Qwilleran and Junior, sitting at a side table, caught fragments of conversation: “Never saw nothin ‘like what they put on TV these days.” “How’s your dad’s arthritis, Joe?” “Man, don’t try to tell me they’re not livin’ together.” “We need rain.” “The woman he’s goin’ with – they say she’s a lawyer.” “Ever hear the one about the little city kid who had to draw a picture of a cow?” Qwilleran leaned across the table. “Who are these guys?” Junior scanned the group. “Farmers. Commercial fishermen. A branch bank manager. A guy who builds pole barns.

One of them sells farm equipment; he’s loaded. One of them cleans septic tanks.” Pipe smoke and the aroma of a cigar were added to the tobacco haze. Snatches of conversation were interwoven like a tapestry.

“Durned if I didn’t fix my tractor with a piece of wire. Saved a coupla hundred, easy.” “Always wanted to go to Vegas, but my oId lady, she says no.” “Forget handguns. I like a rifle for deer.” “My kid caught a bushel of perch at Purple Point in half an hour.” “We all know he’s got his hand in the till. Never got caught, that’s all.” “Here’s Terry!” several voices shouted, and heads turned toward the dirty windows.

One customer rushed out the door. Picking up a wooden palette, he slanted it across the steps to make a ramp.

Then a man in a feed cap, who had eased out of a low-slung car into a folding wheelchair, waited until he was pushed up the ramp into the diner.

“Dairy farmer,” Junior whispered. “Bad accident a few years ago. Tractor rollover… Milks a hundred Holsteins an hour in a computerized milking parlor. Five hundred gallons a day. Eighteen tons of manure a year.” The talk went on – about taxes, the commodities market, and animal waste management systems. There was plenty of laughter – chesty guffaws, explosive roars, cackling and bleating. “Baa-a-a” laughed a customer behind Qwilleran.

“We all know who she’s makin’ eyes at, don’t we? Baa-a-a!” “Ed’s new bam cost three quarters of a million.”.

“They sent him to college and dammit if he didn’t get on dope.” “That which is crooked cannot be made straight, according to Ecclesiastes One-fifteen.” “Man, he’ll never get married. He’s got it too good. Baa-a-a!” “We need rain bad.” “If he brings that woman here, there’s gonna be hell to pay.” A sign over the doughnut tray read: “Cows may come and cows may go, but the bull in here goes on forever.” “I believe it,” Qwilleran said. “This is a gossip factory.” “Nah,” Junior said. “The guys just shoot the breeze.” Toward eleven o’clock customers began to straggle out, and a man with a cigar stopped to give Junior a friendly punch in the ribs. He had a big build and arrogant swagger, and he bleated like a sheep. He rode off on the flashy motorcycle in a blast of noise and flying gravel.

“Who’s that?” Qwilleran asked. “Birch Tree,” Junior said. “It’s really Trevelyan, an old family name in Moose County.

His brother’s name is Spruce, and he has two sisters, Maple and Evergreen. I told you we’re individualists up here.” “That’s the guy who’s supposed to do our repairs, but he’s taking his own sweet time.” “He’s good, but he hates to work. Hikes his prices so people won’t hire him. Always has plenty of dough, though.

He’s part owner of this diner, but that would never make anyone rich.” “Unless they’re selling something besides food,” Qwilleran said.

On the way back to Pickax he asked if women ever came to the coffee hour.

“Naw, they have their own gossip sessions with tea and cookies…. Want to hear the eleven o’clock news?” He turned on the car radio.

Ever since arriving in Moose County Qwilleran had marveled at the WPKX news coverage. The local announcers had a style that he called Instant Paraphrase.

The newscaster was saying, “… lost control of his vehicle when a deer ran across the highway, causing the car to enter a ditch and sending the driver to the Pickax Hospital, where he was treated and released. A hospital spokesperson said the patient was treated for minor injuries and released.

“In sports, the Pickax Miners walloped the Mooseville Mosquitoes thirteen to twelve, winning the county pennant and a chance at the play-offs. According to Coach Russell, the pennant gives the miners a chance to show their stuff in the regional play-offs.” Suddenly Junior’s beeper sounded, and a siren at City Hall started to wail. “There’s a fire,” he said. “Mind if I drop you at the light? See you later.” His red Jaguar varoomed toward the fire hall, and Qwilleran walked the few remaining blocks. On every side he was hailed by strangers who seemed happy to see him and who used the friendly but respectful initial customary in Pickax.

“Hi, Mr. Q.” “Morning, Mr. Q.” “Nice day, Mr. Q.” Mrs. Cobb greeted him with a promise of meatloaf sandwiches for lunch. “And there’s a message from Mr. Cooper’s office. The person you inquired about terminated her employment five years ago on July seventh. She started April third of that year. Also, a very strange woman walked in and said she’d been hired to clean three days a week. She’s upstairs now, doing the bedrooms. And another thing, Mr. Qwilleran – I found some personal correspondence in my desk upstairs, and I thought you should sort it out. It’s on your desk in the library.” The correspondence filled a corrugated carton, and perched on top of the conglomeration of papers was Koko, sound asleep with his tail curled lovingly around his nose. Either the cat was developing a mail fetish, or he knew the carton had once contained a shipment of canned tuna.

Qwilleran removed the sleeping animal and tackled the old Klingenschoen correspondence. There was no order or sense to the collection, and nothing of historic or financial importance. Mail that should have been thrown into a wastebasket had been pigeon-holed in a desk. A letter from a friend, dated 1921, had been filed with a solicitation for a recent Boy Scout drive.

What caught Qwilleran’s attention was a government postal card with two punctures in one comer, looking suspiciously like the mark of feline fangs.

The message read: “Writing on bus. Sorry didn’t say goodbye. Got job in Florida – very sudden. Got a lift far as Cleveland. Throw out all my things. Don’t need anything. Good job – good pay.” It was signed with the name that had been haunting Qwilleran for the last ten days, and it was dated July 11, five years before. Curiously enough, there was a Maryland postmark. Why the girl was traveling from Cleveland to Florida by way of Maryland was not clear. Qwilleran also noted that the handwriting bore no resemblance to the precise penmanship on Daisy’s luggage tags.

He ripped the tag from the suitcase in the kitchen and went in search of Mrs. Fulgrove. He found her in the Empire suite, furiously attacking a marble-topped, sphinx-legged table with her soft cloths and mysterious potions.

“This place was let go somethin’ terrible,” she said, “which don’t surprise me, seein’ as how the Old Lady didn’t have no decent help for five years, but I’m doin’ my best to put things to rights, and it ain’t easy when you’re my age and pestered with a bad shoulder, which I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” Qwilleran complimented her on her industry and principles and showed her the luggage tag. “Do you know anything about this?” “Course I do, it’s my own writin’, and nobody writes proper anymore, but the nuns taught us how to write so’s anybody could read it, and when the Old Lady told me to put that girl’s things in the attic, I marked ’em so’s there’d be no mistake.” “Why did the Old Lady keep Daisy’s clothing, Mrs. Fulgrove? Was the girl expected to return?” “Heaven knows what the Old Lady took it in her head to do. She never throwed nothin’ away, and when she told me to pack it all in the attic, I packed it in the attic and no questions asked.” Qwilleran disengaged himself from the conference and let Mrs. Fulgrove return to her brass polish and marble restorer and English wax. He himself went back to answering letters. The afternoon delivery brought another avalanche spilling into the vestibule, to be distributed by the two self-appointed mail clerks. Koko delivered a card announcing a new seafood restaurant, as well as a letter from Roger’s mother-in-law. She wrote:

Dear Qwill, Are you enjoying your new lifestyle? Don’t forget you’re only thirty miles from Mooseville. Drop in some afternoon. I’ve been picking wild blueberries for pies.

Mildred Hanstable

She had been Qwilleran’s neighbor at the beach, and he remembered her as a generous-hearted woman who loved people. He seized the phone and immediately accepted the invitation-not only because she made superb pies but because she had been Daisy Mull’s art teacher.

Driving up to the shore the next afternoon he sensed a difference in the environment as he approached the lake – not only the lushness of vegetation and freshness of breeze but a general air of relaxation and well-being. It was the magic that lured tourists to Mooseville.

The Hanstable summer cottage overlooked the lake, and an umbrella table was set up for the repast.

“Mildred, your blueberry pie is perfection,” Qwilleran said. “Not too gelatinous, not too viscous, not too liquescent.” She laughed with pleasure. “Don’t forget I teach home ec as well as art. In our school district we have to be versatile, like coaching girls’ volleyball and directing the senior play.” “Do you remember a student named Daisy Mull?” he asked.

“Do I ever! I had great hopes for Daisy. Why do you ask?” “She worked for the Klingenschoens a while back, and I found some of her artwork.” “Daisy had talent. That’s why I was so disappointed when she didn’t continue. It’s unusual for that kind of talent to surface in Moose County. The focus is on sports, raising families, and watching TV. Daisy dropped out of school and eventually left town.” “Where did she go?” “I don’t know. She never kept in touch, to my knowledge – not even with her mother, although that’s easy to understand. What kind of artwork did you find?” Qwilleran described the murals. “I’d love to see them,” Mildred said. “In fact I’d like to see the whole house, if you wouldn’t mind. Roger says it’s a showplace.” “I think we can arrange that…. Didn’t Daisy get along with her mother?” “Mrs. Mull has a drinking problem, and it’s hard for a young girl to cope with an alcoholic parent…. Please help yourself to the pie, Qwill.” He declined a third helping, reminding himself that Mrs. Cobb was planning lamb stew with dumplings for dinner, with her famous coconut cake for dessert.

He drew a postal card from his pocket. “I found this at the house, dated five years ago. Daisy was on her way to Florida.’ Mildred looked at the address side of the card, frowning a little. Then she turned it over and read the message twice.

She shook her head. “Qwill, this is definitely not Daisy’s handwriting.'”

7

QWILLERAN SAT IN a deck chair on the Hanstable terrace overlooking the lake. Clouds scudded across the blue sky and waves lapped the beach, but his mind was elsewhere. Why would anyone forge a communication to Daisy’s employer?

He could make a guess or two, but he needed more information.

“How do you know,” he asked his hostess, “that this card wasn’t written by Daisy?” “It’s not her handwriting or her spelling,” Mildred said with assurance. “She’d never put a w in ‘writing’ or an e in ‘goodbye’ or an apostrophe in anything. She could draw, but she couldn’t spell.” “You knew her very well?” “Let me tell you something, Qwill. For a teacher – a real teacher – the biggest reward is to discover raw material and nurture it and watch it develop. I worked hard with Daisy – tried to raise her sights. I knew she could get a scholarship and go into commercial art. It would have been a giant step forward for anyone with the name of Mull. She had invented Ian individual style of handwriting – hard to read but pleasing to the eye – so I know that no way did she write that postcard.” Any idea who might have written it?” “Not the faintest. Why on earth would anyone…” Qwilleran said, “Was there any reason why she might want people in Pickax to think she had gone to Florida? Was she afraid of someone here? Afraid of being followed and brought back? Were the police looking for her? Had she stolen something? She may have gone out west but I arranged for someone else to mail the card in Maryland. Was she clever enough to figure that out? Did she have an accomplice?” Mildred looked distressed as well as bewildered. “She I took a rather pricey object from the decorating studio, but I Amanda didn’t prosecute. Honestly, I can’t imagine Daisy being involved in a serious theft.” “What kind of guys did she go around with?” “Not the most respectable, I’m afraid. She started… hanging out after she left school.” “Would her mother know her friends?” “I suspect her mother would neither know nor care.” “I’d like to talk with that woman.” “It might not be easy. The Mulls are suspicious of strangers, and Della isn’t sober very often. I could try to see her when I go to Dimsdale to check on my craft workers. Della does nice knitting and crochet, and she could make items for Sharon’s shop, but she can’t get herself together.” “You could tell her I’ve found her daughter’s belongings,” Qwilleran said, “including a valuable piece of gold jewelry.

Stress ‘valuable,’ and see how she reacts. Ask if I might deliver Daisy’s luggage to her.” “Did she really have some good jewelry?” Mildred asked.

“It was in her suitcase in the attic. The question is: why did she leave it behind? She disappeared in the month of July and left both summer and winter clothing, including her toothbrush and… Did you know she was pregnant?” “I’m not surprised,” Mildred said sadly. “She never got any love at home. How do you know she was pregnant?” “She’d been buying baby clothes from Lanspeak’s – that is, buying or shoplifting. She left those behind, too. My first hunch was that she was running away to have an abortion.” “She could have had a miscarriage. That can unhinge a woman, and Daisy wasn’t the most stable girl in the world – or the healthiest.” “To tell you the truth, Mildred,” said Qwilleran, “I’m getting some unsavory vibrations about this case. But I can’t say any more – just yet.” Driving back to Pickax he made a detour at the Dimsdale intersection. Just as Roger had said, a dirt road led back into the woods, and among the trees were flat-roofed shacks and old travel trailers. The number of small outhouses suggested a lack of plumbing in this shantytown. Junk was scattered everywhere: bedsprings, an old refrigerator without a door, fragments of farm machinery, rusted-out cars without wheels. The only vehicles that looked operative were trucks in the last stages of dilapidation. Here and there a dusty vegetable garden was struggling to survive in a clearing. Gray washing hung on sagging clotheslines. Flocks of small children played among the rubbish, shrieking and tumbling and chasing chickens.

Comparing the scene with his own lavish residence, Qwilleran cringed – and put the Dimsdale squatters on his mental list for the K Foundation: decent housing, skill training, meaningful jobs, something like that.

At the K mansion he was surprised to see a motorcycle parked at the back door. The service drive was usually occupied by a pickup or two. The green jumpsuit was constantly mowing, edging, watering, spraying and pruning, and Amanda’s crew was always coming and going on obscure missions. This afternoon there was a black motorcycle – long in the wheelbase, wide in the tank, voluptuous as to fairings, and loaded with chrome.

Qwilleran stepped into the entry hall and heard voices: “Whaddaya see, Iris baby? Gimme the bad news.” “Your palm is very good, very easy to read. I see a long lifeline and – oh my! – many love affairs.” “Baa-a-a-a!” There was no mistaking the laugh or the motorcycle. In the kitchen the scene was casual, to say the least, Birch Trevelyan in his field boots and feed cap sprawled in a chair at the kitchen table, a T-shirt stretched across his beefy chest and a leather jacket with cutoff sleeves hanging on a doorknob. Mrs. Cobb, apparently dazzled by this macho glamour, was holding his hand and stroking the palm. Koko was monitoring the situation from the top of the refrigerator, not without alarm. Yum Yum was under the table sniffing the man’s boots. And on the table were the remains of the three- layer, cream-filled coconut cake that Mrs. Cobb had baked for Qwilleran’s evening meal.

She jumped to her feet, looking flushed and guilty. “Oh, there you are, Mr. Qwilleran. This is Birch Tree. He’s going to solve all our repair problems.” “Howdy,” said Birch in the coffee-shop style, loud and easy. “Pull up a chair. Have some cake. Baa-a-a!” His mismatched eyes – one brown, one hazel – had an evil glint, but he had a disarming grin showing big square teeth.

Qwilleran accepted a chair that Birch shoved in his direction and said, “That’s some classy animal you’ve got tethered out there.” “Yeah, it’s a mean rig. Y’oughta get one. You can hit a hundred-fifty in sixth on the airport road, if it’s clear. Ten miles of straight, there. Ittibittiwassee – you get four straight but you rev up to ten grand and it’s all over.” Tactfully Qwilleran slipped into the topic of primary interest. “There’s something wrong with the doors in this house, Birch. They don’t latch properly. Even the cat can open them.” “Lotta muscle in one of them small packages,” Birch said with authority.

“We’ve got about twenty doors that won’t stay shut. What can be done?” The expert tucked his thumbs in his belt, rocked his chair on two legs, and nodded wisely. “Old house. Building settles. Doorframes get out of whack. Doors shrink. I can fix ’em, but it’ll cost ya.” For a man who hated to work, he seemed most agreeable. New lock for the back door? “Easy!” Twenty doors refitted? “Piece o’ cake!” He said he would start the next morning – early. Qwilleran surmised that Mrs. Cobb had bribed him with a promise of huckleberry pancakes and sausages.

After Birch had roared away on his motorcycle, the housekeeper said, “Isn’t that a wonderful machine?” Qwilleran grunted noncommittally. “How is he going to transport tools with that thing?” “Oh, he told me he has a couple of trucks, and an ORV, and one of those big campers. He likes wheels. He wants to take me for a ride on the motorbike. What do you think?” Qwilleran exhaled audibly into his moustache. “Don’t rush into anything with that guy. I think he’s an opportunist.” “He seems very nice. When I told him that smoke was harmful to antiques, he chucked his cigar without a word. And he loved my coconut cake.” “That’s obvious. He ate most of it.” “Even little Yum Yum liked him. Did you see her sniffing his boots?” “Either he’d been walking around a barnyard or she was looking for a shoelace to untie. It wasn’t necessarily a character endorsement…. By the way, have you noticed Koko sitting on the main staircase a lot?” She nodded. “That’s his favorite perch, except for the refrigerator.” “The strange thing is that he always sits on the third stair. I don’t understand why.” The housekeeper looked warily at Qwilleran. “I have something strange to report, too, but I’m afraid you’ll laugh at me.” “Mrs. Cobb, I always take you seriously.” “Well, you remember I mentioned ghosts when I came here. I was only kidding, sort of, but now I’m beginning to think this house is haunted – not that I’m afraid, you understand.'” “How did you get that idea?” “Well, sometimes when I come into the kitchen at night I see a white blur out of the comer of my eye, but when I turn to look, it’s gone.” “I’m always seeing white blurs, Mrs. Cobb. One’s called Koko and the other’s called Yum Yum.” “But things also move around mysteriously – mostly in the kitchen. Twice it was the kitchen wastebasket, right in the middle of the floor. Last night that old suitcase was shoved across the doorway. Do you know anything about the people who lived here, Mr. Qwilleran? Were there any unexplained deaths? I don’t know whether you really believe in ghosts.” “These days I’ll believe anything.” “It’s dangerous. I almost fell over the suitcase in the dark. What’s it doing here? It seems to be full of musty clothes.” “I’ll put it in the broom closet – get it out of your way. And you must promise to turn on lights when you come in here after dark.” “I guess I’m used to saving electricity.” “Forget about that. The estate owns a big chunk of the electric company. And please don’t walk around without your glasses, Mrs. Cobb. How’s your eye problem these days?” She held up two crossed fingers. “I still see the eye doctor twice a year.” “Is everything else working out all right? Any questions?” “Well, I took some cookies over to the painter in the garage – he’s a nice young man – and he showed me the huge daisies allover the walls. Who painted those?” “A girl named Daisy, by a strange coincidence. She used to work here. I hope you’re not planning to paint irises all over the kitchen.” “Oh, Mr. Qwilleran,” she laughed.

“Have you started to catalogue the collection?” “Yes, and I’m terribly excited. There’s a silver vault in the basement with some eight-branch silver candelabra about three feet high. The butler’s pantry has china to serve twenty-four, and the linen closet had damask and Madeira banquet cloths like you wouldn’t believe! You ought to give a big dinner party, Mr. Qwilleran. I’d be glad to cook for it.” “Good idea,” he said, “but don’t try to do too much. Save some time for youself. You might want to join the Historical Society, and when you’re ready to take on appraisal jobs we’ll run an ad in the Picayune – even get you some publicity on WPKX.” “Oh, that would be wonderful!” “And how would you like to attend a city council meeting? I intend to go, and the attorney suggested you might enjoy it, too.” “Wasn’t that sweet of her! Yes, I’d love to go,” Mrs. Cobb said, her eyes shining. “We had so much trouble with bureaucrats in the city; I’d like to see how a small town operates.” “Okay, it’s a date. Now I’m going to take a bike ride before dinner.” “Mr. Qwilleran,” the housekeeper said hesitantly, “It’s none of my business, but I’d like to say something if it won’t offend you.” “Fire away!” “I wish you’d get a new bicycle. That old one is such a rattletrap! It’s not safe.” “The bike’s perfectly safe, Mrs. Cobb. I’ve cleaned it and oiled it and bought new tires. It has a few squeaks, but it’s good enough for my purposes.” “But there are so many trucks, and they travel so fast! They could blow you right off die road.” “I do most of my biking on country roads, where there’s very little traffic. Don’t worry.” The housekeeper set her mouth primly. “But it doesn’t look right for a man in your position to be riding a – riding a piece of junk, if you’ll pardon the expression.” “And if you’ll pardon my saying so, Mrs. Cobb, you’re beginning to sound like Penelope Goodwinter. Those eight- branch candelabra have gone to your head.” She smiled sheepishly.

“While I’m gone,” he said, “Miss Goodwinter might call to say when she’s picking us up for the council meeting. Also, a Mrs. Hanstable might phone. She wants a tour of die house. Tell her that any time tomorrow will be okay. I’m going to start charging twenty bucks for these tours.” “Oh, Mr. Qwilleran, you must be kidding.” In order to bike on country roads he had to negotiate four blocks of downtown traffic, five blocks of old residential streets, and then six blocks of suburbia abounding in prefabricated ranch houses, children, plastic tricycles, dogs, and barbecue smoke. After that came the lonely serenity of open country – pastureland, old mine sites, patches of woods, and an occasional farmhouse with a bicycle-chasing dog.

As he pedaled along the four straight miles on Ittibittiwassee Road he thought of many things: lamb stew and dumplings for dinner… Melinda coming home soon… the loungy sofa he had ordered… Arch Riker’s pending visit… a tick-tick-tick in the rear wheel… a dinner party with three-foot silver candelabra… poor Mrs. Cobb, too long a widow… a new grinding noise in the sprocket… Daisy, Daisy… the police chief with a good Scottish name… cream-filled coconut cake.

“The nerve of that guy!” he said aloud, and a lonely cow on the side of the road turned her head to look at him benignly.

Nerve was Birch Tree’s outstanding trait. Early the next morning he arrived with a truckful of tools, an appetite for breakfast, and a portable radio. Qwilleran was half awake when a blast of noise catapulted him from his bed. Raucous music was augmented by a concert of caterwauling.

Grabbing his old plaid robe, he bolted downstairs and found the maintenance man happily at work on a kitchen door.

Yum Yum was screeching like the siren at City Hall, and Koko was exercising his full range of seven octaves as the music pulsed out of a radio with satellite speakers and a control panel like a video game.

“Cut the volume!” Qwilleran shouted. “It’s hurting their ears!” “Throw ’em a fish head and they’ll shut up,” Birch yelled. “Baa-a-a-a!” Qwilleran made a dive for the controls. “If you want to know, Birch, that blaster hurts my ears, too.” Mrs. Cobb beckoned him into the laundry room. “Let’s not discourage him,” she whispered. “He’s touchy, and we want to keep him on the job.” For the next few days Birch Tree was always underfoot, modifying the volume of his radio in proportion to Mrs. Cobb’s supply of food, compliments, and beer. The whine of power tools turned the cats’ ears inside out, but Qwilleran learned to accept the chaos as a positive indication of progress.

On the afternoon that Mildred Hanstable came to see the house, the tour started in the garage, where the slow-motion painter was spreading Mojave beige in Qwilleran’s future studio. They picked their way among buckets, ladders, and drop cloths to reach Daisy’s apartment.

At the sight of it the art teacher caught her breath. “It’s remarkable! A tour deforce! A poor girl’s Sistine Chapel!” Tears came to her eyes. “That sad little creature! I wonder if she’ll ever return.” Qwilleran fingered his moustache uncertainly. “Frankly, I’m beginning to doubt that Daisy’s alive.” “What are you trying to tell me, Qwill?” “We don’t know if she ever really left town, do we?” “Do you suspect something… awful?” “I don’t know. It’s just a hunch, but it’s a strong one.” How could he tell her about the tremor on his upper lip and the tune that kept running through his mind? “Let’s go to the house, Mildred, and you can tell me what Daisy’s mother said.” As they turned to leave the apartment the congenial Steve was standing in the doorway, holding a paint roller and shaking his head. “I’d hate to hafta paint this room. Did she do it all by herself? Crazy Daisy! That’s what we called her in school.” “Just go back and push that roller, Speedo,” Qwilleran said with a fraternal punch on the shoulder. “No laps, no sags, no drips, no pimples.” In the main house he conducted Mildred through the rooms with the finesse of a professional guide. “Opposite the fireplace you see a pietra dura cabinet, late seventeenth century. The Regency desk is laburnum with kingswood banding.” Mrs. Cobb was training him well.

“All this art! All this splendor!” Mildred exclaimed. “You don’t expect it in Moose County.” “Very few people knew what this house contained,” Qwilleran said. “The Klingenschoens never entertained, although they owned a boxcarful of china and silver…. Would you like a drink?” “Do you have any fruit juice?” He served white grape juice from Koko’s private stock, and they sat in the solarium, where Mildred critiqued the marbled sculptures. It was mercifully quiet, except for an occasional “Baa-a-a!” Birch had turned off his radio and was having a beer with Mrs. Cobb in the kitchen. Either the housekeeper was totally smitten, or she was a master strategist.

The work was being done, and it was being done well.