{"id":1778,"date":"2026-01-03T21:49:41","date_gmt":"2026-01-03T21:49:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/the-cat-who-15-the-cat-who-went-into-the-closet-braun-lilian-jackson\/"},"modified":"2026-01-03T21:49:41","modified_gmt":"2026-01-03T21:49:41","slug":"the-cat-who-15-the-cat-who-went-into-the-closet-braun-lilian-jackson","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/the-cat-who-15-the-cat-who-went-into-the-closet-braun-lilian-jackson\/","title":{"rendered":"The Cat… Who 15 – The cat who went Into The Closet – Braun, Lilian Jackson"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Lilian Jackson Braun – The Cat Who Went Into The Closet

-1-

THE WPKX RADIO announcer hunched over the newsdesk in front of a dead microphone, anxiously fingering his script and waiting for the signal to go on the air. The station was filling in with classical music. The lilting “Anitra’s Dance” seemed hardly appropriate under the circumstances. Abruptly the music stopped in the middle of a bar, and the newscaster began to read in a crisp, professional tone that belied the alarming nature of the news:

“We interrupt this program to bring you a bulletin on the forest fires that are rapidly approaching Moose County after destroying hundreds of square miles to the south and west. Rising winds are spreading the scattered fires into areas already parched by the abnormally hot summer and drought conditions.

“From this studio in the tower of the courthouse in Pickax City we can see a red glow on the horizon, and the sky IS hazy with drifting smoke. Children have been sent home from school, and businesses are closed, allowing workers to protect their families and dwellings. The temperature is extremely high; hot winds are gusting up to forty miles an hour.

“Traffic is streaming into Main Street from towns that are in the path of the flames. Here in the courthouse, which is said to be fireproof, preparations are being made to house the refugees. Many are farmers, who report that their houses, barns, and livestock are totally destroyed. They tell of balls of fire flying through the air, causing fields to burst into flame. One old man on the courthouse steps is proclaiming the end of the world and exhorting passersby to fall on their knees and pray.”

The newscaster mopped his brow and gulped water! as he glanced at slips of paper on the desk. “Bulletins are coming in from all areas surrounding Pickax. The entire town of Dry River burst into flames an hour ago and was completely demolished in a matter of minutes… The village of New Perth is in ashes; thirty-two are reported dead… Pardon me.”

He stopped for a fit of coughing and then went on with difficulty. “Smoke is seeping into the studio.” He coughed again. “Pineytown… totally destroyed. Seventeen persons running to escape… killed as the flames overtook them… Volunteer firefighters who went out from Pickax are back. They say… the fire is out of control.”

His voice was muffled as he tried to breathe through a cupped hand. “Very dark here! Heat unbearable! Wind is roaring!… Hold on!” He jumped to his feet, knocking his chair backward, and crouched over the mike with a gasping cry: “Here it comes! A wall of fire! Right down Main Street! Pickax is in flames!”

The lights blacked out. Coughing and choking, the announcer groped for a doorknob and stumbled from the studio.

Music blared from the speakers – crashing chords and roaring crescendos – and the studio audience sat motionless, stunned into silence until a few started to applaud. The initial clapping swelled into a tumultuous response.

Someone in the front row said, “Gad! That was so real, I could feel the heat!”

“I swear I could smell smoke,” another said. “That guy is some actor, isn’t he? He wrote the stuff, too.”

Most of the onlookers, gripped by emotion, were still speechless as they glanced once more at their programs:

The Moose County Something present

“THE BIG BURNING OF 1869”

An original docu-drama based on historic fact.

Written and performed by James Qwilleran

Produced and directed by Hixie Rice

The audience is asked to imagine that radio existed in 1869, as we bring you a simulated newscast covering the greatest disaster in the history of Moose County. The scene on the stage represents a broadcasting studio in the tower of the county courthouse. The action takes place on October 17 and 18, 1869. There will be one intermission.

PLEASE JOIN US FOR REFRESHMENTS AFTER THE

PERFORMANCE

The audience, having struggled back to reality, erupted in a babble of comments and recollections:

“I had an old uncle who used to tell stories about a big forest fire, but I was too young to pay any attention.”

“Where did Qwill get his information? He must have done a heck of a lot of research.”

“My mother said her great-great-grandmother on her father’s side lost most of her family in a big forest fire. Makes you want to hit the history books, doesn’t it?”

More than a hundred prominent residents of Moose County were attending the performance in the ballroom of a mansion that Jim Qwilleran was renting for the winter months. Most of them knew all about the middle-aged journalist with the oversized moustache and doleful expression. He had been a prize-winning crime writer for major newspapers around the United States. He was the heir to an enormous fortune based in Moose County. He wrote a much-admired column for the local daily, The Moose County Something. He spelled his name with a Qw. He liked to eat but never took a drink. He was divorced and thought by women to be highly attractive. His easy-going manner and jocose banter made him enjoyable company. He was a close friend of Polly Duncan’s, the Pickax librarian. He lived alone-with two cats.

The townspeople often saw the big, well-built man walking or biking around Pickax, his casual way of dressing and lack of pretension belying his status as a multi-millionaire. And they had heard remarkable stories about his cats. Now, sitting in rows of folding chairs and waiting for Scene Two, the spectators saw a sleek Siamese march sedately down the center aisle. He jumped up on the stage and, with tail importantly erect, proceeded to the door where the radio announcer had made his frantic exit.

The audience tittered, and someone said, “That’s Koko. He always has to get into the act.”

The door, upstage right, was only loosely latched, and the cat pawed it until it opened a few inches and he could slither through. In two seconds he bounded out again as if propelled by a tap on the rump, and the audience laughed once more. Unabashed, Koko licked his left shoulder blade and scratched his right ear, then jumped off the stage and walked haughtily up the center aisle.

The house lights dimmed, and the radio announcer entered in a fresh shirt, with another script in his hand.

“Tuesday, October 18. After a sleepless night, Pickax can see daylight. The smoke is lifting, but the acrid smell of burning is everywhere, and the landscape is a scene of desolation in every direction. Only this courthouse and a few isolated dwellings and barns are miraculously left standing. The heat is oppressive – 110 degrees in the studio – and the window glass is still too hot to touch.

“Crews of men are now fanning out through the countryside, burying bodies that are charred beyond recognition. Because so many families lived in isolated clearings, we may never have an accurate count of the dead. More than four hundred refugees are packed into the courthouse, lying dazed and exhausted in the corridors, on the stairs, in the courtroom and judge’s chamber. Some have lost their feet; some have lost their eyes; some have lost their senses, and they babble incoherently. The groans of badly burned survivors mingle with the crying of babies. There is no medicine to ease their pain. Someone has brought a cow to the courthouse to provide milk for the youngest, but there is no food for the others…”

Before the dramatic presentation of “The Big Burning of 1869,” the historic calamity had been quite forgotten by current generations intent on land development, tourism, new sewers, and the quality of TV reception. Qwilleran himself, playwright and star of the production, had never heard of the disaster until he rented the old mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard and started rummaging in closets. The furnishings were sparse, but the closets were stuffed to the ceiling with odds and ends – a treasure trove for an inquisitive journalist. As for his male cat, he was cat enough to risk death to satisfy his catly curiosity; with tail horizontal he would slink into a closet and emerge with a matchbook or champagne cork clamped in his jaws.

The mansion was constructed of stone and intended to last down the ages, one of several formidable edifices on the boulevard. They had been built by lumber barons and mining tycoons during Moose County’s boom years in the late nineteenth century. A pioneer shipbuilder by the name of Gage had been responsible for the one Qwilleran was renting. One feature made the Gage mansion unique: the abundance of closets.

Shortly after moving in, Qwilleran mentioned the closets to his landlord. Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor of the Moose County Something, had recently acquired the obsolete building as a gift from his aging grandmother, and he was thankful to have the rental income from his friend and fellow-staffer. The two men were sitting in Junior’s office with their feet on the desk and coffee mugs in their hands. It was three weeks before the preview of “The Big Burning.”

Junior’s facial features and physical stature were still boyish, and he had grown a beard in an attempt to look older, but his youthful vitality gave him away. “What do you think of Grandma’s house, Qwill? Does the furnace work okay? Have you tried lighting any of the fireplaces? How’s the refrigerator? It’s pretty ancient.”

“It sounds like a motor boat when it’s running,” Qwilleran said, “and when it stops, it roars and snarls like a sick tiger. It frightens the cats out of their fur.”

“Why was I dumb enough to let Grandma Gage unload that white elephant on me?” Junior complained. “She just wanted to avoid paying taxes and insurance, and now I’m stuck with all the bills. If I could find a buyer, I’d let the place go for peanuts, but who wants to live in a castle? People like ranch houses with sliding glass doors and smoke detectors… More coffee, Qwill?”

“Too bad the city won’t re-zone it for commercial use. I’ve said it before. You could have law offices, medical clinics, high-class nursing homes, high-rent apartments… Parking would be the only problem. You’d have to pave the backyards.”

“The city will never re-zone,” Junior said. “Not so long as old families and city officials live on the street. Sorry about the lack of furniture, Qwill. The Gages had fabulous antiques and paintings, but the old gal sold them all when she relocated in Florida. Now she lives in a retirement village, and she’s a new person! She plays shuffleboard, goes to the dog races, wears elaborate makeup! On her last trip here, she looked like a wrinkled china doll. Jody says she must have met one of those cosmetics girls who drive around in lavender convertibles.”

“She may have found romance in her declining years,” Qwilleran suggested.

“Could be! She looks a lot younger than eighty-eight!”

“Answer one question, Junior. Why are there so many closets? I’ve counted fifty, allover the house. It was my understanding that our forefathers didn’t have closets. They had wardrobes, dressers, highboys, china cabinets, breakfronts, sideboards…”

“Well, you see,” the editor explained, “my great-great-grandfather Gage was a shipbuilder, accustomed to having everything built-in, and that’s what he wanted in his house. Ships’ carpenters did the work. Have you noticed the woodwork? Best on the boulevard!”

“By today’s construction standards it’s incredible! The foyer looks like a luxury liner of early vintage. But do you know the closets are filled with junk?”

“Oh, sure. The Gages never threw anything away.”

“Not even champagne corks,” Qwilleran agreed.

Junior looked at his watch. “Time for Arch’s meeting. Shall we amble across the hall?”

Arch Riker, publisher and CEO of the Moose County Something, had scheduled a brainstorming session for editors, writers, and the effervescent promotion director, Hixie Rice. None of the editorial staff liked meetings, and Qwilleran expressed his distaste by slumping in a chair in a far corner of the room. Hixie, on the other hand, breezed into the meeting with her shoulder-length hair bouncing and her eyes sparkling. She had worked in advertising Down Below – as Pickax natives called the major cities to the south – and she had never lost her occupational bounce and sparkle.

Similarly Qwilleran and Riker were transplants from Down Below, having grown up together in Chicago, but they had the detached demeanor of veteran newsmen. They had adapted easily to the slow pace of Pickax City (population 3,000) and the remoteness of Moose County, which claimed to be 400 miles north of everywhere.

Riker, a florid, paunchy deskman who seldom raised his voice, opened the meeting in his usual sleepy style: “Well, you guys, in case you don’t know it, winter is coming… and winters are pretty dull in this neck of the woods… unless you’re crazy about ten-foot snow drifts and wall-to-wall ice. So… I’d like to see this newspaper sponsor some kind of diversion that will give people a topic of conversation other than the daily rate of snowfall… Let’s hear some ideas from you geniuses.” He turned on a tape recorder.

The assembled staffers sat in stolid silence. Some looked at each other hopelessly.

“Don’t stop to think,” the boss admonished. “Just blurt it out, off the top of your head.”

“Well,” said a woman editor bravely, “we could sponsor a hobby contest with a thrilling prize.”

“Yeah,” said Junior. “Like a two-week all-expenses-paid vacation in Iceland.”

“How about a food festival? Everyone likes to eat,” I said Mildred Hanstable, whose ample girth supported her claim. She wrote the food column for the Something and taught home economics in the Pickax school system. “We could have cooking demonstrations, a baking contest, an ethnic food bazaar, a Moose County cookbook, nutrition classes – “

“Second it!” Hixie interrupted with her usual enthusiasm. “And we could promote neat little tie-ins with restaurants, like wine-and-cheese tastings, and snacking-and-grazing parties, and a Bon Appetit Club with dining-out discounts. C’est magnifique!” She had once studied French briefly, preparatory to eloping to Paris.

There was a dead silence among the staffers. As a matter of newsroom honor they deplored Hixie’s commercial taint. One of them muttered a five-letter word in French.

Junior came to the rescue with an idea for a Christmas parade. He said, “Qwill could play Santa with a white beard and a couple of pillows stuffed under his belt and some flour on his moustache.”

Qwilleran grunted a few inaudible words, but Hixie cried, “I like it! I like it! He could arrive in a dogsled pulled by fifteen huskies! Mushing is a terribly trendy winter sport, you know, and we could get national publicity! The networks are avid for weatherbites in winter.”

Riker said, “I believe we’re getting warm – or cold, if you prefer. Snow is what we do best up here. How can we capitalize on it?”

“A contest for snow sculpture!” suggested Mildred Hanstable, who also taught art in the public school system.

“How about a winter sports carnival?” the sports editor proposed. “Cross-country skiing, snowshoe races, ice-boating, ice-fishing, dog-sledding – “

“And a jousting match with snow blowers!” Junior added. “At least it’s cleaner than mud wrestling.”

Riker swiveled his chair around. “Qwill, are you asleep back there in that dark comer?”

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache before he answered. “Does anyone know about the big forest fire in 1869 that killed hundreds of Moose County pioneers? It destroyed farms, villages, forests, and wildlife. About the only thing left in Pickax was the brick courthouse.”

Roger MacGillivray, general assignment reporter and history buff, said, “I’ve heard about it, but there’s nothing in the history books. And we didn’t have a newspaper of record in those days.”

“Well, I’ve found a gold mine of information,” said Qwilleran, straightening up in his chair, “and let me tell you something: We may be four hundred miles north of everywhere, but we’ve got a history up here that will curl your toes! It deserves to be told – not just in print – but before audiences, young and old, all over the county.”

“How did you discover this?” Roger demanded.

“While snooping in closets, hunting for skeletons,” Qwilleran retorted archly.

Riker said, “If we were to put together a program, what

would we do for visuals?”

“That’s the problem,” Qwilleran admitted. “There are no pictures.”

The publisher turned off the tape recorder. “Okay, we’ve heard six or eight good ideas. Kick ’em around, and we’ll meet again in a couple of days… Back to work!”

As the staff shuffled out of the office, Hixie grabbed Qwilleran’s arm and said in a low voice, “I’ve got a brilliant idea for dramatizing your disaster, Qwill. C’est vrai!”

He winced inwardly, recalling other brilliant ideas of Hixie’s that had bombed: the Tipsy Look-Alike Contest that ended in a riot… the cooking demonstration that set fire to her hair… the line of Frozen Foods for Fussy Felines, for which she expected Koko to make TV commercials… not to mention her aborted elopement to France. Gallantly he said, however, “Want to have lunch at Lois’s and tell me about it?”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll buy. I can put it on my expense account.”

-2-

THE ATMOSPHERE AT Lois’s Luncheonette was bleak, and the menu was ordinary, but it was the only restaurant in downtown Pickax, and the old, friendly, decrepit ambiance made the locals feel at home. A dog-eared card in the window announced the day’s special. Tuesday was always hot turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy, but it was real turkey sliced from the bird; the bread was baked in Lois’s kitchen by a white-haired woman who started at five A.M. every day; and the mashed potatoes had the flavor of real potatoes grown in the mineral-rich soil of Moose County.

Qwilleran and Hixie ordered the special, and she said, “I hear that you’re not living in your barn this winter.” He had recently converted a hundred-year-old apple barn into a spectacular residence.

“There’s too much snow to plow,” he explained, “so I’m renting the Gage mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard, where the city does the plowing.” He neglected to mention that Polly Duncan, the chief woman in his life, lived in the carriage house at the rear of the Gage property, and he envisioned cozy winter evenings and frequent invitations to dinner and\/or breakfast.

“All right. Let’s get down to business,” Hixie said when the plates arrived, swimming in real turkey gravy. “How did you find out about the killer fire? Or is it a professional secret?”

Qwilleran patted his moustache in self-congratulation. “‘To make a long story short, one of Junior’s ancestors was an amateur historian. He recorded spring floods, sawmill accidents, log jams, epidemics, and so on, based on the recollections of his elders. In his journals, written in fine script with a nib pen that blotted occasionally, there were firsthand descriptions of the

1869 forest fire in all its gruesome detail. The man was performing a valuable service for posterity, but no one knew his ac- counts existed… So what’s your brilliant idea, Hixie?” Qwilleran concluded.

“What would you think of doing a one-man show?”

“Isn’t a one-man show based on a three-county forest fire a trifle out of scale?”

“Mais non! Suppose we pretend they had radio stations in the nineteenth century, and the audience sees an announcer broadcasting on-the-spot coverage of the disaster.”

Qwilleran gazed at her with new respect. “Not bad! Yes! Not bad! I’d go for that! I’d be glad to organize the material and write the script. If Larry Lanspeak would play the announcer – “

“No! If we’re going to sponsor the show, we should keep it in our own organization,” she contended.

“Actually, Qwill, I was thinking about you for the part. You have an excellent voice, with exactly the right quality for a radio announcer… Stop frowning! You wouldn’t have to learn lines. You’d be reading a script in front of a simulated mike.” She was talking fast. “Besides, you’re a local celebrity. Everyone loves your column! You’d be a big attraction, sans doute.”

He huffed into his moustache. At least she had the good taste to avoid mentioning his local fame as a multi-millionaire, philanthropist, and eligible bachelor.

She went on with contagious enthusiasm. “I could take care of production details. I could do the bookings. I’d even sweep the stage!”

Qwilleran had done some acting in college and enjoyed working before an audience. The temptation was there; the cause was a good one; the story of the great fire cried for attention. He gave her a guarded glance as his objections began to crumble. “How long a program should it be?”

“I would say forty-five minutes. That would fit into a school class period or fill a slot following a club luncheon.”

After a few seconds’ contemplation he said grimly, “I may regret this, but I’ll do it.”

“Merveilleux!” Hixie cried.

Neither of them remembered eating their lunch. They discussed a stage setting, lighting, props, a sound system, and how to pack everything in a carrying case, to fit in the trunk of a car.

Hixie said, “Consider it strictly a road show. My budget will cover expenses, but we’ll need a name for the project to go into the computer. How about Suitcase Productions?”

“Sounds as if we manufacture luggage,” Qwilleran muttered, but he liked it.

Returning home from that luncheon with a foil-wrapped chunk of turkey scrounged from Lois’s kitchen, Qwilleran was greeted by two Siamese who could smell turkey through an oak door two inches thick. They yowled and pranced elegantly on long brown legs, and their blue eyes stared hypnotically at the foil package until its contents landed on their plate under the kitchen table.

With bemused admiration Qwilleran watched them devour their treat. Koko, whose legal title was Kao K’o Kung, had the dignity of his thirteenth-century namesake, plus a degree of intelligence and perception that was sometimes unnerving to a human with only five senses and a journalism degree. Yum Yum, the dainty one, had a different set of talents and qualities. She was a lovable bundle of female wiles, which she employed shamelessly to get her own way. When all else failed, she had only to reach up and touch Qwilleran’s moustache with her paw, and he capitulated.

When the Siamese had finished their snack and had washed their whiskers and ears, he told them, “I have a lot of work to do in the next couple of weeks, my friends, and I’ll have to shut you out of the library. Don’t think it’s anything personal.” He always addressed them as if they understood human speech, and more and more it appeared to be a fact. In the days that followed, they sensed his preoccupation, leaving him alone, taking long naps, grooming each other interminably, and watching the autumn leaves flutter to the ground. The grand old oaks and maples of Goodwinter Boulevard were covering the ground with a tawny blanket. Only when Qwilleran was an hour late with their dinner did the cats interrupt, standing outside the library, rattling the door handle and scolding – Koko with an authoritative baritone “Yow!” and Yum Yum with her impatient “N-n-now!”

Qwilleran could write a thousand words for his newspaper column with one hand tied behind his back, but writing a script for a docu-drama was a new challenge. To relieve the radio announcer’s forty-five-minute monologue, he introduced other voices on tape: eye witnesses being interviewed by telephone. He altered his voice to approximate the bureaucratese of a government weather observer, the brogue of an Irish innkeeper, and the twang of an old farmer. With their replies sandwiched between the announcer’s questions, Qwilleran was actually interviewing himself.

Once the script was completed, there were nightly rehearsals in the ballroom of the Gage mansion, with Hixie cueing the taped voices into the live announcing. It required split-second timing to sound authentic. Meanwhile, Polly Duncan returned home each evening to her apartment in the carriage house at the rear of the property and saw Hixie’s car parked in the side drive. It was a trying time for Polly. As library administrator she was a woman of admirable intelligence and self-control, but – where Qwilleran was concerned – she was inclined to be jealous of women younger and thinner than she.

One evening Arch Riker attended a rehearsal and was so impressed that he proposed a private preview for prominent citizens. Invitations were immediately mailed to local officials, educators, business leaders, and officers of important organizations with replies requested. To Riker’s dismay, few responded; he called an executive meeting to analyze the situation.

“I think,” Hixie ventured, “they’re all waiting to find out what’s on TV Monday night.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” said Junior Goodwinter, who was a native and entitled to know. “It’s like this: The stuffed shirts in this backwater county never reply to an invitation till they know who else is going to be there. You’ve got to drop a few names.”

“Or let them know you’re spiking the punch,” Qwilleran suggested.

“We should have specified a champagne afterglow,” Hixie said.

Junior shook his head. “Champagne is not the drink of choice up here. ‘Free booze’ would have more impact.”

“Well, you should know,” said Riker. “The rest of us are innocents from Down Below.”

“Let me write a piece and splash it on the front page,” the young editor said. “I’ll twist a few political arms. They’re all up for re-election next month.”

Accordingly, Friday’s edition of the paper carried this news item:

MOOSE COUNTY DESTROYED BY FIRE… IN 1869

History will come to life Monday evening when civic leaders will preview a live docu-drama titled “The Big Burning of 1869.” Following the private premiere at the Gage mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard, the Moose County Something will offer the show to schools, churches, and clubs as a public service.

There followed the magic name of Jim Qwilleran, who was not only popular as a columnist but rich as Croesus. In addition, the mayor, council president, and county commissioners were quoted as saying they would attend the history-making event. As soon as the paper hit the street the telephones in Junior’s office started jangling with acceptances from persons who now perceived themselves as civic leaders. Furthermore, “live” was a buzz word in a community jaded with slide shows and video presentations. Hixie went into action, borrowing folding chairs from the Dingleberry Funeral Home, renting coatracks for guests’ wraps, and hiring a caterer.

On the gala evening the Gage mansion – with all windows alight – glowed like a lantern among the gloomy stone castles on the boulevard. Flashbulbs popped as the civic leaders approached the front steps. The publisher of the newspaper greeted them; the managing editor checked their wraps; the political columnist handed out programs; the sports editor directed them to the marble staircase leading to the ballroom on the lower level. The reporters who were providing valet parking carried one elderly man in a wheelchair up the front steps and wheeled him to the elevator, which was one of the mansion’s special amenities.

Meanwhile, Qwilleran was sweating out his opening-night jitters backstage in the ballroom – a large, turn-of-the-century hall with Art Deco murals and light fixtures. More than a hundred chairs faced the band platform, where musicians had once played for the waltz and the turkey trot. The stage set was minimal: a plain wood table and chair for the announcer with an old-fashioned upright telephone and a replica of an early microphone. Off to one side was a table for the “studio engineer.” Cables snaked across the platform, connecting the speakers and lighting tripods to the control board.

“Do they look messy?” Qwilleran asked Hixie.

“No, they look high tech,” she decided.

“Good! Then let’s throw a few more around.” He uncoiled a long yellow extension cord that was not being used and added it to the tangle.

“Perfect!” Hixie said. “It gives the set a certain je ne sais quoi.”

A sweatered audience filed into the ballroom and filled the chairs. Pickax was a sweater city in winter – for all occasions except weddings and funerals. The house lights dimmed, and the lilting notes of “Anitra’s Dance” filled the hall until the announcer rushed on-stage from a door at the rear and spoke the first ominous words: “We interrupt this program to bring you a bulletin…”

Forty-five minutes later he delivered the final message: “No one will ever forget what happened here on October 17, 1869.” It was an ironic punch line, considering that few persons in the county had ever heard of the Big Burning.

Climactic music burst from the speakers; the audience applauded wildly; and the mayor of Pickax jumped to his feet, saying, “We owe a debt of gratitude to these talented folks from Down Below who have made us see and hear and feel this forgotten chapter in our history.”

The presenters bowed: Hixie with her buoyant smile and Qwilleran with his usual morose expression. Then, as the ballroom emptied, they packed the props and mechanical equipment into carrying cases.

“We did it!” Hixie exulted. “We’ve got a smash hit!”

“Yes, it went pretty well,” Qwilleran agreed modestly. “Your timing was perfect, Hixie. Congratulations!”

A small boy in large eyeglasses and a red sweater, who had been in the audience with his father, stayed behind to watch the striking of the set. “What’s that yellow wire for?” he asked.

Qwilleran replied with overblown pomposity, “That, young man, happens to be the major power conduit used by our engineer for operating our computerized sound and light system.”

“Oh,” the boy said. Then, after a moment’s puzzled contemplation, he asked, “Why wasn’t it connected?”

“Why don’t you go upstairs and have some cookies?” Qwilleran countered. To Hixie he muttered, “Kids! Always asking questions! Not only that, but they’re notorious carriers of the common cold. If we’re taking this show on the road, I can’t afford to be laid up.”

“I predict we’ll be swamped with bookings,” she said.

“Undoubtedly. Moose County can’t resist anything that’s free.”

“Should we extend our territory to Lockmaster County?”

“Only if they pay for it… Now let’s go upstairs and get some of that free grub.” After the excitement of a first night and after forty-five minutes of intense concentration on his role, Qwilleran felt empty and parched.

On the main floor the guests were milling about the large, empty rooms, admiring the coffered paneling of the high ceiling and the lavishly carved fireplaces. They carried plates of hors d’oeuvres and glass cups of amber punch. The Siamese were milling about, too, dodging feet and hunting for dropped crumbs. Koko sniffed certain trousered legs and nylon-clad ankles; Yum Yum eluded the clutches of a young boy in a red sweater.

Qwilleran pushed through the crowd to the dining room, where a caterer’s long table was draped in a white cloth and laden with warming trays of stuffed mushrooms, bacon-wrapped olives, cheese puffs, and other morsels too dainty for a hungry actor. There were two punch bowls, and he headed for the end of the table where Mildred Hanstable was ladling amber punch into glass cups.

“Cider?” he asked.

“No, this is Fish House punch made with two kinds of rum and two kinds of brandy,” she warned him. “I think you’ll want the other punch, Qwill. It’s cranberry juice and Chinese tea with lemon grass.”

“Sounds delicious,” he grumbled. “How come no one is drinking it?”

Polly Duncan, looking radiant in a pink mohair sweater, was presiding over the unpopular bowl of pink punch. “Qwill, dear, you were splendid!” she said in her mellow voice that always gave him a frisson of pleasure. “Now I know why you were so totally preoccupied for the last two weeks. It was time well invested.”

“Sorry to be so asocial,” he apologized, “but we’ll make up for it. We’ll do something special this weekend, like bird watching.” This was a gesture of abject penitence on his part. He loathed birding.

“It’s too late,” she said. “They’ve gone south, and snow is predicted. But I’m going to do roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and I have a new Brahms cassette.”

“Say no more. I’m available for the entire weekend.”

They were interrupted by a cracked, high-pitched voice. “Excellent job, my boy!” Homer Tibbitt, official historian for the county, was in his nineties but still active in spite of loudly creaking joints. He was pushing a wheelchair occupied by Adam Dingleberry, the ancient and indestructible patriarch of the mortuary that had lent the folding chairs.

Homer said to Qwilleran, “Just want to congratulate you before going home to my lovely young bride. Adam’s great-grandson is on the way over to pick us up.”

“Yep, he’s bringin’ the hearse,” said old Dingleberry with a wicked laugh.

Homer delivered a feeble poke to Qwilleran’s ribs. “You son-of-a-grasshopper! I’ve been scrabbling for information on that blasted fire for thirty years! Where’d you find it?”

“In some files that belonged to Euphonia Gage’s father-in-law,” Qwilleran replied. He neglected to say that Koko pried his way into a certain closet and dragged forth a scrap of yellowed manuscript. It was a clue to a cache of hundred-year-old documents.

A valet was paging them. “Car for Mr. Dingleberry! Mr. Tibbitt!”

As the elderly pair headed for the carriage entrance, Qwilleran was approached by a cordial man in a black cashmere sweater. “Good show, Mr. Q!” he said in a smooth, professional voice.

“Thank you.”

“I’m Pender Wilmot, your next-door neighbor and Mrs. Gage’s attorney.”

“Too bad she couldn’t be here tonight,” Qwilleran said.

“I daresay this old house hasn’t witnessed an event of this magnitude since Harding won the presidential election. How do you like living on the boulevard?”

“I find it somewhat depressing. There are seven for-sale signs at my last count.”

“And I’d gladly make it eight,” the attorney said, “but our property has been in the family for four generations, and Mrs. Wilmot is sentimental about it, although she might be swayed by a juicy offer.”

“There’ll be no juicy offers until the boulevard is re-zoned.”

“It is my considered opinion,” Wilmot said, “that the city will approve re-zoning in the year 2030… Mr. Q, this is my son, Timmie.” The boy in the red sweater, having failed to catch the slippery Yum Yum, was now clutching his parent’s hand.

“And how did you like the show, young man?” Qwilleran asked him.

Timmie frowned. “All those houses burned down, and all those people burned up. Why didn’t the firemen get a ladder and save them?”

“Come on, son,” his father said. “We’ll go home and discuss it.”

They walked toward the front door just as Hixie dashed up, followed by the owner of the Black Bear Caf\u201a. Gary Pratt’s muscular hulk and lumbering gait and shaggy black hairiness explained the name of his restaurant. Excitedly Hixie announced, “Gary wants us to do the show at the Black Bear.”

“Yeah,” said the barkeeper, “the Outdoor Club meets once a month for burgers and beer and a program. They have a conservation guy or a video on the environment. They’ve never had a live show.”

“How many members?” Qwilleran asked.

“Usually about forty turn out, but it’ll be double that if they know you’re coming.”

“Okay with me. Go ahead and book it, Hixie.” Qwilleran moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations.

Susan Exbridge, the antique dealer, gave him her usual effusive hug. “Darling! You were glorious! You should be on the stage!… And this house! Isn’t it magnificent? Euphonia gave me a tour before she sold the furnishings. Look at the carving on that staircase! Look at the parquet floors! Have you ever seen chandeliers like these? If you’d like a live-in housekeeper, Qwill, I’ll work cheap!”

Next the Comptons paid their compliments. “You were terrific, Qwill,” said Lisa, a cheerful, middle-aged woman in a Halloween sweater. “Everything was so professional!”

“It’s my engineer’s split-second timing that gives the show its snap,” Qwilleran said.

“You guys ought to do the show for grades four to twelve,” said Lyle Compton, superintendent of schools. “It would be a great way to hook the kids on history.”

Qwilleran winced, having visions of a schoolful of carriers circulating respiratory diseases.

“Believe it or not,” Lisa said, “I used to come to this house to take ‘natural dance’ lessons from Euphonia. She had us flitting around the ballroom like Isadora Duncan. It was supposed to give us grace and poise, but we all thought it was boring. I really wanted to take tap.”

Her husband said, “You should have stuck with Euphonia. She’s in her late eighties and still has the spine of a drum major, which is more than I can say for any of us.”

“I met her only once,” Qwilleran said. “I came here to interview her for an oral history project and found this tiny woman sitting on the floor in the lotus position, wearing purple tights. She had white hair tied back with a purple ribbon, I recall.”

Lisa nodded. “She used to tell us that purple is a source of energy. Junior says she still wears a lot of it and stands on her head every day.”

“When she lived in Pickax,” said Lyle, “she drove a Mercedes at twenty miles an hour and blew the horn at every intersection. The police were always ticketing her for obstructing traffic. All the Gages have been a little batty, although Junior seems to have his head on straight.”

As Junior Goodwinter joined them, Lisa changed the subject. “Have you ever seen an autumn with so many leaves on the ground?”

“According to hizzoner the mayor,” said Junior, “Lockmaster County is shipping truckloads of leaves up here every night under cover of darkness and dumping them on Pickax.”

“I’ll buy that,” Lyle said. “We should send them some of our toxic waste.”

They discussed the forthcoming football game between Pickax High and their Lockmaster rivals, and then the Comptons said goodnight.

Junior gazed ruefully at the empty rooms, faded wallcoverings, and discolored rectangles where large paintings had once hung. “Grandma had some great stuff! Susan Exbridge can tell you how valuable it was. Everything was sold out of state. Sorry there’s no TV, Qwill. Why don’t you bring one over from your barn before snow flies?”

“I can skip TV. It amuses the cats, but they can live without it. Would your grandmother have liked our show tonight?”

“I doubt it. She never likes anything that isn’t her own idea.”

“She sounds a lot like Koko. Is it true she used to give dancing lessons?”

“Way back, maybe forty years ago,” Junior said. “Before leaving for Florida she asked me to videotape one of her dances. Yikes! It was embarrassing, Qwill – this woman in her eighties, in filmy draperies, cavorting around the ballroom like a woodland nymph. She was limber enough, and still kind of graceful, but I felt like a voyeur.”

“What happened to the video?”

“She took it to Florida. Do you think she plays it on a VCR and dreams old dreams?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Qwilleran said. “When I’m her age I’d like to watch myself sliding into first base.”

“I saw you talking to Pender Wilmot. How did he like the show?”

“He was quite enthusiastic. By the way, Junior, I’m surprised your grandmother doesn’t take her legal work to Hasselrich Bennett & Barter.”

“They’re too stuffy for her taste. She likes younger people. She feels young herself. It’s my guess that she’ll outlive us all… Well, it looks like everyone’s leaving. Sure was a success! I can’t believe, Qwill, that you did all those voices yourself!”

Only a few members of the hungry and thirsty press remained to drain the two punch bowls. They mixed the contents of both and declared it tasted like varnish, but good!

Qwilleran said to Hixie, “Did you see the guy in a suit and tie? He was with a blonde – the only ones not in sweaters.”

“That was a wig she was wearing,” Hixie informed him. “Who were they?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you.”

“I say they were spies from the Lockmaster Ledger;” she said. “They steal all our good ideas. Do you suppose she had a tape recorder under that big wig? I’m glad we copyrighted the script; we can sue.”

Arch Riker and Mildred Hanstable were almost the last to leave. The publisher was beaming. “Great job, you two kids! Best PR stunt we could spring on this kind of community!”

“Thanks, boss,” said Qwilleran. “I’ll expect a raise.”

“You’ll be fired if you don’t start writing your column again. The readers are screaming for your pellucid prose on page two. Consider your vacation over as of tomorrow.”

“Vacation! I’ve been working like a dog on this show! And I haven’t seen anything that looks like a bonus!”

This sparring between the two old friends was a perpetual game, since the Moose County Something was backed financially by the Klingenschoen Foundation, established by Qwilleran to dispose of his unwanted millions.

Riker drove Mildred home, and Qwilleran told Polly he would escort her to her carriage house in the rear. “I’ll be right back,” he told the Siamese, who were loitering nearby and beaming questioning looks in his direction.

“I’ve missed you, dear,” Polly said as they walked briskly hand in hand through the chill October evening. “I thought I had lost my Most Favored Woman status. Bootsie missed you, too.”

“Sure,” Qwilleran replied testily. He and Polly’s macho Siamese had been engaged in a cold war ever since Bootsie was a kitten.

“Would you like to come upstairs for some real food and a cup of coffee?”

Qwilleran said he wouldn’t mind going up for a few minutes. When he came down two hours later, he walked slowly despite the falling temperature, reflecting that he was happier than he had ever been in his entire life-not that the pursuit of happiness had concerned him in his earlier years. What mattered then was the excitement of covering breaking news, working all night to meet a deadline, moving from city to city for new challenges, hanging out at press clubs, and not caring about money. Now he was experiencing something totally different: the contentment of living in a small town, writing for a small newspaper, loving an intelligent woman of his own age, living with two companionable cats. And, to cap it all, he was on the stage again! Not since college days, when he played Tom in “The Glass Menagerie,” had he known the satisfaction of creating a character and bringing that character to life for an audience.

At the side door of the mansion he was greeted by the scolding yowls and switching tails of two indignant Siamese, whose evening repast was late.

“My apologies,” he said as he gave them a crunchy snack. “The pressure is off now, and we’ll get back to normal. You’ve been very understanding and cooperative. How would you like a read after I’ve turned out the lights? The electric bill is going to be astronomical.”

Despite his affluence, Qwilleran was frugal about utilities. Now he went from room to room through the great house, flipping off switches. The Siamese accompanied him, pursuing their own special interests. In one of the large front bedrooms upstairs he noticed a closet door ajar and a horizontal brown tail disappearing within. Minutes later, Koko caught up with him and dropped something at his feet.

“Thank you,” Qwilleran said courteously as he picked up a purple ribbon bow and dropped it in his sweater pocket. To himself he said, If Euphonia’s theory is true, Koko sensed a source of energy. Cats, he had been told, are attracted to sources of energy.

The three of them gathered in the library for their read, a ritual the Siamese always enjoyed. Whether it was the sound of a human voice, or the warmth of a human lap and a table lamp, or the simple idea of propinquity, a read was one of their catly pleasures that ranked with grooming their fur and chasing each other. As for Qwilleran, he enjoyed the company of living creatures and – to be perfectly honest – the sound of his own voice.

“Would anyone care to choose a title?” he asked. In the library there were a few hundred books that Mrs. Gage had been unable to sell, plus a dozen classics that Qwilleran had brought from the barn along with his typewriter and computerized coffeemaker. Koko sniffed the bindings until his twitching nose settled on Robinson Crusoe from Qwilleran’s own collection.

“Good choice,” Qwilleran commented as he sank into a leather lounge chair worn to the contours of a hammock. Yum Yum leaped lightly into his lap, settling down slowly with a sigh, like a motor vehicle with hydraulic suspension, while Koko arranged himself on a nearby table under the glow of a 75-watt lamp bulb.

They were halfway through the opening paragraph when the telephone on the desk rang. “Excuse me,” Qwilleran said, lifting Yum Yum gently and placing her on the seat he had vacated. He anticipated another compliment on “The Big Burning” and responded with a gracious “Good evening.”

Arch Riker’s voice barked with urgency. “Hate to bother you, Qwill, but I’ve just had a call from Junior. He’s flying to Florida first thing in the morning. His grandmother was found dead in bed.”

“Hmmm… curious!” Qwilleran murmured.

“What do you mean?”

“A few minutes ago Koko brought me one of her hair ribbons.”

“Yeah, well… that cat is tuned in to everything. But why I’m calling – “

“And everyone at the party tonight,” Qwilleran went on, “was mentioning how healthy she was.”

“That’s the sad part,” Riker said. “The police told Junior it was suicide.”

-3-

THE NEWS OF Euphonia Gage’s suicide was surprising, if not incredible. “What was her motive?” Qwilleran asked Arch Riker.

“We don’t know yet. We’ll run a died-suddenly on the front page of tomorrow’s paper and give it the full treatment Wednesday. Junior is drafting an obit on the plane and will fax it when he arrives down there and gets a few more details. Meanwhile, will you see if you can dig out some photos? Her early life, studio portraits – anything will be useful. She was the last of the Gages. Junior says she left some photo albums in the house, but he doesn’t know exactly where.”

As Qwilleran listened to the publisher’s directive, he felt a fumbling in his pocket and reached down to grab a paw. “No!” he scolded. “What’d you say?”

“Nothing. Yum Yum was picking my pocket.”

“Well, see what you can find for Wednesday. Usual deadline. Sorry to bother you tonight.”

“No bother. I’ll give you a ring in the morning.”

Before resuming the reading of Robinson Crusoe, Qwilleran added the purple ribbon bow to what he called the Kao K’o Kung Collection in a desk drawer. It consisted of oddments retrieved by one or more cats from the gaping closets of the Gage mansion: champagne cork, matchbook, pocket comb, small sponge, pencil stub, rubber eraser, and the like. Yum Yum left her contributions scattered about the house; Koko organized his under the kitchen table, alongside their water dish and feeding station.

As the day ended, Qwilleran felt a welcome surge of relief and satisfaction; “The Big Burning” had been successfully launched and enthusiastically received. He slept soundly that night and would not have heard the early-morning summons from the library telephone if eight bony legs had not landed simultaneously on tender parts of his supine body.

Hixie Rice was on the line, as bright and breezy as ever. “Pardonnez-moi! Did I get you out of bed?” she asked when Qwilleran answered gruffly. “You sound as if you haven’t had your coffee yet. Well, this will wake you up! We have two bookings for our show, if the dates are okay with you. The first is Thursday afternoon at Mooseland High School. That’s a consolidated school serving the agricultural townships.”

“I’m not keen about doing the show for kids,” he objected.

“They’re not kids. They’re young adults, and they’ll love it!”

“Of course. They love anything that gets them out of class, including chest X-rays,” he said with precoffee cynicism. “What kind of facility do they have?”

“We’ll be doing the show in the gym, with the audience seated in the bleachers. The custodian is constructing a platform for us.”

“What’s the second booking?”

“Monday night at the Black Bear Caf\u201a. It’s the annual family night for the Outdoor Club, and they were going to have a Laurel and Hardy film, but Gary urged them to book ‘The Big Burning’ instead.”

“Maybe we can play it for laughs,” Qwilleran muttered.

“At the high school we’re scheduled for the sixth period, and we should get there at one o’clock. I’ll be out in the territory, so I’ll meet you there. It’s on Sandpit Road, you know… And would you be a doll, Qwill, and glue my cuesheet on a card, s’il vous plait? It’ll be sturdier and easier to handle… See you Thursday afternoon. Don’t forget to bring the complex computerized sound and light system,” she concluded with a flippant laugh.

A grunt was his only reply to that remark. As he hung up the receiver he felt certain misgivings. Performing for a hand-picked audience of civic leaders had been a pleasure, but a gymful of noisy, hyperkinetic “young adults” from the potato farms and sheep ranches was a different ballgame. He pressed the button on his coffeemaker and was comforted somewhat by the sound of grinding beans and gurgling brew.

Meanwhile, he fed the cats, and whether it was the soothing sight of feline feeding or the caffeine jolt of his first cup, something restored his positive attitude, and he tackled Riker’s assignment with actual relish.

It was not as easy as either of them supposed. There were no photos of Euphonia Gage in the desk drawers. The closet in the library was locked. In the upstairs bedroom where Koko had found the purple ribbon, the closets were stuffed with outdated clothing, but no photographs. Returning to the library he surveyed the shelves of somber books collected by several generations of Gages: obsolete encyclopedias, anthologies of theological essays, forgotten classics, and biographies of persons now unknown. Sitting in the worn leather desk chair, he swiveled idly, pondering this mausoleum of the printed word.

It was then that he glimpsed a few inches of brown tail disappearing behind a row of books at eye level. Koko often retired to a bookshelf to escape Yum Yum’s playful overtures. He failed to appreciate aggressive females, preferring to do the chasing himself. So now he was safely installed in the narrow space behind some volumes on nutrition, correct breathing, vegetarian diet, medicinal herbs, Hindu philosophy, and similar subjects of interest to the late Mrs. Gage.

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache, suspecting why Koko preferred these books to the Civil War histories on the same shelf. Could it corroborate the theory about cats and energy? Could Euphonia’s innate verve have rubbed off on these particular bindings? In earlier years he would have scoffed at such a notion, but that was before he knew Koko. Now Qwilleran would believe anything!

Out of curiosity he opened the book on herbs and found remedies for acne, allergies, asthma, and athlete’s foot. Hopefully he looked under F but found nothing on football knee, which was his own Achilles’ heel. He did find, however, an envelope addressed to Junior and mailed from Florida, casually stuck between a new book on cholesterol and an old book on mind power. He opened it and read:

Dear Junior, Ship all my health books right away. I teach a class in breathing twice a week. These old people could solve half their problems if they knew how to breathe. Also send my photo albums. I think they’re on the shelf with the Britannica. I’ll pay the postage. Thank you for sending the clippings of Mr. Q’s column. I like his style. No one down here has the slightest knowledge of how to write. Perhaps you should start a subscription to the paper for me. Send me the bill.

Grandma

The letter, dated two weeks previously, hardly sounded like a potential suicide, and Qwilleran wondered, Had something drastic happened to change her lifestyle or her outlook? It could be sudden illness, sudden grief, personal catastrophe…

Two photo albums were exactly where she had said they would be, and he turned the pages to find the highlights of her life, all captioned and dated as if she expected some future biographer to publish her life. He found a tiny Euphonia in a christening dress two yards long, propped up on cushions; a young girl dancing on the grass in front of peony bushes; a horsewoman in full habit, with the straightest of spines; and a bride in a high-necked wedding dress with an armful of white roses. In none of the photos was there a glimpse of her bridegroom, daughter, parents, or grandchildren – only

an unidentified horse.

Qwilleran narrowed the collection down to ten suitable pictures and telephoned Riker at the office. “Got ’em!” he announced. “How about lunch?”

At noon he walked downtown and tossed the photos on the publisher’s desk. Riker shuffled through the pack, nodded without comment, and said, “Where shall we eat?”

“First I want to use your gluepot,” Qwilleran said. “Do you have a five-by-seven index card?”

“No. What for?”

“Never mind. Just give me a file folder, and I’ll cut it down. I want to paste Hixie’s cuesheet on a card for durability.”

“Apparently you’re expecting a long run,” the publisher said with satisfaction.

“Yes, and I’m charging the paper for mileage.” They drove in Riker’s car to the Old Stone Mill on the outskirts of town, the best restaurant in the vicinity.

“Have you heard from Junior?” Qwilleran asked.

“Give him a break! His plane left only an hour ago.”

They were passing the impressive entrance to Goodwinter Boulevard. “How do you and the cats enjoy rattling around in that big house?”

“We’re adaptable. Actually, I live in three rooms. I sleep in the housekeeper’s old bedroom on the main floor. I make coffee and feed the cats in a huge antiquated kitchen. And I hang out in the library, which still has some furniture – not good, but not too bad.”

“Is that where you found the dope on the forest fire?”

“No, it was in an upstairs closet. The house is honeycombed with closets, all filled with junk.”

“That’s the insidious thing about ample storage space,” Riker said. “It sounds good, but it turns rational individuals into pack rats. I’m one of them.”

“But Koko is having a field day. Old doors in old houses don’t latch properly, so he can open a closet door and walk in.”

Riker – who had once had a house and wife and children and cats of his own – nodded sagely. “Cats can’t stand the sight of a closed door. If they’re in, they have to get out; if they’re out, they want in.”

“The Rum Tum Tugger syndrome,” Qwilleran said with equal sagacity.

In the restaurant parking lot they crossed paths with Scott Gippel, the car dealer. “I heard on the radio that old Mrs. Gage died down south. Died suddenly, they said. Is that true? Suicide?”

“That’s what the police told Junior,” Riker said.

“Too bad. She was a peppy old gal. I took her Mercedes in trade on a bright yellow sports car. She had me drop-ship it to Florida.”

When they entered the restaurant, the hostess said, “Isn’t that sad about Mrs. Gage? She had so much style! Always came in here wearing a hat and scarf. The barman kept a bottle of Dubonnet just for her… Your usual table, Mr. Q?”

The special for the day was a French dip sandwich with skins-on fries and a cup of cream of mushroom soup. Riker ordered a salad.

“What’s the matter?” Qwilleran inquired. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

“Just trying to lose a few pounds before the holidays. Do you have plans for Christmas Eve?”

“That’s two months away! I’ll be lucky if I survive Thursday afternoon at Mooseland High.”

“How would you like to be best man at a Christmas Eve wedding?”

Qwilleran stopped nibbling breadsticks. “You and Mildred? Congratulations, old stiff! You two will be happy together.”

“Why don’t you and Polly take the plunge at the same time? Share the expenses. That should appeal to your thrifty nature.”

“The chance to save a few bucks is tempting, Arch, but Polly and I prefer singlehood. Besides, our respective cats would be incompatible… Have you broken the news to your kids?”

“Yeah, and right away they wanted to know how old she is. You know what they were thinking, that she’ll outlive me and collect their inheritance.”

“Nice offspring you begot,” Qwilleran commented, half in sympathy and half in vindication. For years Riker had chided him for being childless. “Are they coming for the wedding?”

“If the airport stays open, but I doubt it. Fifty inches of snow are predicted before Christmas.”

The two men talked about the forthcoming election (the incumbent mayor had a drinking problem) and the high cost of gasoline (when one lives 400 miles north of everywhere), and a good place for a honeymoon (not the New Pickax Hotel).

When coffee was served, Qwilleran brought up the subject that was bothering him. “You know, Arch, I can’t understand why Mrs. Gage would choose to end her life.”

“Old folks often pull up stakes and go to a sunny climate away from family and friends, and they discover the loneliness of old age. My father found it gets harder to make new friends as years go by. Mrs. Gage was eighty-eight, you know.”

“What’s eighty-eight in today’s world? People of that age are running in marathons and winning swimming meets! Science is pushing the lifespan up to a hundred and ten.”

“Not for me, please.”

“Anyway, when Junior phones, ask him to call me at home.”

The call from Junior came around six o’clock that evening. “Hey, Qwill, whaddaya think about all this? I can’t believe Grandma Gage is gone! I thought she’d live forever.”

“The idea of suicide is what puzzles me, Junior. Was that just a cop’s guess?”

“No, it’s official.”

“Was there a suicide note?”

“She didn’t leave any kind of explanation, but there was an empty bottle of sleeping pills by her bed, plus evidence that she’d been drinking. Her normal weight was under a hundred pounds, so it wouldn’t take much to put her down, the doctor said.”

“Did she drink? I thought she was a health nut.”

“She always had a glass of Dubonnet before dinner, claiming it was nutritious. But who knows what she did after she started running with that retirement crowd in Florida? If you don’t sow your wild oats when you’re young, my dad told me, you’ll do it when you’re old.”

“So what was the motive?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Who found the body?”

“A neighbor. Around Monday noon. She’d been dead about sixteen hours. This woman called to pick her up for lunch. They were going to the mall.”

“Have you talked with this neighbor?”

“Yes, she’s a nice older woman. A widow.”

“Yow!” said Koko, who was sitting on the desk and monitoring the call.

“Was that Koko?” Junior asked.

“Yes, he’s always trying to line me up with a widow who’ll make meatloaf like Mrs. Cobb’s… So, what happens now, Junior?”

“I’m appointed as personal rep, and Pender Wilmot has told me what to do. She’d sold her condo and was living in a mobile home in a retirement complex called the Park of Pink Sunsets.”

“Very Floridian,” Qwilleran remarked.

“It’s a top-of-the-line mobile home. She bought it furnished from the park management, and they’ll buy it back, so I don’t have that to worry about. I have to get some death certificates, round up her personal belongings, and ship the body to Pickax. She wanted to be buried in the Gage plot, Pender says.”

“When do you expect to be home?”

“Before snow flies, I hope. Sooner the better. I don’t care for this assignment.”

“Let me know if you want a lift from the airport.”

“My car’s in the long-term garage, but thanks anyway, Qwill.”

Qwilleran replaced the receiver slowly. No known motive! The news was a challenge to one who was tormented by unanswered questions and unsolved puzzles. He had known suicides motivated by guilt, depression, and fear of disgrace, but here was a healthy, spirited, active, well-to-do woman who simply decided to end it all.

“What happened?” he asked Koko, who was sitting on the desk, a self-appointed censor of incoming phone calls. The cat sat tall with his forelegs primly together and his tail curved flat on the desktop. At Qwilleran’s question he shifted his feet nervously and blinked his eyes. Then, abruptly, he jerked his head toward the library door. In a blur of fur he was off the desk and out in the hallway. Qwilleran, alarmed by the sudden exit, followed almost as fast. The excitement was in the kitchen, where Yum Yum was already sniffing the bottom of the back door.

Koko’s tail bushed, his ears swept back, his whiskers virtually disappeared, and a terrible growl came from the depths of his interior.

Qwilleran looked out the back window. It was dusk, but he could make out a large orange cat on the porch, crouched and swaying from side to side in a threatening way. The man banged on the door, yanked it open and yelled “Scat!” The intruder swooshed from the porch in a single streak and faded into the dusk. Yum Yum looked dreamily disappointed, and Koko bit her on the neck.

“Stop that!” Qwilleran commanded in a gruff voice that was totally ignored. Yum Yum appeared to be enjoying the abuse.

“Treat!” he shouted. It was the only guaranteed way to capture their immediate attention, and both cats scampered to the feeding station under the kitchen table, where they awaited their reward.

Returning to the library, Qwilleran phoned Lori Bamba,

his free-lance secretary in Mooseville, who not only

handled his correspondence but advised him on feline

problems. He described the recent scene.

“It’s a male,” Lori said. “He’s a threat to Koko’s territory. He’s interested in Yum Yum.”

“Both of mine are neutered,” he reminded her. “It makes no difference. The visitor probably sprayed your back door.”

“What! I won’t stand for that!” Qwilleran stormed into the phone. “Isn’t there some kind of protection against marauding animals, invading and vandalizing private property – an ordinance or whatever?”

“I don’t think so. Do you have any idea where he lives?”

“When I chased him, he headed for the attorney’s house next door. Well, thanks, Lori. Sorry to bother you. I’ll see my own attorney about this tomorrow.”

Blowing angrily into his moustache, Qwilleran strode through the main hall and glared out the front window, where autumn leaves smothered sidewalks, lawns, pavement, and the median. Then, smashing his fist in the palm of his hand, he returned to the library and phoned Osmond Hasselrich of Hasselrich Bennett & Barter. Only someone with the nerve of a veteran journalist would call the senior partner at home during the dinner hour, and only someone with Qwilleran’s bankroll could get away with it. The elderly lawyer listened courteously as Qwilleran made his request concisely and firmly. “I want an appointment for tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Hasselrich, and I want to consult you personally. It’s a matter of the utmost secrecy.”

-4-

WHILE WAITING FOR his Wednesday afternoon appointment with Mr. Hasselrich, Qwilleran tuned in the WPKX weather report several times, hoping for an update -hoping to hear that dire atmospheric developments in the Yukon Territory or Hudson Bay would close in on Moose County, depositing eighteen inches of snow and closing the schools. No such luck! The meteorologist, who called himself Wetherby Goode, had a hearty, jovial manner that could make floods and tornadoes sound like fun, and on this occasion he was actually singing:

“Blow, blow, blow the leaves\/ Gently in the street.\/ Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,\/ Fall is such a treat!… Yes, folks, the mayor – who is running for re-election – has promised leaf pickup before Halloween. The vacuum truck will be operating east of Main Street on Friday and west of Main Street on Saturday. So lock up your cats and small dogs, folks!”

By the time Qwilleran walked downtown to the office of Hasselrich Bennett & Barter, the whine of leaf blowers paralyzed the eardrums like a hundred-piece symphony orchestra playing only one chord.

At the law office he sipped coffee politely from Mr. Hasselrich’s heirloom porcelain cups, inquired politely about Mrs. H’s health, and listened politely to the elderly attorney’s discourse on the forthcoming snow – all this before getting down to business. When Qwilleran finally stated his case, Mr. Hasselrich reacted favorably. As chief counsel for the Klingenschoen Foundation, he had become accustomed to unusual proposals from the Klingenschoen heir, and although he seldom tried to dissuade Qwilleran, his fleshy eyelids frequently flickered and his sagging jowls quivered. Today the august head nodded without a flicker or a quiver.

“I believe it can be accomplished without arousing suspicion,” he said.

“With complete anonymity, of course,” Qwilleran specified.

“Of course. And with all deliberate haste.” Qwilleran walked home with a long stride. That evening, when he took Polly Duncan out to dinner, she asked casually, “What did you do today?”

“Walked downtown… Made a few phone calls… Ran through my script… Brushed the cats.” He avoided mentioning his meeting with Hasselrich.

They were dining at Tipsy’s, a log cabin restaurant in North Kennebeck, Polly with her glass of sherry and Qwilleran with his glass of Squunk water. “Guess what’s happening on Christmas Eve!” he said. “Arch and Mildred are tying the knot.”

“I’m so happy for them,” she said fervently, and Qwilleran detected a note of relief. He had always suspected that she considered Mildred a potential rival.

“Arch suggested we might make it a double wedding,” he said with a sly sideways glance.

“I hope you disabused him of that notion, dear.”

He gave their order: “Broiled whitefish for the lady, and I’ll have the king-size steak, medium rare.” Then he remarked, “Did you read the obituary in today’s paper?”

“Yes. I wonder where they found those interesting pictures.”

“Did you know Mrs. Gage very well?”

“I believe no one knew her very well,” said Polly. “She served on my library board for a few years, but she was rather aloof. The other members considered her a snob. At other times she could be quite gracious. She always wore hats with wide brims – never tilted, always perfectly level. Some women found that intimidating.”

Qwilleran said, “I detect a lingering floral perfume in one of the upstairs bedrooms at the house.”

“It’s violet. She always wore the same scent – to the extent that no one else in town would dare to wear it. I don’t want to sound petty. After all, she was good enough to rent the carriage house to me when I was desperate for a place to live.”

“That was no big deal,” Qwilleran said. “No doubt she wanted someone around to watch the main house while she was in Florida.”

“You’re always so cynical, Qwill.”

“Were you surprised that she’d take her own life?”

Polly considered the question at length before replying. “No. She was completely unpredictable. What was your impression when you interviewed her, Qwill?”

“She came on strong as a charming and witty little woman, full of vitality, but that may have been an act for the benefit of the press.”

“What happens now?”

“Junior is in Florida, winding up her affairs and trying to get home before snow flies.”

“I hope the weather is good for the trick-or-treaters. Are you all ready for Halloween?”

“Ready? What am I supposed to do?”

“Turn on your porch light and have plenty of treats to hand out. Something wholesome, like apples, would be the sensible thing to give, but they prefer candy or money. They used to be grateful for a few pennies, but now they expect quarters.”

“Quarters! Greedy brats! How many kids come around?”

“Only a few from the boulevard, but carloads come from other neighborhoods. You should prepare for at least a hundred.”

Qwilleran grunted his disapproval. “Well, they’ll get apples from me – and like it!” He was quiet when the steak was served; Tipsy’s specialized in an old-fashioned cut of meat that required chewing. Eventually he said, “We put the show on the road tomorrow. Mooseland High is our first booking, unless we’re fortunate enough to have an earthquake.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic, dear. Do they have a good auditorium?”

“They have a gym. They’re building a platform for us. Hixie made the arrangements. I’ve practiced packing the gear, and I can set up in nine minutes flat and strike the set in seven.”

The afternoon at Mooseland High School was better than he expected, in one way; in another, it was worse. In preparation for the show he packed the lights, telescoping tripods, cables, props, and sound equipment in three carrying cases and checked off everything on a list: script, mike, telephone, extension cords, double plugs, handkerchief for the announcer to mop his sweating brow, and so forth. In college theatre there had been a backstage crew to handle all such details; now he was functioning as stage manager, stagehand, and propman as well as featured actor. It was not easy, but he enjoyed a challenge. Everything on the checklist was accounted for, with one exception: Hixie’s cuecard. He unpacked the three cases, thinking it might have slipped in accidentally, but it was not there. He remembered gluing the cuesheet on a card in the newspaper office; could he have left it there? He phoned Riker.

“You took it when we went to lunch,” Riker said. “I saw it in your hand.”

“Go and see if it’s still in the car,” Qwilleran said urgently. “And hurry! We have a show in half an hour! I’ll hold.” While holding he appraised the calamitous situation. How could Hixie operate the sound system and lighting without her cuecard? There were six cues for music, eight for voices, five for lights – all numbered to correlate with digits on the stereo counter. With more experience she might be able to wing it, but this was only their second performance.

Riker’s search of the car was fruitless. Without even a thank you Qwilleran banged down the receiver and returned to the ballroom, where he paced the floor and looked wildly about the four walls.

The Siamese watched his frantic gyrations calmly, sitting on their briskets and wearing expressions of supreme innocence.

Their very pose was suspect. “Did you devils steal the card?” he shouted at them.

The thunder of his voice frightened them into flight.

Now he knew! It was the glue! He had used rubber cement, and Koko had a passion for adhesives.

In desperation Qwilleran figured it would take twenty minutes to drive to the school, nine minutes to set up; that left eleven minutes to find the cuecard in a fifteen-room house with fifty closets, all of which looked like dumpsters. Impossible!

Take it easy, he told himself; sit down and think; if I were a cat, where would I… ?

He dashed upstairs to the kitchen. It was their bailiwick, and the six-foot table was a private baldachin sheltering their dinner plate, water dish, and Koko’s closet treasures. Among them was the cuecard with two perforations in one corner.

Muttering words the Siamese had never heard, Qwilleran raced back downstairs and repacked the equipment while keeping one eye on his watch. He was cutting it close. He had to drive to the school, find the right entrance, unload the suitcases, carry them to the gym, set up the stage, test the speakers, focus the lights, change clothes, and get into character as a twentieth-century radio announcer in a nineteenth-century situation. Hixie would be waiting for him, worried sick and unable to do anything until he arrived with the equipment.

He exceeded the speed limit on Sandpit Road and parked at the front entrance where a yellow curb prohibited parking. As he was opening the trunk of the car, a short, stocky man in a baggy business suit came running from the building, followed by a big, burly student in a varsity jacket.

“Mr. Qwilleran! Mr. Qwilleran!” the man called out. “We thought you’d forgotten us! I’m Mr. Broadnax, the principal. This is Mervyn, our star linebacker. He’ll carry your suitcases. It’s a long walk to the gym.”

The three of them hustled into the building and walked rapidly down one long corridor after another, and all the while the principal was saying, “Will it take you long to set up? Mervyn will help. Just tell him what to do… The classes change in eight minutes. Everyone’s looking forward to this. Lyle Compton raved about it… Don’t give up! We’re almost there. The custodian built a special platform. Is there anything you need? Is there anything I can do?”

Qwilleran thought, Yes, shut up and let me figure out how to set up in eight minutes.

“Is Miss Rice going to be here today?” the principal asked.

“Is she going to be here? She’s half the show! Hasn’t she arrived? I can’t go on without her!” Qwilleran’s forehead started to perspire profusely. What could have happened to her? Why hadn’t she phoned? He’d give her ten minutes. Then he’d have to cancel. It would be embarrassing.

They finally arrived at the gym – Mr. Broadnax chattering and waving his arms, Mervyn lugging the three suitcases, Qwilleran mopping his brow. The custodian had constructed a platform – rough wood, three feet high, plywood surface supported by two-by-fours and reached by a short flight of wooden steps at the rear. On it were two small folding tables and two folding chairs.

“Now, is everything all right?” asked Mr. Broadnax. “Are the tables big enough? Would you like larger ones from the library? Mervyn will bring them in… Mervyn, go to the library – “

“No! No! These are fine,” Qwilleran said absently. He was worrying about other things.

“Shall we help you unpack? Where do you want the tripods? Do you need a mike? We have a good PA system… Mervyn, get Mr. – “

“No! No! I don’t need a mike.” He pointed to a door behind the stage. “Where does that lead? I need a door for entrances and exits.”

“That’s a tackroom for gym equipment. It’s locked, but I’ll get the key… Mervyn, go to the office and bring me the key to the tackroom. Hep!”

Mervyn plunged out of the gym like a linebacker blitzing a quarterback. Meanwhile, Qwilleran mounted the shaky steps to position the furniture and speakers. The floor of the stage, he discovered, bounced like a trampoline. Walking gingerly, he placed the speakers at the front corners of the stage, beamed the two spotlights on the announcer’s table, and situated the engineer’s table at one side so that Hixie – if she ever arrived – would have more stability underfoot. Where, he asked himself, could she possibly be? Glancing frequently at his watch, he tested the two speakers, tested the two lights (one white, one red), and tested his own voice.

Just as Mervyn returned with the key to the tackroom, a bell rang, and there was instant tumult in the hall.

“May we stall a few minutes?” Qwilleran asked the principal. “I don’t know what’s happened to my partner. I’m seriously concerned.”

The uproar in the hall grew louder, like the roar of a rampaging river when the dam has broken. The double doors burst open, and a flood of noisy students surged into the gym. The two men went into a huddle behind the stage.

“I can’t do the show alone. We’ll be obliged to cancel,” Qwilleran said.

“Could you just give the students a talk about the fire and answer questions?”

“It wouldn’t work.”

“Maybe a talk on journalism as a career choice.”

“I’m sorry, but we’ll have to cancel, Mr. Broadnax.” At that moment a side door was flung open, and a distraught Hixie rushed on the scene. “Qwill, you’ll never believe what happened!”

“I don’t want to know,” he snapped. “Everything’s been tested. Get up there and take over. Walk carefully. The floor bounces.” He ducked into the tackroom, leaving the door ajar in order to hear his cues.

The principal was saying, “These people from the newspaper have come out here to present an exciting show for you, and I want you to give them your complete and courteous attention. There will be no talking during the program and no moving around!”

Great! Qwilleran thought; they hate us already, and they’re going to be bored out of their skulls; I should have brought a guitar.

Mr. Broadnax went on. “The show is about a radio broadcast during a great forest fire in 1869, when your great-great-great-grandparents were alive. It’s all make-believe, because radio hadn’t been invented in those days. I want you to sit quietly and pretend you’re the studio audience.”

The students became miraculously quiet. A moment later they erupted in cheers and whistles as Hixie, a young and attractive woman, mounted the platform and went to the engineer’s station.

“Students!” came the sharp voice of the principal, and they were silenced as if by some secret weapon.

After a few bars of “Anitra’s Dance,” Qwilleran emerged from the tackroom, climbed the shaky steps, and walked across the stage with knees bent to minimize the bounce. “We interrupt this program to bring you a bulletin…”

Perhaps it was the size and magnificence of his moustache or the knowledge that this was the richest man in the northeast central United States. Or perhaps Qwilleran did indeed have a compelling stage presence. Whatever it was, the young people in the bleachers were spellbound, and they were entranced by the other voices coming from the speakers, especially that of the old farmer. Fleeing the flames in a horse-drawn wagon, he had brought his family to safety in a lakeport town, where he was being interviewed by telephone.

“Tell me, sir,” said the announcer, “is the fire consuming everything in its path?”

“No,” said a parched and reedy voice, “it’s like the fire was playin’ leapfrog, jumpin’ right over one farm and burnin’ the next one down to the ground. I don’t know what the Lord is tryin’ to tell us! We picked up one ol’ feller wanderin’ around, blind as a bat. Didn’t even know where he was! His clothes, they was all burned off. He was stark naked and black as a piece o’ coal. We sure had a wagonload when we come into town. We was lucky. They was all alive. Some wagons came into town full o’ corpses.”

There were gasps and whimpers in the audience as flames were reported to be sweeping across the countryside and consuming whole villages. Suddenly red

light filled the stage, and the announcer jumped to his feet.

“Pickax is in flames!” he yelled. Knocking over his chair, he ran gasping and choking from the stage. In his panic he bounced the plywood floor, and both speakers fell over, facedown, while one leg of the folding table collapsed, sliding the telephone and mike to the floor.

“Oh, God!” Qwilleran muttered as he dashed into the tackroom and slammed the door. How would Hixie set up the stage again? Would the audience consider it slapstick comedy? There was an excited uproar in the bleachers, rising above the crashing Tchaikovsky fire music. By opening the door an inch, Qwilleran thought, he could get an idea how Hixie was coping, but the door refused to open. He was locked in!

“Oh, no!” He pounded on the panels with both fists, but the crescendo of the music and the student pandemonium drowned out his appeal for help: His face was already flushed by the emotion of the scene, and now he could hardly breathe in the airless, sweaty closet. He found a dumbbell and hammered on the door; no one heard. Soon the music would signal him to make his entrance, and if he failed to respond on cue, the tape would run out of music, and the disembodied voice of the Irish innkeeper would come from nowhere, answering questions that were not being asked – unless Hixie had the sense to stop the tape. But how would she know he was locked in?

The music ended, and Hixie realized something was wrong; she pressed the button. The hubbub in the audience subsided. In the momentary silence, Qwilleran pounded on the door frantically with the dumbbell, bringing Mr. Broadnax with the key. It was an overheated but poised radio announcer who mounted the flimsy steps – to deafening applause.

As the voice of the Irish innkeeper came from the speakers, the students were shocked to hear him say, “There’s plenty o’ sad tales they’re tellin’. One poor man tried to rescue his two children – both of them half suffocated – but he couldn’t carry both of the little ones because his right arm was burned off. Burned clean off, mind you! He had to choose between them, poor man!”

When it was over, the performers took cautious bows to vociferous applause. Then the audience piled out of the gym, and Hixie said, “They loved it when everything fell over. They thought it was part of the show.”

“Best program we’ve ever had!” the principal told them as they packed their gear. “Even the troublemakers liked it, especially the part where the man’s arm was burned off… Now, what can we do for you? Mervyn will carry your suitcases. Would you like a cold drink in our cafeteria?”

Qwilleran and Hixie were both glad to get out of the building. “Okay, chum, what happened to you?” he asked peevishly.

“You’ll never believe this,” she said. “I had lunch at Linguini’s, and the parking lot was full, so I parked in the weeds behind the restaurant. When I came out, it was getting chilly, so I put on the coat that was on the backseat. As soon as I pulled onto the open highway, I felt something crawling inside my sleeve. I screamed, ran the car off the road, and jumped out. At the same time a mouse ran out of my coat.”

“But that doesn’t explain why you were so late,” he objected with a lack of sympathy.

“I had to wait for a farmer to come with a tractor and pull me out of the ditch.”

“Well… if you say so,” Qwilleran said dubiously. “But I’ll tell you one thing: I’ll never set foot on another platform unless I’ve personally tested it.”

“And I’ll never park in the weeds behind Linguini’s again! Je le jure!”

Upon returning home from Mooseland High School, Qwilleran’s first move was to phone Gary Pratt at the Black Bear Caf\u201a. “Gary,” he said, “I’d like to run up there tomorrow afternoon and see where we’re going to present our show for the Outdoor Club. I don’t want any surprises Monday night.”

“Sure thing. What time tomorrow?”

“How about two o’clock?”

“I’ll be here,” said the barkeeper. “There’s somebody I want you to meet, too – a nice little girl who comes in quite often.”

“How little?”

“Well, I mean, she’s in her twenties, but a heck of a lot smaller than your other farm girls around here. She has a problem you might be able to help her with.”

“If it’s a financial problem, tell her to check with the Klingenschoen Foundation,” Qwilleran said. “I don’t get involved with anything like that. I’m lucky to be able to balance my checkbook.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Gary said. “The thing of it is, it’s a family problem, and it sounds kind of fishy to me. I thought you might give her some advice.”

Qwilleran said he would listen to her story. He had little interest in a young farm girl’s family problems, however. What really piqued his curiosity was the suicide of a woman with no apparent motive. He was glad when Junior phoned him on Friday morning.

“Turn on the coffeemaker,” the young editor ordered. “I’ll be right there with some doughnuts from Lois’s. I have some things to report.”

Lois’s doughnuts were freshly fried every morning, with no icing, no jelly, no chopped nuts – just old-fashioned fried cakes with a touch of nutmeg. The two men sat at the kitchen table, hugging coffee mugs and dipping into the doughnut bag.

Qwilleran said, “I’ve figured out why nineteenth-century tycoons built big houses and had fourteen kids. Eight of them were girls and considered a total loss. Two of the sons died in infancy; another was killed while stopping a runaway horse; one was deported Down Below to avoid local scandal; one became a journalist, which was even worse – halfway between a cattle rustler and snake oil salesman. They were lucky to have one son left to run the family business.”

“That’s just about what happened in the Gage family,” Junior said. “Grandpa was the last male heir.”

“When did you get back from Florida?”

“Around midnight. Almost missed the last shuttle out of Minneapolis.”

“Did you get everything wrapped up?”

“To tell the truth,” Junior said, “there wasn’t that much to do. Grandma had sold her car; the furniture went with the house; we gave her clothes to charity; and the only jewelry she had was seashells and white beads. She’d unloaded her good jewelry, antiques, and real estate early on, to simplify the probate of her will, she said. The only property she couldn’t dump was Lois’s broken-down building. If anyone bought it, the city would make them put in a new john, widen the front door, fix the roof, and bring the electricity up to code. Don Exbridge was interested in buying the building, but he’d want to tear it down, and the public would be outraged.”

Qwilleran agreed. “There’d be rioting in the streets and class-action lawsuits.”

“You know, Qwill,” said Junior, “I don’t care about getting a big inheritance from Grandma Gage, but it would be nice if she established an education trust for her great-grandchildren. Jack has two kids; Pug has three; and Jody and I have one and seven-eighths, as of today.”

“How is Jody feeling?”

“She’s fine. We’re starting the countdown. It’s going to be a girl.”

Qwilleran said, “Didn’t you tell me that your grandmother put all three of you through college?”

“Yeah, my dad was broke. She despised him, so paying our tuition was a kind of put-down, not an act of generosity. At least, that’s what my mother told me.”

“More coffee, Junior?”

“Half a cup, and then I’ve got to get to the office. Golly, it’s good to be home! There were two things that sort of shocked me at the Park of Pink Sunsets. One was that the management will buy Grandma’s mobile home back again – for one-fourth of what she paid them for it! Wilmot advised me to accept the offer and cut my

losses.”

“What was the other shocker?”

“Grandma had developed a passion for the greyhound races! Can you picture that sedate little old lady stepping up to the pari-mutuel window and putting two on number five in the sixth?”

“Who told you this?”

“Her neighbor, the one who found the body.”

“Did you talk much with her?”

“She wanted to gab, but I didn’t have time. I just wanted to get home to my family and my job.”

Qwilleran patted his moustache thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking, Junior, that I could write an interesting profile of Euphonia Gage. There are plenty of people around here who knew her and would like to reminisce. I could also phone her neighbor at the mobile home park. What’s her name?”

“Robinson. Celia Robinson.”

“Will she be willing to talk?”

“She’ll talk your ear off. Brace yourself for a large phone bill.”

“Don’t be naive! I’ll charge it to the newspaper.” Before leaving, Junior said, “Qwill, I’ve decided why Grandma did what she did. She believed in reincarnation, you know, so maybe she was bored with shuffleboard and was ready to get on with another life. Is that too far out?”

A strange sound came from under the kitchen table.

“What’s that?” Junior asked in surprise.

“That’s Koko,” Qwilleran explained. “He and Yum Yum are both under the table waiting for doughnut crumbs.”

-5-

WHEN JUNIOR MENTIONED his reincarnation theory as a motive for Euphonia’s suicide, the chattering under the kitchen table had a negative, even hostile sound.

“You didn’t care for the idea,” Qwilleran said to Koko after Junior had left for the office. “Neither did I. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something we don’t know about the lady.”

Three doughnuts and two cups of coffee had only whetted Qwilleran’s appetite, and he walked to Lois’s for buckwheat pancakes with Canadian bacon, maple syrup, and double butter. Lois herself was waiting on tables, and when she brought his order, he thought the pancakes looked unusual. He tasted them cautiously.

“Lois,” he called out, “what’s wrong with these pancakes?”

She stared briefly at the plate before snatching it away. “You got Mrs. Toodle’s oat bran pancakes!” She took the plate to another table and returned with the right one. “Do these look better? She put margarine and honey on ’em, but she hadn’t started to eat.”

That’s the way it was in that restaurant – informal. Lois was a hard-working woman who owned her own business, labored long hours, enjoyed every aspect of her job, and jollied or insulted the customers with impunity. She had been feeding downtown Pickax for thirty years, and her devoted clientele regularly took up collections to finance building repairs, since the “stingy old woman” who owned the place would do nothing about maintenance. Twice Qwilleran had dropped a twenty-dollar bill into the pickle jar.

“So you lost one of your good customers!” he said to Lois when he paid his check. “Who?”

“Euphonia Gage.”

“That old witch? You gotta be kidding! She was too hoity-toity to come in here,” Lois said with lofty disdain. “She sent her housekeeper to collect the rent. When her husband was alive, he came in himself, and I fixed him a thick roast beef sandwich with horseradish. Nice man! If I was short of cash, he didn’t mind coming back the next day.”

“For another sandwich?” Qwilleran inquired.

“You men!” Lois snapped with a grimace that was half rebuke and half fondness.

Walking home, Qwilleran began to formulate his profile of Junior’s grandmother. He would call it “The Several Hats of Mrs. Gage.” She was dancer, snob, health nut, and “purplist,” a word he had coined. She was generous, stingy, elegant, aloof, witty, unpredictable, gracious, and hoity-toity.

Later, he was sitting at his desk, making notes for the profile, when Koko trudged past the library door with something in his mouth. The plodding gait, lowered head, and horizontal tail suggested serious business. Kao K’o Kung was not a mouser – he left that occupation to Yum Yum – but his behavior was suspiciously predatory, and Qwilleran followed him stealthily. When within tackling distance, he grabbed Koko around the middle and commanded, “Drop that filthy thing!”

Koko, who never took orders gladly, squirmed and clamped his jaws on the prey, shaking his head to prevent the forcible opening of his mouth. Realizing it was no mouse, Qwilleran coaxed in a gentler voice, “Let go, Koko. Good boy! Good boy!” And he massaged the furry throat until Koko was induced to lick his nose and lose his grip.

“What next!” Qwilleran said aloud, snatching the trophy. It was a partial denture – left and right molars connected by a silver bridge – and it was destined for the collection site under the kitchen table.

The objects that Yum Yum charmingly pilfered from pockets and wastebaskets were toys, to be hidden behind seat cushions for future reference. Koko was the serious treasure hunter, however. Qwilleran thought of his excavations as an archaeological dig for fragments that might be pieced together to reconstruct a social history of the Gage dynasty. In fact, he had started written inventory. Now he confiscated the denture and carried it to the library, while Koko followed in high dudgeon, scolding and jumping at his hand.

“It’s only an old set of false teeth,” Qwilleran remonstrated as he dropped it into the desk drawer. “Why dont you dig up a Cartier watch?” He added “partial denture” to the other recent acquisitions on the inventory: leather bookmark, recipe for clam chowder, purple satin bedroom slipper, man’s argyle sock, 1951 steeplechase ticket, wine label (Bernkasteler Doktor und Graben Hochfeinst ’59).

On Friday afternoon Qwilleran drove to the Black Bear Caf\u201a, wearing his new multicolor sweater. Although his prime purpose was to inspect the staging area for “The Big Burning,” he was also slated to meet a young farm woman who needed advice, and the sweater made him look ten years younger – or so he had been told.

Gary’s bar and grill operation was located in the Hotel Booze in the town of Brrr, so named because it was the coldest spot in the county. The hotel had been a major landmark since the nineteenth century, when sailors, miners, and lumberjacks used to kill each other in the saloon on Saturday nights, after which the survivors each paid a quarter to sleep on the floor of the rooms upstairs. It was a boxy building perched on a hilltop overlooking the harbor, and ships in the lake were guided to port by the rooftop sign: BOOZE… ROOMS… FOOD.

When Gary Pratt took over the Hotel Booze from his ailing father, the bar was a popular eatery, but the upper floors violated every building regulation in the book. Yet, the banks refused to lend money to bring it up to code, possibly because of Gary’s shaggy black beard and wild head of hair, or because he had been a troublesome student in high school. Qwilleran had a hunch about Gary’s potential, however, and the Klingenschoen Foundation obliged with a low-interest economic development loan. With the addition of elevators, indoor plumbing, and beds in the sleeping rooms, the Hotel Booze became the flagship of Brrr’s burgeoning tourist trade, and Gary became president of the chamber of commerce. Wisely he maintained the seedy atmosphere that appealed to sportsmen. The mirror over the backbar still had the radiating cracks where a bottle had been flung by a drunken patron during the 1913 mine strike.

When Qwilleran arrived on that Friday afternoon he slid cautiously onto a wobbly barstool, and Gary, behind the carved black walnut bar, asked, “Squunk water on the rocks?”

“Not this time. I’ll take coffee if you have it. How’s business?”

“It’ll pick up when the hunting season opens. I hope we get some snow. The hunters like a little snow for tracking.”

“They say we’re in for a lot of it this winter.” It was one of the trite remarks Qwilleran had learned to make; local etiquette called for three minutes of weatherspeak before any purposeful conversation.

“I like snow,” said Gary. “I’ve been dog-sledding the last couple of winters.”

“Sounds like an interesting sport,” Qwilleran said, although the idea of being transported by dogpower had no appeal for him.

“You should try it! Come out with me some Sunday!”

“That’s an idea,” was Qwilleran’s carefully ambiguous response.

“Say, I’ve been meaning to ask you about the different characters in your show. It must have been hard to change your voice like that. I sure couldn’t do it.”

“I’ve always had a fairly good ear for different kinds of speech,” Qwilleran said with a humble shrug. “The big problem was recording the voices. When I played them back, the tape was punctuated with the yowling of cats. So I locked them out of the room and tried again. This time the mike picked up a trash impactor and the sheriff’s helicopter. I finally recorded at three o’clock in the morning and hoped no one in my neighborhood would require an ambulance.”

“Well, it sure was impressive. Where did you get all your information? Or did you make some of it up?”

“Every statement is documented,” Qwilleran said. “Do you know anything about the Gage family? One of them was an amateur historian.”

“All I know is that this woman who just died – her husband used to hang around the bar when my father was running it. Dad said he was quite a boozer. Liked to swap stories with the hunters and fishermen. Never put on airs. Just one of the guys.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“No, he died before I took over-struck by lightning. He was horseback riding when a storm broke, and he made the mistake of sheltering under a tree. Killed instantly!”

“What about the horse?” Qwilleran asked.

“Funny, nobody ever mentioned the horse… Another cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks. Let’s go and see where we’re going to present our show.”

“Okay. Just a sec.” Gary picked up the bar telephone and called a number. “Nancy, he’s here,” he said in a low voice. “Okay, Qwill, let’s go. The meeting room’s across the lobby.” He led the way to a large room that was barren except for a low platform and helter-skelter rows of folding chairs. “Here it is! What do you need? We can get you anything you want.”

Qwilleran stepped up on the platform and found it solid. “We need a couple of small tables, preferably noncollapsible, and a couple of plain chairs… I see you have plenty of electric outlets… What’s behind that door?”

“Just a hall leading to the restrooms and the emergency exit.”

“Good! I’ll use it for entrances and exits. Hixie says there’ll be families attending, so I suggest seating the kids in the front rows. They’ll have better sight lines and be less fidgety, I hope… And now I’ll take that second cup of coffee.”

Back in the bar Gary said, “Hey, there’s Nancy, the girl I want you to meet.”

Seated on one of the tilt-top barstools was a young woman in jeans, farm jacket, and field boots. She was slightly built, and her delicate features were half hidden by a cascade of dark, wavy hair. In dress and stature she might have been a seventh grader on the way home from school, but her large brown eyes were those of a grown woman with problems. She turned her eyes beseechingly on Qwilleran’s moustache.

“Nancy, this is Mr. Q,” Gary said. “Nancy’s a good customer of ours. Burgers, not beer, eh, Nancy?”

She nodded shyly, clutching her bottle of cola.

“How do you do,” Qwilleran said with a degree of reserve.

“Nice to meet you. I’ve seen your column in the paper.”

“Good!” he said coolly. Had she read it? Did she like it? Or had she just seen it?

Gary served Qwilleran a fresh cup of coffee. “Well, I’ll leave you two guys to talk.” He ambled to the other end of the bar to visit with a couple of boaters.

The awkward silence that followed was broken by Qwilleran’s uninspired question. “Are you a member of the Outdoor Club?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m going to see your show Monday night.”

He huffed into his moustache. Had she heard good things about it? Was she looking forward to it? Or was she simply going to see it? Again it was his turn to serve in this slow-motion game of Ping-Pong. “Do you think we’ll have snow next week?”

“I think so,” she said. “The dogs are getting excited.”

“Dogs? Do you have dogs?”

“Siberian huskies.”

“Is that so?” he remarked with a glimmer of interest. “How many do you have?”

“Twenty-seven. I breed sled dogs.”

“Are you a musher?”

“I do a little racing,” she said, blushing self-consciously.

“Gary tells me it’s becoming quite a popular sport. Do you breed dogs as a hobby or a vocation?”

“Both, I guess. I work part-time at the animal clinic in Brrr. I’m a dog-handler.”

“Do you live in Brrr?”

“Just outside. In Brrr Township.”

How long, Qwilleran wondered, can this painful dialogue continue? He was determined not to inquire about her problem. If she had a problem, let her state it! They both wriggled on the ancient barstools that clicked noisily. He tried to catch Gary’s eye, but the barkeeper was arguing heatedly with the boaters about the new breakwall.

“Nancy, I’m afraid I don’t know your last name,” Qwilleran said.

“Fincher,” she said simply.

“How do you spell it?” He knew how to spell it, but it was an attempt to fill the silence.

“F-i-n-c-h-e-r.

Fortunately Gary glanced in their direction, and Qwilleran pointed to his empty cup and Nancy’s half-empty bottle. Gary approached with his bearish, lumbering gait. “Did you tell him about your problem?” he asked Nancy.

“No,” she said, looking away. Gary poured coffee and produced another bottle of cola. “The thing of it is, Qwill, her dad disappeared.” Then he went back to the boaters.

Qwilleran looked inquiringly at the embarrassed daughter. “When did that happen?”

“I haven’t been able to find him since Sunday.” She looked genuinely worried.

“Do you live in the same house?”

“No, he lives on his farm. I have a mobile home.”

“What kind of farm?”

“Potatoes.”

“Where did you see him on Sunday?”

“I went over to cook Sunday dinner for him, the way I always do. Then he watched football on TV, and I went home to my dogs.”

“And when did you first realize he was missing?”

“Wednesday.” There was a long, exasperating pause. Qwilleran waited for her to go on.

“The mail carrier stopped and told me that Pop’s mailbox was filling up, and his dog was barking in the house, and there was no truck in the yard. So I drove over there, and Corky was so starved, he almost took my arm off. He’d wrecked the house, looking for something to eat. And the place smelled terrible!”

“Did you notify the police?”

Nancy looked at her clenched hands. They were small hands, but they looked strong. “Well, I talked to a deputy I know, and he said Pop was most likely off on a binge somewhere.”

“Is your father a heavy drinker?”

“Well… he’s been drinking more since Mom died.”

“Did you do anything further?”

“Well, I cleaned up the mess and took Corky home with me, and on the way I stopped at the Crossroads Tavern. That’s where Pop goes to have a beer with the other farmers and chew the rag. They said he hadn’t been around since Saturday night. They figured he was working in the fields.”

“Has your father ever done this before?”

“Never!” Her eyes flashed for the first time. “He’d never do such a thing at harvest. The weather’s been wet, and if he doesn’t dig his potatoes before the first heavy frost, the whole crop will be ruined. It’s not like him at all! He’s a very good farmer, and he’s got a lot invested in his crop.”

“And this deputy you mentioned – does he know your father?”

“Yes,” she said, shrinking into her burly jacket.

“What’s his name?”

“Dan Fincher.”

“Related to you?”

She turned away as she said, “We were married for a while.”

“I see,” said Qwilleran. “What’s your father’s name?”

“Gil Inchpot.”

He nodded. “The Inchpot name goes back a long way in the farming community. The farm museum in West Middle Hummock has quite a few things from early Inchpot homesteads.”

“I’ve never been there,” Nancy said. “I never cared much for history.”

“What kind of truck does your father drive?”

“Ford pickup. Blue.”

“Do you know the license number?”

“No,” she said, pathetically enough to arouse Qwilleran’s sympathy.

“Let me think about this matter,” he said, pushing a cocktail napkin and a ballpoint pen toward her. “Write down your address and telephone number, also the address of your father’s farm.”

“Thank you,” she said simply, turning her expressive brown eyes toward him.

He thought, Beware of young women with beseeching brown eyes, especially when they look twelve years old. “If you learn anything further, ask Gary how to get in touch with me.”

“Thank you,” she said again. “Now I have to go back to work. I just ran over from the clinic.”

She left, lugging a shoulder bag half her size. Qwilleran watched her go, smoothing his moustache like the villain in an old melodrama, but the gesture meant something else. It meant that he sensed an element of intrigue in this country tale. The reaction started with a tingle on his upper lip – in the roots of his moustache – and he had learned to respect the sensation.

Gary returned with the coffee server.

“Please! Not again! It’s good coffee, but I’m driving.”

“Nice little girl, isn’t she?” the barkeeper remarked. “I don’t visualize her racing with a pack of sled dogs. She looks too delicate.”

“But she’s light, like a jockey, and that makes a good racer. What do you think of her story?”

“It bears a closer look.”

“Yeah, that ex-husband of hers is a jerk! Imagine brushing her off like that!”

“If she wants to talk to me, you dial the number for her, Gary.”

“Sure, I understand. I’ll bet you’re pestered by all kinds of people.”

Qwilleran threw a ten dollar bill across the bar. “Keep the change for a down payment on some new barstools. And I’ll see you Monday night.”

From the Hotel Booze he drove directly to the police station in downtown Pickax, where his friend Andrew Brodie was chief.

Brodie waved him away. “If you’re looking for free coffee, you’re too late. The pot’s dry.”

“False deduction,” Qwilleran said. “My prime objective is to see if you’re doing your work, issuing lots of parking tickets, and arresting leaf burners. Did you blow your leaves into the street, Andy? The vacuum truck will be on your side of town tomorrow.”

The chief shot him a veiled look. “The wife takes care of that.”

“Oh, hot Now I understand why you’re always advocating matrimony! I knew there was some ulterior reasoning.”

Brodie scowled. “What’s on your mind, besides leaves?”

“Do you know a guy named Gil Inchpot?”

“Potato farmer. Brrr Township.”

“Right. His daughter’s worried about him. He’s disappeared. His truck’s gone. He abandoned his dog. And he decamped when the potatoes were ready to harvest.”

“That’s the sheriff’s turf,” Brodie pointed out. “Did she report it to the sheriff’s department?”

“She talked to a deputy named Dan Fincher.”

“That guy’s a lunkhead! I used to work for the sheriff, and I have firsthand evidence.”

“Well, the lunkhead laughed it off, said Inchpot was off on a binge somewhere.”

“The daughter should notify the state police. They cover three counties. Do you know the license number of the missing vehicle?”

“No, but it’s a blue Ford pickup, and I have Inchpot’s address, in case you want to run a check on it – with that expensive computer the taxpayers bought for you.”

“Seeing as how it’s you,” Brodie said, “I’ll run down the number and turn it over to the state police post.”

“That’s decent of you, Andy. If you ever want to run for mayor, I’ll campaign for you.”

The chief scowled again. “It would do me good to give Dan Fincher a swift kick in the pants, that’s all.”

-6-

WHEN QWILLERAN RETURNED home after his discussion with the police chief, Goodwinter Boulevard was transformed. AIl the leaves had been blown from the front lawns and sidewalks into the gutters, in preparation for the vacuum truck on Saturday. He found a lawn service vehicle parked behind the house, and three industrious young men with backpack blowers were coaxing the backyard leaves into heaps.

“Did Junior Goodwinter hire you?” Qwilleran asked one of them, feeling guilty that he had failed to take care of it himself. “Send the bill to me, but first, answer one question: What happens to these huge piles of leaves?”

“We’ll be back tomorrow to finish up. We’ve run out of leaf bags,” said the boss of the crew. “It’s been a busy day. Everybody’s in a rush to get rid of the leaves before snow flies.”

“What happens if a big wind comes up tonight and blows these piles allover the yard?”

“We get another day’s work, and you get another bill,” the lawnman said with a guffaw.

As the backpackers went on their merry way, Qwilleran walked about the yard through rustling leaves – a joyous activity he remembered from boyhood. Suddenly, through the comer of his eye, he saw something crawling through the shrubs that bordered the property. He was prepared to yell “Scat!” when he realized it was the attorney’s son. He called out sternly, “Is there something you want, young man?”

Timmie Wilmot scrambled to his feet. “Is Oh Jay over here?”

“I don’t know anyone of that name.”

“He’s our cat. A great big orange one with bad breath.”

“Then he’d better not hang around here,” Qwilleran said in a threatening voice.

“I’m afraid he’ll go out in the street and get sucked up in the leaf sucker.” The boy was looking anxiously about Qwilleran’s yard. “There he is!” He ran across the grass to a pile of leaves that effectively camouflaged a marmalade cat. Grabbing the surprised animal around the middle, he staggered back across the yard, clutching the bundle of fur to his chest, the orange tail dangling between his knees and the orange legs pointing stiffly in four directions. The pair reached the row of shrubs on the lot line and crawled through the brush to safety.

Indoors, the Siamese were concerned chiefly with Qwilleran’s recent association with a dog-handler who also raised Siberian huskies. Their noses, like Geiger counters detecting radiation, passed over every square inch of Qwilleran’s clothing, their whiskers registering positive.

He arranged some roast beef and boned chub from Toodle’s Deli on a plate and placed it under the kitchen table. Then, turning on the kitchen radio for the weather report, he heard the following announcement instead:

“The hobgoblins will be out tomorrow night, which is official Beggars’ Night in Pickax. A resolution passed by the city council limits trick-or-treating to one-and-a-half hours, between six o’clock and seven-thirty. Children should stay in their own neighborhoods unless accompanied by an adult. In all cases, two or more children should go together. The police department makes the following recommendations in the interest of safety:

“Stay on the sidewalk; don’t run into the street. Don’t go into houses if invited. Avoid wearing long costumes that could cause tripping. Don’t eat treats until they have been inspected by a parent or other responsible person. Discard unwrapped cookies and candies immediately. Happy Halloween!”

Qwilleran turned to the cats, who were washing up. “Did you hear that? It would be more fun to stay home and do homework.”

Saturday morning, after he had heard the announcement for the third time, he went back to Toodle’s Market and bought a bushel of apples. When he arrived home, his phone was ringing, and Koko was announcing the fact by racing back and forth and jumping on and off the desk.

“Okay, okay!” Qwilleran yelled at him. “I can hear it, and I know where it is!”

Junior’s voice said, “Where’ve you been so early? Did you stay out all night? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I was buying apples for trick-or-treat.”

“Apples! Are you nuts? They’ll throw ’em at you! They’ll soap your windows!”

“We’ll see about that,” Qwilleran said grimly. “What’s on your mind? Are you at the office?”

“I’m going in later, but first: How would you like to take a little ride?”

“Where?”

“To the Hilltop Cemetery. Grandma was buried there yesterday – privately.”

“How come?”

“Her last wishes, on file in Wilmot’s office, specified no funeral, no mourners, no flowers, and no bagpipes.”

“That will break Andy Brodie’s heart,” Qwilleran said. The police chief prided himself on his piping at weddings and funerals.

“It was Grandma’s revenge on the police for all the traffic tickets she got, not that she ever paid them.”

“Then why are you going to the cemetery this morning?”

“Somehow,” said her grandson, “it isn’t decent to let her be buried with only the Dingleberry brothers and a backhoe operator in attendance. Want to come along? I’ll pick you up.”

“I’ll bring a couple of apples,” Qwilleran offered. The Hilltop Cemetery dated back to pioneer days when the Gages, Goodwinters, Fugtrees, Trevelyans, and other settlers were buried across the crest of a ridge. Their tombstones could be seen silhouetted against the sky as one approached.

On the way to the cemetery Junior said, “Pickax lost to Lockmaster again last night, fourteen to zip.”

“We should give up football and stick to growing potatoes,” Qwilleran remarked.

“How’s everything at the house?”

“Koko just came out of a closet with a man’s spat. I haven’t seen one of those since the last Fred Astaire movie. He was dragging it conscientiously to the collection site in the kitchen, staggering and stumbling. His aim in life is to empty the closets, ounce by ounce.”

“They’ll have to be cleaned out sooner or later.”

“Watch it!” Qwilleran snapped. Junior had a friendly way of facing his passenger squarely as he spoke, and they narrowly missed hitting a deer bounding out of a cornfield. “Keep your eyes on the road, Junior, or we’ll be residents of Hilltop ourselves.” They were passing through farm country, and he asked Junior if he knew a potato farmer named Gil Inchpot.

“Not personally, but his daughter was my date for the senior prom in high school. She was the only girl short enough for me.”

“You’re no longer short, Junior. You’re what they call vertically challenged.”

“Gee, thanks! That makes me feel nine feet tall.”

They parked the car and walked up the hill to a granite obelisk chiseled with the name Gage. Small headstones surrounded it, and there was one rectangle of freshly turned earth, not yet sodded or marked.

“There she is,” said her grandson. “I was supposed to ship her books to Florida, but I had too many other things on my mind – my job, and the baby coming. I promise, though, she’s going to get a memorial service exactly how she wanted it.”

“Has her will been read?”

“Not until my brother and sister get here. Jack has to come from L.A., and Pug lives in Montana. Grandma wrote a new will after moving to Florida. It was in the manager’s safe at the mobile home park, all tied up with red ribbon and sealed with red wax. It will be interesting to know what changes she made.”

“You told me once that you were her sole heir.”

“That’s what she said at the time, but I think she was just cajoling me into doing something for her. A world-class conniver, that’s what she was!”

“When Pug and Jack arrive,” Qwilleran suggested, “I’d like to take all of you to dinner at the Old Stone Mill.”

“Gee! That would be great!”

“Would you like an apple?”

The two men stood munching in silence for a while, Junior staring at the grave and Qwilleran gazing around the horizon. “Pleasant view,” he remarked.

“Pallbearers always hated burials up here. No access road. They have to carry the casket up that steep path… Wish I had a flower to throw on the grave before we leave.”

“We could bury our apple cores. They’d sprout and produce apple blossoms every spring.”

“Hey! Let’s do it!” Junior exclaimed.

They scooped out some soil and buried the cores reverently, then drove back to town without saying much until Qwilleran ventured, “You never told me anything about your grandfather.”

“To tell the truth, my grandparents are closer in death than they ever were in life,” Junior said. “She was into arts and health fads; he was into sports and booze. The Gage shipyard had folded, and he spent his time manipulating the family fortune, not always legally. Grandpa spent two years in federal prison for financial fraud. That was in the 1920s.”

“If they were so mismatched, why did they marry? Does anyone know?”

“Well, the way my mother told me the story, Euphonia’s forebears were pioneer doctors by the name of Roff. They’d deliver a baby for a bushel of apples or set a broken bone for a couple of chickens, so the family never had any real money. Somehow Euphonia got pressured into marrying the Gage heir. The Roffs, being from Boston, had a certain ‘class’ that Grandpa lacked, so it seemed like a good deal all around, but it didn’t work.”

“Was your mother their only child?”

“Yeah. She called herself a Honeymoon Special.” Qwilleran asked to be dropped off at the variety store, where he bought a blue light bulb and a Halloween mask. Then he spent an hour with his recording machine taping weird noises. The Siamese watched with bemused tolerance as their human companion uttered screeches, anguished moans, and hideous.laughs into the microphone.

The performance was interrupted by the telephone, when Gary Pratt called. “Nancy’s here. She wants to tell you something. Okay?”

“Put her on.”

In a breathless, little-girl voice Nancy said, “The state police found Pop’s truck!”

“That was fast. Where was it?”

“At the airport.”

“In the parking structure?”

“No. In the open lot.”

He nodded with understanding. There was a charge for parking indoors, and most locals preferred to park free in the cow pasture. “Is there any clue as to his destination?”

“No…” She hesitated before continuing in a faltering way. “He never… he doesn’t like to travel, Mr. Qwilleran. He’s hardly been… out of Moose County… except for Vietnam.”

“Still, some unexpected business transaction may have come up – suddenly. What did the police say?”

“They told me to report a missing person, and they’ll check the passenger list for flights.”

“Let me know what they find out,” Qwilleran said. He was beginning to feel genuinely sorry for her, and in an effort to divert her from her worries he said, “You know, Nancy, I’d like to write a column on dog-sledding. Are

you willing to be interviewed?”

“Oh, yes!” she said. “The mushers would love the publicity.”

“How about tomorrow afternoon?”

“Well, I want to go to Pop’s house after church to clean out the refrigerator, but I could be home by two.”

“By the way, what’s the situation in the potato fields?”

“No severe frost yet. I’m praying he comes back before the crop’s ruined.”

“Could you hire someone to do the harvesting in an emergency?”

“I don’t know who it would be. They’re all busy with their own work.”

“It won’t hurt to ask around, Nancy. And I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

The hour of hobgoblins approached. Qwilleran tried on his death’s-head mask and prepared a sheet to shroud his head and body. The tape player was set up near the entrance, and at six o’clock he turned on the blue porch lamp that cast an eerie light on the gray stonework. He was ready for them.

The first squealing, chattering trio to come up the front walk included a miniature Darth Vader, a pirate, and a bride in a wedding dress made from old curtains. They were carrying shopping bags. Before they could ring the bell, the front door opened slowly, and unnatural sounds emanated from the gloomy interior. “Ooooooooooh! Ooooooooooo!” Then there was a horrifying screech. As the pop-eyed youngsters stared, a shrouded skeleton emerged from the shadows, and a clawlike hand was extended, clutching an apple. The three screamed and scrambled down the steps.

Later groups were scared stiff but not stiff enough to run away without their treats, so the supply of apples diminished slightly. Many beggars avoided the house entirely. They trooped down the side drive, however, to the brightly lighted carriage house where Polly was distributing candy.

The last intrepid pair to brave the haunted house were a cowboy with large eyeglasses and a moustache glued on his upper lip, accompanied by a tiny ballerina with a white net tutu and sequined bra over her gray warmup suit. The cowboy pressed the doorbell, and Qwilleran pressed the button on the player: “Oooooooooh! Ooooooooooh!” The spooky wail was followed by a screech and a cackling laugh as a ghostly figure appeared.

“I know you!” said the cowboy. “You told us about those people burning up.”

In a sepulchral drone Qwilleran said, “I… am the… scrofulous skeleton… of Skaneateles!”

The boy explained to his small companion, “He can talk so you don’t know who he is. He’s that man with the big moustache.”

“What… do… you want?” the apparition intoned.

“Trick or treat!

The clawlike hand dropped apples into the outstretched sacks, and Timmie Wilmot turned to his sister. “Apples!” he said. “Cheapo!”

At seven-thirty Qwilleran was glad to turn off the blue light and shed his mask and sheet.

Soon Polly phoned. “Did you have many beggars?”

“Enough,” he said. “I have some apples left over, in case you feel like making eight or nine pies. How about going out to dinner?”

“Thanks, but I couldn’t possibly! I’m exhausted after running up and down stairs to answer the doorbell. Why don’t you come to brunch tomorrow? Mushroom omelettes and cheese popovers.”

“I’ll be there! With apples. What time?”

“I suggest twelve noon, and don’t forget to turn your clocks back. This is the end of Daylight Saving Time.”

Before resetting his two watches, three clock radios, and digital coffeemaker, Qwilleran added several new acquisitions to the collection in the desk drawer: swizzle stick, stale cigar, brown shoelace, woman’s black lace garter, handkerchief embroidered “Cynara,” and box of corn plasters.

On Sunday morning it was back to Standard Time for the rest of the nation but not for Koko and Yum Yum, who pounced on Qwilleran’s chest at seven A.M., demanding their eight o’clock breakfast. He shooed them from the bedroom and slammed the door, but they yowled and jiggled the doorknob until he fed them in self-defence. He himself subsisted on coffee and apples until it was time to walk back to the carriage house. He used his own key and was met at the top of the stairs by a husky Siamese who fixed him with a challenging eye.

“Back off!” Qwilleran said. “I was invited to brunch… Polly, this cat is much too heavy.”

“I know, dear,” she said regretfully, “but Bootsie always seems to be hungry. I don’t know how Koko stays so svelte. When he stretches, he’s a yard long.”

“I suspect he has a few extra vertebrae. He walks around corners like a train going around a curve; the locomotive is heading east while the caboose is still traveling north… Do I smell coffee?”

“Help yourself, Qwill. I’m about to start the omelettes.”

When he tasted the first succulent mouthful, he asked in awe, “How did you learn to make omelettes like these?”

“I prepared one every day for a month until I mastered the technique. That was several years ago, before we were all worried about cholesterol.”

“I’m not worried about cholesterol,” he retorted.”I think it’s a lot of bunk.”

“Famous last words, dear.”

He helped himself to another popover. “Junior’s siblings are coming to town for the formalities, and I’m taking them to dinner. I hope you’ll join us.”

“By all means. I remember Pug when she used to come into the library for books on horses; she married a rancher. Jack went into advertising; he was always a very clever boy.”

“Did you know that Mrs. Gage owned Lois’s building?”

“Of course. The Gage family has had it for generations.”

“Did you ever meet Euphonia’s husband?”

“No, our paths never crossed.”

“They say he and his wife didn’t get along.”

With a slight stiffening of the spine Polly said, “I’m not in a position to say, although they never appeared in public together.”

“He and Lois seemed to hit it off pretty well.”

“Qwill, dear, for someone who deplores gossip, you seem to be wallowing in it today.”

“For purely vocational reasons,” he explained. “I’m planning an in-depth profile of Euphonia.”

Polly nodded knowingly, being familiar with his ambitious writing projects that never materialized.

He went on. “No one has come up with an acceptable motive for her suicide. Junior thinks it has to do with her belief in reincarnation, but I don’t buy that explanation.”

“Nor I… May I fill your cup, Qwill?”

“It’s superlative today. What did you do to it?” he asked.

“Just a touch of cinnamon.”

They sipped in contented silence, as close friends can do, Qwilleran wondering whether to tell her about Koko’s latest salvage operations. Besides the purple hair ribbon and purple bedroom slipper, there had been an empty vial of violet perfume, an English lavender sachet, and a lipstick tube labeled “Grape Delish.” Koko had chosen these mementoes out of an estimated 1.5 million pieces of junk. Why? Could he sense Euphonia’s innate energy in purpleness? Or was he trying to communicate some catly message?

“What are you reading these days?” Polly asked.

“For myself, a biography of Sir Wilfred Grenfell, but the cats and I are going through Robinson Crusoe. That was Koko’s choice. The opening sentence has 105 words – a maze of principal and subordinate clauses. It’s interesting to compare with the staccato effect of simple declarative clauses in Tale of Two Cities, which opens with 120.”

Polly smiled and nodded and asked if he would like to hear a Mozart concerto for flute, oboe, and viola. Qwilleran had always preferred a hundred-piece symphony orchestra or thousand-voice choir, but he was learning to appreciate chamber music. All in all, it was a cozy Sunday afternoon until he excused himself, saying he had to interview a breeder of Siberian huskies.

He avoided mentioning that the breeder was a woman – a young woman – a slender young woman with appealing brown eyes and a mass of dark, wavy hair and a little-girl voice.

Half an hour later, when he arrived at the address in Brrr Township, he knew he was in the right place. A twenty-seven-dog chorus could be heard behind the mobile home. The excited huskies were chained to a line-up of individual posts in front of individual shelters. Nancy’s truck was not in the yard, and when he knocked on the door there was no answer, except from Corky within. He strode about the yard for a while, saying “Good dogs!” to the frenzied animals, but it only increased the clamor. He was preparing to leave when a pickup with a boxy superstructure steered recklessly into the yard, and Nancy jumped out.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said excitedly. “The police came to Pop’s house while I was there. They checked the airline, and he never bought a ticket!”

Or, Qwilleran thought, he bought a ticket without giving his right name.

“I don’t understand it!” she went on. “Why would he leave his truck there? I was worried about the potatoes, but now I’m worried that something has happened to Pop!”

Sympathetically Qwilleran asked, “Was he having trouble of any kind? Financial problems? Enemies he was trying to avoid?”

“I don’t know… I don’t see how… He was well liked by the other farmers – always helping them out. When I lived at home, I remember how stranded motorists would come to the house to use the phone. They were out of gas, or their car had broken down. Pop had his own gas pump, and he’d give them a gallon or stick his head under the hood of their car and fix what was wrong. He could fix anything mechanical and was proud of it… So now I’m worrying that he was helping someone out and they took advantage of him. You never know who’s driving on these country roads nowadays. It used to be so safe! Everyone was honest. But now… someone could come along and stun my dogs and make off with the whole pack. They stole a big black walnut tree from a farm near here.”

The dogs were still barking until she silenced them with a command.

“How old is your father?” Qwilleran asked.

“Fifty-seven.”

“When did your mother die?”

“She passed away three – no, four years ago. Pop changed a lot after that.”

“Could there be anything new in his lifestyle that you don’t know about?”

“You mean… like women? Or drugs?” She hesitated.

A reassuring manner was his stock in trade. “You can tell me, Nancy. I may be able to help.”

“Well… he used to be very tight-fisted, but lately he’s spending a lot of money.”

“Extravagance can be a way of coping with grief. How is he spending the money?” Qwilleran asked.

“On farm Improvements. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, but” – she turned frightened eyes to him – “where is he getting it?”

-7-

QWILLERAN AND THE dog-handler were standing in the farmyard. “Well, you don’t want to listen to my troubles all day,” Nancy said with a gulp. “Do you want to go and see the dogs?”

“First, let’s sit down and talk for a while. I’ve seen them, and I’ve heard them,” he said dryly.

“You should hear them before a race! They love to hit the trail, and they go wild when they’re waiting for the starting flag.”

They entered a small mobile home where they were greeted by a large, friendly, all-American, farm-type, cork-colored mongrel whose wagging tail was wreaking havoc in the tight quarters.

“Good boy!” Qwilleran said while being lashed by the amiable tail.

“This is Pop’s dog,” Nancy said. “Where would you like to sit?” She brushed debris from a couple of chair seats and hastily picked up litter from the floor.

“Is it okay if I tape this interview?” He placed a small recorder on a nearby table, and a swipe of the tail knocked it off.

“I’d chain him outdoors, but he’d drive the other dogs crazy,” she said apologetically. “Corky! Go in the other room!” She pointed, and obediently he walked six feet away and stretched out with his chin on his paw.

“You have a way with dogs,” Qwilleran complimented her. “How did you get into this specialty of yours?”

“Well, I spent a couple of years in Alaska, and when I came home I bought a sled and a pair of huskies – Siberians. They’re smaller than Alaskans but stronger and faster.” Her small, wavering voice became stronger as she warmed up to her subject.

“Then you’re the one who started the sport here?”

“It was easy. When somebody tries dog-sledding on a beautiful winter day, they’re hooked! I’ll take you for a ride after we get some snow.”

“How do you accommodate passengers?”

“You ride in the basket, and I ride the runners.”

“Hmmm,” he murmured, thinking he’d feel foolish sitting in a basket pulled by a pack of dogs. “Are all sled dogs as frisky as yours?”

“If they’re good racers. A high attitude is what they should have. Mine are born to be racers, not pets, but I love them like family.”

“What else makes a good racer?”

“Hard muscles in the right places. A good gait. And they have to like working in a team.”

“Training them must be a science,” Qwilleran said. “I don’t know about that, but it takes a lot of patience.”

“I believe it. How many dogs make a team?”

“I’ve seen as many as twenty in Alaska. I usually run eight.”

“How do you drive them?”

“With your voice. They learn to take orders. Would you like a cola, Mr. Qwilleran?”

He said yes, although it ranked with tea at the bottom of his beverage list.

Nancy went on with enthusiasm as she opened a can. The shy, inarticulate, almost pathetic young woman became self-possessed and authoritative when talking about her vocation. “Each dog has a partner. They’re paired according to the length of their stride and their personality. They become buddies. It’s nice to see.”

“Isn’t it a great deal of work?”

“Yes, but I love feeding them, brushing them, socializing, cleaning up after them. Do you have dogs?”

“I have cats. Two Siamese. When do the race meets start?”

“After Christmas. We’re training already. You should see us tearing around the back roads with the dogs pulling a wheeled cart! They know snow is on the way. They’re getting so excited!” She showed a picture of a dog team pelting down a snowy trail; out of a total of thirty-two canine feet, only four seemed to be touching the ground.

“I believe they’re flying!” Qwilleran said in amazement.

His willingness to be amazed, his sympathetic manner, and his attitude of genuine interest were the techniques of a good interviewer, and Nancy was relaxing and responding warmly. He could read her body language. Take it easy, he told himself; she’s vulnerable. In businesslike fashion he asked, “Did you attend veterinary school?”

“I wanted to, but I got married instead – without telling my parents.”

“How did they react?” She looked at the tape recorder, and he turned it off.

“Well… Pop was furious… and Mom got cancer. I had to be nurse for her and housekeeper for Pop.” Shrugging and wetting her lips, she said, “Dan didn’t want a part-time wife.”

“And that led to your divorce?”

She nodded. “When Mom died, I went to Alaska to get away from everything, but dog-sledding brought me back.”

“And your father – how did he react to your return?”

“Oh, he was getting along fine. He had a housekeeper three days a week and a new truck and a harvester with stereo in the cab and half a million dollars’ worth of drain tile. He was a lot nicer to me than before, and he gave me a piece of land for my mobile home and kennels… I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I guess it’s because you’re so understanding.”

“I’ve had troubles of my own,” he said. “One question occurred to me: Is your father a gambler?”

“Just in the football pool at the tavern. He never even buys a lottery ticket… Would you like another cola?” Corky had just rejoined the group, and a swish of his tail had swept Qwilleran’s beverage off the table.

“No, thanks. Let’s go out and see what a sled looks like.”

The seven-foot sled, like a basket on runners, was in a small pole barn, where it shared space with a snowplow, snow blower, and other maintenance equipment.

“It’s made of birch and oak,” Nancy said. “This is the handrail. That’s the brake board down there. It’s held together with screws and glue and rawhide lacing. I varnish it before each sledding season.”

“A work of art,” Qwilleran declared. “Now let’s meet your family.”

The dogs anticipated their coming. Puppies in a fenced yard were racing and wrestling and jumping for joy. The adults raised a high-decibel clamor that Nancy quieted with a secret word. They were lean, handsome, high-waisted, long-legged animals in assorted colors and markings, with slanted blue eyes that gave them a sweet expression.

“These two are the lead dogs, Terry and Jerry. They’re the captains, very brainy. Spunky and Chris are the wheel dogs, right in front of the sled.”

Both Qwilleran and Nancy turned as a police vehicle pulled into the yard. It was a sheriff’s car, and an officer in a wide-brimmed hat stepped out.

She shouted, “Hi, Dan! This is Mr. Qwilleran from the newspaper.”

Qwilleran, recognizing the deputy’s reticent and almost sullen attitude, said, “I believe we’ve met. You rescued me after a blizzard a couple of years ago.”

The deputy nodded.

“Mr. Qwilleran is going to write up my dog team, Dan.”

“But we’ll hold the story until after snow flies. I’ll work on it and call if I have any more questions… Beautiful animals. Interesting sport. Good interview.” He moved toward his car.

“You don’t have to leave,” she protested.

“I have to go home and feed the cats,” he explained, making an excuse that was always accepted.

Nancy accompanied him to his car. “Gary says you’re living in Mrs. Gage’s big house.”

“That’s right. I’m renting it from Junior Goodwinter, her grandson.” He noticed a flicker in her eyes, which he attributed to memories of the high school prom, but it was something else.

“I’ve been in that house many times,” she said. “It’s huge!”

“Did you know Mrs. Gage?”

“Did I! My mother was her housekeeper for years and years. Every year Mom took me there for Christmas cookies and hot chocolate, and Mrs. Gage always gave me a present.”

“That was gracious of her,” Qwilleran said. “What did you think of her?”

“Well, she didn’t fuss over me, but she was… nice.”

Now he had one more adjective to describe the enigmatic Euphonia Gage, and another reason to call Florida and quiz her talkative neighbor.

“Do you like apples?” he asked Nancy before leaving. He handed her a brown paper bag.

Back at the mansion he submitted to the Siamese Sniff Test. After an afternoon with Corky and twenty-seven Siberian huskies, he rated minus-zero. Their investigation was cut short by a ringing telephone.

“Hey, Qwill!” said an excited Junior Goodwinter. “Can you stand some good news?”

“It’s a boy,” Qwilleran guessed.

“No, nothing like that; Jody’s still here, getting antsy. But somebody wants to buy the Gage mansion! I just got a long distance phone call!

“Congratulations! Who’s making the offer?”

“A realtor in Chicago.”

“Is it a good offer?”

“Very good! What do you suppose it means? The house wasn’t even listed for sale. And why should they pick mine when there are seven for-sale signs on the street? I’ll bet Grandma Gage tipped someone off before she died.”

“Don’t ask questions,” Qwilleran advised. “Take the money and run.”

“I’m going to tell them it’s rented until spring, so don’t worry about having to move out, Qwill.”

“I appreciate that. And let’s not tell Polly until the deal’s closed. She’ll be upset about losing the carriage house.”

“Okay, I won’t. Golly! This is the best news I’ve had since I-don’t-know-when.”

“Good things come in threes,” Qwilleran said. “Maybe Jody will have twins. By the way, was there a woman in the Gage family by the name of Cynara?”

“I don’t think so. How do you spell it?”

“Like the poem: C-y-n-a-r-a.”

“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

At a suitable hour – late enough for the fifty-percent discount but not too late for a Pink Sunset resident – Qwilleran placed a call to Florida, and Koko leaped to the desk in anticipation. “Arrange your optic fibers,” Qwilleran advised him. “This may be enlightening.” The cat’s whiskers and eyebrows curved forward.

When a woman’s cheery voice answered, he asked in a rich and ingratiating tone, “May I speak with Celia Robinson?”

There was a trill of laughter. “I know it’s you, Clayton. You can’t fool your old grandmother. Does your mother know you’re calling?”

“I’m afraid I’m not Clayton. I’m a colleague of Junior Goodwinter, Mrs. Gage’s grandson. I’m calling from Pickax. My name is Jim Qwilleran.”

She hooted with delight tinged with embarrassment. “Oh, I thought you were my prankish grandson, changing his voice. He’s a great one for playing practical jokes. What did you say your name was?”

“Jim Qwilleran. Junior gave me your number.”

“Yes, he was here for a few days. He’s a nice boy. And I know all about you. Mrs. Gage showed me the articles you write for the paper. What’s the name of the paper?”

“The Moose County Something.”

“I knew it was a funny name, but I couldn’t remember. And I loved your picture! You have a wonderful moustache. You remind me of someone on TV.”

“Thank you,” he said graciously, although he preferred compliments on his writing. Clearing his throat he began, “The editor has assigned me to write a profile of Euphonia Gage, and I’d like to talk with someone who knew her in Florida. Were you well acquainted with her?”

“Oh, yes, we were next-door neighbors, and I sort of looked after her.”

“In what way? I’m going to tape this if you don’t mind.”

“Well, I checked up on her every day, and I’d always drive her where she wanted to go. She didn’t like driving in the bumper-to-bumper traffic we have around here. She was eighty-eight, you know. I’m only sixty-eight.”

“Your voice sounds much younger, Mrs. Robinson.”

“Do you think so?” she said happily. “That’s because I sing.”

“In nightclubs?” he asked slyly.

Mrs. Robinson laughed merrily. “No, just around the house, but I used to sing in a church choir before I moved down here. Would you like to hear me sing something?”

Qwilleran thought, I have a live one here! “I was hoping you’d suggest it,” he said. He expected to hear “Amazing Grace.” Instead she sang the entire verse and chorus of “Mrs. Robinson” in a clear, untrained voice. Listening, he tried to visualize her; it was his custom to picture strangers in his mind’s eye. He imagined her to be buxom and rosy-cheeked, with partly gray hair and seashell earrings. “Brava!” he shouted when she had finished. “I’ve never heard it sung better.”

“Thank you. It’s Clayton’s favorite,” she said. “You have a nice voice, too… Now, what was I telling you about Mrs. Gage? She didn’t like to be called by her first name, and I don’t blame her. It sounded like some kind of old-fashioned phonograph.”

“You said you did the driving. Did she still have her yellow sport coupe?”

“No, she sold that, and we took my navy blue sedan. She called it an old lady’s. I thought she was being funny, but she was serious.”

“And where would you two ladies drive?”

“Mostly to the mall – for lunch and to buy a few things. She liked to eat at a health food place.”

“Would you say she was happy at the Park of Pink

Sunsets?”

“I think so. She went on day trips in the activity bus, and she liked to give talks at the clubhouse.”

“What kind of talks?”

Mrs. Robinson had to think a moment. “Mmmm… diet and exercise, music, art, the right way to breathe..

.”

“Were these lectures well attended?”

“Well, to tell the truth, they weren’t as popular as the old movies on Thursday nights, but a lot of people went because they didn’t have anything better to do. Also they had tea and cookies after the talk. Mrs. Gage paid for the refreshments.”

Qwilleran said, “I met Mrs. Gage only once and that was for a short time. What was she like?”

“Oh, she was very interesting – not like the ones… that are forever talking about their ailments and the grandchildren they never see. The park discourages young visitors. You have to get a five-dollar permit before you can have a visitor under sixteen years of age, and then it’s only for forty-eight hours. Clayton likes to spend the whole Christmas week with me, because he doesn’t like his stepmother. She’s too serious, but his granny laughs a lot. Maybe you’ve noticed,” she added with a giggle.

“How old is Clayton?”

“Just turned thirteen. He’s a very bright boy with a crazy sense of humor. We have a ball! Last Christmas he figured out how to beat the system. When I picked him up at the airport, he was wearing a false beard! The sight of it just broke me up! He said I should introduce him to my neighbors as Dr. Clayton Robinson of Johns Hopkins. I went along with the gag. It’s lucky that none of our neighbors have very good eyesight.”

“Did he have his skateboard?” Qwilleran asked.

“Yow!” said Koko in a voice loud and clear.

“Do I hear a baby crying?” Mrs. Robinson asked.

“That’s Koko, my Siamese cat. He’s auditing this call.”

“I used to have cats, and I’d love to have one now, but pets aren’t allowed in the park. No cats, no dogs, not even birds!”

“How about goldfish?”

“Oh, that’s funny! That’s really funny!” she said. “I’m going to ask for a permit to have goldfish, and see what they say. They have no sense of humor. Last Christmas Clayton brought me a recording of a dog singing ‘Jingle Bells.’ Maybe you’ve heard it. ‘Woof woof woof… woof woof woof!’ “

“Yow!” Koko put in.

“Was Mrs. Gage amused?” Qwilleran asked. “

“Not exactly. And the management of the park threw a fit!”

“Who are these people who issue five-dollar permits and throw fits?”

“Betty and Claude. He owns the park, and she’s the manager. I don’t think they’re married, but they’re always together. Don’t get me wrong; they’re really very nice if you play by the rules. Then there is Pete, the assistant whenever when they’re out of town. He’s handy with tools and electricity and all that. He fixed my radio for nothing.”

“How did Mrs. Gage react to all the restrictions?”

“Well, you see, she was quite friendly with Betty and Claude, and she got special treatment, sort of. They took her to the dog races a lot. She enjoyed their company. She liked younger people.”

“Including Dr. Clayton Robinson?” His grandmother responded to the mild quip with peals of laughter. “Clayton would love to meet you, Mr…. “

“Qwilleran. Did he get away with the beard trick?”

“Oh, we didn’t hang around the park too much. We went to the beach and movies and video arcades and antique shops. Clayton collects old photos of funny-looking people and calls them his ancestors. Like, one is an old lady in bonnet and shawl; he says it’s his great-grandfather in drag. Isn’t that a hoot?”

“Your grandson has a great future, Mrs. Robinson.”

“Call me Celia. Everybody does.”

“Talking with you has been a pleasure, Celia. You’ve given me a graphic picture of Mrs. Gage’s last home. Just one serious question: Does anyone have an idea why she took her life?”

“Well… we’re not supposed to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Well, this isn’t the first suicide we’ve had, and Claude is afraid it’ll reflect on the park. But Mr. Crocus and I have whispered about it, and we can’t figure it out.”

“Who is Mr. Crocus?” Qwilleran asked with renewed interest.

“He’s a nice old gentleman. He plays the violin. He had a crush on Mrs. Gage and followed her around like a puppy. He misses her a lot. I hope he doesn’t pine away and die. There’s a big turnover here, you know, but there’s always someone waiting to move in. They’ve already sold Mrs. Gage’s house to a widower from Iowa.”

“Considering all the restrictions, why is the park so desirable?”

“Mostly it’s the security. You can call the office twenty-four hours a day, if you have an emergency. There’s limousine service to medical clinics, although you pay for it. They recommend doctors and lawyers and tax experts, which is nice because we’re all from other states. I’m from Illinois. Also, there are things going on at the clubhouse, and there’s the activity bus. Would you like to see some snapshots of Mrs. Gage on one of our sightseeing trips? Maybe you could use them with your article.”

Qwilleran said it was an excellent suggestion and, asked her to mail them to him at the newspaper office.

.”What was the name of it, did you say?”

“The Moose County Something. “

“I love that! It’s really funny!” she said with a chuckle. “I’ll write it down.”

“And do you mind if I call you again, Celia?”

“Gosh, no! It’s fun being interviewed.”

“Perhaps you’d like to see the obituary that ran in Wednesday’s paper. I’ll send two copies – one for Mr. Crusoe.”

“Crocus,” she corrected him. “Yes, he’d appreciate that a lot, Mr. Qwilleran.”

“For your information, I’m usually called Qwill”

“Oh! Like in quill pen!”

“Except it’s spelled with a Qw.”

“Yow!” said Koko.

“I’d better say goodnight and hang up, Celia. Koko wants to use the phone.”

The last sound he heard from the receiver was a torrent of laughter. He turned to Koko. “That was Mrs. Robinson at the Park of Pink Sunsets.”

The cat was fascinated by telephones. The ringing of the bell, the sound of a human voice coming from the instrument, and the mere fact that Qwilleran was conversing with an inanimate object seemed to stimulate his feline sensibilities. And he showed particular interest in the Florida grandmother with lively risibility. Qwilleran wondered why. He thought, Does he know something I don’t? Koko’s blue eyes were wearing their expression of profound wisdom.

“Treat!” Qwilleran announced, and there was the thud of galloping paws en route to the kitchen.

-8-

ON MONDAY MORNING Qwilleran was weighing the advantages of staying in bed versus the disadvantages of listening to a feline reveille outside his door. The decision was made for him when the telephone rang in the library. He hoisted himself out of bed, put his slippers on the wrong feet, and padded down the hall.

“Hey, Qwill!” came the familiar voice of Junior Goodwinter. “I need help! Tomorrow’s election day, and we’re gonna do a run-down on the candidates in today’s paper. Would you handle one for us? It’s an emergency. Everyone’s pitching in, even the maintenance guy.” “Now’s a helluva time to think of it,” said Qwilleran in the grumpy mood that preceded his first cup of coffee. He looked at his watch and computed the length of time before the noon deadline.

“Don’t blame me! Arch came barging in half an hour ago with the idea, and he’s the boss.”

:What’s he been doing for the last two weeks, besides courting Mildred?”

“Listen, Qwill, all you have to do is question your candidate on the list of issues, but not on the phone. Personal contact.”

Qwilleran growled something inaudible. There were three candidates for the mayoralty, seven for two vacancies on the city council, and six for one post on the county board. “Okay,” he said, “of the sixteen incumbents, outsiders, nobodies, and perennial losers, which one is assigned to me?”

“George Breze.”

“I might have known you’d give me an airhead.”

“Stop at the office first to get a list of the issues. Deadline is twelve noon, so you’d better get hopping.”

Fifteen minutes later, Qwilleran – unbreakfasted, unshaved, and only casually combed – reported to the newspaper office. Junior handed him a list. “Just tape the interview. We’ll transcribe it.”

“By the way,” Qwilleran said, “I phoned Celia Robinson in Florida last night.”

“Tell me about it later,” the editor said as both phones on his desk started to ring.

George Breze was a one-man conglomerate who operated his sprawling empire from a shack on Sandpit Road, surrounded by rental trucks, mini-storage buildings, a do-it-yourself car wash, and junk cars waiting to be cannibalized. Usually there was merchandise for sale under a canvas canopy, such as pumpkins in October, Christmas trees in December, and sacks of sheep manure in the spring. His parking lot was always full on Saturday nights. Teens were admonished not to stop there on the way home from school.

Breze was one of two candidates opposing the incumbent mayor, the well-liked Gregory Blythe. On the way to interview him, Qwilleran stopped for breakfast at the Dimsdale Diner, where the number of pickups in the parking lot assured him that the coffee hour was in full swig. Inside the decrepit diner the usual bunch of men in feed caps gathered around a big table, smoking and shouting and laughing. They made room for Qwilleran after he had picked up two doughnuts and a mug of coffee at the counter.

“What’s the latest weather report?” he asked.

“Heavy frost tonight,” said a sheep rancher.

“Light snow later in the week,” said a farm equipment dealer.

“The Big Snow is on the way,” a trucker predicted.”

“Who’s our next mayor?” Qwilleran then asked.

“Blythe’ll get in again. No contest,” someone said. “He drinks a little, but who doesn’t?”

“Do you see George Breze as a threat?”

The coffee drinkers erupted in vituperation, and the county agricultural agent said, “He’s exactly what we need, a mayor with wide experience: loan shark, ticket fixer, ex-bootlegger, part-time bookie, tealeaf reader…”

The last triggered an explosion of laughter, and the group broke up.

Qwilleran caught the ear of the ag agent. “Do you know Gil Inchpot?”

“Sure do. He shipped out a week ago without harvesting his crop or fulfilling his contracts. He must’ve cracked up.”

“Is there any chance of hiring fieldhands to dig his potatoes? The K Foundation has funds for economic emergencies.”

“Don’t know how you could swing it,” said the agent, removing his cap to scratch his head. “Everybody’s short of help, and they’re racing to get their own crops in before frost.”

“Inchpot always helped other people in a pinch,” Qwilleran argued.

“That he did; I’ll give him credit. Gimme time to think about it, Qwill, and pray it doesn’t freeze tonight.”

With this scant encouragement Qwilleran drove to the Breze campaign headquarters on Sand pit Road and found the candidate seated behind a scarred wooden desk in a ramshackle hut. He was wearing a blue nylon jacket and red feed cap.

“Come in! Come in! Sit down!” Breze shouted heartily, dusting off a chair with a rag he kept under his desk. “Glad you called before comin’ so I could cancel my other appointments.” He spoke in a loud, brisk voice. “Cuppa coffee?”

“No, thanks. I never drink when I’m working.”

“What can I do you for?”

“Just answer a few questions, Mr. Breze.” Qwilleran placed his tape recorder on the desk. “Why are you running for office?”

“I was born and brought up here. The town’s been good to me. I owe it to the people,” he answered promptly.

“Do you believe you’ll be elected?”

“Absolutely! Everybody knows me and likes me. I went to school with ’em.”

“What do you plan to accomplish if elected mayor?”

“I want to help the people with their problems and keep the streets clean. Clean streets are important.”

“Would you favor light or heavy industry for economic development in Pickax?”

“Light or heavy, it don’t matter. The important thing is to make jobs for the people and keep the streets clean.”

“What do you think about the current controversy over sewers?”

“It’ll straighten out. It always does,” Breze said with a wave of the hand.

“There’s talk about township annexation. Where do you stand on that issue?”

“I don’t know about that. I don’t think it’s important. Jobs – that’s what matters.”

“Do you support the proposal to install parking meters in downtown Pickax?”

“Is that something new? I haven’t heard about it. Free parking is best for the people.”

“What do you think of the education system in Pickax?”

“Well, I went to school here, and I turned out all right.” The candidate laughed lustily.

“Do you think the police department is doing a good job?”

“Absolutely! They’re a good bunch of boys.”

“In your opinion, what is the most important issue facing the city council?”

“That’s hard to say. Myself, I’m gonna fight for clean streets.”

Qwilleran thanked Breze for his cogent opinions and delivered the tape to the paper. “Here’s my interview with the Great Populist,” he told Junior.

“Sorry to brush you off this morning,” said the editor. “What did you want to tell me about Celia Robinson?”

“Only that I talked with her for half an hour and didn’t get a single clue to your grandmother’s motive.”

“I know you like to get to the bottom of things, Qwill, but frankly, I’ve got too many other things on my mind. Jack and Pug are flying in tomorrow. The reading of the will is Wednesday in Wilmot’s office. The memorial service is Thursday night. And every time the phone rings, I think it’s Jody, ready to go to the hospital.”

“Then I won’t bother you,” Qwilleran said, “but count on dinner Wednesday night, and let me know if there’s anything I can do. I could drive Jody to the hospital if you’re in a bind.”

After stopping for lunch, he went home and parked under the porte cochere. Even before he approached the side door, he could hear the commotion indoors, and he knew he was in trouble. Two indignant Siamese were yowling in unison, pacing the floor and switching their tails in spasms of reproach.

“Oh, no!” he groaned, slapping his forehead in guilt. “I forgot your breakfast! A thousand apologies! Junior threw me a curve.” He quickly emptied cans of boned chicken and solid-pack tuna on their plate. “Consider this a brunch. All you can eat!”

That was his second mistake. All the food went down, but half of it came up.

Qwilleran spent the afternoon preparing for his third performance of “The Big Burning,” and when he drove to the Hotel Booze at seven o’clock, the parking lot was jammed. The Outdoor Club was in the caf\u201a, enjoying boozeburgers, when he set up the stage in the meeting room. There were extra chairs, he noted, the front row being a mere six feet from the platform.

“Largest crowd they’ve ever had!” Hixie Rice exulted as she tested the sound and lights, “and I’ve got bookings for three more shows!” A rumble of voices in the lobby announced the approaching audience, and Qwilleran ducked through the exit door, while Hixie shook hands with the officers of the club and seated the youngsters in the front rows.

With his ear to the door he heard the first notes of “Anitra’s Dance” and counted thirty seconds before making an entrance and mounting the stage. “We interrupt this program to bring you a bulletin on the forest fires that are rapidly approaching Moose County…

In the first three rows eyes and mouths were wide open. A small girl in the front row, whose feet could not reach the floor, was swinging them back and forth continuously. Her legs, in white leggings, were like a beacon in the dark room. When the old farmer’s voice came from the speakers, the legs swung faster. The old farmer was saying:

“I come in from my farm west o’ here, and I seen some terrible things! Hitched the hosses to the wagon and got my fambly here safe but never thought we’d make it! We come through fire rainin’ down out of the sky like hailstones! Smoke everywhere! Couldn’t see the road, hardly. Hay in the wagon caught fire, and we had to throw it out and rattle along on the bare boards. We picked up one lad not more’n eight year old, carryin’ a baby – all that were left of his fambly. His shoes, they was burned clean off his feet!”

The white legs never stopped swinging, back and forth like a pendulum: left, right, left, right. Qwilleran, aware of the movement through the corner of his eye, found himself being mesmerized. He had to fight to maintain his concentration on the announcer’s script:

“Here in Pickax it’s dark as midnight. Winds have suddenly risen to hurricane fury. Great blasts of heat and cinders are smothering the city. We can hear screams of frightened horses, then a splintering crash as a great tree is uprooted or the wind wrenches the roof from a house. Wagons are being lifted like toys and blown away!… There’s a red glare in the sky!… Pickax is in flames!”

The red light flicked on. Coughing and choking, the announcer rushed from the studio.

In the hallway beyond the exit door Qwilleran leaned against the wall, recovering from the scene he had just played. A moment later, Hixie joined him. “They love it!” she said. “Especially the part about the boy with his shoes burned off. The kids identify.”

“Did you see that one swinging her legs in the front row?” Qwilleran asked irritably.

“She was spellbound!”

“Well, those white legs were putting a spell on me! I was afraid I’d topple off my chair.”

“Did you hear the girl crying when you told about the little baby? She created quite a disturbance.”

“I don’t care if the whole audience cries!” Qwilleran snapped. “Get those white legs out of the front row!”

When he made his entrance for Scene Two, an instant hush fell upon the room. Surreptitiously he glanced at the front row; the white legs had gone.

“After a sleepless night, Pickax can see daylight. The smoke is lifting, but the acrid smell of burning is everywhere, and the scene is one of desolation in every direction. Only this brick courthouse is left standing, a haven for hundreds of refugees. Fortunately a sudden wind from the lake turned back the flames, and Mooseville and Brrr have been saved.”

Qwilleran had not seen the last of the white legs, however. Halfway through Scene Two he was interviewing the Irish innkeeper by phone: “Sir, what news do you hear from Sawdust City?”

A thick Irish brogue came from the speakers: “It’s gone! All gone! Every stick of it, they’re tellin’. And there’s plenty of sad tales this mornin’. One poor chap from Sawdust City walked into town carryin’ the remains of his wife and little boy in a pail – a ten-quart pail! Wouldja believe it, now?”

At that tense moment, Qwilleran’s peripheral vision picked up a pair of white legs walking toward the stage. What the devil is she doing? he thought.

The girl climbed onto the stage, crossed to the exit door at the rear, and went to the restroom.

The radio announcer went on. “Many tales of heroism and fortitude have been reported. In West Kirk thirteen persons went down a well and stood in three feet of water for five hours. In Dimsdale a mother saved her three children by burying them in a plowed field until the danger had passed…”

The white legs returned, taking a shortcut across the stage. It didn’t faze the audience. At the end of the show they applauded wildly, and the president of the Outdoor Club made Qwilleran and Hixie honorary members. Then she fielded questions while he packed the gear, surrounded by the under-ten crowd. They were fascinated by the tape player, lights, cables, and other equipment being folded into compact carrying cases.

“I liked it when you talked on the telephone,” one said.

“How do you know all that stuff?” another asked.

“Why didn’t everybody get in a bus and drive to Mooseville or Brrr to be saved?”

“How could he get his wife and little boy in a pail?”

“I liked the red light.”

One three-year-old girl stood silently sucking her thumb and staring at Qwilleran’s moustache.

“Did you like the show?” he asked her.

She nodded soberly before taking the thumb from her mouth. “What was it about?” she asked earnestly. He was relieved when Nancy Fincher came to the stage. “Mr. Qwilleran, it was wonderful! I never liked history before, but you made it so real, I cried.”

“Thank you,” he said. “As soon as I put these cases in my car, may I invite you for a drink in the caf\u201a?”

“Let me carry one,” she said, grabbing the largest of the three. Delicate though she seemed, she handled the heavy case like a trifle. When they were established on the wobbly barstools, he asked, “Will you have something to eat? I’m always famished after the show. ‘The Big Burning’ burns up a lot of energy.”

“Just a cola for me,” she said. “I had supper here, and half of my burger is in a doggie bag in my truck.”

Qwilleran ordered a boozeburger with fries. “You mentioned that potatoes are a complicated crop to raise,” he said to Nancy. “I always thought they’d be a cinch.”

Nancy shook her head soberly. “That’s what

everybody thinks. But first you have to know what kind to

plant – for the conditions you’re working with and the

market you’re selling to. Different markets want large or

small, white skins or redskins, bakers or boilers or

fryers.”

“You seem to know a lot about the subject.”

“I grew up with potatoes.”

“Don’t stop. Tell me more.” He was concentrating on the burger, which was enormously thick.

“Well, first you have to have the right kind of soil, and it has to be well drained. Then you have to know the right time to plant and the right kind of fertilizer. Then you worry about crop diseases and weeds and insects and rain. You need enough rain but not too much. And then you have to gamble on the right time to harvest.”

“I have a new respect for potato farmers… and potatoes,” he said.

A soft look suffused Nancy’s face. “When Mom was alive, we used to dig down with our fingers and take out the small new tubers very carefully, so as not to interfere with the others. Then we’d have creamed new potatoes with new peas.”

Gary Pratt shuffled up to them. “Are you folks ready for another drink or anything?”

“Not for me,” she said. “I have to stop and check Pop’s mailbox and then go home and take care of my dogs. I’ve been working at the clinic all day.”

The two men watched her go, lugging her oversized shoulderbag.

“Quite a gal,” Gary said. “She has that tiny little voice, and you think she doesn’t have much on the ball, but the thing of it is, she’s a terrific racer, and she really knows dogs. I tried to date her when she came back from Alaska, but her old man didn’t like my haircut. So what? I didn’t like the dirt under his fingernails. Anyway, Nancy still had a thing for Dan Fincher. Women think he’s the strong, silent type, but I think he’s a klutz.”

“Interesting if true,” said Qwilleran, making light of the gossip. “What’s the latest on the weather?”

“Heavy frost tonight. Snow on the way.”

On the trip back to Pickax Qwilleran drove through farming country, where the bright headlights of tractors in the fields meant that farmers were working around the clock to beat the frost. He felt a twinge of remorse. If he had acted sooner, the Klingenschoen clout might have saved Gil Inchpot’s crop.

He was carrying a sample of booze burger for the Siamese. “After my faux pas this morning,” he told them, “I owe you one.” Later, the three of them were in the library, reading Robinson Crusoe, when the sharp ring of the telephone made all of them jump. Qwilleran guessed it would be Junior, announcing that Jody had given birth; or it would be Polly, inquiring about the show in Brrr; or it would be Arch Riker, saying that Breze was suing the paper because the other candidates sounded better than he did.

“Hello?” he said, ready for anything.

“Mr. Qwilleran,” said a breathless voice, “Gary gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.”

“That’s all right.”

“I discovered something when I got to Pop’s house, and I notified the police, but I wanted to tell you because you’ve been so kind and so interested.”

“What was it, Nancy?”

“When I got to the farm, I cut my hand on the mailbox pretty bad, so I went indoors for some antiseptic and a bandage. And in a medicine cabinet I saw Pop’s dentures in a glass of water. He would never leave home without his dentures!”

Qwilleran combed his moustache with his fingertips as he thought of the partial denture in the desk drawer. He glanced at the Siamese. Yum Yum was pedicuring her left hind foot; Koko was sitting there looking wise.

-9-

THERE WAS HEAVY frost in Moose County that night. The tumble-down hamlet of Wildcat, the quaint resort town of Mooseville, the affluent estates of West Middle Hummock, the condominiums in Indian Village, the vacation homes in Purple Point, the stone canyons of downtown Pickax, the mansions of Goodwinter Boulevard, the abandoned mineshafts, the airport… all looked mystically hoary in the first morning light.

Qwilleran felt moody as he drank his morning coffee. There was the usual letdown after the excitement and; challenge of doing a show, plus a gnawing regret about the Inchpot crop. Hundreds of acres of potatoes had been lost – after being scientifically planted, fertilized, weeded, sprayed, and prayed over. And now, after hearing Nancy’s grim news about the dentures, Qwilleran felt real concern about Gil Inchpot himself.

He was somewhat gladdened, therefore, when Lori Bamba called to ask if her husband could deliver some letters and checks for signing. Nick Bamba was an engineer at the state prison; he shared Qwilleran’s interest in crime and the mystery that often surrounds it. Whenever Qwilleran mentioned his suspicions and hunches to his friends, Polly remonstrated and Riker taunted him, but Nick always took him seriously.

He was a young man with alert black eyes that observed everything. “Someone ran a truck over your curb,” he said upon arrival.

“Those blasted leaf blowers! They’re a slap-happy crew!” Qwilleran complained. “Did you vote this morning?”

“I was first in line. There was a good turnout in Mooseville because of the millage issue. The voters don’t get excited about the candidates; one’s no better than another. But propose increased millage, and they’re all at the polls to vote no. Why don’t you run for county office, Qwill? You could make waves.”

“I’d rather see Koko’s name on the ballot… Will you have coffee or hot cider?”

“I’ll try the cider.” Nick handed over a folder of correspondence. “Lori says you’re getting a lot of fan mail since your ‘Big Burning’ preview. The Mooseville Chamber of Commerce wants to book the show after the holidays.”

“I trust the members are all over eight years old,” Qwilleran said testily.

They carried their cider mugs into the library, and Nick remarked, “I see you’ve got an elevator. Does it work?”

“Definitely. We used it at the preview of our show. Adam Dingleberry was here in his wheelchair.”

At that point Koko walked into the library with deliberate step and rose on his hind legs to rattle the closet doorknob.

“What’s old slyboots got on his mind?” Nick asked.

“This is the only closet in the house that’s locked, and it drives him bughouse,” Qwilleran said. “All the closets are filled with junk, and Koko spends his spare time digging for buried treasure.”

“Has he found any gold coins or diamond rings?”

“Not as yet. Mostly stale cigars and old shoelaces.”

“Want me to pick the lock for you? I’ll bring my tools next time I’m in town.”

“Sure. I’m curious about this closet myself.”

“I suppose you heard on the radio about the missing potato farmer, Gil Inchpot. Police are investigating his disappearance ten days ago.”

“I heard something about it,” Qwilleran mentioned.

“He’s quite a successful farmer, you know. I never met the guy, but his daughter was married to a deputy sheriff I know, Dan Fincher. It didn’t last long; her father broke it up.”

“Why? Do you know?”

Nick shrugged. “Dan isn’t very big on particulars. I know that Gil Inchpot is well liked at the Crossroads Tavern and at the farm co-op, but Dan says he’s a bully at home.”

Qwilleran reached for Nick’s cider mug. “Fill ‘er up?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got errands to do – prison business.”

“Do you like apples at your house? I’ve got some you can take home to the kids.”

Nick left, carrying a brown paper bag, and after Qwilleran had signed his letters and checks, he took another sackful to the newspaper office.

“I’ll trade these for a cup of coffee,” he told Junior.

“How’s everything going?”

“Jack and Pug have arrived. They’re staying at the New Pickax Hotel. Jody doesn’t feel like having

company.”

“That’s wise. Will she come to dinner tomorrow night? Polly is joining us.”

“Why don’t you make the reservation for six?” said the expectant father, “and we’ll see how she feels.”

“When is the will being read?”

“Ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Keep your fingers crossed.”

While the will was being read in Pender Wilmot’s office, Qwilleran was at home, eating an apple and estimating the extent of Euphonia Gage’s estate. No doubt she had cashed in heavily when she liquidated her jewels, real estate, fine paintings, and family heirlooms. No doubt her late husband, being financially savvy and not entirely honest, had left her some blue-chip securities. Her recent economies, such as living in a mobile home and wearing seashell jewelry, were no more peculiar than his own preference for driving a used car and pumping his own gas. And, nearing the end of her life, she may have been moved by a nobly generous impulse to provide handsomely for her six great-grandchildren and the one yet unborn.

That evening, his guests were late in arriving at the Old Stone Mill. He and Polly sat waiting and talking about the election results. As everyone expected, Gregory Blythe had been re-elected. He was an investment counselor, a good administrator, and a former high school principal with Goodwinter blood on his mother’s side. The public had forgotten the scandal that ousted him from the education system in Pickax, and he was always sober when he conducted city council meetings.

After half an hour Polly asked, “What do you suppose has happened to them? Junior is always so punctual. Perhaps he’s taken Jody to the hospital.”

“I’ll phone their house,” Qwilleran said.

To his surprise, Jody answered. “He left about half an hour ago to pick up Pug and Jack,” she said. “I decided not to go. I hope you don’t mind.” She sounded depressed.

“Do you feel all right, Jody?”

“Oh, yes, I’m all right, considering…”

When the hostess conducted the tardy guests to the table, Qwilleran rose to greet three unhappy faces: Pug as distraught as a Montana rancher who has had to shoot her favorite horse; Jack as glum as a California advertising executive who has lost his major client; Junior as indignant as an editor who is being sued for libel.

Introductions were made, chairs were pulled out, napkins were unfolded, and Polly tried to make polite conversation: “Are you comfortable at the hotel?… How do you like Montana?… Have you adjusted to sunny California?” Her efforts failed to elevate the mood.

“What would you like to drink?” Qwilleran asked. “Champagne? A cocktail? Pug, what is your choice?”

“Bourbon and water,” she said, pouting.

“Scotch margarita,” said Jack grimly.

“Rye on the rocks,” said Junior, fidgeting in his chair.

While they were waiting to be served, Qwilleran talked about the weather for five minutes: the weather last month, the outlook for the rest of this month, the prediction for next month… all of this to fill the void until

the drinks arrived. Then he raised his glass. “Would anyone like to propose a toast?”

“To bad news!” Junior blurted.

“To a royal rip-off” said Jack.

“Oh, dear,” Polly murmured.

“Sorry to hear that,” Qwilleran said.

Scowling, Jack said, “Pug and I flew thousands of miles just to be told that she left us a hundred dollars apiece! I’m damned mad! She was a spiteful old woman!”

“Surprising!” Qwilleran turned to Junior for corroboration.

“Same here,” said the younger brother, “only I didn’t have to cross the continent to get the shaft.”

“I had the impression,” Qwilleran remarked, “that your grandmother was a generous person.”

“Sure,” said Pug. “She put us all through college, but there were strings attached. We didn’t know it gave her the privilege to direct our lives, dictate our careers, choose our hobbies, approve our marriages! She was furious when Jack went to the coast and I married a rancher. For a wedding present she sent us a wooden nutcracker.”

Polly asked, “Can anyone explain the reason for her attitude?”

“If you’re looking for excuses, I can’t think of any.” Junior said, “Here’s a typical example of her thoughtlessness. Her ancestors were pioneer doctors here, and she inherited a beautiful black walnut box of surgical knives and saws and other instruments, all pre-Civil War. Why didn’t she give them to the Museum of Local History, where they’d mean something? Instead she sold them with everything else.”

“She was a selfish egocentric, that’s all,” said Jack.

“How about your grandfather?” Qwilleran asked. “What was he like?”

“Kind of jolly, although he wasn’t around much.”

“Our paternal grandmother was different,” said Pug. “She wasn’t rich, but she was warm and cuddly and loving.”

“And she made the best fudge!” Jack added.

There was a nostalgic silence at the table until Qwilleran cleared his throat preparatory to introducing a sensitive subject. “If you’re all left out of the will, who are the beneficiaries?”

The three young people looked at each other, and Junior said bitterly, “The Park of Pink Sunsets! They get everything – to build, equip, and maintain a health spa for the residents. She revised her will after she got to Florida.”

Polly said, “It’s not unusual for the elderly to forget family and friends and leave everything to strangers they meet in their final days. That’s why wills are so often contested.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” Qwilleran said in an effort to brighten the occasion, “Junior owns the contents of the locked closet in the library, which may be full of Grandpa Gage’s gold coins and Grandma Gage’s jewelry.”

No one was amused, and Junior replied, “There’s nothing in that closet but her private papers, and I’m instructed to burn them.”

Then Jack said, “If anyone thinks we’re sticking around for the memorial service tomorrow night, they can stuff it! We’ve changed our flight reservations.”

“That hotel,” Pug said, “is the worst I’ve ever experienced! I can’t wait to get out of this tank town!”

Qwilleran said, “I think we should all have another drink and order dinner.” He signaled for service.

“I second the motion,” Junior said. “Enough gnashing of teeth! Let’s enjoy our food, at least… How are your cats, Qwill?” To his sister and brother he explained, “Qwill has a couple of Siamese.”

Polly said, “Qwill, dear, tell them about Koko and the cleaning closet.”

He hesitated, trying to recollect the incident in all of its absurdity. “Well, you see, where I live in the summer, there’s a closet for Mrs. Fulgrove’s prodigious collection of waxes, polishes, detergents, spray bottles, and squirt cans.”

“Is that woman still cleaning houses?” Pug asked. “I thought she’d be dead by now.”

“She’s still cleaning and still complaining about cat-hairs. I always leave the house to avoid her harangues. One day I came home after the dear lady had left and found the male cat missing! But the female was huddled in front of the cleaning closet, staring at the door handle. I yanked open the door, and out billowed a white cloud. It filled almost the whole closet, obliterating shelves, cans, and bottles. And above it all was Koko, sitting on the top shelf, looking nonchalant. Mrs. Fulgrove had accidentally shut him in the closet, and he had accidentally activated the can of foam carpet cleaner.”

“Or purposely,” Junior added. “I reported the story in my column, and the manufacturer sent me enough foam cleaner to do all the rugs in Moose County.”

After that interlude, everyone was somewhat relaxed though not really happy, and Qwilleran was relieved when the meal came to an end. As the party was leaving, Junior handed him an envelope.

“Forgot to give you this, Qwill. It came to the office today, addressed to you.”

It was a pink envelope with a Florida postmark and the official logo of the Park of Pink Sunsets. He slid it into his pocket.

On the way home to Goodwinter Boulevard, Qwilleran said to Polly, “Well, the mood at our table was not very favorable for the consumption of food. I apologize for involving you.”

“It could hardly be called your fault, Qwill. How were you to know? The entire situation is regrettable.”

“I don’t suppose you want to attend the memorial service tomorrow night.”

“I wouldn’t miss it!” Polly’s tone was more bitter than sweet.

Qwilleran dropped her off at her carriage house, saying he would pick her up the next evening. He was in a hurry to open the letter from Florida.

Sitting at his desk he slit the pink envelope – a chunky one with double postage – and out fell some snapshots as well as a note. Celia had remembered how to spell his name; that was in her favor.

Dear Mr. Qwilleran,

I enjoyed talking to you on the phone. Here are the snaps of Mrs. Gage with some other people from the park. We were on a bus trip. I’m the giddy-looking one in Mickey Mouse ears. That’s Mr. Crocus with Mrs. Gage and a stone lion. Hope you can use some of these with the article you’re writing.

Yours very truly,

Celia Robinson

Spreading the snapshots on the desk, Qwilleran found the diminutive Euphonia neatly dressed in a lavender pantsuit and wide-brimmed hat, while her companions sported T-shirts with the Pink Sunset logo splashed across the front. Also conservatively dressed in tropical whites was an old man with a shock of white hair; he and the stone lion could have passed for brothers. The Siamese, always interested in something new, were on the desktop, sitting comfortably on their briskets and idly observing. Then, apparently without provocation, Koko rose to his feet with a guttural monosyllable and sniffed the pictures. There was something about the glossy surface of photographs that always attracted him. Studiously he passed his nose over every one of the Florida pictures and flicked his tongue at a couple of them.

“No!” Qwilleran said sharply, worrying about the chemicals used in processing.

“Yow!” Koko retorted in a scolding tone of his own and then left the room. Yum Yum trailed after him without so much as a backward look at the man whose lap she so frequently commandeered.

An uneasy feeling crept across Qwilleran’s upper lip, and he patted his moustache as he examined the snapshots the cat had licked. Sandpaper tongue and potent saliva had left rough spots on the surface. In both of them Euphonia looked happy and pert, posed with a yellow sports car in one shot and with the Pink Sunset tour bus in the other. More important than the damage, however, was the realization that two of her companions looked vaguely familiar. He had no idea who they were or where he had met them or under what circumstances.

-10-

THURSDAY WAS BRIGHT and clear, although Wetherby Goode reminded his listeners that November was the month of the Big Snow, a threat that annually hung over the heads of Moose County residents like a Damoclean icicle.

Qwilleran said to Koko, “Would you like to take a walk? This may be your last chance before snow flies. I’ll get the leash.”

Yum Yum, whose vocabulary included the word “leash,” immediately disappeared, but Koko purred and rolled on his side while the harness was being buckled around his middle. Then, on the back porch, he checked out the spots where the nefarious Oh Jay had left his scent. Next, he led the way down the back steps to a paved area where the last few leaves of autumn were waiting to be pawed, batted, chased, and chewed. While Koko was enjoying these simple pleasures, Qwilleran became aware of a familiar figure scrambling through the shrubs on the lot line.

“If you’re looking for Oh Jay,” he said to the attorney’s son, “he’s not here.”

It appeared, however, that this was a social call. “It’s gonna snow,” Timmie said.

“So they say,” Qwilleran replied, making no attempt to continue the conversation.

The boy looked critically at Koko. “Why is he so skinny?”

“He’s not skinny. He’s a Siamese.”

“Oh.” This was followed by a pause, then: “I can stand on my head.”

“Good for you!”

There was another long pause as Timmie spread his arms wide and balanced on one leg. Finally he said, “You should marry the lady that lives in the back. Then you could live in one house, and she wouldn’t have to take out the trash.”

“Why don’t you go and stand on your head?” Qwilleran asked.

“We’re gonna move.”

“What?”

“We’re gonna move away from here.”

“I sincerely hope you’re planning to take Oh Jay with you.”

“I’m gonna go to a new school and ride the school bus and have fun with the kids.”

“Why do you want to leave a nice neighborhood like this?”

“My dad says some dumb fool bought the house.”

“Excuse me,” Qwilleran said. “I have to make a phone call.” He hurried up the back steps, pulling a reluctant cat.

Ringing Junior at the office he said, “Have you heard the news? Another house on the boulevard has been sold. Pender Wilmotts. That makes two of them, side by side. What do you make of that?”

“Who bought it?” Junior demanded with suspicion. “Was it the realtor in Chicago?”

“My six-year-old informant wasn’t specific.”

“I hope this doesn’t turn out to be anything detrimental to the neighborhood, like one of those cults or a front for something illegal.”

“You don’t need to worry about anything like that – not in Pickax,” Qwilleran assured him, “but I admit it piques the curiosity… Well, get back to work. I’ll see you tonight at the memorial service. Do you know why it’s being held at the theatre instead of the Old Stone Church?”

“That’s the way she wanted it, and Grandma never did anything in the ordinary way.”

The K Theatre, converted from the former Klingenschoen mansion, shared the Park Circle with the public library, courthouse, and two churches. Shortly before eight o’clock on Thursday evening, more than a hundred residents of Moose County converged on the theatre, their expressions ranging from respectful to avidly curious. In dress they were less sweatery than usual, denoting the solemnity of the occasion.

When Qwilleran and Polly arrived in the lobby, they were greeted by two young members of the Theatre Club, who smiled guardedly and handed them programs. He said to Polly, “According to Junior, Euphonia planned this service down to the last detail, and I suspect the ushers were instructed to smile with sweetness and respect and not too much sadness.”

After a glance at the program Polly said, “This is not memorial service! It’s a concert!”

In Memoriam

EUPHONIA ROFF GAGE

Piano prelude: Six Gnossiennes — Satie

1. Adagio– Albinoni

2. Sonnet XXX – Shakespeare

3. Pavane pour une Infante D\u201afunte – Ravel

4. Renouncement – Meynell

5. En Sourdine (Verlaine) — Faur\u201a

6. Pas de Deux – anonymous

7. Duet for Flutes – Telemann

8. Non sum qualis eram bonae

sub regno Cynarae – Dowson

9. Adagio from Symphonie Concertante – Spohr

10. Maestoso from Symphony No.3 — Saint-Sa\u2030ns

Polly said in a voice unusually sharp, “Don’t you think it’s a trifle too precious? Number Five is a French art song. Number Eight… only Euphonia would use the Latin title for ‘Cynara.’ It’s her last gasp of cultural snobbery. And what do you think of Number Three?”

“Try saying it fast three times,” he said with a lack of reverence.

Polly threw him a disapproving glance. “You’re being flip. I’m wondering if the reference to a dead princess means that she considered herself royalty.”

Carol Lanspeak, a trustee of the theatre, hurried up to them. “I think you’re in for some surprises tonight. Junior asked me to handle the staging because their baby is due momentarily. Larry’s doing the readings, and we rehearsed the entire program to get the timing right. Euphonia left instructions for the stage set, lighting, programs, everything! Such a perfectionist!”

Qwilleran reached into his pocket for an envelope of snapshots. “One of her Florida neighbors sent these. You might like to see how she looked toward the end.”

“Why, she looks wonderful!” Carol exclaimed after examining them. “Wouldn’t you know she’d choose to go out while she was looking wonderful?”

“Do you recognize anyone else in the pictures?”

“No, I don’t… Should I?”

“I thought some of them might be from Moose County. Snowbirds tend to flock together.”

Carol and Polly conferred and agreed that they were all strangers. “But here comes Homer. Ask him,” Carol suggested.

The aged Homer Tibbitt was entering with his brisk but awkward gait, accompanied by his attentive new wife. During his career as a teacher and principal he had shepherded several generations through the school system and claimed to know everyone in two counties.

He changed glasses to study the snapshots. “Sorry. I can’t identify a soul except Euphonia.”

“Let me see them,” said Mrs. Tibbitt.

“You don’t know anyone here,” he said with impatience. “You never even met Euphonia… Rhoda’s from Lockmaster,” he explained to the others, as if she were from the Third World.

“Homer likes to put on his irascible-old-man act,” his wife said sweetly.

“I believe it’s time to go upstairs,” Carol suggested. “Take the elevator, Homer.”

Two matching stairways led to the auditorium entrance on the upper level, from which the amphitheatre seating sloped down to a dark stage. A pianist in the orchestra pit was playing the moody, mysterious prelude specified by the deceased.

“Who’s that at the piano?” Qwilleran asked Polly.

“The new music director for the schools. I believe she taught in Lockmaster.”

He admired anyone who could play the piano and found the pianist strikingly attractive. When the prelude ended, she moved to a seat in front of them, and her perfume made a strong statement. Polly wafted it away with her program.

A hush fell on the audience as the house lights slowly dimmed. There were a few dramatic seconds of total darkness before two glimmers of light appeared. One spotlighted a bouquet of purple and white flowers on a pedestal, stage right. The other, stage center, illuminated a thronelike chair on the seat of which was a wide-brimmed straw hat with a band of purple velvet. Flung across the high chairback was a filmy scarf in shades of lavender.

Qwilleran and Polly exchanged glances. He could read her mind: The pedestal! The throne! The royal purple!

The theatre had an excellent sound system, and from hidden speakers came the haunting music of Albinoni, the wistful yearning of the solo violin underscored by the heartbeat of the cello. The audience listened and stared, as if Euphonia herself might glide onto the stage. Other instruments joined in, and the volume swelled, then faded, leaving only the last searching notes of the violin.

The spotlights disappeared, and a beam of light focused on a lectern at stage left, where Larry Lanspeak stood waiting. His rich voice gripped the audience:

“When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past…”

Qwilleran glanced questioningly at Polly, who was frowning as if unable to connect the woman she had known with the poem she was hearing. He wondered about it himself and listened for clues to Euphonia’s past and possibly a clue to her suicide motive.

“Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,And weep afresh love’s long since cancelled woe.”

Again the spotlights flooded the throne and flowers as Ravel’s slow dance painted its melancholy picture. Then came the poem “I must not think of thee,” followed by the French song “In Secret.” Qwilleran deduced that Euphonia was mourning a lost lover, and it was not Grandpa Gage. The anonymous poem confirmed his theory:

“Two white butterflies Kissing in mid-air;

Then darting apart

To flutter like lost petals, Drifting together again

For a quivering moment in the sun, Yet wandering away

In a white flurry of indecision, Meeting once more

On the upsweep of a breeze,
<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Book Preview Lilian Jackson Braun – The Cat Who Went Into The Closet-1-THE WPKX RADIO announcer hunched over the newsdesk in front of a dead microphone, anxiously fingering his script and waiting for the signal to go on the air. The station was filling in with classical music. The lilting “Anitra’s Dance” seemed hardly appropriate … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1777,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[90],"class_list":["post-1778","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-lilian-jackson-braun"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1778","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1778"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1778\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1777"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1778"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1778"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1778"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}