WILLIAM ALLEN, general manager
Qwilleran first walked into the managing editor's office, which was dominated by a large, old-fashioned rolltop desk that dwarfed the young man sitting in front of it. The desk had belonged to his great-grandfather, the miserly Ephraim.
Junior Goodwinter had a boyish face and a boyish build and was growing a beard in an attempt to look older than fifteen. "Hey! Pull up a chair! Put your feet up!" he greeted Qwilleran. "That was a swell piece you wrote about Iris Cobb. I hear you're house-sitting at my old homestead."
"For a while, until they find a new manager. I hope to do some research while I'm there. How's the ancestral desk working out?"
"Not so swift. All those pigeonholes and small drawers look like a good idea, but you file something away and never find it again. I like the idea of the rolltop, though. I can stuff my unfinished work in there, roll the top down, and go home with a clear conscience."
"Have you discovered any secret compartments? I imagine Ephraim had a few secrets he wanted to hide."
"Golly, I wouldn't know where to start looking for secret compartments. Why don't you bring Koko down here and let him sniff around. He's good at that."
"He's been doing a lot of sniffing since we moved into the farmhouse. He remembers Iris and wonders why she's not there. By the way, just before she died she talked about hearing unearthly noises. Did you ever have any supernatural adventures when you lived there?"
"No," said Junior. "I was too busy riding horses and scrapping with my six-foot-four brother."
"You never told me you were an equestrian, Junior."
"Oh, sure. Didn't you know that? I wanted to be a jockey, but my parents objected. The alternatives were a bell-hop or a hundred-ten-pound journalist."
"How's the new baby?" Qwilleran asked, never able to remember the name or sex of his young friends' offspring.
"Incredible kid! This morning he grabbed my finger so hard I couldn't pull away. And only four weeks old! Four weeks and three days!"
Tight-fisted like his great-great-grandfather, Qwilleran thought. Then he pointed toward the door. "Who's that? Is that William Allen?" A large white cat had walked into the office with a managerial swagger.
"That's him in person - not a reincarnation," Junior said. "He escaped from the fire in the old building, miraculously. Probably incurred a little smoke damage, but he cleaned it up without making an insurance claim. We found him a month ago, ten months after the fire. Guess where he was! Sitting in front of the State Unemployment Office!"
Next Qwilleran visited the office of the publisher. Arch Riker was sitting in a high backed executive chair in front of a curved walnut slab supported by two marble monoliths.
"How do you like working in this spiffy environment?" Qwilleran asked. "I detect the fine hand of Amanda's Design Studio."
"It cramps my style. I'm afraid to put my feet on my desk, " said Riker, who claimed to do his best thinking with his feet elevated.
"Those underpinnings look like used tombstones."
"I wouldn't be surprised if they were. Amanda has all the instincts of a grave robber... Say, that was a decent obit you wrote for Iris Cobb. I hope you write one that's half that good when it's my turn to go. What's the story behind the story?"
"Meaning what?"
"Don't play dumb, Qwill. You know you always suspect that a car accident is a suicide, and a suicide is a murder. What really happened Sunday night? You look preoccupied."
Qwilleran touched his moustache in a guilty gesture but said glibly, "If I look preoccupied, Arch, it's because I've bought a dark suit for the funeral - I'm one of the pallbearers - and it's a question whether Scottie will have it ready on time. Are you going to Dingleberry's tonight?"
"That's my intention. I'm taking the lovely Amanda to dinner, and we'll stop at the funeral home afterward, if she can still stand up and walk straight."
"Tell the bartender to water her bourbon," Qwilleran suggested. "We don't want your inamorata to disgrace herself at Dingleberry's."
As lifelong comrades the two men had sniggered about their boyhood crushes, gloated over their youthful affairs, confided about their marriage problems, and shared the pain of the subsequent divorces. Currently they indulged in private banter about Riker's cranky, outspoken, bibulous friend Amanda. There were many complimentary adjectives that could apply to this successful businesswoman and aggressive member of the city council, but "lovely" was not one of them.
Riker asked, "Will you and Polly be there?" "She has a dinner meeting with the library board, but she'll drop in later."
"Perhaps we could go somewhere afterward - the four of us," Riker proposed. "I always need some liquid regalement after paying my respects to the deceased."
Qwilleran stood up to leave. "Sounds good. See you at Dingleberry's."
"Not so fast! How long are you going to be downtown? Can you hang around until lunchtime?"
"Not today. I have to go home and unpack my clothes, and find out where they store the spare lightbulbs, and take inventory of the freezer. Iris always cooked as if she expected forty unexpected guests for dinner."
"Home! You've been there half a day, and you call it home. You have a faculty for quick adjustment."
"I'm a gypsy at heart," Qwilleran said. "Home is where I hang my toothbrush and where the cats have their commode. See you tonight."
Driving to North Middle Hummock he noticed that the wind had risen and the leaves were beginning to fall. On Fugtree Road the pavement was carpeted with yellow leaves from the aspens. It would be a pleasant day to take a walk, he thought. His bicycle was in Pickax, and he missed his daily exercise. He was feeling relaxed and in a good humor; a little banter with his colleagues at the Something always put him in an amiable mood. A moment later, his equanimity was shattered.
As he turned the comer into Black Creek Lane he jammed on the brakes. A small child was standing in the middle of the lane, holding a toy of some kind.
At the urgent sound of tires crunching on gravel Mrs. Boswell ran out of the house, crying helplessly, "Baby! I told you to stay in the yard!" She picked up the tiny tot under one arm and took the toy away from her. "This is Daddy's. You're not supposed to touch it."
Qwilleran rolled down the car window. "That was a narrow escape," he said. "Better put her on a leash."
"I'm so... sorry, Mr. Qwilleran.
He continued slowly down the lane, experiencing a delayed chill at the recollection of the near-accident, then thinking about Verona's ingratiating drawl, then realizing that the "toy" was a walkie-talkie. As he parked in the farmyard the Boswell van was pulling away from the old barn; the driver leaned out of the window.
"What time is the funeral tomorrow?" trumpeted the irritating voice, resounding across the landscape.
Ten-thirty."
"Do you know who they got for pallbearers? I thought they might call on me, being a neighbor and all that. I would've been glad to do it, although I'm plenty busy in the barn. Any time you want to see the printing presses, let me know. I'll take time out and explain everything. It's very interesting."
"I'm sure it is," said Qwilleran, stony-faced. "We're thinking of going to the visitation tonight, the wife and me. If you want to hitch a ride with us, you're welcome. Plenty of room in the van!"
"That's kind of you, but I'm meeting friends in Pickax."
"That's okay, but don't forget, we're here to help, any time you need us." Boswell waved a friendly farewell and drove up the lane to the hired man's cottage.
Plucking irritably at his moustache Qwilleran let himself into the apartment and searched for the cats - always his first concern upon returning home. They were in the kitchen. They looked surprised that he had returned so soon. They seemed embarrassed, as if he had interrupted some private catly rite that he was not supposed to witness.
"What have you two rapscallions been doing?" he asked.
Koko said "ik ik ik" and Yum Yum nonchalantly groomed a spot on her snowy underside.