"Would you like another glass of lemonade?" she asked to break the silence that fell after her last statement.
"No thank you," he said, snapping out of his reverie, "but how about two o'clock tomorrow afternoon for the interview?"
As she walked with him toward his car, he mentioned casually, "The Klingenschoen Fund might help you with the historic registration. Why don't you write a letter to the Fund in care of Hasselrich, Bennett and Barter? And see what happens."
Her eyes lost their melancholy for the first time. "Do you really think I'd stand a chance?"
"No harm in trying. All you have to lose is a postage stamp."
"Oh, Mr. Qwilleran - Qwill - I'd hug you if I hadn't been mucking the barn!"
"I'll take a raincheck," he said. Arriving back at the farmhouse Qwilleran ignored the Siamese and looked up "goat" in the unabridged dictionary. Then he called Roger MacGillivray at the newspaper office. "Glad I caught you, Roger. I have a favor to ask. Are you free for dinner tonight?"
"Uh... yeah... but it would have to be early. I promised to be home by seven o'clock to babysit."
"I'll buy your dinner at Tipsy's if you'll stop at the Pickax library and bring me some books on goats."
There was a pause. "Spell that, Qwill."
"G-o-a-t-s. I'll meet you at Tipsy's at five-thirty."
"Let's get this straight, Qwill. You want books on goats?"
"That's right! Homed ruminant quadrupeds. And Roger."
"Yes?"
"You don't need to let anyone know the books are for me."
-9-
TIPSY'S WAS A popular restaurant in North Kennebeck that had started in a small log cabin in the 1930s and now occupied a large log cabin, where serious eaters converged for serious steaks without such frivolities as parsley sprigs and herbed butter. Potatoes were peeled and Frenched in the kitchen without benefit of sodium acid pyrophosphate. The only vegetable choice was boiled carrots. The only salad was cole slaw. And there was a waiting line for tables every night.
Qwilleran and his guest, being pressed for time, used their press credentials to get a table, and they were seated directly below the large portrait of a black-and-white cat for whom the restaurant was named.
Roger slapped a stack of books on the table: Raising Goats for Fun and Profit, Debunking Goat Myths, and How to Start a Goat Club. "Is this what you want?" he asked incredulously.
"I'm interviewing a goat farmer," Qwilleran said, "and I don't want to be totally ignorant about which sex gives milk and which sex has B.O."
"Find out if it's true they eat tin cans," Roger said. "Who's the farmer? Do I know him?"
"Who said anything about him? It's a young woman at the Fugtree farm next to the Goodwinter museum. Her name is Kristi, spelled with a K and an I."
"Sure, I know her." Having grown up in Moose County and having taught school for nine years before switching to journalism, Roger's acquaintance was vast. "We were in high school together. She married a guy from Purple Point with more looks than brains, and they moved away - somewhere Down Below."
"She's moved back again, and she's divorced," Qwilleran said.
"I'm not surprised. He was a jerk, and Kristi was a talented girl. Flighty, though. She hopped from one great idea to another. I remember when she wanted to make macram‚ baskets for the basketball hoops."
"She seems to have her feet on the ground now."
"What is she like? She had big serious eyes and wore weird clothes, but then all the art students wore weird clothes."
"Now she wears dirty coveralls and muddy boots, and her hair is tied back under a feed cap. She still has big serious eyes. I think she has worries beyond her ability to cope."
The steaks were served promptly, and the two men applied themselves with concentration. The beef at Tipsy's required diligent chewing, but the flavor was world-class. It was homegrown, like the potatoes and carrots and cabbage. There was something in Moose County soil that produced flavorful root vegetables and superior browse for cattle.
Qwilleran said, "I suppose you know I'm living at the Goodwinter farmhouse until they find a new manager."
"Be prepared to dig in for the winter," Roger advised him. "They'll have a tough time replacing Iris Cobb."
"Did you know any of the Goodwinters when they were living there?"
"Only the three kids. We were all in school at the same time. Junior is the only one left around here. His sister is on a ranch in Montana, and his brother is somewhere out West."
"Did they ever say anything about the place being haunted?"
"No, their parents wouldn't let them mention the ghost rumor... or their grandfather's murder... or their great-grandfather's 'sudden death,' as it was called. The whole family acted as if nothing unusual had ever happened. Why do you ask? Are you seeing spooks?"
Qwilleran touched his moustache gingerly, undecided how much he should confide in Roger. He said, "You know I don't buy the idea of ghosts and demons and poltergeists, but... Iris was hearing unearthly noises in the Goodwinter house before she died."
"Like what?"
"Like knocking and moaning and screaming." "No kidding!"
"And Koko's behavior has been abnormal since we moved in. He's always talking to himself and staring into space."
"He's talking to ghosts," Roger said with a straight face. Qwilleran could never be sure whether the young reporter was serious or not. He said, "Iris had a theory that a house exudes good or evil, depending on its previous occupants."
"My mother-in-law preaches the same thing," said Roger.
"How is Mildred, by the way? I haven't seen her lately."
"She's up to her eyebrows in good causes, as usual. Still trying to lose weight. Still carrying the torch for that husband of hers. I think she should get a lawyer and untie the knot."
"And how's Sharon and... the baby?" "Sharon's gone back to teaching. And that kid! I never knew a baby could be so much fun!... Well, I can't stay for dessert. I've got to get home so Sharon can go to her club meeting. Thanks, Qwill. Best meal I've had in a month!"
Qwilleran remained and ordered Tipsy's old-fashioned bread pudding with a pitcher of thick cream for pouring, followed by two cups of coffee powerful enough to exorcise demons and domesticate poltergeists. Then he drove back to North Middle Hummock to cram for his interview with the goatherd.
After skimming through chapters on breeding, feeding, milking, de-homing, castrating, hoof trimming, barn cleaning and manure management, he made a decision: It would be better to walk the plank than to raise goats. Furthermore, there was the danger of such diseases as coccidiosis, demodectic mange, bloat, and foot rot, not to mention birth defects such as sprung pasterns, pendulous udder, blind teat, leaking orifice, and hermaphroditism. It was no wonder the goat-girl looked worried.
After this briefing he knew, however, what questions to ask, and he felt a growing admiration for Kristi and her choice of career. Perhaps, as Roger said, she was flighty in high school, but who isn't at that age? He was looking forward to the interview. When Polly Duncan called to ask if he planned to attend the reception at Exbridge & Cobb, Qwilleran was glad he had an honest excuse. He said, "I'm interviewing a farmer at two o'clock."
Kristi greeted him on Saturday afternoon in white coveralls. She had been assisting at a kidding, she said. "Buttercup had trouble, and I had to help. Geranium is ready, too, and I have to check her every half hour. You can hear her bleating, poor thing."
"Do you name all your goats?"
"Of course. They all have their own personalities."
As they walked toward the goat barns Qwilleran asked, how many kids Buttercup had produced.