The president said, "I propose we do it right now. Susan, you and Qwill and I can take care of it. How big a box will we need?"
The three of them trooped to the west wing, carrying a carton, sealing tape, and a felt marker. Koko and Yum Yum met them at the door.
"Hello, cats," said Larry jovially.
The Siamese followed them into the parlor, where the desk occupied a place of prominence.
"This is the ugliest desk I've ever seen," Qwilleran commented. It was basically a flat box with one drawer and a pull-out writing surface, perched on tall legs and topped with a cupboard.
"This is an original handmade Dingleberry, about 1890," Larry informed him. "Iris bought it at the Goodwinter auction. I was bidding against her, but I dropped out when the bidding reached four figures."
Behind the doors of the cupboard were shoeboxes labeled in large block letters with a felt marker: Bills, Letters, Financial, Medical, Insurance, and Personal. In the drawer were the usual pens, scissors, paper clips, rubber bands, memo pads, and a magnifying glass.
Qwilleran said, "She had magnifying glasses allover the house. She even wore one on a chain around her neck."
"Okay," said Larry. "Let's lock this stuff up in the museum office and have Dennis sign for it when he comes."
"Good idea," said Qwilleran.
Susan had nothing to say. She seemed to be sulking. As they were leaving the parlor she almost tripped over a rug.
Qwilleran caught her. "Sorry," he said. "There's a cat under the rug. This is the second time he's crawled under an Oriental."
"He has good taste," Larry said. "These are all antiques and museum-quality."
"Do you have any more booby traps around?" Susan said testily as she followed Larry back to the museum.
Qwilleran thawed some chicken a la king for the Siamese, who devoured it hungrily, carefully avoiding the pimento and the slivered almonds. He watched the fascinating ritual absently, thinking about the missing sheet, the misplaced pillow, the purloined cookbook, and Susan's eagerness to handle Iris Cobb's private papers.
Something had happened to Susan Exbridge after her husband divorced her for another woman. While she was the wife of a successful developer she had been an active clubwoman, serving on the board of every organization and working diligently for the common good. Since that blow to her ego she had concentrated on working for Susan Exbridge. In a way she was justified. According to the Pickax grapevine, her ex-husband had so maneuvered the divorce settlement that Susan was rich on paper but short of cash, and if she liquidated the securities, she would be liable for a large tax bite.
Rumor also had it that ninety percent of the Exbridge & Cobb venture was financed by Iris. If that were true, Qwilleran pondered, Susan's inheritance would be substantial. Granted, the two women were good friends as well as business partners, but that was a situation that aroused Qwilleran's suspicion. A more unlikely pair of chums could hardly be found. Iris was neither chic nor sophisticated nor glib, yet Susan had engulfed her with friendship, and Iris was flattered to be taken up by a woman so distinguished in manner, dress, and social connections.
It irritated Qwilleran to think that Iris Cobb had been used; it was her know-how as well as her money that had established the new antique shop. It irritated him also to see Susan making a play for Dennis Hough, who had a wife and infant son as well as the bulk of the Cobb-Hackpole fortune.
He worked off his resentment by concocting a sandwich for himself, using caraway rye bread from one freezer, corned beef from the other, and mustard and horseradish from the refrigerator. The Siamese watched him eat, and he shared the meat. "The spirit of Mrs. Cobb is still with us," he told them. It was true. Her presence was palpable, invoked by the food she had cooked, the friendly kitchen, her taste in antiques, the pink sheets and towels, and even her magazines and paperback novels. At any moment she might walk into the room and say, "Oh, Mr. Q, would you like some of my chocolate coconut macaroons?"
He looked up from his sandwich and almost thought he could see her. Was this the invisible presence that engaged; Koko in conversation?
Qwilleran jumped up and went outdoors, taking a brisk walk around the grounds to restore some semblance of peace to his life.
It was Sunday night. A week ago he had been listening to Othello when Mrs. Cobb's frantic phone call had interrupted Act One. Since then he had made two more attempts to hear the opera in its entirety. He would try again. Sunday evening was usually quiet in Moose County, and it was doubtful that anyone would be calling. Briefly he considered silencing the two phones, but communication was his life, and the idea of willfully missing an incoming call struck him as a moral lapse.
With a mug of coffee in his hand and two cats in the blue velvet wing chairs, the comfortable scene was set. He pressed the Play button. Again the crash of the opening chords catapulted the Siamese out of the parlor, but they returned and withstood the trumpets, although they laid their ears back.
All went well until Act Three and the aria that Polly had called gorgeous. Just as Othello began the poignant Dio! mi potevi... the telephone rang. Qwilleran tried to ignore it, but the insistent ringing ruined the music. Even so, he was determined to let it ring itself out. He turned up the volume. The tenor agonized, and the telephone rang. Qwilleran clenched his teeth. Ten rings... fifteen rings... twenty! Then it occurred to him that only a desperate person would persist so long, only someone who knew he was at home. He turned down the volume and went to the bedroom phone.
"Hello?" he said with apprehension.
"Qwill, this is Kristi," said a nervous voice. "Don't run the column about my goats."
"Why not, Kristi?"
"Something terrible has happened. Eight of them are dead, and the others are dying."
"My God! What happened?"
"I fed them at five o'clock and they were okay. Two hours later I went out there and three were lying dead." There was a catch in her voice. "The rest were struggling to breathe, and one of them fell over right at my feet. I can't - I can't - " Her words turned into sobs.
Sympathy welled up in Qwilleran's throat as his thoughts flew to Koko and Yum Yum. He knew how precious animals can be. "Easy now, Kristi," he said. "Easy! What did you do?"
She sobbed for a while and sniffed moistly before saying, "I called the vet's emergency number, and he came right away, but by that time all the kids were gone and most of the does." She choked up again.
He waited patiently for her to recover.
"The bucks are all right," she said. "They were penned separately."
"Do you have any idea what caused it?"
"The vet says it's poison - probably insecticide in the feed. Their lungs - " She stopped and cried again. "Their lungs filled with fluid, and they suffocated. The vet is sending samples to the lab. It's almost more than I can bear! The whole herd!"
"How could it possibly have happened?"
"The police call it vandalism."
Qwilleran felt a tingling sensation on his upper lip, and he knew the answer to his next question. "Do you have any idea who would commit such an unthinkable crime?"
"I know who did it!" Her grief gave way to anger. "The stupid fool I used to be married to!"
"Did you tell that to the police?"
"Yes. They've been looking for him ever since he walked away from a minimum-security camp near Lockmaster. He thought he could hide out here, or else I'd give him money and a car. I told him he was out of his mind. I didn't want anything to do with him! Oh, why didn't I turn him in?" she cried, ending with a heart-rending wail.
"This is shocking, Kristi! Did you have any idea he'd sabotage the farm?"
"He threatened me this morning, and I warned him I had a gun. I didn't expect anything like this. I could kill him! I It's not just the loss of two years' work, but... all those sweet animals! Buttercup... Geranium... Black Tulip! They were so dear to me!" she said with a whimper.