"Who? Who's the man?"
"For an innocent bystander you sound unusually anxious, my friend. They're not releasing his name until they've notified next of kin."
"Where was the body?"
"On Fugtree Road near the Black Creek bridge. That's all I know. Roger's over at the police station getting something for the Something."
Qwilleran had no sooner hung up than Polly Duncan called him with the same news.
He said, "Both the cats and I were alerted last night. Something was happening in the neighborhood, but I couldn't figure it out. After that, I had a nightmare. I saw Ephraim's ghost. I was wishing I had a can of beans. When I woke up I was having a peculiar physical reaction." He described the symptoms.
"It sounds to me," Polly said, "like an allergy attack, probably caused by all those fallen leaves and the heavy rain. Drink a lot of water."
Qwilleran opted for coffee, then called the Moose County Something. Roger had just returned from the civic center.
"What did you find out, Roger?" he asked. "Talk about poetic justice! The murdered man is Brent Waffle," the young reporter said. "He's the guy Kristi Fugtree divorced, and he was the prime suspect in the poisoning of her goats."
"How was he killed?" Qwilleran held his breath, remembering that Kristi had a gun and she was emotional enough to use it.
"Hit on the head with a blunt instrument, but it didn't happen at the bridge. He was dumped there. They can tell by the bleeding or something that he was killed elsewhere."
"Do they know the time of death?"
"The medical examiner figures between five and six P.M. yesterday.
"Who found the body?"
"A road crew going to work on the bridge."
"How about suspects?"
"They're talking to people around your neighborhood. They'll get to you soon, so you'd better rehearse your alibi... I've got to go and file my story now. Keep this under your hat till the paper hits the street."
Qwilleran leafed through Mrs. Cobb's phone book, but before he could make another call there was a commotion on the windowsill. Koko was agitated, pacing back and forth on the sill like a caged tiger, uttering a sharp "ik ik ik."
"What's all the fuss about?" Qwilleran asked. He went to the window in time to see something disappearing through the cat-hatch in the barn door, and it was not a cat. On the grassy ramp outside the hatch lay a small bright green object.
Qwilleran rang the Boswell cottage. "This is Qwilleran. I think Baby's in the barn. Better send your husband down to get her."
"Oh dear!... I didn't know..." said a confused voice. "Vince isn't here... I'll get dressed..."
"Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Boswell?"
"I was lying down... I didn't know... I'll get dressed..."
"Stay where you are. I'll find her and send her home."
"Oh, thank you... I'm sorry... I didn't know..." Qwilleran skipped the civilities, pulled on some clothes and ran to the barn. Opening the eye of the needle and squinting into the darkness, he called "Baby! Baby!" - his voice reverberating in the vaulted space. Then he opened the big barn doors, and the flood of light revealed the small girl trudging down an aisle between the crates, clutching a kitten, its four legs protruding awkwardly like a scarecrow.
"I found a kitty," she said. "Be careful! He might scratch. Put him down gently - very gently - that's the way!"
Baby did as she was told. That was to her credit, Qwilleran thought. She listened to reason and she was obedient.
"I like kitties," she said. "I know you do, but your mother wants you to go home.
She isn't feeling well. Pick up your pail, and we'll walk back to your house."
With a backward look at the kitten as it staggered away on wobbly legs, Baby walked out of the barn and picked up the green pail and yellow spade. Qwilleran closed the barn door, and they started down the ramp.
"That's a nice pail," he said. "Where did you get it?"
"My mommy bought it for me."
"What color is it?"
"It's green!" she said impatiently as if she considered her questioner mentally deficient.
"What do you do with your pail?"
"Dig in the sand."
"There's no sand around here."
"We went to the beach," she said with a two-year-old's frown.
They were walking slowly across the barnyard, and Qwilleran realized that the legs of small children are uncommonly short; it would take half an hour to traverse Black Creek Lane. He doubted that he could maintain a dialogue with Baby for half an hour without insulting her intelligence and sounding like a fool himself.
She broke the silence by saying, "I want to go to the bathroom."
"Can you wait till you get home?"
"I don't know."
Dire possibilities flashed through Qwilleran's mind. This was a situation he had never been called upon to face.
Baby had a solution, however. "Do you have a bathroom?" she asked.
Devious child! he thought; she's determined to get in to see the cats. Thinking fast, he said, "It's out of order."
"What does that mean?"
"It's broken."
They walked on, Qwilleran clutching her hand and dragging her along.
"I want to go to the bathroom," she repeated.
Qwilleran took a deep breath. "Okay, I'll get you home in a hurry. Hang on to your pail." he scooped her up as he had seen Verona do, reflecting that she weighed not much more than Yum Yum. With rapid strides, being careful not to jiggle her, he hurried up the lane.
Verona was waiting on the porch, wearing a shabby robe, her hair uncombed, and her face pale. One eye was swollen shut, and there was a purple bruise on her cheek.
"Thank you, Mr. Qwilleran. I'm sorry to trouble you." Baby tugged at her mother's bathrobe, and a wordless understanding passed between them.
"Excuse me," Verona said.
Qwilleran waited. The black eye aroused his curiosity. When she returned, he said, "Where's Vince?"
"Gone to Lockmaster... to the library? To do some research? He left yesterday noon?" The fascinating lilt had returned to her speech.
"What happened to your eye?" Qwilleran asked.
"Oh, stupid me! I walked into a cupboard door?"
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. He had heard that one before. "I found your little girl playing with kittens in the barn. They may be wild. She could get scratched or bitten."
"Poor Baby doesn't have anyone to play with," said Verona pathetically.
"Why doesn't your husband make a sandbox for her? She likes to dig."
"I'll ask him, but he works hard and gets so tired? His bad leg, you know, gives him pain?"
"When do you expect him?"
"I think he'll be home for supper?"
Jogging back to the museum Qwilleran thought, Why would Boswell go to the Lockmaster library when the Pickax library has the definitive collection of material on hand- printing? What else might attract him to Lockmaster? The medical center? The race track? Or some covert business in connection with the crates in the barn? His fleeting suspicion about the content of the crates returned, and he thought, I'd like to spend an hour with a crowbar in that barn!
Upon arriving home he found Koko on the telephone table, an indication that it had been ringing. Kristi might have tried to phone. He called the Fugtree farm.
"I've heard the news!" he said to her. "I don't know what to say!"
She spoke with surprising belligerence. "I know damn well what to say. Why didn't someone kill him before he poisoned my goats?"
"Do the police have a suspect?"
"Of course," she said bitterly. "I'm the prime suspect, and Mitch is a close second."
"How do I get on the list?" Qwilleran asked. "I was on the Willoway Sunday morning, and I heard him threatening you. I threw a rock into the stream, but I felt like throwing it at his head."
"Well, I imagine the police will be talking to you as a matter of course."
"I'll keep in touch. Let me know if there's anything I can do."