"They're having their nap. Why don't you go home and have your nap?"
"I had my nap," she said, turning away and gazing speculatively toward the barn.
"Go home now," he said sternly. "Go right home, do you hear?"
Without another word Baby walked down the steps and marched up the lane on her short legs, carrying her green pail. He watched her until she was almost home. She never looked back.
Qwilleran prepared a meatloaf sandwich for himself and gave some to the cats. All three devoured it as if they had been on a week-long fast. Then he hauled his bike out of the steel barn and went for a ride.
There was an unusual amount of traffic on Fugtree Road - gawkers, driving out to see where the body was found, hoping to see blood. A county road crew was working on the bridge, and a blatant orange sign warned that the road was closed for construction, but Qwilleran wheeled past the barrier and talked to the foreman, a burly man in a farm cap, with a cheekful of snuff. The foreman recognized the famous moustache.
"Right down yonder," he said, pointing to the rocky slope where Qwilleran had first scrambled down to the Willoway. "Dry blood allover his face. Looked like one o' them Halloween get-ups."
"Do the police have any idea who did it?" It was a truism in Moose County that anyone in a farm cap possessed inside information or was willing to invent some.
"I hear they gotta coupla suspects, but they didn't charge anybody yet. He was killed somewheres else and dumped. There was a lotta muddy tire tracks on the pavement when we come on the job."
"Who was the murdered man?"
"The guy that poisoned the goats-escaped con, local kid - went Down Below and got inta trouble. I'm tellin' ya," said the foreman with an emphatic spit, "if it was my goats, I'da went after 'im myself with a shotgun!"
-17-
QWILLERAN RETURNED FROM his bike ride just as Polly was parking her car in the farmyard. "I'm a little early," she apologized, "because I want to reach Lockmaster before dark." She handed him a cardboard cat carrier. "Here's my precious darling. Take him indoors before he catches cold. I'll collect his impedimenta."
The carrier had a top handle and round airholes and a printed message on the side: "Hi! My name is Bootsie. What's your name?" From one of the holes a wet button-size nose protruded, then quickly withdrew, only to be replaced by a brown paw that might have belonged to a cocker spaniel.
Polly entered the apartment carrying a can of clinical- looking catfood with much fine print on the label, a cushioned basket, a brush, and a shallow litterbox containing shreds of tom paper. "This is his own commode," she said. "He's trained to paper. I use paper toweling - not newsprint because the ink might come off on his little derriere... And here's his special food, a formula computerized to suit his needs. Give him three level tablespoons, no more, no less, for each meal, and don't let him have anything else. Spread it thinly over a saucer, and I suggest you place the saucer in a secluded corner so he won't feel threatened."
"How about drinking water? Can he have the stuff out of the tap?"
"Tap water will be satisfactory," she said with a serious nod, "and here's his sleeping basket. Put it in a warm place, elevated a foot or two off the floor... And thank you so much, Qwill! Now I must dash. Let me say goodbye to the little dear. " Tenderly she lifted Bootsie from the carrier and touched her nose to his wet one. "Kiss-kiss, sweetums. Be a good kitten." To Qwilleran she added, "Tomorrow is his birthday, by the way; he'll be eleven weeks old."
She gave Qwilleran a fond but hasty farewell, handed him the innocent kitten, and hurried out to her car. He stood holding the handful of purring fur, wondering what had become of the Siamese. They had avoided the opening ceremonies, as well they might, and until he knew their whereabouts he was reluctant to let the kitten out of his grasp.
Koko and Yum Yum, it was eventually discovered, were on top of the seven-foot Pennsylvania German Schrank, sitting side by side in compact bundles, looking petrified.
"Oh, there you are!" Qwilleran said. "Come down and meet Bigfoot."
He placed the kitten carefully on the floor. The tiny thing looked vulnerable with his skinny white neck, skinny brown tail, floppy feet and smudged nose, but once he found himself free of restraints he took a few staggering steps and then shot out of the room like a missile. By the time Qwilleran found him he was on the kitchen counter, eating the leftover meatloaf, waxed paper and all. Seeing the big man, he raced to the front of the apartment with exaggerated leaps like a grasshopper, bouncing from chair to table to desk to bed to dresser. Koko and Yum Yum were still on top of the Schrank, gazing down in apparent disbelief.
For the next few hours Bigfoot created chaos with his wild flight - slamming into furniture, breaking a piece of antique glass, leaping and falling and landing on his back, climbing Qwilleran's pantleg and pouncing on his lap. After a nerve-wracking dinner hour he telephoned Lori Bamba in Mooseville and cried "Help!"
He wasted no time inquiring about the baby's health or Nick's job-hunting. He said, "I don't know how I fell into this trap, Lori. Polly Duncan has a new kitten and I agreed to cat-sit, but he turned out to be a wound-up, hyperactive, jet-propelled maniac! He's driving us all crazy with his whizzing around and pouncing, and all the time he's purring like a Model T with two cylinders missing."
"How old is he?" asked Lori.
"Eleven weeks tomorrow. I'm supposed to sing 'Happy Birthday' to him."
"Remember, Qwill, he's very young, and he's being exposed to a strange house with two big cats. He's apprehensive. Fright causes flight."
"Apprehensive!" Qwilleran shouted. "Koko and Yum Yum are the ones who are apprehensive. They're on top of the seven-foot wardrobe and won't come down, even to eat. Bigfoot ate his own medically approved food, and then he ate their turkey loaf with olives and mushrooms, and then he swooped in and knocked a piece of salmon right off my fork!... And let me tell you something else. Instead of claws he has needles. When I sit down he pounces on my lap and sinks those eighteen needles. Propriety prevents me from describing the effect. Ask your husband to tell you."
Lori was listening sympathetically. "Where is the kitten now?"
"I finally locked him up in his carrier, but I can't leave him in that cramped box for twenty-four hours. Isn't there some kind of feline Mickey Finn?"
"With all that food in his stomach and with the security of the carrier, he should go to sleep soon, Qwill. Leave him there until he calms down. Then at bedtime shut him up in the kitchen with his water dish and litterbox and something soft to sleep on."
"I'll try it. Thanks, Lori."
She was right. Bigfoot was quiet for an evening of serenity, and the Siamese ventured down from their safe perch. The domestic peace was short-lived, however.
Shortly before midnight Qwilleran took the carrier to the kitchen, closed the door and released Bigfoot. For a while the kitten staggered about the floor like a drunken plowman, squeaking and purring at the same time. Then he became quiet and mysteriously absent from view. It should have been obvious that he was lurking in ambush.
Qwilleran was preparing the kitten's bedtime meal - three tablespoons of unappetizing gray hash smeared thinly on a saucer - when he was suddenly attacked from the rear. Bigfoot had pounced on his back and was clinging to his sweater.
"Down!" he yelled, shrugging his shoulders in an at., tempt to dislodge his attacker, but his sweater was a chunky knit pullover, and Bootsie was firmly hooked into the yarn and squealing at the top of his minuscule lungs.
"Down!... Ow-w-w-w'" Every time he yelled, the needles sank deeper into his flesh and the squeals accelerated.
"Shut up, you idiot!"
Qwilleran reached behind his back, first over his shoulders and then around his midriff. The former approach netted him a handful of ears; the latter, only a wisp of a tail. He pulled gently on the tail. "Ow-w-w-w! Damnit!"