Hearing the commotion, the Siamese ventured down from the top of the Schrank and yowled outside the kitchen door. "And you shut up, too!" he bellowed at them.
Stay calm, he told himself and tried sitting quietly on the edge of a chair. It worked, to a degree. Bootsie stopped squealing and gouging but made no attempt to disengage his claws. He was content to spend the night, suspended like a papoose.
After five minutes of inactivity Qwilleran reached the end of his patience. As Lori said, fright causes flight. He jumped to his feet, roaring the useful curse he had learned in North Africa, flapping his arms and galloping about the kitchen like a witch doctor. The curse ended in a prolonged howl of pain as Bigfoot gripped Qwilleran's back for the wild ride.
It was after midnight. In desperation he telephoned the Boswells' number. When he heard Verona's gentle hello, he shouted, "Let me talk to Vince! I'm in bad trouble! This is Qwilleran."
"Oh, dear! Vince hasn't come home," said the soft voice with an overtone of alarm. "Is there any thin' I can do?"
"I've got a cat on my back - with his claws hooked into my sweater! I need someone to pry him loose... Ow-w-w-w!"
"Oh, gracious! I'll come right away." He walked slowly to the front door, trying not to upset Bigfoot, and turned on the yardlights. In a matter of minutes that seemed like hours Verona appeared, running and clutching a flashlight. A heavy jacket was thrown over her shabby bathrobe.
Opening the door in slow motion, he warned her, "Don't make any sudden movement. See if you can grasp him about the middle and raise him gently to unhook the claws. Try releasing one paw at a time."
Verona did as she was told, but when one paw was freed, another clutched with renewed determination.
"I'm afraid it's not workin'. May I make a suggestion?" she asked in her deferential way. "We could take your sweater off over your head? If I roll it up in the back, we should get the kitten and all."
"Okay. Take it easy. Don't alarm him."
"Oh, he's a nice kitty. He's such a nice kitty," Verona cooed as she rolled the sweater over the little animal and then over Qwilleran's head. "Oh, gracious!" she said.
"Your shirt is all bloody?"
He ripped it off.
"And your back is a mess of bloody scratches? Do you have an antiseptic?"
"There's something in the bathroom, I think."
Leaving Bigfoot rolled cozily in the sweater, they trooped to the bathroom and found a liquid which Verona applied liberally to the scratches while Qwilleran winced and grunted.
"Does it smart? We don't want to get an infection, do we? There now, put on somethin' so you don't take a chill?" Her voice was music to his ears.
"I don't know how to thank you, Mrs. Boswell," he said as he put on a fresh shirt. "I was reluctant to bother you at this late hour, but my only other recourse was the volunteer fire department in North Kennebeck."
"No bother. No bother at all. Do you have any more scratches that need antiseptic?"
"Oh... I don't think so," Qwilleran said. "Where's Vince?"
"Stayin' in Lockmaster a bit longer. He didn't finish at the library?"
He looked down at the pathetic little woman with her hair uncombed, her black eye turning yellow, her ridiculous garb - khaki jacket, faded bathrobe, old sneakers. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"I should go home," she said. "I left Baby sleepin' and she might wake up... but... do you have any milk?"
"Milk? I'm afraid not. I'm not a milk drinker. Mrs. Cobb left a carton but it turned sour and I threw it out."
"I've run out of milk for Baby? I thought Vince was comin' home and could do some shoppin'?"
"There's a package of that powdered stuff here. Could you use that?"
"Oh, I'd appreciate it so much?"
"If Vince isn't home tomorrow morning, I'll pick up some groceries for you. Make a list of what you need."
Verona redded with embarrassment. "He didn't leave me any money."
"That's unforgivable! Let's see what we can find here."
Taking a shopping bag from the broom closet he filled it with cheesebread, blueberry muffins, banana-nut bread, vegetable soup, tuna casserole, chili, and - reluctantly - his favorite dish, macaroni and cheese. "I'll drive you home," he said, picking up a jacket and feeling for his keys.
It was a short ride, hardly more than two city blocks.
After a brief silence Verona said, "I saw your big kitties? They're beautiful! I'd love for Baby to see them someday."
"All right," he said. "Bring her over on Thursday afternoon. And thanks again, Mrs. Boswell, for coming to my rescue."
"Call me Verona," she said as she climbed out of the car. He waited until she was in the house and then drove away, asking himself how a nice woman like Verona could get mixed up with a cad like Boswell.
Back at the apartment Bigfoot was still rolled up in the sweater, and when Qwilleran unrolled him the kitten remained in deep slumber with an angelic look on his smudge-nosed face. He was purring in his sleep.
-18-
BIGFOOT AND THE Siamese were socializing politely when Qwilleran rode away on his bicycle Wednesday morning, headed for West Middle Hummock. As he passed the Fugtree farm he wondered when the police would return to question him about his Monday evening visitors.
Brent Waffle was killed before eight o'clock, according to the medical report. Kristi and Mitch arrived via the Willoway promptly at eight. They might have encountered Waffle on the trail, argued violently, bashed him with a flashlight - or two flashlights - and left his body on the bank of the stream. Perhaps they remembered the Buddy Yarrow case on the lttibittiwassee River, when the coroner ruled that Buddy slipped and hit his head on a rock. Then, after midnight, Mitch would drive down one of the access roads to the Willoway and remove the body to the public highway, a site farther removed from the Fugtree property. The rumbling that Qwilleran had heard at a late hour could have been Mitch's truck on the gravel road.
If this scenario were true, he reflected, the amateur murderers had been remarkably cool during the evening. And if it were true, why would the body-left on the Willoway during the torrential rain - be covered with dried blood when found by the road crew? More likely, Waffle had been killed indoors. Perhaps the guy had returned to the scene of his crime and was hiding in one of the vacant goat barns, perhaps eyeing Kristi as his next victim. Perhaps the bucks - Attila, Napoleon and Rasputin - had created a disturbance and alerted her. Then she and Mitch went to investigate, and it was two against one.
Qwilleran hoped his speculations were wrong. They were good kids, with promising lives ahead of them. It was the mesmerizing effect of pedaling his bike that produced such fantasies, he told himself.
At a country store in West Middle Hummock he bought apples, oranges, and milk and dropped them off at the Boswell cottage. Verona, still in a bathrobe, was tearfully grateful.
"Where's Vince?" he asked.
She shrugged and shook her head sadly. "Call me if any problem arises."
Baby, clutching her mother's bathrobe, said, "I'm going to see the kitties tomorrow."
When Qwilleran arrived at the museum the yard was filled with cars: the Tibbitts' old four-door, Larry's long station wagon, and Susan's gas-guzzler (part of her divorce settlement) among others. It appeared that the board of governors was in session, no doubt deciding on a new manager.
Qwilleran changed quickly from his thermal jumpsuit, counted the noses of three sleeping bundles of fur, and joined the group in the museum. The meeting had not yet been called to order. Some of the officers and committee heads were milling about the exhibit area; others were having coffee in the office.
"Join us, Qwill!" Larry called out. "Have a doughnut!"
"First, a word with you, Larry." Qwilleran beckoned him out of the office and conducted him to the apartment."
I want you to see something I've discovered."