"What is it?"
"Something that belonged to your great-grandmother."
"Which one? I had four. So did you, as a matter of fact."
"Mine didn't write family secrets on the flyleaves of their bibles," Qwilleran retorted. "Have a chair."
They sat at the big table, and Qwilleran picked up the large, leather-bound, gold-tooled book. "This rare artifact was sold at a Bid-a-Bit auction to Mrs. Fugtree, whose daughter presented it to the museum. It was identified as the Bosworth Bible, because the first name recorded on the flyleaf was Luther Bosworth, who died in 1904."
"Let me see that!" Larry held out his hand.
"Not so fast! From studying the inscriptions I deduce that Luther's widow, Lucy, kept the family records in the bible. She apparently died around 1958, because there are no entries beyond that date, and Mrs. Fugtree made her purchase in 1959."
"You've been a busy boy," said Larry, "but what's the point?"
"The point is that, according to Lucy, you and Susan and Vince Boswell are second cousins, but of course you know that; everyone in Moose County is a genealogy nut."
"I believe there is some sort of relationship," Larry said evasively. "Ow-w-w-w! What's that?" He was shaking his leg.
"Sorry. That's Bigfoot. I'll lock him up. He's Polly's cat." Qwilleran put Bootsie in the broom closet.
"Okay, Sherlock, what else did you discover?" Larry asked. "You look smug."
"I learned some facts about your store. Your great-grandmother bought the Pickax General Store in 1904, shortly after Luther died. She paid cash for it. Soon after, she married Karl what's-his-name and changed the store name to Lanspeak's Dry Goods. It would make a newsy column for the 'Qwill Pen.' I'm sure you could fill in the details."
Good actor though he was, Larry could not keep his face from flushing nor his forehead from perspiring. "Let me see that thing!"
Qwilleran clutched the bible possessively. "One more thing, Larry, and then I won't delay you any longer. You and Susan have been pushing Vince Boswell - or Bosworth, as the case may be - for Iris's job, but are you sure he projects the image you want for the museum? Even though he's your relative he lacks a suitable personality and lacks class, to put it bluntly, and there may be other marks against him if my hunches checkout." He smoothed his moustache in a significant gesture. "If the board is meeting today to discuss the matter, it might be wise to postpone your decision."
"What are you trying to say, Qwill? What's the big mystery?"
"Vince has gone to Lockmaster, leaving Verona without transportation, without money, and even without milk for the child. He left Monday, and there's no telling when he'll return. Does he play the horses? The race season just opened in Lockmaster."
"I don't know about that."
"Obviously the man has little sense of responsibility. Is that the kind of manager you want? By the way, why did he change his name from Bosworth?"
"To tell the truth, I never asked him," said Larry. "Was Luther Bosworth a miner? Was he a victim of the May thirteenth explosion?"
"No, he was sort of a handyman - a caretaker on the Goodwinter farm. All I know is what my great-uncle Benjamin said. Ephraim thought very highly of Luther."
"But you're not descended from Luther; your great- grandfather was Karl."
"Correct."
"Karl was a handsome man."
"How do you know?"
"Read your family bible, and you'll find out." Qwilleran presented it to Larry with a flourish, unaware of some clattering and thumping in the broom closet.
"Now let me ask you a question," Larry said. "According to the paper, the murder victim was Kristi Fugtree's ex-husband. Everyone says he's the one who poisoned her goats. She's now seeing a lot of Mitch Ogilvie. Do you think Mitch had anything to do with it?"
"Not very likely. He and Kristi were here Monday night, drinking cider and discussing the restoration of the Fugtree mansion as a historic place."
"I hope to God he's not involved," said Larry. "Now I've got to go back to the office and start the meeting."
"One more question, if you don't mind, Larry. What do you know about sandboxes for kids?"
"People around here make them with two-by-fours and get free sand on Sandpit Road. Why do you ask?"
"We have a budding archaeologist at the Boswell cottage with no place to dig."
Out came the reliable notebook. "The yard crew can rig something up. There might be some two-by-fours in the steel barn. I'll take care of it."
As he left there was a minor explosion in the broom closet, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. Qwilleran yanked open the door. Bootsie was sitting on the shelf with the light bulbs, purring.
Polly Duncan returned earlier than expected to pick up the kitten. "When the meeting ended, I didn't stay to socialize," she explained. "I was lonesome for my little sweetheart. Was he a good boy?"
"No problem. I have a few scars, and the value of the Cobb glass collection is down a few hundred dollars, and the Siamese will never be the same, but... no problem."
Polly paid no atten.tion. "Where is he? I can hardly wait to see him. Where is he?" Both she and Qwilleran searched the apartment, checking all the warm places and soft places. They found Koko and Yum Yum on the blue velvet wing chair but not a hair of the kitten. Qwilleran could tell by Polly's terrified expression that she thought the Siamese had eaten Bigfoot.
"Here he is!" he called from the bathroom, just in time to save Polly from nervous collapse.
Bootsie was in the turkey roaster that served as a commode for the Siamese, sound asleep in the gravel.
Polly seized him. "Bootsie darling! What are you doing there? Were you lonesome? Did you miss me? Kiss-kiss... Did he use his litterbox, Qwill?"
"He seemed to prefer the turkey roaster."
"I hope he wasn't too frightened to eat."
"No, he ate very well, let me assure you. Did you run into Vince Boswell down there? He's supposed to be doing research at the library."
"I didn't see anyone from Pickax. If they were there, they were all at the track. The races are on this week. Now we must pack our luggage and go home."
Qwilleran produced Bootsie's basket, litterbox, brush, and carrier with alacrity.
"Say goodbye to Uncle Qwill, Bootsie,," said Polly, lifting the kitten's thin foreleg and waving the floppy brown paw. "Look at that lovely paw - just like a beautiful brown flower. Do you think I should clip his claws?"
"Don't do anything rash," said Qwilleran. When they had left, he heaved a sigh of relief, and the Siamese walked around, stretching. The three of them enjoyed a peaceful dinner of chicken cordon bleu from the freezer, and at dusk they settled down in the parlor for some music - the cats on the blue wing chair and Qwilleran on the brown lounge chair opposite, a mug of coffee in his hand. Both telephone bells had been turned off. No matter what the crisis or emergency he was determined to hear Polly's opera cassette without interruption.
As the first three acts unreeled he realized he was actually enjoying this music. Whatever sardonic remarks about opera he had made in the past, he was willing to rescind. The Siamese were listening, too, possibly hearing notes and nuances that escaped his ear. He was following the English libretto, and the suspense was mounting in the fourth act. During the poignant "Willow Song" Desdemona cried, "Hark! I hear a wailing! Hush! Who is knocking at that door?" And Emilia replied, "It is the wind."
At that precise moment a rumbling growl came from the depths of Koko's chest. He jumped to the floor and ran into the hall. A moment later there was a frantic pounding at the front door, the brass knocker clanging and fists beating the door panels.
Qwilleran rushed to open it.
"Help me find Baby!" screamed Verona, wild-eyed with anxiety and gasping for breath. "She got out! Maybe the barn!"
He grabbed a jacket and the battery-operated lantern, and they ran across the barnyard. A mercury-vapor lamp on a high pole flooded the entire yard, but Verona had run all the way down the lane without a flashlight. She had forgotten it in her panic.