"Who is this person?" Polly asked crisply. Expecting the third degree, Qwilleran roguishly teased her with piecemeal replies. "A friend of Junior's grandmother in Florida."
"Why would anyone in his or her right mind leave the subtropics to live in the Snow Belt? Is this person male or female?"
"Female."
There was a brief pause. "Where is she going to live?"
"In my old apartment."
"Oh, really? I didn't know it was available for rent. How did she find out about it?"
"The subject of housing arose in a telephone conversation, and I offered it to her."
There was another pause. "You must know her quite well."
"As a matter of fact," he said, thinking the game had gone on long enough, "she was instrumental in solving tire mystery surrounding Euphonia's death."
"I see.... How old is she?"
"Polly, I never ask a lady her age. You know that."
There was an audible sniff.
"Approximately."
"Well... old enough to have a teenage grandson... and young enough to like snowball fights."
"What is this woman's name?"
"Celia Robinson, and I'll appreciate it, Polly, if you'll alert Mrs. Alstock. Mrs. Robinson will be here in about ten days."
Qwilleran chuckled to himself after hanging up the receiver. He could imagine the gabby Mrs. Robinson and the gossipy Mrs. Alstock having lunch at Lois's Luncheonette.
For the next few days he made discreet inquiries, wherever he went, about parttime work for a newcomer. One day he met Lisa Compton in the post office. She worked at the Senior Care Facility, and her husband was superintendent of schools; between them they could provide answers for most questions.
Qwilleran mentioned his quest, and Lisa asked, "Does this woman have a warm, outgoing personality?"
"She's got it in spades," he said.
"Do you know about our new outreach program? It's called Pals for Patients. We supply Pals to homebound Patients; the Patients pay us, and we pay the Pals, minus a small commission for booking and collecting. Patients who can't afford to pay are subsidized by the Klingenschoen Foundation. You probably know all about that."
"That's what you think," Qwilleran said. "No one tells me these things.... Was the program your brainchild?"
"No, it was Irma Hasselrich's last great idea. I merely implemented it," said Lisa. "What's your friend's name?"
Qwilleran hesitated, knowing that a bulletin would flash across the Pickax grapevine: Mr. Q has a new friend. He explained his hesitation by saying glibly, "Her last name is Robinson. Her first name is Sadie or Celia - something like that. We've never met. She was a dear friend of Euphonia Gage in Florida, who said Celia - or Sadie - had an exceptionally warm and outgoing personality."
"Okay. Send her to me when she arrives. We'll put her name on the list."
"She'll appreciate it, I'm sure. How's your grouchy old husband, Lisa?"
"Believe it or not, he's happy as a lark. You know Lyle's perverse temperament. Well, he's tickled to see Floyd Trevelyan in trouble. They've been enemies ever since Floyd sued the school board for expelling his son."
As it turned out, Floyd was in more trouble than anyone imagined, and the Moose County Something could gloat over its first front-page coverage of a financial scandal.
The Lumbertown Credit Union was closed indefinitely and its assets frozen, pending a hearing before the state banking commission on charges of fraud.
Millions of dollars belonging to depositors were allegedy missing.
Also missing were the president of the institution and his secretary.
-5-
News of the Mudville scandal broke in mid-morning, enabling the Moose County Something to remake the front page. Arch Riker phoned Qwilleran for help with rewrites and phones. "And listen, Qwilclass="underline" Stop at Toodles' and pick up a few bottles of champagne."
Suffused with a newsman's urge to disinter the story behind the story, Qwilleran left in a hurry, although not without waving good-bye to the Siamese. He told them where he was going and when he might return, as if they cared. After their breakfast they could be infuriatingly blas‚. Yum Yum merely sat on her brisket and gave him a glassy stare; Koko walked away and was heard scratching in the commode.
At the newspaper office the mood was one of jubilation. Rarely did breaking news break on their deadline. Ordinarily the public heard it first from the electronic media - sketchily, but first. Not until the next day would the newspaper come in a poor second. True, they were able to publish photos, sidelights, background facts, quotes from individuals involved, and opinions from casual observers. After all, the Moose County Something claimed to be the north- country newspaper of record. "Read all about it" was their slogan, recalling the cry of the old-time corner newshawker.
When the presses were finally rolling, the champagne corks popped in celebration. If Qwilleran remembered his own exuberant days of champagne-squirting Down Below, it was without any wishful pangs of yearning. He was simply glad to be where he was when he was - and who he was.
Eventually Riker's booming voice announced, "Enough hilarity! Back to reality!" The staff calmed down and went to work, and Qwilleran went on his way, leaving his car in the parking lot and walking around town to do his own snooping.
First he went to the police station to see his friend Andrew Brodie, but the chief was absent - probably meeting with state and county lawmen to organize a manhunt, and woman-hunt.
Qwilleran's next stop was Amanda's Studio of Interior Design on Main Street. Amanda was not there, but Fran Brodie was holding the fort attractively, sitting at a French writing table with her long slender legs crossed and her double-hoop earrings dangling. She had been one of the seductive young women who pursued Qwilleran when he arrived in Pickax to claim his inheritance. Only Polly Duncan remained in the running; in this case, he had done the pursuing. Fran was still a friend and confidante, however. He admired her talent as a designer, her dedication to the theatre club, and her strawberry blond hair. Also, she was the daughter of the police chief and an occasional source of privileged information.
When he entered the shop, she saw him immediately and turned her face away, groaning loudly - a bit of theatre-club pantomime.
"Is it as bad as all that?" Qwilleran asked. He knew that the studio had handled the renovation of the Party Train.
"That rat owes us tens of thousands!" she wailed. "Amanda's at the attorney's office right now. Floyd had signed a contract for the work, and we never dreamed he'd run out on it."
"Were the rail coaches the only work you'd done for him?"
"No. The first was the Lumbertown office, and he liked it. Maybe you've seen how we duplicated the atmosphere of an old railway depot. He had just sold his construction firm to XYZ Enterprises and had tons of money. He paid the bill in thirty days."
"And what about his house in West Middle Hummock? I had a glimpse of it when I interviewed him about the model trains. The interior didn't look like you; it looked like Mudville thrift shop."
"Well, he said his wife didn't want any professional help with the house. That meant one of two things: Either he'd rather spend the money on model trains, or Mrs. T was too ill to care. We accepted that. Apparently Floyd himself didn't care how the house looked as long as the bar was well stocked. I don't know who drinks all that stuff. I think they never have company. Maybe Floyd has drinking buddies from Sawdust City.... But then, he commissioned us to do the interiors of the PV and the diner and the club car, and believe me, they needed a lot of doing!"