"You did a beautiful job, Fran."
"Well, why not? He was willing to spend a fortune..."
"And you thought you were on the gravy train," Qwilleran said sympathetically.
Fran groaned again. "I'm afraid Amanda will have a stroke. You know how excitable she is."
"Did you work directly with Floyd on the cars?"
"No. With his secretary - or assistant - or whatever she is. Nice person. Good to work with. Nella Hooper has fine taste. When Floyd wanted something flashy, she toned him down."
"I saw her on the Party Train. Very attractive. Know anything about her background?"
"Only that she's from Texas. She never wanted to talk about herself, and I know when not to ask questions. Floyd had me do her apartment in Indian Village and gave me carte blanche to spend money. She wanted a south-western theme."
"How about your father, Fran? Has he had anything to say about the embezzlement?"
"It's too soon."
"Or the disappearance of the principals?"
"Too soon."
The way it worked: The police chief would come home from his shift and talk shop with his wife at the kitchen table; then, when Fran made her daily phone call to her mother, Mrs. Brodie would pass along some tidbit of information in strict confidence; later, if Qwilleran dropped into the studio looking genuinely concerned and utterly trustworthy, Fran would feel free to confide in him. She was aware that he had helped the police on several occasions, behind the scenes.
"It's too early for any scuttlebutt," Fran said, "although I haven't called home yet. Why don't you come to rehearsal tonight? By that time I might have heard something."
"Will Derek Cuttlebrink be there?" Qwilleran asked. "He's on my list of leads to interview."
"He'll be there. So will his latest girlfriend."
"You mean - Elizabeth Appelhardt?"
"She prefers to be called Elizabeth Hart now."
"I must say they're an odd couple."
"But they're good for each other," Fran said. "She's talked him into enrolling at the college, and Derek is gradually nudging her into the mainstream. When you first brought her from the island, she was in a world of her own."
"Please! I didn't bring her here," Qwilleran said gruffly. "She happened to be on the same boat."
"Whatever," the designer said with raised eyebrows. "She's started wearing natural makeup and patronizing my hairdresser, and now she looks less like a character in a horror movie."
"I hear she's joined the club. That'll be good for her."
"Good for us, too! She has some fresh ideas for costumes and staging, although I expect some opposition from our older members."
"Any other news?"
"I'm doing an apartment in Indian Village for Dr. Diane - country French, lots of blue. She seems to have replaced Hixie in Dr. Herbert's life, but here's an off-twist: When Hixie broke her foot, she stayed with Dr. Herbert's mother until she could walk, and now Dr. Diane is staying with his mother until her apartment is ready."
Qwilleran said, "I'm sure there's some underlying significance to that fact, but it escapes me.... I like that paperweight. What is it supposed to be?" He pointed to a fanciful chunk of tarnished brass on Fran's desk.
"That's Cerberus," Fran told him. "The three-headed dog that guarded the gates of Hades in ancient mythology. Amanda picked it up at an estate sale in Chicago. It belonged to a wealthy meatpacker."
The detail was meticulous, even to the snakes that formed the dog's mane and tail. Qwilleran often bought a small object in the design studio; it pleased Fran, and it was advantageous to please the daughter of the police chief.
"If you like it," she said, "I'll give you a price on it and shine it up for you."
"I like it," he said, "but I have some other stops to make. How about shining it up and bringing it to the rehearsal tonight?"
As Qwilleran left the studio, he was chuckling to himself in anticipation of the cats' reaction to the grotesque bauble. They were always aware of any new item that arrived in their territory.
His next stop was the office of MacWhannell & Shaw. There was a question he wanted to ask an accountant.
Big Mac, as he was called, met him with a welcoming hand. "Just thinking about you, Qwill. We're planning Scottish Night at the lodge, and we'd like you to be our guest again."
"Thank you. I enjoyed it last year - even the haggis."
"I was telling the committee that your mother was a Mackintosh, and Gordie Shaw said you ought to join the clan officially, as a tribute, you might say, to her memory. The Shaws had Mackintosh connections, you know."
The suggestion hit Qwilleran in a tender spot. He had grown up with a single parent, and now that he was maturing he realized how much she had done for him. He could forget the piano lessons, and drying the dishes, and two- handed games of dominoes; he owed her a great deal. "What would it entail?" he asked.
"According to Gordie, you apply for membership, pay your dues, and receive a periodic newsletter. After that you probably start attending Scottish Gatherings and Highland Games."
"Sounds okay," said the writer of the "Qwill Pen" column, sensing a source of material. "Ask Gordie to send me an application."
"But I've been doing all the talking," the accountant said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Just answer a question, Mac. How do you react to the Lumbertown fraud - or alleged fraud?"
"Fortunately, I have no clients who would be affected, but I sympathize with the Sawdusters. When a white-collar crime is committed in a blue-collar community, it seems particularly reprehensible - to me, that is. Don't ask me why."
"At the risk of sounding financially naive, may I ask how a guy like Trevelyan can abscond with millions belonging to his customers? I'm sure he doesn't carry it out in a suitcase."
"Basically, he has to be a crook," said MacWhannell, "but if you're talking about ways and means, well... there are such practices as juggling the books, forging documents, falsifying financial statements, and so forth."
"Floyd is, or was, a carpenter by trade," Qwilleran pointed out. "Would he have such educated tricks in his toolbox?"
"Sounds as if there was an accomplice, doesn't it? This will be an interesting case. With today's crime information networks, he'll be found soon enough."
Leaving the accountant's office, Qwilleran passed the department store and saw Carol Lanspeak on the sidewalk, waving her arms and shouting. She was directing the setup of a clothing display in the main window, giving terse but loud instructions to an assistant inside the glass, while the young woman mouthed replies.
Catching Qwilleran's reflection in the plate glass, Carol turned and explained, "The one inside the window can hear the one outside, but not vice versa." She waved to her helper and told her to take a break. "This is our last window before back-to-school, Qwill. How time flies! And oh! Weren't you shocked by the news from Sawdust City? Some of our employees live there, and they're Lumbertown depositors. What will happen? When this has occurred elsewhere in the country, it's been a real disaster."
Qwilleran said, "If the guy is a swindler and a fugitive, can't his assets be liquidated to cover debts and embezzled funds? He has a big house in the Hummocks near you, and a model train layout that's worth a mint, and the Party Train. That alone must be valued in the millions."
"But the justice system is so slow, Qwill! And the victims are families with children, and factory workers subject to layoffs, and retirees with nest eggs on deposit. What will they do when emergencies arise?"
"Well, let me tell you something surprising," Qwilleran said. "This morning I was helping to man the phones at the paper, when our reporters were calling in man-on-the-street opinions, and the victims, as you call them, weren't blaming Trevelyan; they were blaming the government for deception and injustice! They called it a plot, a conspiracy, a dirty trick! They refused to believe that Floyd would take their money and skip. They said he'd been a high school football hero and a good carpenter; his picture hung in the lobby of the credit union; he paid daily interest; he was crazy about trains."