-Talk soccer with the crew during their; break; read the soccer news in the daily paper.
-Attend a soccer game.
-Show interest in the house construction and ask dumb questions. Qwilleran's ideas concerning the shooting of the dog were crystallizing. The perpetrator (a) had a grudge against Floyd and (b) knew where and how the dog was kenneled, although (c) he was unaware that he was shooting someone else's pet. One distasteful idea came to mind: The crime was purposely committed to encourage public sympathy for Floyd. The notion was not completely farfetched in this stronghold of dog owners.
In any case, since Zak had not barked and was shot at close range, the shooter was obviously someone he knew, and yet... that could be anyone. Zak was friendly to a fault.
Regarding the police investigation of the shooting, Qwilleran assumed that they knew all of the above but had more important matters to investigate, such as the whereabouts of the embezzler himself.
Something Eddie had said now started a new train of thought: Floyd might have stashed the stolen money in Swiss banks; he might now be in Switzerland and not Mexico as everyone assumed; he might be arranging to fly his wife there for treatment. This theory, Qwilleran realized, had its flaws, but if it were viable, why had Koko performed his death dance? Baffled, he decided to table the matter and take Celia Robinson to dinner.
First he had to feed the cats. He often reflected that he was retired from the workplace, had no family responsibilities, and was the richest man in the northeast central United States. Yet his entire life was structured around the humble routine of feeding the Siamese, brushing their coats, entertaining them, doing lap service, and policing their commode. Early in his life it would have been inconceivable!
The question now arose: Where to take the loudly gleeful Mrs. Robinson to dinner? The New Pickax Hotel was the usual choice for business dinners and social obligations; no one went there for fun. On this evening Polly would be dining there with the library board, a group of genteel older women whose voices never rose higher than a murmur. The dining room was small, furthermore, and other tables would be occupied by lone business travelers intent on their tough steak. Celia's shrieks of laughter would reverberate like a tropical bird in a mortuary.
Qwilleran's own favorite restaurant was the Old Stone Mill, but he was too well known there, and the entire staff kept tabs on his dining companions. The safest choice was a steakhouse in North Kennebeck named Tipsy's. It occupied a large log cabin; the atmosphere was informal; the patrons were noisy; and the restaurant had the distinction of being named after the owner's cat. That would please Celia.
When he called for her, she was obviously wearing her best dress, her best jewelry, and full makeup. She looked nice, although she would be conspicuous at Tipsy's.
"Where are we going?" she asked with excitement. "I saw ads in the paper for Otto's Tasty Eats and the Nasty Pasty. Such funny names! And Moose County Something is a crazy name for a newspaper! I also read about a town called Brrr; was that a misprint?"
"Brrr happens to be the coldest spot in the county," he informed her.
"That's a good one!" she exclaimed with hearty laughter. "Wait till I tell my grandson! I write to Clayton once a week, sometimes twice."
"You can plan on plenty of two-letter weeks while you're here," Qwilleran said. "People who live 400 miles north of everywhere tend to be different. It's called frontier individualism."
On the way to North Kennebeck Celia continued to be convulsed with merriment at signposts pointing to Chipmunk, West Middle Hummock, and Sawdust City. "I don't believe it!" she cried when Ittibittiwassee Road crossed the Ittibittiwassee River. "Are they for real?"
"Sawdust City is not only real but recently it's been the scene of a major financial scandal."
"I like scandals!" she cried happily.
"Virginia Alstock will fill in the details tomorrow, but briefly: The president of a financial institution has disappeared along with his secretary and millions of dollars belonging to depositors. Mrs. Alstock will also take you to meet Lisa Compton at the Senior Care Facility. Would you care for part- time work as a companion for elderly shut-ins?"
"Oh, yes! I'm good with old people and invalids. I cheer them up."
"I believe it!" he said sincerely.
Celia became serious. "Do you think I laugh too much, Chief?"
"How much is too much?"
"Well, my daughter-in-law says I do. My husband was just the opposite. He always expected the worst. I've always been an optimist, and I began laughing to make up for his bad humor, but the more I laughed, the worse he got, and the worse he got, the more I laughed. It was funny when you think about it. I noticed you never laugh, Chief, although you've got a terrific sense of humor."
"I'm a chuckler," he said. "My laughter is internal. I wrote a column once about the many kinds of laughter. People giggle, titter, guffaw, snicker, cackle, or roar. My friend Polly Duncan, whom you'll meet, has a musical laugh that's very pleasant. Laughter is an expression of mirth involving the facial muscles, throat, lungs, mouth, and eyes. It's usually involuntary, but one can control the volume and tone to suit the time and place. It's called fine-tuning.... My next lecture will be at 9 a.m. tomorrow."
"I never thought of that," she said. "I'm going to try fine-tuning."
"There's a hostess at the restaurant where we're going who greets customers with loud, cackling laughter. I always think, There goes another egg."
Celia tried to smother her screams of delight. "What's the name of the restaurant?"
"The Chicken Coop." She exploded again but cut it short. "No, it's really called Tipsy's." Then he explained how it was founded in the 1930s and named after a white-and-black cat whose markings made her look inebriated, and whose deformed foot made her stagger. "Her portrait in the main dining room was the subject of county-wide controversy recently," he said, "resolved only when art fakery was revealed."
When they arrived at the restaurant and were greeted by the hostess with a cackling laugh, Celia struggled to keep a straight face as she mumbled to Qwilleran, "Another egg!"
The menu was limited. Qwilleran always ordered the steak. Celia asked if the fish had bones, because she wanted to take some home to Wrigley. During the meal she had many questions to ask.
"Who is your friend with the nice laugh?"
"The administrator of the public library. It's her assistant who will chauffeur you around town tomorrow."
"Where do you live?"
"No doubt you've noticed the evergreen forest behind the theatre parking lot. Beyond that is an old orchard with a hundred-year-old apple barn. That's where I live."
"You live in a barn?"
"I've fixed it up a little. You'll see it one of these days. After you're settled, we'll have a talk. I think... I may have another assignment for you, Celia."
After dropping his dinner guest at her apartment, Qwilleran hurried to the barn to make a phone call. Just inside the kitchen door he picked up a black felt- tip pen from the floor. "Drat that cat!" he muttered as he dropped it into the pewter mug on the desk. A pen lying on a desktop was fair game to Koko, but he never filched one from the mug. He suspected Yum Yum.
It was the Compton residence that he called, and Lisa answered. "Do you want to speak to my grouchy husband?"
"No, I want to speak with his charming wife. It's about Pals for Patients."
"Sure. What can I do for you?"
"Does the Trevelyan family in West Middle Hummock ever call you for help?"
"All the time! The Pals we send out there never keep the job very long. It's a long drive for only a few hours' work, and it's an unhappy family. No one's assigned to them at the moment-not since the credit union closed. Their daughter worked there, but now she's at home, taking care of her mother herself. Why do you ask?"