"No wonder her husband turned out the way he did," Qwilleran said. "He was a nut even then."
"Now comes the sad part. After a few pictures of the young couple and their two young children, the pages of the photo album were, blank. I wanted to know why no more snap-shots, and Florrie said, 'My husband got too rich. I never wanted to be the wife of a rich man. I liked it when he'd come home tired and dirty from digging a basement or shingling a roof, and we'd sit at the kitchen table and drink a beer and talk before we ate supper....' Isn't that sad, Chief?"
"It is indeed. Did she say anything else about her husband?"
"Not a word, and I didn't think I should ask."
"You're right. The questions will come later."
"When Tish came home, I said good-bye to Florrie, and she held out her arms for a hug." Celia blinked her eyes at the recollection. "On the way out I had a few words with Tish. She'd brought home an armful of library books, and we talked a bit about our favorite authors. She said she'd like to be a writer herself. I asked if she'd studied it in college, and she said, 'My father didn't think college was necessary, because I could go right into the family business.' "
"How did she say it? Regretfully? Apologetically? Matter-of-factly? Bitterly?"
"Kind of stiffly, I thought. So then I looked innocent and said, 'What business is your family in?' She looked surprised, so I explained that I'd just moved to town a couple of days ago and didn't know anything about anything. She said they were in the financial business, but she was on vacation."
"I'm proud of you, Celia," Qwilleran said. "You've done very well for starters."
"Thank you. I really enjoyed every minute. And before I left, I told Tish I was sorry to hear their dog had been shot. Tish felt sick about it. He was a beautiful chow. And that gave me an idea! Pets are supposed to be good for elderly patients - for their morale, you know - so I suggested bringing Wrigley to visit her mother. He's a lovable cat, very clean, very quiet. Tish thought it would be wonderful, so that's what I'm going to do. Do you have any other suggestions, Chief?"
"Yes. Continue to do your Pals for Patients job. Take Wrigley, by all means. Both of those lonely women need your cheery presence, and Tish may prove to be your best source of information. Continue to play the uninformed newcomer. At the same time, acquaint yourself with all the published facts on the scandal to date. I have a file of clippings for you to take home and read. Good luck! I'll call you tomorrow night."
"Oh, I'm so excited!" she exclaimed. She reached for a long wooden object on the coffee table. "Is this what I think it is?" She blew one end and produced the high-pitched whistle of a steam locomotive. Yum Yum vanished; Koko stood his ground and swiveled his ears wildly.
Qwilleran could do his best thinking with his feet elevated, a legal pad in his left hand and a black felt-tip in his right, and this is how he settled down in the library area after Celia had driven away. Yum Yum immediately came trotting down the ramp. Whenever he sat down, her built-in antenna signaled his whereabouts and flashed green. There she was, ready to curl up on his lap, and who could deny that appealing little creature? He had known her when she was a trembling, mistreated kitten. Now she was a self- assured young lady who wanted her own plate at dinnertime and who had once tried to steal the police chief's badge off his chest. Qwilleran propped his writing pad against the furry body on his lap and started an off-the-cuff list of questions that needed to be explored. The writing surface rose and fell as she inhaled and exhaled:
Does Tish have any life of her own, apart from job and family responsibilities? Did she, or does she, resent her father's interference in her career possibilities?
When he was gallivanting around the country in pursuit of his personal pleasures, how did Tish feel about being a live-in Cinderella? How did she react to his all-night absences and travels with his secretary, while Florrie wasted away at The Roundhouse?
How much, if anything, does Tish know about the embezzlement? Was she a collaborator in juggling the books? Was that Floyd's reason for wanting her in his office instead of in college? Did she collaborate willingly, or was Floyd a tyrant who gave orders and insisted on being obeyed?
Does she know where he is? Does she have any guesses where he is?
It was about eleven o'clock when headlights came bobbing through the Black Forest. Koko announced the fact, having seen them first. Qwilleran switched on the exterior lights and went out to investigate. There were two sets of headlights. He stood with his fists on his hips and listened to the owl hooting until the vehicles came into full view.
The first was a pickup truck, and Derek Cuttlebrink unfolded his long frame from the driver's seat. "Brought you a load of wood," he announced flippantly.
Two women from the second vehicle walked forward. "Hi, Qwill," said Fran Brodie. "We're delivering a surprise!"
Elizabeth was with her. "You can sit in it, Mr. Q, and wonderful things will happen! I have it on good authority."
"Not another rocking chair!" he said, trying not to sound ungrateful, yet leaving himself leeway to refuse it.
What Derek was unloading from the truck was an armload of five-foot poles. "Where shall I set 'em up?" he asked, pausing on the threshold.
Fran, who had led the way into the barn, pointed toward the lounge area. "Over there, Derek. There's plenty of space between the fireplace and the sofa." Having been the interior designer for the barn, she retained a proprietary interest in it. Whenever she visited, she went about straightening pictures, moving furniture, and giving unsolicited advice. Her sincere, good-natured aggressiveness usually amused Qwilleran, but he drew the line at five-foot poles.
"What the devil are those things supposed to be?" he demanded in a cranky voice.
"It's a portable pyramid," Elizabeth announced with the air of a generous benefactor. "Wally Toddwhistle designed it; Derek will put it together for you."
"Only takes a jiffy," Derek said. "All you need is a screwdriver. Got a screwdriver?"
"There's a toolkit in the broom closet." Qwilleran threw himself on the sofa and watched with a dour expression as five-foot poles were joined to become ten-foot poles, which fitted together to make a ten-foot square; then four other ten-foot poles were attached to the corners and joined at the apex.
"Voila! A pyramid!" cried Elizabeth.
Derek crawled into the cagelike structure and sat cross-legged. "Wow! I'm getting vibrations! I'm getting ideas! How about selling Elizabeth the barn, Mr. Q, and I'll open a restaurant?"
"How about telling me what this damm fool thing is all about?" Qwilleran retorted.
Fran spoke up. "Larry and Junior ganged up on us and wouldn't let us use it in our stage set. I thought you'd enjoy experimenting with it. Then you could write a column about pyramid power. It has something to do with the electromagnetic field."
"Hmmm," he murmured, mellowing a trifle. Derek, still in the pyramid, said, "Somebody get my guitar!"
Elizabeth ran out to his truck, returning with the instrument, and he sang a ballad titled "The Blizzard of 1912." Everyone said he'd never done it better. Derek said he'd felt inspired. Qwilleran suggested some refreshments.
With their drinks and bowls of Kabibbles, they sat around the big coffee table, facing the pyramid. Fran and Derek were in the usual rehearsal clothes, straight from the ragbag, but Elizabeth was striking in a baggy red jumpsuit tied about the middle with a long sash of many colors. The Siamese sat a safe distance from both guests and pyramid.