The police chief had been right: Maxine Pratt had been right. Qwilleran shrugged it off and went to the desk in the store lobby, where Thornton Haggis was on duty as registrar, asking, "Do you accept registrations for families of three?"
Without missing a beat Thorn asked, "Are they interested in sports, plays, music, art shows, antiques? How about a dog show? How about a cat fashion show?"
"What! Are we having one of those abominations here?" Qwilleran's shock was genuine.
"They say they're very popular all over - with cat clubs, pet owners, and the general public. You're dragging your feet, Qwill!"
"Let's change the subject, Thorn, before I burst a blood vessel."
"Well . . . I'm organizing a tour of old cemeteries that might interest you: forgotten graveyards, old tombstones, a few raunchy inscriptions. I have them all catalogued, and the old account books of Haggis Monument Works can tell visitors how much their ancestors paid for their grave markers. At one time in history, five dollars was a lot to pay for a tombstone."
"One question, Thorn. What is it that draws so many relatives together - from such great distances? It must be an emotion I've never felt."
"I daresay. It all boils down to family feeling, a consuming interest in your own flesh and blood - their successes, exploits, travels, even setbacks - a chance to see how the kids have grown, who has dyed her hair, who is gaining weight. It seems to be a middle-class phenomenon."
"How many families have signed up, Thorn? Could I spend a morning or afternoon with one group - just to see what they do, what they talk about, what they eat, how far they've traveled to be part of Pickax Now ?"
"Take your pick!" said the registrar. "Any one of them would think it an honor. Here's the list."
There were names he had never heard before, and names that were too well known, but "Ogilvie-Fugtree" sounded inviting. He had known Mitch Ogilvie when the young bachelor was managing the Farmhouse Museum and later when he married a descendant of Captain Fugtree. She was a goat farmer, and Mitch was learning to make cheese. They lived in the captain's historic farmhouse - a tall, stately, Victorian mansion.
Actually, Qwilleran knew more about the couple than he could use in a column, but he felt comfortable with them.
"Sign me up for a Saturday afternoon visit, Thorn," he said. "And by the way, I sent a young couple down to the art centre Saturday, and they bought one of your bowls for a gift. I hear you mesmerized them with some of your tall tales."
"I don't know about that, but they said they were visiting the Ledfields in Purple Point, so I completed their education."
One morning Qwilleran said to the attentive Siamese, "Your uncle George is coming again. Do your ablutions before he gets here, and don't forget to wash behind your ears."
"Uncle George" was G. Allen Barter, the attorney. To Qwilleran he was "Bart" - more of a pun than most persons realized.
When Bart arrived, the four trooped into the dining room, single file, ready for business.
The attorney said, "I searched my briefcase backwards and forward for that news photo of Harvey Ledfield. So did my wife, who has an eagle eye. Today is her birthday, by the way, and I'm taking her to dinner at the Boulder House Inn - just the two of us."
From a pencil holder Qwilleran plucked a fat yellow lead pencil stamped "Qwill Pen" in gold. "Give her this - with my birthday wishes, Bart."
"She'll be ecstatic! She's won three pens in your reader competitions, and she displays them like silver trophies."
Qwilleran said, "You married a Gemini, you lucky dog! That means she's not only eagle-eyed but strong, kind, talented, smart, physically attractive--"
"How do you know all this esoteric guff?"
With a feigned show of modesty Qwilleran said, "I happen to be a Gemini myself."
"I should have suspected one of your sly tricks! . . . What are those photos?" He pointed toward two eight-by-ten glossies.
"Oh, those!" Qwilleran said casually. "When I took my guests to dinner at the Nutcracker Inn on Saturday night, there happened to be a news photographer in the lobby, and he made shots of my party and the guest of honor, solo. You might like to give them to Harvey's aunt to replace the missing news clipping."
"Very kind of you, Qwill. And how did the sketching go?"
"He seemed to be impressed. His fiancée is charming. They walked down the lane to the art centre and bought a turned-wood bowl for Harvey's aunt. It's a work of art - but a far cry from the silver-and-porcelain bowls she probably has in her collection."
With an abrupt change of mood the attorney said, "I had a call from one of their secretaries this morning, canceling their appointment. Both Mr. and Mrs. Ledfield are ?indisposed.' Allergy symptoms."
"How many secretaries do they have?" Qwilleran interrupted.
"One to handle their financial undertakings, which are extensive, and one to handle their collectibles."
Qwilleran said, "I hope their condition is nothing serious."
"My wife calls this area Pollen Paradise. Every second person you meet has a red nose, red eyes, and a box of tissues. One would think the Ledfields, having lived here for three generations, would know how to deal with pollen."
Qwilleran thought, There were questions that could be asked, but attorneys don't talk about their clients, especially to a newspaperman.
Uncle George changed the subject. "How did the cats react to having an architectural draftsman in their private domain?"
"Yum Yum stayed out of sight, but Koko surprised us all with his interest in the operation. . . . And, by the way, Bart, someone was telling me that the Ledfields are bequeathing their historical collections to Moose County for the establishment of a museum - provided the county erects a suitable building. Is that a fact?"
"It's in the will, but I don't see it happening in the foreseeable future. The Ledfields appear to be long-lived. Nathan's father lived to be eighty and his grandfather ninety."
"But that was before freeway fatalities, plane crashes, and deranged snipers," Qwilleran said. "Not to mention [he added whimsically] a new strain of hay fever imported from Outer Space."
"Yow!" Koko interrupted petulantly. His noontime snack was behind schedule.
"Meeting adjourned," the attorney said as he stuffed papers into his briefcase.
Chapter 7
On Friday morning, as Qwilleran was preparing their breakfast, the cats huddled on top of the bar, waiting for the sideshow. They liked to be entertained, and he liked an audience. On this occasion he recited from his collection of limericks:
I live with a pair of Siamese
Who think they can do whatever they please.
They subsist on steak
And truffles and cake
And lobster and six kinds of cheese.
Two furry bodies bolted from the bar top and chased each other up and down the ramp - twice. There was something about the rhyme and rhythm of limericks and other homely verses that pricked their psyche and teed off a mad race.
Returning to the kitchen with appetites whetted, they polished off two plates of turkey scraps from Lois's Luncheonette. As he watched them enjoying their meal, the phone rang.
Koko's ear twitching told him it was friend, not foe.
"Good morning!" he answered in the unctuously musical voice that amused his close associates.
"Qwill! I've just received a very . . . interesting letter!" It was Polly's voice, brimming with excitement.
"About what?" he asked.
"Wait until you read it!"
"Would it be too presumptuous to ask who sent it?"
"Clarissa Moore!"
"Hmmm . . . Read it to me."