As Qwilleran turned away from the phone, he caught Koko disarranging the stack of mail to be answered, and the cat was particularly interested in the unusual gray envelope with white monogram. In fact, there were fang marks in one corner.
"What do you think you're doing," Qwilleran demanded in a sharp tone that sent Koko flying to parts unknown.
It was possible that Vicki used scented writing paper, but a sniff dispelled that notion.
Still, Qwilleran's curiosity was aroused. His ruminations were interrupted by an excited phone call. It was from Larry Lanspeak.
"Qwill, I've got some bad news about our daughter's two patients in Purple Point! She's lost Doris and Nathan. Same diagnosis - respiratory complications! It's that moldy old mansion they've always lived in! I don't mean to be heartless. Diane's associate in Lockmaster ordered an environmental investigation. Don't know whether they got around to it. Everyone's too busy these days! Well, thought you'd want to know."
Qwilleran hung up the phone slowly as he thought of this wealthy couple with so many worldly goods and so much musical talent and so much love for each other - disappointed because they had no children.
Unexpectedly Koko landed in his lap and stared at him belligerently.
He wants me to do something, Qwilleran thought. His eyes strayed across the desk to Vicki's letter. He opened the envelope and read the computer-printed letter quickly, then he read it a second time and phoned the attorney.
"Bart! I've discovered a document that you should see as soon as possible! It's imperative that you come down this afternoon!"
When the attorney arrived, Qwilleran's first words were: "I just heard the bad news about Nathan Ledfield."
"Yes, their housekeeper called me after you and I talked. It's an end of an era! . . . What's the document you mentioned?"
"Sit down first, and let me pour you a cup of coffee."
When that was done, Qwilleran said, "To put it bluntly, I have a strong suspicion the Ledfields were murdered."
Bart all but choked on the coffee. "Is this a theory of yours? Or do you have evidence?"
"I received a letter from a friend of Clarissa Moore, our new feature writer at the Something. The women were friends in California. The writer of the letter made a flying trip here this past weekend for the purpose - believe it or not - of buying a kitten in the auction at the animal shelter on Saturday."
Barter said, "Which you conducted with spectacular success, I'm told."
Qwilleran nodded modestly and said, "I didn't meet the young lady, but she left a note for me, which I'd like you to read."
The letter, on gray stationery, read as follows:
Dear Qwill,
Sorry not to meet you. Clarissa has told me so much about you. . . . Don't tell her about this note. You'll see why. She and I used to double-date on ski weekends with Harvey Ledfield and my friend Greg. We always had a lot to talk about. I was taking a correspondence course in mystery writing; every murder mystery has to have Motive, Opportunity, and Method. And I told them how the hardest part is finding an unusual method. You can't have the butler poisoning the soup anymore.
Clarissa, who had been doing research on mold for a school assignment, said that mold found in old houses could cause illness - or even death in old people - and maybe I could use it in a story. Greg, who was in the building business, said the mold, a fungus, could be implanted in the air ducts of a building.
I said I would try using it in a story, and if it sold, I would split the commission with them. (I wrote it, but it didn't sell.)
I said I'd have to go back to poison in the soup. Bad joke, considering what happened at the Old Manse.
In case you don't know, Harvey and Greg visited the rich uncle last winter to request backing for a ski lodge, and Harvey was slapped down hard. College tuition - yes. Ski lodge - no. But Harvey didn't give up. He went to the Old Manse a second time - with a sketch pad and Clarissa. But when he mentioned the ski lodge property as an investment, Uncle Nathan vetoed it again. As the story goes, Harvey was so mad he refused to go to church when the whole household went on Sunday morning. What was he doing while the others were singing hymns?
I think - and Greg thinks - he was poisoning the air ducts. Greg says the black fungus can be scraped off old houses; it can be found under the wallpaper and in dark closets. He should know; his specialty is restoring old buildings.
At any rate, after their visit to the Old Manse, Clarissa and Harvey broke up. She got a job at the Something, and Harvey's aunt and uncle became ill. "Allergies," they said. I'm very worried about them.
Does this sound like a synopsis for a crime story, Qwill? Or what?
Vicki
Qwilleran said, "My question is: What about Nathan's will?"
"Relax, Qwill. Nathan took care of that the day after Harvey was here last winter. He's leaving everything to the community. But I'll show this letter to the prosecutor. Harvey should be apprehended on suspicion of homicide."
Qwilleran thought, While the Ledfield household, including servants, was at church on Sunday morning, Harvey was implanting fungus in the air ducts of the master suite. . . . Koko knew from the beginning that Harvey was a murderer; that's why he dropped on his head - something he'd never done before.
By Tuesday morning Moose County was in an uproar! Two members of an important family had been murdered, and their nephew was being flown back from California as a suspect - under protective custody. Everyone was listening to WPKX newsbites; the grapevine was working overtime; the coffee shops were crowded; rumours were flying.
"He'll be lucky if he ain't lynched!"
"Wasn't he the son of that no-good brother?"
"Wanted their money. They had plenty."
"But they were never stingy."
"No kids of their own."
"Did you know he played the violin? His wife played the piano. They were pretty good, they say."
"How old were they?"
"Not too old. My sister used to see them in church."
"My next-door neighbour used to work for them. She said they were good people. Mrs. Ledfield even remembered my sister's birthday. Imagine that!"
"Too bad they never had kids."
"What will happen to their big house?"
"Somebody'll make a hotel out of it."
"Nah! Not in that neighbourhood. Are you nuts?"
Qwilleran's phone rang incessantly but all calls were transferred to the answering machine, and he chose which to return - very few.
There was one he called back, Junior Goodwinter.
The young managing editor said, "How'd you like that for bad timing? No paper today! Just our Hurricane Special!"
"Could you throw together a Homicide Special?" Qwilleran suggested facetiously.
"You're not kidding. We'll do a memorial section on Thursday. Could you rustle up a ?Late Greats' column? Any other suggestions will be appreciated."
"Maggie Sprenkle was their closest friend. She can tell you plenty - all in good taste."
"Would you call her? You seem to be her fair-haired boy."
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "What's the deadline?"
Moose County was mopping up. Although the storm had finished its dirty work, the sun was not exactly shining, and folks still wore the hurt expressions of citizens who had been punished for something they didn't do.