WOMAN:Hi!
MAN:Is that Jerome? I thought he skipped town after the…incident.
WOMAN:He came back.
MAN:Does he have any means of support?
WOMAN:His constituents are raising a slush fund.
MAN:Is that what he eats?
WOMAN:He’ll eat anything.
MAN:He looks as if he eats better than I do.
WOMAN:Do you have time to sit down?
MAN:They just painted the benches.
WOMAN:That was last week.
They both sit…and look surprised.
WOMAN:Oh, well, I wasn’t going anywhere. How about you?
MAN:I had an appointment at the traffic court.
CAT:Yeowwww!
WOMAN:You’re sitting on his tail.
MAN:Has the candidate ever held office?
WOMAN:Only as rat catcher.
MAN:Why did he quit?
WOMAN:No reason.
MAN:What makes you think he could catch dogs?
CAT:Yeowwww!
WOMAN:See? He’s quite confident.
MAN:I’m still sitting on his tail!
WOMAN:Jerome! The gentleman has offered to be your campaign manager!
CAT: (Hisses at man.)
WOMAN:Jerome! This gentleman is here to get you votes!
MAN:Frankly, I don’t think his name is suitable for public office.
WOMAN:What would you suggest? Pussy?
MAN:I had in mind something strong like Tiger…OUCH!
WOMAN:Jerome! That’s politically incorrect!
MAN:I’m not sure he’s qualified.
WOMAN:Jerome! Behave!…He hasn’t had his lunch. He knows you have a sandwich in your pocket.
MAN:It’s only peanut butter.
WOMAN:He’ll eat anything except spinach.
MAN:(Attempts to leave in defense of his sandwich.)
All three are stuck.
The End
That night Qwilleran added to his private journaclass="underline"
Well, she’s gone. There was no send-off. She just faded away. It would have been different if I were living at the Willows. But the weather’s much too good at the barn. Carol Lanspeak said that the two mature women probably looked like the Bobbsey Twins with their blue and khaki outfits. Tonight I watched Koko at eleven o’clock to see if he expected a call. He ignored the phone. He knew she was on her way to France…if not already there!
When the Linguini Party Store truck delivered another supply of Squunk water and other treats, Qwilleran was pleased to see Daisy Babcock step out of the passenger side. She was waving a camera.
“Libby Simms at the Old Manse wants me to take a picture of Koko. She memorizes everything you write about him. I told her you wouldn’t mind.”
“True! But Koko will mind. Whenever a camera is pointed in his direction, he crosses his eyes, bares his fangs, and scratches his ear…. But go ahead. They’re both in the gazebo.”
He helped Alfredo unload.
“I see your wife is still working at the Old Manse.”
“Can’t pry her away from that place.”
“No more bee stings?”
“Well, the girl with the allergy is supposed to take a medical kit every time she goes in the garden, which is several times a day, and she forgets, so Daisy bought her a hospital jacket with big pockets in a bright color to hang just inside the garden door. She just grabs it when she goes out. The kit is in the pockets…. That’s the way my wife is—always thinking of solutions to problems…. How long before you move back to the condo?”
“It depends on the weather. The leaves haven’t even started to turn,” Qwilleran marveled…. He walked around to the gazebo and found the two cats on Daisy’s lap.
“No problem,” she said. “Are you trying out for theCats musical?”
“No, but I’ll attend a couple of rehearsals, looking for cues for the Qwill Pen. I hear Libby’s boyfriend is a terrific piano player.”
“Did you know he was the Ledfields’ piano tuner? They’re a darling couple.”
Then Alfredo appeared, and the party was over.
In preparation for the evening, Qwilleran gave the Siamese an early dinner, and they walked around it three times as if questioning the propriety of the timing. For himself he ordered soup, sandwich, and pie from Robin O’Dell Catering.
To get in the mood for theCats rehearsal Qwilleran played a recording of the musical and was half wishing he were singing a role, when…he heard a sound that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. It was Koko’s death howl!
Starting with an abdominal guttural, it ascended through the cat’s stiffened body and ended with a curdling shriek!
Qwilleran had heard it before, and it meant that…someone, somewhere was the victim of murder!
He mopped his brow as he considered the possibilities.
He phoned the city desk at theSomething. “Qwill here. Any foul play reported?”
“No, but someone died as the result of a bee sting. Bad scene. Must’ve been allergic. My kids are getting stung all the time.”
Later in the evening Qwilleran attended theCats rehearsal at the community hall. (The new music center was still being adapted from a public school.) The McLeods’ nine-year-old adopted son, Danny, considered himself in charge of the rehearsaclass="underline" arranging chairs, handing out scores, asking if anyone wanted a drink of bottled water, asking Qwilleran if he wanted something to write on.
When Uncle Louie mounted the podium and rapped on the music stand with his baton, the nine-year-old ushered the singers into the proper sections. No one seemed to find the boy at all too young for the responsibility.
However…the grimness of the conductor’s expression and the presence of a substitute pianist quieted the assembly quickly. When he had everyone’s attention, he said, somberly, “A fatal accident has robbed our pianist of his assistant and robbed our group of a cheerful and valued member. Libby Simms. Let us express our sorrow and sympathy by standing for a few minutes of silence.”
The chorusters stood, and Hannah, at the piano, played “Amazing Grace.”
Qwilleran, glancing around the assembly of stunned singers, caught Daisy’s eye; the men in her family were trying out for roles. She motioned toward the exit, and when he met her in the hallway, her face looked taut.
She said, “Qwill, I’ve got to talk to you.”
They found a bench near the drinking fountain.
“A sad story,” he said. “I thought she had an emergency medical kit.”
“She was supposed to keep it in a pocket of the jacket—I got hot pink, her favorite color. She sometimes wore the jacket when she went on dates with Frankie. She was young and forgot to check the pockets. It’s hard to convince young people to be careful.”
“Has the kit turned up since the tragedy?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve been too upset to think straight. Fredo thought it would do me good to come to the rehearsal with him and Mick…but…” She burst into tears again….
Qwilleran gave her a small packet of tissues.
When Daisy’s sobs subsided, she said, “Fredo’s right! I’ve got to get away from that place.”
“You have talents and personality that would be useful in the exciting community that Nathan has left us. It would please him if you were a part of it. Let me look into it for you. Think of it as the beginning of something, not the end of something.”
One evening Qwilleran phoned his longtime friend John Bushland at home. “Bushy, do you still have the negatives of Thelma Thackeray’s hats that you and I slaved over?”
The photographer, who was losing his hair rapidly, liked to thumb his nose at his misfortune with an impudent nickname.
“Sure thing! Why do you ask?”
“I have an idea for a public-library exhibit in two counties that would be good public relations all around. K Fund will sponsor. But first, can I get a set of prints before Thursday? Eight-by-ten color prints. How they would be presented—will come later.”
“Sure thing!”