Carmichael frowned at the ankle. "That's quite a balloon you've got there. Is it painful?"
"Not as bad as it was. Excuse my attire; the baker at the cove had to lend me some clean clothes. Go out to the kitchen, Colin. There's a bar in the pantry. Help yourself, and you can bring me a ginger ale from the fridge. You might also throw the compress in the freezer."
The editor lingered. "I hated to call you about the Tater thing, Qwill. Don't hold it against me."
"Forget it. I'm not here to get involved in local politics or prejudices."
"What happened to your hands?"
"I tried to save myself and grabbed some unfriendly rocks. The bandages make them look worse than they are."
When they settled down with their drinks, Carmichael glanced around the living room. "This is a lot of house for one guy."
"It was the only place that would rent to cats. I have two Siamese," Qwilleran said.
"Where are they?"
"In hiding. They avoid veterinarians and editors."
"Our star columnist is going around with a red face since her interview with you. It seems you asked all the questions, and she did all the talking. She's too embarrassed to call you again."
"Let's leave it that way, Colin. Tell her I'm on a secret mission and don't want her to blow my cover. Tell her anything. Tell her I'm opening a health spa for men only, with retired burlesque strippers as masseuses."
"There's some speculation anywayas to your identity, and your reason for being here, and why you're willing to pay such high rent."
"I'm beginning to wonder about the rent myself."
"Well, tell me how you sprained your ankle, Qwill."
Qwilleran related the episode in cool, journalistic style without histrionics, underplaying his descent into the pit and his heroic struggle to climb to safety. In concluding he said, "Let me tell you one thing: I wouldn't be sitting here tonight if it weren't for some of those Taters . . . Your glass is empty, Colin. Go and help yourself."
"Not this time, thanks. My family's expecting me home for dinner. We're having a backyard barbecue for my little girl's birthday . . . But tell me what you wanted to discuss in my office."
"It's only a wild notion. How would you react to a biography of Hawkinfield? I've thought of writing one, but it would require a lot of research."
"That's a great idea!" said the editor. "You can count on our complete cooperation. We can line up interviews for you. Everyone will be glad to talk."
"It's only in the thinking stage," Qwilleran said. "I might open with the murder trial, then flashback to J.J.'s regime at the Gazette, his civic leadership, the loss of his family, and his violent end."
Carmichael was pounding the arm of his chair. "That would make a damn good movie, too, Qwill! You've got me all fired up! After this news a backyard barbecue is going to seem like small potatoes."
"I'll need to get a transcript of the trial, of course, and there are considerations I'll want to discuss with an attorney. Would you recommend Hugh Lumpton?"
"Well," said the editor, "he's a great golfer. Drives a $40,000 car. Always has a lot of women around him. But"
"That doesn't tell me what I need to know, does it?"
"Just between you and me, Qwill, I wouldn't even hire him to write my willnot that I have any firsthand experience, you understand. It's just what I pick up at the club and at the chamber. You'd be better off going to one of the lawyers next door to the post office . . . Well, see here, is there anything I can do for you before I leave? Anything I can send you from the valley?"
"Not a thing, thanks. I appreciate the items from the drugstore. And tell your daughter that Koko and Yum Yum said happy birthday."
"Great! She'll flip! She loves cats, especially ones that talk."
After Carmichael had left, Qwilleran undertook a slow trek to the kitchen in search of food for himself, but he was intercepted by Koko, who was rolling and squirming on the floor in front of the Fitzwallow huntboard. Whatever his motive, the performance was a subtle reminder to Qwilleran that he had forgotten to mail Sabrina's letter to Sherry Hawkinfield. It was still in the drawer of the cabinet, fang marks and all. He looked at the address and then called directory assistance for a telephone number in Maryland: a shop called Not New But Nice. He had to repeat it twice to make himself understood.
When he punched the number, a recording device answered, but he was prepared; it was early evening, and he presumed the shop would be closed. In his most ingratiating voice he left a message that was purposely ambiguous:
"Ms. Hawkinfield, please call this number in Spudsboro regarding a valuable painting by Forest Beechum that belongs to you ..."
Qwilleran turned to Koko. "Do you think that will get results? The key word is valuable."
"Yow!" said Koko, hopping on and off the huntboard in excitement.
CHAPTER 12
Qwilleran was sure that Sherry Hawkinfield would not return his call until morning. It was her place of business that he had phoned. He sat on a kitchen chair trying to eat soup with a bandaged hand that could hardly hold a spoon, while his left leg was propped on another chair with a cold compress wrapped around the ankle. Watching him from a respectful distance were two Siamese with anxious eyes, and their solicitude did nothing but make him jittery.
"I appreciate your concern," he said, "but there are times when I wish you would go away." They edged closer, looking doubly worried. Then suddenly they became agitated, running to and from the back door, Koko with his ears swept back and Yum Yum with her tail bushed. A moment later there was snuffling on the veranda and the click of claws.
"It's Lucy," Qwilleran said morosely. "Keep quiet and she'll go away." But the cats only increased their frenzy, and Lucy started to whine.
In no mood for domestic drama and muttering under his breath, Qwilleran kicked off the compress and limped to the refrigerator, where he found the four hot dogs he had bought for himself. He threw them to the overfed Doberman, and soon the commotion subsided, indoors and out.
His irritability was a delayed reaction to the unnerving experience at the waterfall. Why did I come to these damned mountains? he asked himself. Polly would blame it on his impulsiveness; she often questioned his precipitate actions, doing so with a polite sideways glance of mild reproach. So did Arch Riker but with blunt disapproval. How could they understand the messages telegraphed to Qwilleran through his sensitive moustache? How could he understand them himself?
He would have paced the floor if he had two good ankles. He would have enjoyed a pipeful of Scottish tobacco if he had not given it up. His books and radio were upstairs; so was his ottoman; so was his bed. Sooner or later he would have to tackle the ascent.
To reach the top he sat down on the second stair and went up backward, dragging his hand-carved walking staff and accompanied by the Siamese, who were always entertained by the eccentric behavior of humans and who had determined not to leave him alone in his travail.
As soon as he had sunk into his lounge chair and cushioned his left foot on the ottoman, the telephone rang.
"Yow!" Koko yowled in his ear.
"I'm not deaf!" he yelled back.
There was a slim chance that it might be the call from Maryland, so he hoisted himself out of the chair and groaning and mutteringbumped down the stairs on his posterior. He reached the foyer and grabbed the handset after the ninth ring.
Qwilleran was taking a moment to adjust his attitude when a woman said impatiently, "Hello? Hello?"
"Good evening," he said with the silky charm and mellifluous voice that had thrilled women for three decades.