Then, rather pleasantly she said, "Are you the one who called me and left a message? I'm Sherry Hawkinfield." She had a young voice, a cultivated voice. She had gone to a good school.
"Yes, I'm the one," he replied. "My name is Jim Qwilleran."
"You sound . . . nice," she said archly. "Who are you? I don't recognize the name."
"I'm renting Tiptop for the summer. Dolly Lessmore made the arrangements."
"Oh . . . yes ... of course. I just happened to come back to my shop after dinner, and I found your message."
"All work and no play makes . . . money," Qwilleran said.
"You're so right! What did you want to know about the painting?"
"It's a fantastic interpretation of mountains, and I understand it's quite valuable. Is it possibly for sale? If so, what are you asking for it? Also there's an antique English huntboard in the foyer that has a great deal of primitive appeal. Ms. Lessmore tells me you're disposing of some of the furnishings. Is that correct?" In the astonished pause that ensued he could visualize dollar signs dancing in her eyes.
"The whole house is for sale," she said eagerly, "completely furnished. It would make a neat country inn. Dolly says you're a prospect."
"I'm giving it some thought. There are certain details that should be discussed."
"Well, I might fly out there for the weekend to see some friends in the valley. We could talk about it then," she said with growing enthusiasm.
"I'd appreciate that. When would you arrive?"
"If I got a Friday morning flight, I'd rent a car at the airport and drive up to see you in the afternoon."
"Perhaps we could have lunch while you're here," he suggested cordially. "Or dinner."
"I'd love to."
"It would be my pleasure, I assure you, Ms. Hawkinfield."
"Then I'll see you Friday afternoon. What's your name again?"
"Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a QW."
"I'm glad you called, Mr. Qwilleran."
"Please call me Qwill."
"Oh, that's neat!"
"May I call you Sherry?"
"I wish you would. Where are you from?" She was beginning to sound chummy.
"Another planet, but a friendly one. The Beverly Hills of outer space."
This brought a giddy laugh. "Ill look forward to meeting you. Want me to call you from the airport and set a rime?"
"Why don't you simply drive up to Tiptop? I'll be here . . . waiting," he said meaningfully. (With my ankle in a sling, he told himself.)
"All right. I'll do that."
"I don't need to tell you how to find Tiptop," he said, in what he knew was a weak jest.
"No," she giggled. "I think I remember where it is."
There were pauses, as if neither of them wanted to terminate the conversation.
"Bon voyage," he said.
"Thank you. Au revoir."
"Au revoir." Qwilleran waited for the gentle replacing of the handset before he hung up. Turning to Koko, who was waiting for a report, he said, "I haven't had a phone conversation like that since I was nineteen."
Koko replied with a wink, or so it seemed; there was a cat hair in his eye.
Once more Qwilleran went upstairs the hard way. He shooed the Siamese into their room, and as he pulled down the window shades in his own bedroom, he saw the revolving circle of light on Little Potato. Forest's kinfolk were trudging with their lanterns in grim silence.
His sleep that night was reasonably comfortable except when he shifted position rashly, and in the morning the ankle showed noticeable improvement despite the heavy atmosphere that usually aggravates aches and pains. Rain had started to fallnot torrentially but with steady determination, and according to the meteorologist on the radio it would rain all day. There was a danger of flooding in some areas.
Qwilleran slid downstairs to feed the Siamese and make a breakfast of coffee and sticky buns. Also, in spite of his unwillingness to pay for extra telephone services, he called the company to request an extension. By exaggerating his predicament dramatically he wangled a promise of immediate installation.
Next he had a strong urge to confide in someone, and he called Arch Riker at the office of the Moose County Something even though the full rates were in effect.
"Don't tell Polly," he cautioned Riker when the editor answered, "but I'm sitting here with a sprained ankle, and I had a narrow escape yesterday."
"What fool thing have you been doing?" his old friend asked.
"Taking some pictures of a waterfall that cascades down for about forty feet and disappears into a black hole. I almost disappeared myself. I'm lucky to get out alive. I lost the camera that Polly gave me, and it was full of exposed film."
Riker said, "I knew you were making a mistake by going into those mountains. You should never stray from solid concrete. How bad is the ankle? Did you have it X-rayed?"
"You know I always avoid X rays if possible. I'm using icepacks and some homemade liniment from one of the mountain women."
"How's the weather?"
"Rotten. If it doesn't rain all day, it rains all night. They never told me I was moving to a rain forest."
"Glad to hear it! Now maybe you'll stay indoors and write a piece for us. We need something for Friday. Could you rip something off and get it faxed?"
"The most interesting possibility," Qwilleran said, "is a topic I'm not prepared to cover as yetthe murder that took place here a year ago."
I hope you're not going to get sidetracked into some kind of unauthorized investigation, Qwill."
"That remains to be seen. The case involves power politics and possibly perjury on a grand scale. I have a hunch that the wrong man was convicted."
Riker groaned. He knew all about Qwilleran's hunches and found it futile to discourage him from following them up. Reluctant to take him seriously, however, he asked, "What does the Inspector General think about the case?"
"Koko is busy doing what cats do. Right now he's rolling on the floor in front of the telephone chest; somehow it turns him on. I'm worried about Yum Yum, though. I may have to take her to the doctor."
"I suppose you heard about Dr. Goodwinter. I saw Dr. Melinda yesterday, and she asked about you. She wanted to know how you are, and she batted her eyelashes a lot."
"What did you tell her?"
"Blood pressure normal; appetite good; weight down a few pounds"
"How does she look?" Qwilleran interrupted. "Has she changed in three years?"
"No, except for that big-city veneer that's inescapable."
"Does she know about Polly?"
"The entire county knows about Polly," Riker said, "but all's fair in love and war, and I could tell by Melinda's expression that her interest isn't entirely clinical."
"Gotta hang up," Qwilleran said abruptly. "Doorbell's ringing. It's the telephone man. Okay, Arch, I'll send you some copy, but I don't know how good it'll be."
He limped to the door, leaning heavily on his cane and assuming an expression of grueling physical pain.
"Hey, this is some place!" said the installer when he was admitted. He was a wide-eyed, beardless young man not yet bored with his job. "I never saw the inside of Tiptop before. The boss said you live here alone and hurt your foot. What happened?"
"I sprained an ankle."
"You'd better get off of it."
Wincing appropriately, Qwilleran shuffled into the living room and sprawled on the sofa.
The installer followed him. "You buy this place?"
"No, I'm renting for the summer."
"This is where a guy was killed last year."
"So I've been told," Qwilleran said.
"Used to be a summer hotel for rich people. My grandmother was a cook here, and my grandfather drove a carriage and brought people up from the railroad station. The road wasn't paved then. He used to talk about drivin' people like Henry Ford, Thomas Edison, and Madame Schumann-Heink, whoever she was."
"Famous Austrian opera singer," Qwilleran said. "What did your grandparents do after the inn closed?"