He read until eleven o'clock, at which time he telephoned Polly Duncan at her apartment in Pickax City. It was a carriage house apartment, and he had spent many contented hours therecontented, that is, until the unfortunate advent of Bootsie.
"Qwill, I'm so glad to hear your voice," she said in the pleasing, well-modulated tones that made his skin tingle. "I wondered when you were going to call, dear. How was the trip?"
"Uneventful, for the most part. We had a little difficulty in finding the top of the mountain, but we're here with our sanity intact."
"What is your house like?"
"It's an architectural style called Musty Rustic. I'll be able to appraise it more objectively when I've had a good night's sleep. How's everything in Pickax?" he asked.
"Dr. Goodwinter's wife finally died. She was buried today."
"How long had she been ill?"
"Fifteen years, ten of them bedridden. Just about everyone in the county attended the funeralas a tribute to Dr. Hal. He's dearly lovedthe last of the old-fashioned country doctors. We're all wondering if he'll retire now."
Qwilleran's mind leaped to Melinda Goodwinter, the young doctor with green eyes and long lashes, who had cured him of pipe smoking. Had she returned to Pickax for her mother's funeral? He hesitated to inquire. She had been Polly's predecessor in his affections, and Polly was inordinately jealous. Approaching the question obliquely he remarked, "I never knew if the Goodwinters had many children."
"Only Melinda. She came from Boston for the funeral. There's speculation that she might stay and take over her father's practice."
Qwilleran recognized the possibility as a hot potato and changed the subject. "How's Bootsie?"
"You'll be glad to know I've thought of a new name for him. What do you think of Bucephalus?"
"It sounds like a disease."
"Bucephalus," Polly said indignantly, "was the favorite horse of Alexander the Great. He was a noble beast."
"You don't need to tell me that. The name still sounds like a disease, although I agree that Bootsie eats like a horse. Back to the drawing board, Polly."
"Oh, Qwill! You're so hard to please," she protested. "How do the cats like the mountains? Does the altitude affect them?"
"They seem happy. We're reading The Magic Mountain."
"Do you have a good view? Don't forget to send me some snapshots."
"We have a spectacular view. The place is called Tiptop, but if I owned it, I'd name it Hawk's Nest."
"You're not thinking of buying, are you?" she asked with concern.
"I make quick decisions, but not that quick, Polly! I arrived only a couple of hours ago. First I have to get some sleep, and then go into Spudsboro tomorrow to do some errands. Also I've got to learn how to drive in these rnountains. One drives south in order to go north, and down in order to go up."
The two of them chattered on with companionable familiarity until Qwilleran started worrying about his phone bill. They ended their visit with the usual murmur: "A bientot."
"That was Polly," he said to Koko, who was sitting next to the telephone. "Bootsie sends his regards."
"Yow," said Koko, batting an ear with his paw.
Qwilleran went outdoors and paced the veranda that circled the entire house, wondering why he was here alone when he had been so comfortable in Moose County among friends. From the front veranda he could see across the dark treetops to the valley, where pinpoints of light traced the city of Spudsboro. Directly below him the mountainside was dotted with the high-powered yardlights of the bouses on Hawk's Nest Drive. One bank of lights flooded a swimming pool like a baseball diamond illuminated for a night game.
Elsewhere, the view was one of total darkness, except for a circle of light toward the south. It appeared to be on a nearby mountain, and the circle appeared to be revolving. Qwilleran went indoors for his binoculars and trained them on the circle. It was definitely movinga phenomenon that would bear investigation.
A chill wind was stirring, and he retired for his first overnight on Big Potato.
CHAPTER 4
Qwilleran took a few precautions before falling into the arms of Morpheus. It was June, and the sun would be rising early; that meant the Siamese would be awake at dawn, clamoring for their breakfast. Fortunately there were blinds on the bedroom windowsopaque, room-darkening roller blinds. Qwilleran pulled them down in the cats' quarters as well as in his ownfour in each room. He also took care to leave their door open so they could go downstairs to the pantry and the turkey roaster that served as their commode. It was a long walk to the pantry, and they really needed a second commode, he thought. He added "turkey roaster" to his shopping list for the next day. There was nothing like a turkey roaster, he had discovered, for a non-tip, rustproof, easy-to-clean, long-lasting litterbox.
He expected to sleep well in the fresh mountain atmosphere. There were many claims made for living at high altitudes, he recalled as he started to doze off: People who live in the mountains are nicer . . . They live longer because the water and air are so pure . . . Heavy drinkers have fewer hangovers in the mountains . . .
He slept fairly well, considering the strange bed and the lace on the sheets and pillowcases. Whenever he shifted position he felt an alien substance under his chin. Nevertheless, he managed well enough until about five-thirty. At that early hour he was jolted awake.
Was it a gunshot? It brought him to a sitting position even before his eyes were open. At the sound of the second shot he was wide awake! The realization that it was happening inside the house catapulted him from the bed just as the third shot rang out! He dashed for the door, fearing for the cats and unmindful of his own safety. He yanked open the door in time to hear the fourth shot!
At that moment he realized it was not gunfire. Two Siamese were walking triumphantly from their sleeping quarters, tails waving. Early morning light was streaming into their room, turning everything rosy. All four window shades were raised!
"You devils!" Qwilleran muttered, shuffling back to his bed. One of themno doubt Yum Yum the Pawhad discovered how to raise a roller blind with an explosive report. Simply insert a paw in the pull-ring . . . release it . . . and BANG! Up it goes! He had to admit it was a smart maneuver.
Two hours later it was the noisy motor of an aging truck that disturbed his sleep. Checking the parking lot from a second floor window, he saw a bearded man stepping out of a red pickup with one blue fender. His beard was untamed, and he wore old-fashioned striped railroad overalls and a wide-brimmed felt fedora that was green with age. Collecting paint buckets from the truck bed, he walked slowly toward the stone steps with a hitch in his gait. Hurriedly Qwilleran pulled on some clothes and met the workman on the veranda.
"Good morning," he said to the stranger. "Nice day, isn't it? A bit coolish, but fresh." He had lived in Moose County long enough to know about weather as a form of introduction.
"Gonna rain, come nightfall," said the workman. "Gonna be a gully-washer."
"How do you know?" The air was crisp; there was not a cloud in the sky; the mountains were sharply defined. "What makes you think we'll get rain?"
"Earthworms comin' up. See'd a black snake in a tree."
The man's face was a crinkled, weatherbeaten tan, but his eyes were keen. "Gittin' too doggone much rain in these parts."
"Are you Mr. Beechum?"
"Dewey Beechum, come to finish up," he said as he started around the veranda toward the rear.
Qwilleran followed. "What needs to be finished?"
They had reached the rear of the house, and Mr. Beechum nodded toward the railing of the veranda. "That there back rail, and that there glass door." He nodded toward the French door that Koko had sniffed the night before.