His ears were swept backward, and occasionally he sneezed.
It was mid-afternoon when the blue pickup truck snaked up the driveway. Tom was alone in the cab.
"Where's the log-splitter?" Qwilleran asked cheerily.
"In the back of the truck," Tom said with his mild expression of pleasure. "I like to split logs with a maul, but this is a big tree. A very big tree." He gazed out at the lake. "It's a very nice day. The fog went away. I don't like fog." The log-splitter proved to be a gasoline-powered contraption with a murderous wedge that rammed the foot-thick logs to produce firewood. Qwilleran watched for a while, but the noise made him jittery and he retreated to the cabin to brush the cats' fur. Their grooming had been neglected for a week.
At the cry of "Brush!" Koko strolled from the lake porch where he had been watching the wildlife, and Yum Yum squirmed out from under the sofa where she had been driven by the racket in the yard. Then followed a seductive pas de deux as the two cats twisted, stretched, writhed, and slithered ecstatically under the brush.
When Tom had finished splitting the wood, Qwilleran went out to help stack it. "So you don't like heavy fog," he said as an opener.
"No, it's hard to see in the fog." Tom said. "It's dangerous to drive a car or a truck. Yes, very dangerous. I don't drive very much in the fog. I don't want to have an accident. A man in Pickax was killed in an accident. He was driving in the fog." Tom's speech was slow and pleasant, with a musical lilt that was soothing. Today there was something different about his face — a three-day growth on his upper lip.
Qwilleran recognized the first symptom of a moustache and smiled. Searching for something to say he remarked about the quality of sand surrounding the cabin — so fine, so clean.
"There's gold in the sand," Tom said.
"Yes, it sparkles like gold, doesn't it?" "There's real gold," Tom insisted. "I heard a man say it. He said there's a gold mine buried under this cabin. I wish this was my cabin. I'd dig up the gold." Qwilleran started to explain the real-estate metaphor but thought better of it.
Instead he said: "I often see people picking up pebbles on the beach. I wonder what they're looking for." "There isn't any gold on the beach," Tom said. "Only agates. The agates are pretty. I found some agates." "What do they look like?" "They look like little stones, but they're pretty. I sold them to a man in a restaurant. He gave me five dollars." They worked in silence for a while. The tall tree had produced a huge amount of firewood, and Qwilleran was puffing with the exertion of stacking it. The handyman worked fast and efficiently and put him to shame.
After a few minutes Tom said: "I wish I had a lot of money." "What would you do with it?" "I'd go to Las Vegas. It's very pretty. It's not like here." "Very true," Qwilleran said. "Have you ever been there?" "No. I saw it on TV. They have lights and music and lots of people. So many people! I like nightclubs." "Would you want to work in a nightclub if you went to Las Vegas?" "No," Tom said thoughtfully. "I'd like to buy a nightclub. I'd like to be the boss." After Tom had raked up the wood chips, Qwilleran invited him in for a beer. "Or would you rather have a shot? I've got some whiskey." "I like beer," Tom said.
They sat on the back porch with their cold drinks. Koko was entranced by the man's soothing voice, and even Yum Yum made one of her rare appearances.
"I like cats," the handyman said. "They're pretty." Suddenly he looked embarrassed.
"What's the matter, Tom?" "She told me to come up here and look at the telephone, That's why I came. You told me not to come. I didn't know what to do." "That's perfectly all right," Qwilleran said. "You did the right thing." "I always do what she tells me." "You're a loyal employee, Tom, and a good worker. You can be proud of your work." "I came up here to look at the telephone, and the big cat came out and talked to me." "That's Koko. I hope he was polite." "Yes, he was very polite." Tom stood up and looked at the sky. "It's time to go home." "Here," Qwilleran said, offering him a folded bill. "Buy yourself some supper on the way home." "I have my supper money. She gave me my supper money." "That's all right. Buy two suppers. You like pasties, don't you?" "Yes, I like pasties. I like pasties very much. They're good." Qwilleran felt saddened and uneasy after the handyman's visit. He heated a can of Scotch broth and consumed it without tasting it. He was in no condition to start writing his novel, and he was relieved when another visitor arrived — this time from the beach.
Buck Dunfield, wearing a skipper's cap, climbed up the dune in the awkward way dictated by loose sand on a steep slope. "You promised me a drink," he called out, "and I'm collecting now while I'm still a bachelor, My wife gets home tomorrow. How's it going?" "Fine. Come in on the porch." "I brought you something, Just found it." He handed Qwilleran a pebble. "It was on your beach, so it's yours. An agate!" "Thanks, I've heard about these. Are they valuable?" "Well, some people use them to make jewelry. Everybody collects them around here. I brought you something else." Buck drew a foil package from his jacket pocket. "Meatloaf — from Mildred. Her husband never showed up last night." In a lower voice he added: "Just between you and me, she's better off without him." They settled down in canvas chairs on the porch, with a broadside view of the placid lake. Buck said: "Let me give you a tip. If you use this porch much, remember that voices carry across the lake when the atmosphere is still. You'll see a fishing boat out there about half a mile, and you'll hear a guy say 'Hand me another beer' just as clear as on the telephone. But don't forget: He can hear you, too." There were several boats within sight on the silvery lake, which blended into a colorless sky. The boats seemed suspended in air.
"Do you do much fishing, Buck?" A little fishing, a little golf… Say, I see you've got one of my candlesticks." "Picked it up this morning at Sharon's candle shop." "I'll tell Mildred. She'll be tickled. Nice little shop, isn't it? Nice girl, Sharon.
Roger's a good kid, too." He took out his pipe and began the business of lighting it.
Pointing the stem at the beach he said: "You've got some dead fish down there." "You don't need to tell me. They smell pretty ripe when the breeze is off the lake." "You should bury them. That's what I do. The stink doesn't bother me; I've got chronic sinus trouble, but my wife objects to it, so I bury the fish under the trees. Good fertilizer!" "If you don't have a good nose," Qwilleran said. "how can you enjoy that pipe? The aroma used to be the big attraction for me." "Just a nervous habit." Buck watched two long-legged girls strolling down the beach with heads bowed, studying the sand underfoot. "See? What did I tell you? Everybody collects agates. In the middle of summer it's like a parade along this beach." He had another look at the girls. "They're a little twiggy for me. How about you?" Qwilleran was thinking, smugly: Wait till he sees Rosemary! He said: "Do you know the woman who owns this cabin?" Buck rolled his eyes expressively. "Lord, do I ever! She hates my guts. I got her license revoked after she rammed a hole in the Pickax police station. She didn't know forward from reverse. I hope she's not your grandmother or something." "No. No relation." "Just because she's got all the money in the world, she thinks she can do anything she pleases. A woman of her age shouldn't be allowed to carry a firearm. She's crazy enough to shoot up a city council meeting some day." He puffed on his pipe aggressively. "Her name's Fanny, but she calls herself Francesca, and anybody who names their kid after her gets written in her will. There are more Francescas in Pickax than in Rome, Italy." When the second drink was poured Buck leaned over and said confidentially: "All foolin' aside, how do you size up this place?" "What do you mean?" "Mooseville. Do you think everything is out in the open?" From the man's conspiratorial manner it was clear that he was not talking about the landscape. Qwilleran stroked his moustache. "Well… they have a tendency, I would say, to gloss over certain situations and explain them away very fast." "Exactly! It's their way of life. The Picayune didn't even report it when some tourists were mauled by bears at the village dump. Of course, the stupid jerks climbed the fence and teased the bears, and after that the town put up a double fence. But nothing was ever printed in the paper." "I'm wondering if this vacation paradise is as free of crime as they want us to believe." "Now you're talking my language." Buck glanced around quickly. "I suspect irregularities that should be investigated and prosecuted. You've worked on the crime beat; you know what I mean. I'm friendly with a few detectives Down Below, and they speak highly of you." "Do you know Lieutenant Hames?" "Sure do." Buck chuckled. "He told me about your smart cat. That's really far-out! I don't believe a word of it, but he swears it's true." "Koko's smarter than I am, and he's sitting under your chair right now, so be careful what you say." "Cats are all right," Buck said, "but I prefer dogs." "Getting back to the subject," Qwilleran went on, "I think the authorities up here want to operate in their own way without any suggestions or embarrassing questions from outsiders." "Exactly! The locals don't want any hotshot city-types coming up here and telling them what's wrong." "What do you think is wrong?" Buck lowered his voice again and looked over his shoulder twice. "I say there are crimes that are being conveniently overlooked. But I'm working on it — privately. Once a cop, always a cop. Did you ever eat at the FOO? The customers are a mixed bag, and the battleax that runs the joint has larceny in her heart, but it's hooked up to the best grapevine in the country… Now, mind you, I'm not going to stick my neck out. I'm at the age when I value every day of my life. I've got good digestion, a good woman, and something useful to do. Know what I mean? Only… it would give me a lot of satisfaction to see a certain criminal activity cleaned up. I'm not saying the police are corrupt, but they're hogtied. Nobody wants to talk." Qwilleran sat in silence, grooming his moustache with his knuckles as the panorama of his adventure on the Minnie K unreeled before his mind's eye.