"Tell your sidekick to fish it out for you," the man said. "I'm tired." Koko glared at him, his blue eyes becoming large black orbs. He glared and said nothing.
Only a few times had Qwilleran seen that look, and it had always meant serious business. He hoisted himself off the comfortable sofa and went to the porch for the crude pitchfork hanging there. With the handle he made a swipe under the piece of furniture and brought forth some dustballs and one of his navy blue socks. He made another swipe and out rolled Rosemary's coral lipstick and a gold ballpoint pen.
Both cats were now standing by, enjoying the performance.
"Yum Yum, you little thief!" Qwilleran said. "What else have you stolen?" Once more he raked under the sofa with the handle of the pitchfork. The catnip ball appeared first — and then his gold watch — and then some folded bills in a gold money clip. "Whose money is this?" he said as he counted the bills. Thirty-five dollars were tucked into what looked like a jumbo paper clip in shiny gold.
At that moment Rosemary climbed up the dune from the beach and wandered wearily into the cabin.
"Rosemary, you'll never believe what I found," Qwilleran said. "The gold pen you gave me! I thought Tom had stolen it. And your lipstick! Yum Yum has been stashing things under the sofa. My watch, one of my socks, and some money in a gold money clip." "I'm so glad you found the pen," she said quietly.
"Are you okay, Rosemary?" "I'll be all right after a good sleep. I'd like to go to bed early." "We haven't even had dinner." "I'm not hungry. Will you excuse me? I'll have a long drive tomorrow." Qwilleran sat on the porch alone, hardly noticing the foaming surf and the gliding seagulls. The money clip, he reflected, was the kind that Roger used. Had Roger been in the cabin? If so, for what purpose? The place had been locked for several days. No, he refused to believe that his young friend was involved in any devious operation. Certainly it was not his voice on the cassette.
He sat on the porch until dusk, then made himself a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee. He chopped a little turkey for the cats also. Yum Yum devoured her share, but — surprisingly — Koko was not in the least interested. There was no way to predict, understand, or explain the moods of a Siamese.
15
There were four documents in Aunt Fanny's safe. Three were envelopes sealed with red wax and labeled Last Will and Testament in her unmistakable handwriting. These Qwilleran turned over to Goodwinter and Goodwinter along with some velvet cases of jewelry to put in the attorneys' safe. The fourth item was a small address book bound in green leather, which he slipped into his pocket.
Nick and Lori had arrived at the stone house an hour before the memorial service, giving Nick time to crack the safe and giving Rosemary time to show Lori the handsome rooms with their antique furnishings. Then, leaving Koko and Yum Yum on top of the refrigerator, all four of them joined the crowd at the Pickax High School.
Everyone was there. Qwilleran saw Roger and Sharon and Mildred, the fraudulent sea captain who sold fake antiques, Old Sam, Dr. Melinda Goodwinter in a sea-green suit to match her eyes, the two boys from the Minnie K, a.k.a. the Seagull, the museum curator, the Mooseville garage mechanic — everyone. The emaciated cook from the Dismal Diner arrived by motorcycle, riding behind a burly man wearing a large diamond ring and a leather jacket with cut-off sleeves. Tom was there, huddled shyly in the back row. Even the proprietors of the FOO were there with their furtive cook. The managing editor of the Pickax Picayune was standing on the front steps, making note of important arrivals.
"Junior, you've surpassed yourself!" Qwilleran said in greeting. "You hit seventy-eight in a single sentence! That must be a record. What genius writes your obituaries?" The young editor laughed off the question. "I know it's weird, but they've been written that way since 1859, and that's what our readers like. A flowery obit is a status symbol for the families around here. I told you we do things our own way." "You weren't serious, I hope, when you said Fanny's obit was suitable for framing." "Oh, sure. A lot of people up here collect obits as a hobby. One old lady has more than five hundred in a scrapbook. There's an Obituary Club with a monthly newsletter." Qwilleran shook his head. "Answer another question, Junior. How does the Dimsdale Diner stay in business? The food's a crime, and I never see anyone there." "Didn't you ever see the coffee crowd? At seven in the morning and then at eleven o'clock the parking lot's full of pickups. That's where I go to gather news." At that moment the FOO delegation arrived, and Qwilleran grasped the chance to speak to the elusive Merle. He was a mountain of a man — tall, obese, forbidding, with one eye half-shut and the other askew.
"Excuse me, sir," Qwilleran said. "Are you the owner of the FOO restaurant?" His wife, the beefy woman who presided at the cash register, said: "He don't talk no more. He had a accident at the factory." She made a throat-cutting motion with her hand. "And now he don't talk." Qwilleran made a fast recovery. "Sorry. I just wanted to tell you, Merle, how much I enjoy your restaurant, especially the pasties. My compliments to the cook. Keep up the good work." Merle nodded and attempted to smile but only succeeded in looking more sinister.
While the preachers and politicians paid glowing tributes to Fanny Klingenschoen, Qwilleran fingered the little green book in his pocket. It was indexed alphabetically and filled with names, but instead of addresses there were notations of small-town malfeasance: shoplifting, bad checks, infidelity, graft, conflict of interest, errant morals, embezzlement. Nothing was documented, but Fanny seemed to know. Perhaps she too was a regular patron of the coffee hour at the Dismal Diner. It was her hobby. As others collected obituaries, Fanny had collected the skeletons in local closets. How she used her information, one could only guess. Perhaps the little green book was the weapon she used in saving the courthouse and getting new sewers installed. Qwil leran decided he would build a fire in the fireplace before the day was over.
After the service Rosemary said: "I've had a lovely. time, Qwill. Sorry I can't stay for lunch, but I have a long drive ahead." "Did you remember to take the Staffordshire pitcher?" "I wouldn't forget that for anything!" "It's been good to have you here, Rosemary." "Write and tell me how the estate is settled." "Send me your address in Toronto, and don't get too involved with our friend Max." There was a note of friendly affection in their farewell, but none of the warmth and intimacy there had been a week ago. Too bad, Qwilleran thought. He collected the Siamese and drove back to the cabin. It was clear that Koko had disliked Rosemary. He had always been a man's cat. The night before, Koko had refused to eat the turkey that Rosemary had so thoughtfully purchased and roasted.
"Okay, Koko," Qwilleran said when they reached the cabin. "She's gone now. We'll try the turkey once more." A tempting assortment of white meat and dark meat was arranged on the cats' favorite raku plate — a feast that would send any normal Siamese into paroxysms of joy. Yum Yum attacked it ravenously, but Koko viewed the plate with distaste. He arched his back and, stepping stiffly on long slender legs, circled the repast as if it were poison — not once but three times.
Qwilleran stroked his moustache vigorously. In the few years he had known Koko, the Siamese had performed this ritual twice. The first time he pranced around a dead body; his second macabre dance had been the clue to a ghastly crime.
The telephone emitted its stifled ring.
"Hello, Qwill. It's me. I'm calling from Dove Lake." "Oh-oh. Car trouble?" "No, everything's fine." "Forget something?" "No, but I remembered something. You know that money you found under the sofa. The money clip looked familiar, and now I know why." "The candle shop carried them. Roger has one, and I tried to buy one myself," Qwilleran said.