"What are you looking for, Koko?" Qwilleran pulled aside the blanket, and Koko dug into the thin mattress.
Rosemary was beaming the flashlight on the drab scene. "He's very determined." "There might be a nest of mice in the mattress." "Let's pull the whole dirty thing off onto the floor." The mattress slid off the flat springs of the cot, and with it came a large manila envelope. Rosemary held the light closer. The envelope was addressed to Francesca Klingenschoen and postmarked two years before. The return address was that of a Florida real estate firm.
"Look inside, Qwill." "Money! Mostly fifties." "Here, let me count it. I'm used to counting money." I She snapped the bills with professional speed. The total sum was almost twelve hundred dollars. "What shall we do with it?" "It belongs to Fanny's houseman," Qwilleran said. "We'll put it back, and tidy the bed, and get out of here before the mosquitoes bring up their reserves." Late that night he lay awake wondering about Tom's cache in the toolshed. Was the poor fellow saving up for a down payment on a Las Vegas nightclub? Where was he getting the money? Not from Aunt Fanny. It appeared that she doled out a few dollars at a time.
Qwilleran heard heavy footsteps on the roof. He hoped Roger was right. He hoped it was a raccoon.
11
Tuesday morning Qwilleran drove to town before breakfast to buy eggs. Rosemary insisted there was nothing better than a soft-boiled egg for easy digestibility. Qwilleran couldn't remember eating a soft-boiled egg since the time he stayed home from second grade with a case of mumps. Nevertheless, he bought a dozen eggs, and when he returned Rosemary met him at the door. Her face was stern.
"Koko has been naughty," she said.
"Naughty!" No one had ever accused Koko of being naughty. Perverse, perhaps, or arrogant, or despotic. But naughtiness was beneath his dignity. "What has he done?" "Pulled out all the black tulips again. I saw him do it. I scolded him severely and locked him in the bathroom. Yum Yum has been sitting outside the door whimpering, but Koko is very quiet inside. I'm sure he knows he did wrong." Qwilleran opened the door slowly. The scene was like the aftermath of a blizzard. A roll of paper towels was reduced to confetti. The wastebasket was overturned and its contents scattered. A fresh box of two hundred facial tissues was empty, and the toilet tissue was unrolled and festooned about the room. Bath salts and scouring powder were sprinkled liberally over all.
Koko sat proudly on the toilet tank as if he had completed a work of conceptual art and was ready for a press conference.
Qwilleran drew his hand across his face to erase a wicked smile, but Rosemary burst into tears.
"Don't be upset," he said. "Go and boil the eggs, and I'll clean up this mess. I think he's trying to tell us something about black tulips." Conversation was strained at the breakfast table. Rosemary asked meekly: "When are we going to see Aunt Fanny?" "I'll phone her after breakfast. Today we should take your car to Mooseville to get the muffler fixed. While we're there we can visit the museum and have lunch at the Nasty Pasty… I'd also like to suggest that we eliminate the black tulips." The telephone call to Pickax required the usual patience.
"Of course, I would adore to see you and your lady friend tomorrow," said Aunt Fanny in her chesty voice. "You must come for lunch. We'll have pork chops or nice little veal collops. Do you like spinach souffl? Or would you rather have cauliflower with cheese sauce? I have a splendid recipe for the souffl. How's the weather on the shore? Is there anything Tom can do for you? I could make an orange chiffon pie for dessert if you…
" "Aunt Fanny!" "Yes, dear?" "Don't plan a big lunch. Rosemary has a small appetite. I could use Tom's services, though, if it isn't inconvenient. We have some dead fish on the beach that should be buried." "Of course. Tom enjoys working on the beach. Are you making good progress with your book? I'm so eager to read it!" Rosemary was unusually subdued all morning, and Koko — being a master of one-upmanship — devised a subtle way to press his advantage. He followed her around the cabin and repeatedly maneuvered his tail under her foot. His blood-curdling screeches after each incident reduced her to nervous confusion.
Qwilleran, though amused at Koko's ingenuity, began to feel sorry for Rosemary. "Let's get out of here," he said. "In a battle with a Siamese you never win." They dropped off her car at the garage, and Qwilleran paid close attention to the mechanic's manner of speech. Compared with the voice on the cassette, he had the right pitch but the wrong timbre and wrong inflection.
The museum occupied an opera house dating from the nineteenth century, when loggers, sailors, miners, and millhands paid their dimes and quarters to see music hall acts. Now it was filled with memorabilia of the old lumbering and shipping industries. Rosemary pored over the cases containing scrimshaw and other seamen's crafts. Qwilleran was attracted to the scale models of historic ships that had gone to the bottom. So were two other men, whom he recognized. They studied the ship models and mumbled to each other.
A third man — young and enthusiastic — came hurrying over. "Mr. Qwilleran, I'm glad you've honored us with a visit. I'm the museum curator. Roger told me you were in town.
If you have any questions, I'll try to answer them." Qwilleran noted that the pitch, timbre, I and inflection were all wrong.
He said to Rosemary: "I've got to do an errand. I'll be back in half an hour, and we'll go to lunch." He hurried to the visitors' center and waited impatiently while five tourists inquired about the bears at the dump. Then he threw a slip of paper on Roger's desk. "What can you tell me about this?" Roger read the boat rental agreement. "That's my father-in-law's signature."
"Does he have a boat?" "Everybody up here has a boat, Qwill. He likes to go fishing whenever he can get away from those stupid turkeys." "Did he rent it to wreck-divers last summer?" "I don't know for sure, but I think he'd do anything for a buck." Roger wriggled uncomfortably. "The truth is: He and I don't get along very well. Sharon was her daddy's girl, and I came along and stole her. Get the picture?" "Too bad. I got into that situation myself…, Another question, Roger. What do you know about the people who run the FOO?" "They're a weird couple. She's a hundred pounds overweight, and when she's at the cash register, you'd better count your change. He was in some kind of industrial accident Down Below. When he collected compensation, they came up here and bought the FOO. That was before the D dropped off." "Is that her husband who does the cooking? Little man with thinning hair." "No, Merle is a big guy. Spends all his time on his boat." "Where does he keep it?" "In the dock behind the restaurant… Say, did you see the UFO last night?" "No, I didn't see the UFO last night," Qwilleran said, starting for the door.
"We get a lot of them up here," Roger called after him. But Qwilleran was gone.
Here was the opportunity to check the voice of a likely suspect. The FOO had raised his suspicions from the beginning — for several reasons. Something that didn't look like coffee was frequently served in coffee cups. There were rooms for rent upstairs.
Customers slipped money to Mrs. FOO surreptitiously and received a slip of paper. As for the little man with thinning hair, he shuffled about in a furtive manner and made ghastly pasties.
Now Qwilleran wanted to meet Merle. Still leaving Rosemary at the museum he drove to the FOO, parked in the lot, and ambled down to the dock. A good-sized boat in shipshape condition was bobbing alongside the pier, but no one was in sight. He called to Merle several times, but there was no response.
As he returned to his car, the cook sidled out of the back door, smoking a cigarette.
"Lookin' for sumpin'?" he inquired.