"Sorry, Koko. Wrong time of day. The mail comes in the afternoon." Returning to the library, Qwilleran explained the cats' obsession with the mail slot. Casually he was maneuvering to resume the intimate mood that had been interrupted, when Koko stalked into the room a second time. Looking sternly at Melinda, he said, "nyik nyik nyik YOW!" And again I he marched to the front door.
"Does he want to go out?" "No, he's an indoor cat." "He has a noble face, hasn't he?" She glanced at her watch.
"Siamese are a noble breed." The third time Koko made his entrance, scolding and glaring at the guest, she said, "He's trying to tell me something." She jumped up and trailed after the determined animal, who plodded resolutely toward the front of the house, stopping at intervals and looking back to be sure she was following. In the vestibule he stared pointedly at the door handle.
"Qwill, I believe he's telling me to go home." "This is embarrassing, Melinda." "That's okay. I have the early shift at the clinic tomorrow." "My apology! He likes the lights turned out at eleven. Next time we'll lock him up somewhere." "Next time," she corrected him, "we'll go to my place — if you don't mind sitting on the floor. I don't have any furniture yet. Only a bed," she added with a sidelong glance. "How soon is next time?" "After the medical conference. When I come back from Paris I'm leaving the Mooseville clinic. I'm tired of taking fishhooks out of tourists' backsides." "What do you plan to do?" "Join my father's office in Pickax." "I'll be your first patient. Can you check cholesterol, heart, and all that?" "You'll be surprised what I can do!" She threw him another of her provocative green-eyed glances.
Qwilleran escorted Melinda to her silver convertible parked discreetly in the garage — not a bad idea, as it turned out.
When she finally drove away, he walked back to the house with a buoyant step and found Koko waiting for him with a smug look of accomplishment.
"You're not as smart as you think you are," Qwilleran said to him, preening his moustache with satisfaction.
Early the next morning he walked downtown to Amanda's studio to order a sofa. The crotchety designer was out on a house call, but a friendly young assistant produced some catalogues of contemporary furniture. Within five minutes Qwilleran had ordered a slouchy sofa in rust-colored suede, a brown lounge chair and ottoman, and some reading lamps — for his new studio.
"You have good taste," the assistant said, "and I've never seen a client make such speedy decisions. I'd love to your carriage house when it's finished." "And what is your name?" he asked.
"Francesca Brodie. My father knows you — by reputation, that is. He's the police chief. Aren't you sort of a detective?" "I like to solve puzzles, that's all," Qwilleran said. "Did you ever know a Daisy Mull who worked here?" "No, I've only been here four months." For the next two days Qwilleran spent most of his time answering the letters that came shooting through the mail slot in great number, much to the delight of the Siamese. Koko personally delivered an envelope addressed in red ink, and he was not surprised that it came from a building in which they had recently lived.
The letter was written by another tenant, a young woman who used to speak French to Koko and who was subject to problems with weight and problems with men. She wrote:
Dear Qwill, Arch Riker gave me your address. Congratulations in striking oil. We miss you.
Want to hear my good news? I'm dating a chef now, and he's not married — or so he says. The bad news is that I've gained ten pounds. I'm still hacking copy at the ad agency, but I'd kill to get into the restaurant business. If you'd like to open a restaurant in Pickax, let me know. Have chef; will travel. Say bon jour to Koko.
Hixie Rice
Other letters arrived faster than Qwilleran could poke out answers on his old typewriter. The telephone rang constantly. And there were other interruptions, as when a young man in white coveralls suddenly appeared at the door of the library, carrying a six-pack of diet cola.
"Hi!" he said. "Mind if I put this in your fridge? This is a big job. Lots of spackling and patching and scraping, and some of the woodwork's bleeding." He had the wholesome look of a Moose County native, raised on bushels of apples, milk right from the cow, vegetables from the garden, and unlimited fresh air.
"I assume you're a painter employed by Amanda Goodwinter," Qwilleran said.
"Yeah, I'm Steve. She's always telling people I'm slow, but I do good work. My grandfather worked on this house when the Old Lady was alive. He showed me how to paint without laps or drips or sags or pimples. Hey, do you really live in this joint? I live in a mobile home on my father-in-law's farm." There were other reasons for Qwilleran' s discontent. Mrs. Cobb had not arrived. There was no sign of anyone to fix the doors. Melinda had left for Paris. And an exasperating melody kept running through his mind: Daisy, Daisy.
Then a schoolteacher he had met in Mooseville telephoned and said, "Hi, Qwill, this is Roger. How does it feel to be filthy rich?" "Arduous, frustrating, and annoying-so far. But give me another week to get used to it. How's everything at the lake?" "Oh, you know…lots of tourists and happy merchants." "Is business good at your wife's shop?" "Not bad, but she puts in long hours. Say, want to meet me for dinner somewhere tonight? Sharon's working late." "Sure. Why don't you drive down here to the Bastille?" Qwilleran suggested. "I'll give you a conducted tour of the dungeons and pour you a drink. Then we can find a restaurant." "Great! I'd like to see inside that rockpile. We can eat at the Hotel Booze." "That's a new one to me." "Oldest flophouse in the county. They have a twelve-ounce bacon cheeseburger with fries that's the greatest!" Roger MacGillivray, whose Scottish name appealed to Qwilleran, arrived in the early evening. He was a young man with a clipped black beard and vigorous opinions, and he exclaimed about the size of the rooms, the number of windows, the height of the ceilings, and the extent of the property. "It'll cost an arm and a leg to maintain this place," he predicted.
"Who's going to clean all those windows and dust all those books?" "The landscape service alone costs more than I earned at the Daily Fluxion," Qwilleran informed him. "There's always a green truck in the driveway and a guy in a green jumpsuit riding around on a little green tractor." He poured Scotch for his guest and white grape juice for himself, and they sat in the big wicker chairs in the solarium.
Roger stared at Qwilleran's stemmed glass. "What are you drinking?" "Catawba grape juice. Koko likes it, so I bought a case of it." "You really pamper that animal." Roger glanced around apprehensively. "Where is he? I'm not comfortable with cats." Koko, hearing his name, sauntered into the solarium and positioned himself in Roger's view.
"He won't bother you," Qwilleran said. "He enjoys listening to our conversation, that's all. He likes the tone of your voice." Koko moved a little closer. "Who looks after these rubber plants, Qwill? They look healthier than I do." "The green jumpsuit comes in and sticks a meter in the soil and takes a reading," Qwilleran said. "The whole horticultural scene is too esoteric for me. I've spent all my life in apartments and hotels." "I think your gardener is Kevin Doone, a former student of mine. He goes to Princeton now and does gardening during summer vacation. You've got a pretty good-sized lot." "Half a block wide and half a mile long, I estimate. There's an orchard back there and an old barn that would make a good summer theater." Roger gripped the arms of his chair. "Why is he looking at me like that?" "Koko wants to be friends. Say something to him." "Hello, Koko," Roger said in a weak voice.
The cat blinked his eyes shut and emitted a squeaky, nonthreatening "ik ik ik." "He's smiling," Qwilleran said. "He likes you…
How's your mother-in-law, Roger?" "She's fine. She's gung ho. about a new craft project now — designing things with a Moose County theme, for Sharon to sell in her shop. Pot holders and toys and stuff. The idea is to have the Dimsdale women make them by hand — sort of a cottage industry. She wanted to get a grant from the state, but there was too much red tape. Besides that, the people in Dimsdale don't want to work. Do you know that place?" "I've seen the remains of the Dimsdale Mine, " Qwilleran said, "and I've eaten at the decrepit diner at the intersection, but I thought it was mainly a ghost town." "Officially Dimsdale doesn't exist, but there's a bunch of shanties back in the woods — squatters, you know. In fact, I think they're on Klingenschoen property, your property. You'd never believe it, Qwill, but a hundred years ago Dimsdale was a thriving town with hotels, a sawmill, housing for miners, stores, even a doctor." "You know a lot about local history, Roger." "I ought to! That's what I teach… Say, he's a good-looking animal, isn't he? Very well behaved." "His real name is Kao K'o Kung. He was named after a thirteenth-century Chinese artist." Knowing he was the topic of conversation, Koko casually ambled over to Roger's chairside.