I did indeed, Lori, and there are two bushels of letters here, waiting for you. If Nick wants to pick them up, you can answer them at home." "Super!" "You're an expert typist, and your machine is much better than mine." "Thank you. Nick gave me an electronic for my birthday. I really wanted some little diamond earrings, but he's so practical. An engineer, you know." "I also want to ask a question, Lori, since you're so knowledgeable about cats." Qwilleran was fighting for possession of the telephone. "Koko likes to sit on the grand staircase, but only on the third stair. How do you explain that behavior?" He gave Koko another shove.
Lori said, "Cats leave their individual scent wherever they go, and they like to return to the same spot. It's like their private territory." "Hmmm," Qwilleran mused. "Perhaps you're right."
It was still only ten-thirty, and he was finishing a letter to the Pickax Thespians, declining their invitation to play the role of Teddy in Arsenic and Old Lace, when he heard a snatch of music.
From the drawing room came three distinct notes: E, D, C. Koko was playing the piano again. At least, Qwilleran presumed it was Koko at the keyboard, although he had never actually witnessed the cat pressing the keys. No doubt Mrs. Cobb would attribute the performance to the resident ghost.
Going to investigate, he found Koko ambling around the drawing room with conspicuous nonchalance. Qwilleran picked him up and plunked him without ceremony on the piano bench. "Now let's hear you play something." Koko said, "ik ik ik," in a pleasant voice and rolled over to lick his nether parts.
"Don't be modest. Show me what you can do." Qwilleran set the cat back on his four feet and then guided one paw to the keyboard. Twisting like a pretzel, Koko squirmed out of the man's grasp, jumped to the floor, and walked away with stiff-legged hauteur, returning to his perch on the third stair.
Was it coincidence that the notes coming from the piano had been the opening phrase of "Three Blind Mice"?
Qwilleran felt the familiar tickle on his upper lip. There was some significance, he felt, to the number three. Three-base hit… three-dollar bill… three sheets to the wind… the three Weird Sisters… three-mile limit. Clues eluded him completely.
The next morning Qwilleran was having his third cup of coffee when Amanda Goodwinter arrived unexpectedly, giving the doorbell her three impatient rings.
She barged into the vestibule, wearing an unkempt khaki suit and canvas golf hat, with wisps of hair escaping from underneath the brim. "Came to see if my painter is loafing on the job," she announced.
Qwilleran marveled that Penelope could look so sleek in a suit and Amanda could look so frumpy — the sleeves too long, one shoulder drooping, and the blouse collar half-in and half-out.
"What's that infernal racket?" she demanded.
"Birch Tree is doing some repairs for us," Qwilleran said. "Excuse me a moment. I have something to give you." From a locked drawer in the library desk he brought an ivory elephant. "I think this belongs to you." "Where the devil did you find this?" She turned the carving over to verify the label.
"Among Daisy Mull's belongings. I was cleaning out the attic." "It must be six years since this disappeared from the I studio," the designer said. "Daisy was working for me then, but it was an election year, and I thought some sneaky Republican made off with it." She handed the carving back to Qwilleran. "Here! It's yours. It's a good one — old — can't import them anymore." "No! No! It's your property, Amanda." "Shut up and keep it," she barked at him. "I've already taken a loss on the books. What did you think of the meeting last night?" "It was refreshing to hear public servants speaking English. No prioritizing. No impacticizing. No decontextualizing." "Your speech was a corker-all that bosh about vigilant awareness and cogent concern. It gave me a bellyache, but they fell for it," "By the way, who's Mr. Hackpole?" Qwilleran asked.
"He gives everybody a bellyache. Always throwing a monkey wrench in the works. Steer clear of Hackpole. He's bad news." "The overweight councilman seemed to side with him in the flag dispute." "That's Scott Gippel — scared to death of Hackpole. They're next-door neighbors. Hackpole never pulled a shotgun on anybody yet, but he can get gol-durned mad if somebody steps on his grass or complains about his dogs." "What's his problem?" "Wife ran off with a beer-truck driver, and he went bonkers. Didn't affect his financial savvy, though. He sells used cars. Sharp operator!.. Well, let's go and look at the paint job. You ought to keep this back door locked. Bloody tourist season, you know. Town's full of creeps, stoned to the gills. They broke into Dr. Hal's office. Took drugs and needles." As they approached the garage Qwilleran said, "Look at this big wardrobe. I thought it was junk, but Mrs. Cobb says it's a Pennsylvania schrank and highly collectible." Amanda snorted. "Looks like junk to me." "Well, I'd like your porters to move it into the house when they have time. I'd like to put it just outside the library." "Arrgh!" she growled. Puffing and grunting, she climbed the stairs to inspect the apartment under renovation. After threatening to fire Steve if he didn't show some signs of life, she had another incredulous look at Daisy's murals and then said to Qwilleran, "Walk me to my car." As they walked down the driveway under ancient maple trees, Qwilleran remarked about the glorious weather.
"Wait till you've spent a winter here, mister!" Then she added, "Got some advice for you. Watch your step in Pickax.
The town likes to gossip. Somebody's always listening. Seems like the whole town's bugged. Wouldn't be surprised if they bugged the flowerboxes on Main Street. I don't trust our mayor either. Nice fella, but I don't trust him as far as I can spit.
So keep your eyes and ears open, and don't say anything you don't want repeated." "At the coffee shop, you mean?" "Or at the country club. Or on the church steps." Amanda climbed into the driver's seat with some awkward maneuvering of knees, elbows, and hips. She gunned the motor and her car shot down the driveway, stopped short with squealing tires, and backed up. "And watch out for' my cousins! Don't be fooled by the phony Goodwinter charm." She took off again, barreling recklessly into the traffic flow around the Circle. Qwilleran was baffled. Pickax was full of Goodwinters, and they were all cousins. There was nothing phony about Melinda. He liked her humor — sometimes cynical, usually irreverent. She had just returned from Paris, and he had made a date with her, anticipating a relaxing evening of conversation, if not more. Melinda had been aggressively seductive from the beginning.
"Is that good or bad?" he said aloud when he returned to the house to feed the cats. "What would you guys like for breakfast? Veal Oscar? Coq au vin? Shrimp deJonghe?" He diced some of Mrs. Cobb's pot roast and arranged it on a Royal Worcester plate with pan juices, a little grated carrot, and a sprinkling of hard-cooked egg yolks. "Voil ," he said.
Both cats attacked the meal with gusto, carefully avoiding the grated carrot.
His next visitor was Tiffany Trotter, the same wholesome, robust country girl who had interviewed for the job of housekeeper. This time they talked in the library to avoid the noise of Birch's hammering and sawing and radio; he was now building shelves for Mrs. Cobb's reference books.
In the library Tiffany swiveled her eyes over the bookfilled shelves and sculptured plaster ceiling. "This is a pretty room," she said.
"You wanted to speak to me about Daisy," Qwilleran reminded her.
"She used to work here." "I'm aware of that. Are you a friend of Daisy's?" "We were very good friends, and — " She shrugged for want of the right words. "I thought it was kinda funny when she left town without telling me — didn't even write." She searched Qwilleran's face for his reaction.