At the Picayune office they introduced themselves to Junior's father, owner and publisher of the newspaper. Senior Goodwinter was a mild-mannered man, wearing a leather apron and a square paper cap made of folded newsprint.
"Is it true you hand-set most of the type yourself?" Qwilleran asked.
"Been doing it since I was eight. Had to stand on a stool to reach the typecases," Senior said proudly. "It's the best part of the business." Riker said, "The Picayune is the only paper I know that has successfully resisted twentieth-century technology and new trends in journalism." "Thank you," said the publisher. "It hasn't changed in any way since it was founded by my great-grandfather." From there the two men walked to the office of Goodwinter and Goodwinter. Qwilleran apologized to Penelope for dropping in without an appointment. "I simply wanted to introduce Mr. Riker and request some information." "Come into the conference room," she said graciously, but her automatic smiles and dimples faded when he put his question: "Do you know anything about the Trotter girl who was murdered? " "What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "Do you have any inside information about the young woman, her family, her activities? Any theories about the murder? Was it a random killing or is there some local intrigue, some shady connection?" "I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place, Mr. Qwilleran. This is a law firm — not a detective agency or a social services office." There was a sarcastic edge to her voice. "May I inquire why you ask these peculiar questions?" "Sorry. I should have explained," Qwilleran said. "My first impulse, on hearing about the murder, was to establish a scholarship for farm youth as a memorial to Tiffany Trotter. I'm assuming she was an innocent victim. If there is anything unsavory about her character or connections, my idea would not be exactly appropriate." The attorney relaxed. "I see what you mean, but I'm unable to give you an immediate answer. My brother and I will take it under advisement. We are both looking forward to your dinner tomorrow evening." Walking away from the Goodwinter office Qwilleran said to Riker, "I've never seen her quite so edgy. She's working too hard. Her brother spends half his time in Washington — doing God-knows-what-and she has to handle the practice single-handed." Exactly at noon the siren on the roof of City Hall blasted its hair-raising wail. At that signal everything in Pickax closed for an hour, allowing workers to go home to lunch. No taxes or traffic tickets were paid; no automobiles or candy bars were sold; no prescriptions or teeth were filled. Only emergency services and one small downtown restaurant, continued to operate.
Qwilleran and Riker went into the luncheonette for a sandwich and listened to the buzz of voices. There was only one topic of conversation: "They weren't married more than a year. She made her own wedding dress." "Tiff made more kills last year than anybody in the volleyball league." "My brother was Steve's best man. All the fellas wore white tailcoats and white top hats. Really cool!" When the two men returned home there was an unfamiliar truck parked near the garage, its body mounted high over the chassis.
"What's that ugly thing doing there?" Riker asked.
"Don't knock it," Qwilleran said. "A terrain vehicle up here has the clat of a private jet Down Below. Farmers and sportsmen love 'em. I'll go and see whose it is." In the loft above the garage he found a substitute painter putting the finish coat on the doorframes. "Are you Steve's cousin?" "Yeah, I'm fillin' in till he gets back." "I feel very bad about Tiffany." "Yeah, it's tough. And you wanna know what? The police took Steve in for questioning! Ain't that a kick in the head?" "It's only routine," Qwilleran assured him. "The police think the sniper was a tourist." The painter looked wise and said in a lowered voice, "I could tell 'em a few things, but I know when to keep my mouth shut." Typical small-town reaction, Qwilleran thought. Everyone knows the answers, or thinks he does, or pretends to. But no one talks.
Riker had found a hammock in the backyard and was reading the Picayune. Mrs. Cobb was in the kitchen, pounding boned pheasant for the terrine.
"The police were here!" she announced. "They wanted to know if Steve was on the job yesterday afternoon, and I was able to give him an alibi. He was having a beer with me at the time of the shooting. He's a nice young man. I feel very sorry for him." "It's abnormally quiet. Where's Birch?" "Gone fishing. He's catching the salmon for the croquettes." "Is everything progressing to your satisfaction?" "Everything's getting done, but Koko's been acting funny, scratching the broom closet door and jumping up to reach the handle." "I put that musty suitcase in the closet, and he can smell it. He doesn't miss a thing. It's time I got rid of all that junk." Koko heard his name and came running, saying, "ik ik ik," in a businesslike tone.
"Okay, okay, I'm throwing the smelly things out." Qwilleran carried the large carton of Daisy's winter clothing to the trash bin in the garage and then returned for the suitcase. He was halfway to the back door when he heard an emphatic yowl. It was not the kind of cat-talk that meant "Time for dinner" or "Here comes the mail" or "Where's Yum Yum?" It was a vehement directive.
Qwilleran stopped. Why, he asked himself, had Koko suddenly resumed interest in the suitcase? Not the carton, just the suitcase. Without further hesitation he turned around and carried the piece of luggage to the library. Koko followed in great excitement.
Once again Qwilleran inspected the contents of the suitcase, examining each pathetic item, hoping to find a clue or start a train of thought. He emptied the case right down to the sleazy tom lining.
"Yow!" said Koko, who was supervising the process. Tom lining! A twinge on Qwilleran's upper lip was telling him something. Speculatively he passed a hand over the bottom of the case. There was the outline of something flat and rectangular beneath the cheap, shiny, stained cloth. When he reached into the rip it tore further and exposed an envelope — a blank white envelope. Inside it was a wad of currency — new bills — hundred-dollar bills — ten of them.
"Yow!" said Koko.
Where, Qwilleran wondered, did she get this much money? Did she steal it? Was it a payoff? A bribe to leave town?
The wherewithal for an abortion?
Daisy might not have realized the value of the ivory elephant. She might have forgotten the gold bracelet in her hurry to get away. But if she happened to have a thousand in cash, she would hardly leave town without it… that is, if she had left town.
After the dinner party, Qwilleran promised himself, he would have another chat with the police chief.
11
On the day of the party the house was in turmoil, and the Siamese were banished to the basement — until their indignant protests became more annoying than their actual presence underfoot.
Mrs. Cobb was rolling croquettes and slivering lamb with garlic. Mrs. Fulgrove was ironing table linens, polishing silver, and writing place cards and gentlemen's envelopes in her flawless penmanship, flattered beyond words when asked to do so. The florist delivered a truckload of flowers. The end sections of the long dinner table had been removed in order to seat ten comfortably, and Melinda was using a yardstick to measure the correct distance between dinner plates.
All this frenzied activity made Qwilleran nervous. He had never hosted a formal dinner; all his entertaining had been done in restaurants and clubs. So, when Riker borrowed the car and went sightseeing, Qwilleran set out for a tranquilizing bike ride.