Having completed the loop that constituted his daily ten- mile workout, he was just within the city limits when a menacing dog with a full set of repulsive teeth bounded from a backyard and charged the bicycle, barking and nipping at his heels. Qwilleran bellowed and swerved to the left and heard a screeching of tires as a motorist behind him jammed on the brakes.
Someone called to the dog, and the animal ran back into the yard, where two others were barking and straining at their chains.
In spluttering fury Qwilleran approached the driver of the car. "That dog — did you see him come at me?" The woman at the wheel said, "I'm all shook up. I thought sure I was going to hit you. It was terrible! It shouldn't be allowed." "Allowed! It's not allowed! It's prohibited by law. I'm going to make a formal complaint. May I have your name as a witness?" She shrank away from him. "I'd really like to help, but… my husband wouldn't want me to get involved. I'm terribly sorry." Qwilleran said no more but biked directly to the police station, where he found Chief Brodie on the desk, growling about a complaint of his own. "Too much paperwork! They invent computers to make life easier, and everything gets complicated. What can I do for you, Mr. Q?" Qwilleran related his experience with the unchained dog, giving the name of the street and the number of the house.
"That dog might be rabid," he said, "and I might have been killed." Brodie made a helpless gesture. "Hackpole again! It's a problem. He's had a lot of warnings. There's nothing more we can do unless you want to go to the magistrate and sign a complaint. Nobody else will stick his neck out." "Who is Hackpole, anyway? Was he ever a New York cabdriver?" "He was born here, but he worked in the East for a long time — Newark, I think. Came back a few years ago. Runs a used-car lot and a garage." "Will it do any good if I sign a complaint?" "The sheriff will deliver a summons, and there'll be a show-cause hearing in two or three weeks." "I'll do it!" Qwilleran said. "And tell the sheriff to get an antirabies shot and wear dogproof pants." When he returned home from his bike ride he was less tranquil than before, but the magnificence of the interior calmed his tensions.
In the dining room, crystal and silver glittered on white damask, and two towering candelabra flanked a Victorian epergne, its branches filled with flowers, fruit, nuts, and mints.
By seven o'clock Melinda had changed into a chiffon dinner dress in a green that enhanced her eyes. Qwilleran, wearing the better of his two suits and his new tie, looked almost well dressed; his hair and moustache were trimmed, and two weeks of biking had given him a tan as well as an improved waistline.
Riker had been dispatched to pick up Amanda. As for the Siamese, it was decided that they be allowed to join the company. Otherwise their nonstop wailing would drown out the efforts of the three elderly men who were tuning their stringed instruments in the foyer.
Playing the role of butler, the genial owner of the department store was rehearsing with starched dignity and a stony countenance. As the footmen, the banker's sons were practicing obsequious anonymity — not easy for Yale undergraduates, Melinda remarked. The Fitch twins would be stationed at the front door to admit guests and conduct them to the solarium, where Lanspeak would announce them and serve cocktails. Later, in the dining room, the footmen would serve from the left and remove plates from the right, while the butler poured wine with a deft twist of the wrist.
"Remember," Melinda told them. "No eye contact." How did I get mixed up in this? Qwilleran wondered.
First guest to ring the doorbell was the fresh-faced young managing editor of the Picayune, looking like a high school student on graduation day. Roger and his wife and mother-in-law arrived in high spirits, Sharon in an Indian sari and Mildred in something she had woven herself, with much fringe. Equally merry were Arch Riker and his blind date, leading Qwilleran to assume they had stopped at a bar. Amanda's floral print dinner dress had the aroma of a cedar closet and look of a thrift shop.
Finally, making their quiet but grand entrance, were Penelope and her brother, Alexander — a tall impressive pair with the lean, high-browed Goodwinter features and an elegant presence. Alexander looked cool and important in a white silk suit, and his sister was cool and chic in a simple white dinner dress. She moved in a cloud of perfume, an arresting fragrance that seemed to take everyone by surprise.
"The Duke and Duchess have arrived," Amanda whispered to Riker. "Mind your manners or it's off with your head!" Qwilleran made the introductions, and Alexander said to Riker in his courtroom voice, "We trust you will find our peaceful little community as enjoyable as we find your — ah — stimulating newspaper." "I'm certainly enjoying your — ah — perfect weather," said the editor.
Qwilleran inquired about the weather in Washington. "Unbearably hot," said the attorney with a wry smile, "but one tries to suffer with grace. While I have the ear of — ah — influential persons, I do what I can for our farmers, the forgotten heroes of this great northern county of ours." The French doors of the solarium were open, admitting early-evening zephyrs that dissipated somewhat the impact of Penelope's perfume. Drifting in from the trio in the foyer were Cole Porter melodies that created the right touch of gaiety and sophistication.
When the butler approached with a silver tray of potables, the Goodwinters recognized the local retailing tycoon and exchanged incredulous glances, but they maintained their poise.
"Champagne, madame," Lanspeak intoned, "and Catawba grape juice." Penelope hesitated, looked briefly at her brother, and chose the nonalcoholic beverage.
Qwilleran said, "There are mixed drinks if you prefer." "I consider this an occasion for champagne," Alexander said, taking a glass with a flourish. "History is made tonight.
To our knowledge this is the first festive dinner ever to take place at the Klingenschoen mansion." "The Klingenschoens were never active in the social life of Pickax," his sister said with elevated eyebrows.
The guests circulated, remarked about the size of the rubber plants, admired the Siamese, and made smalltalk.
"Hello, Koko," Roger said bravely, but the cat ignored him. Both Koko and Yum Yum were intent upon circling Penelope, sniffing ardently and occasionally sneezing a delicate whispered chfff.
The guest of honor was teasing Sharon about the primitive airport.
"Don't laugh, Mr. Riker. My grandmother arrived here in a covered wagon, and that was only seventy-five years ago.
Our farms didn't have electricity until 1937." To Junior, Riker said, 'You must be the world's youngest managing editor." "I'm starting at the top and working my way down," Junior said. "My ambition is to be a copyboy for the Daily Fluxion." "Copy facilitator," the editor corrected him.
At a signal from the hostess the butler carried a silver tray of small envelopes to the gentlemen, containing the names of the ladies they were to take into the dining room. "Dinner is served," he announced. The musicians switched to Viennese waltzes, and the guests went into dinner two by two. No one noticed Koko and Yum Yum bringing up the rear, with tails proudly erect.
Penelope, escorted by Qwilleran, whispered, "Forgive me if I sounded curt yesterday. I had received bad news, although that is no excuse. My brother sees no reason why your memorial to Tiffany Trotter should be inappropriate." The great doors of the dining room had been rolled back, and the company gasped at the sight. Sixteen wax candles were burning in the silver candelabra, and twenty-four electric candles were aglow in the staghorn chandeliers, all of this against a rich background of linenfold paneling and drawn velvet draperies. There were comments on the magnificent centerpiece. Then the guests savored the terrine of pheasant, and Qwilleran noticed — from the comer of his eye — two dark brown tails disappearing under the white damask.