Koko, on the other hand, was giving Qwilleran the silent treatment. He had stopped hissing and growling but regarded the man with utter contempt. When the plate of boned chicken was placed on the floor, he refused to eat until Qwilleran had left the room. It was an attitude entirely without precedent.
Junior arrived promptly at six, with the ravenous hunger of a twenty-two-year-old. "Hey, you look good in bandages, Qwill. You ought to wear them all the time." They ate their pork chops at the massive kitchen table. "According to Mrs. Cobb," Qwilleran pointed out, "this is probably a sixteenth-century table from a Spanish monastery." "She's a swell cook," Junior said. "You're lucky." "She made a fresh peach pie for our dessert… Have another roll, Junior. They're sourdough… She went to dinner tonight with a guy from the Historical Society. I hope he's a decent sort. She's gullible, and I feel responsible, since I brought her up here from Down Below. Do you know Herb Hackpole?" Junior finished chewing a large mouthful. "Everybody knows that guy." "Mrs. Cobb finds him quite likable." "Oh sure. He can be likable if he wants something. Mostly he's a troublemaker, always calling the paper with some piddling complaint, and we can't get kids to deliver papers on his block because of his dogs… Pass the butter, Qwill." "Has he always lived here?" "Born and raised here, Dad says. In school everybody hated his guts. He was your standard small-town bully, you know. The whole town cheered when he went east to work. Too bad he came back… Is there another beer?" "Sure, and we've got a couple more ears of com in the pot." Over coffee and peach pie the young editor said, "I'm supposed to ask you a favor. Do you know the secretary at GandG? She's my aunt." "I noticed a family resemblance," Qwilleran said.
"She thinks Penny is headed for trouble-working long hours and worried about something and drinking, which she doesn't usually do. My aunt thought maybe you could talk her into taking a vacation — a health spa in Mexico, or something like that." "Me? I'm only a client. She won't even go to lunch with me." "But Penny admires you a lot, no kidding. She used to clip your columns when you were writing for the Fluxion. She always-" He was interrupted abruptly by the insistent sound of his beeper. He jumped up and ran to the door. "Sorry.
There's a fire. Great meal!" He barreled away in his red Jaguar as the siren at City Hall summoned the volunteer firefighters.
It had been a busy day for Qwilleran, and it was not yet over. Penelope Goodwinter phoned to ask if she could pay a visit and bring a bottle.
14
Inpreparation for Penelope's visit Qwilleran carried an ice bucket and other bar essentials to the library. That was when he noticed several books on the floor-part of a twelve-volume set. The morocco covers were splayed and the India paper pages crumpled. His eyes traveled upward to the shelf and found Koko squeezed into the space between volumes II and VllI, having a nap. He had always liked to sleep on bookshelves.
"Bad cat!" Qwilleran shouted as he examined the mistreated books.
Waking suddenly, Koko yawned, stretched, and jumped to the floor, and stalked out of the room without comment.
Qwilleran replaced the books carefully, and at the same time he wondered if anyone in that house had ever read the handsomely bound twelve-volume poem titled Doomsday.
Doomsday! Qwilleran thought. Is that a prediction or some kind of catly curse?
He expected the tan BMW to pull into the circular drive as usual. Instead, the headlights searched out the rear of the house, and Penelope knocked at the back door with a playful rat-tat-tat that was out of keeping with her accustomed reserve.
"I hope you don't mind my coming to the service entrance," she caroled, waving a bottle of fine old Scotch. "After all, this is a terribly informal call." She was relaxed almost to the point of gaiety, and she looked casual and comfortable in white ducks, sandals, and a navy blue jersey. As Melinda had mentioned, a little nip did wonders for Penelope's personality. Yet, her face was haggard and her eyes looked tired. One earring was missing, and she wore no perfume.
"The ice cubes await us in the library," Qwilleran said with a flourish. "I find it the friendliest room in the house." The brown tones of bookbindings and leather upholstery absorbed the lamplight, producing a seductive glow.
Penelope slid into the slippery leather sofa and crossed her knees with the grace of a long-legged woman. Qwilleran chose a lounge chair and propped his injured leg on an ottoman.
"Are you on the mend?" she asked in a solicitous tone that sounded genuine.
"Twenty-three of my stitches are beginning to itch," he said, "so that's a healthy sign. I'm glad you decided to take a break. You've been working much too hard." "I admit my eyes are weary." "You need a couple of wet tea bags," he said. "My mother always recommended wet tea bags for tired eyes." "Is the remedy effective?" "Now is an appropriate time to find out." He hoisted himself out of the chair and returned with two soggy tea bags on a Wedgwood saucer. "Rest your head on the back of the sofa." She slid into a loungy position and said, "Oooh!" as he pressed the tea bags on her closed eyelids.
"How long since you've had a vacation, Penelope? I'm tired of calling you Miss Goodwinter. From now on it's Penelope whether you like it or not." "I like it," she murmured. "You should take a sybaritic week or two at one of those expensive health resorts," he suggested.
"A cruise would be more to my liking. Do you like cruise ships, Mr. Qwilleran?" "I can't say I've ever sailed strictly for pleasure… And it's Qwill, Penelope. Please!" "Now that you're a man of leisure, you might try it — the Greek Islands, the Norwegian Fjords — " She was waving an empty glass in his direction, and Qwilleran poured a refill. Her first drink had disappeared fast.
"Before I start goofing off and taking cruises, I hope to produce a literary masterpiece or two," he said.
"You have a wonderful writing style. I always enjoyed your column in the Fluxion. You were so clever when you were writing on a subject you knew nothing about." "Trick of the trade," he said modestly. "It was once my ambition to be a writer, but you have real talent, Qwill. I could never aspire to what you seem to do with the greatest of ease." Qwilleran knew he was a good writer, but he liked enormously to be told so, especially by an attractive woman. While one half of his mind basked in her effusive compliments, the other half was wondering why she had come. Had she argued with her brother again and escaped his surveillance? Why did he supervise her social conduct so assiduously?
How could a stuffed shirt like Alexander exert so much influence over this intelligent woman?
Penelope was being unusually agreeable. She inquired about the health of the Siamese, Amanda's progress with the redecorating, and Mrs. Cobb's cataloguing of the collection.
"Her most recent discovery," Qwilleran said, "is a pair of majolica vases that had been relegated to the attic — circa 1870 and now worth thousands. They're just outside the door here — on top of another valuable item that she found in the garage — a Pennsylvania German wardrobe. She calls it a schrank. Seven feet high, and Koko can sail to the top of it in a single effortless leap." Qwilleran wondered whether she was listening. He had spent enough time at cocktail parties to know the rhythm of social drinking, and Penelope was exceeding the speed limit. She was also sliding farther down on the slippery sofa.
In a kindly voice he said, "Be careful! The drinks can hit you hard when you're tired. You've been spending too many long hours at the office. Is it really worth it?" "A junior partner," she said hesitantly, "has to keep her grind to the nosestone." She giggled. "Nose… to the…