It had been Melinda's childhood home.
A raucous blast from a car horn alerted Qwilleran, and he saw Amanda turning into a driveway across the boulevard.
"Come on in for a shot," she called out with gruff heartiness.
"Make it ginger ale, and I'll take two," he said.
The interior of the designer's house appeared to be furnished with clients' rejects. (He wondered if the Hunzinger chair and Pennsylvania schrank had been headed for this eclectic aggregation.) The furniture was cluttered with design magazines, wallpaper books, and fabric samples.
"Move those magazines and sit down," Amanda said. "Had a little excitement in the neighborhood last night." "Her act was unthinkable!" Qwilleran said.
"Not to me! I knew that unholy situation was headed for an explosion, but I didn't figure on suicide. I thought she'd blow her brother's brains out, if he has any." "Do you think it was really suicide?" Amanda put down her glass on a porcelain elephant table and stared at her visitor. "Golly, that's something I never thought of. Murder, you mean? You can't pin it on Alex. He was at the club all night, playing cards with Fitch and Lanspeak and those other buzzards. Or so the story goes. Now you've got me wondering." Qwilleran stood up and looked out the front window. "You can see their driveway from here. Did you notice any other vehicle there last night?" "Can't say that I did. What do you think could have happened?" "Someone could have drugged her drink and then carried her out to the garage and turned on the ignition, leaving a Scotch bottle for evidence. It's an attached garage. It could be done under cover." "Say, this is hot stuff!" Amanda said with evident relish. "Wait till I pour another." "Of course," Qwilleran went on, "the killer would most likely park elsewhere and arrive on foot. Is there any access to the property from the rear?" "Only through Dr. Hal's garden." "Don't mention this to anyone," Qwilleran requested, "but let me know if you come up with a possible clue." "Hot damn! Just call me Nora Charles." Qwilleran walked home slowly, and as he approached the K mansion he saw a terrain vehicle pulling away and heading north. "Whose truck was that in the drive, Mrs. Cobb?" She was looking radiant. "Herb Hackpole was here. He Went fishing this afternoon and brought us a mess of perch, boned and everything." "You seem to have made a hit with that guy." "Oh, he's very nice, Mr. Q. He wants to take me fishing someday, and he offered me a good trade-in on my van, if I want to switch to a small car. He even wants to take me hunting! Imagine that!" Qwilleran grumbled something and retired to his Chippendale sitting room, taking a volume of Trollope that Koko had knocked off a library shelf, but even the measured prose of He Knew He Was Right could not calm an underlying restlessness. His moustache was sending him signals so violent and so bothersome that he considered shaving it off.
Only a critical examination in the bathroom mirror forestalled the rash action.
After a night of fitful sleep he again busied himself with the catalogue cards, but the morning hours dragged by. He glanced at his watch every five minutes.
At long last Mrs. Cobb announced a bit of lunch in the kitchen. "Only leftover vichyssoise and a tuna sandwich," she said.
"I can eat anything," Qwilleran told her. "Leftover vichyssoise, leftover Chateaubriand, leftover strawberry shortcake — anything. I wonder how many Castilian monks sat at this table four centuries ago and had broiled open-face tuna sandwiches with Dijon mustard and capers. They're delicious, Mrs. Cobb." "Thank you. How are you getting along with the typing? Are you getting bored?" "Not at all. It's highly educational. I've just learned that the chest of drawers in the upstairs hall is late baroque in lignum vitae with heartwood oystering. The knowledge will enrich my life immeasurably." "Oh, Mr. Q! You're just being funny." "Where are the cats? They're suspiciously quiet. Can't they smell tuna?" "When I called you for lunch, they were both in the vestibule, waiting for the mail." "Crazy guys!" Qwilleran said. "They know it's not delivered until midaftemoon." Yet, he had to admit that he too was waiting for something to happen.
After lunch he returned to his typewriter and was translating "johirgi fiwil hax" into "Faberg jewel box" when the pitter-patter on the marble floor announced the arrival of the post. An influx of get-well cards was now added to the daily avalanche pouring through the mail slot. Next he heard sounds of swishing, skittering, and scrambling as the Siamese pounced on the pile, sliding and tumbling with joy and talking to themselves in squeaks and mumbles.
Qwilleran let them have their fun. He was busy recording a pair of Hepplewhite knife boxes with silver escutcheons, worth as much as a cabin cruiser, when Koko labored into the library lugging a long envelope in a rich ivory color.
Qwilleran knew that stationery, and his moustache sprang to attention. Feverishly he ran a letter knife across the top of the envelope. There were three pages of single-spaced typing on the Goodwinter and Goodwinter letterhead. It was dated two days before, and the signature had the eccentric e and r that he recognized.
He read the letter and said to himself, She was right; she should have been a writer; she could have written gothic romances.
Dear Qwill, If I disgraced myself last evening, please be understanding, and I implore you to read this letter with the sympathy and compassion you evinced during my visit.
As I write this I am of sound mind — and perfectly sober, I assure you. I am also bitter and contrite in equal proportions. Obviously I am still among the living, but such will not be the case when you receive this letter. Mrs. Fulgrove; has instructions to drop it in the mail in the event of my sudden demise. She is the only person I can trust to carry out my wishes. And if I seem calm and businesslike at this moment, it is because I am endeavoring to emulate you. I have, and always have had, a great deal of admiration for you, Qwill.
In writing this painful confession, my only hope is that you are alive to read it. Otherwise a great misfortune will f befall the people of Moose County. If I can save your life and prevent this — by accusing certain parties — I shall have done penance for my transgressions.
How does one begin?
I have always loved my brother with an irrational passion. Even as a child I was enamored and possessive, yearning for his attention and flying into a rage if he bestowed it elsewhere. Eventually Alex went away to prep school and I was sent to boarding school, but we were always together weekends.
When my father begged me to study law for Alex's sake, I put aside my ambition to be a writer and attended law school gladly. My grandfather had been a chief justice; my father was a brilliant attorney respected in the entire state.
It was intended that Alex should follow in their footsteps. Unfortunately, as my father pointed out, his only son — and — heir would never be more than a third-rate lawyer. I was elected to compensate for his shortcomings and maintain the Goodwinter reputation in the legal field.