How could anyone live in such a cocoon of wild pattern? Still, there was artistry in its execution. The motifs were organized as thoughtfully as a paisley shawl or Oriental rug.
Qwilleran knew that the previous owner had employed only a houseman, so… who was this unknown artist? How long ago had she painted these supergraphic daisies?
He touched his moustache; it always bristled when he made a discovery of significance. And now he was recalling the tune Koko had played on the piano. He hummed the four notes, and the lyric ran through his mind. Daisy, Daisy! An amazing coincidence, he thought. Or was it a coincidence?
3
The three new residents of the K mansion were systematically adjusting to their drastically altered environment.
Qwilleran found a bedroom suite to his liking-eighteenth- century English with Chippendale highboys and lowboys and a canopied bed — and he was learning to heat water for instant coffee in the vast, well-equipped kitchen. Yum Yum claimed the solarium as her territory. Koko, the investigator, after inspecting the luxurious precincts upstairs and downstairs, finally selected the staircase as his special domain. From this vantage point he could watch the front door, keep a constant check on the foyer, monitor traffic, guard the approach to the second floor, and listen for promising sounds in the kitchen.
He was sitting on the stairs in a comfortable bundle when applicants for the housekeeping position began to arrive.
Qwilleran, during his career in journalism, had interviewed prime ministers, delivery boys, Hollywood starlets, vagrants, elderly widows, rock stars, convicted rapists, and — he had forgotten what else. He had never interviewed, however, a prospective employee.
"You've got to help me screen them," he said to Koko. "She should be fond of cats, cook fairly well, know how to care for antiques, and be agreeable. But not too agreeable." Koko squeezed his eyes shut in approval and assent. The first applicant was a white-haired woman with an impressive resume and excellent references, but she could no longer lift anything, walk up stairs, or stand on her feet for any length of time.
The second interviewee took one look at the staircase and screamed, "Is that a cat? I can't stand cats!" "So far we're batting zero," Qwilleran said to his monitor on the stairs, and then the third applicant arrived.
She was a rosy-cheeked, clear-eyed young woman in jeans and T-shirt, obviously strong and healthy in every way.
Her plodding gait indicated she was more accustomed to walking over a plowed field than an Oriental rug. Qwilleran could picture her milking a herd of cows, feeding a kitchenful of farmhands at harvesttime, and frolicking in the hayloft.
The interview took place in the reception area of the foyer, where French chairs were grouped around the ornate console table under a carved gilt mirror. The young woman sat quietly on the edge of a Louis XV rococo bergere, but her eyes were in constant motion, taking in every detail of the foyer and its furnishings.
She gave her name as Tiffany. "This is a pretty house," she said.
"Do you have a surname?" Qwilleran inquired.
"A last name?" he added when she hesitated.
"Trotter." "And what experience have you had as a housekeeper?" "I've done everything." Her eyes roamed up the staircase, around the amber-colored tooled leather walls of the foyer, and up and down the eight-foot tall case clock.
Qwilleran surmised that she was either a spy for the assessor's office or the advance woman for a ring of thieves from Down Below, disguised as a farmer's daughter. If anything dire happened in the near future, Tiffany Trotter would be the first suspect. The name was undoubtedly an alias.
"How long have you been doing housekeeping?" He guessed her age at not more than twenty.
"All my life. I kept house for my dad before he got married again." "Are you working now?" "Part-time. I'm a cow-sitter, and I help my dad with the haying." "A cow-sitter?" Qwilleran was reluctant to appear naive. "Do you have many clients?" She shrugged. "Off and on. Some people keep a family cow, and when they go on vacation I go twice a day to milk her and feed her and clean out. I'm taking care of the Lanspeaks' Jersey now. They went to Hawaii." For the first time during the interview Tiffany showed enthusiasm, looking Qwilleran full in the face with her eyes sparkling. "I like Jerseys.
This one has lots of personality. Her name is Stephanie." The family she mentioned owned the local department store. "Why would the Lanspeaks want to keep a cow?" Qwilleran asked. "Fresh milk tastes better," she replied promptly and with conviction. "And they like homemade butter and homemade cheese." Tiffany left her telephone number and drove away in a pickup truck.
Next came a Mrs. Fulgrove, a scrawny woman who virtually vibrated with energy or nervousness. Without waiting for questions she said, "I ain't aimin' to be a live-in housekeeper 'cause 'twouldn't be right, you bein' a single man and me a widow, but seein' as how they said you ain't a drinkin' man, I'd be willin' to clean and iron three days a week, which I worked here when the Old Lady was alive and I had to do the work of two seein' as how the reg'lar girl wouldn't lift a finger if I didn't snitch on her to the Old Lady, which the young ones today drink and smoke and dance and all that, and I'm glad I was born when folks had some self-respect, so I always work six days a week and go to church three times on Sunday." Qwilleran said, "Your industry and dedication are to your credit, Mrs. Fulgrove. What did you say was the name of the regular girl who was so lazy?" "She was one of them Mull girls, which the Mulls was never respectable, not that I want to gossip, bein' a charitable woman if I do say it myself, and the Old Lady was fixin' to fire her, but she up and left of her own will, leavin' her rooms in an awful mess with the devil's own pictures painted allover the walls and dirt most everywhere, which the Old Lady was mad as a hornet, but 'twas good riddance, not that I'm sayin' she was wild, like others do, but she gallivanted around and stayed up late and wouldn't work, which I had to clean out her rooms after she run away." After the woman had given a telephone number — a neighbor's, not her own — she left the house with a determined step, looking neither this way nor that. Immediately Qwilleran felt a strong desire to revisit the apartment with the devilish pictures. He knew there was an island of Mull off the coast of Scotland, and if the young woman happened to be Scottish, she couldn't be totally reprehensible.
In the garage loft he studied the initials scattered among the daisies and hearts on walls and ceilings: BD, ML, DM, TY, RR, AL, WP, DT, SG, JK, PM, and more. If these were the men in her life, she had been a busy girl. On the other hand, they might be the fabric of fantasy. RR might be a movie star, or a president.
Back at his desk in the library he looked up Mull in the fourteen-page telephone directory, but the name was not listed.
Forty-two Goodwinters but no Mulls. He telephoned Penelope.
"Miss Goodwinter, you're right about the servants' quarters. How do I get in touch with your interior designer?" "Her name is Amanda Goodwinter, and our secretary will ask her to call you for an appointment," the attorney said.
"Did you see the announcement of the Klingenschoen Foundation in yesterday's Picayune?" "Yes, and it was very well stated. Have you had any reaction?" "Everyone is delighted, Mr. Qwilleran! They call it the best news since the K Saloon closed in the 1920s. When my brother returns, we shall explore the ramifications. Meanwhile, have you interviewed any prospective housekeepers?" "I have, and will you tell your secretary not to send us anymore octogenarians or ailurophobes or cow-sitters? By the way, do you know who painted the graffiti in the servants' quarters?" "Oh, that atrocity!" Penelope exclaimed. "It was one of those girls from Dimsdale. She was housemaid for a short time." "'What happened to her? Did she get a job painting subway trains?" "I hear she left town after defacing her apartment," the attorney said briskly. "Speaking of transportation, Mr.