"I was buying groceries and heard the blast," Qwilleran said. "Does anyone know what happened?"
In a confidential tone, Fran said, "They think it was a homemade bomb. They say room 203 is really trashed. Everyone's wondering about the mystery woman."
Qwilleran thought of Onoosh; hadn't the desk clerk given her a big room at the front? "Any injuries?" he asked. "Your dad was wearing his doomsday expression when he took the coroner into the building."
"Oh, he always looks like that when he's on duty. So far, it doesn't look serious. Leonard Inchpot came out with a bandage on his head, and he and some others were hustled away in a police car - to the hospital, no doubt. Someone said a chandelier fell on his head."
Outside the yellow-tape, bystanders were making guesses; a reporter was maneuvering to get camera shots; a WPKX newswoman was thrusting a microphone in front of officials and eyewitnesses. Inside the tape, an ambulance with open doors had backed up to the front steps. Then the coroner came out, and silence fell on the crowd. He was followed by medics carrying a body bag on a stretcher. A sorrowful moan arose from onlookers, and the question was repeated: Who was it? Guest or employee? No one knew. "I can't hang around," Qwilleran told the designer. "I'm due back in Mooseville. I'll tune in my car radio to hear the rest."
He wanted to break the news to Onoosh, gently, and he wanted to observe her reaction. It would reveal whether she was really a cook looking for a job in a restaurant, or the intended victim of a murderous plot.
As he drove back to the cabin, he heard the bleat-bleat-bleat of a helicopter. That would be the bomb squad from the SBI - the State Bureau of Investigation. His radio was tuned in, with the volume turned down to muffle the country music favored by the locals. He turned it up when an announcer broke in with a news bulletin:
"An explosion in downtown Pickax at four-twenty this afternoon claimed the life of one victim, injured others, and caused extensive property damage. Thought to be caused by a homemade bomb, the blast wrecked several front rooms of the New Pickax Hotel. A member of the staff was killed instantly. Others were thrown to the floor and injured by falling debris. All windows facing Main Street were shattered, and those in nearby buildings were cracked. The hotel has been evacuated, and Main Street is closed to traffic between Church and Depot Streets. Police have not released the name of the victim, pending notification of relatives, nor the name of the guest registered in the room that received the brunt of the blast. Police Chief Andrew Brodie said, 'There aren't many guests around on Friday afternoon, or the casualties would have been greater.' Stay tuned for further details."
Qwilleran stepped on the accelerator. A quarter-mile from the letter K on a post, he rounded the last curve in the road in time to see a car leaving the K driveway in a cloud of dust. It turned onto the highway without stopping, heading west. As he approached from the east, it picked up speed.
All his previous surmises were thrown into confusion as he covered the winding trail to the cabin faster than usual. Her car was gone. He thought, She sent me to buy lamb so she could escape; she was headed for the airport. Then he thought, Maybe she wasn't the target of the bomb; maybe she was involved in the bombing. He tried to make sense of the disparate elements: the eccentric owner of the hotel... the mystery woman... property insurance... the old man's tumble down the stairs... the mechanical genius who worked for him... the possibility of a homemade bomb... and all the rumors he had heard in the last two weeks. Qwilleran felt his face flushing. Having fallen for her ruse, he was too embarrassed to think straight. That woman could have ransacked the cabin! She could have taken the cats!
He jumped from his car when he reached the clearing and rushed indoors, going first to the guest room. The cats were still asleep, drugged by the lake air. Then he checked the lake porch. She had left her beach hat, the folding chair, and three books from the public library.
They were all cookbooks. In the kitchen a paper towel was spread with damp grape leaves, and the saucepan in which they had been boiled was draining in the sink; the salt and pepper shakers were standing ready; the chopping board and knife were waiting for the onion; and the countertop radio was blaring country music. He turned it off irritably.
Only then did he realize that Onoosh had been working in the kitchen and listening to the radio when the bulletin was broadcast. She had dropped everything, grabbed her tote bag, and headed for the airport. She knew the bomb was intended for her. He searched the cabin, hoping she might have left a note, but all he could find was a number on the telephone pad. It looked familiar. He called it and was connected with the airport terminal. "Did the five-thirty shuttle leave on schedule?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"A woman was racing to catch it. Do you remember a woman in a black pantsuit boarding the plane?"
"Yes, sir," said the attendant, who sold tickets, rented cars, and even carried luggage in the small terminal. "She turned in a rental and ran to the plane. Didn't even have any luggage. Lucky we had a seat for her. On Friday nights we're usually sold out."
Now Qwilleran thought he understood. Whether or not she was a cook, she was a fugitive - in hiding - fearing for her life. With all due respect to the PPD and SBI, he believed they would never apprehend the bomber who killed the wrong person. The Pickax mystery woman, like the Piltdown man, would remain forever the subject of debate.
5
Qwilleran sat glumly on the porch overlooking the lake without seeing the infinity of the blue sky, the turquoise expanse of water, and the white ruffles of surf at the shoreline. He was organizing his reactions. He grieved over the senseless death of a hotel employee; in a small town everyone was a friend or a neighbor or a nodding acquaintance or the friend of a friend. Further, he regretted the wanton destruction of the building, no matter how substandard its rating or how disliked its owner. And personally he was disappointed by the sudden departure of the fascinating woman who had said, "Call me Onoosh." An exclusive news story had slipped through his fingers; his vision of a Mediterranean restaurant on local soil had faded away; and he had lost a potential purveyor of meatballs in little green kimonos. All of these considerations added up to a determination to solve the who and why of the bombing. It was none of his business; it was police business. Yet, his curiosity began a slow boil.
Meanwhile, he had unwanted souvenirs of the afternoon's adventure: two pounds of ground lamb, a pack- age of rice, and three large onions. The lemon he could use in Squunk water, an innocuous beverage from a local mineral spring. The rice could be returned to the store; Mrs. Toodle would be glad to give him a refund. As for the onions, he could hurl them into the adjoining woods - to spice the diet of a wandering raccoon.
The problem was... the Iamb. When the Siamese staggered out of the guest room, he offered them a taste; they declined even to sniff it. "You ungrateful snobs !" he scolded. "There are disadvantaged cats out there who don't know where their next mouse is coming from!" He had pointed out that fact frequently, without effecting any change in their attitude. They liked Scottish smoked salmon, oysters, lobster out of the shell, caviar (fresh, not tinned), and escargots.
His next thought - to give the lamb to Polly as a treat for Bootsie - would lead to embarrassing inquiries and awkward explanations. His friend, though a wonderful woman in every way, was inclined to be overpossessive and unnecessarily jealous. That eliminated another solution.
To donate the Iamb to Lois for her ever-bubbling soup pot would create a countywide stir. There were no secrets at the Luncheonette, and two pounds of ground Iamb from the richest bachelor in northeast central United States would be good for two months of delectable gossip.