There remained Celia Robinson. As his so-called secret agent, she had proved an ability to follow instructions without asking questions, and she was probably the only individual in Moose County who could keep a secret. He telephoned her from the cabin, and there was no answer. He decided to put the problematic meat in the freezer. He knew Onoosh would never return, but if she did...
Qwilleran and the Siamese returned to the apple barn. There was no storm damage at the cabin; in fact, there had been no storm. The county was enjoying an exceptionally pleasant September.
He fed the cats a can of red salmon and then went to Lois's for the Friday dinner special, fish and chips. One of the part-time cooks was manning the deep-fryer, and Lois was waiting on tables, taking customers' money, and venting her rage about the bombing. Only a public figure with Lois's thirty years of experience could rave, rant, and rail so histrionically while pouring coffee and making change. Qwilleran's arrival launched another tirade:
"Oh!... Oh!... Did you hear the six o'clock news? D'you know who was killed? Anna Marie! Lenny's girlfriend! Sweet girl - never hurt a soul. Why her? Why her?... Sit anywhere, Mr. Q. Fish and chips special tonight... Only twenty years old! She was gonna be a nurse! Lenny and her were childhood sweethearts. They were goin' to college together. She worked part-time as a housekeeper at the hotel... How many pieces, hon? Two or three? Coleslaw or reg'lar?.. They say the cops are investigatin'. Ha! What the hell good is that? A beautiful girl with her whole life snuffed out! Somebody should sue!... Are you guys through with the ketchup bottle?... Lenny just called me from home. He was lyin' down and heard it on the radio. He's bein' very brave, that kid, but he's hurtin' inside - hurtin' bad. He was the one who got her the job. That makes it twice as bad... Coffee, anybody? New pot.... The blast dumped a light fixture on Lenny's head, but it ain't serious. They stitched him up and sent him home, but he's out of a job till they fix the damage. That'll take forever if they leave it to the ol' coot who owns the place... More bread? Got enough butter? It's the real thing - not that low-cholesterol stuff."
Qwilleran's next destination was Gingerbread Alley. Even as he reached for the doorbell at the Duncan homestead, Polly yanked the door open. She was looking painfully grieved. Lynette, sober-faced, hovered in the background. In unison they said, "Did you hear the latest?"
"Yes," he said. "It's Anna Marie Toms. Did you know her?"
"She worked as a page at the library while she was in high school," Polly said. "Lovely girl - so conscientious."
"Her family lives in Chipmunk," Lynette added, "but they're good people. They go to our church."
"It's unfair to judge one by one's address," Polly protested. "Well, let's go into the parlor."
Qwilleran kept an eye on the skirted table as he seated himself. Lynette served instant decaf and pound cake from the new bakery.
"There's a rumor," she said, "that someone in Lockmaster wanted to buy the hotel, and old Scrooge wanted too much money, so they blew it up in revenge."
Stupid rumor, Qwilleran thought, and yet it was the kind of tale that flourished in scandal-hungry Pickax. He said, "Gustav Limburger is in the hospital. He fell down his front steps this morning. I was interviewing him about the history of the hotel. I'd like to know his condition, but the hospital won't give any information on the phone."
"I can find out," Lynette said. She worked for a clinic and had connections. When she returned, she recited a litany of bad news: multiple fractures, advanced osteoporosis, hypertension, cardiac arrhythmia, and more.
"Oh, dear! I should feel sorry for him," Polly said, "and yet..."
"He's a character," Qwilleran said. "Did you ever meet him?"
"My only contact was by mail. Every year when the library appealed for funds, he returned our envelope with two one-dollar bills. In spite of inflation, it never changed."
"Better than nothing," Lynette said. "By the way, the Toms family are patients at our clinic, and I suppose I shouldn't tell you this - I know you won't either of you repeat it - but Anna Marie was enrolled in prenatal care."
"Oh, dear!" said Polly.
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache as possibilities invaded his mind.
Then she said with an effort to be cheerful, "Well, what did you do this afternoon? Anything interesting?"
"I took the cats for a ride. Koko has been tormenting Yum Yum lately, and that means he's restless."
"Elaine Fetter phoned a while ago and said she saw you at Toodle's, buying ingredients for meatballs, and you're going to contribute your meatball recipe to the community cookbook! Have you been keeping secrets from me, dear?" she concluded with a mischievously oblique glance.
"Mrs. Fetter is confused. You know and I know, Polly, that I'm a culinary illiterate. The day I take up cooking will be the day the sky falls."
"But you were buying ingredients for meatballs!" she continued with the persistence of a prosecuting attorney. She enjoyed putting him in the hot seat, knowing his ability to wiggle out of any uncomfortable situation.
Qwilleran had to think fast; he did that well, too. "I was picking up groceries for Mrs. Robinson. She makes a special meatball for her cat, and I asked her to make a batch for my two gourmands."
"What makes it so special?"
"I don't know. I had to buy lamb, rice, onion, and lemon."
"That sounds Middle Eastern," Polly said. "I'd love to have her recipe. Could you get it for me?"
The situation was becoming sticky. "I'm afraid she doesn't share recipes. She's... uh... going into catering and wants to have a repertory of exclusive dishes." He congratulated himself on that ingenious fabrication but found it advisable to cover his tracks. He left early. He said he had some writing to do. Within minutes he was phoning Celia Robinson, and there was urgency in his voice.
"What's up, Chief?" she asked eagerly.
"I have a favor to ask, Celia - nothing to do with a criminal investigation."
"Aw shucks!" she said with a merry laugh. "First, a question: Do you ever make meatballs with rice?"
"No, I use bread crumbs."
"If you were to make meatballs with rice, would Wrigley eat them?"
"Oh, sure, but he'd throw up. Rice is something he can't seem to digest."
"I see," Qwilleran said. "Well... if anyone asks you, would you be good enough to say that you make meat- balls with rice for Wrigley? And if anyone requests your.. recipe... Just say no!"
"Okay, Chief. It won't be the first fib I've told for you, and I haven't been struck by lightning yet!"
He hung up with a sense of relief. He was covered. He knew that Polly would mention the meatballs to her assistant, Mrs. Alstock, who would mention them to her dear friend, Celia Robinson. It was one of the complexities of living in a small town. In away, life Down Below was simpler, despite traffic jams, air pollution, and street crime. There was a comfortable anonymity in a city of millions.
His next call was to the police chief at home. "Anything good on the tube tonight, Andy?"
"Nab, I turned it off, and I'm reading your column on Nobodies in today's paper. The trouble is, all the Nobodies in Pickax think they're Somebodies and exempt from paying traffic fines... What's on your mind?"
"The explosion. Was it pretty bad?"
"Everything in a certain radius was blown to bits. That poor girl never knew what hit her."
Qwilleran asked, "Am I correct in thinking room 203 was registered to the mystery woman?"
"Right, and she hasn't been seen since."
Qwilleran paused dramatically before saying, "I spent the afternoon with her."
"What! How come? How did you meet her? What do you know?"