"Intimately?" Qwilleran asked.
"No."
"Furtively?"
"Not that either-more like a serious business deal, but every time I took them another glass of wine or walked by with the coffee server, they were talking about the weather. The thing of it is, how much can you say about the weather? One guy around here has it figured out that the bombing was an insurance scam, and she was a plant; it was set up to look like the bomb was meant for her."
"Gary, can you honestly see that old geezer in Black Creek plotting a sophisticated insurance scam?"
"Not him. They suspect the property management sharpies in Lockmaster. They run the hotel for him. I have a theory myself. It's common knowledge at the Chamber of Commerce that Lockmaster has been trying to get him to sell. He won't. You know how the Germans are about property. Well! Now that the building is damaged, he'll be willing to sell - at their price."
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache as he reflected that everyone in Moose County considered everyone in Lockmaster to be a crook. Likewise, Lockmaster denizens thought Moose County was populated with hayseeds. Race, color, and creed had nothing to do with this absurd bigotry; it was purely a matter of geography. He said to Gary, "This man wearing a suit and tie - was he swarthy like her?"
"No, he had light skin, reddish hair. They were together the next day, too, and then I think she drove him to catch the Sunday-night shuttle. He checked out around four-thirty-paid his bill with cash. Makes you wonder what he had in his briefcase."
The bearburger arrived with all the trimmings, and Gary changed the subject to the Labor Day Bike Race. "I didn't finish - didn't expect to - but it was fun. Have you heard what's next? The Pedal Club's sponsoring a bike-a-thon called Wheels for Meals. It'll benefit the hot-meal program for shut-ins - our contribution to Explo. Sponsors can pledge anywhere from a dime to a dollar per mile. I figure I'm good for thirty miles. After that, they'll have to cart me away in the sag wagon."
"What's the sag wagon?" Qwilleran asked.
"Just kidding. It's not an ambulance. It's a support vehicle with water, energy drinks, first aid, and racks for disabled bikes. No food. No hitchhiking."
"Okay, I'll sponsor you." Qwilleran signed a green pledge card for a dollar a mile. Then he said, "Do you happen to know Aubrey Scotten?"
"Sure. I knew him in high school. I know all the Scotten brothers. They belong to the Outdoor Club. Aubrey comes in for a burger once in a while. Have you met him?"
"Briefly. I'm supposed to interview him about bee-keeping this afternoon. Do you think he'll make a good subject?"
"Oh, he'll spout off, all right. Most of the time he's laid back, but if he likes you, he won't stop yakking. I don't know how much of it you'll be able to use."
"Can you fill me in on a few things?"
"Such as... ?"
"Is he a reliable authority on beekeeping? Is his honey considered good? Was his hair always snow-white?"
Gary looked uncertain and then decided it was all right to talk to this particular newsman. "Well... about the hair: It happened while he was in the Navy. He had an accident, and his hair turned white overnight."
"What kind of accident?"
"Some kind of foul-up aboard ship, never really explained. Aubrey got clunked on the head and dumped in the ocean and nearly drowned. In fact, he was a goner when they hauled him out, but he came back to life.
Those Scottens are a tough breed. It changed his personality, though."
"In what way?"
"For one thing, he'd been a bully in high school, and now he's a kind-hearted guy who won't swat a fly! For another thing, he used to work in the Scotten fishing fleet; now he's terrified of boats, and the sight of a large body of water gives him the screaming-meemies. The Navy gave him an honorable medical discharge and sent him home... Don't let anyone know I told you all this stuff." Gary poured another cup of coffee for Qwilleran. "But there was a plus! Aubrey turned into some kind of genius. He can repair anything - anything! He was never that way before. He fixed the big refrigerator here and my stereo at home."
Qwilleran's blood pressure was rising; a near-death experience would be more newsworthy than the honey-bee business.
Then Gary said, "Aubrey won't talk about his accident, and neither will his family - especially not to the media. Some scientists wanted to come up here and study his brain, but his brothers put the kibosh on that scheme in a hurry."
For the second time in two days, Qwilleran had seen a good lead turn out to be no-story, so... back to the honeybees!
Surrounded by the devastation of Black Creek, the Limburger mansion loomed like a haunted house. Still, Qwilleran thought as he parked at the curb, it could be renovated to make a striking country inn, given a little imagination and a few million dollars. The exterior brickwork - horizontal, vertical, diagonal and herringbone - was unique. The tall, stately windows, with the exception of the Halloween casualty, had stained-glass transoms or inserts of etched and beveled glass.
On the railing of the veranda the row of stones waited for the patient's return, and the reddish-brown mongrel that had provoked the old man's accident was still hanging around.
Qwilleran mounted the crumbling brick steps with caution and rang the doorbell. When there was no answer, he walked around the side of the house, saying, "Good dog! Good dog!" The animal nuzzled and whimpered and looked forlorn; Qwilleran wished he had brought some stale doughnuts from the Dimsdale Diner.
"Hello! Hello? Is anyone here?" he shouted in the direction of the weathered shed. The door stood open, and a bulky white-haired figure materialized from the interior gloom. Aubrey seemed bewildered.
Qwilleran said, "I was here yesterday, when Mr. Limburger fell down the steps. I'm Jim Qwilleran, remember? I told you I'd return to ask you all about beekeeping."
"I di'n't think you'd come back," the young man said. "Folks say they'll come back, and they never show up. A man ordered twelve jars of honey, and I had 'em all packed up in a box. He never showed up. I don't understand it. It's not friendly. D'you think it's a friendly thing to do?" The plaint was recited in a high whining voice.
"Some people don't have consideration for others," Qwilleran said with sympathy. "How is Mr. Limburger? Do you know?"
"I just come from the hospital. He was in bed and yellin' his head off about the food. He likes rabbit stew and pigs' feet and stuff like that. He likes lotsa fat. I seen him eat a pound of butter, once, like candy. It made me sick."
Qwilleran pointed to the shed. "Is that part of your honey operation?"
"That's where I draw the honey off."
"Do you have any for sale? I'd like to buy a couple of jars."
"Pints or quarts? I don't have no quarts. I sold 'em all to Toodle's Market. Mrs. Toodle is very friendly. She knows my mom." He disappeared into the dark shed and returned with two oval jars containing a clear, thick amber fluid.
"Why are honey jars always flat?" Qwilleran asked. Cynically he thought, Makes them look like more for the money; makes them tip over easily.
"Flat makes the honey look lighter. Most people want light honey. I don't know why. I like the dark. It has lots a taste. This is wildflower honey. I took some to Lois, and she give me a big breakfast. Di'n't have to pay a penny. She give me prunes, turkey hash, two eggs, toast, and coffee."
Aubrey rambled on until Qwilleran suggested that they sit on the porch and turn on the tape recorder. First, Aubrey had to find something for Pete to eat. Pete was the reddish-brown dog. Qwilleran waited in Limburger's creaking rocker, which was situated on a squeaking floorboard. He rocked noisily as he thought about the poor old dog, coming every day to be fed at the back door and stoned at the front door - not that the old man ever struck his target. Still, the treatment must have confused Pete, and it was not surprising that he dirtied the brick walk.