Promptly at nine the fireworks began, and Yum Yum hid under the sofa, but Koko was agitated. He growled; he raced around erratically. Qwilleran could hear, faintly, the crackling, thudding, and whining of the rockets; no doubt the cats could feel more than they could hear. A tone juncture Koko howled as if in protest.
The radio was tuned in to WPKX, broadcasting live from their van parked on the Stables block. Later, they would jockey the discs for the street dance. When the dance music started, Qwilleran stayed tuned, waiting for the ten o'clock newscast. He was in the kitchen scooping up a dish of ice cream when an announcer broke in with a bulletin:
"The Food Explo festivities in Pickax tonight were marred by the killing of a downtown merchant in the course of an armed robbery. Police have not released the victim's name, pending notification of family. The shooting took place while Explo crowds were watching the fireworks. Further information will be broadcast when available."
12
The WPKX bulletin reporting a homicide in downtown Pickax struck Qwilleran like the bomb that wrecked the hotel. In horror his mind raced through a roster of his friends who were merchants on Main Street: the Lanspeaks, Fran Brodie, Susan Exbridge, Bruce Scott, and more. He knew virtually everyone in the central business district.
First he called the newspaper, and the night editor said, "Roger is camping out at police headquarters, waiting for them to release the victim's name. An entire block of Main Street is taped off, between Elm and Maple, if that's a clue."
"It isn't," Qwilleran said. "That block has the highest concentration of retail stores." As a wild shot he then phoned the police chief's home.
"Andy isn't here," Mrs. Brodie said. "He got a phone call and took right off. There's been a murder. Isn't that terrible?"
"Did he say who was killed?"
"Only that it wasn't our daughter, thank the Lord. I don't know when he'll be back. He told me not to wait up. If he calls, I'll tell him you phoned."
Qwilleran tried to read, but the radio was blaring soccer scores, weather reports, and country music; the murder had put an abrupt end to the street dance. Hoping for another news bulletin, he was afraid to turn it off. Even the eleven o'clock newscast had no further information on the crime. That meant the police were having trouble locating next of kin. The Siamese sensed that he was upset and knew not to bother him; they merely comforted him with their calm presence. Around midnight the telephone rang, and he sprang to lift the receiver.
"Brodie here," the chief barked. "Did you hear the news? They took out one of our witnesses."
"No! Which one?"
"I'll stop by the barn on my way home, if you're gonna be up. I could use a drink, and that's no lie!"
Within a few minutes, Koko's ears swiveled, and he ran to the kitchen to look out the window. Seconds later, headlights could be seen bobbing through the woods. Qwilleran turned on the exterior lights and went out to meet his friend.
"They got Franklin Pickett," were Brodie's first words. "Poor guy died with flowers clutched in his hand."
Qwilleran poured a Scotch and a glass of Squunk water, and they sat at the bar within reach of a cheese platter.
"The cash drawer was rifled," Brodie went on, "but the robbery was a red herring. The real motive was obviously to silence a witness. Notice the timing! Nobody was looking or listening. The fireworks were shooting off, and everybody was gawking at the sky. You could shoot a cannon down Main Street. They were all at Stables Row or the big parking lot. The SBI detectives flew up again, second time in a week."
"Who discovered the crime?"
"Danny was on patrol, cruising Main Street. The stores were supposed to be locked up and lights out, except for security night-lights. Pickett's lights were on full blast. Danny checked and found the door unlocked - nobody in sight - no answer to his shout. Then he saw the cash register open and found Pickett in the backroom, face down in front of the flower cooler. The cooler door was open."
Qwilleran said, "If the killer had bought flowers on the day of the bombing, shouldn't Pickett have recognized him?"
"He could've worn a disguise, or it could have been his local accomplice on a mopping-up mission. We already decided there was a local connection. That would account for the timing. Somebody around here would know the schedule of events and when to hit. Might even be somebody Pickett knew. He could mingle with the crowd until nine o'clock, then go into the flower shop and take a long time making up his mind. Might even have bought a fifty-cent birthday card. That would take time, too, and Pickett wasn't one to pass up a fifty-cent sale, even if he had to stay open all night."
"What kind of flowers was the victim clutching?" Qwilleran asked with grim curiosity.
"Something dark red."
"Have some cheese, Andy."
"Is it the good stuff you gave me last time? I forget what you called it."
"It's a kind of Swiss cheese called GruyŠre."
"YOW!" came a startlingly loud comment from under the bar. Koko knew by experience where to wait for crumbs.
Qwilleran said to Brodie, "If it's witnesses they're after, what about Lenny Inchpot? He's riding in the bike-a-thon Sunday. The three medalists are riding. The paper printed their names and shirt numbers in today's paper - also the route."
"We're trying to find him. He was seen at the street dance tonight but didn't go home, apparently. His mother's visiting her sister in Duluth, and you can bet Lenny's crashing with his bike buddies. We may have to nab him at the starting gate Sunday and ship him off to Duluth. He won't like being grounded. I hear he's got a lot of sponsors."
"Has the SBI come up with any leads on the bombing suspect?"
"Well, with no name and no car license and no fingerprints, they're working against odds, you might say, but... if you hang in there long enough, something usually happens to bust the case wide open. The homicide tonight may be the thin edge of the wedge." Brodie downed one more quick Scotch and said it was time to go home, adding, "Why doesn't your smart cat come up with some clues?" It was half in jest and half in wonder at Koko's past performances.
"He's working on it, Andy." Qwilleran was thinking about the cat's frenzy during the fireworks... his trashing of the dark red mums... his ominous howl at one particular moment. Were his psychic senses registering a gunshot on Main Street?
Now Lenny Inchpot was in danger. He was Lois's youngest. She'd crack up if anything happened to him.
Qwilleran checked his green pledge cards for the bike-a-thon and found only two. There had been three of them - for Gary, Wilfred and Lenny - on the telephone desk under the brass paperweight. The missing card was Lenny's. A search turned it up in the foyer - on the floor - well chewed. Neither cat was in sight.
Saturday was the day of the Pasty Bake-off. As Qwilleran fed the cats that morning, he said, "You guys have it made. You don't have to judge contests, go on the auction block, or write a thousand words twice a week when there's nothing to write about!"
At one-thirty he reported to the exhibit hall at the fairgrounds, the site of the Food Fair and Pasty Bake-off. At the door, he identified himself as a judge and was directed to a room at the rear; the directions could hardly be heard above the din of amplified music and reverberating voices in the great hall. Local cooks were exhibiting and selling homemade baked goods, preserves, and canned garden produce. Some of the items had already been honored with blue ribbons. Fairgoers wandered through the maze of edibles, stunned into silence by the ear-piercing music.
The judges' chamber was a bleak, ill-furnished cubicle, but Mildred Riker's greetings and light-hearted banter warmed the environment. She welcomed Qwilleran with a hug and a judge's badge. "Qwill, it's good of you to donate so much of your valuable time to Explo!" she shouted above the recorded noise.