“To your health!” Zoller proposed when aperitifs were served.
They sat on red velvet-tufted chairs, set their drinks on the marble tops of carved tables, and looked at red walls hung with a fortune in oil paintings bought in Paris by an ancestral Sprenkle.
“Where are the ladies?” Polly asked, inquiring about the five well-fed cats that usually sat on the five parlor windowsills. Qwilleran had noticed there were no cat hairs on Maggie’s black velvet, although she was a compulsive cat-hugger.
“They’ve retired to their boudoir upstairs,” she said. Deftly she steered the conversation away from the Big One, Book Alley, the Citizens’ Fire Watch, and even the Shafthouse Initiative. Instead they talked about golf, travel, art collecting, photography, dog racing in Florida, and the best restaurants in Chicago.
The housekeeper cooked and served: lobster bisque, filet of beef with sauced broccoli, a tossed green salad, and a white chocolate mousse.
After coffee, Qwilleran and Polly waited forty-five minutes before saying goodnight.
On the way home she said, “A half hour’s grace is too short to be polite; an hour is too long to be comfortable.”
Qwilleran agreed that the evening had seemed rather lengthy. “But the food was good. What did she do to the broccoli?”
“A light cheese sauce with bacon bits.”
“Broccoli needs all the help it can get.”
“Maggie and Henry have known each other a long time. When their spouses were living, the two couples went on cruises all over the world.”
“What will he do now that he’s retired? Go back to fixing teeth?”
“Probably play golf and bet on the dogs.” “Maggie seemed a little subdued tonight,” Qwilleran said. “She hasn’t been spending enough time under the chandelier.”
As they drove through the Indian Village gates,
Polly said, “Would you like to come in for a while?”
“How’d you like to come and see the sampler I swindled from Susan?” Qwilleran asked.
She agreed readily. She had been consumed by curiosity. As soon as he unlocked the door she went directly to the kitchen and stared-or glared-at the framed piece of stained linen laboriously embroidered by a young girl a hundred years ago.
By the constrained expression on her face he could read her mind.
“Don’t you like it?” he teased. “I intended to leave it to you in my will.”
Struggling to be tactful, she asked, “May I ask… what attracted you to this… this-“
“It has sentimental significance. My mother was an advocate of celerity. Jumping over candlesticks was part of my early training.”
Polly was not fond of teasing. She walked away. “Where’s the wall hanging?”
Qwilleran switched on the living room lights, spotlighting the oversized red-breasted birds.
Shegasped. “Did you choose it?”
“I can’t take credit. Fran picked it out, and I happen to like her taste. It’s perfect scale for the room. Much needed touch of color. Dynamic design. Do you like it?”
“I think it’s repulsive!” she said vehemently. “That worm! It’s like a snake!”
“It’s in proportion to the robins and the-” he began.
“How can you ask your guests to sit here, enjoying a drink while those obscenely fat robins are torturing a helpless fellow creature? Ugh!” She turned on her heel and headed for the door.
“I’ll walk you home,” he offered.
“That won’t be necessary! What did Robert Graves say? Murderous robin with breast aglow!” She slammed the door.
Qwilleran looked at Koko, who had been auditing the conversation. “Women!” he said.
Koko squeezed his eyes.
The next morning, about eight-thirty, Qwilleran
was thinking about coffee, and the cats were thinking about breakfast, and Polly (he knew) would be thinking about driving to work. At that moment the doorbell rang.
Through the sidelight he could see her on the doorstep. He thought, She’s here to make up after her tantrum last night, in which case, I’ll apologize for teasing her. Opening the door, he said graciously, “Good morning! What an unexpected pleasure!”
She looked alarmingly wide-eyed. “Qwill! I’ve just had a strange phone call!”
“Come in!” he said, putting a hand to his unshaved jaw.
She stepped into the foyer. “I’m on my way to work, but I simply had to tell you!”
“Sitdown. Who called you?”
She took one of the two pull-up chairs in the foyer, perching on the front edge of the seat. “Mrs. Stebbins, Maggie’s housekeeper! She reported for work this morning and found the house empty. No Maggie … no cats! Her bed hadn’t been slept in; her luggage was gone; and a lot of her clothing was gone. She was bewildered!”
“I’m bewildered, too,” he said.
“And then she went into the kitchen and found an envelope containing a month’s wages and instructions to empty the refrigerator, take away the fresh flowers, and tell Mrs. Duncan she’d miss the board meeting. What do you make out of that, Qwill?”
He hesitated only a moment. “She’s eloping with Henry.”
“Idoubtit. She values her independence, and Henry doesn’t like cats.”
“What did she do with them? Traveling with five cats is somewhat of a problem.”
“She’d never send them back to the animal shelter, but she might leave them with the new boarding kennel in Kennebeck.”
Qwilleran said, “Last night Henry mentioned that he’d sold his house and was living at the Mackintosh Inn until his new place is ready. Let me phone to see if he’s checked out. It’ll take only a minute.”
He returned from the phone with the information that Henry Zoller had checked out last evening, leaving no forwarding instructions. “It appears he drives a Land Rover; that’s what was parked next to Maggie’s car last night. If it were a Missing Persons case, the police could put a check on it, but it’s really none of our business, is it?” “Yow-ow-ow!” was Koko’s contribution to the discussion.
Polly said, “He wants me to get out and go to work.”
While preparing the cats’ breakfast, Qwilleran asked himself: Why did Zoller choose to have dinner at Maggie’s last night instead of attending the reception for the dermatologists at the country club - where he was president? … Why did he show no interest in the loss of the bookstore or the arrival of a rare-book dealer selling ten-thousand-dollar books? According to Polly, he had given generously to the library in the past, but only because Maggie twisted his arm… . And why was there no discussion of the mayoral race? Probably because Amanda was Maggie’s longtime friend and Mayor Blythe was Zoller’s golf buddy… . And why had they found it appropriate to sneak away like a pair of juvenile lovebirds? Maggie might enjoy fooling her friends, but there was no nonsense about Henry Zoller… . And did they drive to Florida in his Land Rover, or fly? And if they went by plane, did they fly from the Moose County or Lockmaster airport?
Qwilleran’s final question was: Why do I bother my head about these two characters? I’m turning into a genuine Pickax busybody! Still, he was haunted by unanswered questions.
It was Friday, and he met his noon deadline for the “Qwill Pen” column, grabbed a burger for lunch, and stopped at Amanda’s studio to exchange his robin batik. Fran was out making calls.
“What’s the matter? Are you squeamish?” Amanda said in her usual brusque manner.
“No, but Polly is, and I aim to keep everyone happy,” Qwilleran replied. “Is it cheaper without the worm?”
“We’ll deduct fifty cents from your bill.”
“I met a friend of yours last night.”
“Who?”
“The famous Dr. Zoller.”
“He’s no friend of mine!”