“No flights at that hour. Could’ve been driving somewhere.”
“I believe he drives a Land Rover.”
“That’s what it says on the register. Not many of those around here.”
“Did he look happy? He might have been eloping.”
“Nah. He never showed his emotions.”
“Lenny! Stop gabbin’ and peel some potatoes,” came the order from the kitchen.
He jumped to his feet. “Gotta go, or she’ll be out here with the rolling pin.”
Qwilleran’s quest for answers next took him to an
establishment new to Moose County-a nationally franchised luxury-class boarding kennel.
The Pet Plaza occupied the former premises of Chet’s Barbecue, closed after its owner found himself in bad trouble. Qwilleran assumed that lingering aromas of roasting meat might add to its success as a boarding kennel. For whatever reason, it was said to be a howling success in spite of the high daily rates. That was understandable; Moose County had plenty of affluent families descended from mining tycoons, lumber barons, and early twentieth-century bootleggers. They traveled frequently and had thoroughbred pets who deserved the best.
The plain two-story building of concrete block had been given a tongue-in-cheek facelift. Classic columns, a pediment, and low-relief sculptures of mythical gods and goddesses had been painted on the flat surface. It looked quite grand until one noticed that the robed figures had the heads of cats and dogs.
When Qwilleran walked into the lobby he was met by a young woman in a natty gray pantsuit with silver buttons.
“Lori Bamba!” he said in surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to be running a bed-and-breakfast?”
“It was too iffy.”
“How’s the family?”
“The boys are growing fast; they want their own computers. Nick is doing maintenance engineering, but he’d rather be an innkeeper. I’m concierge here; my job is to keep the guests happy.”
“The dogs sound happy,” said Qwilleran, cocking an
ear to hear a distant symphony of barks, woofs, yelps, and yodels. “What facilities do you offer?”
“The Oak Room for dogs, the Oyster Bar for cats, and the Palm Court for exercise.”
“Piano entertainment in the Oak Room?” he asked.
“Where would you like to start?”
In Moose County he was accustomed to seeing collies, German shepherds, coonhounds, and pit bulls. Lori pointed out an Alaskan malamute, a pair of Jack Russells, a Lhasa apso from Tibet, an exuberant Welsh corgi, and an amiable Bouvier from Belgium. They were housed in top-of-the-line cages of various sizes, and those on the outside wall had direct access to the dog run.
In the Oyster Bar the cats had split-level cages with picture windows overlooking a grassy plot. They seemed contented, except for a Siamese who was being shampooed and blow-dried before going home. A Persian was sleeping in his litter pan. Qwilleran spotted an Abyssinian, a Rex, and an Oriental before seeing the five genteel hybrids whose nameplates read: Sarah, Charlotte, Carrie, Flora, and Louisa May-Maggie’s “ladies.”
“Are these all from one family?” he asked innocently.
“Yes. They came in yesterday and will be staying for a month.”
Lori went on talking, and the recorder went on recording: “Some cats are on special diets… . Some are here for a get-acquainted visit before being left for two weeks or more… . Some bring their own security blankets from home… . Our staff is hardworking, observant, and loving. … There is a waiting list for employment here.”
“How do I get on the list?” Qwilleran asked, but his mind was on Maggie, who had lied when she said her ladies had retired early to their boudoir upstairs. He had noticed that there were no cat hairs on her black velvet dress.
nine
Hanging anything on a wall was not one of Qwilleran’s talents, but suddenly the chimney breast looked obscenely nude without its three-by four-foot batik. He unrolled the new one, without worm, and brought a stepladder from the basement. The mantel was high; the hanging seemed enormous; the ladder was wobbly; and the two assistants were incompetents who wanted only to inspect the ladder.
“Get away!” he said. “Your job is to stand back and tell me if it’s level.”
As soon as he reached the fourth step, the phone rang.
“Yow!” said Koko.
“Letitring.”
“YOW!”
“They can leave a message.”
“Yow-ow-ow!”
Qwilleran thought, It could be important! It could be urgent! He lobbed the batik at the hook in the wall as if shooting a basket from mid-court, and jumped off the ladder. His helpers scattered.
It was only Susan Exbridge. “Darling! I have something for you, and I’ll drop it off on my way home from work, if you’ll be there about five-thirty. It’s the natal chart-for your friend Ronald.”
“I was hoping it would be a half-gallon of chocolate ice cream. Will you come in for a drink?”
He climbed up and straightened the hanging, returned the ladder to the basement, tidied the coffee table, and checked his martini ingredients. Plenty of gin, three kinds of olives, no dry vermouth. Nevertheless, he was famous for his fourteen-to-one mix, and Susan wouldn’t notice if he served it fourteen-to-zero.
Susan arrived waving a sealed document envelope. “Here it is! I paid Jeffa for it, so you can write a check payable to me, and your anonymity will be secure.”
She flung herself onto the sofa with a sigh. “I had a hard day at the cash register! Mind if I take off my shoes? This rug is positively degenerate! … Is that one of the batty batiks everyone’s talking about? The robin should be pulling a worm out of the lawn.”
“I had one like that,” Qwilleran said, “but public outrage forced me to exchange it for the wormless version.”
“It isn’t quite level.”
“We had a minor earthquake today. Nothing serious.” He served his guest a martini and himself some white grape juice in a martini glass.
She took a sip. “Superb! You’re wasting your time as a journalist, Qwill. You should be a bartender.”
“I’ve considered switching. Bartending pays better.”
“Oh! … You have one of those martini pitchers from a French liner! Where did you get it?”
“It was a gift.”
“Maggie has one just like it.”
“It came from a large ship. They had two.”
She ignored his arch remark. “Let me know if you ever want to sell it.”
Qwilleran asked, “Did you see your ex-husband’s letter to the editor-in praise of shafthouses?”
“I did! And was that ever a joke! He’s always hated those shafthouses! Either he’s cracking up or falling in love again. His second wife has filed for divorce, you know, and now he’ll have to write two big alimony checks.”
“Will he attend Amanda’s rally Sunday?”
“Notlikely. He and the mayor will be having their last golf game before snow flies. The astrologer will be there, though, and you must meet her! She has a phenomenal mind for mathematics and a degree in accounting. Astrology is her hobby.” Susan drained her glass. “Will you excuse me? I have to dress for dinner.”
He said, “I’ll let you know, Susan, what I think about my horoscope.”
“Please, darling! We call it a natal chart.”
“I stand corrected.”
On the way out she noticed the glove box in the foyer. “Where did you find that? It’s old but not antique-probably 1920s.”
“It was a gift, and it’s not for sale.”
Qwilleran sprawled in a deep-cushioned chair and propped his feet on an ottoman, as he proceeded to read about himself. The chart consisted of two dozen pages in a plastic binder, with a frontispiece of a twelve-spoked wheel filled with arcane symbols and mathematical notations. First, it told him he was a Gemini.