“Especially at the Something,” Qwilleran said sympathetically.
There was something more that night.
Sometime after midnight, as Qwilleran was trying to read himself to sleep, the stillness was broken by a tortured wail ending in a shriek. He ran into the cats’ room and found Koko sitting on the TV and howling at the ceiling. It meant bad news. And it meant bad news close to home.
Qwilleran called the night desk at the Something. “Any trouble on the police beat?”
“We don’t know the details, but there’s been a shooting. We don’t know who, where, or if it’s fatal.”
Koko knew it was fatal.
The night editor added, “I believe it was a volunteer.”
With a shudder Qwilleran thought of Wetherby, always taking a patrol if another driver had to cancel. They had talked a few hours before… . Then he heard the toilet flush next door, and for the first time he gave thanks instead of cursing the thin walls.
ten
Qwilleran slept poorly as the list of volunteers reeled through his mind. Civic leaders like Ernie Kemple and Larry Lanspeak were on standby, night or day. Among the regulars were Dwight Somers, the McBee brothers, Gordie Shaw, Bob the barber, Albert the dry cleaner, Lenny Inchpot, many staffers at the Something, city council members, and more. There were women who drove patrols, but they were excluded from nighttime shifts. Even Grandma Toodle, the manager of the supermarket, was a ride-along with her grandson.
Rising early and feeding the Siamese mechanically, he listened for a radio bulletin. The first news from WPKX was: “A citizen on fire-watch patrol was killed early this morning by a gunman attempting to burn the Big B shafthouse. The victim’s name has not been released.” The station had the good taste to follow the announcement with Loch Lomond and not the Pickax puppy song, which had become their virtual signature.
Qwilleran could imagine the telephone lines sizzling as relatives and friends phoned each other frantically to ask who was on patrol last night. As he brooded over cup after cup of coffee, the Siamese sensed the troubled atmosphere and sat quietly nearby instead of seeking out patches of sunlight for their own enjoyment. Suddenly Koko ran to the radio, and a few moments later the WPKX announcer broke into the music with this news:
“Ralph Abbey of Chipmunk, a volunteer fire-watcher, was killed early this morning at the Big B minesite while reporting to the sheriff’s hotline on his cellular phone. He was reporting trespassing and vandalism when the operator heard a shot. The rescue squad was alerted, and firefighters were already on the way. Flames creeping toward the shafthouse were extinguished, but the victim was pronounced dead at the scene.”
Qwilleran’s phone began to ring, and he listened to comments for the next half hour:
Wetherby Goode said, “Hey, Qwill, do you realize that might have happened to you and me? The irony of it is that Abbey had racked up more volunteer hours than anyone else-patrolling every day, sometimes twice in twenty-four hours.”
Polly said, “I knew him when he was a high school student bringing his homework assignments to the library. He was more of an athletic type than a scholarly one, but he was conscientious.”
Then Fran Brodie called in a highly emotional state. “Qwill! That fellow who was killed! He was Ruff, my installer! The one who hung your batik! Such a nice young man! Such a good worker! We encouraged him to take classes at MCCC. So young! Only twenty-two! And
what will happen now? He was supporting his mother and three younger sisters. His father died of diabetes.… And to think that it happened because he was doing a community service! The county should set up a trust to take care of the family. Do you think the K Fund would help?”
“Definitely! Talk to G. Alien Barter.” After that, Qwilleran went downtown to observe and listen. Crowds had turned out of their homes; friends were commiserating with friends, and strangers were talking to strangers. There was a wreath on the door at Amanda’s studio, and a sign stated “CLOSED until Tuesday-in mourning for our valued colleague, Ruff Abbey.” At the post office, patrons bought stamps but lingered to talk, and it was surprising what they found to say to each other.
“He didn’t like to be called Ralph.” “His family goes to our church. We’re going to have a hymnsing to raise money for them.” “He was a football hero in high school.” “He never said much, but he had opinions.” “He bagged an eight-point buck last year in huntin’ season. Got his picture in the paper.”
“His mother does sewing for people in her home, but she doesn’t make much.”
“He hung my draperies and did an expert job.” “The county should give him an official funeral.” “I used to date him; he was a real sweet guy.” In the background were the murals, showing the ancestors of these people, working in the mines, tilling fields with hand plows, driving oxcarts, spinning yarn from sheep’s wool.
One elderly gentleman said, “You’re Mr. Q, aren’t you? When I don’t like the way things are going, I come in here and see how my ancestors lived.”
Qwilleran went to the police station to see Brodie, but the chief was attending a summit meeting at the courthouse. Roger MacGillivray was there, waiting for a news-break. “It’s getting the whole front page Monday.”
“Any chance the Fire Watch will be discontinued?”
“No way! The sheriff took a telephone poll of volunteers this morning, and the vote was unanimous to continue. It won’t be long before snow flies, and the problem will be over.”
Qwilleran asked, “Feel like lunch? I’m buying. We could go to Rennie’s.”
The Mackintosh Inn’s colorful coffee shop was still new enough to be a special attraction.
They ordered Reuben sandwiches, and Roger said, “Ruff was in my history classes when I was teaching. All-right guy!”
“Do you know exactly what happened last night?”
“Well, he was on patrol midnight to three and saw something irregular at the Big B Mine-a car parked in the side lane and a brushfire creeping toward the shafthouse. Instead of reporting it from the highway, he drove into the lane behind the car, apparently to get the license number. That’s where he was found, behind the wheel, but he’d already reported the fire and the number on the tag. The hotline operator heard the shot on the phone and heard it drop. Two shots were heard. Fire and police vehicles were already on the way. The suspect got away by driving around the back of the minesite.”
Both then gulped their sandwiches in silence. Then
Qwilleran said, “The suspect must have been a local, if he knew about the perimeter road.”
“His car had an out-of-state plate. The state and local police are having a summit meeting at the courthouse… . which reminds me: I’ve got to get back on my beat. Thanks for lunch, Qwill.”
Qwilleran sat for a while, thinking about the shooting and lingering over a slice of coconut cream pie, too sweet for his taste.
Then Susan Exbridge walked past his table and asked him conspiratorially, “What-do you-think about it?”
He rose politely. “Too sweet. They have a new pastry chef.”
“Please sit down,” she murmured. “I was referring to Ronald’s natal chart.”
He continued to stand. “Ronald sends his compliments to Mrs. Young.”
“Please sit down, Qwill,” she said firmly.
“I don’t want to sit down!” he replied testily. “I want to pay for my lunch and get out of here and go home to my cats.”
“Oh!” she said in surprise.
“Are you coming in or going out?”
“I’ve come to have lunch with two of my customers.” She spoke with unusual meekness.