“Feel free to move anything around if necessary, and let me know if there’s anything you need.”
The doorbell rang again. A pizza wagon stood at the curb, and a delivery man handed him a large, square, flat box. Qwilleran recognized him as an officer from the PPD.
“Hi, Mr. Q! Brodie sent this for your party. I hear it’s gonna be fun and games today.” He mumbled into his cell phone, and the pizza wagon took off.
As noon approached, the pizza was in the warming oven, the two officers were upstairs, and Qwilleran was at the bar, readying tomato juice, vodka, hot sauce, and a fresh lime. He was having second thoughts about trapping the quiet, sober-faced specialist in rare books. Just because the man had given Polly his mother’s glove box, it was no proof that she was Helen Omblower. Kirt’s mother might have bought the box at a local antique shop, never guessing that a letter was hidden in a false bottom. Neither did Polly, and Qwilleran himself had not discovered it until Koko commenced sniffing and pawing.
If Nightingale were indeed Omblower, as Qwilleran suspected, body language would reveal his guilt unless … he happened to be a skilled actor; acting might be one of the things he boasted of learning while in prison. (Don’t wet lips; don’t blink; don’t scratch neck; don’t pull ear-lobe.) Qwilleran began to wish Koko were there to contribute an occasional “Yow” and “Ik ik ik.”
The doorbell rang, and the quiet, sober-faced bookseller stood there without uttering a sociable word, leaving it up to the host to say, “Good morning! Come in and have a last Last Drink.”
In the foyer Nightingale glanced about warily, then walked to the sofa. “Interesting piece of glass,” he said. “Does it have a pedigree?”
“St. Louis lead crystal, made for the French steamship lines. Weighs a ton.”
“There’s a fine book about glassmakers of the world if you’re interested: Baccarat, Steuben, Waterford, Orrefors, and so forth-absolutely the definitive work.”
“Right now I’m interested in Egypt,” Qwilleran said. “But first drink to the Big One! We’ll all be glad when snow flies and we can stop worrying about wildfires-or whatever they are. A lot of people think they’re arson.”
“Is that so?”
“Strange thing about arson: Property owners used to burn their buildings to collect insurance. Now arson is the most common type of vandalism. Structures are torched for thrills or just plain meanness. There’s a rumor that a land-grabber burned the bookstore in order to get an affordable site in a good location-for sale to a commercial developer. … As a bookman, Kirt, you must have been horrified to see thousands of books go up in flames.”
“There wasn’t much of value there,” said the book’ man. “I spent several hours on the ladder and found nothing worthwhile.”
“Be that as it may, it was the pride of Pickax, and Eddington himself was a leading citizen.” Qwilleran stroked his moustache. “It hasn’t been announced as yet, but I propose to establish a Rare Book Room at the public library, as a memorial to Eddington. That’s why I asked you here today-to suggest acquisitions.”
His guest bristled with interest.
“As a centerpiece, Kirt, I would like to suggest the three-volume set of David Roberts’ lithographs. And while I refresh your drink, would you take this card and jot down other titles that a Rare Book Room should have on exhibit.”
“A pleasure!” said Nightingale.
“With the K Fund behind it, cost should be no consideration. We’d like to think that tourists who used to head for the funny old bookstore will in the future head for the Eddington Smith Memorial and its fabulous books.” Qwilleran suppressed a chuckle as he thought of the two officers on the balcony, taping the grandiose speech.
He took his time in mixing another Bloody Mary and cutting wedges of pizza for a snack, while Nightingale made his list with obvious relish.
When Qwilleran looked at this list, he nodded with satisfaction. It was written in the unique backhand of George Omblower.
Both men enjoyed the pizza, and Qwilleran explained that it came from a pizza parlor in Kennebeck that delivered. Food and drink and the prospect of a lucrative sale had apparently mellowed Nightingale’s usual stiff formality.
It was time for Qwilleran to go to work. “You must have noticed many changes in Pickax, Kirt: medical center, airport, community college, curling club. I saw you there the other evening-the night Cass fell down the stairs. Are you a member?”
“I have a social membership, that’s all. Friendly crowd.”
“How long have you been gone from what we call God’s country?”
“Perhaps twenty-five years. Time flies.”
“I suppose you attended Pickax High School.”
The guest nodded, dismissing it as a topic worth exploring.
“They have an Olympic-size swimming pool now.”
“Is that so?”
“Did you by any chance know a student named George Omblower?” Qwilleran thought he detected a slight wince.
“Can’t say that I did.”
“He was an all-A student and considered quite a brain. Unfortunately he got into trouble and dropped out. A friend of mine knew his mother. She lived in Chipmunk. George had a girlfriend here who moped over him for years and then finally jumped off the Bloody Creek bridge.” This was a fictional touch of Qwilleran’s, but it stirred no emotion in his listener. “Mrs. Omblower said her son ran afoul of the law in the East and spent five years in prison.”
Although Nightingale did not wet his lips or pull his ear lobe, a flush came to his neck.
“There was another notoriously bad boy at the high school, named ..” Qwilleran looked at the ceiling as if trying to recall the name, and he saw the guest room door open slowly and noiselessly. “I believe the name was Gideon Blake.”
“No recollection. Is there a point to all this?” The man’s temper was rising.
“Gideon got in trouble, too, but changed his name and became mayor of our fair city.”
Nightingale took a gulp of his Bloody Mary.
“The only reason I’m boring you with this local gossip is to acquaint you with a rumor that Omblower is back in town under an alias and is wanted on charges of arson and murder.”
Nightingale, clearly disturbed, set down his glass with a crash, and Qwilleran moved casually to the fireplace to stir the small blaze in the grate-and to get his hand on the poker. He turned just in time to see something flying in his direction. He dodged, and the missile sailed past his ear and crashed into the sliding glass door. At the same time there were thundering commands from the balcony and clattering boots on the stairs. Outside the shattered door, the martini pitcher landed unharmed on its solid bottom-on the cedar deck.
The vehicles that had moved quietly into River Road on a signal from the balcony now sped out of the Village with the suspect in the sheriff’s car and the leftover pizza in the PPD car. Qwilleran, before calling the Pet Plaza, notified the maintenance crew to remove the broken glass and board up the sliding door.
When the Siamese arrived, they knew something monstrous had happened, even without visible evidence, and they were disinclined to leave the carrier. Only smoked oysters tempted them to return to the real world. Even so, they approached the treat with bellies to the floor and frequent glances over the shoulder.
Eventually Koko-but not timid Yum Yum-prowled about the scene of the crime. Amazingly, he first inspected the martini pitcher, now posed in the center of the coffee table as if nothing had happened. If the condo had been built according to code, with safety glass, it would have lost a handle.
“Any comment?” Qwilleran asked Koko. “You won’t be quoted.”
The cat was speechless.