Polly looked at her watch. They were nearing the center of Pickax. "I enjoyed having dinner with you."
"Won't you come up to the apartment for a nightcap?"
"Not tonight, thanks. I have things to do." Her voice was curt.
The last few blocks were driven in silence. With a brief good-night she transferred to her own car in the library parking lot - the cranberry-red two-door he had given her for Christmas during a surge of holiday spirit, grateful sentiment, and emotional delirium. When she drove away, the blue silk scarf in the gift-wrapped box was still on the back seat of his car, quite forgotten.
It was too good to last, he thought, as he drove around the Park Circle to his carriage house. His relationship with Polly was inevitably coming to an end. Once loving and agreeable, she had become critical. She thought their intimacy gave her license to direct his life, but he was his own man. That was why his marriage had failed a dozen years before.
As he unlocked the door of the carriage house, he heard the telephone ringing, and he ran up the stairs, hoping... hoping that Polly had changed her mind... hoping she had driven a few blocks and had stopped at a phone booth...
The voice he heard, however, was that of Mr. O'Dell, the white-haired houseman who had been school janitor for forty years and now conducted his own one-man janitorial service.
"Sure, an' it's sad news tonight," said Mr. O'Dell. "Young Harley was a good lad, but he married the wrong colleen, I'm thinkin'. Will yourself be needin' me tomorrow, now? It's a new grandson I have in Kennebeck, and the urge is upon me to lay eyes on the mite of a boy."
"By all means take the day off, Mr. O'Dell," said Qwilleran. "Was everything all right when you were here?"
"All but the little one. Herself did her dirty outside the sandbox again. It's bothered about somethin', she is."
Qwilleran immediately phoned Lori Bamba in Mooseville, the young lady who seemed to know all about cats. He described the situation. "Yum Yum has always had good aim until recently. I bought a second commode, thinking she wanted facilities of her own, but she ignores the pan and bestows her souvenirs on the bathroom floor."
"It might be stress," Lori said. "Is she under stress?"
"Stress!" he shouted into the phone. "I'm the one who's under stress! She lives a life of utter tranquility. She has a comfortable apartment with all conveniences - two gourmet meals every day, brushing three times a week. She has a reserved seat on my lap every time I sit down. And I hold intelligent conversations with both of them, the way you recommended."
"Have you made any recent changes in her environment?"
"Only new wallpaper in the living room. I don't see why that should concern her."
"Well," said Lori, "you should observe her closely, and if any other symptoms develop, take her to the doctor."
Qwilleran did not sleep well that night. It worried him inordinately when anything was wrong with the Siamese. He regretted also what was happening between Polly and himself. In addition, he could not help grieving about the cold-blooded murder that had gripped the community with sadness and fear. As he lay awake, he heard the 1:30 A.M. freight train blowing its mournful whistle at unguarded crossings near the city limits. The weather was clear, and, with his ear on the pillow, he could hear the dull click of wheels on tracks, although it was almost half a mile away.
When the 2:30 A.M. freight rumbled through town, he was still awake.
-Scene Eight-
Place: Downtown Pickax
Time: The day before the Fitch funeral
QWILLERAN tuned in the headline news on WPKX every half hour expecting to hear that suspects in the murder of Harley and Belle Fitch were being questioned, or that arrests had been made and charges brought, or that the murderer had given himself up, or that he had killed himself, leaving a confession in a suicide note. Despite the scenarios he composed, nothing of the sort happened. It was reported only that police were investigating.
It also was announced that the funeral would be held on Friday, and it was the wish of the family that it be private. Qwilleran knew the decision would disappoint most of the local citizens; funeral-going and funeral-watching were consuming interests in Pickax.
Further, it was announced that Margaret Fitch, mother of the slain man, had suffered a massive stroke and was in critical condition at the Pickax hospital.
All of this only aggravated Qwilleran's impatience to know exactly what was happening, and he walked to the police station to confront Brodie - walking less briskly than usual; after a sleepless night he lacked pep. They had not talked together since the incident in West Middle Hummock, but Brodie would know everything and would be willing to reveal a few facts, off the record.
"Bad business, Brodie," Qwilleran said upon entering the office.
"Bad business," echoed the chief without lifting his eyes from his paperwork.
"Any suspects?"
"That's not for me to say. It's not my case."
"I suppose West Middle Hummock is the sheriff's turf."
Brodie nodded. "And the state police are assisting."
"Off the record, Brodie, do you suspect the punks from Chipmunk?"
The chief looked Qwilleran straight in the eye and said coolly, "No comment."
This was a surprising response from the usually talkative lawman, but Qwilleran knew when to stop wasting his time. "Take it easy," he said as he left.
His next stop was the office of the Moose County Something. In a newspaper city room one could always count on hearing inside information, true or false. He discovered, however, that Junior Goodwinter was taking a day off, having worked seven days a week since the inception of the project, and Roger MacGillivray was out on the beat, pursuing a story on wild turkeys.
Arch Riker was on hand, huddled over his desk, but he had heard no rumors and could answer no questions.
Qwilleran said, "I'm curious about the background of Belle Fitch. My houseman says Harley married the wrong woman."
"You hound-dog!" Riker exploded, pushing his chair away from his desk in an impatient gesture. "You're never happy unless you're sniffing the trail of something that's none of your business!"
Surprised by his friend's acerbic comment, Qwilleran said teasingly, "What's eating you, Arch? Did Amanda refuse your ring?"
"That's none of your business either," the editor snapped. "When can we have your first column?"
"When do you want it?"
"Tomorrow noon for the weekend edition."
This was the kind of short deadline that heated Qwilleran's blood, concentrated his attention, and primed the flow of ideas. "How about a piece on the eccentric bookseller who does business in a former blacksmith shop?"
"What about pix? Do you have a camera?"
"Not good enough to shoot dark books and a dark cat in a dark store."
"Okay, line it up, and we'll assign our part-time photographer - if we can find him - and if he can find his camera."
Qwilleran left the office with restored pep. About Riker's late-blooming romance he had ambivalent reactions, however. The two of them had grown up together in Chicago, and he would be sorry to see his friend disappointed. On the other hand, it would mean that Riker would still be available for bachelor dinners at the Old Stone Mill and bull sessions at the Shipwreck Tavern in Mooseville.
He picked up a tape recorder and a notebook from the city room and walked briskly to the store called Edd's Editions. The bell on the door tinkled, and Eddington Smith appeared out of the gloom.
"A terrible thing," the little man said in a voice denoting grief. "Is there any more news about the murder?"
At that moment Qwilleran realized for the first time that the perpetual smile on the bookseller's face was a masklike grimace.