"Qwill, this is giving me a headache. Can't we discuss the wallpaper and then go to dinner? Come over here and let's look at the samples."
They sat together on the sofa, with the heavy wallpaper book on their collective knees. The Siamese, meanwhile, had declined to eat; it was the same stuff they had been served for breakfast, and soupy concoctions were not their favorites. The two cats sat across from the sofa, staring into space.
Fran said, "I'd really love to see you do your bedroom in aubergine, avocado and rose taupe."
"I like it the way it is - tan, brown, and rust," Qwilleran informed her.
"Well, if you insist! How do you like this one? It's a marvelous texture in rust."
"The color's too dull," he said. "Here's one with more life but not so much surface interest."
"Too flashy."
"How about this one?"
"Too dark."
"The wallcovering is only for the upper half of the wall," she reminded him. (The lower walls were paneled with the narrow wood beading common in nineteenth-century railway depots.) "In other words, it's simply a background for prints and watercolors that will be framed in chrome to tie in with your chromium exercise equipment. That is, if you're sure you want to keep the bike and rowing machine in your bedroom. Couldn't they go in the cats' apartment?"
Qwilleran scowled at her.
"Okay, they couldn't go in the cats' apartment. However," she went on, "I definitely think we should get rid of those ugly old-fashioned radiators. You owe it to yourself to install a completely new heating system."
"Those ugly old-fashioned radiators give good, even heat," Qwilleran said, "and they look right with the ugly, old-fashioned paneling. The plumber says they're over seventy-five years old and still in excellent operating condition. Show me any new invention that will still be good seventy-five years from now."
"You sound like my father," Fran said. "At least let me design an enclosure for the radiators - just a shelf on top and grillework in front. My carpenter can build them."
"Will it impair their efficiency?"
"Not at all. I also think we should shop for new bedroom furniture for you when we go to Chicago. The new lines are coming out, and I have some wonderful sources... Ouch!... The cat grabbed my ankle."
"I'm sorry, Fran. Are your stockings torn?"
She smoothed her leg experimentally. "I don't think so, but those claws are like needles. Which one did it?"
Qwilleran watched Yum Yum the Paw slinking guiltily from the room. "Let's go to dinner," he said.
He gathered up Fran's wallpaper samples, and she dropped her cigarette pack into her handbag. "Where's my lighter?"
"Where did you leave it?"
"I thought I put it on the coffee table."
She rummaged in her handbag, and Qwilleran searched the floor and looked behind the sofa cushions.
"It can't have wandered very far," he said. "It'll turn up, and I'll give it back to you. Meanwhile, this would be a good time to give up smoking."
"You're sounding like my father again," she said with a frown.
They drove to Stephanie's, one of the best restaurants in the county. It occupied an old stone mansion in an old residential section of Pickax, and although the exterior was forbidding, the interior had a hospitable ambience created by soft colors, soft textures, and soft lighting. Qwilleran always liked walking into a restaurant with Francesca. On this occasion, heads turned to admire the young woman with gray eyes, gray suit, gray paisley blouse, gray hose, and high-heeled gray sandals.
Perusing the menu, he suggested the herbed trout with wine sauce.
"I'd rather have the spare ribs," she said. "The trout is better for you."
"Will you stop sounding like my dad, Qwill?"
They talked about her father's virtuosity on the bagpipe, Qwilleran's fondness for things Scottish, Edd Smith's esoteric enterprise, and the future of the Theatre Club without Harley.
Qwilleran asked, "Do you know how David is reacting?"
"I talked to Jill on the phone, and she said he's a basket case. Nigel, too. I wonder if they're resilient enough to cope. They'll need counseling, that's for sure. To lose someone through illness or accident is traumatic, but murder is so evil!"
"Are you a good friend of Jill's?" He had observed a remarkable similarity between the two young women - their figures, their manner of walking and talking, their stagey Theatre Club gestures and attitudes.
"We were clubby in high school," she said. "We double-dated, played basketball, went in for art. She's very clever. I'm smart, I think, but Jill is clever."
"Is her family well-heeled?"
"Not any more. They lost everything in 1929. Her great- great-grandfather owned a string of sawmills. Her great- grandfather was a Civil War hero. Her grandfather was mayor of Pickax for twelve years. Her maternal grandmother..."
As Francesca related Jill's family history, a scenario began to take shape in Qwilleran's mind. He waited a suitable interval before saying, "That was bad news about Harley's mother. Have you heard any more details?"
"No." The brevity of reply confirmed what he was thinking.
"If Mrs. Fitch doesn't pull through, it will be a great loss to the community. She's done so much for the public library, the hospital, the school, and other good causes."
Francesca's attention suddenly centered on her dinner plate.
"I've met Mrs. Fitch at library board meetings, and she impresses me as a very gracious woman - certainly generous with her time and cooperation."
Francesca raised her wrist and tapped her watch. "Do you realize what time it is? I've got to go back to the studio and write up some orders."
"And I have to buckle down to work on the Edd Smith profile." Later, as they said good night and she gave him a theatrical kiss, he presented her with the gift-wrapped silk scarf he had bought for Polly. "I know I'm a difficult client," he apologized, "but here's a small thank-you for your patience. And I'll have a good look for your cigarette lighter."
Upstairs in his apartment he found that the few remaining cashew nuts had been fished out of the bowl and batted around the room. "Is this your work, madame?" he asked Yum Yum, who was licking her right paw. "And do you know anything about a missing cigarette lighter?"
To Koko he said, "Fran wouldn't comment on Margaret Fitch, and she didn't want to talk about her relationship with David. Put two and two together and what do you get? A manipulative mother who stopped her son from marrying a policeman's daughter?"
"Yow!" Koko replied.
-Scene Ten-
Place: Qwilleran's apartment; later, the newspaper office
Time: The day of the Fitch funeral
IT WAS A PRIVATE FUNERAL in accordance with the wishes of the family. The obsequies were held in the Old Stone Church across the park from Qwilleran's property, and the police kept traffic moving and discouraged loitering in the vicinity. There were no photographers waiting on the sideiwalk or lurking in the trees with their telephoto lenses.
Riker had wanted to give the event coverage, saying that Fitch was an important name in the county, the deaths were shocking, and the funeral was newsworthy.
Junior Goodwinter disagreed. "It's different in a town like this. We respect their feelings."
Riker insisted, and the argument became heated until Qwilleran was asked to mediate.
He agreed with Junior. "The public's right to be nosey won't be violated. Within an hour of the burial all the details of the funeral will be common knowledge. Telephones will be busy; the coffee shops will be buzzing. The Pickax grapevine is more efficient than any newspaper that publishes twice a week. So cool it, Arch."
On the morning of the funeral Qwilleran was typing the last paragraph of the Eddington Smith story and the Siamese were sitting on his desk when the telephone rang.
Yum Yum flew away to parts unknown, while Koko jumped to the phone table and scolded the instrument. "Qwill, this is Cokey," said the voice on the phone. Alacoque Wright, the young architect, sounded more mature than she had been during their brief fling Down
Below. "I'm phoning from the construction shed on your front lawn."
"Good to hear your voice, Cokey. When did you arrive? How does the theater look?" Koko was now standing with his hind feet on the table and his forepaws on Qwilleran's shoulder, and he was snarling into the mouthpiece. Qwilleran pushed him away.
"The job is looking good. They've been following the specs more closely this time. Only one problem: the wall color in the dressing rooms doesn't match the sample. It was supposed to be a rose ochre of low saturation to flatter the actors and elevate their mood. It will have to be repainted at the contractor's expense."
"How long are you going to be here, Cokey?" Koko was biting the phone cord, and Qwilleran gave him another shove.
"Until tomorrow noon. I'm staying at the Pickax Hotel. It's not exactly the Plaza, but my room has a bed and indoor plumbing, for which I'm grateful."
"Let's have dinner tonight. Come to my apartment over the garage whenever you're through with your work. We'll have a drink, and you can say hello to Koko. He's making an unholy fuss at the moment for some obscure reason."
"See you later," she said.
Qwilleran turned to the cat sitting on the phone table just beyond arm's reach. "Now, what was that all about, young man? If you must monitor my phone calls, try to act with civility." Koko scratched his ear with infuriating nonchalance. Qwilleran returned to his typing, only to be interrupted by a phone call from Polly Duncan. The dulcet quality of her voice indicated that she had recovered from her peevishness, and his hopes soared.
"I'm embarrassed, Qwill," she said. "Monday was your birthday, and I didn't even mention it when we had dinner on Wednesday. If it isn't too late to celebrate, would you be my guest at Stephanie's this evening?"
"I'd like that," he said with warmth. "I'd like that very much, but unfortunately the architect for the theater project is here from Cincinnati, and I have to do the honors."
"How long will he be here?"
"Uh... until tomorrow noon." He decided not to point out the gender discrepancy. "Then could you dine with me tomorrow evening?"
"Saturday? That's when the newspaper bosses are treating the staff to a victory bash. It's just an in-house celebration with drinks, bonuses 'and speeches, but I have to be there to represent the Klingenschoen Fund."
"You're really keeping busy, aren't you?" she said crisply.
He waited hopefully for an invitation to roast beef and Yorkshire pudding at her cozy little house on Sunday, but she merely signed off with polite regrets.
So Qwilleran was in a sober mood when he walked downtown to hand in his copy and photo request at the newspaper office. As he approached the building he saw a post-office vehicle parked at the curb and a mailcarrier dragging large sacks into the building. Their contents were being dumped on the floor in the middle of the city room, and everyone - publisher included - was slitting envelopes and counting ballots for the official name of the new publication.
"Come on, Qwill!" Junior called out. "Dig in and start counting. Help yourself to coffee and doughnuts."
Hixie said, "The write-ins are the best. Here's one for The Moose County Claptrap."
By noon there were a few scattered votes for Chronicle, Clarion and Caucus, but 80 percent of the readers wanted to retain the flag used on the first issue: The Moose County Something.
"At least it's different," Riker acknowledged reluctantly.
"People around here like to be different," Junior explained. "My next-door neighbor hangs his Christmas tree upside down from the ceiling, and there's a restaurant in Brrr that charges a nickel for a paper napkin."
Roger said, "I know a farmer in Wildcat who doesn't believe in daylight saving time. He refuses to move his clock ahead, so he's an hour late for everything all summer."
"Okay, how about this one?" Hixie said. "I sold an ad to a little old lady in Smith's Folly who sells candy, cigarettes, and pornographic magazines, and she mentioned the Fitch funeral. She said she'd never been to a funeral. She said all her family were buried in the backyard without any fuss."
Riker said, "I don't believe a word of this nonsense."
"In Moose County I'll believe anything," Qwilleran said, "but Hixie is exaggerating about the magazines. I've been in that shop."
"It's true!" she insisted. "The racy stuff is behind a curtain."
"Okay, you loafers, back to work," Riker ordered. "Here comes the mailgirl with another sack."
Qwilleran wanted to leave, until he heard they were sending out for deli sandwiches. "What news on the police beat?" he asked Roger.
"The investigation continues. That's all they'll say." "That's all they ever say. Have you had any tips that they're closing in?"
"Well, everyone seems to think it's narrowing down to Chipmunk. That's what people said from the very beginning. You know, I hate to see a town get a reputation like that. When I was teaching, I had some good students from Chipmunk. There are decent working-class families living in those low-rent houses, but a few hoodlums give the town a black eye."
Qwilleran was smoothing his moustache, and Riker noticed the familiar gesture. "If the police can't solve the case, leave it to Qwill," he said with mild sarcasm.
"One thing I've been wondering," Qwilleran said. "Harley's wife never attended rehearsals at the Theatre Club. Didn't like the people, I guess. So why was she going to attend on Tuesday night?" He waited for an opinion, but none was forthcoming. "Did she want to be out of the house? Did she know what was going to happen?"
"Wow!" said Junior. "That's a pretty radical idea."
"We don't know what connections she might have had in Chipmunk. She might have collaborated in a plot to burglarize the house."
Roger said, "Her maiden name was Urkle, and they're not a bad family. Belle wasn't a good student; in fact, she dropped out. But she wasn't a bad girl."
"Go ahead, Qwill. What's your theory?"
"Let's say she supplied a key to the house and told her accomplices where to look for loot. But the timing was off, because David and Jill were delayed. When her confederates arrived, they were confronted by Harley.
Maybe he recognized them, or maybe they were just trigger-happy and afraid he would identify them, so they killed him. Then Belle had to be silenced because she knew who had murdered her husband, and they feared she might crack under questioning."
"Wow!" said the young managing editor. "How many do you think were involved in the break-in?" Roger asked. "Everyone refers to murderers, plural."
"In any conspiracy, the fewer the better. I would say there was one to stand look-out in their vehicle, and another for the inside work. Being alone, he might have been overpowered by Harley, so he had to shoot... I get a sad picture of poor little Belle Urkle in her so-called rehearsal clothes, waiting upstairs, realizing the plot has failed, playing a scene she never rehearsed."
"Shall we have soft music in the background?" Hixie suggested.
"She hears the shot downstairs. She's terrified, not knowing what will happen next. She hears the killer coming up the stairs..."
"You'd better go back to writing your novel, Qwill," said Riker.
Then Roger said, "One of the cops told me something interesting today - off the record, of course. In determining the time of death, they decided that Belle was shot first."