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."