Qwilleran thanked him and then followed the official car back down the road. He looked at his watch. "I want to see," he said to Alacoque, "how long it takes to drive from here to the stone house, and exactly when and where it comes into view. I'm wondering how much warning the burglars had - how much time to pack their loot and make a getaway. David and Jill were late in picking up Harley and Belle. They said they had a plumbing emergency. If they had been on schedule, all this might not have happened. Did someone want them to be late? Was the plumbing emergency contrived?"
"I suspect the plumber," Alacoque said. "All plumbers look furtive to me."
The tour continued through Squunk Comers, the lakeside town of Brrr, and Smith's Folly. Then they arrived at the Old Stone Mill, and Alacoque was enchanted by the former gristmill built of stone and nestled in a wooded setting. The old millwheel turned and creaked and shuddered as if it were still supplying power to grind wheat and com. Within the building, timbers and floors were artfully bleached to the color of honey, and pale-oak tables and chairs contributed to the cheerful feeling of well-being.
"Hello, Derek," Qwilleran said to the tall busboy who was filling the water glasses with the air of one who owned the place. "You seem to be busy tonight."
"Friday, you know," Derek explained. "How did the cats like the poached salmon this morning?"
"It was a big hit! They even ate the capers." Turning to his guest Qwilleran said, "This is Derek Cuttlebrink, purveyor of fine foods to Their Majesties, the Siamese, and a member of the Theatre Club."
"Hi!" said the busboy.
"My guest has come all the way from Cincinnati to try your famous poached salmon, Derek."
"I have a cousin in Cincinnati," he said.
"Cincinnati is full of cousins," Alacoque said with a disarming smile.
Qwilleran asked, "Where's my favorite waitress tonight?"
"She quit. We have a new girl at this station. This is her first day. She's pretty nervous, and she's kinda slow, so give her a break."
Eventually a thin, frightened girl presented herself at the table. "I'm S-s-sally, your s-s-server. Today's s-s-specials are clam chowder, oysters Rockefeller, and poached s-s-salmon. Would you like s-s-something from the bar?"
"Yes, Sally," Qwilleran said. "The lady will have Irish whiskey neat, and I'll have Squunk water with a dash of bitters and a slice of lemon."
"S-s-quunk water with... what?"
"A dash of bitters and a slice of lemon."
Alacoque was eager to talk about the theater - the two graceful stairways in the lobby, the rake of the amphitheater, the versatility of the staging area. "How good is your theater group?" she asked.
"A cut above most amateur companies," he said. "It was founded a hundred years ago and named the Pickax Thespians, but the present generation thought it sounded like deviant sex, so it was changed to the Theatre Club. The young man who was killed Tuesday was one of our best actors."
"What were the circumstances?"
"He and his wife were gunned down in their home - the stone house where we encountered the police cars."
"Were they into drugs?"
Qwilleran gave her a frigid glance. "No one is into drugs up here, Alacoque."
"That's what you think. Do they know who killed them?"
"They've been questioning suspects. Robbery was the obvious motive. They say the house is crammed with valuable collectibles, accumulated a couple of generations back. The family has old money, and they're very well liked. Harley and his brother have always been known as cooperative, outgoing guys with a lot of class."
"How about Harley's wife?"
"They'd been married only a short time. I never met her."
"I don't know whether I should repeat this, but... the construction gang said she was a tramp."
"Did they offer any corroborative detail?"
"No, but they all nodded and leered. Why would a man like Harley marry a girl with that reputation?"
"Pertinent question. I've been wondering about that myself."
Her attention was wandering. She said, "There's a woman over there who keeps looking at us. She's with another woman."
"Describe her."
"Middle-aged, intelligent looking, neat hair, pleasant face. Hair slightly gray. Plain gray suit, plain white blouse."
"Size 16? Walking shoes? That's my librarian," he said. "I told her I was having dinner with an architect from out of town, and she assumed you wore a beard and smoked a pipe. I didn't correct her. Now I'm in the doghouse for keeps."
"If you need consoling," Alacoque said, "young, talented, friendly female architect wishes to apply."
Suddenly there was a change of mood in the restaurant. The pleasant hum of diners' voices was interrupted by an excited hubbub in the rear of the room. The doors to and from the kitchen were rapidly swinging in and out. Waitresses were whispering to their customers, who responded with little cries of emotion and shocked exclamations. One waitress dropped a tray on the hardwood floor. It was Sally, who fell to her knees, frantically scooping up cheesecake.
Qwilleran flagged down the busboy. "What's happening here?"
"Sally heard the news and got all shook up, I guess. Lucky it was cheesecake and not soup or something."
"What news?" Qwilleran demanded. "Did you know Harley's mother was in the hospital?"
"Of course I knew that," Qwilleran snapped impatiently.
Derek glanced toward the kitchen. "Our salad girl's mother is a nurse at the hospital. She just phoned and said Mrs. Fitch died."
"Oh, my God," Qwilleran moaned. To Alacoque he explained, "Mrs. Fitch had a massive stroke after her son was murdered."
"Yeah," said Derek. "Her husband was there at the hospital when she died, and he went out to the parking lot and sat in his car and shot himself."
-Scene Twelve-
Place: Editorial offices of The Moose
County Something
Time: Saturday evening
THE READERS had given their mandate. With the publication of the weekend issue, The Moose County Something became the official name of the newspaper, although the decision grated on Arch Riker's better judgment and caused him acute embarrassment. He said, "I always wanted to be an editor in chief, but I never wanted to be editor in chief of something called The Moose County Something! Already I'm getting the raspberry - by mail, phone, and carrier pigeon - from the guys Down Below, and I'm afraid it's only the beginning."
Nevertheless he hosted the victory celebration on Saturday night with gracious hospitality. Desks in the city room were pushed together to serve as a bar and a buffet, and the former was dispensing everything from beer to champagne. Milling around the open bar were editors, reporters, columnists, one part-time photographer drinking enough for three, stringers from outlying towns, office personnel, adpersons, and the circulation crew.
Although exhausted after putting together the first forty-eight-page Something, the staff had managed to produce a weekend issue of thirty-six pages. It had gone to press too soon, however, to cover the deaths of Margaret and Nigel Fitch, and the banner headline on page one read: WILD TURKEYS RETURN TO MOOSE COUNTY.
Kevin Doone, who had been a pallbearer at the funeral of Harley and Belle, was doing justice to the open bar. "I need this," he said to Qwilleran, raising his martini glass. "Carrying that casket was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Harley was my cousin, you know, and a super guy! When Brodie started playing the bagpipe as we were coming down the church steps, I really fell apart! David wanted a piper at the church and the cemetery because Harley always liked that kind of music. God! It sounded mournful! And now Aunt Margaret's gone. And Nigel!... I've got to get a refill."