Kevin dashed away to the bar, and the writer of social news, Susan Exbridge, caught Qwilleran's eye. "Darling, why are we here?" she cried, waving her arms and spilling her drink. Since getting a divorce and joining the Theatre Club she had become overly dramatic. "We should all be at home, privately mourning for Nigel - that beautiful man!"
Qwilleran agreed that the bank president was distinguished looking: tall, straight, perpetually tanned, with polished manners and affable personality. "How could he do it?" he asked Susan.
"He couldn't face life without Margaret," she said. "They were devoted! And, of course, everyone knows that she made him a success. He was a sweet man, but he would have been nothing without Margaret's push. She directed the whole show."
Qwilleran, carrying his glass of ginger ale on the rocks, moved amiably among the convivial drinkers, all complimenting each other on their contributions to the new paper. One of them was Mildred Hanstable, the buxom teacher from the Pickax high school, where she taught art and home economics, directed the senior play, and coached girls' volleyball. Now she was writing the food pages for the Something.
Qwilleran said, "Mildred, I read every word of your cooking columns, even though cubing and dicing and mincing are Greek to me. Everything sounded great, especially the Chinese chrysanthemum soup."
"When are you going to learn to cook, Qwill?"
"Sorry, but I'll never have the aptitude to boil an egg, understand an insurance policy, or file my own tax return."
"I could teach you to boil eggs," she said with her hearty laugh. "I give private lessons!"
Qwilleran's expression changed from genial to doleful. "This was the night there was supposed to be a housewarming party for Harvey and Belle. Tell me something, Mildred. Teachers and cops in small towns know everything about everybody. What do you know about Belle Urkle?"
"Well, I'm sorry to say she dropped out of school. She said she wanted to work for rich people and live in a big house. You could hardly blame her, if you'd seen how people live in Chipmunk. She was a maid in the Fitch house, but I can't understand what motivated Harley to marry her."
"Love? Lust? Biological entrapment?" "But he didn't have to marry her and embarrass the family, did he? As soon as I heard about the murders, I got out the tarot cards and did a couple of readings. There's a deceitful woman involved!"
"Hmmm," Qwilleran said politely. He was skeptical of tarot cards. "May I replenish your drink, Mildred?"
When he returned with her Scotch and his ginger ale, he inquired casually about Harley's scholastic record.
"Both boys were good students-and so talented!" she said. "David did excellent pen-and-ink sketches, and Harley built model ships with exquisite detail. They were both in school plays, and I guess they became quite serious about drama in college. You may not know this, Qwill," she said, stepping closer, "but Harley disappeared for a year!"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Both boys were expected to come home after graduating from Yale - to work in the bank. Harley didn't show up."
At that moment Junior Goodwinter interrupted. "Don't you guys want any food? We've got turkey and corned-beef sandwiches."
"We'll be right there," Qwilleran assured him. "Mildred is divulging some cooking secrets."
"I always put a teaspoon of bitters in my lime pie," she said, picking up her cue, and when Junior moved away she said to Qwilleran, "No one really knows what happened to Harley. The family said he was traveling for a year, but of course there were many rumors."
There was another intrusion. Mildred's son-in-law said, "What are you two subversives plotting?"
"We're helping the police solve the Fitch case," Qwilleran informed him.
"Excuse me," Mildred said, "I'm going to get another drink."
Roger said, "I heard something interesting this afternoon, Qwill. A few hours before Nigel shot himself, he dictated letters of resignation from the bank - for David as well as himself. His suicide was evidently premeditated."
"But why would David have to resign?" Qwilleran asked.
Before Roger could think of an answer, Hixie breezed into their midst with her usual breathless enthusiasm. "You'll never believe what happened this afternoon. I was having my hair done at Delphine's, and a huge deer crashed through the front window. He ran right through the shop and out the back window. Broken glass everywhere! And utter panic!"
Qwilleran looked doubtful. "Do you have this story copyrighted, Hixie?"
"It's true! Ask Delphine! The windows are boarded up now, and a sign says, THE BUCK STOPPED HERE. I can't understand why he didn't gore a couple of customers."
Roger said, "Why don't these things happen on our deadline? All we get is a flock of wild turkeys."
Arch Riker was circulating and playing the genial host. Amanda was there, too, drinking bourbon and scowling and complaining. She was wearing a conspicuous diamond ring on her left hand.
Riker, beaming, took Qwilleran aside. "We're taking the plunge, old sock. She may be cantankerous, but I admire her. She ran a successful business for twenty-five years and served on the city council for the last ten. And she doesn't take guff from anyone!"
"She's a remarkable woman," Qwilleran said.
Amanda stepped forward, frowning. "Who called me a remarkable woman?" She demanded belligerently. "You never hear of a remarkable man! He's successful or intelligent or witty, but if a woman is any of those things, she's 'a remarkable woman' like some kind of female freak."
"I apologize," Qwilleran said. "You're absolutely right, Amanda. It's a lazy cliche, and I'm guilty. You're not a remarkable woman. You're successful and intelligent and witty."
"And you're a liar!" she growled. Riker grinned and dragged her away, confiscating her glass of bourbon.
Qwilleran looked around for Mildred. He wanted to hear the rest of her story about Harley's disappearance, but she' was in earnest conversation with the stringer from Mooseville, so he went to the buffet. While he was eating his second corned-beef sandwich, he spotted Homer Tibbitt, official historian for the Something, leaving the city room. "Homer! Where are you going? The party's only begun!"
"I'm going home. It's 8:30 - past my bedtime," said the ninety-four-year-old retired school principal in a high-pitched reedy voice. "My days keep getting shorter. When I'm a hundred, I'll be going to bed before I get up."
"I just wanted to know how well you knew the Fitch family."
"The Fitches? The boys came along after I retired, but I had Nigel in math and history when I was teaching. I knew Nigel's father, too. Cyrus was a character!"
"Is he the one who built the big house in Middle Hummock?"
"Cyrus? Yes indeed! He was a big spender, a big-game hunter, a big collector, a big bootlegger, a big everything."
"Did you say bootlegger?"
"That was something he did on the side," Homer explained plausibly. "The family money came from mining. Cyrus built his house in West Middle Hummock so he could see the big lake from the top of one of the hills. Rumrunners brought the stuff over from Canada and landed on his beach."
"How did he get away with it?"
"Get away with it? One night he didn't get away with it! The sheriff confiscated the whole shipment and poured it on the dump in Squunk Corners. That's why Squunk water is so good for you!... Well, it's past my bedtime. Good night."
Qwilleran watched the old man making his exit with vigorous maneuvers of angular arms and legs. Then he caught Mildred alone at the bar. "You were telling me something interesting about Harley when we were interrupted," he said.
"Was I?" She paused to think. "I've had a few drinks... Was it about the tarot cards?"
"No, Mildred. It was something about Harley's disappearance after his graduation from Yale."