"Oh!... Yes... He was traveling... That's what the family said... Nobody believed it."
"Why didn't they believe it?"
"Well... you know... people around here... gossipy."
"Where did they think he was?"
"Who?"
"Harley."
"Oh!... Let's see... Ask Roger... I've got to sit down."
Qwilleran guided her to a chair and offered to bring her a sandwich and coffee. "How do you like it?"
"What?"
"The coffee."
"Oh!... Black."
When he returned with the food, someone told him that Mildred had gone to lie down in the staff lounge, so he ate the sandwich himself and sought out her son-in-law. "Better look after Mildred, chum. She's had too much to drink."
"Where is she?"
"Lying down for a while. She was mentioning Harley's mysterious disappearance a couple of years ago. Know anything about that?"
"Oh, sure. The family said he was traveling, but you know how we are up here. We get bored with the truth and have to invent something. Some people thought he was doing undercover work for the government. I thought he shipped out as a deckhand on a tramp steamer. He liked boats, and that's the kind of offbeat thing he'd do - probably grow a beard, wear a patch over one eye and stomp around like Deadeye Dick."
"He married Belle in Las Vegas. Was he a gambler?"
"I've never heard anything to that effect. If he had one consuming passion, it was sailing. The Fitch Witch was a neat boat-twenty-seven feet. He and Gary Pratt used to sail her in races and win trophies."
"Hmmm," Qwilleran said, as suspicion tickled the roots of his moustache. In the last few days-since Harley's murder, to be exact - Koko had taken a sudden interest in things nautical. Several times he had tilted the gunboat picture that hung over the sofa, sometimes violently. And the titles he had started sniffing on the bookshelves were sea stories. First it was Moby-Dick and then Two Years Before the Mast. Most recently it was Mutiny on the Bounty. Qwilleran had explained to himself and others that all cats tilt and sniff; they like to rub a jaw on the sharp comers of picture frames and smell the glue used in bookbinding.
Nevertheless, the nautical connection was a curious coincidence, he thought. And there was another mystifying detaiclass="underline" Koko had been excessively attentive to Harley at the birthday party... less than twenty-four hours before his murder - almost as if he knew something was going to happen.
-Scene Thirteen-
Place: Qwilleran's apartment
Time: Early Monday morning... and
TOO early Tuesday morning
Introducing: PETE PARROTT, a
paperhanger from Brrr
THE PHONE RANG early. It was Francesca. "Is Pete there yet?" she inquired.
"Who?"
"Pete, the paperhanger. He has the wallcovering for your studio, and he's going to deliver it this morning. He can install it today or hold off for a couple of days if you wish."
"The sooner the better," Qwilleran decided. "I'll be needing to use my studio the rest of the week. What's Pete's last name?"
"Parrott. Pete Parrott. He's the one who did your living room when you were out of town. He's the best in the county."
"And the most expensive, I suppose."
"You can afford it," she said, with a flippancy that irritated him. He had always disliked being told what to do with his money, whether he had much or little.
Quickly he started tidying his studio, stuffing papers into desk drawers and removing the debris of bachelor living: two coffee mugs, a tie, waste paper that had missed the basket, a pair of shoes, old newspapers, another coffee mug, a sticky plate, a sweater. He also locked up the cats in their apartment despite their vociferous objections; the busboy had not yet delivered their breakfast.
Then Qwilleran sat down to listen for the doorbell. When it finally rang at 9 A.M., it ushered in Derek Cuttlebrink, delivering chicken liver pate and two boned frog-legs for the howling Siamese. The busboy was in no hurry to return to his place of employment; he wanted to talk about the Theatre Club.
"Too bad they canceled the show just because Harley wasn't in it any more," he said. "I had a pretty good part-the policeman, you know. I even had my cop's uniform fitted. They had to lengthen the pants and sleeves."
"There'll be another play in the fall, and you can audition again," Qwilleran informed him.
"I'm thinking of going back to school in the fall and getting into law enforcement. It's a whole lot better than stacking dirty dishes. Wearing a uniform and riding around in a car all day - that's for me!"
"There's more to police work than wearing a uniform and riding around in a car, Derek, but it would be a good idea to complete your education in any event. By the way, how's our nervous waitress who dropped the tray of cheesecake Friday night?"
"Sally? She's okay. She's getting the hang of the job. But she's going to school in the fall - art school - somewhere Down Below. I wish I had her luck. Her tuition's all paid for - by Mr. Fitch."
"Harley Fitch?" Qwilleran asked with sudden interest.
"No, his father. That's why she was all shook up when he shot himself, although she's already got the money."
In his mind Qwilleran was matching up the suave, sophisticated, handsome banker with the timid, scrawny, stuttering waitress, and trying to imagine some kind of illicit connection.
As if reading his mind, the busboy explained, "Sally's dad is janitor at the bank."
"That's a unique fringe benefit," Qwilleran said. "Perhaps you should consider being a janitor instead of a cop." At 10 A.M. the paperhanger had still not arrived..
..
Eleven o'clock... One o'clock... Not until 2:30 did the white commercial van pull up to the carriage house. The driver was a burly young man in white coveralls and white visored cap, with thick blond hair bushing out beneath it. Healthy-looking young men with blond hair were in good supply in this north country.
"Sorry I'm late," he shouted from the bottom of the stairs. "Something came up, and I had to take care of it."
"I wish you had phoned."
"Tell the truth, I didn't even think of it. I was sort of messed up in an emergency."
At least he's honest, Qwilleran thought, and he has an honest face.
"Well, I'd better bring up my gear," he said. The Siamese, released from their apartment hours before, watched with interest as stepladders, a folding table, buckets, and boxes of tools came up the stairs.
Qwilleran said, "I was out of town when you papered the walls in the living room. You did a first-rate job."
"Yeah, I do good work."
"How long will it take you to do my studio?"
Pete appraised the room with a brief, professional glance. "Not long. Just short strips above the dado, and the plaster's in good shape. A little touch-up with spackle.
Pete wielded yardsticks, shears, knives, brushes, and rollers with swift assurance.
"You seem to know what you're doing," Qwilleran said in admiration. "I'm a confirmed don't-do-it-yourselfer."
"Been hanging wallpaper since I was fourteen," said Pete. "I papered some of the best houses in the county. Never had a complaint."
"That's a good track record. Did you ever paper the Fitch mansion in the Hummocks?"
Pete stopped abruptly and laid down his shears. The expression on his face was difficult to interpret. "Yeah, I been there, three or four times."
"That was a shocking incident Tuesday night."
"Yeah." Qwilleran noticed that he gulped.
"The police haven't made any arrests, but I understand they're questioning suspects."
"Yeah, they're doing their job." Pete went back to work but not as energetically as before.
"I've never seen the Fitch house," Qwilleran said. "What kind of wallpaper did they like?"