"Raw silk-very plain. I hung a lot of raw silk when Mr. and Mrs. Fitch lived there. Then they moved to Indian Village and wanted the same thing in their condo. They're got some spread!"
"Did you do any work for Harley and his wife when they moved in?"
"Yeah, I did the breakfast room in a crazy pattern with pink elephants. She liked everything jazzy. I did their bedroom, too- all red velvet."
"Would you like a cup of coffee or a cold drink or beer?" Qwilleran asked.
"I wouldn't mind something to drink. Coffee, I guess. Gotta stay sober on this job, even if it isn't all stripes."
Qwilleran thawed some frozen coffee cake in the microwave, pressed buttons on the computerized coffeemaker, and served the repast in the studio, among the ladders and paste buckets. Pete sat on the floor with the plate between his legs. Koko watched him with whiskers curled forward and then applied his nose to the man's shoes and pantlegs with the concentration of a bloodhound on a hot scent.
"Shove him away," said Qwilleran, who was also sitting on the floor with his coffee.
"He's okay. I like animals. This is good coffee cake."
" A friend of mine made it. Iris Cobb. She manages the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum."
"Yeah, I know her. I did some work for the museum. She's a good cook. I gained about ten pounds before the job was done.'"
"I wonder if they'll make the Fitch mansion into a museum now," said Qwilleran, edging back into the topic that interested him. "I doubt whether David Fitch wants to live there."
"Yeah, he has that crazy house up on the hill. I can't figure it out, but I guess they like it. They don't go in for wallpaper."
"Harley will be missed at the Theatre Club. He was a good actor and always high-spirited. I never met his wife. What was she like?"
Pete shook his head slowly in silent awe. "She had everything!" When Qwilleran registered surprise, he added, "She used to be my girl." There was another gulp.
Qwilleran waited for details, but none was forthcoming, so he said, "You knew her for quite a while?"
"Ever since she went to work for the Fitches - housework, you know. She lived there at the house. That's when I was I hanging the raw silk."
"Then you have a personal reason to resent this crime."
"Yeah," he said moodily.
"Why did you let her get away?"
"She didn't want a paperhanger, although I make good money. She wanted a rich man-someone to take her to Vegas and Hawaii and places like that. Well, she got him, but it didn't do her any good."
"A damn shame, Pete."
"Yeah, I really went for that girl." He turned an unabashed face to Qwilleran. "The reason I was late today - the police wanted to ask some questions."
"I'm sure they're questioning everyone who knew Belle. That's the way it's done."
"Yeah, but I guess they thought I had reasons for... killing them both."
After the work was finished and Pete had cleared out his ladders and buckets, it was late. Qwilleran had no desire to go out to a restaurant, so he thawed some frozen stew for himself and gave the cats the rest of their chicken liver pate. Yum Yum nibbled it daintily, but Koko lacked appetite. He prowled the living room nervously, as if a storm might be brewing, although nothing but fine weather was predicted.
"You liked the paperhanger, didn't you?" Qwilleran said to him, "and I think he liked you. He seems like a decent guy. I hope the police don't find a way to pin something on him."
Qwilleran was restless, too. He tuned in and rejected I four out-of-county radio stations before settling on WPKX for the local news:
A North Kennebeck motorist driving west on Ittibittiwassee Road narrowly escaped injury when a vehicle behind him, which had been speeding and weaving across the yellow line, passed recklessly, forcing him off the pavement. Following this and other similar incidents, the sheriff's department has announced a new war on drunk driving... In other news: Pickax will have posies this summer. Fifty flower boxes on Main Street have been planted with petunias... Sports news at this hour: The Pickax Miners beat the Brrr Eskimos in softball tonight, eight to three.
Next Qwilleran tried the out-of-town newspapers, but even the Daily Fluxion and Morning Rampage failed to capture his attention. He made a cup of coffee and drank only half of it. He wanted to phone Polly but was reluctant to do so; he would have to explain the female architect.
In desperation he pulled Moby-Dick off the shelf - a book he had not read since college days - and the first three words grabbed his attention: "Call me Ishmael." Halfway through the first paragraph he settled down with enjoyment. This was the kind of literature that he and Polly used to read aloud during lazy weekends in the country. He was still reading when the 2:30 A.M. freight train sounded its mournful whistle on the north side of town. The Siamese had long since fallen asleep.
And he was still reading when a succession of sirens screamed up Main Street. It sounded like three police cars and two ambulances. A major accident, he told himself. Another drunk driver leaving a bar at closing time. Reluctantly he closed the book and turned out the lights.
Qwilleran slept well that night and dreamed richly. He was embarking on a whaling voyage... seeing the watery part of the world... a sailor aloft in the masthead jumping from spar to spar like a grasshopper. He was not ready to give up his dreaming when the telephone jolted him awake.
"Qwill, have you heard the news on the radio?" It was Francesca. She and her father had a habit of phoning at an unreasonable hour.
"No," he mumbled. "What time is it?"
"Seven-thirty. There was a car-train accident last night."
"Did you wake me up to tell me that?"
"Wake up, Qwill, and listen to me. Three youths were killed when they rammed their car into the side of a moving freight train."
Qwilleran grunted. "Someone's going to get sued if they don't do something about those dark crossings: no street lights; no red Warning lights; no barricades." He was fully awake now. "Kids get a few beers, drive seventy in a forty-five-mile zone, with the radio blasting so they can't hear the train whistle. What does anyone expect?"
"Please, no soliloquy, Qwill. I called to tell you that the victims were three teenagers from Chipmunk, and one of them was Chad Lanspeak!"
Qwilleran was silent as he sorted out his reactions and groped for words.
"I know it's going to be rough on Carol and Larry," Fran went on, "but here's the significance of the accident. Dad says it winds up the Fitch case! The other two kids were the prime suspects!"
Still he said nothing. "Qwill, have you gone back to sleep?"
"Sorry, Fran, I haven't had my coffee yet. I'll have to think about this for a while. We'll talk about it later."
He replaced the phone gently and touched his moustache almost reverently. It was tingling as it did in moments of intuitive premonition. It was telling him that the car-train accident, no matter what others might say, had no bearing on the investigation of the Fitch murders.
INTERMISSION
FOLLOWING THE DEATH of the prime suspects, the concerned citizens of Moose County were noticeably relieved. It was over! Everyone knew the homicide detective had returned to his headquarters in the state capital.
Furthermore, it was June, and they had weddings, graduations, parades, fireworks, picnics, family reunions, and camping trips to think about. Conversation in the coffee shops returned to normaclass="underline" the weather, fishing conditions off Purple Point, and the selection of a beauty queen for the Fishhook Festival in Mooseville.
Qwilleran alone failed to share their relief. The state detective, he told himself, had left town to catch the real criminals off-guard. It might take time, but someone, somewhere, would be deluded into a false sense of security. Someone would return to the scene of the crime. Someone would talk too freely in a bar. Someone would inform the police.