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"... who keeps a deadly weapon next to his toothbrush."

"Well, I have a handgun, too, After all, I live alone, and in summer all those batty tourists come up here."

Speaking of handguns," he said, "I was having dinner at the Old Stone Mill when we heard that Nigel had shot himself, and one of the waitresses reacted very emotionally. I hear she's an art student. Her name is Sally."

Yes, Sally Stebbins. She received a scholarship from the Fitch family, and I imagine she felt the loss deeply."

How did she rate a scholarship? Is she a good artist?"

"She shows promise," Mildred said. "Fortunately her father works at the bank, and Nigel has always taken a paternal interest in employees and their families." She regarded him sharply. "I hope you're not resurrecting the old gossip."

"Is it worth resurrecting?"

"Well, I may as well tell you, because you'll dig until you find out anyway. There was a rumor that Nigel was Sally's real father, but it was a despicable lie. Nigel's integrity has always been beyond reproach. He and Margaret - were simply wonderful people."

Qwilleran gazed at her intently and fingered his moustache. Did she believe what she was saying? Was it the truth? What could anyone believe in this northern backwoods where gossip was the major industry? He asked her, "What was your reaction to the car-train accident?"

Mildred shook her head sadly. "I regret the loss of human life, but it seems like poetic justice if they're the ones who killed Harley and Belle. Roger says the police haven't found the jewels. Did you know some valuable pieces are missing? They're hushing it up, but Roger has a friend in the sheriff's office."

The waitress in the miniskirt announced the pie of the day: strawberry. It proved to be made with whole berries and real whipped cream, and Qwilleran and his guest devoured it in enraptured silence. Then Mildred inquired about the Siamese.

"Koko's okay," he said, "but I had to take Yum Yum to the vet. I phoned him about her problem, and he told me to bring her in with a urine sample."

"Interesting! How did you manage that?"

"Not with a paper cup! I had to buy a special kit - a minuscule sponge and some tiny tweezers - and then sit in the cats' apartment for five hours, waiting for Yum Yum to cooperate. When the mission was finally accomplished I took her to the clinic with the sponge in a plastic bag the size of a Ritz cracker. I felt like a fool!"

"How did Yum Yum feel?"

"Hell hath no fury like a female Siamese who hates the vet. As soon as she saw the cold, steel table, the fur began to fly. Cat hairs everywhere! Like a snowstorm! She was probed and poked and squeezed and stuck with a thermometer. The vet was murmuring soothing words, and she was howling and struggling and snapping her jaws like a crocodile."

"Did he find anything wrong?"

"He said it's all psychological. She's objecting to something in her life-style or environment, and I don't think it's the new wallpaper. In my opinion she's jealous of the interior designer."

"Really?" said Mildred. "How does Koko react to the designer?"

"He ignores her. He's too busy sniffing glue."

Over the coffee Mildred said, "Confidentially, Qwill, is Roger doing all right at the paper?"

"He's doing fine. He has a history teacher's nose for accurate facts, and he writes well."

"I worried about his giving up a good teaching position - with a new baby in the family and Sharon not working. But I guess his generation is more daring than ours."

"Speak for yourself, Mildred. I, for one, like to make daring decisions."

"Have you decided to get married again?" she asked hopefully.

"Not that daring!"

After she said good night, adding that she wanted to be home before dark, Qwilleran moved to a stool at the bar. He had been there before, and Gary Pratt remembered his drink: Squunk water with a dash of bitters and a slice of lemon.

"How do you explain your policy on paper napkins?" Qwilleran asked him.

"Everything costs money," Gary said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. "The bank stopped giving me free checks, and the gas station stopped giving me free air. Why should I give them free napkins?"

"I admire your logic, Gary."

"The thing of it is, when I kept the dispensers full of napkins they were always disappearing. My customers used them to blow their nose, clean their windshield, and God knows what else."

"You've convinced me! Here's my nickel. I'll take a napkin," Qwilleran said. He nodded toward the mounted bear at the entrance. "I see you've employed a new bouncer."

"That's Wally Toddwhistle's work. He's the best in the business."

"I'm interviewing Wally tomorrow for the paper."

"Mention the Black Bear Caf‚, will you?" Gary said. "Give us a plug. Tell them the hotel is over a hundred years old, with the original bar." He ran a towel over its scarred surface with affection. "My old man let the place run down, but I'm fixing it up. Not too fancy, you know. We get a lot of boaters, and they like the beat-up look."

Qwilleran glanced around the room and noticed boaters with striped jerseys and tanned faces, farmers in feed caps, men and women in business suits, and elderly folks with white hair and hearing aids. All were eating boozeburgers and strawberry pie and looking happy - with one exception. A sandy-haired man seated a few stools down the bar was drinking alone, hunched over his beer in a posture of dejection. Qwilleran noticed he was wearing expensive-looking casual clothes and a star sapphire on his little finger.

"How long has the big sign been on the roof?" Qwilleran asked Gary.

"Since 1900, as far as I can trace it. It's visible from the lake. In fact, if sailors line up the steeple of the Brrr church with the Z in 'Booze,' it'll guide 'em straight through the channel west of the breakwall." He filled an order for the barmaid and returned to Qwilleran. "Some folks in town object to 'Booze' in such big letters, but, the way I see it, it's a friendly word. Boozing means sitting around, talking and taking it easy while you sip a drink. It goes back to the fourteenth century, only it was spelled b-o-u-s-e in those days. I looked it up."

Gary had professional aplomb. His black eyes roamed about the caf‚ constantly, all the while he talked and worked. He would pour a shot of whiskey, greet a newcomer, ring up a tab, nudge a boisterous customer on the shoulder, wipe the bar, mix a tray of martinis for the barmaid, draw a pitcher of beer, caution a masher, wipe the bar again.

"The thing of it is," he explained to Qwilleran, "Brrr is a harbor of refuge for boats, the only one this side of the lake. I want the caf‚ to be a place where everyone can come and feel comfortable and at home." "I understand you're a sailor yourself."

"I've got a catamaran. She's been in a few races. I used to sail with Harley Fitch, but those days are over. Too bad! Harley and David used to come in here a lot, and we'd talk boats. Not David so much; he's a golf nut. Shoots in the low seventies. Ever see Harley's model ships?"

"No, but I've heard about them. Pretty good, I guess."

"I tried to buy one of his America's Cup racers for the cafe, but he wouldn't part with it. The thing of it is, he was getting kind of funny toward the end."

"How do you mean - funny?"

"There was his marriage, for one thing. That was all wrong. But there were other things. When he went to work for the bank, I tried to get a loan to improve this place. If I'm gonna rent the rooms, I gotta put in an elevator and bring everything up to code. All that takes money - a lot of money. His father was president of the bank, you know, and I thought we were good friends and could work out a deal."

The barkeeper moved away to refill a glass. When he returned, Qwilleran said, "Did the loan go through?"

Gary shook his shaggy black hair. "No dice. I was really teed off about that, and I gave it to him straight from the shoulder. We had a row, and he never came in here again... I didn't care. The thing of it is, he was never the same after he came home."