Qwilleran mumbled something about wanting to write a column on the shop. "Do you know when it's open? There's no listing in the phone book."
"It's open when he feels like it. Saturday afternoon would be the safest."
"See you Sunday," he said. "I have two friends here who are looking forward to your pot roast."
Driving up to the lakeshore he recalled buying the gunboat print from the fraudulent Captain Phlogg. The living room needed a large picture over the sofa, and the two-by-three-foot print was the best he could find for the money. The captain's asking price was twenty-five dollars, but Qwilleran had talked him down to five, including frame.
The shop occupied an old building that was ready to collapse. Both the fire department and the board of health wanted it condemned, but local history buffs declared it a historic site, and the chamber of commerce considered it a tourist attraction. After all, "the worst antique shop in the state" was a distinction of sorts. Collectors came from miles away to visit the crooked little shop run by a crooked little sea captain. Only a town like Mooseville would take pride in an establishment famous for infamy.
Qwilleran arrived at noon on Saturday, hoping for a chance to talk with Captain Phlogg before customers started dropping in, but it was 1:30 before the proprietor approached the premises with unsteady gait and unlocked the door with shaking hand.
The interior reeked of mildew, stale tobacco, and whiskey. A lightbulb dangling from a cord illuminated : to the collection of dusty, broken, tarnished, water-stained, dirt-encrusted artifacts of marine provenance. Captain the Phlogg himself - with his ancient pipe and stubble of beard and battered naval cap - blended into the mess.
Qwilleran showed him the gunboat. "Do you remember this?"
"Nope. Never see'd it afore."
"You sold it to me last summer."
"Nope, it never come from here." The captain had an all-sales-final, no-money-back policy that caused him to disclaim everything he had ever sold.
Qwilleran said, "You sold it to me for five dollars, and I've just found out it's worth hundreds. I thought you'd like to know." Qwilleran enjoyed fighting falsity with falsity.
The captain took the foul-smelling pipe from his mouth. "Lemme look at it... Give ye ten for it."
"I wouldn't part with it. It's one of two very rare prints, according to art historians. The other is in the Cyrus Fitch collection. Does that name ring a bell?"
"Never heard of it."
"It's in West Middle Hummock. There was a murder there, week before last. A young sailor named Harley Fitch."
"Never heard of 'im."
"His boat was the Fitch Witch."
"Never heard of it."
"He docked around here and hung out at the Shipwreck Tavern."
"Never go there."
"He also built model ships."
"Never heard of 'em."
"Do you know a sailor by the name of Gary Pratt in Brrr?"
"Nope."
"If the model ships come on the market, would you be interested in buying any of them?"
"How much he want?"
"I don't know. He's dead. But the estate might be willing to sell."
"Give 'em ten apiece."
"Is that a firm offer?"
"Take it or leave it be." The captain poured an amber liquid from a flask into a mug and took a swig. Qwilleran departed with his gunboat picture, grumbling at Koko for giving him a false clue. It never occurred to him that he might have misinterpreted Koko's maneuver.
-Scene Six-
Place: The Goodwinter Farmhouse
Museum
Time: Sunday evening
Introducing: IRIS COBB, resident
manager of the Museum
QWILLERAN carried a wicker picnic hamper into the cats' apartment. "All aboard for the Goodwinter Museum!" he announced. The Siamese, who had been sunning drowsily on a windowsill, raised their heads-Koko with anticipation, Yum Yum with apprehension. While the male hopped eagerly into the hamper, the female - suspecting another visit to the clinic - raced around the room faster than the eye could see. Qwilleran intercepted her in midair, dropped her into the travel coop and closed the lid.
Koko scolded her with macho authority and she hissed with feminist spunk as Qwilleran carried the hamper downstairs to the energy-efficient two-door that served his transportation needs. He also transferred the cats' commodes to the car. They now had a matched pair of oval roasting pans with the handles sawed off to fit the floor of the back seat.
It was a half-hour drive to the museum in North Middle Hummock - out Ittibittiwassee Road and across the Old Plank Bridge, then past the Hanging Tree, where a wealthy man once dangled from a rope. Beyond were prosperous farms and country estates. At the end of a lane lined with maple trees stood the rambling farmhouse, sided with cedar shakes that had long ago weathered to a silvery gray. Qwilleran had visited the house before, when it was occupied by the socially prominent Mrs. Goodwinter. Now the property of the Historical Society, it had been restored to the way it looked one hundred years before.
He drove to the west wing and unloaded the two roasting pans. "Where shall I put these?" he asked without ceremony when his former housekeeper greeted him at the door.
"Oh, you have two litterpans now!" she said in surprise.
"A new arrangement - at the request of our Siamese princess."
"Put the pans in the bathroom," she said. "I put a bowl of water in there and a placemat for their dinner. They always loved my pot roast."
"Who didn't?" Qwilleran said over his shoulder as he returned to the car for the hamper. When he opened the lid two necks stretched upward and two heads swiveled to survey the scene. Then the cats emerged cautiously and began a systematic exploration of the resident manager's apartment.
With these important matters concluded, Qwilleran observed the amenities. "You're looking very well," he told his hostess. "'Your new responsibilities agree with you."
Her cheerful face, framed by a ruffled pink blouse, was radiant as she peered through the thick lenses of pink-rimmed glasses. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Q!"
"How are your eyes, Mrs. Cobb?"
"No worse, thank heaven." She was a plump and pleasant woman, overly good-hearted, inclined to be sentimental, and brave in the face of the tragedies that had marked her life.
"How do you feel about living out here alone? Do you have a good security system?"
"Oh, yes, I feel very safe. Our only problem, Mr. Q, is mice. We've been thoroughly inspected by the carpenter, mason, plumber, and electrician, and none of them can figure out how the mice are getting in. There's an ultrasonic thing, but it doesn't discourage them. I've set traps with peanut butter and caught three."
"I hope they haven't done any damage to the museum."
"No, but it's something we worry about... Would you like to look around the apartment while I wash the salad stuff?"
The focus of her living quarters was the country kitchen, where a round oak table and pressed-back chairs were ready for dinner. (Dinner for three, Qwilleran noticed. Nothing had been said about another guest.) There was a small bedroom with an enormous bed - the kind Lincoln would have liked. And there was a parlor with wing-back chairs in front of the fireplace, a rocker in a sunny window, and a large Pennsylvania German wardrobe that had been in the Klingenschoen mansion at one time. Koko soon discovered the sunny window. He even recognized the wardrobe. Yum Yum stayed in the kitchen, however, where the pot roast was putting forth tantalizing aromas.
Mrs. Cobb said, "I invited Polly Duncan because she helped with research for the museum, but she had a previous engagement. So I called Hixie Rice. She's been advising us on publicity, you know. She had a date to go sailing this afternoon, but she'll be here a little later."