"Great story!" Qwilleran said. "Is there a sequel? What happened to Hilda?"
"Well, for her own protection the county put her in a foster home, and she had to surrender her hedge clippers. The whole town breathed a lot easier."
"How long had they tolerated her threats?"
"For years! People were long- suffering in those days. They were used to the hardships of pioneer living. Their motto was: Shut up and make do! Is life better in the Electronic Age, Qwill? Sometimes I think I was born too late. My mother lives Down Below, and one night she had dinner in a neighborhood restaurant. The computer was down, and not a single employee could add up a dinner check! Geez! I'm only thirty-five, but I feel like a dinosaur because I can add and subtract."
"Don't lose the skill," Qwilleran advised. "Computers may not be here to stay."
"Let's go back in the bar and get something to drink. I'm dry," Gary suggested. "And I want to ask you about something." He poured coffee for Qwilleran and beer for himself, and then said, " A guy came in here a couple of weeks ago and said he was a restoration consultant from Down Below, doing a lot of work in Pickax. He said this hotel could be a gold mine if I restored it and got it on the National Register, but it would have to be authentic. Well, the thing of it is: My customers like it the way it is - grungy! However, I just told him I couldn't afford it."
"What kind of money was he talking about?' Qwilleran asked.
"Twenty thousand up front for his services, plus whatever the contractor would charge for doing the work. Do you know anything about this guy?"
"Carter Lee James. Willard Carmichael spoke highly of him. He's doing over Pleasant Street as a historic neighborhood - or that's what the plans are."
"How come I haven't read anything in the paper?"
"The project is only now getting under way. He didn't want any premature publicity."
"He's a nice guy, very friendly and down to earth. He had his assistant with him, and she was a real babe."
Qwilleran said, "She's his cousin, and she's Willard's widow."
"Oh... yeah...yeah. Too bad about Willard. I met him at the Boosters Club. He was all excited about the Ice Festival. You say they're cousins? I bought them a drink when they were here, and they sat in that corner booth. They didn't act like cousins, if you know what I mean."
"She flirts with everyone," Qwilleran said. "She'd flirt with John Wayne's horse!" Then he asked Gary what he thought about Lenny Inchpot's arrest.
"They're nuts! He's about as guilty as you and me! I know Lenny. He belongs to the Pedal Club. Won the silver in the Labor Day race!"
"I'm sure he'll get off. G. Allen Barter is taking his case. Then what? One wonders if the police have any other leads."
Driving home, Qwilleran realized how much he missed his late-night get- togethers with Chief Brodie at the apple barn, when suspicions were aired and official secrets were leaked over Scotch and Squunk water.
Even before he unlocked the his front door, he knew there was a message on the answering machine. Koko was announcing the fact with yowls and body-bumps against the door panels. Given the condo's quality of construction, it was doubtful how much battering the door could take.
The message was from Celia Robinson, requesting him to call her at the clubhouse before five-thirty, her quitting time. She had a little treat for him and the cats and would drop it off on the way home.
He phoned immediately. "Visitors bearing treats are always welcome. Do you know where we are? Building Five on River Lane. Park in the driveway of Unit Four."
At five-thirty her bright red car pulled in, looking brighter and redder against the maze of snowbanks.
Always jolly, she greeted Qwilleran in a flurry of contagious happiness. "Here's some goat cheese, a thank-you for steering me to this wonderful job! I only wish it were permanent... Hello, kitties!...I saw your picture on the front page and cut it out. I'm going to frame it. I bought an extra copy to send to Clayton." She walked into the living room and flopped into the deep cushions of the sofa, facing the frozen riverbank. "This is a lot smaller than the barn, but you've got more of a view. And some new furniture! I never saw a coffee table like this!"
"It's an old pine woodbox that had four or five coats of paint. Fran Brodie stripped it down to the wood and waxed it."
"Some people are so clever! It sure is pretty. What do you keep inside?'
"Old magazines. Would you like a hug of hot cider, Celia?"
"No thanks. I have to go home and cook. Mr. O'Dell is coming to supper. Clayton thinks we should get married. What do you think, Chief?"
"Never mind what I think," Qwilleran said. "What does Mr. O'Dell think? Has he been consulted?"
Celia screamed with laughter. "He hasn't said anything, but I know he's interested. He has a house. I'd hate to leave my apartment. It's so central."
"What are your priorities, Celia? Love or location?"
She laughed again, uproariously. "I might have known you'd say that!... Well, what I want to tell you: I've found a home for the little black dog that Clayton liked. He couldn't take it home; it would only make trouble with his stepmother. What's the dog's name?"
"Cody. A female schnauzer. Who wants to adopt her?"
"A nice young man form the Split Rail Goat Farm. He came to the clubhouse today to give a talk to the Daffy Diggers - that's a garden club."
"I know Mitch Ogilvie very well," Qwilleran said. "Also his partner, Kristi. Cody will be happy with them."
Confidentially Celia said, "They're thinking of getting married. I hope they do. He's such a nice young man!"
"Are you implying that all nice young men make good husbands? I'm a nice middle-aged man, but you don't see me galloping down the aisle."
"Oh, lawsy!" She laughed. "I put my foot in it again! Anyway, Mr. Ogilvie said he'd give what's-her-name a good home."
"Good! I'll pick up what's-her-name and deliver her to the farm." As the wordplay sent her into a spasm of hilarity, he added, "Now tell me about your job, Celia."
"Well, I collect members' dues and schedule parties and help the caterers and supervise the janitors."
"Has there been any talk about Lenny Inchpot?"
"Plenty! Nobody thinks he's guilty, except for one man who thinks Lenny cracked up after his girlfriend was killed in the explosion. Is there anything I can do about the Lenny case, Chief?" Being an avid reader of detective and espionage fiction, Celia relished her role as secret agent.
"Just keep your eyes and ears open," Qwilleran suggested. "Bear in mind that Lenny may have been framed, and the person who stole the bridge club's money may have rigged Lenny's locker. Who's the man who said he'd cracked up?"
"I don't know. He's around a lot. Want me to find out who he is?'
"Yes. Do that. As soon as possible."
"Okay, Chief. And now I've really got to go home and cook. We're having spaghetti."
Qwilleran politely averted his eyes as she struggled to get out of the deep sofa.
When he went to the MacMurchie house the next morning, he was met at the door by a smiling Scot and a bouncing schnauzer, yipping for joy. Her travel luggage was assembled in the foyer: a carton contained her comb and brush, leashes, dishes, a supply of dried food, a blanket, and some old socks. MacMurchie said, "The food is a combination of rice and lamb that she seems to prefer, but she also likes popcorn and bananas. The horse blanket is her bed. The socks are her toys, knotted together in pairs. On TV she likes National Geographic programs and dog-food commercials."