After poached salmon with leek sauce for her and pork tenderloin with black currants for him, they returned to Indian Village in time to receive Lynette's phone call.
"We were wondering about you," Polly said, signaling to Qwilleran to pick up the balcony phone. "What have you been doing today?"
Lynette sounded tired. "We went to the parades on Canal Street. You'd never believe the floats, music, costumes, and masks! They throw strings of beads from the floats into the crowd. Then there's the partying in the streets - jostling, screaming, drinking, and goodness knows what else! Some people take their clothes off! It's wild!"
Qwilleran asked, "Are you still doing justice to the food?"
"Oh, hello, Qwill. Well, my tummy doesn't feel too good today; that Cajun stuff is awfully spicy. Carter Lee's gone out to buy some kind of remedy."
"Be careful with shellfish," Polly admonished. "You know how you sometimes react."
With a noticeable sigh, Lynette said, "Three more days of Carnival, then everything stops and we go home. I'll be glad to see Pickax again."
Afterward Polly said to Qwilleran, "It's overindulgence that's disagreeing with her."
"Or overexcitement," he said. "Going from Moose County to Mardi Gras in a few air hours is like taking a few thousand volts of electricity."
All together it was a successful weekend of reading aloud at her place, listening to music at his place, arguing about Jane Austen, doing all the things they enjoyed. Through it all Brutus behaved like a noble Roman. "See? I told you so!" That was what Qwilleran wanted to say, but he held his tongue. Even the breakfast omelette was made with real eggs and real cheese; no substitutes.
It was late Sunday afternoon when Qwilleran finally returned to Unit Four. Yum Yum was happily engaged with a crocheted mouse from the toy drawer, but Koko was nervous and unfocused. He prowled aimlessly, sniffed numerous invisible spots, jumped on and off the coffee table, peered at the ceiling.
"If you're looking for Mosca, he doesn't live here any more," Qwilleran told him. "You can't eat your cake and have it, too."
Whatever was bothering the cat was bothering him as well. All the concerns suppressed during the last twenty-four hours were resurfacing. Dejectedly he sprawled in his big chair and listened to the rain - more rain! - pattering on the deck and splashing on the windows. Indoors there was only the sound of Yum Yum scurrying after her prey and Koko murmuring to himself. Now he was on the coffee table, examining the leather-bound scrapbook; he was a fiend for leather!
On an impulse, Qwilleran leaped out of his chair and went to the telephone to look up a number. She lived in the Village. She had opinions. She was hard-headed and I not afraid to speak her mind. Sometimes she could be a little crazy. She was perfect! He knew she would be home. She was not one to go splashing around flooded highways except for financial gain, and this was Sunday.
The throaty voice that answered had an added note of impatience. "Yes? Now what, dammit."
In his most mellifluous tone he said, "Amanda, this is one of your admiring constituents and a frequent customer of your studio."
"Oh! It's you! You scoundrel!" she said. "I thought it was the city attorney again. He's been calling me all day. There's a class-action suit against Pickax on account of the flooding. The stupid voters keep voting down millage to improve the storm sewers, but they forget that when it rains. Arrrgh!"
"You have my sympathy, Amanda. It's generous of you to keep serving on the council as you do." What he thought was: You keep running for re-election because it's good for your design business.
"So what's your complaint?"
"No complaint. Only a request for three minutes of your valuable time. Do you mind if I drive over? And would you be offended if I brought a pint of very fine brandy?"
A few minutes later she admitted him to her condo, which was piled to the ceiling with furnishings from the old Goodwinter mansion.
"Be my valentine!" he said, handing her a bottle tied with red streamers from Celia's package. She would never notice that they were punctured with fang marks.
"Pretty good stuff," she said, looking at the label. "Sure you can afford it?... Sit down, if you can find a place. Throw those magazines on the floor. Care for a drink?"
"Not this time, thanks. I just want you to look at this scrapbook."
She accepted it questioningly and scowled at the color photos. "Is this your new hobby? Cutting out pictures from magazines?"
"What you're looking at," he replied, "is the portfolio Carter Lee James shows to prospective clients. I borrowed it without his knowledge."
"Does he pretend he did all these restoration jobs?"
"Clients get the impression that he did."
"Well, I get the impression he's a royal fakeroo! You notice they're not identified - who or where - and look at this one! A Queen Anne Victorian. It was done by a friend of mine down south, and her name isn't Carter Lee James! I've been in this house! I recognize the gasolier, the stencils on the ceiling, the parlor set! Why, I even know the bear rug in front of the fireplace!"
Qwilleran was aware she had resented Carter Lee from the beginning. "Have you done any business as a result of his recommendations, Amanda?"
"Not a penny! Two council members live on Pleasant Street. They've each paid him twenty thousand up front. How come my clients never pay me up front?"
"He's a professional charmer. You should try being more sweet-natured."
"Arrrgh! I noticed there hasn't been any publicity on Pleasant Street in your paper. How d'you explain that?"
"He doesn't want publicity until the whole neighborhood is signed up. Lynette Duncan will be promoting it for him when they return from their honeymoon."
"Poor girl! She should have stayed single!"
When Qwilleran drove into his own driveway, his neighbor rushed out of Unit Three, waving an envelope. Qwilleran lowered the car window.
"This letter belongs to you," Wetherby said. "It was in my mailbox. I just picked up my Saturday delivery. Sorry it's a day late."
"Thanks. No problem." It was a manila envelope from Hasselrich, Bennett & Barter, often bad news and always a nuisance. "Would you like to come in for a drink - and a long talk about precipitation and warm fronts?"
"I'll take the drink. Wait till I feed the cat." When Wetherby arrived and was pulling off his boots, Qwilleran asked, "Bourbon?" They filed into the kitchen: host, guest, male cat, female cat - in that order.
"Do you like these closet doors?" Wetherby asked, indicating the lightweight louvered bi-folds. A wall of them covered the broom closet, laundry alcove, and pantry.
"Jet-boy opens them with his nose. He's learned exactly where to push to make them buckle. When I come home, every door in the house is ajar."
"I think Don Exbridge got a special deal on bi-folds," Qwilleran said. "They're in every room and hail in the house!"
"Not only that, but they have springs that squawk like a strangled chicken, usually when Jet-boy is making his rounds at night."
"Let's not discuss this in front of the Siamese," Qwilleran said. "They'll get ideas."
They carried their drinks into the living room and discussed the latest news: After an all-night crisis meeting, the promoters of the Ice Festival were forced to cancel the event. It was a tortured decision, but snow was turning to water, and ice was turning to slush. Ice-fishing shanties were falling through into the lake. It meant disappointment for all, loss of business for many, and embarrassment for the community.
Qwilleran said, "The newspaper is committed to covering expenses, but I feel sorry for Hixie Rice. It was her brainchild. Still, she's indomitable. Even now she's probably devising a brilliant way to utilize fifteen thousand polar-bear buttons."
"Want to hear some really surprising news?" Wetherby said with enthusiasm. "The bridge club found out who sent the anonymous check to cover the two-thousand-dollar theft."