"Who?" Qwilleran asked, expecting it to be Willard Carmichael.
"A nice little lady who lives in the Village and doesn't even play bridge. She's from an old family and gives a lot to charity. Sarah Plensdorf."
"I know her! How did you find out?"
"That's the best part. Her accountant is Mac MacWhannell, who's a guest-member of the bridge club. In doing her tax return he found a two-thousand-dollar item paid to the bridge club. Mac said the item was actually a tax-deductible donation to the Youth Center."
"Good for Big Mac!" Qwilleran said. "May I refresh your drink?"
When he returned, Yum Yum was sitting on the visitor's lap, doing her amorous act: purring, rubbing, and gazing soulfully into his eyes.
"Nice cat," Wetherby said. "Are you still getting postcards with cat names? I know a girl in Horseradish who calls her cats Allegro and Adagio. One's lively; the other's quiet. What are you going to do with the postcards?"
"I envision a large bonfire in the newspaper parking lot."
"Has anyone had a postcard from the honeymooners?"
"I don't know. Lynette called Polly last night and is eager to come home. She's going to work with Carter Lee, promoting restoration jobs around the county."
Wetherby said, "I hope, for her sake, his project is on the up-and-up."
"You have doubts?"
"I'm a professional doubter. Plenty of suckers in Pickax seem to have twenty thousand to gamble. I suppose that's not much if you consider the total value of the property in today's market, but what do they get for their investment?"
"Expert advice, supervision of the work, and access to the National Register."
Wetherby was on his way to a dinner party, and after he had left, Qwilleran pulled out the government printout borrowed from Mitch Ogilvie. Unfolded and spread on the floor, it did indeed measure six yards. He read it all, frequently tapping his moustache and sometimes shooing Koko away.
Next he opened the manila envelope from the law office, saw the papers to be signed, grunted an objection, and tossed them into the Procrastination File. He was in no mood for tedious work. He fed the cats, made a sandwich for himself, and determined to spend the evening on his Melville project. It would take his mind off the can of worms that had been opened when Willard Carmichael came to town. Many peculiar things had happened since then. Tomorrow he would go to see Brodie and lay it all out: weird incidents, suspicious developments, hearsay, his own qualms, and even Koko's recent idiosyncrasies. Meanwhile, he would read.
Qwiileran was reading the Melville novels in chronological order, hoping to trace the author's development. First, there were the adventure tales, then a comic pot-boiler, then the advent of symbolism in Moby-Dick, then the creeping pessimism and cynicism. Koko was equally fascinated by the books; he knew a good binding when he smelled one! But the cat had his own ideas about the reading sequence. Qwilleran was ready to start volume seven, a story about a writer, titled Pierre; Koko wanted him to read volume ten, pushing it off the shelf with his nose. "Thanks, but no thanks," Qwilleran told him as he opened volume seven. The cat lashed his tail like a bad loser.
At eleven o'clock the Siamese had their bedtime treat. Then the three of them trooped to the balcony, and Qwilleran continued reading in his bedroom. It was about one-thirty when his phone rang - an ungodly hour for anyone to call in Moose County.
His apprehension turned to anger when he heard the voice that he loathed. "Qwill, this is Danielle. I just got a call from Carter Lee. He's terribly worried, and - "
"What's wrong?" Qwilleran interrupted gruffly as he felt the unwelcome sensation on his upper lip.
"It's about Lynette. She's real sick. He thought it was too late to call Polly, so - "
"How ill is she?" he demanded.
"She's in the hospital. He took her to Emergency."
"Which hospital? Do you know? There must be several."
"He didn't tell me. If he calls back - "
"Did he tell you the nature of the illness?"
"It's her stomach."
"Do you have a phone number for your cousin?"
"Well, he was calling from the hospital, and I guess he's still there. If he calls back - "
"How about the inn where they've been staying?" Qwilleran asked impatiently.
"He never told me the name of it."
"Great!" he said with edgy sarcasm. "Let me know if you hear anything further, at any hour of the day or night. And now hang up so I can do some investigating."
Qwilleran sat with his hand on the cradled receiver as he planned his next call. He would not disturb Polly; it would serve no purpose and would only keep her awake all night. He remembered Lynette's last phone calclass="underline" the spicy food, the upset stomach, the remedy that Carter Lee had gone out to buy. Had it worsened her condition? Or did it make her feel good enough to go out and mingle with the mob and eat God-knows-what?
He thought of calling Dr. Diane, but first he phoned the night desk of the New Orleans newspaper and identified himself as a reporter for the Milwaukee Journal; it sounded more legitimate than the Moose County Something. He said his editor wanted him to track down an emergency case - a Milwaukee citizen attending Mardi Gras. He said he needed names and phone numbers of hospitals.
"On the fax?"
"No. I'll hold."
A minute later a night deskman was reading off the information.
"Thanks. Sorry to bother you," Qwilleran said. "My editor is a bleepin' tyrant."
"Aren't they all? How's the weather in Milwaukee?"
"Not as good as in New Orleans."
"Hope you find your case. The ER in every hospital's busy tonight."
Only then did Qwilleran call Dr. Diane - with apologies - and tell her the story. He said, "If I call the hospital, they won't even talk to me. As the personal physician of a prominent Pickax citizen, you can ask the right questions. I have the phone numbers of all the medical facilities. Can you do it? Can you locate her and find out her condition?"
"Of course. I'll be glad to do it." Diane had the neighborliness of a Lanspeak. "It could be something routine, like an allergy. I'll call you when I have something definite.
Qwilleran stretched out on his bed and waited. He had lost interest in reading. He may have dozed, because he suddenly found himself catapulted out of bed by a roar and clatter overhead. Enormous hailstones were pounding the roof and bouncing off the deck. They bothered the Siamese, too, who complained until they were admitted to his own bedroom. They were quiet then, except for one violent outburst from Koko for no apparent reason.
It was four-thirty before the phone rang. Dr. Diane's voice was ominously solemn. "I found her, Qwill. She was in critical condition. I called the hospital several times, at intervals, and..."
"She's gone?" Qwilleran gasped.
"She died an hour ago."
"What was given as the cause?"
"Gastrointestinal complications, aggravated by alcohol abuse."
"No!" he said. It was impossible, he thought. She had hardly sipped her champagne at her birthday party, and she never touched hard liquor. Had Carter Lee coaxed her to try a Sazerac or some other exotic drink?... Then he remembered Koko's anguished howling about an hour before.
"Qwill! Are you still there?"
"I'm here, Diane. I don't know what to say. How am I going to break the news to Polly?"
"Would you like me to do it?"
"Thanks, but I think I should handle it - but not until her normal wake-up hour. I'll go to her house and tell her iii person... Yes, that's the best way. Diane, you have no idea how much we appreciate your cooperation."
"That's what I'm here for," she said.
After hanging up, he paced the floor and tried to sort out his reactions. He was shocked by the suddenness of it all... saddened by the loss of a young, productive, generous, well-loved daughter of Pickax... overcome with sympathy for Polly, who was losing her last link with "family"... and he was angry, too. It was not yet five o'clock, but he called Danielle's number. The line was busy. He continued pacing the floor, and Koko watched with the anxious look that can widen a cat's eyes. Who but Carter Lee could be calling her at this hour? After a few minutes he tried the number again and heard another busy signal. What could they be saying to each other that would take so long? Or did she have the phone off the hook? He went downstairs to start the coffeemaker and then called again.