From the foyer a wide staircase angled up to the second floor. The newel post and handrail were massive, and the balusters were set extravagantly close together, harking back to the days when lumber was king. It was all. black walnut, Kristi said.
"But this is not the original staircase," she pointed out.
"The first one spiraled up into the tower and was very graceful. My great-grandfather replaced it and sealed off the tower."
"Too many flies?" Qwilleran asked. "Or too hard to heat?"
"That's a long story," she said, turning away. "Do you feel like climbing four flights?"
After they reached the third floor she unbolted a door leading to the tower. Here the stairs were plain and utilitarian, but they ended in a small enchanting room no bigger than a walk-in closet, with windows on four sides and windowseats cushioned in threadbare velvet. On a shabby wicker table there were binoculars, a guttered candle, and a book on yoga in a brown paper cover. Iridescent bluebottle flies were sunning on the south window.
Qwilleran picked up the glasses and looked to the north, where the big lake shimmered just below the horizon. To the west a church spire rose out of a forest of evergreens. To the east was the Goodwinter property with Boswell's van in the barnyard, a blue pickup in the museum drive, and half a dozen energetic young persons raking leaves, bagging them, and loading them in the truck.
Qwilleran asked, "What is the purpose of the diagonal line of trees cutting across the fields?"
"That's Black Creek," Kristi said; "You can't see the stream, but trees thrive on its banks, and there are some very old willows hanging over the water."
"This house," Qwilleran said as they went back down the four flights of stairs, "should be registered as a historic place."
"I know." Kristi's eyes filled with melancholy. "But there's too much red tape, and I wouldn't have time to do research and fill out the forms. And then the house and grounds would have to be fixed up, and that's more than I could afford to do."
Qwilleran patted his moustache smugly, thinking, This might be a project for the Klingenschoen Fund to underwrite. The Fugtrees were pioneers who helped develop the county, and their house is an architectural showplace worthy of preservation. Eventually it might be purchased by the Historical Society and opened to the public as a museum. He could visualize Fugtree Road becoming a "museum park" with the Goodwinter farmhouse demonstrating the life of the early settlers and the Fugtree mansion showing Moose County during its boom years. Even the antique presses in the barn had possibilities as a "Museum of the Printed Word." Qwilleran liked the name. One or two good restaurants might open in the vicinity, and the ghost town of North Middle Hummock would rise again, with the inevitable condominiums on the other side of Black Creek. The fact that Kristi was an attractive young woman had nothing to do with his enthusiastic speculations, he told himself.
"Would you like another glass of lemonade?" she asked to break the silence that fell after her last statement.
"No thank you," he said, snapping out of his reverie, "but how about two o'clock tomorrow afternoon for the interview?"
As she walked with him toward his car, he mentioned casually, "The Klingenschoen Fund might help you with the historic registration. Why don't you write a letter to the Fund in care of Hasselrich, Bennett and Barter? And see what happens."
Her eyes lost their melancholy for the first time. "Do you really think I'd stand a chance?"
"No harm in trying. All you have to lose is a postage stamp."
"Oh, Mr. Qwilleran - Qwill - I'd hug you if I hadn't been mucking the barn!"
"I'll take a raincheck," he said. Arriving back at the farmhouse Qwilleran ignored the Siamese and looked up "goat" in the unabridged dictionary. Then he called Roger MacGillivray at the newspaper office. "Glad I caught you, Roger. I have a favor to ask. Are you free for dinner tonight?"
"Uh... yeah... but it would have to be early. I promised to be home by seven o'clock to babysit."
"I'll buy your dinner at Tipsy's if you'll stop at the Pickax library and bring me some books on goats."
There was a pause. "Spell that, Qwill."
"G-o-a-t-s. I'll meet you at Tipsy's at five-thirty."
"Let's get this straight, Qwill. You want books on goats?"
"That's right! Homed ruminant quadrupeds. And Roger."
"Yes?"
"You don't need to let anyone know the books are for me."
-9-
TIPSY'S WAS A popular restaurant in North Kennebeck that had started in a small log cabin in the 1930s and now occupied a large log cabin, where serious eaters converged for serious steaks without such frivolities as parsley sprigs and herbed butter. Potatoes were peeled and Frenched in the kitchen without benefit of sodium acid pyrophosphate. The only vegetable choice was boiled carrots. The only salad was cole slaw. And there was a waiting line for tables every night.
Qwilleran and his guest, being pressed for time, used their press credentials to get a table, and they were seated directly below the large portrait of a black-and-white cat for whom the restaurant was named.
Roger slapped a stack of books on the table: Raising Goats for Fun and Profit, Debunking Goat Myths, and How to Start a Goat Club. "Is this what you want?" he asked incredulously.
"I'm interviewing a goat farmer," Qwilleran said, "and I don't want to be totally ignorant about which sex gives milk and which sex has B.O."
"Find out if it's true they eat tin cans," Roger said. "Who's the farmer? Do I know him?"
"Who said anything about him? It's a young woman at the Fugtree farm next to the Goodwinter museum. Her name is Kristi, spelled with a K and an I."
"Sure, I know her." Having grown up in Moose County and having taught school for nine years before switching to journalism, Roger's acquaintance was vast. "We were in high school together. She married a guy from Purple Point with more looks than brains, and they moved away - somewhere Down Below."
"She's moved back again, and she's divorced," Qwilleran said.
"I'm not surprised. He was a jerk, and Kristi was a talented girl. Flighty, though. She hopped from one great idea to another. I remember when she wanted to make macram‚ baskets for the basketball hoops."
"She seems to have her feet on the ground now."
"What is she like? She had big serious eyes and wore weird clothes, but then all the art students wore weird clothes."
"Now she wears dirty coveralls and muddy boots, and her hair is tied back under a feed cap. She still has big serious eyes. I think she has worries beyond her ability to cope."
The steaks were served promptly, and the two men applied themselves with concentration. The beef at Tipsy's required diligent chewing, but the flavor was world-class. It was homegrown, like the potatoes and carrots and cabbage. There was something in Moose County soil that produced flavorful root vegetables and superior browse for cattle.
Qwilleran said, "I suppose you know I'm living at the Goodwinter farmhouse until they find a new manager."
"Be prepared to dig in for the winter," Roger advised him. "They'll have a tough time replacing Iris Cobb."
"Did you know any of the Goodwinters when they were living there?"
"Only the three kids. We were all in school at the same time. Junior is the only one left around here. His sister is on a ranch in Montana, and his brother is somewhere out West."
"Did they ever say anything about the place being haunted?"
"No, their parents wouldn't let them mention the ghost rumor... or their grandfather's murder... or their great-grandfather's 'sudden death,' as it was called. The whole family acted as if nothing unusual had ever happened. Why do you ask? Are you seeing spooks?"