The crisp, bright October day was so clear that one could hear the faint sound of church bells in West Middle Hummock three miles away. First he walked up Black Creek Lane, then east on Fugtree Road to the bridge, where he slid down an embankment to the stream. Although narrow and shallow, the creek rippled and gurgled briskly over the stones under the drooping branches of willows, while the trail-soft with decades of humus and now gaudily patterned with fallen leaves - was shaded by maples and oaks.
He found it an engagingly private place and he wondered if Iris had discovered this tranquil spot. Probably not; she was a confirmed indoorswoman. Ambling along the trail that meandered to follow the stream, he occasionally caught a glimpse of the Fugtree tower, which loomed larger as he drew closer. Here in the Willoway Emmaline and Samson had kept their ill-fated trysts.
Except for the bubbling water it was hauntingly quiet, as an October day can be, the dew-drenched trail muffling his footsteps. Once he paused to marvel at the picturesque scene, wishing he had brought his camera, and as he stood there he heard the crackling of underbrush. It was followed by indistinct voices. The inflections suggested the ritual of greeting, but not a joyous meeting. There were fragments of dialogue that he could not catch.
Qwilleran moved cautiously toward the source. Rounding a bend in the trail he ducked quickly behind a tree and listened. A woman was speaking angrily.
"I don't have any money!"
"Then get some!" a man said threateningly. "I need a car, too. They're after me."
"Why don't you steal one? You seem to know how." This was followed by a small cry of pain. "Don't you touch me, Brent!"
Qwilleran threw a rock into the stream, and the splash halted the hostile interchange for a few seconds.
"What's that?" the man asked in alarm.
"A fish... And you can't stay at the house, Brent, so get that out of your head."
There was incoherent whimpering about "no place to go."
"Go back where you came from, or I'll tell the police you're here!"
The man made a retort that sounded vicious, and Qwilleran threw another rock into the stream.
"Somebody's around," the man said.
"Nobody's here, stupid! And now I'm leaving, and I never want to see you again or hear from you! And I'm warning you, Brent: Don't try anything funny. I have a gun at the house!"
"Kristi, I'm hungry." The voice was pleading. "And it's cold at night."
There was a moment of silence. "I'll leave some bread and cheese on the big stump, but that's the end! Go back to Lockmaster and give yourself up."
Her final words faded away as she turned her back. Qwilleran, ventured a stealthy peek around the trunk of an oak tree and saw her running along the trail with noiseless steps. He also saw a man in a dark green jacket with stenciling on the back. Then, hearing the sounds of a zipper and urinating in the stream, Qwilleran turned and made his own retreat, climbing the bank to a dirt access road that led to the rear of the Goodwinter property.
His first action was to move his car to the steel barn and lock the door. Then he phoned Kristi's number. Her voice was shaking when she answered.
"It's Qwill calling again," he said. "You must think I haven't got it all together, but I forgot to ask the names of the bucks."
"Oh... yes... They're Napoleon... and Rasputin... and Attila," she said.
"Very appropriate! Thank you, Kristi. It's a beautiful day. How's everything at the farm?"
"Okay." Her reply was not convincing.
"You can expect a lot of traffic on Fugtree Road this afternoon. The museum is opening a new exhibit. I hope the activity won't throw the animals off their feed."
"It won't bother them."
"Let me know if there's any problem, any problem at all. " Do you hear?"
"Yes," she said weakly. "Thank you."
Hardly reassured by this conversation, Qwilleran wandered aimlessly about the apartment. Kristi's plight troubled him, but she gave the impression that his intervention was neither needed nor wanted. After all, she had a friend in Pickax with a pickup truck who seemed to be available in emergencies. Qwilleran combed his moustache with his fingers.
What he needed was a strong cup of coffee and something distracting to read - something to pass the time until one o'clock when the museum opened to the public. In Pickax he had been reading Kinglake's Eothen aloud to the cats, and there were three secondhand Arnold Bennetts he was to start, but he had neglected to bring his books to North Middle Hummock. Mrs. Cobb's magazines were not to his taste; he knew all he wanted to know about brown Rockingham ware and early Massachusetts glass-blowers and Newport blockfronts. As for her bookshelves, they were filled with figurines and cast-iron toys and colored glass. The few books on the shelves were paperback titles that he had read at least twice. He was in no mood for Gone With the Wind again.
His rambling thoughts were interrupted by a familiar sound: thlunk! Then again, thlunk! It was the unmistakable evidence of a paperback book hitting an Oriental rug. Qwilleran could recognize it anywhere. He strode into the parlor in time to see Koko making an exit with the low-slung body and drooping tail that spelled mischief. Two books had been knocked off the shelf. Qwilleran read the titles and went directly to the telephone. The time had come, he concluded, to discuss Koko's behavior with an expert.
There was a young woman in Mooseville who seemed to know all about cats. Lori Bamba was also the free-lance secretary who handled Qwilleran's correspondence when the fan mail became too heavy. He called her number, using the kitchen telephone and taking care to close the door. Otherwise, Koko would make himself a pest. He liked Lori Bamba, and he knew when she was on the line.
Lori answered in the blithe way that made it a pleasure to hear her voice, and Qwilleran opened with the amenities. "Haven't seen you for a while, Lori. How's the baby?"
"He's crawling now, Qwill. Our calico thinks he's a kitten and tries to mother him."
"And how's Nick?"
"Well, he hasn't found a new job yet. Let us know if you have any ideas. He has an engineering degree, you know.
"I'll do that, but tell him not to quit until he's lined up something else. And how about you? Do you have time to write some letters for me?"
"Sure do! Nick goes to Pickax on Wednesdays. He can pick up your stuff."
"I'm not in Pickax, Lori. The cats and I are staying in Iris Cobb's apartment at the museum for a few weeks."
"Oh, Qwill! That was terrible news! We'll miss her."
"Everyone misses her, including the Siamese."
"How do they react to living in a museum?"
"That's why I'm calling you, Lori. Something is bothering Koko. The bird population has gone south, and yet he sits on the windowsill for hours, watching and waiting. One day when I took him into the exhibit area he went directly to a bed pillow stuffed with chicken feathers before World War I, and a few minutes ago he knocked two books off the shelf: To Kill a Mockingbird and One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest."
Without hesitation Lori asked, "Is there enough poultry in his diet?"
"Hmmm... We've been using up the food in Iris's freezer." Qwilleran said, "and now that you mention it, I believe it's mostly meat and seafood."
"Try serving more poultry," she advised. "Okay, Lori, I'll give it a shot."
Qwilleran went in search of the Siamese. Standing in the central hall he called out, "Hey, you gastronomes, wherever you are! Doctor Purrgood wants you to eat more duckling, pheasant, and Cornish hen!"
Yum Yum could be heard scratching the gravel in the commode; it made a characteristic sound when flicked against the metal sides of the turkey roaster. Koko had done his famous vanishing act, however. "Koko! Where are you?"