"And what might that be?"
"It was the result of an incident near Mooseville. A woman sent her teenage son to buy groceries at a crossroads store, and he was walking home on a country road after dark. As he approached the bridge over the Ittibittiwassee, a white-sheeted figure rose out of the dark riverbed and started moaning and screaming. The intrepid youth kept on walking until he was a few yards from the ghost. Then he reached into his grocery sack and hurled a can of beans at the spectre - right between the eye holes. It was a young woman under the sheet, and she went to the hospital with a concussion."
"And I presume the youth went to the majors," Qwilleran said.
Just then the doorbell sounded, and Polly thought it prudent to retire to the bathroom to fix her hair. A tall lanky busboy arrived with Polly's salad and Qwilleran's lambchop - plus two servings of pumpkin chiffon pie with the compliments of the chef.
"Where are the cats?" the busboy asked.
"On vacation," Qwilleran said as he handed him a tip. "Thanks, Derek."
"They've got it made. I never get to go anywhere."
"I thought you were going away to college this fall." Derek shrugged. "Well, you see, I got this good role in the next play at the theatre, and I met this girl from Lockmaster who's a blast, so I decided to work another year."
"Thanks again, Derek," said Qwilleran, ushering him to the door. "I'll look forward to seeing you in the November play. Don't tell me anything about your role; it's bad luck. The Siamese send you their regards. Give my thanks to the chef. Watch your step with that girl from Lockmaster. Don't trip on the stairs." In slow stages he maneuvered the gregarious Derek Cuttlebrink from the apartment.
Polly emerged from the bathroom, looking not much different. "He's a nice boy, but he hasn't found himself yet," she said.
"He's looking in the wrong place," Qwilleran muttered. They dined at the travertine table, and Polly inquired how he liked the Othello recording.
"A stunning opera! Even the cats have enjoyed it. I've played it several times." Not all the way through, but he withheld that detail.
"How did you like Iago's Credo?"
"Unforgettable!"
"And don't you agree with me that Dio! mi potevi is gorgeous?"
"My word for it exactly!... And what did you think of the disaster exhibit?" he asked, changing the subject deftly.
"The girls accomplished a miracle! That was a difficult subject to dramatize. And the balloting idea was very clever."
"In my opinion they missed the boat. They should have honored the thirty-two victims by name, and I said so in my column."
"No one knows who they were, except for an occasional family recollection," Polly informed him. "There is no official list. We have old copies of the Picayune on microfilm, but the issues of May thirteenth to eighteenth are missing, oddly enough."
"Where did you get this film?"
"Junior Goodwinter turned everything over to us when the Picayune ceased publication. We also checked the county courthouse files, but death records prior to 1905 were destroyed in a fire that year."
"It would be interesting to know who threw the match," Qwilleran said. "It's doubtful that all the records were destroyed accidentally. Who would want the victims' names forgotten? The Goodwinters? Or would their names give a clue to the identity of the lynch mob? There were probably thirty-two in the gang, one to avenge each victim. A ritualistic touch, don't you think? They were draped in sheets so no one would know the identity of the actual hangman. I imagine they drew straws for the privilege."
"An interesting deduction," Polly said, "assuming that the lynching story is true."
"If Ephraim committed suicide, why would he do it in a: public place? He had a big barn. He could have jumped off the haymow. Actually, does anyone really care - at this late date - about the exact fate of the old scoundrel? Why do the Noble Sons of the Noose persist generation after generation?"
"Because Ephraim Goodwinter is the only villain Moose County ever had," said Polly, "and people love to have a bˆte noire to hate."
She declined the pumpkin pie, and Qwilleran had no difficulty in consuming both pieces. Then he said, "What do you know about Vince and Verona?"
"Not much," Polly said. "They suddenly appeared a month ago and proposed a deal, which the museum board was delighted to accept. Vince offered to catalogue the presses, in return for which they gave him the cottage rent-free. Those presses were a white elephant, so Vince's arrival on the scene was considered a blessing from heaven."
"Don't you consider his offer unusually generous?"
"Not at all. He's writing a book on the history of printing, and this is a unique opportunity for him to see actual equipment that was used a hundred or two hundred years ago."
"I wouldn't mind knowing how he found out about the presses."
"He seems quite knowledgeable about printing," Qwilleran said, "During my career, Polly, I've interviewed thousands of persons, and I can detect the difference between (a) those who know what they're talking about and (b) those who have memorized information from a book, I don't think Boswell is an 'a,' "
"No doubt the project is a learning experience for him," she persisted stubbornly. "He's always checking out books on the subject. Thanks to Senior Goodwinter, our library has the definitive collection on handprinting in the northeast central states."
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "Coffee?" he asked.
"Vince was an auctioneer Down Below," Polly added. "Or a sideshow barker. His voice would wake the dead. There's one thing about Boswell's operation that puzzles me. Every time I return to the museum from somewhere else, his van is pulling away from the barn. Today I discovered that he uses a walkie-talkie to tell Verona when he's going home to lunch, and I suspect she uses it to tip him off when I turn into Black Creek Lane, One of these days I'm going to trick him - drive away from the museum, park my car somewhere, and sneak back on foot, coming in the back way."
"Oh, Qwill, you're a born gumshoe!" Polly laughed. "All you need is a deerstalker cap and a magnifying glass."
"You may laugh," he retorted, "but I'll tell you something else: Koko spends most of his waking hours watching the barn from the kitchen window."
"He's looking for barncats or fieldmice."
"That's what you may think, but that's not the message I'm getting from the feline transmitter." He smoothed his moustache significantly. "I have a theory, not fully developed as yet, that Boswell is up to no good in that barn, He's looking for something other than printing equipment in those crates. And when he finds it, he drives around to the livestock doors, loads his van, and delivers the goods."
"What kind of goods?" Polly asked with an amused smile.
"I have no evidence," Qwilleran said, "and I'm not prepared to say. If I could spend an hour in that barn with a crowbar, I might have some answers. Bear in mind that Boswell is the first person to touch those crates since Senior Goodwinter's death a year ago. How did he know about them? Someone in Moose County tipped him off and is probably collaborating in the distribution."
Polly glanced at her watch. Still smiling she said, "Qwill, this is very interesting - confusing, but provocative. You must tell me more about it next time. I'm afraid I must excuse myself now. Bootsie has been alone all day, and the poor thing will want his din-din."
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "When do you leave for Lockmaster?"
"Early tomorrow evening. I'll drop off Bootsie on the way. He'll have his special food and his own little commode and his brush. He'll appreciate it if you give him a brush-brush and a kiss-kiss once in a while. He's so affectionate! And he's housebroken, of course. It's adorable to see the little dear scratching in the litterbox and then sitting down with a beatific expression on his smudged-nose face."