"Don't know the name. That's not a Moose County name."
The paramedics put Baby on a stretcher and told the sheriff's deputy who was standing by, "Looks like she fell down a ladder and landed on the stable floor. Stone floor. Possible broken neck, looks like."
Such a puny neck, Qwilleran thought. Hardly bigger than Koko's.
After Verona had been carried out on a stretcher, Qwilleran went to the barn again with his lantern and flashed it down into the stable. The green pail was still there. He closed the eye of the needle and returned to the museum. As soon as he opened the apartment door, something whizzed past his feet and disappeared around the comer of the house faster than the eye could discern. He dashed off in pursuit, bellowing, "Koko! Come back here!"
The cat was headed for the barn at a speed four times faster than Qwilleran's fifty-yard dash. Clearing the ramp in two leaps Koko disappeared through the cat-hatch as if he had been a barncat in one of his other lives. Qwilleran swung the great doors open to take advantage of the light-pole and called his name.
A twinge on his upper lip told him that Koko would leap down the ladder. Qwilleran followed. The stable was a low-ceilinged, stone-floored room with more crates and more presses and more straw. He flashed the light around the stalls and listened intently until he heard a familiar rumbling growl ascending the scale and ending in a shriek. He traced it to the far end of the stable, near the back doors where the horses and cows would have been led into their stalls. Koko was there, hovering over something wedged between two crates - a litter of squirming newborn kittens and a mother cat, bedded down on a piece of soiled cloth.
Qwilleran seized Koko about the middle, and the cat seemed quite willing to be seized. As they headed for the ladder he almost tripped over the crowbar that Boswell used to open crates. He flashed his lantern around the floor. In one corner a pile of straw was hollowed as if someone had slept there. He saw beer cans and empty cigarette packs. That fool Boswell! Qwilleran thought. Goofing off and smoking in a bed of dry straw!
The cat under his arm was wriggling to get free, and he let him go. With his nose to the floor Koko followed a scent that led him into the pile of straw, led him to a bundle of something rolled to make a pillow, led him to a patch of dried blood on the pillow and the straw. The bundle was the same dark green Qwilleran had seen on the Willoway, stenciled LOCKMASTER COUNTY JAIL.
Clutching Koko and the lantern Qwilleran hurried back to the apartment and made three phone calls: first to the night desk of the Moose County Something, then to the sheriff's department, and finally to the president of the Historical Society.
-19-
THE EARLY-MORNING newscast on WPKX included this announcement: "A suspect in the bludgeoning murder of Brent Waffle is being sought by police in several northern counties following the discovery of incriminating evidence and the suspect's disappearance from the area. According to the sheriff's department, the name of the suspect will not be released until he is apprehended and charged."
There followed brief reports on a three-car accident at the blinker in downtown Kennebeck and a controversy at the Pickax city council meeting regarding a Halloween curfew. The newscast ended with the following: "A two-and-a-half- year-old child fell and was seriously injured on the property of the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum last evening. A trapdoor in the barn floor was left uncovered, and the child fell to the stone-paved floor of the stable below."
After that eye-opening news hit the airways, Qwilleran received phone calls from all the usual operators on the local grapevine, one of the first being Mr. O'Dell, the white-haired janitor who serviced Qwilleran's apartment in Pickax. He said, "It's the windows I'm thinkin' of washin' if you'll be comin' back to the city soon."
"I have no immediate plans," Qwilleran said. "I promised to stay here until they find a new manager."
"A pity it is, what's happen in , out there," said Mr. O'Dell. "First Mrs. Cobb, a good woman, God rest her soul! And herself barely cold in her grave when the little one, innocent as a lamb, fell. Sure an' it's a black cloud that hangs over the Goodwinter farm, an' I'm givin' you some advice if you've a mind to take it. No good will come of it if you take it into your head to stay there. The divil is up to tricks for eighty or ninety year since, I'm thinkin'."
"I appreciate your advice, Mr. O'Dell," said Qwilleran. "I'll give it some serious thought."
"An' shall I be washin' the windows?"
"Yes, go ahead and wash the windows." Qwilleran was in no hurry to move back to Pickax, devil or no devil, but he knew it would relieve Mr. O'Dell's mind if the windows were clean.
Arch Riker had other ideas. "Why don't you move back to town and stop playing detective?" the publisher said. "Readers are complaining. They expect to see the 'Qwill Pen' on certain days."
"It's been nothing but emergencies, obstacles, and distractions for the last two weeks," Qwilleran said. "I was all set to write a goat column when the herd was poisoned and the front page got the story. I was planning to do a piece on the antique printing presses, but the so-called expert has left town and will wind up in prison."
"Excuses, excuses! Find an old-timer and rip off some memoirs for Monday," Riker suggested. "Do it the easy way until you get back on the track."
Taking the publisher's suggestion and Mitch Ogilvie's tip, Qwilleran called the Senior Care Facility in Pickax and asked to interview Adam Dingleberry. The nurse in charge recommended a late-morning visit, since the old gentleman was always drowsy after lunch, and she specified a time limit of thirty minutes for the nonagenarian, by doctor's orders.
Arriving at the Facility, Qwilleran found the lobby bright with canaries - those yellow-smocked volunteers wearing "We Care" lapel buttons. They were fluttering about, greeting visitors, wheeling patients, tucking in lap blankets, adjusting shawls, smiling sweetly, and showing that they cared, whether the patients were paying guests like Adam Dingleberry or indigent wards of the county. There was no hint that the cheerfully modern building was descended from the County Poor Farm.
One of the canaries ushered Qwilleran into the reading room, a quiet place equipped with large-print books and cleverly adjustable reading lamps. He had been there on previous occasions to conduct interviews and had never seen anyone reading. Patients who were not confined to their beds were in the lounge, watching television.
"He's a little hard of hearing," said the canary who wheeled the elderly mortician into the room, a wizened little man who had once been the tallest boy in school and a holy terror, according to Homer Tibbitt.
The volunteer took a seat apart from them, near the door, and Qwilleran said in a loud, clear voice, "We've never met, Mr. Dingleberry, but I've seen you at meetings of the old-timers, and Homer Tibbitt tells me he went to school with you."
"Homer, eh? He were younger than me in school. Still is. He's only ninety-four. I'm ninety-eight. How old are you?" His voice had the same high pitch as Homer's, and it cracked on every tenth word.
"I'm embarrassed to say," Qwilleran replied, "that I'm only fifty."
"Fifty, eh? You have to walk around on your own legs. When you're my age, you get trundled around everywhere."
"That gives me something to look forward to."
In spite of his shrunken form and leathery wrinkles, Adam Dingleberry had sharp bird-like eyes that darted as fast as his mind. "The city fathers are tryin' to outlaw Halloween," he said, taking the lead in the conversation. "In the old days we used to wax windows and knock over outhouses till hell-won't-have-it. One year we bricked up the schoolhouse door."
Qwilleran said, "May I turn on my machine and tape some of this?" He placed the recorder on the table between them, and the following conversation was preserved for posterity: