"Mr. Qwilleran! Mr. Qwilleran!" Running footsteps came up behind him, and he turned to catch an armful of brown corduroy, oppossum fur, notebooks, and flying blond hair.
Ivy, the youngest of the three sisters, was out of breath. "Just got off the bus," she panted. "Had a life class this morning. Are you on your way to our shop?" "No, I'm heading for Mrs. McGuffey's." "Don't go there! 'Mrs. McGuffey is too damn stuffy! That's what Cluthra says." "Business is business, Ivy. Are you all ready for Christmas?" "Guess what! I'm getting an easel for Christmas! A real painter's easel." "I'm glad I ran into you," Qwilleran said. "I'd like to decorate my apartment for the holidays, but I don't have your artistic touch. Besides, this tricky knee — " "I'd love to help you. Do you want an old-fashioned Christmas tree or something swinging?" "A tree would last about three minutes at my place. I have a couple of cats, and they're airborne most of the time.
But I thought I could get some ropes of greens at Lombardo's — " "I've got a staple gun at the shop. I can do it right now." When Ivy arrived at Qwilleran's apartment, the cedar garlands — ten dollars' worth — were heaped in the middle of the floor, being circled warily by Koko and Yum Yum. The latter left for parts unknown at the sight of the blond visitor, but Koko sat tall and watched her carefully as if she were not to be trusted.
Qwilleran offered Ivy a Coke before she started decorating, and she sat in the rocking chair made of twigs, her straight blond hair falling like a cape over her shoulders. As she talked, her little-girl mouth pouted and pursed and broke into winning smiles.
Qwilleran asked, "Where did you three sisters get such unusual names?" "Don't you know? They're different kinds of art glass. My mother was madly Art Nouveau. I'd rather be called Kim or Leslie. When I'm eighteen I'm going to change my name and move to Paris to study art. I mean, when I get the money my mother left me — if my sisters haven't used it all up," she added with a frown. "They're my legal guardians." "You seem to have a lot of fun together in that shop." Ivy hesitated. "Not really. They're kind of mean to me. Cluthra won't let me go steady… and Amberina is trying to suppress my talent. She wants me to study bookkeeping or nursing or something grim like that." "Who's giving you the magnificent Christmas present?" "What?" "The easel." "Oh! Well… I'm getting that from Tom. He's Amberina's husband. He's real neat. I think he's secretly in love with me, but don't say anything to anybody." "Of course not. I'm flattered," said Qwilleran, "that you feel you can confide in me. What do you think about all the mishaps in Junktown? Are they as accidental as they appear?" "Cluthra says the Dragon dropped that thing on her foot on purpose. Cluthra may decide to sue her for an enormous amount of money. Five thousand dollars!" "An astronomical figure," Qwilleran agreed. "But what about the two recent deaths in Junktown?" "Poor C. C.! He was a creep, but I felt sorry for him. His wife wasn't nice to him at all. Did you know she murdered her first husband? Of course, nobody could ever prove it." "And Andy. Did you know Andy?" "He was dreamy. I was mad about Andy. Wasn't that a horrible way to die?" "Do you think he might have been murdered?" Ivy's eyes grew wide with delight at the possibility. "Maybe the Dragon — " "But Mary Duckworth was in love with Andy. She wouldn't do a thing like that." The girl thought about it for a few seconds. "She couldn't be in love with him," she announced. "She's a witch!
Cluthra says so! And everybody knows witches can't fall in love." "I must say you have a colorful collection of characters in Junktown. What do you know about Russell Patch?" "I used to like him before he bleached his hair. I kind of think he's mixed up in some kind of racket, like — I don't know…" "Who's his roommate?" "Stan's hairdresser at Skyline Towers. You know all those rich widows and kept women that live there? They tell Stan all their secrets and give him fabulous presents. He does Cluthra's hair. She pretends it's natural, but you should see how gray it is when it starts to grow out." "Sylvia Katzenhide lives in the same building, doesn't she?" The girl nodded and reflected. "Cluthra says she'd be a brilliant success at blackmail. Sylvia's got something on everybody." "Including Ben Nicholas and Hollis Prantz?" "I don't know." Ivy sipped her Coke while she toyed with the possibilities. "But I think Ben's a dope addict. I haven't decided about the other one. He may be some kind of pervert." Later, when the garlands were festooned on the fireplace wall and Ivy had departed with her staple gun, Qwilleran said to Koko: "Out of the mouths of babes come the damnedest fabrications!" Furthermore, the experiment had cost him ten dollars, and the decorations only served to enshrine the bad-dispositioned old lady hanging over the fireplace. He determined to substitute the Mackintosh coat of arms as soon as he could get some assistance in hoisting it to the mantel.
Before going downtown to hand in his copy, he made two phone calls and wangled some invitations. He told Cluthra he wanted to see how antique dealers live, what they collect, how they furnish their apartments. He told Russell Patch he had a Siamese cat who was crazy about music. And he told Ben he wanted to have the firsthand experience of scrounging. He also asked him to change a five-dollar bill.
"Alas," said Ben, "if we could change a fin, we would retire from this wretched business." At the Daily Fluxion that afternoon Qwilleran walked into the Feature Department with its even rows of modem metal desks that had always looked so orderly and serene, and suddenly he found the scene cold, sterile, monotonous, and without character.
Arch Riker said, "Did you see how we handled the auction story in today's paper? The boss liked your copy." "The whole back page! That was more than I expected," Qwilleran said, tossing some triple-spaced sheets on the desk, "Here's the second installment, and I'll have more tomorrow. This morning I interviewed a man who sells some absurd junk called tech-tiques." "Rosie told me about him. He's new in Junktown." "He's either out of his mind or pulling a hoax, In fact, I think Hollis Prantz is a fraud, He claims to have a weak heart, but you should have seen him running up stairs two at a time! I'm discovering all kinds of monkeyshines in Junktown." "Don't get sidetracked," Riker advised him. "Bear down on the writing." "But, Arch! I've unearthed some good clues in the Andy Glanz case! I also have my suspicions about Cobb's death." "For Pete's sake, Qwill, the police called them accidents. Let's leave it that way." "That's one reason I'm suspicious. Everyone in Junktown is busy explaining that the two deaths were accidents.
They protest too much." "I can understand their position," Riker told him. "If Junktown gets a reputation as a high-crime neighborhood, the junkers will stay away in droves…. Look here, I've got five pages to layout. I can't argue with you all day." "If there's been a crime committed, it should be exposed," Qwilleran persisted.
"All right," said Riker. "If you want to investigate, go ahead. But do it on your time and wait until after Christmas.
The way your antique series is shaping up, you've got a good chance to win first prize." By the time Qwilleran returned to Junktown, Ivy had spread the word that he was a private detective operating with two evil-eyed Siamese cats who were trained to attack.
"Is it true?" asked the young man in sideburns and dark glasses at the Junque Trunque.