He unlocked the back door, expecting to be welcomed by the usual clamor and waving tails, but the cats surprised him by their absence, and when he went to the kitchen to stow his car keys in the drawer, he was surprised to find it open--just enough for an adroit paw to reach in and hook a claw around a small brown velvet teddy bear.
"Oh-oh!" he said and went looking for Tiny Tim. All he found was a pair of debilitated animals lying on the rug in front of the sofa, apparently too weak to jump on the cushioned seat. They were stretched out on their sides, their eyes open but glazed, their tails flat on the floor. He felt them, and their noses were hot!
Their fur was hot! He rushed to the telephone and called the animal clinic, but it was closed. Anxiously he called Lori Bamba, who was so knowledgeable about cats.
"What's the trouble, Qwill?" she asked, responding to the alarm in his voice.
"The cats are sick! I think they've eaten foreign matter. What can I do? The vet's office is closed. Shouldn't they have their stomachs pumped out?" "Do you know what they ate?" "A stuffed toy, not much larger than a mouse. It was in a kitchen drawer, and I think Mrs. Fulgrove left it open." "Was it catnip?" "No, a miniature teddy bear. They act as if they're doped. Their fur is red hot!" "Don't panic, Qwill," she said.
"Did Mrs. Fulgrove use the laundry equipment?" "She always puts sheets and towels through the washer." "Well, the cats probably slept on top of the dryer until they were half-cooked. Our cats do that all the time--all five of them-and the house smells like hot fur." "You don't think they would have eaten the teddy bear?" "They may have chewed some of it, in which case they'll throw it up. I wouldn't worry if I were you." "Thanks, Lori. You're a great comfort.
Is Nick there? I'd like to have a word with him." When her husband came on the line, Qwilleran reported the return of the Boulevard Prowler and his own scouting expedition around the county, adding, "None of the bartenders had heard of Charles Martin, so he might not be giving his right name--that is, if he gives any name at all. He's an unsociable cuss. Anyway, it would be interesting to know where he's holing up." "I'll still put my money on Shantytown," Nick said.
"Anyone can shack up there. Or if he thinks the police are after him, he could hide out in one of the abandoned mines. He could drive his car right into the shaft house and no one would ever know." "Okay, we'll keep in touch. Would you and Lori like to see Macbeth on opening night? I'll leave a pair of tickets at the box office in your name." "I know Lori would like it. I don't know much about Shakespeare, but I'm willing to give it a try." "You'll like Macbeth, Nick. It has lots of violence." "Don't tell me about violence! I get enough of that at work!" Next, Qwilleran called Junior Goodwinter at home and said, "You left a message on my machine. What's on your mind?" "I have news for you, Qwill. Grandma Gage is here from Florida to sign the house over to me. Are you still interested in renting?" "Definitely." Now Qwilleran was even more eager to live on the property where Polly had her carriage house.
"It has a subterranean ballroom," Junior said to sweeten the deal.
"Just what I need! Can I move in before snow falls?" "As soon as I have the title." "Okay, Junior. Are you and Jody going to opening night?" "Wouldn't miss it!" By the time Qwilleran had changed into a warmup suit and had read a newsmagazine, the Siamese started coming back to life--yawning, stretching, grooming themselves, grooming each other, and making hungry noises.
"You scoundrels!" he said.
"You gave me a fright! What did you do with Tiny Tim?" Ignoring him, they walked to the feeding station and stared at the empty plate, as if to say, "Where's our grub?" While Qwilleran was preparing their food, a loud and hostile yowl came from Koko's throat, and he jumped to the kitchen counter, where he could look out the window and stare into the blackness of the woods. Standing on his hind legs he was a long lean stretch of muscle and fur, with ears perked and tail stiffened into a question mark.
"What is it, old boy? What do you see out there?" Qwilleran asked.
There were lights bobbing between the trees-headlights coming slowly along the bumpy trail from the theatre parking lot. He checked his watch. It was the hour when the rehearsal would be over and Dwight would be dropping in for another confidential chat about his problem with Melinda. But why was Koko so unfrly? He had shown no objection to Dwight on the previous visit, and it was not the first time he had seen mysterious, weaving lights in the woods. Qwilleran turned on the exterior lights.
"Oh, no!" he said.
"You were right, Koko." The floodlights illuminated a sleek, silvery sport scar and Melinda was stepping out. He went to meet her--not to express hospitality but to steer her around to the front entrance. If she insisted on intruding, he wanted to keep it formal.
He approached her and waited for her to speak, bracing himself for the usual brash salutation. She surprised him.
"Hello, Qwill," she said pleasantly.
"We just finished our first dress rehearsal. Dwight told me about your barn, and I couldn't wait another minute to see it." "Come around to the front and make a grand entrance," he said coolly.
It was the barn that was grand--not his visitor. She wore typical rehearsal clothes: tattered jeans and faded sweatshirt, with the arms of a shabby sweater tied about her shoulders. Her familiar scent perfumed the night air.
"I remember this orchard when we were kids," she said.
"My brother and I used to ride up that trail on our bikes, looking for apples, but they were always wormy. Dad told us never to go into the barn; it was full of bats and rodents." Opening the front door, he reached in and pressed a single switch that illuminated the entire interior with up lights and down lights dramatizing balconies, catwalks, and beams.
"Oooooooh!" she exclaimed, which was what visitors usually said.
Qwilleran was aware that the Siamese had scampered up the ramps and disappeared without even waiting for their food.
"You could give great parties here," she said.
"I'm not much of a party giver; I simply like space, and the cats enjoy racing around overhead." He was trying to sound dull and uninteresting.
"Where are the little dears?" "Probably on one of the balconies." He made no move to take her up the ramps for sightseeing. Melinda was being unnaturally polite instead of wittily impudent.
"The tapestries are gorgeous. were they your idea?" "No.
Fran Brodie did all the furnishings... Would you care for... a glass of apple cider?" "Sounds good." She dropped her shoulder bag on the floor and her sweater on a chair and curled up on a sofa.
When he brought the tray, she said, "Qwill, I want to thank you for buying my dad's paintings." "Don't thank me. The K Foundation purchased them for exhibition." "But you must have instigated the deal. At a hundred dollars apiece it came to $101,500. Foxy Fred would have sold them for a thousand dollars." "It was Mildred Hanstable's idea. Being an artist, she saw their merit." The conversation limped along. He could have sparked it with questions about the play, the tag sale, the clinic, and her life in Boston. He could have turned on a degree of affability, but that would only prolong the visit, and he hoped she would leave after a single glass of cider. She was being too nice, and he suspected her motive.