"Funny, nobody ever mentioned the horse... Another cup of coffee?"
"No, thanks. Let's go and see where we're going to present our show."
"Okay. Just a sec." Gary picked up the bar telephone and called a number. "Nancy, he's here," he said in a low voice. "Okay, Qwill, let's go. The meeting room's across the lobby." He led the way to a large room that was barren except for a low platform and helter-skelter rows of folding chairs. "Here it is! What do you need? We can get you anything you want."
Qwilleran stepped up on the platform and found it solid. "We need a couple of small tables, preferably noncollapsible, and a couple of plain chairs... I see you have plenty of electric outlets... What's behind that door?"
"Just a hall leading to the restrooms and the emergency exit."
"Good! I'll use it for entrances and exits. Hixie says there'll be families attending, so I suggest seating the kids in the front rows. They'll have better sight lines and be less fidgety, I hope... And now I'll take that second cup of coffee."
Back in the bar Gary said, "Hey, there's Nancy, the girl I want you to meet."
Seated on one of the tilt-top barstools was a young woman in jeans, farm jacket, and field boots. She was slightly built, and her delicate features were half hidden by a cascade of dark, wavy hair. In dress and stature she might have been a seventh grader on the way home from school, but her large brown eyes were those of a grown woman with problems. She turned her eyes beseechingly on Qwilleran's moustache.
"Nancy, this is Mr. Q," Gary said. "Nancy's a good customer of ours. Burgers, not beer, eh, Nancy?"
She nodded shyly, clutching her bottle of cola.
"How do you do," Qwilleran said with a degree of reserve.
"Nice to meet you. I've seen your column in the paper."
"Good!" he said coolly. Had she read it? Did she like it? Or had she just seen it?
Gary served Qwilleran a fresh cup of coffee. "Well, I'll leave you two guys to talk." He ambled to the other end of the bar to visit with a couple of boaters.
The awkward silence that followed was broken by Qwilleran's uninspired question. "Are you a member of the Outdoor Club?"
"Yes," she said. "I'm going to see your show Monday night."
He huffed into his moustache. Had she heard good things about it? Was she looking forward to it? Or was she simply going to see it? Again it was his turn to serve in this slow-motion game of Ping-Pong. "Do you think we'll have snow next week?"
"I think so," she said. "The dogs are getting excited."
"Dogs? Do you have dogs?"
"Siberian huskies."
"Is that so?" he remarked with a glimmer of interest. "How many do you have?"
"Twenty-seven. I breed sled dogs."
"Are you a musher?"
"I do a little racing," she said, blushing self-consciously.
"Gary tells me it's becoming quite a popular sport. Do you breed dogs as a hobby or a vocation?"
"Both, I guess. I work part-time at the animal clinic in Brrr. I'm a dog-handler."
"Do you live in Brrr?"
"Just outside. In Brrr Township."
How long, Qwilleran wondered, can this painful dialogue continue? He was determined not to inquire about her problem. If she had a problem, let her state it! They both wriggled on the ancient barstools that clicked noisily. He tried to catch Gary's eye, but the barkeeper was arguing heatedly with the boaters about the new breakwall.
"Nancy, I'm afraid I don't know your last name," Qwilleran said.
"Fincher," she said simply.
"How do you spell it?" He knew how to spell it, but it was an attempt to fill the silence.
"F-i-n-c-h-e-r.
Fortunately Gary glanced in their direction, and Qwilleran pointed to his empty cup and Nancy's half-empty bottle. Gary approached with his bearish, lumbering gait. "Did you tell him about your problem?" he asked Nancy.
"No," she said, looking away. Gary poured coffee and produced another bottle of cola. "The thing of it is, Qwill, her dad disappeared." Then he went back to the boaters.
Qwilleran looked inquiringly at the embarrassed daughter. "When did that happen?"
"I haven't been able to find him since Sunday." She looked genuinely worried.
"Do you live in the same house?"
"No, he lives on his farm. I have a mobile home."
"What kind of farm?"
"Potatoes."
"Where did you see him on Sunday?"
"I went over to cook Sunday dinner for him, the way I always do. Then he watched football on TV, and I went home to my dogs."
"And when did you first realize he was missing?"
"Wednesday." There was a long, exasperating pause. Qwilleran waited for her to go on.
"The mail carrier stopped and told me that Pop's mailbox was filling up, and his dog was barking in the house, and there was no truck in the yard. So I drove over there, and Corky was so starved, he almost took my arm off. He'd wrecked the house, looking for something to eat. And the place smelled terrible!"
"Did you notify the police?"
Nancy looked at her clenched hands. They were small hands, but they looked strong. "Well, I talked to a deputy I know, and he said Pop was most likely off on a binge somewhere."
"Is your father a heavy drinker?"
"Well... he's been drinking more since Mom died."
"Did you do anything further?"
"Well, I cleaned up the mess and took Corky home with me, and on the way I stopped at the Crossroads Tavern. That's where Pop goes to have a beer with the other farmers and chew the rag. They said he hadn't been around since Saturday night. They figured he was working in the fields."
"Has your father ever done this before?"
"Never!" Her eyes flashed for the first time. "He'd never do such a thing at harvest. The weather's been wet, and if he doesn't dig his potatoes before the first heavy frost, the whole crop will be ruined. It's not like him at all! He's a very good farmer, and he's got a lot invested in his crop."
"And this deputy you mentioned - does he know your father?"
"Yes," she said, shrinking into her burly jacket.
"What's his name?"
"Dan Fincher."
"Related to you?"
She turned away as she said, "We were married for a while."
"I see," said Qwilleran. "What's your father's name?"
"Gil Inchpot."
He nodded. "The Inchpot name goes back a long way in the farming community. The farm museum in West Middle Hummock has quite a few things from early Inchpot homesteads."
"I've never been there," Nancy said. "I never cared much for history."
"What kind of truck does your father drive?"
"Ford pickup. Blue."
"Do you know the license number?"
"No," she said, pathetically enough to arouse Qwilleran's sympathy.
"Let me think about this matter," he said, pushing a cocktail napkin and a ballpoint pen toward her. "Write down your address and telephone number, also the address of your father's farm."
"Thank you," she said simply, turning her expressive brown eyes toward him.
He thought, Beware of young women with beseeching brown eyes, especially when they look twelve years old. "If you learn anything further, ask Gary how to get in touch with me."
"Thank you," she said again. "Now I have to go back to work. I just ran over from the clinic."
She left, lugging a shoulder bag half her size. Qwilleran watched her go, smoothing his moustache like the villain in an old melodrama, but the gesture meant something else. It meant that he sensed an element of intrigue in this country tale. The reaction started with a tingle on his upper lip - in the roots of his moustache - and he had learned to respect the sensation.
Gary returned with the coffee server.
"Please! Not again! It's good coffee, but I'm driving."
"Nice little girl, isn't she?" the barkeeper remarked. "I don't visualize her racing with a pack of sled dogs. She looks too delicate."