"Very true," he agreed. "By the way, she was a very wealthy woman. Did she give that impression?"
"She didn't talk big, but she was kind of high-toned, and her mobile home was a double-wide. I guessed she had plenty stashed away."
"Had she changed in any way since moving into the park? Was her mind still keen?"
"Oh, she was very sharp! She always knew what she wanted to do - and how to do it - and she did it! She sometimes said 'teapot' when she meant 'lamp shade,' but we all do that around here. I'm beginning to say 'left' when I mean 'right.' Clayton says it's something in the water in Florida," she said with a giggle.
Qwilleran cleared his throat, signifying an important question: "Were you aware that she drew up a new will after moving to the park?"
"Well, she never talked about anything like that - not to me, anyway - but I told her about this fellow - this lawyer-who does work for the Sunsetters for very reasonable fees. He did my will for only twenty- five dollars, and it was all tied up with red ribbon and red wax. Very professional! Of course, it was a simple will; I'm leaving everything to Clayton - not that I have much to leave."
"Yow!" said Koko.
"I hear my master's voice," Qwilleran said. "Good night, Celia. Thank you again for the snapshots, and give my regards to the thirteen-year-old doctor."
Her merry laughter was still pealing when he hung up. He arranged the snapshots in rows and studied them. Koko was purring loudly, and Qwilleran let him pass his nose over the glossy surfaces. Once again the long pink tongue flicked at two of the prints - the same two that had attracted him before. Qwilleran smoothed his moustache in deep thought; the cat never licked, sniffed, or scratched anything without a reason.
It snowed that night. There was a breathless stillness in the atmosphere as large, wet flakes fell gently, clinging to tree branches, evergreen shrubs, porch railings, and the lintels of hundreds of windows.
Pickax, known as the City of Stone, was transformed into the City of Marshmallow Creme.
It was a good day to stay indoors and putter, Qwilleran decided after breakfasting on strong coffee and warmed-up rolls. He rummaged through the collection of Gage memorabilia that was accumulating in the desk drawer. The relics defined Grandpa Gage as a bon vivant, who smoked cigars, drank wine, collected women's garters, and liked the feel of money. There was a piece of Confederate money, and there were two large dollar bills of the kind issued before 1929. A pearl-handled buttonhook dated back to the days of high-button shoes. There was an old ivory pawn from a chess set that may have belonged to Euphonia's studious father-in-law.
Koko's excavations were not entirely scientific; they included a small, dry wishbone and a racy postcard from Paris.
By afternoon the snow had stopped falling, and Qwilleran was tempted to drive out into the countryside and enjoy the fresh snow scene. He would take his camera. He would also check the church in Brrr where Hixie had scheduled the next performance of "The Big Burning." Phoning the number listed for the Brrr Community Church, he was assured that someone would meet him there. He dressed in heavy jacket, boots, and wool cap and was saying goodbye to the Siamese when Koko staged one of his eloquent demonstrations, jumping at the handle of the back door and muttering under his breath.
"Okay, this is your last ride of the season," Qwilleran told him. He started the car and ran the heater for a few minutes before carrying the cat coop out and placing it on the backseat.
The Moose County landscape - with its flat farmland, abandoned mine sites, and rows of utility poles - could be bleak in November, but today it was a picture in black and white. The plows were operating on the major highways, sending plumes of snow ten feet high. Even the town of Brrr, with its undistinguished architecture, looked like an enchanted village.
The church was a modest frame building with a cupola; it might have been a one-room schoolhouse except for the arched windows. As soon as Qwilleran pulled up to the curb, the front door opened and a woman came out to greet him, bundled up in a parka with the hood tied securely under her chin.
"Mr. Qwilleran, I'm Donna Sims. I was watching for you. Come in out of the cold, but don't expect to get warm. The furnace is out of order."
Qwilleran threw a blanket over the cat coop and followed the woman into the building. The vestibule was a small one, with a few steps leading up to the place of worship and a few steps leading down to a spick-and-span basement. Its concrete floor was freshly painted brick red, and its concrete block walls were painted white.
Ms. Sims apologized for the frigid temperature. "We're waiting for the furnace man. Emergencies like this are usually handled by a member of our congregation, but no one knows where he is. Maybe you heard about the potato farmer that disappeared. We're very much upset about it. He was such a wonderful help. When we decided to build a basement under this hundred-year-old church, he told us how to jack it up and do the job. He had all kinds of skills... So now we're waiting for a heating man from Mooseville."
"Don't apologize," Qwilleran said. "I'll cut this visit short because I have a cat in the car. What is that door?"
"That's the furnace room."
"Good! I'll use it for entrances and exits. Do you have anything in the way of a platform?"
"Not a regular platform, but one of our members manufactures industrial palettes - you know, those square wooden things - and we can borrow as many as necessary and stack them up. I think they're four by four feet."
"Are they sturdy? Are they solid?"
"Oh, yes, they're built to hold, thousands of pounds."
"Eight of them should be enough, stacked two high in an eight-by-eight-foot square. How about electric outlets?"
"Two over here, and two over there. These tables are what we use for pot-luck suppers, but they fold up, and we can arrange the chairs in rows. Is there anything else you need?"
"A small table and chair on the platform and another table and chair for my engineer, down on the floor." He handed her a typewritten card. "This is how we like to be introduced. Will your pastor be doing the honors?"
"I'm the pastor," she said.
The chill of the basement had been worse than the cold snap outdoors, but the car interior was still comfortable. Qwilleran turned up the heat and said to
Koko, "If it's all right with you, we'll go for a little ride along the shore, and see if the cabin's buttoned up for the winter." He had inherited a log cabin along with the rest of the Klingenschoen estate.
They headed along the lakeshore, where boarded-up cottages and beached boats huddled under a light blanket of snow. Then came a wooded stretch posted with red signs prohibiting hunting. At one point a large letter K was mounted on a post at the entrance to a narrow driveway, and this is where Qwilleran turned in. It was hardly more than an old wagon trail, meandering through the woods, up and down over brush-covered sand dunes. At the crest of one slight hill Koko created a disturbance in the backseat, throwing himself around in the carrier and yowling.
"Hold it, boy! We're just having a quick look," said Qwilleran, thinking the cat recognized the place where they had spent two summers. He stopped the car, however, and released the door of the coop.
Quivering with excitement, Koko darted to the rear window on the driver's side and pawed the glass.
"It's cold out there! You can't get out! You'd freeze your little tail off."
In a frenzy Koko dashed about the interior of the car as Qwilleran ducked and protested. "Hey! Cool it!" he said, but then he looked out the driver's window. Twisted trunks of wild cherry trees were silhouetted against the snow, and between them were animal tracks leading into the woods. Qwilleran jumped out, slammed the door, and followed the tracks.
A few yards into the woods there was a slight hollow, and what he found there sent him running back to the car, stumbling through the brush, slipping on wet snow. Without stopping to put Koko in the carrier, he backed down the winding trail to the highway. At the nearest gas station, on the outskirts of Mooseville, he called the sheriff.