By the time Qwilleran walked downtown to the office of Hasselrich Bennett & Barter, the whine of leaf blowers paralyzed the eardrums like a hundred-piece symphony orchestra playing only one chord.
At the law office he sipped coffee politely from Mr. Hasselrich's heirloom porcelain cups, inquired politely about Mrs. H's health, and listened politely to the elderly attorney's discourse on the forthcoming snow - all this before getting down to business. When Qwilleran finally stated his case, Mr. Hasselrich reacted favorably. As chief counsel for the Klingenschoen Foundation, he had become accustomed to unusual proposals from the Klingenschoen heir, and although he seldom tried to dissuade Qwilleran, his fleshy eyelids frequently flickered and his sagging jowls quivered. Today the august head nodded without a flicker or a quiver.
"I believe it can be accomplished without arousing suspicion," he said.
"With complete anonymity, of course," Qwilleran specified.
"Of course. And with all deliberate haste." Qwilleran walked home with a long stride. That evening, when he took Polly Duncan out to dinner, she asked casually, "What did you do today?"
"Walked downtown... Made a few phone calls... Ran through my script... Brushed the cats." He avoided mentioning his meeting with Hasselrich.
They were dining at Tipsy's, a log cabin restaurant in North Kennebeck, Polly with her glass of sherry and Qwilleran with his glass of Squunk water. "Guess what's happening on Christmas Eve!" he said. "Arch and Mildred are tying the knot."
"I'm so happy for them," she said fervently, and Qwilleran detected a note of relief. He had always suspected that she considered Mildred a potential rival.
"Arch suggested we might make it a double wedding," he said with a sly sideways glance.
"I hope you disabused him of that notion, dear."
He gave their order: "Broiled whitefish for the lady, and I'll have the king-size steak, medium rare." Then he remarked, "Did you read the obituary in today's paper?"
"Yes. I wonder where they found those interesting pictures."
"Did you know Mrs. Gage very well?"
"I believe no one knew her very well," said Polly. "She served on my library board for a few years, but she was rather aloof. The other members considered her a snob. At other times she could be quite gracious. She always wore hats with wide brims - never tilted, always perfectly level. Some women found that intimidating."
Qwilleran said, "I detect a lingering floral perfume in one of the upstairs bedrooms at the house."
"It's violet. She always wore the same scent - to the extent that no one else in town would dare to wear it. I don't want to sound petty. After all, she was good enough to rent the carriage house to me when I was desperate for a place to live."
"That was no big deal," Qwilleran said. "No doubt she wanted someone around to watch the main house while she was in Florida."
"You're always so cynical, Qwill."
"Were you surprised that she'd take her own life?"
Polly considered the question at length before replying. "No. She was completely unpredictable. What was your impression when you interviewed her, Qwill?"
"She came on strong as a charming and witty little woman, full of vitality, but that may have been an act for the benefit of the press."
"What happens now?"
"Junior is in Florida, winding up her affairs and trying to get home before snow flies."
"I hope the weather is good for the trick-or-treaters. Are you all ready for Halloween?"
"Ready? What am I supposed to do?"
"Turn on your porch light and have plenty of treats to hand out. Something wholesome, like apples, would be the sensible thing to give, but they prefer candy or money. They used to be grateful for a few pennies, but now they expect quarters."
"Quarters! Greedy brats! How many kids come around?"
"Only a few from the boulevard, but carloads come from other neighborhoods. You should prepare for at least a hundred."
Qwilleran grunted his disapproval. "Well, they'll get apples from me - and like it!" He was quiet when the steak was served; Tipsy's specialized in an old-fashioned cut of meat that required chewing. Eventually he said, "We put the show on the road tomorrow. Mooseland High is our first booking, unless we're fortunate enough to have an earthquake."
"You don't sound very enthusiastic, dear. Do they have a good auditorium?"
"They have a gym. They're building a platform for us. Hixie made the arrangements. I've practiced packing the gear, and I can set up in nine minutes flat and strike the set in seven."
The afternoon at Mooseland High School was better than he expected, in one way; in another, it was worse. In preparation for the show he packed the lights, telescoping tripods, cables, props, and sound equipment in three carrying cases and checked off everything on a list: script, mike, telephone, extension cords, double plugs, handkerchief for the announcer to mop his sweating brow, and so forth. In college theatre there had been a backstage crew to handle all such details; now he was functioning as stage manager, stagehand, and propman as well as featured actor. It was not easy, but he enjoyed a challenge. Everything on the checklist was accounted for, with one exception: Hixie's cuecard. He unpacked the three cases, thinking it might have slipped in accidentally, but it was not there. He remembered gluing the cuesheet on a card in the newspaper office; could he have left it there? He phoned Riker.
"You took it when we went to lunch," Riker said. "I saw it in your hand."
"Go and see if it's still in the car," Qwilleran said urgently. "And hurry! We have a show in half an hour! I'll hold." While holding he appraised the calamitous situation. How could Hixie operate the sound system and lighting without her cuecard? There were six cues for music, eight for voices, five for lights - all numbered to correlate with digits on the stereo counter. With more experience she might be able to wing it, but this was only their second performance.
Riker's search of the car was fruitless. Without even a thank you Qwilleran banged down the receiver and returned to the ballroom, where he paced the floor and looked wildly about the four walls.
The Siamese watched his frantic gyrations calmly, sitting on their briskets and wearing expressions of supreme innocence.
Their very pose was suspect. "Did you devils steal the card?" he shouted at them.
The thunder of his voice frightened them into flight.
Now he knew! It was the glue! He had used rubber cement, and Koko had a passion for adhesives.
In desperation Qwilleran figured it would take twenty minutes to drive to the school, nine minutes to set up; that left eleven minutes to find the cuecard in a fifteen-room house with fifty closets, all of which looked like dumpsters. Impossible!
Take it easy, he told himself; sit down and think; if I were a cat, where would I... ?
He dashed upstairs to the kitchen. It was their bailiwick, and the six-foot table was a private baldachin sheltering their dinner plate, water dish, and Koko's closet treasures. Among them was the cuecard with two perforations in one corner.
Muttering words the Siamese had never heard, Qwilleran raced back downstairs and repacked the equipment while keeping one eye on his watch. He was cutting it close. He had to drive to the school, find the right entrance, unload the suitcases, carry them to the gym, set up the stage, test the speakers, focus the lights, change clothes, and get into character as a twentieth-century radio announcer in a nineteenth-century situation. Hixie would be waiting for him, worried sick and unable to do anything until he arrived with the equipment.
He exceeded the speed limit on Sandpit Road and parked at the front entrance where a yellow curb prohibited parking. As he was opening the trunk of the car, a short, stocky man in a baggy business suit came running from the building, followed by a big, burly student in a varsity jacket.