Qwilleran got up to refill his coffee mug. The cats remained where they were.
Returning he said, “It’s the logistics of this latest crime that boggle my mind: how to lower the body through the trap door, convey it to the middle of the crawl space without leaving a distinct trail, and bury it under loose sand-all with only two feet of headroom, or less. Of course, Iggy was as thin as a potato chip; he can’t have weighed more than ninety pounds.”
Qwilleran began to massage his moustache vigorously. “Could it be that Iggy was already in the center of the crawl space when he was attacked? Could it be that the killer lured him down there with the story of the Klingenschoen treasure?.
. . Koko, did you hear two voices under the floor? If the answer is yes, tap your tail three times.”
There was not even a whisker stirring on the hearth rug; both cats were having their afternoon nap.
Qwilleran screened the fireplace without disturbing them and drove to Mooseville to pick up his mail and replace certain items confiscated by the police.
In the post office he found the patrons talking about the murder as they licked their stamps and unlocked their boxes, but they quickly changed the subject when he approached. His mail was plentiful-too plentiful, considering that his secretary had gone on vacation. It always happened that way. And now his narrow escape on Three Tree Island would bring another flood of letters from well-wishers, and the publicity on the murder would result in yet another wave of correspondence.
When Qwilleran entered the hardware store he was aware he was being ogled by other customers. To the proprietor he said, “Thanks for turning off the rain, Cecil.” Huggins was president of the chamber of commerce, and he regarded the weather as one of his responsibilities of office.
“Too late!” he said dolefully. “The tourists are leaving in droves, and the fishermen are giving me hell. We haven’t seen the sun for three days … Say,”
he added in a lower voice, “is it true what they said on the radio?”
“Sad but true.”
“Murder is bad for business, you know. Even worse than rain. Tourists don’t like the idea of a killer running around loose. How’d the body get underneath your house, Mr. Q?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Are the police bothering you?”
“I daresay they’re bothering everyone.”
“Do they have any suspects?”
Another customer barged into the conversationa big man in a flashy cowboy outfit and expensive boots. “Hey, are you the fella with a dead body under the floor?” he asked with a pudding-face smile.
“I’m glad to say,” Qwilleran said politely, “that it’s no longer under the floor.”
“How’d it get there?”
“Lou,” said the storekeeper gently, taking the man’s arm, “look over there in the tool department. There’s a new kind of saber saw that we just got in stock.
You’ll like it. I’ll give you a five-percent discount as a good customer.”
The big man drifted away to the other side of the store.
The hardwareman shook his head and said to Qwilleran, “He’s a nuisance sometimes, but he spends a lot of money on tools, so I try not to offend him.
Sometimes I feel guilty, because I know he never uses them, but a fella with his money is going to spend it on something, so let him spend it on electric saws.
That’s what I say. Am I right?”
“It makes sense,” said Qwilleran. “What do you hear about the flooding?”
“Worst ever! The creeks in three counties are dumping into the Ittibittiwassee.
It’s flooding farms and washing out bridges. Very bad! They’re announcing on the radio which roads are closed.”
… Qwilleran bought a new flashlight and had another key made. “Do you keep a record, Cecil, of people who buy duplicate keys?”
“Not a chance, Mr. Q. With all the records I have to keep for the government, I can’t keep tabs on folks who lose their keys.” The storekeeper accompanied Qwilleran to the door, and when they were beyond earshot of the clerks and customers he said, “There’s something I should tell you, Mr. Q. Certain local folks are talking about you this morning in a way I don’t like. You’re a great guy when you’re giving the K money away, but get a little mud splashed on your trouser cuffs, and they’re ready to trample you in the gutter.”
“Interesting observation,” said Qwilleran, “but I don’t get the point.”
Cecil glanced hastily around the store and whispered, “A certain element around here-troublemakers and not very bright-would like to think you’re the one who killed the carpenter and buried the body. If they don’t know the truth, they invent it, and they like to do mischief.”
Qwilleran took it lightly. “Perhaps I should call Glinko and requisition a bodyguard.”
“If I were you, Mr. Q,” said Cecil, “I’d go back to Pickax until it blows over.
There’s something else, too, that’s being whispered: When Clem Cottle was last seen, he was working for you.”
Qwilleran thanked him for his concern and left the store. This, he thought, is a new slant on Mooseville society-an idea for the “Qwill Pen.”
When he arrived at the cabin, however, he momentarily lost his detachment. The interior was a wreck! Cecil’s words flashed into his mind … until he recognized the nature of the damage and identified the culprits. The dining table had been swept clean, except for his typewriter; all the Indian rugs had been pushed into corners, their fringes chewed; Emma Wimsey’s shopping bag was overturned and the contents scattered.
“Bad cats!” Qwilleran bellowed. Yum Yum went slinking under the sofa; Koko leaped from floor to woodbox to mantel to moosehead in a swift, guilty blur of light-and-dark brown. Scolding would accomplish nothing. This was a Siamese protest against the incarceration and neglect of the last few days. Perhaps the cats were even blaming him for the lack of sunshine.
Patiently Qwilleran collected the desktop clutter from the floor. Patiently he straightened the rugs. Patiently he collected Emma’s papers. “I hope you cats know,” he said, “that I’m bucking for sainthood when I do this with such forbearance.”
Half the pens and pencils were missing, but he knew where they were. With a broom from the mudroom he made several swipes under Yum Yum’s favorite sofa and retrieved the following: A few balls of cat hair.
A toothbrush with a red handle.
Two felt-tip pens and one gold ballpoint.
Three pencils.
A postcard from Polly Duncan, perforated with fang-marks.
A cheap lipstick case, evidently Joanna’s.
A white sock with green sports stripe.
Qwilleran assuaged his own damaged feelings with a cup of coffee and a session with the letter opener. First he read the latest postcard from Polly Duncan. She was having difficulty adjusting to the English climate; she was having respiratory problems. “She thinks she’s got problems!” he said to anyone who cared to hear. Next he opened a letter from the Senior Care Facility: Dear Mr. Qwilleran, I think you will want to know this. Yesterday our dear Emma Wimsey celebrated her birthday. She had a birthday cake with candles and wore a paper hat. As the aide was putting her to bed, Emma said, “I hear scratching under the door.’” Shortly after, she passed away quietly in her sleep. She had just turned ninety.
Sincerely, Irma Hasselrich, MCSCF Chief Canary Emma Wimsey had lived a long life, Qwilleran reflected. She had secured an education, raised a family, performed her farm chores, worshipped her Lord, collected her little stories, and passed her final days among those caring canaries in yellow smocks. Only when he visualized the diminutive woman in a paper hat on her ninetieth birthday did he feel a degree of sorrow. Opening her valentine box, he regretted that none of her family wanted this paltry legacy.