He hiked up the paved Sandpit Road and east on the gravel Dumpy and was still a quarter-mile from the riverbed when he noticed a change in the atmosphere. The chirping, rustling, cawing, chattering sounds of dry land were deadened and replaced by the silence of flooded fields under a heavy sky. When the Ittibittiwassee came into view, it was no longer a river; it was a lake with trees and barns and sheds tilting far out on its glassy surface. Hawks were circling over the wetlands, looking for drowned carrion. The scene was unhealthily quiet.
Hogback Road was impassable, but he cut through the woods on the high ground that paralleled it. As he zoomed up over the last sandhill he had a view of the plumbing graveyard. Most of the old plumbing fixtures in the yard were submerged. The animal cages had washed away entirely, and Joanna’s flat-roofed shack was dangerously tilted and about to collapse. The van was not there; neither was she. Still he felt compelled to call her name two or three times, and his voice sounded eerily loud across the counterfeit lake.
A spongy margin at the edge of the flood indicated that the water was beginning to recede or drain into the sandy soil, leaving debris in its wake: sodden papers and rags, bits of wood, food wrappers, beer cans, and a muddied plaid that looked like Joanna’s everyday shirt. He picked up a crude wooden cross that had marked an animal’s grave and lifted a large red rag from the mud. Then he jumped back on his bike and plunged back into the woods, heading for town.
Dumpy Road with its dreary trailer homes surrounded by junk cars was even more depressing on a gray day. It was rutted and treacherous after the rain, and he had to concentrate on the roadbed. Just then something whizzed past his ear, alarmingly close, and he saw a rock as big as a grapefruit hitting the ground.
He turned to find its source, and a second rock grazed his shoulder. At the same time he saw two figures ducking behind a shed.
Qwilleran did no more sightseeing that day. He pedaled back to the cabin and telephoned Mrs. Glinko. “Have you seen Little Joe lately?” he asked.
“You got another leak?” she said with her perpetual good humor.
“No, but her house was destroyed by the flood, and I’m worried about her. We wouldn’t want to lose a first-rate plumber, would we?”
“She’s okay. She’s around somewheres. Want me to dispatch her for anything? Ha ha ha!”
“No, thanks.”
Qwilleran turned to the Siamese, who were attending him closely as if concerned-or hungry. “This is not the vacation paradise I envisioned,” he told them. “I’d like to read my horoscope for today.”
He picked up the phone again and called Mildred Hanstable. “Qwill here. How’s Roger? … That’s good. I was worried about him … No, not a thing. No mention of suspects. When Roger gets back on the beat, we may hear something. By the way, do you have any papers from Down Below? … Good! What’s my horoscope for today?” There followed a long wait and a sound of rustling newsprint. He listened and then said, “Well, thanks, Mildred. And let’s have dinner one night next week.”
He tamped his moustache. In the Morning Rampage the forecast read, “Interesting developments are in the offing. Hang in there a little longer.” The Daily Fluxion, on the other hand, advised, “Know when to wash your hands of a bad situation. Cut your losses.”
Qwilleran gave the contradictory counsel some serious thought as he heated two cartons of chili for himself and opened a can of crabmeat for the Siamese, and he was inclined to go along with the Rampage. His ruminations were interrupted by the sound of a vehicle moving up the drive. He went to the back porch to investigate. It was a recreation vehicle of modest size, and the driver in camping attire who jumped out of it was Nick Bamba.
“Hi!” he said. “I’m on my way Down Below to pick up Lori and the baby, and I decided to drop by and see how you’re doing. Hey! What happened to your new addition?”
“It was redesigned by the tornado,” Qwilleran informed him. “Come in and have a bourbon. Have you had dinner?”
“No, I’ll grab something on the road.”
“I’m thawing some packaged chili. How about a bowl? It’s not bad. Even Koko will eat it in a pinch.” Qwilleran poured the drinks and set out some cheese and crackers. “Who’ll take care of your cats while you’re gone?”
“One of our neighbors at the condo. Mighty Lou.”
Qwilleran looked dubious. “You mean the one-and-only original Mighty Lou? Is he reliable?”
“Oh, sure. He’s very good with cats.”
“He doesn’t resemble your average cat-sitter.”
“No, but he’s a good guy-brushes them, talks to them, and everything. The cats like him.” Nick took a sip of his drink, expressed satisfaction, and then said, “You came up with a couple of shockers this week, Qwill. First you’re marooned on a desert island, and then you find a dead body under your house! Are there any suspects?”
“All I know is what I hear on the radio. The police don’t confide in me.”
“But you must have some noodles of your own.” Nick knew that Qwilleran’s suspicions had paid off in the past.
“I don’t know. I’m up a tree. Someone must have had a key to get in and bury the body. I subscribe to the Glinko service, and all their service personnel have access to my key-and God knows who else can borrow it. What do you know about the Glinko operation, Nick? Is it all legal and aboveboard?”
“As far as I know.”
“They’re raking in the dough-dues from summer people and commissions from their workers. What do they do with all their money? They live like paupers.”
“They’ve got a lot of expenses,” Nick said, “what with three kids in college, one of them in Harvard.”
Qwilleran tried not to appear stunned. “Harvard, did you say? Harvard University?”
“Those eastern schools don’t come cheap.”
Qwilleran put the bourbon bottle and ice bucket on the coffee table. “Help yourself, Nick.”
“Are you going to stay in Mooseville?” the young man asked.
“If the weather doesn’t get any worse.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the weather.”
“What’s on your mind? Out with it!”
Nick hesitated before saying, “I think you’d be wise to pack up the cats and beat it back to Pickax. We have some riffraff around here, and I’ve heard some nasty rumblings.
Don’t forget, I work at the state prison, and there’s no better place to hear rumblings.”
Qwilleran stroked his moustache. Cecil had warned him; a small boulder had been aimed at him on Dumpy Road; and there had been several crank calls on the phone.
“What is this riffraff you mention?’”
“They hate the summer people, because they think they have money. The chamber of commerce keeps the lid on them in tourist season, but the town has emptied out since the storm, and the troublemakers are more visible. They gang together, get a few drinks, and cut loose. I’m warning you, Qwill. Go back to Pickax tonight!”
“I have yet to run away from a situation, my boy, and I’ve lived through some hairy ones.”
“You’re isolated here. There’s only one driveway and no escape route. They can vandalize the cabin-start a fire-do something to the cats.”
At the mention of the Siamese-Koko perched on the moosehead, Yum Yum looking fragile and precious on the sofa-Qwilleran grew pensive. He was so deep in thought that he jumped when the telephone rang. “Hello?” he said warily.
“Hey, Qwill, this is Gary at the Black Bear,” said the barkeeper.
Qwilleran responded with some surprise. Gary had never phoned him before.
“How’s everything in Mooseville?”
“Apart from the rain, the mosquitoes, and the tornado, everything’s fine.”