What could he say? He thought of the Dunfield house at the beach, where a man had been murdered. Realty agents could neither rent nor sell it, although its unsavory past had been suppressed. He said, “I wish there were something I could do. I’d be willing to spend a few days here—to see if I pick up any adverse vibrations.”
“Would you, Qwill?” she cried. “You could have a suite on the top floor and bring the cats. You’d be our guest!”
“No, no! The story would be that I’m researching material for my column. All charges would go on my expense account. What meals are available?”
“Breakfast and dinner. We have an excellent chef—from Palm Springs. Also, the suites have a small refrigerator and a coffee maker. Would you like to see one of them?”
“Won’t be necessary. I had the grand tour when the inn opened last fall. Is the black cat still here?”
“Nicodemus? Oh, yes! The guests love him; he’s so sweet in spite of his wicked eyes!” He was sleek and black with the most unusual eyes; they were triangular and had a stare like a laser beam. “He’s our rodent control officer,” Lori said with some of her old enthusiasm. “He doesn’t catch mice; he just terrifies them. Do you like canoeing, Qwill? We have a few canoes available down at the creek.”
In his younger days Qwilleran had often thought, If I can’t play second base for the Chicago Cubs, or write for The New York Times, or act on the Broadway stage . . . I’d like to be an investigator. And now even so nebulous a mystery as Lori’s “dark cloud” piqued his curiosity. Furthermore . . .
Qwilleran relished a frequent change of address. His early experience as a globetrotting correspondent had given him a chronic case of wanderlust. The Black Creek venture would be timely; the chief woman in his life was leaving on vacation. Polly Duncan, director of the Pickax public library, planned to tour museum villages on the East Coast in the company of her sister, who lived in Cincinnati. Qwilleran wondered about these sisterly flings. In Canada the previous year they had met a highly personable Quebec professor, and he had been corresponding with Polly ever since . . . in French! She said it helped her brush up on her idioms.
Qwilleran would drive her to the airport in the morning, but tonight there would be a farewell dinner in the Mackintosh Room at the hotel.
As soon as they were seated, he asked the usual fatuous questions. “Are you all packed? Are you excited?”
“I hate to leave Brutus and Catta, but there’s a cat-sitter in the neighborhood who’ll come in twice a day to give them food and attention. This morning I wrote a limerick about Catta while I was showering: A female feline named Catta / is getting fatta and fatta / but she’s pretty and purry / and funny and furry / so what does an ounce or two matta?”
“I couldn’t have done ‘betta’ myself,” he said, with apologies. “If we announce another limerick contest this summer, will you be one of the judges?”
“I’d love to! Meanwhile, what are you going to do while I’m away?”
“Read trashy novels and give wild parties, if I can find anyone who likes wild parties. . . . But seriously, I plan to spend a couple of weeks at the Nutcracker Inn in search of new material for my column.”
“I wish you were coming with me, Qwill.”
“Maybe next year, but no museums! I get all the education I want on the ‘Qwill Pen’ beat.”
“We could go to the Italian hill country and read poetry, far from the madding crowd.”
“The madding crowd is everywhere these days, Polly—taking snapshots and buying postcards. And by the way, when you send me postcards, bear in mind that the picture on the front is less important than the message on the back! More news! More news!”
His own words would ring in his ears for the next two weeks; Polly always cooperated with zeal.
But first Qwilleran had to get her to the airport for the 8:00 A.M. shuttle flight to Minneapolis. After tearful good-byes to Brutus and Catta and a race to the airport, the flight was delayed because the pilot of the shuttle had not arrived. According to the airport manager, the pilot’s baby-sitter was ill, and she was having difficulty finding a substitute. Eventually she arrived and passengers were reassured that they would make their connections.
When the plane finally taxied to the runway, lifted off and disappeared into the sky, the groundlings watched it go, as if witnesses to a miracle.
On the way home Qwilleran pulled off the highway to make some phone calls. Moose County was the first in the state to prohibit use of a cell phone while operating a vehicle. The county commissioners expected enough revenue from traffic tickets to build a soccer stadium.
First he called Andrew Brodie, the Pickax chief of police. “Andy, I’ll be out of town for a few weeks, and I have a bottle of twelve-year-old single-malt Scotch that’s too good to leave around for burglars. How about coming over for a nightcap?”
The chief, always interested in crime prevention, said he would be there at 10:00 P.M.
Next Qwilleran phoned Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor of the Moose County Something. “Junior, I’ll be faxing the copy for my next few columns. I’ll be crossing the Egyptian desert by dromedary.”
“So soon? You just got back from doing Paris by skateboard!”
“I have to keep my column fresh, you know.”
“Don’t let it get too fresh,” Junior warned. “We have a conservative readership.”
On the way home, Qwilleran made a mental list of things to do and items to pack for the trek to Black Creek, half an hour from home:
Notify post office.
Notify attorney.
Notify janitorial service.
Empty refrigerator.
Pack clothes, writing materials, books, magazines.
Pack cats’ commode and two large bags of cat litter, two plates and two water bowls, vitamin drops, grooming essentials, Koko’s harness and leash, old paisley necktie.
Take trail bike and Silverlight.
The Siamese were waiting for him apprehensively; they knew! They sensed a change in their comfortable lives.
“You’re going on vacation!” Qwilleran assured them. “You’re to be guests at a glamorous inn that has room service and a chef from Palm Springs—or Palm Beach. There’s a resident cat named Nicodemus who’s very friendly. And you can even go up the creek in a canoe.”
The Siamese, who subscribed to the home-sweet-home ethic, were always vastly inconvenienced by his restlessness, however. Silent and motionless and disapproving, they sat in a shaft of sunlight slanting through a high barn window. It made the pale fur bodies glisten, and their dark brown masks and ears stand out in sharp and defiant contrast. (Brown legs and tails were tucked out of sight.)
“Well, for your information, you’re going anyway,” Qwilleran told them.
Yum Yum, the gentle little female, squeezed her eyes noncommittally. Koko, the lordly male, who knew his name was really Kao K’o Kung, slapped the floor with his tail. When their midday snack was placed in the feeding station, they ignored it until Qwilleran was out of the room.
In the afternoon he reported to the art center, where he was to help judge best of show in a new exhibit opening Sunday. They would be self-portraits by local artists. He would be first to admit he knew nothing about art, but he knew it was his name they wanted on the judges’ panel—not his expertise. The manager of the art center had swiveled her eyes at him; Barb Ogilvie had a talent for using her eyeballs to get what she wanted. She had neglected to tell him that the portraitists were all third-graders.
“The purpose of this event,” she explained to the assembled judges, “is to introduce the art center to families who might not otherwise come here. They will be voting for their favorite and having punch and cookies. We hope to make friends.”