They talked about potter’s marks, fakes, and such rare items as a three-legged kettle-shaped cup, and a left-handed sterling silver spoon for sipping soup.
After the chicken potpie and broccoli salad and before the dessert, the closed doors to the room opened slowly, and Nick Bamba slipped into the room. He found Qwilleran and whispered in his ear before making a quick exit.
“No!” Qwilleran responded more loudly than he intended.
He went to where Nell was sitting, whispered in her ear, then hurried from the room.
Nick was waiting in the hallway. “It was on the air: Body of missing person found in Black Forest—name withheld—cause of death not yet known—”
“That means they know but they’re not telling. How did you find out he was shot?”
“Called my contact in the sheriff’s office. He didn’t know if wolves reached the body before the search party did.”
“I don’t want to know. . . . Was his camera gone?”
“That wasn’t mentioned. Was it an expensive one?”
“More likely the exposed film would be more important to the shooter. Sounds to me like another gold prospector, afraid of having his illegal operation photographed. This is a tragic situation for Wendy. What can be done?”
“We thought her doctor should be given the facts, so she can act in the best interests of her patient. Lori called Dr. Diane.”
“You did right, Nick. I’m picking up Wendy’s mother at the airport, and I’ll tell her only what the police have released to the media.”
“Sorry I interrupted your party, Qwill.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you did.”
Qwilleran took the short cut to Cabin Five, via the back road, and made a strong cup of coffee. The cats sensed his preoccupation and were quiet—but not for long. Koko started jumping on and off the furniture, all the while talking to himself. Someone was coming!
It was Trent, the porter from the inn, delivering a large silver-wrapped cube topped with a huge silver bow. He said, “They were going to give you this at the luncheon, but you left early.”
“Is someone giving me a bowling ball?”
“Or a mummified head,” said Trent with a grin.
It was, as he had feared, a moustache cup and saucer—but not the lustreware with hand-painted yellow roses. The set was earthenware, with a decent-sized mug and a good handle for gripping. What made it rare, he later learned, was the advertising on both mug and saucer, promoting men’s coats, trousers and vests made to order with perfect fit guaranteed. A sketch showing a frock-coated tailor and a top-hatted customer suggested that the set was early twentieth century.
A note from Nell said, “We were horrified to hear about your friend. We can understand your sudden departure. But I said some nice things about you, and all the members send their condolences. Here is a token of our esteem.”
He was scribbling a thank-you note when he was distracted by the sound of a car with a faulty fan belt. He recognized it as Hannah’s vehicle, and he was not surprised when she phoned him, saying breathlessly, “Have you heard the news, Qwill?”
“What news?” he asked.
She repeated the WPKX bulletin, adding, “It pains me to think how Wendy will react. Thank God her mom is on the way here.” Then, in a confidential tone, she said, “You know, Wendy’s parents didn’t want her to marry Doyle. They thought he was too self-centered.”
“What can one say? It happens in the best of families.”
“I called the hospital, and the nurse said Wendy is in stable condition. . . . Well, I guess that’s all I have to say.”
“That’s not all I have to say, Hannah. You’d better have your fan belt checked. Your motor doesn’t sound good.”
Koko was jumping on and off the table where the yellow boxes were stacked. He knew what they contained, and he liked nothing better than to lick the emulsion on the surface of a glossy photograph.
Qwilleran himself had no heart for looking at Doyle’s prints. Eventually he and Bushy would choose the best and proceed with the art book. Koko was sniffing the yellow boxes; he could detect a photograph the way a squirrel could detect a nut buried six inches underground. Qwilleran spent a restless hour or two until it was time to leave for the airport.
The shuttle flight that brought passengers from the large airports to Moose County was called “The Wright Brothers Special” by local wags. Its unofficial slogan was Better Than Nothing.
Qwilleran was there when the plane fell out of the sky and bounced up to the terminal. Men and women carrying briefcases or shopping bags virtually tumbled down the gangway in their eagerness to be on the ground again. Last to appear was a woman wearing a business suit and a tailored hat and carrying a small piece of smart luggage. She looked more like the chairman of the board, composed and very much in charge and not at all like someone’s mom.
“Mrs. Satterlee? I’m Jim Qwilleran,” he said. “I’m to drive you to the hospital.”
“How is Wendy?” she asked quickly.
“In stable condition and having very good care. May I take your luggage? My car is over there.”
There was no small talk about the weather or the eccentricities of the shuttle service, but when he turned the key in the ignition of the van, she said, “Now! What do you know about the circumstances preceding Wendy’s attack? She had been phoning me twice a week but may not have been telling me everything. She said they were having a wonderful time.”
“So it appeared, but at a dinner party one night—after too much wine, perhaps—she and Doyle had a family spat. She didn’t want him to go into the woods to photograph wildlife, saying there were bears, poisonous snakes and rabid foxes. The next day, after he had gone upstream in his canoe, Wendy came to my cabin and apologized for the outburst; she said she was worried sick.”
“She’s a worrier, no doubt about it,” said her mother, “but she’s supposed to avoid stress because of a congenital heart condition. Doyle is aware of the situation and should not upset her unnecessarily. I gathered, however, that they were leaving Black Creek early and going to another resort for a few days.”
“That was the plan,” Qwilleran said, “but yesterday he went canoeing for one last time and didn’t return. We filed a Missing Persons report, and the sheriff launched an all-out search. Wendy was rushed to the hospital.”
“Our cardiologist wants her brought home to Cleveland as soon as she can travel, even if it means chartering a plane.”
“That’s something for you to discuss with her doctor, Diane Lanspeak. You’ll be staying at an inn on the grounds of the hospital.”
Then Mrs. Satterlee asked the question that was painful to answer. “Have they found Doyle?”
He hesitated before saying, “They’ve found the body.”
“How terrible—for Wendy! And in her condition!” There was a long pause. “What happened to him?”
Qwilleran hesitated again. “No further details have been released by the sheriff’s department.”
After that there was not much conversation. He pointed out the hospital—an impressive facility for a small community—and delivered his passenger to the Friendship Inn with its flower garden and benches for meditation. “Here’s my phone number,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything I can do.”
Later that evening—when he sat on the porch contemplating the peaceful scene—he asked himself questions.
At what time did Wendy express alarm about the gunfire? (He had attributed it to the ever-present rabbit hunters.)
At what time did Koko chill the scene with his death-howl? (Shortly before they all went up the creek in search of Doyle’s canoe.)
There had been another minor incident: Koko looking out the south window of the bunk room—and growling at a noisy vehicle. In an effort at humor, that was lost on the growler, Qwilleran had said to him, “That’s only a bad muffler. You should check your own muffler.”