8
When the sirens went screaming down the highway, Qwilleran was having his morning coffee and one of Aunt Fanny's cinnamon buns from the freezer, thawed and heated to pudding consistency in the microwave. Several acres of woods separated the cabin from the main road, but he could identify the sound of two police cars and an ambulance speeding eastward. Another accident! Traffic was getting heavier as the vacation season approached. Vans, recreation vehicles, and boat trailers were turning a country road into a dangerous thoroughfare.
That morning Qwilleran had lost another round in his feud with the fireplace. Why, he asked himself, can a single cigarette butt start a forest fire when I can't set fire to a newspaper with eleven matches? When he finally managed to ignite the sports section, smoke billowed from the fireplace and flakes of charred newsprint floated about the room before settling on the white linen sofas, the oiled wood floors, and the Indian rugs.
After breakfast he began to clean house. He started by dusting the bookshelves and was still there two hours later, having discovered books on Indians, raccoons, mining history, and common weeds. The dissertation on poison ivy included a sketch of the sinister vine. At once Qwilleran left the cabin with book in hand to scout the woods beyond the septic tank — that particular area that monopolized the cats' attention.
All of nature was reacting ebulliently to the violence of the recent storm. Everything was cleaner, greener, taller, and more alive. Two little brown rabbits were gnawing pine cones. Small creatures rustled through the ground cover of pine needles and last year's oak leaves. There was no poison ivy, however. Back to the dusting, Qwilleran thought.
Then another opportunity for procrastination presented itself. He had never entered the toolshed except to select a canoe paddle. It was a cedar hut with a door, no window and no electric light. Immediately inside the entrance were the paddles, long-handled garden tools, and a ladder. The far end of the shed was in darkness, and Qwilleran went back to the cabin for a flashlight. As he expected, his activities were being monitored by two Siamese in the east window.
In the inner gloom of the shed the flashlight beam picked out paint cans, coils of rope, a garden hose, axes, and — against the far wall — a dingy cot with a limp pillow.
On the wall above hung faded magazine pages with a two-year-old dateline and the unmistakable razzle-dazzle of Las Vegas. Mosquitoes were bounding off Qwilleran's neck and ears, and a loud buzzing suggested something worse. Qwilleran made a quick exit.
He had resumed his desultory housecleaning when he heard a rumbling in Koko's throat.
The cat rushed to the windows overlooking the lake. Moments later a lone walker on the beach started to climb the dune. Mildred Hanstable's head was bowed, and she was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
Qwilleran went out to meet her. "Mildred! What's wrong?" "Oh, God!" she wailed. "It's Buck Dunfield." "What's happened?" "He's dead!" "Mildred, I can't believe it! He was here yesterday and healthy as an ox." She all but collapsed in his arms, and he took her indoors and seated her on a sofa. "Can I get you something? Tea? A shot of whiskey?" She shook her head and controlled herself with effort. Koko watched, his eyes wide with alarm. "Sarah and Betty got home — from Canada — a little while ago and — and found him in the basement — workshop." She put her hands over her face. "Blood allover. He'd been killed — beaten — with one of the — one of the big — candlesticks." Her words drowned in her tears, and Qwilleran held her hand and let her cry it out, while he coped with his own shock and outrage.
When she was calm she said, between fits of sniffling: "Sarah passed out — and Betty came screaming over to my house — and we called the police. I told them I hadn't heard anything — not even the machinery. The storm drowned everything out." "Do you know if the motive was burglary?" "Betty says nothing was touched. I'm shattered. I don't know what I'm doing. I'd better go home. Sharon and Roger are coming over as soon as they can." "Let me walk you home." "No, I want to walk alone-and straighten myself out. Thanks, though." Qwilleran tried to straighten out his own thinking. First he had to deal with the bitter realization that violence like this could take place in Mooseville. Could it be someone from Down Below? The area was being inundated by outsiders… Then there was genuine grief. He liked Buck Dunfield and had looked forward to a summer of good talk and shared adventures… And there was anger at the senseless killing. Buck had been so glad to be alive and to be doing something useful… After that came uneasiness. No matter what the local custom, locks on doors were now an imperative. He hurried to the phone and called Pickax.
"Aunt Fanny! This is Jim calling from Mooseville. I want you to listen carefully. This is important. I need to find a locksmith immediately. I must have locks on these doors, or keys for the existing locks. Someone entered my neighbor's house and killed him.
Someone has also been using this cabin for some shady purpose. I know this is Sunday, but I want to be able to call a locksmith early tomorrow. The whole idea of leaving doors open to strangers is unsafe, absurd, and medieval!" There was a long pause before the scratchy baritone response: "Bless my soul! My dear boy, I didn't realize a journalist could get so upset. You are always so contained. Never mind! Hang up, and I'll make some arrangements. How is the weather on the shore? Did you have thunder and lightning last night?" Qwilleran replaced the receiver and groaned. "What do you bet," he asked Koko, "that she'll send Tom, the resident genius?" To Yum Yum, who came struggling out from under the sofa, he said: "Sorry, sweetheart, I didn't know I was shouting." To himself he said: Fanny didn't even ask who had been murdered.
Barely ten minutes elapsed before a car could be heard winding its careful way among the trees and over the rolling dunes. Koko rushed to his checkpoint on the porch. The visitor was a young man with curly black hair, dressed in Mooseville's idea of Sunday Best: a string tie with his plaid shirt and jeans, and no cap.
With deference in his tone and courteous manner he said: "Good afternoon, Mr.
Qwilleran. I hear you have a problem." "Are you the locksmith?" "No, sir. Mooseville doesn't have a locksmith, but I know something about locks. I'm an engineer. My wife:~ and I were having our usual Sunday dinner at the hotel, and Miss Klingenschoen tracked us down. She's a very persuasive woman. I came as soon as I finished my prime rib. Very good prime rib at the hotel. Have you tried it?" "Not yet," Qwilleran said, trying to conceal his impatience. "We've been here just a few days." "That's what my wife told me. She's postmistress in Mooseville." "Lori? I've met her. Charming young lady." Qwilleran relaxed a little. "And your name?" "Dominic. Nick for short. What seems to be the trouble?" After the situation was explained he said: "No problem at all. I'll bring some equipment tomorrow and take care of it." "Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but a man at Top o' the Dunes was murdered. It's been a great shock." "Yes, it's too bad. Everyone is wondering what effect it will have on the community." "You mean people know about it already? They didn't find the body until a couple of hours ago." "My wife heard the news in the choir loft," Nick said. "She sings at the Old Log Church. I heard it from one of the ushers during the offering." "Murder is not what I'd expect in Mooseville. Who would do such a thing? Some camper from Down Below?" "Well-l-l," replied the engineer. "I could make a guess." Qwilleran's moustache bristled. He sensed a source of information. "May I offer you a drink, Nick?" "No, thank you. I'll get back to my wife and my dessert. We like the deep-dish apple pie at the hotel." Qwilleran walked with him to the car. "So you're an engineer. What kind of work do you do?" "I'm employed at the prison," Nick said. "See you tomorrow. " Qwilleran went back to his housecleaning-in the desultory manner that was his specialty. He was shaking the Indian rugs in the parking lot when he heard a sound that made his heart leap: a car with a faulty muffler. Rosemary had never found time to have it replaced. He caught a glimpse of her little car between the trees and gasped. She had a passenger! If she had brought Max Sorrel — that pushy opportunist, that viper with a shaved head and facile smile — there might be another murder in Mooseville. The car disappeared in a gully, then rumbled back into view. Seated next to the driver, mouth agape and eyes staring, was the polar bear rug from the apartment at Maus Haus.