The cooling of the relationship was only one development in a vacation that had hardly been a success. It had been two weeks of discomfort, mystification, and frustration — not to mention guilt; he had not written a word of his projected novel. He had not enjoyed evenings of music or walked for miles on the beach or lolled on the sand with a good spy story or paid enough attention to the sunsets. And now it was coming to an end. Even if the executors of the estate did not evict him, he was going to leave. Someone had been desperate enough to break into the cabin. Someone had been barbarous enough to club a man to death. A rabbit-hunter could come out of the woods with a rifle at any moment.
The cabin was quiet, and Qwilleran heard the scurrying of little feet. Koko was playing with his catnip toy, dredged up from some remote corner. He batted it and sent it skidding across the floor, pounced on it, clutched it in his front paws and kicked it with his powerful hind legs, then tossed it into the air and scampered after it.
Qwilleran watched the game. "Koko bats to rightfield… he's under it… he's got it… throws wild to second… makes a flying catch… he's down, but he's got the ball… here comes a fast hook over the plate… ~ foul to left." The catnip ball had disappeared beneath the sofa. Koko looked questioningly at the precise spot where it had skidded under the pleated skirt of the slipcover. The sofa was built low; only Yum Yum was small enough to struggle under it.
"Game's over," Qwilleran said. "You've lost by default." Koko flattened himself on the floor and extended one long brown leg to grope under the sofa. He twisted, squirmed, stretched. It was useless. He jumped to the back of the sofa and scolded.
"Tell your sidekick to fish it out for you," the man said. "I'm tired." Koko glared at him, his blue eyes becoming large black orbs. He glared and said nothing.
Only a few times had Qwilleran seen that look, and it had always meant serious business. He hoisted himself off the comfortable sofa and went to the porch for the crude pitchfork hanging there. With the handle he made a swipe under the piece of furniture and brought forth some dustballs and one of his navy blue socks. He made another swipe and out rolled Rosemary's coral lipstick and a gold ballpoint pen.
Both cats were now standing by, enjoying the performance.
"Yum Yum, you little thief!" Qwilleran said. "What else have you stolen?" Once more he raked under the sofa with the handle of the pitchfork. The catnip ball appeared first — and then his gold watch — and then some folded bills in a gold money clip. "Whose money is this?" he said as he counted the bills. Thirty-five dollars were tucked into what looked like a jumbo paper clip in shiny gold.
At that moment Rosemary climbed up the dune from the beach and wandered wearily into the cabin.
"Rosemary, you'll never believe what I found," Qwilleran said. "The gold pen you gave me! I thought Tom had stolen it. And your lipstick! Yum Yum has been stashing things under the sofa. My watch, one of my socks, and some money in a gold money clip." "I'm so glad you found the pen," she said quietly.
"Are you okay, Rosemary?" "I'll be all right after a good sleep. I'd like to go to bed early." "We haven't even had dinner." "I'm not hungry. Will you excuse me? I'll have a long drive tomorrow." Qwilleran sat on the porch alone, hardly noticing the foaming surf and the gliding seagulls. The money clip, he reflected, was the kind that Roger used. Had Roger been in the cabin? If so, for what purpose? The place had been locked for several days. No, he refused to believe that his young friend was involved in any devious operation. Certainly it was not his voice on the cassette.
He sat on the porch until dusk, then made himself a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee. He chopped a little turkey for the cats also. Yum Yum devoured her share, but — surprisingly — Koko was not in the least interested. There was no way to predict, understand, or explain the moods of a Siamese.
15
There were four documents in Aunt Fanny's safe. Three were envelopes sealed with red wax and labeled Last Will and Testament in her unmistakable handwriting. These Qwilleran turned over to Goodwinter and Goodwinter along with some velvet cases of jewelry to put in the attorneys' safe. The fourth item was a small address book bound in green leather, which he slipped into his pocket.
Nick and Lori had arrived at the stone house an hour before the memorial service, giving Nick time to crack the safe and giving Rosemary time to show Lori the handsome rooms with their antique furnishings. Then, leaving Koko and Yum Yum on top of the refrigerator, all four of them joined the crowd at the Pickax High School.
Everyone was there. Qwilleran saw Roger and Sharon and Mildred, the fraudulent sea captain who sold fake antiques, Old Sam, Dr. Melinda Goodwinter in a sea-green suit to match her eyes, the two boys from the Minnie K, a.k.a. the Seagull, the museum curator, the Mooseville garage mechanic — everyone. The emaciated cook from the Dismal Diner arrived by motorcycle, riding behind a burly man wearing a large diamond ring and a leather jacket with cut-off sleeves. Tom was there, huddled shyly in the back row. Even the proprietors of the FOO were there with their furtive cook. The managing editor of the Pickax Picayune was standing on the front steps, making note of important arrivals.
"Junior, you've surpassed yourself!" Qwilleran said in greeting. "You hit seventy-eight in a single sentence! That must be a record. What genius writes your obituaries?" The young editor laughed off the question. "I know it's weird, but they've been written that way since 1859, and that's what our readers like. A flowery obit is a status symbol for the families around here. I told you we do things our own way." "You weren't serious, I hope, when you said Fanny's obit was suitable for framing." "Oh, sure. A lot of people up here collect obits as a hobby. One old lady has more than five hundred in a scrapbook. There's an Obituary Club with a monthly newsletter." Qwilleran shook his head. "Answer another question, Junior. How does the Dimsdale Diner stay in business? The food's a crime, and I never see anyone there." "Didn't you ever see the coffee crowd? At seven in the morning and then at eleven o'clock the parking lot's full of pickups. That's where I go to gather news." At that moment the FOO delegation arrived, and Qwilleran grasped the chance to speak to the elusive Merle. He was a mountain of a man — tall, obese, forbidding, with one eye half-shut and the other askew.
"Excuse me, sir," Qwilleran said. "Are you the owner of the FOO restaurant?" His wife, the beefy woman who presided at the cash register, said: "He don't talk no more. He had a accident at the factory." She made a throat-cutting motion with her hand. "And now he don't talk." Qwilleran made a fast recovery. "Sorry. I just wanted to tell you, Merle, how much I enjoy your restaurant, especially the pasties. My compliments to the cook. Keep up the good work." Merle nodded and attempted to smile but only succeeded in looking more sinister.
While the preachers and politicians paid glowing tributes to Fanny Klingenschoen, Qwilleran fingered the little green book in his pocket. It was indexed alphabetically and filled with names, but instead of addresses there were notations of small-town malfeasance: shoplifting, bad checks, infidelity, graft, conflict of interest, errant morals, embezzlement. Nothing was documented, but Fanny seemed to know. Perhaps she too was a regular patron of the coffee hour at the Dismal Diner. It was her hobby. As others collected obituaries, Fanny had collected the skeletons in local closets. How she used her information, one could only guess. Perhaps the little green book was the weapon she used in saving the courthouse and getting new sewers installed. Qwil leran decided he would build a fire in the fireplace before the day was over.