Qwilleran and Riker went into the luncheonette for a sandwich and listened to the buzz of voices. There was only one topic of conversation: "They weren't married more than a year. She made her own wedding dress." "Tiff made more kills last year than anybody in the volleyball league." "My brother was Steve's best man. All the fellas wore white tailcoats and white top hats. Really cool!" When the two men returned home there was an unfamiliar truck parked near the garage, its body mounted high over the chassis.

"What's that ugly thing doing there?" Riker asked.

"Don't knock it," Qwilleran said. "A terrain vehicle up here has the ‚clat of a private jet Down Below. Farmers and sportsmen love 'em. I'll go and see whose it is." In the loft above the garage he found a substitute painter putting the finish coat on the doorframes. "Are you Steve's cousin?" "Yeah, I'm fillin' in till he gets back." "I feel very bad about Tiffany." "Yeah, it's tough. And you wanna know what? The police took Steve in for questioning! Ain't that a kick in the head?" "It's only routine," Qwilleran assured him. "The police think the sniper was a tourist." The painter looked wise and said in a lowered voice, "I could tell 'em a few things, but I know when to keep my mouth shut." Typical small-town reaction, Qwilleran thought. Everyone knows the answers, or thinks he does, or pretends to. But no one talks.

Riker had found a hammock in the backyard and was reading the Picayune. Mrs. Cobb was in the kitchen, pounding boned pheasant for the terrine.

"The police were here!" she announced. "They wanted to know if Steve was on the job yesterday afternoon, and I was able to give him an alibi. He was having a beer with me at the time of the shooting. He's a nice young man. I feel very sorry for him." "It's abnormally quiet. Where's Birch?" "Gone fishing. He's catching the salmon for the croquettes." "Is everything progressing to your satisfaction?" "Everything's getting done, but Koko's been acting funny, scratching the broom closet door and jumping up to reach the handle." "I put that musty suitcase in the closet, and he can smell it. He doesn't miss a thing. It's time I got rid of all that junk." Koko heard his name and came running, saying, "ik ik ik," in a businesslike tone.

"Okay, okay, I'm throwing the smelly things out." Qwilleran carried the large carton of Daisy's winter clothing to the trash bin in the garage and then returned for the suitcase. He was halfway to the back door when he heard an emphatic yowl. It was not the kind of cat-talk that meant "Time for dinner" or "Here comes the mail" or "Where's Yum Yum?" It was a vehement directive.

Qwilleran stopped. Why, he asked himself, had Koko suddenly resumed interest in the suitcase? Not the carton, just the suitcase. Without further hesitation he turned around and carried the piece of luggage to the library. Koko followed in great excitement.

Once again Qwilleran inspected the contents of the suitcase, examining each pathetic item, hoping to find a clue or start a train of thought. He emptied the case right down to the sleazy tom lining.

"Yow!" said Koko, who was supervising the process. Tom lining! A twinge on Qwilleran's upper lip was telling him something. Speculatively he passed a hand over the bottom of the case. There was the outline of something flat and rectangular beneath the cheap, shiny, stained cloth. When he reached into the rip it tore further and exposed an envelope — a blank white envelope. Inside it was a wad of currency — new bills — hundred-dollar bills — ten of them.

"Yow!" said Koko.

Where, Qwilleran wondered, did she get this much money? Did she steal it? Was it a payoff? A bribe to leave town?

The wherewithal for an abortion?

Daisy might not have realized the value of the ivory elephant. She might have forgotten the gold bracelet in her hurry to get away. But if she happened to have a thousand in cash, she would hardly leave town without it… that is, if she had left town.

After the dinner party, Qwilleran promised himself, he would have another chat with the police chief.

11

On the day of the party the house was in turmoil, and the Siamese were banished to the basement — until their indignant protests became more annoying than their actual presence underfoot.

Mrs. Cobb was rolling croquettes and slivering lamb with garlic. Mrs. Fulgrove was ironing table linens, polishing silver, and writing place cards and gentlemen's envelopes in her flawless penmanship, flattered beyond words when asked to do so. The florist delivered a truckload of flowers. The end sections of the long dinner table had been removed in order to seat ten comfortably, and Melinda was using a yardstick to measure the correct distance between dinner plates.

All this frenzied activity made Qwilleran nervous. He had never hosted a formal dinner; all his entertaining had been done in restaurants and clubs. So, when Riker borrowed the car and went sightseeing, Qwilleran set out for a tranquilizing bike ride.

Having completed the loop that constituted his daily ten- mile workout, he was just within the city limits when a menacing dog with a full set of repulsive teeth bounded from a backyard and charged the bicycle, barking and nipping at his heels. Qwilleran bellowed and swerved to the left and heard a screeching of tires as a motorist behind him jammed on the brakes.

Someone called to the dog, and the animal ran back into the yard, where two others were barking and straining at their chains.

In spluttering fury Qwilleran approached the driver of the car. "That dog — did you see him come at me?" The woman at the wheel said, "I'm all shook up. I thought sure I was going to hit you. It was terrible! It shouldn't be allowed." "Allowed! It's not allowed! It's prohibited by law. I'm going to make a formal complaint. May I have your name as a witness?" She shrank away from him. "I'd really like to help, but… my husband wouldn't want me to get involved. I'm terribly sorry." Qwilleran said no more but biked directly to the police station, where he found Chief Brodie on the desk, growling about a complaint of his own. "Too much paperwork! They invent computers to make life easier, and everything gets complicated. What can I do for you, Mr. Q?" Qwilleran related his experience with the unchained dog, giving the name of the street and the number of the house.

"That dog might be rabid," he said, "and I might have been killed." Brodie made a helpless gesture. "Hackpole again! It's a problem. He's had a lot of warnings. There's nothing more we can do unless you want to go to the magistrate and sign a complaint. Nobody else will stick his neck out." "Who is Hackpole, anyway? Was he ever a New York cabdriver?" "He was born here, but he worked in the East for a long time — Newark, I think. Came back a few years ago. Runs a used-car lot and a garage." "Will it do any good if I sign a complaint?" "The sheriff will deliver a summons, and there'll be a show-cause hearing in two or three weeks." "I'll do it!" Qwilleran said. "And tell the sheriff to get an antirabies shot and wear dogproof pants." When he returned home from his bike ride he was less tranquil than before, but the magnificence of the interior calmed his tensions.

In the dining room, crystal and silver glittered on white damask, and two towering candelabra flanked a Victorian epergne, its branches filled with flowers, fruit, nuts, and mints.

By seven o'clock Melinda had changed into a chiffon dinner dress in a green that enhanced her eyes. Qwilleran, wearing the better of his two suits and his new tie, looked almost well dressed; his hair and moustache were trimmed, and two weeks of biking had given him a tan as well as an improved waistline.

Riker had been dispatched to pick up Amanda. As for the Siamese, it was decided that they be allowed to join the company. Otherwise their nonstop wailing would drown out the efforts of the three elderly men who were tuning their stringed instruments in the foyer.