And then it started to rain. It rained violently, almost in anger.

Qwilleran went to his desk to write a note of condolence to Steve Trotter, with an offer of an annual scholarship in Tiffany's name. As he wrote, the telephone started to jangle with thank-you calls from the dinner guests. Junior had never eaten such good food. Sharon wanted the recipes. Mildred praised everything but thought that Alexander Goodwinter was a stuffed shirt. Amanda was hung over.

"Golly, that was a good party," the designer croaked into the phone. "I've got a hangover that would kill a horse. Did I say anything I shouldn't last night?" "You were a model of propriety, Amanda," said Qwilleran.

"Cripes! That's the last thing I ever wanted to be. I leave that to my cousins." "I've just driven Arch to the airport. He enjoyed your company immensely." "He's my type! Get him up here again — soon!" When Melinda phoned to thank him for the necklace, she complained that his line had been continually busy.

"All our dinner guests have been calling," he said. "Everyone except Penelope." "Penny won't phone. She'll write a very proper thank-you note on engraved stationery, sealed with wax. Did Arch get away before the rains came?" "He did, and he gave me some parting advice: (a) get married and (b) forget about the Daisy Mull mystery. I plan to take at least one of his suggestions." At lunchtime he presented his gift to Mrs. Cobb.

"Oh, Mr. Qwilleran! Pink is my favorite, and I've never had anything cashmere. You shouldn't have done it. Did they all like the food last night?" "Your dinner will make history," he assured her, "and when you see Mrs. Fulgrove, tell her that everyone admired her handwriting." "When she was writing the place cards," Mrs. Cobb said, "she told me something. I don't know whether I should repeat it." "Go ahead." Qwilleran's remark was offhand, but his moustache was bristling with curiosity.

"Well, she works three times a week at the Goodwinter house, you know, and she overheard Miss Goodwinter and her brother having a terrible row — yelling and everything. She said it was kind of frightening because they're always so nice to each other." "What were they arguing about?" "She couldn't hear. She was cleaning the kitchen, and they were upstairs." At that moment a particularly objetionable burst of music came from the upper regions of the K mansion. "I see our star boarder is still on the premises," Qwilleran said.

"He's almost finished, but his bill is going to be enormous, I'm afraid." "Don't worry. The estate will pay for it, and I'll tell them to deduct for five breakfasts, eight lunches, seven gallons of coffee, a case of beer, and a visit to the ear doctor. I think my hearing is permanently impaired." "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran, you must be joking." It rained hard for forty-eight hours, until the stone-paved streets of Pickax were flooded. Downtown Main Street, with its hodgepodge of architectural styles, was a parody of the Grand Canal.

Grudgingly Qwilleran stayed indoors.

On the third day the rain ceased, and the wet fieldstone of the K mansion sparkled like diamonds in the sunshine, A brisk breeze started to dry up the floods. The birds sang. The Siamese rolled on the solarium floor and laundered their fur in the warm rays.

It was shortly after breakfast when an unexpected visitor arrived at the back door.

Mrs. Cobb hurried to the library to find Qwilleran. "Steve Trotter is here to see you. It looks like he's had a lot to drink." Qwilleran dropped his newspaper and went to the kitchen, where the painter in off-duty jeans and T-shirt was leaning unsteadily against the doorjamb, his face slack and his eyelids drooping.

Qwilleran pulled out two kitchen chairs. "Come in and sit down, Steve. How about a cup of coffee?" Mrs. Cobb quickly filled two mugs from the coffee maker and set them on the table, together with a plate of doughnuts. "Don't want no coffee," Steve said, staring at Qwilleran belligerently. "Gotcha letter." "It's hard to express the sorrow I feel about this outrageous crime," Qwilleran said. "I met Tiffany only twice, but — " "Quit the bull! 'S all your fault," the painter said sullenly.

"I beg your pardon?" "Y'got her mixed up in it. If y'didn't shoot off 'bout Daisy, wouldn'ta happened." "Now wait a minute," Qwilleran said gently but firmly. "You overheard my private conversation with a visitor and went home and told your wife, didn't you? It was her idea to come here and talk about it. Furthermore, the police suspect that some tourist drove past the farm and — " "Ain't no tourist, and y'know it." "I haven't the least idea what you're implying, Steve." "The letter y'sent me… tryin' to buy me off. Nodice." "What do you mean?" "Y'wanna give money away to kids. Hell, what y'gonna do for me? Why'n'cha pay for the fun'ral?" With an angry gesture he swept the coffee mug off the table. It shattered on the stone floor.

Mrs. Cobb made a hurried exit and returned almost immediately with Birch Tree.

"Okay, Stevie-boy," Birch said, grinning and showing his big square teeth. "Let's go home and sleep it off." He hoisted the younger man from the chair and propelled him toward the door.

Glancing out the window, Qwilleran saw the painter's truck parked with one wheel in the rhododendrons. "He can't drive in that condition," he said.

"I'll drive his truck. You follow and bring me back," Birch instructed in a tone of authority. "Only a coupla miles.

Terence's dairy farm. Now you'll see where the stink comes from when the wind's from the southwest. Baa-a-a-a!" After depositing Steve in his mobile home on the farm, Birch went to the farmhouse and talked to the in-laws. Then the two men drove back to town in the two-door, Qwilleran marveling at the man's competence and self-assurance in handling the awkward situation.

"Nice day," Birch said. "We needed rain, but they sent us too much. Baa-a-a-a!" "I'll be able to take my bike out this afternoon," Qwilleran said.

"Me, I'm gonna knock off early and get in some fishin'. Big salmon's bitin' a few miles off Purple Point." "Do you have a boat?" "Sure do. Forty-foot cruiser, loaded. Fish-finder, automatic pilot, ship-to-shore-you name it. Y'oughta get one." Qwilleran frowned. "Fish-finder? What's that?" "A graph, y'know. A CGR. Sonar computer graph recorder. Traces the bottom of the lake. Tells you where the fish are, and how many. First-class way to fish!" By noontime Birch had cleared out with his noisebox and tools, and Qwilleran enjoyed his lunch in peace.

"It's good to have the doors fixed," Mrs. Cobb said. "It was worth all the commotion." Qwilleran agreed. "Now Koko won't be able to barge into my room at six A.M. He thinks everyone should get up at dawn." The housekeeper served lunch in the cheerful breakfast room, where William and Mary banister-back chairs surrounded a dark oak table, and yellow and green chintz covered the walls and draped the windows.

"Best macaroni-and-cheese I ever tasted," Qwilleran announced.

"I found some really good cheddar at a little store behind the post office," Mrs. Cobb said. After a moment she added, "I also noticed a sale of ten-speeds at the hardware store." She looked at him hopefully. "Twenty percent off." Qwilleran grunted. "When they make a dogproof bike, I may be interested." Later that afternoon he had another interesting scrap of conversation. The mail-cat trudged into the library to deliver Penelope's thank-you note, about which there lingered a faint but heady suggestion of Fantaisie Feline.

Qwilleran studied the intelligent-looking animal. "What was Steve trying to tell us, Koko? Who killed Tiffany Trotter — and why? And what really happened to Daisy Mull? Are we wasting our time hunting for answers?" The cat sat tall on the desk, swaying slightly as he concentrated his blue gaze on Qwilleran's forehead. Suddenly the man realized that Koko had never experienced the murals in Daisy's apartment. He grabbed him and carried him out to the garage. The sleek body was neither struggling in protest nor limp with acquiescence — just taut with anticipation.