13

Before Qwilleran was released from Pickax Hospital, he had a consultation with Dr. Melinda.

"All your tests turned out fine," she said. "You're a very healthy guy — for your age." "And for a young chick you're a very smart doctor." "I'm so smart, lover, that I sneaked in a Wassermann test in case you want to apply for a marriage license. I'm also writing you a prescription for a crash helmet. With your head injury you could have drowned in that drainage ditch." "I'm sure the hit-runner thought he was leaving me for dead." "Some strange things are happening in Moose County," Melinda said. "Amanda may be right about the tourist invasion. You should report it to the police." "On the strength of what? My dream? Brodie would think I damaged something else besides my bicycle. No, Melinda, I'm merely going to keep a sharp lookout for a certain truck. In my dream I could see it clearly, coming at me fast, a rusty grille grinning at me, towering over me, It was one of those terrain vehicles." "Junior was one scared kid when he brought you in, He though you were a zombie." "It was a strange experience, Melinda. When I opened my eyes in a hospital bed and didn't know where I was or who I was, it didn't disturb me at all. It was simply a puzzle that aroused my curiosity. Glad you got Arch Riker up here to straighten me out." Riker picked Qwilleran up at the hospital in a rental car from the airport. "I have time for a cuppa, Qwill, before I catch my plane." "Then head north at the traffic light and we'll tune in the coffee hour at the Dismal Diner, If you think the Press Club is a gossip mill, wait till you hear the boys up here." "What did your tests show? Everything okay?" "Everything's fine, but I have some ugly suspicions about my bike mishap, It was no accident, Arch! It was a hit-run attempt on my life." "I warned you! Why do you get mixed up in criminal investigations that are none of your business? Leave it to the authorities." "This has nothing to do with the missing housemaid. It's something else entirely. I came to that conclusion when I was lying in that hospital bed. You know the conditions of the Klingenschoen bequest: I have to live in Pickax for five years or the estate goes to a syndicate in New Jersey. Well, what happens if I die before the five years are up?" "Without knowing anything about probate law," Riker said, "I'd guess that the dough goes to New Jersey." "So it's to their advantage if I fade out before the five years are up. In fact, the sooner the better." Riker gave his passenger an incredulous glance. "That's a jarring thought, Qwill, Why do you suspect them?" "It's a so-called foundation involved in some dubious venture in Atlantic City. I don't trust those people." The editor said, "When I first heard about the Old Lady's will, I knew it was too good to be true. Forget the inheritance, Qwill. You never wanted a fortune anyway. You know you can have your job back at the Fluxion." "Then the money will leave Moose County." "Don't try to be a hero. Get out of here and save your skin. Let those forty-seven affluent Goodwinters buy some new books for the library." Qwilleran fingered his moustache with uncertainty. "I'll figure out something. I've got an appointment with the attorney this afternoon. And maybe we'll hear some scuttlebutt at the diner." The coffee hour was effervescing in a haze of blue smoke. A few men in feed caps nodded to Qwilleran as he and Riker helped themselves to coffee and doughnuts. The two newsmen sat at a side table, listening.

"He's handin' out cigars, but he ain't the father." "I butcher my own hogs, make my own sausage. Only way to go." "It says in the Bible that a fool's voice is known by its multitude of words, and that fits him all right!" "Birds! That's my bag, and I always limit out." "If she's a lawyer, why would she want to get married?" "They had to shoot the whole herd. Damn shame!" "All she wants is his dough, I betcha." "Man, my wife makes the best rabbit stew you ever tasted." "Never heard the name. Is it Russian or something?" "My mother-in-law's been here goin' on three weeks." Before heading for the airport Riker dropped Qwilleran off at his house. "Did you get any clues from all that bull?" he asked.

Qwilleran shook his head. "They know who I am. They clammed up." If he was expecting a joyous welcome from the Siamese, he was disappointed. They could smell the hospital, and they circled him with distaste, Yum Yum hissing and Koko producing a chesty rumble that sounded like distant thunder.

The situation was still a standoff when he left for his one o'clock appointment.

He walked into the law office slowly, still hampered by the wrappings on his sutured knee. Penelope also lacked her usual verve. She was wearing dark glasses and looking pale. In a shaky voice she said, "You look a trifle battered, Mr.

Qwilleran, but we are all thankful it was no worse. What can I do for you?" He stated his question about the Klingenschoen will.

"As you know," Penelope reminded him, "it was a holographic will. The dear lady insisted on writing it herself, without an attorney and without witnesses, to protect her privacy. Let me review the document again to refresh my memory." The clerk brought the handwritten will, and Penelope read it carefully, shaking her head. "You are justified in being concerned. In the event of your death the estate would go to the alternate heirs in New Jersey. But surely you have nothing to worry about. Except for your temporary injuries, you seem extraordinarily healthy." "Then brace yourself," Qwilleran said.. He repeated his suspicion about the so-called accident and his distrust of the East Coast heirs. "Is there anyone in town who comes from that part of the country or has connections there?" "Not to my knowledge," she said, looking pensive and withdrawn.

He refrained from mentioning his private list of suspects. Hackpole had worked in Newark. The gardener was a Princeton man. Qwilleran's own former in-laws — an obnoxious crew — pursued some questionable profession in the Garden State.

To the attorney he said, "In any event I feel strongly that the money should stay in Moose County. It belongs here, and it can do a lot of good. How can we circumvent the present situation? Are there any loopholes? May I write a will myself, assigning my claim to the Klingenschoen Foundation?" "I'm afraid not," Penelope said. "The language of the original will fails to grant you that power… Let me think…

This is really an unfortunate development, Mr. Qwilleran. I can only hope you are wrong in your suspicions." "Then be advised," he said, "that I'm going to write the will anyway. If anything happens to me, you'd better demand an investigation into the cause of my death." "I must say, Mr. Qwilleran, you are very calm and businesslike about a distressing possibility." "I've been in hot spots before," he said, waving her comment aside. "I'll write a holographic will, so Goodwinter and Goodwinter cannot be faulted for giving me bad advice. And I'll see that all the bases are covered — the police, the prosecutor's office, the media…" "What can I say?… Except that I'm quite upset about your allegations." "So be it. Discuss it with your brother, if you see fit, but right or wrong, that's going to be my course of action." As he hobbled from the office he thought, She's hung over; she needs a hair of the dog. So he hobbled back into Penelope's presence. "Your rain check is still good, Miss Goodwinter. I'd like to suggest cocktails and dinner at the Old Stone Mill tonight, if you don't mind dining with a walking accident statistic." She hesitated briefly before saying, "Thank you, Mr. Qwilleran, but not tonight, I'm afraid." Her telltale physiological condition surprised him more than her refusal of his invitation. Regarding the latter he decided she just didn't like frozen ravioli.