There's a fire. Great meal!" He barreled away in his red Jaguar as the siren at City Hall summoned the volunteer firefighters.

It had been a busy day for Qwilleran, and it was not yet over. Penelope Goodwinter phoned to ask if she could pay a visit and bring a bottle.

14

Inpreparation for Penelope's visit Qwilleran carried an ice bucket and other bar essentials to the library. That was when he noticed several books on the floor-part of a twelve-volume set. The morocco covers were splayed and the India paper pages crumpled. His eyes traveled upward to the shelf and found Koko squeezed into the space between volumes II and VllI, having a nap. He had always liked to sleep on bookshelves.

"Bad cat!" Qwilleran shouted as he examined the mistreated books.

Waking suddenly, Koko yawned, stretched, and jumped to the floor, and stalked out of the room without comment.

Qwilleran replaced the books carefully, and at the same time he wondered if anyone in that house had ever read the handsomely bound twelve-volume poem titled Doomsday.

Doomsday! Qwilleran thought. Is that a prediction or some kind of catly curse?

He expected the tan BMW to pull into the circular drive as usual. Instead, the headlights searched out the rear of the house, and Penelope knocked at the back door with a playful rat-tat-tat that was out of keeping with her accustomed reserve.

"I hope you don't mind my coming to the service entrance," she caroled, waving a bottle of fine old Scotch. "After all, this is a terribly informal call." She was relaxed almost to the point of gaiety, and she looked casual and comfortable in white ducks, sandals, and a navy blue jersey. As Melinda had mentioned, a little nip did wonders for Penelope's personality. Yet, her face was haggard and her eyes looked tired. One earring was missing, and she wore no perfume.

"The ice cubes await us in the library," Qwilleran said with a flourish. "I find it the friendliest room in the house." The brown tones of bookbindings and leather upholstery absorbed the lamplight, producing a seductive glow.

Penelope slid into the slippery leather sofa and crossed her knees with the grace of a long-legged woman. Qwilleran chose a lounge chair and propped his injured leg on an ottoman.

"Are you on the mend?" she asked in a solicitous tone that sounded genuine.

"Twenty-three of my stitches are beginning to itch," he said, "so that's a healthy sign. I'm glad you decided to take a break. You've been working much too hard." "I admit my eyes are weary." "You need a couple of wet tea bags," he said. "My mother always recommended wet tea bags for tired eyes." "Is the remedy effective?" "Now is an appropriate time to find out." He hoisted himself out of the chair and returned with two soggy tea bags on a Wedgwood saucer. "Rest your head on the back of the sofa." She slid into a loungy position and said, "Oooh!" as he pressed the tea bags on her closed eyelids.

"How long since you've had a vacation, Penelope? I'm tired of calling you Miss Goodwinter. From now on it's Penelope whether you like it or not." "I like it," she murmured. "You should take a sybaritic week or two at one of those expensive health resorts," he suggested.

"A cruise would be more to my liking. Do you like cruise ships, Mr. Qwilleran?" "I can't say I've ever sailed strictly for pleasure… And it's Qwill, Penelope. Please!" "Now that you're a man of leisure, you might try it — the Greek Islands, the Norwegian Fjords — " She was waving an empty glass in his direction, and Qwilleran poured a refill. Her first drink had disappeared fast.

"Before I start goofing off and taking cruises, I hope to produce a literary masterpiece or two," he said.

"You have a wonderful writing style. I always enjoyed your column in the Fluxion. You were so clever when you were writing on a subject you knew nothing about." "Trick of the trade," he said modestly. "It was once my ambition to be a writer, but you have real talent, Qwill. I could never aspire to what you seem to do with the greatest of ease." Qwilleran knew he was a good writer, but he liked enormously to be told so, especially by an attractive woman. While one half of his mind basked in her effusive compliments, the other half was wondering why she had come. Had she argued with her brother again and escaped his surveillance? Why did he supervise her social conduct so assiduously?

How could a stuffed shirt like Alexander exert so much influence over this intelligent woman?

Penelope was being unusually agreeable. She inquired about the health of the Siamese, Amanda's progress with the redecorating, and Mrs. Cobb's cataloguing of the collection.

"Her most recent discovery," Qwilleran said, "is a pair of majolica vases that had been relegated to the attic — circa 1870 and now worth thousands. They're just outside the door here — on top of another valuable item that she found in the garage — a Pennsylvania German wardrobe. She calls it a schrank. Seven feet high, and Koko can sail to the top of it in a single effortless leap." Qwilleran wondered whether she was listening. He had spent enough time at cocktail parties to know the rhythm of social drinking, and Penelope was exceeding the speed limit. She was also sliding farther down on the slippery sofa.

In a kindly voice he said, "Be careful! The drinks can hit you hard when you're tired. You've been spending too many long hours at the office. Is it really worth it?" "A junior partner," she said hesitantly, "has to keep her grind to the nosestone." She giggled. "Nose… to the…

grindstone." Qwilleran slipped into an investigative role he had played many times — helpful and sympathetic, but somewhat devious. "It must be gratifying, Penelope, to know that your brother is accomplishing so much for the county when he spends his valuable time in Washington. It's a worthwhile sacrifice that he's making. I understand that he made a speech recently to the Mooseville Boosters, and they're still talking about it." Penelope discarded the tea bags and struggled to her feet, in order to pour a more generous drink of Scotch for herself. "Did he tell them about his social — his social — conquests down there?" Her voice had a bitter edge, and her tongue tangled with certain words. "It's not — not all — business, you know." "No doubt he'll run for office one of these days," Qwilleran went on, "and then his social contacts will be useful." Penelope stared at him through a fog and spoke slowly and carefully. "Alex couldn't… get elected… mayor of…

Dimsdale." "You don't mean that, Penelope. With his name and background and suave manner and striking appearance he'd be a knockout in politics. He'd make a hit with the media.

That's what counts these days." Nastiness and alcohol contorted her handsome features. "He couldn't… get anywhere… without me." Her eyes were not focusing, and when she put her glass down on the table, it missed the edge.

"Sorry," she said as she scrambled about on her knees, picking up ice cubes.

Qwilleran was relentless. "I'm sure you could manage the office efficiently while the senior partner is doing great things in the Capitol." The brilliant, articulate Penelope was pathetically struggling to make sense, "He won't… go down there. He'll bring..

he'll bring her… up here, New partner!" Remarks overheard at the Dimsdale Diner flashed through Qwilleran's mind, "Is she an attorney?" Penelope gulped what remained of her melted ice cubes. "Bring her… into the firm, that's what., but over my.

dead body! I…won't… have it. Won't have it!" "Penelope," he said soothingly, "it will be a good thing for you. Another partner will relieve you of some of the pressure." She uttered a hysterical laugh. "Goodwinter, Goodwinter and Sh — Smfska!" She stumbled over the name. "Goodwinter, Goodwinter and Smfska! We'll be… laughingstock… of the county!" "Have you expressed your feelings to your brother? Perhaps he'll reconsider." She was losing control. "He'll… he'll marry… he'll marry that — that tramp! But I'll… I'll stop it, I can… stop it.