[t was more than I could bear. My lifetime of sacrifice and devotion was thrown aside in a moment. I had involved myself in heinous crime, only to have it end like this — only' to be cast aside.

What could I do? There was only one was to stop it. In a frenzy of desperation I confronted Alex and threatened to reveal his complicity in three murders. The instant the words were out of my mouth I realized I had made a fatal mistake. My God! The hatred in my brother's eyes! How can I describe the rage and vengeance that contorted my brother's features — the face that I had thought so beautiful!

Forgive me if I appear melodramatic, but I now fear for my life. I fear that every day may be my last. A bullet from the same rifle that killed the farm girl will be quick and merciful, or they will devise a means that will simulate an accident or suicide.

In any event, Mrs. Fulgrove will mail this letter, and I am following your example in preparing letters for the prosecutor and the media, naming the brute who killed the pregnant girl, burying her alive in a mineshaft, who arranged a friendly drink with her mother and drugged the whiskey, who fired a single perfect shot at a girl on a farm tractor.

You are not safe, and the future of Moose County is at stake, until these two men are apprehended and brought to justice.

Yours in good faith. Penelope Goodwinter

16

The shriek of a bomb and the boom of a cannon shattered his frightening dream of global war. He struggled to shake off sleep.

Another boom! Was it a figment of his dream, or was something battering the bedroom door?

Boom! Qwilleran rolled out of bed and groped his way to the door, staggering with sleep. He stopped, listened, reached cautiously for the doorknob. He yanked it open! And a cat hurtled into the room.

Koko had been throwing his weight against the securely latched door, trying to break it down. Now, with stentorian yowls that turned to shrieks, he raced to the staircase.

Qwilleran, not stopping for slippers or robe or light switches, followed as fast as he could while the cat rushed ahead, swooping downstairs, bounding back upstairs to scold vehemently, then flying down again in one liquid movement.

The house was in darkness, save for a dim glow from streetlights on the Circle. Qwilleran moved warily toward the rear of the house where Koko was leading him, now in stealthy silence. Reaching the library, the man heard the back door being unlocked and slowly opened, and he saw a dark bulky figure moving furtively through the entry hall. Qwilleran stepped aside, shielded by the Pennsylvania schrank, while a white blur rose to the top of the seven-foot wardrobe.

Unmindful of the cold stone floor under his feet but thinking wildly of baseball bats and crowbars, Qwilleran watched the intruder pass the broom closet, hesitate at the kitchen door, then enter the large square service hall where the schrank stood guard. There was not a sound. Qwilleran could hear his own heartbeat. Koko was somewhere over- head, crouching between two large, rare, and valuable majolica vases.

As the dark figure edged closer, Qwilleran reached for the toprail of an antique chair, but it was wobbly with age and would shatter if used as a weapon. Just then he heard a barely audible «ik-ik» on top of the schrank, and he remembered the pickax in the library. He slipped into the shadows to grope for it. There were only seconds to spare!

His hand was closing around the sturdy handle when a confusion of sounds broke the silence: a thump, a clatter, a man's outcry, and a loud thud-followed by the unmistakable crash of an enormous ceramic vase on a stone floor.

Qwilleran sprang forward with the pickax raised, bellowing threats, towering over the figure that now lay prone.

With squeals and shrieks Mrs. Cobb rushed downstairs, and the house flooded with light.

"Call the police," Qwilleran shouted, "before I bash his brains!" The man lay groaning, one arm twisted at a grotesque angle and one foot in the cats' spilled commode. The shards of majolica were scattered around him, and Koko was sniffing in the pocket of his old army jacket.

"Koko never ceases to amaze me," Qwilleran said to Melinda at the dinner table that evening. "He knew someone was going to break in, and he knew far enough in advance to get upstairs and wake me up. The way he threw himself against my door, it's a wonder he didn't break every bone in his body. The fantastic thing is: he pushed his commode to a spot where the guy was sure to trip over it. The majolica vase is a small price to pay for his heroism." Qwilleran and Melinda were having dinner at Stephanie's, the Lanspeaks' new restaurant. He called for her at her father's house on Goodwinter Boulevard, where she was changing clothes after a hard day at the clinic, giving allergy shots and bandaging Little Leaguers.

Dr. Halifax greeted him at the door. "You had another narrow escape last night, Qwill. You live a charmed life. The needles and morphine they found on him were stolen from my office a short time ago." "What's his condition?" "Compound fracture. Dislocated shoulder. He's a heavy fellow, and he went down like a ton of bricks on your stone floor. He's a police prisoner, of course, and a broken arm is the least of his troubles." Qwilleran and his date walked to the restaurant, which occupied an old stone residence rezoned for commercial use.

"The Lanspeaks named it after their cow," Melinda said, "and they did the whole place in dairy colors: milk white, straw beige, and butter yellow. It's a service-oriented restaurant." Qwilleran grunted. "What this town needs is a food-oriented restaurant." A young hostess greeted them. "My name is Vicki, and I'm your hostperson. Your waitperson is Matthew, and he'll do everything possible to make your visit enjoyable." A young man immediately appeared. "My name is Matthew. I am your waitperson, and I am at your service." "My name is Jim," Qwilleran replied. "I am your customer, and I am very hungry. The lady's name is Melinda. She is my guest, and she is hungry, too." "And thirsty," Melinda added. "Okay, Qwill, tell me all about the break-in last night. How did he get into the house?" "Birch is pretty crafty. He made an extra key for himself when he installed our new back door lock. Evidently he waited for a moonless night — there was a heavy cloud cover — and approached through the orchard behind the house.

His truck was hidden in the old barn out there. I suspect he was going to haul me away to one of the mine sites and dump me down a shaft." "Darling, how horrible!" "I had a look at the truck this morning, and it's the same terrain-buggy that tried to run me down on Ittibittiwassee Road. I recognized the big rusty, grinning grille from my dream. We can also assume it was Birch who doped Penelope's Scotch and carried her out to the garage while Alex was establishing his alibi at the club." Matthew arrived with Melinda's champagne and Qwilleran's mineral water. "This is your champagne cooler," he said, "and these are your chilled glasses." "We'd also like an appetizer," Qwilleran told him. "Bring us some p?t‚ de caneton." "That's kind of a meatloaf made of ground-up duck," the waitperson explained helpfully.

"Thank you, Matthew. It sounds delicious." Melinda drank a toast to Qwilleran for exposing a deplorable crime.

Apologetically he said, "I'm afraid it's going to be a nasty scandal when everything comes to light." "A lot of us guessed the relationship between Penny and Alex," she said, "but who would dream they'd collaborate in a murder plot? And who would ever imagine he'd conspire to kill his sister? He needed her! She was the mainstay of his career." "Not anymore. He found another brilliant woman — with Washington connections — to take her place. Penelope became a threat. She knew too much, and she was too smart." Melinda gazed at Qwilleran with admiring green eyes.