"That's understandable."

"She's going into an apartment in Indian Village."

"I thought there were no vacancies out there."

Jody said, "She's moving in with a friend," and Junior scowled at her.

"Can she find a buyer for the house that fast — without selling at a sacrifice?" Qwilleran asked.

"She's got a buyer."

"Who? Do you know who it is?"

"Herb Hackpole."

"Hackpole! What does a single man want with a big farmhouse like that?"

"Well, he's been wanting a place in the country, you know, so he can run his dogs. He has hunters. There's no acreage, but he'll be getting a good big yard and two barns."

"And what about the furnishings? You said your parents had a lot of family heirlooms."

"They're going to be auctioned off."

Jody said, "Juney had been promised his great-grandfather's desk, but that's going to be sold, too."

In a tone of defeat Junior said, "If they can squeeze in the auction before snow flies, they'll attract dealers from Ohio and Illinois and get the high dollar."

"And what about the antique printing presses in the barn?"

Junior shrugged. "They'll be sold for scrap metal. They, figure the price by the ton."

The three of them fell into three kinds of silence: Junior, depressed; Jody, sympathetic; Qwilleran, stunned. Senior Goodwinter had been killed Friday night and buried Monday, and this was Tuesday.

"When did you hear about these drastic decisions, Junior?"

"My mother called me at the office this afternoon — right in the middle of the shoot. I didn't say anything to the photographer. Do you think I should have told her? It might kill the story — or take the edge off it. She left an hour ago. I drove her to the airport."

Suddenly Junior's beeper sounded. "Oh no!" he said. "That's all I need! A stupid barn fire! Take Jody home, will you, Qwill?" he called over his shoulder as he raced out of the house. The city hall siren was screaming. Police sirens were wailing.

It was then that Qwilleran realized he had forgotten to pour the coffee. "How about a cup, Jody? If it isn't too cold."

The tiny young woman curled up on the sofa, cradling the big mug in her small hands. "I feel so sorry for Juney. I told him to go Down Below and get a job at the Daily Fluxion and forget about everything up here."

"No one should act on impulse at a time like this," Qwilleran advised.

"Maybe he could get an injunction to stop her from selling — or postpone it until she's thinking straight."

"Won't work. She'd have to be proved mentally incompetent. It's her own property now, and she can do whatever she wishes."

At that moment Mrs. Cobb, in robe and bedroom slippers, made an abrupt appearance in the doorway. "Look out the window!" she said in alarm. "There's a fire on Main Street! It looks like the lodge hall's on fire!"

Qwilleran and Jody jumped up, and all three of them hurried to the front windows.

"That's Herb's lodge," Mrs. Cobb said. "This is their meeting night. There could be thirty or forty people in the building."

"I'll drive down and see," Qwilleran said, "Come on, Jody, and I'll take you home afterward. Out this way... back door... car's in the garage."

Downtown Main Street was filled with flashing blue and red lights. Traffic was rerouted, and fire trucks were parked in an arc, training their headlights on the center of the block. The pumpers were working, and fire hoses were pouring water on the roof of the three-story lodge hall. Beyond that building there was an orange-red glow with flames leaping upward — then a hiss of steam — then a cloud of smoke.

Qwilleran parked, and he and Jody walked closer.

"It's the Picayune!" he shouted. "The whole building's on fire!"

Jody started to cry. "Poor Juney!" she kept saying. "Poor Juney!"

"They're hosing down the lodge hall to keep it from catching," Qwilleran said. "The post office, too. The news- paper plant is going to be totaled, I'm afraid."

"I think that's what his father was trying to tell him in the dream," she said. "Can you see Juney?"

"Can't recognize anyone in those helmets and rubber coats. Even their faces are black. Dirty job! The white helmet is the fire chief, that's all I can tell."

"I hope Juney doesn't do anything crazy, like running into the building to save something."

"They're trained not to take foolish risks," Qwilleran assured her.

"But he's so impulsive — and sentimental. That's why he's taking it so hard — his mother selling the Pic, I mean." A sudden look of horror crossed her face. "Oh, no! William Allen's in there! They a]ways lock him up for the night. I'm going to be sick..."

"Easy, Jody! He may have escaped. Cats are clever... Come on. We can't stay here. It's icing up, and you're shivering. The men will be on the job for hours, mopping up and looking for hot spots. I'll drive you home. Will you be all right?"

"Yes, I'll wait up till Juney comes home. He's been staying at my place since his father died, you know."

At the K mansion Qwilleran found Mrs. Cobb at the kitchen table, still in her pink robe, drinking cocoa and looking worried. "There's no news on the radio," she said anxiously.

"It wasn't the lodge hall," Qwilleran told her. "It was the Picayune building. It's gutted. More than a century of publishing destroyed in half an hour."

"Did you see Herb?" She poured a cup of cocoa for Qwilleran. It was not his favorite beverage.

"No, but I'm sure he was there, swinging an ax."

"He shouldn't be doing such strenuous work. He's over fifty, you know, and most of the men are much younger."

"You seem unusually concerned about him, Mrs. Cobb." He gave her a searching look.

The housekeeper lowered her eyes and smiled sheepishly. "Well, I admit I'm fond of him. We always have a good time together, and he's beginning to drop hints."

"About marriage?" Qwilleran's dismay showed in his brusque question. As a housekeeper she was a jewel — too valuable to lose. She had spoiled him and the Siamese with her cooking.

"I wouldn't stop working, though," Mrs. Cobb hastened to say. "I've always worked, and this is the most wonderful job I ever had. It's a dream come true. I mean it!"

"And you're perfect for the position. Don't rush into anything, Mrs. Cobb."

"I won't," she promised. "He hasn't come right out and asked me yet, so don't you say anything."

She refilled her cocoa cup and carried it upstairs, saying a weary good-night.

Qwilleran made his nightly house check before setting the burglar alarm and locking up. Then he retired to his own quarters over the garage, carrying a wicker picnic hamper. Indistinct sounds came from inside the hamper and it swung to and fro vigorously as he carried it.

The four-car garage was a former carriage house built of fieldstone — the same masonry that made the main house spectacular. There were four arched doors to the stalls, a cupola with a weather vane on the roof, and a brace of ornate carriage lanterns at each comer of the building.

Upstairs the interior had been refurbished to suit Qwilleran's taste — comfortable contemporary in soothing tones of beige, rust, and brown. It was quiet and simple, an escape from the pomp and preciosity of the K mansion.

In the sitting room there were easy chairs, good reading lamps, a music system, and a small bar where Qwilleran mixed drinks for guests. He himself had not touched alcohol since the time he fell off a subway platform in New York, an experience that had been permanently sobering. Nor had he ever ridden the subway again.

The other rooms were his 'writing studio, his bedroom, and the cats' parlor, which was carpeted and furnished with cushions, baskets, scratching posts, climbing trees, and a turkey roaster that served as their commode. There was also a shelf of secondhand books bought at the hospital bazaar for a dime apiece. There were books on first-year algebra and English grammar simplified. There was a collection of famous sermons. Other titles were The Burning of Rome and Elsie Dinsmore and Vergil's Aeneid. Koko could push them off the shelf to his heart's content.