Junior stared. “I don’t think — he’d do — anything like that?”

“He had bankrupted the family. Your mother was having an affair. And there might be another reason.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember that stranger in a black raincoat who came up here on the plane? You thought he was a traveling salesman. I think he was an investigator of some kind. If your father was involved in anything shady, he might have known the man was coming ... .”

“My dad wouldn’t do anything illegal,” Junior protested. “He didn’t have that kind of mind.”

“Next question: Could it have been murder?”

“WHAT!” Junior almost jumped out of his cast. “Why would ... who would ... ?”

“Skip that one. What was in the metal box you tried to save after the fire?”

“I don’t know. Dad was very secretive about it, but I knew it was important.”

“How big was it?”

Junior sneezed and reached for a tissue. “About as big as a tissue box.”

“I hear Jody coming. Tell me this: Why was your father making frequent one-day trips to Minneapolis?”

“He never told me.” Junior’s face turned red. “But I know he wasn’t getting along with my mother.”

Jody returned with the coffee. “No oatmeal cookies left, so I brought molasses.”

“They taste like burnt tires,” Junior said after a couple of nibbles. “How was the turnout at the preview, Qwill?”

“Full house! I’ve started interviewing the Old Timers and taping oral histories. Got any suggestions? I’ve got your grandmother and Homer Tibbitt on tape.”

“Mrs. Woolsmith,” Jody said in a small voice. “She’d be a good one.”

Junior scratched his emerging beard. “You should be able to find some who remember the mines and the pioneer farms and the fishing industry before powerboats.”

“Mrs. Woolsmith lived on a farm,” Jody said softly.

“I need a subject with a reliable memory,” Qwilleran said.

“You’ll still have to drag it out of them,” Junior warned him. “The Old Timers like to talk about their blood pressure and their dentures and their great-grandchildren.”

Jody said, “Mrs. Woolsmith has almost all her own teeth.”

“Well, give it some thought,” Qwilleran said to Junior. “There’s no hurry.”

“Wait a minute! I’ve got it! There’s a woman in the senior care facility,” Junior suddenly recalled. “She’s over ninety, but she’s sharp, and she spent all her life on a farm. Her name is Woolsmith. Sarah Woolsmith.”

Jody picked up her coat and shoulder bag and walked quietly from the room.

“Hey, where’s she going?” Junior yelled.

Following his session at the hospital, Qwilleran went to lunch at Stephanie’s, wondering about Senior’s metal box and his frequent trips to Minneapolis. Junior’s red-faced embarrassment meant that he knew or suspected the reason. Young people who are quite casual in their own relationships can be strangely embarrassed by the sexual adventures of their elders. As eh was musing about this curious reaction, he heard a familiar voice at the table behind him.

A man was ordering a roast beef sandwich with mustard and horseradish. “Trim the fat, please. And bring a tossed salad with Roquefort dressing and no cucumber or green pepper.”

The voice had a clipped twang that Qwilleran had heard before. He rose and walked in the direction of the men’s room, glancing at his neighbor as he passed. It was the so-called historian he had confronted in the library. The man had exchanged his buttoned-down image for more casual attire — less conspicuous in Moose County — but there was no doubt about his identity. He was the stranger whose previous visit had coincided with Senior’s fatal accident — or suicide — or murder.

Qwilleran spent the rest of his lunch hour shifting the possibilities. He composed scenarios involving the metal box ... adultery ... gambling ... the drug connection ... espionage. In none of them did the mild-mannered typesetter seem to fit.

10

Tuesday, November nineteenth. "Warmer today, with highs in the upper twenties. Some chance of snow this afternoon, with blizzard conditions developing Wednesday. Currently our temperature is nineteen."

"That's terrible!" Mrs. Cobb said. "Tomorrow's the auction, and it's way out in the country. They say the hotel's already full of out-of-town dealers. They came for the preview this afternoon."

"Don't worry. If they predict a blizzard, it'll be a nice day," Qwilleran said with the cynicism of a Moose County weather nut. "How will they handle an auction in a house like that? It's nothing but a series of small rooms."

"The actual auction will probably be in the barn. The posters and radio announcements said to dress warm. Foxy Fred is handling it, so everything will be done right. I'm going to the preview this afternoon to pick up a catalogue. What time is Miss Rice coming? The cats are hungry."

At Hixie's suggestion the Siamese had been given only a teaspoonful of food for breakfast — only enough to keep them from chewing ankles. The idea was that Koko should be ravenously hungry for his screen test, and Yum Yum had to suffer with him. They yowled constantly while Qwilleran ate his eggs Benedict. They paced the floor, got underfoot, and screeched when a foot accidentally came down upon a tail.

Koko evidently knew that Hixie was responsible for this outrage. Upon her arrival he greeted her with a button-eyed glare and a switching tail.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Koko," she said. He turned and walked stiff-legged into the laundry room, where he scratched the gravel in his commode.

"Here's my scenario," she explained to Qwilleran. "We start with a shot of the front door, which denotes elegance and wealth at a glance. Then we enter the foyer, and the camera pans from the French furniture to the grand staircase to the crystal chandelier."

"It sounds like prime-time soap opera."

"Next we zoom to the top of the staircase, where Koko is sitting, looking bored."

"Who's going to direct this?" Qwilleran wanted to know.

Hixie ignored the question. "Then the butler announces in a starchy voice that pork liver cupcakes are served. That's voice-over. You can do the voice-over, Qwill. Immediately Koko runs downstairs, flowing in that liquid way he has, and the camera follows him into the dining room."

"Dining room?" Qwilleran muttered doubtfully. The Siamese were accustomed to meals in the kitchen and were reluctant to eat in the wrong location.

Hixie went on with her usual confidence. "Quick shot of the twenty-foot dining table with three-foot silver candelabra and a single elegant porcelain plate. We can use one of the Klingenschoen service plates with the blue border and gold crest and K monogram... Then... cut to Koko devouring the pork liver cupcakes avidly. We may need to do several takes, so be prepared to grab him, Qwill. The trick is to avoid rear-end shots."

"That won't be easy. Cats are fond of mooning."

"Okay, you put him on the top stair."

Koko had been listening with an expression that could be described only as sour. When Qwilleran stooped to pick him up, he slipped from his grasp like a wet bar of soap, streaked down the foyer in a blur of movement, and sprang to the top of the Pennsylvania schrank. From this seven-foot perch he gazed down at his pursuers defiantly. He was sitting dangerously close to a large, rare majolica vase.

"I don't dare climb up and grab him," QwiIleran said. "He's taken a hostage. He probably knows it's worth ten thousand dollars."

"I didn't know he was so temperamental," Hixie said.

"Let's have a cup of coffee in the kitchen and see what happens when we ignore him. Siamese hate to be ignored."

In a few minutes Koko joined them, sauntering into the room with a swaggering show of nonchalance. He sat on his haunches like a kangaroo and innocently licked a small patch of fur on his underside. When this chore was finished he allowed himself to be carried to the top of the staircase.