"Have you ever tried your Shakespeare theory on your landlord?" Qwilleran asked.

After Polly had said a gracious thank-you and a brisk good-night, Qwilleran questioned her excuse for leaving early. At least Koko had not ordered her out of the house, as he had done other female visitors in the past. That was a good sign.

Qwilleran was removing the dinner dishes and tidying the kitchen when Mrs. Cobb returned from her date, flushed and happy.

"Oh, you don't need to do that, Mr. Q," she said.

"No trouble at all. Thank you for a superb meal. How was your evening?"

"We went to the Old Stone Mill. The food is much better now. I had a gorgeous stuffed trout with wine sauce. Herb ordered steak Diane, but he didn't like the sauce."

That guy, Qwilleran thought, would prefer ketchup. To Mrs. Cobb he said, "Mrs. Duncan was telling me about the volunteer fire department. Isn't Hackpole a fireman?"

"Yes, and he's had some thrilling experiences — carrying children from a burning building, reviving people with CPR, herding cows from a burning barn!”

Interesting if true, Qwilleran thought. "Bring him in for a nightcap next time you go out," he suggested. "I'd like to know how a small-town fire department operates."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Q! He'll be pleased. He thinks you don't like him, because you took him to court once."

"Nothing personal. I simply objected to being attacked by a dog that should be chained according to law. If you like him, Mrs. Cobb, I'm sure he's a good man."

As Qwilleran was locking up for the night, the telephone rang. It was Junior Goodwinter's voice, crackling with excitement. "She's coming! She's flying up here tomorrow!"

"Who's coming?"

"The photojournalist I met at the Press Club. She says the Fluxion is running the column tomorrow, and it'll be allover the country this week. She wants to submit a picture story to a news magazine while it's hot."

"Did you tell her... about your father?"

"She says that will only make it topical. I have to pick her up at the airport tomorrow morning. We're going to get some Old Timers who used to work at the Pic to pose in the shots. Do you realize what this could do? It'll put Pickax on the map! And it could put the Picayune back in business if we start getting subscriptions from all over."

Stranger things have happened, Qwilleran thought. "Call me tomorrow night after the shoot. Let me know how it goes. And good luck!"

As he replaced the telephone receiver he heard a soft sound, thlunk, as another book landed on the Bokhara rug. Koko was sitting on the Shakespeare shelf, looking proud of himself.

Qwilleran picked up the book and smoothed the crumpled pages. It was Hamlet again, and a line in the first scene caught his eye: “ 'Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed."

Addressing the cat he said, "You may think you're smart, but this has got to stop! These books are printed on fine India paper. They can't stand this kind of treatment."

"Ik ik ik," said Koko, following his remark with a yawn.

3

Tuesday, November twelfth. "Snow flurries during the day, then falling temperatures and winds shifting to northeast." So said WPKX, and Mr. O'Dell, the houseman, waxed his snow shovels and checked the spark plugs on his snowblower.

It was the day after the pork liver cupcakes had made their successful debut, and Qwilleran planned to lunch at the Old Stone Mill — to report results to the chef, and to solve a mystery that had been bothering him.

Who was this chef?

What was his name?

Where did he come from?

What were his credentials?

And why had no one seen him?

The restaurant was an old gristmill with a giant waterwheel, recently renovated with good taste. The stone walls and massive timbers were exposed; the maple floor was sanded to the color of honey; and every table had a view of the mill wheel, which creaked and turned incessantly although the millstream had dried up seventy years before. The food, everyone had always said, was abominable.

The restaurant was purchased by XYZ Enterprises, Inc., of Pickax, developers of the Indian Village apartments and condominiums on the Ittibittiwassee River. The firm also owned a string of party stores in the county and a new motel in Mooseville.

One day at a Chamber of Commerce meeting Qwilleran was approached by Don Exbridge, the X of XYZ Enterprises. He was a string bean of a man, six-feet-five, with a smile that had made him popular and successful.

“Qwill, you have restaurant connections Down Below,” said Exbridge. “Where can we get a good chef for the Old Stone Mill? Preferably someone who enjoys the outdoors and doesn’t mind living in the boonies.”

“I’ll give it some thought and get back to you,” Qwilleran had promised.

Then the wheels started turning in his mind: Hixie Rice, former neighbor Down Below ... member of a select gourmet group... loved to eat, and her figure proved it ... clever young woman ...unlucky in love ... worked in advertising and promotion ... used to speak French to Koko. Why, Qwilleran wondered, were all the clever ones in advertising while all the hardworking serious thinkers were n journalism, earning less money?

The last time he had heard for Hixie, she was dating a chef and was taking courses in restaurant management. And that was how Hixie Rice and her chef happened to land in Pickax. Immediately they replaced the dreary menu with more sophisticated dishes and fresh ingredients. The chef retrained the existing kitchen staff, locked up the deep fryers, and rationed the salt.

When Qwilleran went to lunch at the Old Stone Mill on Tuesday, he hardly recognized the former member of the Friendly Fatties. “Hixie, you’re looking almost anorexic!” he said. “Have you stopped putting butter on your bacon and sugar on your hot fudge sundae?”

“You won’t believe it, Qwill, but the restaurant business has cured my obsession for eating,” she said. “All that food turns me off Fifteen pounds of butter ... a two-foot wheel of cheese ... two hundred chickens ... thirty dozen eggs! Have you ever seen two hundred naked chickens, Qwill?”

In losing weight, Hixie had also lost her wheezy high-pitched voice, and her hair now looked healthy and natural instead of contrived and varnished. “You’re looking great!” he told her.

“And you look super, Qwill. Your voice sounds different.”

“I’ve stopped smoking. Rosemary convinced me to give up my pipe.”

“Do you still see Rosemary?”

“No, she’s living in Toronto.”

“All our old gourmet gang is scattered, but I thought you two were headed for holy bondage.”

“There was a personality clash between Rosemary and Koko,” he explained.

Hixie seated him near the turning mill wheel. “This is considered a choice table,” she said, “although the motion of the wheel makes some of our customers seasick. It’s the creaking that drives me up the wall, and the tape recording of a rushing millstream has a psychological effect on diners. They're wearing out the carpet to the rest room." She handed him a menu. "The lamb shank with ratatouille is good today."

"How about the fresh salmon?"

"It's off the blackboard. You're a little late."

"It was premeditated," Qwilleran said. "I'd like to talk with you. Can you join me?"

He ordered the lamb, and Hixie sat down with a glass of Campari and a cigarette. "How did Koko and Yum Yum like the cupcakes?" she asked.

"After they ate the things they chased each other up and I down stairs for two hours, and they're both neutered! Have you discovered a feline aphrodisiac?"

"That's only the first of several frozen catfoods we want to market. The XYZ people are backing us financially. Fabulous Frozen Foods for Fussy Felines How does that sound?"