"When are you and your partner going to come over and speak French to Koko? You haven't seen the magnificent dump I live in."

"It's difficult to socialize," she apologized. "We work such rotten hours. They never told me about that in restaurant school. I'm not complaining; in fact, I'm deliriously happy! I used to be a loser, you know, but all that has changed since I've found a wonderful man. He's not a drunk; he doesn't do drugs; and he's not some other woman's husband."

"I'm very happy for you," Qwilleran said. "When am I going to meet the guy?"

"He's not here right now."

"What's his name? What does he look like?"

"Tony Peters, and he's tall, blond, and very good-looking."

"Where did he learn to cook?"

"Montreal... Paris... other good places."

"I'd like to meet the guy and shake his hand. After all, I'm responsible for bringing you both to this northern paradise."

"Actually," Hixie said, "he's out of town. His mother had a stroke, and he had to fly to Philadelphia."

"He'd better get back before snow flies, or he'll have to make the trip on snowshoes. The airport closes down after the Big One. Where are you living?"

"We have a super apartment in Indian Village. Mr. Exbridge pulled strings to get us in. There's a waiting list, you know."

"And what do you do on your day off?"

"Tony's writing a cookbook. I check out the competition around the county."

"Have you made any interesting discoveries?"

"Next to the Old Stone Mill, Stephanie's has the best food," Hixie said, "but their chef has some kind of mental block. I ordered a stuffed artichoke and got a stuffed avocado. When the waiter insisted it was an artichoke, I grabbed my plate and stormed out to the kitchen to confront the chef, and that arrogant clod had the nerve to tell me I didn't know a stuffed artichoke from a stuffed crocodile! I was furious! I informed him that an artichoke is a member of the thistle family, and an avocado is a pear-shaped fruit that gets its name from the Nahuatl word for testicle, although I assume he wouldn't know anything about that!"

"How did he react?"

"He picked up a cleaver and started flattening chicken breasts, so I retreated before I became a homicide statistic."

Later that afternoon Qwilleran sat at his desk in the library and wondered about Hixie and her mysterious companion. Koko jumped to the desktop, sat tall, and cocked his head expectantly.

"Do you remember Hixie?" Qwilleran asked him. "She was taking French lessons and used to say, 'Bonjour, Monsieur Koko.' She always got involved with marginal types of men, and now she has this invisible chef. There's something strange about him, and yet his kitchen is turning out great food. I brought you a chunk of lamb shank in a doggie bag. Hixie was glad you liked the cupcakes."

Koko wriggled his posterior, squeezed his eyes, and murmured a falsetto "Ik ik."

At that moment Mrs. Cobb peered inquiringly into the room.

"I heard you talking and thought you had company, Mr. Q. I was going to suggest some tea and cookies. I've just baked butterscotch pecan meringues."

"I'm only having an intelligent dialogue with Koko, as Lori Bamba recommended," he explained. "I feel like an idiot, but he seems to enjoy it. By the way, I'll accept some of those butterscotch things, but make it coffee instead of tea."

She bustled off to the kitchen, and Qwilleran went on. "Well, Koko, today was the big shoot at the Picayune office. For Junior's sake I hope something good comes of it. I wonder if the Old Timers held together long enough for the picture taking. They probably had to prop them up with two-by-fours and baling wire."

The day passed without the snow flurries predicted on the radio, but the temperature was dropping rapidly. Qwilleran was listening to the late-evening weathercast when Junior finally telephoned. His voice had none of the excitement of the previous day. He spoke in a minor key. Qwilleran thought, Something went wrong; the redhead failed to show; she decided it was no-story; she forgot her camera; her plane crashed; the Old Timers had heart attacks.

"Have you heard any rumors?" Junior was saying.

"About what?"

"About anything."

"I don't know what you're talking about, kid. Are you sober?"

"I wish I weren't," Junior said glumly. "Mind if I come over to see you? I know it's late..."

"Sure, come along."

"I'm at Jody's place. Okay if I bring her, too?"

"Of course. What do ,you two want to drink?"

"Make it coffee," Junior said after a moment's hesitation. "If I drink when I'm down, I'm liable to cut my wrists."

Qwilleran filled a thermal server with instant coffee and had a tray waiting in the library when the red Jaguar pulled into the drive.

Tiny Jody, with her straight blond hair and big blue eyes, looked like a china doll. Junior looked like an old man.

"Good God! What's happened to you?" Qwilleran said. "You look ghastly, Junior." He waved the young couple into the library.

Junior flopped on a leather sofa. "Bad news!"

"Didn't the shoot work out?"

"Oh sure, but a lot of good it will do. I feel like a fool, getting her to fly up here for nothing."

"You're talking in riddles, Junior. Let's have it!"

In her little-girl voice Jody said, "Tell Mr. Qwilleran about your mother, Juney."

The young newsman stared at Qwilleran for a silent moment before blurting out the news. "She's selling."

"Selling what?"

"Selling the Picayune."

Qwilleran frowned. "What is there to sell? There's nothing there but a ... well... a quaint idea."

"That's the worst part," Junior said. "The idea and all those years of tradition are going down the drain. She's selling the name. "

Qwilleran could neither believe nor comprehend. "Where does she expect to find a buyer?"

Jody piped up, "She's already got a buyer. XYZ Enterprises."

"They want to make it an advertising throwaway," said Junior, looking as if he might cry. "One of those free tabloids with junky ads and ink that comes off on your hands. No news matter. I tell you, Qwill, it's a kick in the gut."

"Has she a right to sell the paper? What about your father's will?"

"He left everything to her. All the assets are jointly held anyway — such as they are."

"Juney," said the small voice, "tell Mr. Qwilleran about your dream."

"Yeah, I've been dreaming about my father every night. He's just standing there in his leather apron and square paper hat, all covered with blood, and he's telling me something, but I can't hear it."

Qwilleran was trying to sort out his thoughts. "This has happened very fast, Junior. Your father was buried only yesterday. It's too quick a decision for a bereaved spouse to make. Have you suggested that to your mother?"

"What's the use? When she makes up her mind to do something, she does it."

"How do your brother and sister react?"

"My brother went back to California; he doesn't care. My sister thinks it's a crime, but she doesn't have any clout. Not with our mother! You've never met her."

"Was it her idea? Or did XYZ make an offer?"

Junior hesitated before answering. "Uh... I don't know ."

"Why is she in such a hurry to sell?"

"Well, the money, you know. She needs money. Dad had a lot of debts, you know."

"Did he carry decent life insurance?"

"There's a policy, but it's not all that great. Grandma Gage has been keeping up the premiums for years, just to protect my mother and us... The house is being sold, too."

"The farmhouse?"

"Isn't that sad?" Jody put in. "It's been in the Goodwinter family a hundred years."

Qwilleran said, "A widow should never make such a quick decision to change her lifestyle."

"Well, it's mortgaged, you know," Junior said, "and she never wanted a big house anyway. She likes condominiums. She wants to unload the house before snow flies — doesn't want to be stuck with a big place in the country during the winter."