The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

-Scene One-

Place: Qwilleran's apartment; later,

Stephanie's restaurant

Time: Late afternoon on the day following the car-train accident

QWILLERAN sat at the big desk in his cork-lined studio, writing a letter of condolence to Carol and Larry Lanspeak. The Siamese were sitting on his desk in parallel poses - Yum Yum waiting to grab a paper clip and Koko hoping to lick a stamp, a quarter inch of pink tongue protruding in anticipation.

Yum Yum had leaped to the desktop first, arranging her parts in a tall, compact column. She sat on her haunches with forelegs elegantly straight, forepaws close together, tail wrapped around her toes clockwise. Koko followed suit, arranging himself alongside the female in an identical pose, even to the direction of the tail. They were almost like twins, Qwilleran thought, although Koko's strong body and noble head and intelligent eyes and imperious mien gave him a masterful aura that could not be mistaken.

"I feel sorry for the Lanspeaks," he said to the

Siamese. His voice sounded rich and mellow, thanks to the cork wallcovering, and the cats liked a rich, mellow, male voice. "I can provide Chad's alibi for the night of the murder, but the Chipmunk stigma will always link him to the killers in the public memory. As the saying goes... 'lie down with dogs; get up with fleas.' "

Koko scratched his ear in sympathetic agreement. "I'm not convinced that the Chipmunk hoodlums killed Harley; there are too many alternatives. I may be beating the drum for an unpopular cause, but I'm going to follow my instincts." He groomed his moustache with his fingertips.

"Harley disappeared for a year after graduation, and no one really knows where he went or what he was doing. He could have been mixed up in almost anything. Just because he was an admirable figure in Pickax, it doesn't follow that he played that role out of town. He was a versatile actor, and he liked to play against type. That Boris Karloff bit he was rehearsing was his kind of number."

Koko blinked in apparent acquiescence; Yum Yum maintained her wide-eyed, baffled, blue stare.

"His year of sowing wild oats, if that's what it was, could have led to blackmail. He could have made enemies. He might have experimented with drugs and become involved with a drug ring. And a sexual escapade with some questionable character, male or female, is not beyond the realm of possibility."

Both cats squeezed their eyes, as if this were heady stuff.

"There's no telling what a young man will do when he cuts loose from his family and hometown. He might have run up gambling debts that he couldn't pay. It was odd that he married Belle in Las Vegas instead of at the Old Stone Church."

Qwilleran was swiveling his chair back and forth as he spoke. Abruptly he stopped and caressed his moustache. "And another possibility! David may have been a silent partner in Harley's adventure. Their grandfather was a bootlegger. Rumrunners from Canada used to land their goods on his beach. Perhaps something else has been landing on that beach. David's house would make a good look-out station."

Both cats now had their eyes closed and were swaying slightly.

"I hope I haven't bored you," he said. "I was just airing a few theories."

He finished writing his note to the Lanspeaks. His messages of sympathy were always beautifully worded; a sincere fellow-feeling had always been one of his assets as a newspaper reporter.

As he was addressing the envelope the telephone rang, and he swiveled to reach it on the table behind him. It was a call from Iris Cobb, manager of the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum. In her usual cheery voice she asked, "Would you like to come over and see the museum, Mr. Q, before it opens to the public? You could come to dinner, and I'd make pot roast and mashed potatoes and that coconut cake you like."

"Invitation accepted, Mrs. Cobb," he replied promptly, "provided the coconut cake has apricot filling."

She had been his housekeeper when he and the Siamese lived in the big house, and the old formality of address still existed between them. It was always "Mr. Q" and "Mrs. Cobb."

"You could bring Koko and Yum Yum," she suggested, "I miss the little dears, and they'd enjoy prowling around this big place after being cooped up in your apartment."

"Are you sure they'd be welcome in the museum?"

"Oh, yes, they never do any damage."

"Except for an occasional ten thousand-dollar vase," Qwilleran reminded her. "What day did you have in mind?"

"How about Sunday at six o'clock?"

"We'll be there!" He made a mental note to buy a pink silk scarf at Lanspeak's. Pink was Mrs. Cobb's favorite color. He missed his former housekeeper's cooking. Now, as live-in manager of the museum, she had one wing of the farmhouse as a private apartment - with a large kitchen, she said. The invitation sounded promising.

Qwilleran turned back to his desk and found the desktop strewn with paper clips; the envelope he had been addressing was gone, and two cats were missing. A telltale slurping under the desk led him to Koko and a limp, sticky envelope.

"Okay, you scoundrels," he said as he crawled under the desk. "I consider this antisocial behavior. Shape up, or you'll get no pot roast on Sunday."

When the telephone rang a second time, he stowed the envelope in a drawer. It was five o'clock, and he knew who would be on the line.

"I'm about to leave the studio, Qwill. Do you mind if I drop in to check on Pete's work?"

"Sure, come along, Fran. It's a big success. The cork gives the room a good acoustical quality."

"I knew it would, and your voice sounds perfectly magnificent!" she said. "See you in five minutes." She sounded gayer than usual.

Francesca has been to lunch with a client, Qwilleran thought. To the Siamese he said, "She's coming for a drink, and I don't want anybody grabbing her ankle or stealing her personal property."

Shortly after, the designer turned her own key in the lock downstairs and bounced up to the apartment in high spirits.

"Scotch?" he asked. I "Make it light. I had a lo-o-ong lunch date with a new client. Don Exbridge! I'm doing his new condo in Indian Village."

Qwilleran huffed silently into his moustache. The recently divorced Exbridge was a developer and one of the most eligible catches in town; women melted at his smile.

They carried their drinks into the studio, and Qwilleran sat at his writing desk while Francesca curled up in the big lounge chair where he did his creative thinking and I occasionally a little catnapping. She curled up with more abandon than usual, he noted. He said, "The cork walls were a good choice for this room, Fran."

"Thank you. Pete did a great job. He always does."

"Even with mitered stripes?"

"Ah! The Brrr Blabbermouth has been telling tales!" she said with a grimace. "That stripe job was one of my early mistakes. At lunch today Don Exbridge asked for plaid wall covering in his den, and I vetoed it in a hurry. I told him his whole condo development is out-of-square. He just smiled his enchanting smile. He's very easy to get along with. We're going to Chicago to choose some things for his place."

Qwilleran frowned. "When are you and I flying Down Below to choose my bedroom furnishings?"

Fran reacted with surprise and pleasure. "How about next week? There's a new king-size four-poster I want you to see."

"I don't want anything that looks as if George Washington slept in it," he objected.

"This bed is contemporary. Stainless-steel posts with brass finials. And there are some new case pieces from Germany that you'll like-very neo-Bauhaus. Do you mind if I make the hotel reservations? I know a cozy place near the showroom district - expensive, but it'll go on your bill, and it won't hurt a bit. How about next Wednesday? If we catch the morning shuttle to Minneapolis, we can be in Chicago for lunch."

Qwilleran thought, When Polly finds out about this, it will be the coup de grace.

Fran said, "What else did Big Mouth tell you?"

"About the pink elephants and red velvet that he installed for Harley and Belle. Was that one of your mistakes?"

"NO!" she thundered in her best stage voice. "My boss handled that transaction. Amanda will sell clients anything they want, whether it's bad taste or utterly impractical or illegal. She's corrupt, but I like her."

"Arch Riker is going to marry Amanda."

"I hope he has a sense of humor. He'll need it!"

"Have you heard how the bank will replace Nigel and the boys?"

"Nothing official, but the rumor is that two women officers will be elevated to VP, and a new president will come in from Down Below. I hope he'll need an interior designer."

"Where were you when you heard about the suicide?" he asked.

"At the hairdresser's. Everyone cried. People really loved Nigel. He was so suave and good-looking and charming!"

"I was having dinner at the Old Stone Mill," Qwilleran said, "and one of the waitresses dropped a tray when she heard the news. I presume Nigel was suave, good-looking, charming, and a big tipper."

"Now you're playing the cynical journalist. Bravo!" she said. "Did you hear that Margaret's place on the library board is going to be filled by Don Exbridge?"

Qwilleran grunted in disapproval. Exbridge was the developer who had tried to have the historic courthouse demolished. He said, "Exbridge will convince the city to tear down our historic public library, so he can build a new one for $9.9 million."

"Now you're being vicious as well as cynical!" There was an amused glint in her steely, gray eyes. She liked to goad him. "Don would also like to replace Nigel on the Klingenschoen board of trustees."

"Perfect!" Qwilleran said. "He can manipulate Klingenschoen grants to buy political favors, like rezoning, tax abatement, sewers, and other benefits for his private enterprises... May I freshen your drink? Then we'll go to Stephanie's for dinner." Mischievously he added, "I heard some curious news last week. I heard that Harley disappeared for a year after finishing college." He knew it would ruffle her.

"He didn't disappear! He traveled for a year. For centuries young men have taken the grand tour before settling down. Nothing unusual about that!" She was on the defensive now.

"The consensus is that he did something unconventional during his year of freedom."

"Stupid gossip!" she said testily.

"Did he travel by plane, motorcycle, or camel?"

"Frankly, I never thought it important to ask."

"Did he discuss his itinerary?"

"The Fitches would consider it tacky to bore people with their travels. And he didn't bring home any color slides or French postcards or plastic replicas of the Taj Mahal.... What am I getting? The third degree?"

"Sorry... How's David? Have you seen him, or talked with him?"

"I talk to Jill on the phone every day," Fran said, relaxing after her brief flurry of annoyance. "She thinks David's on the verge of a breakdown. They're going away for a few weeks-to a quiet place in South America where they spent their honeymoon."

"I suppose David will inherit everything."

"I really don't know." She looked at her watch. "The restaurant stops serving at nine o'clock."

"Okay, let's go... as soon as I feed the cats."

"Did you ever find my cigarette lighter?"

"No, but Mr. O'Dell has been alerted to look for it when he cleans."

The Siamese had retired to their apartment and were studiously watching birds from the windowsill. Qwilleran put a plate of tenderloin tips on a placemat in their bathroom, turned on the TV without the audio, and quietly shut the door to their apartment.

On the drive to Stephanie's he said, "Is it true that Harley's grandfather was a bootlegger?" He expected another indignant rebuttal.

"Yes!" she said with delight. "He believed people were-going to drink anyway, and if he smuggled in good stuff from Canada, they wouldn't go blind from drinking rotgut. He didn't believe in Prohibition, income tax, or corsets for women."

The draped tables at Stephanie's were placed in the original rooms of the old house, and Qwilleran and his guest were seated in the second parlor. The late sun was still beaming through the stained-glass windows, turning the beveled mirrors and wine glasses into rainbows. Over dinner they discussed the new theater.

Qwilleran said, "They're installing the seats this week. It should be available for rehearsals in August. Do you still want to open with an original revue?"

"Well..." Fran said indecisively, "under the circumstances we thought of doing a serious play and asking David to take a role. Something challenging and worthwhile might renew his interest in life. He's so depressed that Jill is afraid he'll follow his father's example."

Qwilleran thought, If David is involved in the situation that led to Harley's execution, he has good reason to be depressed. He could be the next victim. To Fran he said, "Do you have any particular play in mind? Nothing Russian, I hope; it would push him over the brink."

"And nothing too bloody," she said. "And nothing about two brothers."

A mellifluous voice could be heard in the front parlor, where there were four or five tables for diners. It was a man's voice, talking earnestly, then laughing heartily.

"I recognize that voice," Qwilleran said. "But I can't place it."

Fran peered over his shoulder. "It's Don Exbridge!" she said brightly. "And he's with a woman. I think it's Polly Duncan! They seem to be having a go-o-od time."

She.looked teasingly smug. "Aren't you going to send drinks over to their table?"

Qwilleran scowled as a ripple of pleasant laughter came from the front parlor. It was Polly's gentle voice. After that he was impatient with the rest of the dinner: the salad was limp; the hazelnut torte was soggy; the coffee was weak. He was impatient with Fran's conversation. He was impatient to send her on her way, impatient to get home to the sympathetic Siamese. Not once, he recalled, had she mentioned Koko and Yum Yum during the evening; he doubted whether she even knew their names. Not once had she remarked about the new newspaper or commented on the column he was writing. On the whole he was sorry he had agreed to fly Down Below to look at a stainless-steel bed and some neo-Bauhaus chests. There was nothing wrong with his present bedroom furniture. He felt comfortable with it. He had always felt comfortable with Polly, too. He had never felt entirely comfortable with Francesca.

On arriving home he went first to the cats' apartment to check on possible drafts from an open window and to turn off the TV. They were both asleep in one of the baskets, curled up like yin and yang. Then he flicked on the light in the bathroom to see if they had finished their dinner, and to give them fresh water.

The scene was one of havoc Yum Yum's commode was overturned, and its contents had been flung about the room. A shiny object, half-buried in a damp mound of kitty gravel, proved to be a silver cigarette lighter.

Something, Qwilleran thought, is radically wrong with that cat! She used to be so fastidious! Tomorrow she goes to the doctor!

-Scene Two-

Place: Qwilleran's apartment

Time: The morning after Yum Yum's demonstration

Featuring: AMANDA GOODWINTER

As HE DIALED the animal clinic to make an appointment for Yum Yum, Qwilleran thought, It was stupid of me to buy her a plastic dishpan; she wanted equal rights! She wanted an oval roasting pan like Koko's.

He was explaining the situation to the receptionist at the clinic when the doorbell rang-three insistent rings. Only one person in Pickax rang doorbells like that. Amanda Goodwinter clomped up the stairway complaining about the weather, the truckdrivers on the construction site, and the design of the stairs - too steep and too narrow. The love of a good newspaperman had done nothing to improve her disposition or her appearance.

Wisps of gray hair made a spiky fringe under the brim of her battered golf hat, and her washed-out khaki suit looked unfitted and unpressed.

"I came to see if my free-loading assistant is making any progress," she said, "or is she just taking long lunch hours with clients?"

"I think you'll be pleased with what she's done," Qwilleran said.

"I'm never pleased with anything, and you know it!" She trudged around the apartment, glaring at the wallcoverings and built-ins and accessories, mumbling and grumbling to herself.

"Francesca plans to design some enclosures for the radiators," he said.

"Planning it is one thing; doing it is another." She straightened the gunboat picture, which Koko had tilted again. "Where did you get this print?"

"From an antique shop in Mooseville that's run by an old sea captain."

"It's run by an old flimflam artist! He never went farther than the end of the Mooseville pier! There are ten copies of this picture floating around the county-all cheap reproductions, not original prints. The only original is in the Fitch mansion, and it's there because I sold it to Nigel as a birthday present for Harley. Never did pay me for it!"

"I understand you helped the family with their decorating," Qwilleran said.

"There's nothing anyone could do with that place except burn it down. Did you ever see the junk old Cyrus collected? They're supposed to be treasures. Half of it's fake!"

"The paperhanger told me they have some pretty wild wallpapers."

"Arrgh! That tramp Harley married! I gave her what she wanted, but I made sure it's peelable wallpaper. I hope somebody has the sense to peel it off! They should go in with a backhoe and shovel out all the crap! All those mangy stuffed animals and molting birds and phony antiques! Don't know what they'll do with the old mausoleum now. Might as well dynamite the whole thing and build condos."

"Would you like to sit down, Amanda, and have a cup of coffee?"

"No time for coffee! No time to sit down!" She was still tramping back and forth like a nervous lioness. "Besides, that stuff you call coffee tastes like varnish remover."

"With the Fitch family virtually wiped out," Qwilleran said, "this community has suffered a great loss."

"Don't waste any tears over that crew! They weren't as perfect as the lunkheads around here like to think."

"But they were civic leaders - active in all the service clubs and all the fund-raising drives. They served the community unselfishly." He was aware that he was baiting her.

"I'll tell you what they were up to, mister; they were polishing their egos! Fund-raising - pooh! Just try to get any money out of their own pocketbooks, and it was a different story. And were they ever slow to pay their bills! I should've charged 'em the same interest the bank charges!"

Qwilleran persisted. "The daughter of the janitor at the bank is going to art school, and Nigel Fitch personally paid her tuition."

"The Stebbins girl? Hah! Why not? Nigel's her natural father! Stebbins has been blackmailing him for years!... Well, I can't stay here all day, completing your education." She started down the stairs. Halfway down she said, "I hear you're going to Chicago with my assistant."

"We have to choose some furniture for my bedroom," Qwilleran said. "By the way, when's the wedding?"

"What wedding?" she shouted and slammed the front door.

-Scene Two-

Place: The Black Bear Cafe

Time: Evening of the same day

Introducing: GARY PRATT, barkeeper,

sailor, and friend of

Harley Fitch

QWILLERAN had three reasons for driving to the Hotel Booze in Brrr on Thursday evening. He had a yen for one of their no-holds-barred hamburgers. Also, he wanted another look at the black bear that had scared the wits out of him at his birthday party. But mostly, he wanted to talk with Gary Pratt, the barkeeper who had sailed with Harley on the Fitch Witch.

He telephoned Mildred Hanstable, who lived a few miles west of Brrr, to ask if she would like to meet him for a boozeburger. She would, indeed! Women never declined Qwilleran's invitations.

She said, "I'd like to see what Gary's done to the hotel since his father let him take over."

"I hope he hasn't cleaned it up too much," Qwilleran said. "And I hope Thumbprint Thelma hasn't quit. I wonder if they still set ant traps under all the tables."

The Hotel Booze was built on a sandhill overlooking the lakeside town of Brrr. It was an old stone inn dating back to pioneer days when there were no frills, no room service, no bathrooms, and (on the third floor) no beds. In its "Publick Room" miners and sailors and lumberjacks gathered on Saturday nights to drink red-eye, eat slumgullion, gamble away their pay, and kill each other. From those turbulent days until the present the hotel had been distinguished by its rooftop sign. Letters six feet high spelled out the message: BOOZE

ROOMS FOOD.

Most of Moose County considered the Hotel Booze a dump. Nevertheless, everyone went there for the world's best hamburgers and homemade pie.

Qwilleran and his guest met in the parking lot and walked together into the Publick Room, now renamed the Black Bear Caf‚. At the entrance the bear himself stood on his hind legs, greeting customers with outstretched paws and bared fangs.

"The room looks lighter than before," Mildred observed.

Qwilleran thought it was because they had washed the walls for the first time in fifty years. "And they repaired the torn linoleum," he said, looking at the silvery strips of duct tape crisscrossing the floor. "I wonder if they reglued the furniture."

He and Mildred seated themselves cautiously on wooden chairs at a battered, wooden table. A sign on the empty napkin dispenser read: PAPER NAPKINS ON REQUEST, 5›.

Behind the bar was a hefty man with a sailor's tan, an unruly head of black hair and a bushy black beard, lumbering back and forth with heavy grace, swinging his shoulders and hairy arms as he filled drink orders calmly and efficiently.

Mildred said, "Gary's getting to look rather formidable. I'm glad he's taking an interest in the business. He didn't show much promise in school, but he made it through two years of college and stayed out of trouble, and now that his father is ill he seems to be showing some initiative."

Towering boozeburgers were served by a young waitress in a miniskirt. "Where's Thelma?" Qwilleran asked, remembering the former waitress who ambled out in a faded housedress and bedroom slippers.

"She retired."

Thelma had always served the toppling burgers with her thumb on top of the bun; now they were skewered with cocktail picks.

Mildred said, "I hope I didn't disgrace myself at the office party Saturday night."

"They were pouring the drinks too stiff. I had three corned-beef sandwiches and two dill pickles and regretted it later."

"I liked your column on Edd Smith, Qwill. It's about time he had some recognition."

"He's amazingly well-read. He quotes Cicero and Noel Coward and Churchill as easily as others quote the stars in TV serial. But how does he make a living in that low-key operation? Does he have a sideline? Extortion? Counterfeiting?"

"I hope you're only trying to be funny, Qwill. Edd is an honest, sweet-natured, pathetic little man..."

"... who keeps a deadly weapon next to his toothbrush."

"Well, I have a handgun, too, After all, I live alone, and in summer all those batty tourists come up here."

Speaking of handguns," he said, "I was having dinner at the Old Stone Mill when we heard that Nigel had shot himself, and one of the waitresses reacted very emotionally. I hear she's an art student. Her name is Sally."

Yes, Sally Stebbins. She received a scholarship from the Fitch family, and I imagine she felt the loss deeply."

How did she rate a scholarship? Is she a good artist?"

"She shows promise," Mildred said. "Fortunately her father works at the bank, and Nigel has always taken a paternal interest in employees and their families." She regarded him sharply. "I hope you're not resurrecting the old gossip."

"Is it worth resurrecting?"

"Well, I may as well tell you, because you'll dig until you find out anyway. There was a rumor that Nigel was Sally's real father, but it was a despicable lie. Nigel's integrity has always been beyond reproach. He and Margaret - were simply wonderful people."

Qwilleran gazed at her intently and fingered his moustache. Did she believe what she was saying? Was it the truth? What could anyone believe in this northern backwoods where gossip was the major industry? He asked her, "What was your reaction to the car-train accident?"

Mildred shook her head sadly. "I regret the loss of human life, but it seems like poetic justice if they're the ones who killed Harley and Belle. Roger says the police haven't found the jewels. Did you know some valuable pieces are missing? They're hushing it up, but Roger has a friend in the sheriff's office."

The waitress in the miniskirt announced the pie of the day: strawberry. It proved to be made with whole berries and real whipped cream, and Qwilleran and his guest devoured it in enraptured silence. Then Mildred inquired about the Siamese.

"Koko's okay," he said, "but I had to take Yum Yum to the vet. I phoned him about her problem, and he told me to bring her in with a urine sample."

"Interesting! How did you manage that?"

"Not with a paper cup! I had to buy a special kit - a minuscule sponge and some tiny tweezers - and then sit in the cats' apartment for five hours, waiting for Yum Yum to cooperate. When the mission was finally accomplished I took her to the clinic with the sponge in a plastic bag the size of a Ritz cracker. I felt like a fool!"

"How did Yum Yum feel?"

"Hell hath no fury like a female Siamese who hates the vet. As soon as she saw the cold, steel table, the fur began to fly. Cat hairs everywhere! Like a snowstorm! She was probed and poked and squeezed and stuck with a thermometer. The vet was murmuring soothing words, and she was howling and struggling and snapping her jaws like a crocodile."

"Did he find anything wrong?"

"He said it's all psychological. She's objecting to something in her life-style or environment, and I don't think it's the new wallpaper. In my opinion she's jealous of the interior designer."

"Really?" said Mildred. "How does Koko react to the designer?"

"He ignores her. He's too busy sniffing glue."

Over the coffee Mildred said, "Confidentially, Qwill, is Roger doing all right at the paper?"

"He's doing fine. He has a history teacher's nose for accurate facts, and he writes well."

"I worried about his giving up a good teaching position - with a new baby in the family and Sharon not working. But I guess his generation is more daring than ours."

"Speak for yourself, Mildred. I, for one, like to make daring decisions."

"Have you decided to get married again?" she asked hopefully.

"Not that daring!"

After she said good night, adding that she wanted to be home before dark, Qwilleran moved to a stool at the bar. He had been there before, and Gary Pratt remembered his drink: Squunk water with a dash of bitters and a slice of lemon.

"How do you explain your policy on paper napkins?" Qwilleran asked him.

"Everything costs money," Gary said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. "The bank stopped giving me free checks, and the gas station stopped giving me free air. Why should I give them free napkins?"

"I admire your logic, Gary."

"The thing of it is, when I kept the dispensers full of napkins they were always disappearing. My customers used them to blow their nose, clean their windshield, and God knows what else."

"You've convinced me! Here's my nickel. I'll take a napkin," Qwilleran said. He nodded toward the mounted bear at the entrance. "I see you've employed a new bouncer."

"That's Wally Toddwhistle's work. He's the best in the business."

"I'm interviewing Wally tomorrow for the paper."

"Mention the Black Bear Caf‚, will you?" Gary said. "Give us a plug. Tell them the hotel is over a hundred years old, with the original bar." He ran a towel over its scarred surface with affection. "My old man let the place run down, but I'm fixing it up. Not too fancy, you know. We get a lot of boaters, and they like the beat-up look."

Qwilleran glanced around the room and noticed boaters with striped jerseys and tanned faces, farmers in feed caps, men and women in business suits, and elderly folks with white hair and hearing aids. All were eating boozeburgers and strawberry pie and looking happy - with one exception. A sandy-haired man seated a few stools down the bar was drinking alone, hunched over his beer in a posture of dejection. Qwilleran noticed he was wearing expensive-looking casual clothes and a star sapphire on his little finger.

"How long has the big sign been on the roof?" Qwilleran asked Gary.

"Since 1900, as far as I can trace it. It's visible from the lake. In fact, if sailors line up the steeple of the Brrr church with the Z in 'Booze,' it'll guide 'em straight through the channel west of the breakwall." He filled an order for the barmaid and returned to Qwilleran. "Some folks in town object to 'Booze' in such big letters, but, the way I see it, it's a friendly word. Boozing means sitting around, talking and taking it easy while you sip a drink. It goes back to the fourteenth century, only it was spelled b-o-u-s-e in those days. I looked it up."

Gary had professional aplomb. His black eyes roamed about the caf‚ constantly, all the while he talked and worked. He would pour a shot of whiskey, greet a newcomer, ring up a tab, nudge a boisterous customer on the shoulder, wipe the bar, mix a tray of martinis for the barmaid, draw a pitcher of beer, caution a masher, wipe the bar again.

"The thing of it is," he explained to Qwilleran, "Brrr is a harbor of refuge for boats, the only one this side of the lake. I want the caf‚ to be a place where everyone can come and feel comfortable and at home." "I understand you're a sailor yourself."

"I've got a catamaran. She's been in a few races. I used to sail with Harley Fitch, but those days are over. Too bad! Harley and David used to come in here a lot, and we'd talk boats. Not David so much; he's a golf nut. Shoots in the low seventies. Ever see Harley's model ships?"

"No, but I've heard about them. Pretty good, I guess."

"I tried to buy one of his America's Cup racers for the cafe, but he wouldn't part with it. The thing of it is, he was getting kind of funny toward the end."

"How do you mean - funny?"

"There was his marriage, for one thing. That was all wrong. But there were other things. When he went to work for the bank, I tried to get a loan to improve this place. If I'm gonna rent the rooms, I gotta put in an elevator and bring everything up to code. All that takes money - a lot of money. His father was president of the bank, you know, and I thought we were good friends and could work out a deal."

The barkeeper moved away to refill a glass. When he returned, Qwilleran said, "Did the loan go through?"

Gary shook his shaggy black hair. "No dice. I was really teed off about that, and I gave it to him straight from the shoulder. We had a row, and he never came in here again... I didn't care. The thing of it is, he was never the same after he came home."

"Came home from where?" Qwilleran asked with a display of innocence. "From college?"

"No, he was, uh... David came home and went into; the bank with his father, but Harley spent a year in the east before he came home."

Qwilleran ordered another Squunk water and then leisurely inquired what Harley was doing in the east.

Gary's black eyes roamed the room. "The family didn't want anybody to know, and people made a lot of wild guesses, but Harley told me the truth. When you get out there on the lake with a blue sky full of sail and only the whisper of a breeze, it's easy to talk. It's like going to a shrink. That was before things turned sour between us, you know. I promised to keep mum about it."

Qwilleran sipped his drink and glanced idly at the backbar with its nineteenth-century carvings and turnings and beveled mirrors.

Gary said, "I didn't say anything about it when the police were here. After the murder they were talking to everybody that knew him."

Qwilleran said, "Do you think Harley's secret mission may have had some bearing on the murder?"

Gary shrugged. "Who knows? I'm no detective."

"Personally," Qwilleran said in his best confidential manner, "I'm not convinced the Chipmunk kids were responsible for the crime, and I think we should do everything we can to bring the real criminals to justice. At the moment I'm wondering if Harley made enemies during his year away from home. Did he get mixed up in gambling or drugs?"

"Nothing like that," said the barkeeper. "I could tell you, I suppose. It doesn't make any difference now that he's dead, and his folks are dead."

Qwilleran's mournfully sympathetic eyes were fixed on Gary's shifting black ones.

Gary said, "But I'd be crazy to tell a reporter. I know you're writing for the paper. Are you digging up some dirt about the Fitches?"

"Nothing of the kind! I'm concerned because Carol and Larry Lanspeak are good people, and I hate to see their boy falsely linked to the murder."

Gary was silent and thoughtful as he wiped the bar for the twentieth time. He glanced around the room and lowered his voice. "Harley's folks said he was traveling out of the country. The thing of it is... he was doing time."

"He was in jail?"

"In prison - somewhere in the east."

"On what charge?"

"Criminal negligence. Car accident. A girl was killed."

"Did Harley tell you this?" Qwilleran asked.

"We were still friendly then, and he wanted to get it off his chest, I guess. It's tough living with a secret in a tight little place like Moose County."

"And there's always the chance that someone from outside will come into town and reveal it."

"Or some skunk of a newspaper reporter will dig it up and make trouble."

"Please!" Qwilleran protested.

"Maybe I shouldn't have told you."

"In the first place, I don't consider myself a skunk of a reporter, Gary, and in the second place, my only concern is to find a clue to the identity of the killer - or killers."

"Can you make anything out of it - the way it stands now?"

"One possibility comes immediately to mind," Qwilleran said. "The victim's family may have thought Harley paid too small a price for his negligence. They obviously knew he was affluent. So they came gunning for him. An eye for an eye... and a little jewel robbery on the side. I understand the Fitch jewels are missing."

"If you talk to anybody about it," Gary said, "don't get me involved. I can't afford to stick my neck out. When you have a bar license, you know, you have to walk on eggs."

"Don't worry," Qwilleran said. "I protect my sources. Actually, I suspect the police already know about Harley's prison term, but I'm glad you told me... It is a far, far better thing that you do than you have ever done - to paraphrase a favorite author of mine."

"That's from an old movie," Gary said.

"Ronald Colman said it. Dickens wrote it."

The barkeeper became affable. "Do you sail?"

"You're looking at a one hundred-percent landlubber."

"Any time you want to go out, let me know. There's nothing like sailing."

"Thanks for the invitation. What's my tab? I've got to be going."

"On the house."

"Thanks again." Qwilleran slid off the bar stool and then turned back to the bar. "Did anyone ever tell you, Gary, that you look like a pirate?"

The barkeeper grinned. "The thing of it is, I'm descended from one. Ever hear of Pratt the Pirate? Operated in the Great Lakes in the 1800s. He was hanged."

On the way out of the cafe Qwilleran gave the black bear a formal salute. Then he sauntered out of the hotel, pleased with the information he had gleaned. He ambled to the parking lot, unaware that he was being followed. As he unlocked the car door he was startled by the shadow of someone behind him. He turned quickly.

The man standing there was the blond barfly with the star sapphire and the melancholy mood. "Remember me?" he asked sullenly.

"Pete? Is that you? You startled me."

"Wanted to talk to you," the paperhanger said.

"Sure." When Pete made no move to begin, Qwilleran said, "Your car or mine?"

"I walked. I live near here."

"Okay. Hop in." They settled in the front seat, Pete slumped in an attitude of despair. "What's bothering you, fella?"

"Can't get her off my mind."

"Belle?" Pete nodded.

"It will take time to get over that horrible incident," Qwilleran said, going into the sympathy routine that he did so well. "I understand your grief, and it's healthy to grieve. It's something you have to muddle through, one day at a time, in order to go on living." He was in good form, he thought, and he felt genuinely sorry for this hulk of a man whose tears were beginning to trickle down his face.

"I lost her twice," Pete said. "Once when he stole her away from me... and once when he got her murdered. I always thought she'd come back to me some day, but now..."

"The shooting wasn't Harley's fault," Qwilleran reminded him. "Both of them lost their lives."

"Three of them," Pete said.

"Three?"

"The baby"

"That's right. I had almost forgotten that Belle was pregnant."

"It was my kid."

Qwilleran was not sure he had heard correctly.

"That was my kid!" Pete repeated in a loud and angry voice.

"Are you telling me that you were sleeping with Belle after her marriage?"

"She came to me," Pete said with a glimmer of pride. "She said he wasn't doing her any good. She said he couldn't do anything."

Qwilleran was silent. His fund of sympathetic sentiments was not equipped for this particular situation.

"I'd do anything to get the killer," said Pete, snapping out of his dejected mood. "I heard you talking in the bar. I'd do anything to get him!"

"Then tell me anything you know-anyone you suspect. Frankly, it might save your hide. You're in a sticky situation. Were you doing any work for Harley and Belle at the time of the murder?"

"Papering a bedroom for a nursery."

"Were you working that day?"

"Just finishing up."

"What time did you leave?"

"About five."

"Was Harley there?"

"She said he was out sailing, He did a lot of sailing. He had a boat berthed at Brrr - a twenty-seven-footer."

"Who was with him? Do you know?"

Pete shook his head. "He used to go out with Gary from the Booze. Then Gary got his own boat, and Harley stopped coming into the bar. I saw him at the Shipwreck Tavern a coupla times, though- with a woman."

Qwilleran remembered Mildred's tarot cards. A deceitful woman involved! "Do you know who she was?"

Pete shrugged. "I didn't pay that much attention."

"Okay, Pete. I want you to think about this, Think hard! Think like a cop. And if you come up with anything that might throw suspicion in any direction, you know how to reach me. Now I'll drive you home."

Qwilleran dropped the paperhanger at a terrace apartment halfway down the hill and waited until the man was indoors. Then he drove home, wondering how much of the story was true.

That Pete hated Harley for stealing his girl was undoubtedly a fact. That Pete hated Belle for deserting him was a possibility. That Harley proved to be impotent and that Belle turned to Pete for solace might be a wild fantasy in the mind of a disappointed lover. In that case, Pete was a logical suspect. He had the motive and the opportunity, and in Moose County everyone had the means. Belle was the first to be killed, according to the medical examiner. She and Pete might have argued in the bedroom, and he might have shot her in a fit of passion, But he was cool enough to wreck the room and make it look like burglary. One would suppose that he was about to leave the house with the smoking gun and a few jewels in the pocket of his white coveralls, when Harley returned from sailing. They met in the entrance hall. Perhaps they had a few words about the fine weather for sailing and the difficulty of hanging wallpaper in an old house with walls out-of-square. Then Pete presented his bill and Harley wrote him a check. Perhaps Harley offered him a drink, and they sat in the kitchen and had a beer, after which they said" Seeya next time" and Pete pulled out his gun and eliminated Harley.

There was a flaw in this scenario, Qwilleran realized. Harley would be wearing sailing clothes, and the newspaper account stated that both victims were in their "rehearsal clothes." Also, it was 7:30 when David and Jill approached the mansion and saw a vehicle speeding away on the dirt road, creating a cloud of dust.

More likely, Pete was innocent. He left at five o'clock with his ladders and paste buckets. Harley came home and changed into rehearsal clothes while Belle (who was also in rehearsal clothes for some unexplained reason) put a frozen pizza in the microwave. And then the murder vehicle arrived.

Qwilleran was too tired to figure out how the murderers first killed Belle upstairs and then killed Harley downstairs. Furthermore, there was the possibility that Roger's information from the medical examiner had been distorted by the Pickax grapevine. Slowly and thoughtfully he mounted the stairs to his apartment. At the top of the flight the Siamese were waiting for him, sitting side by side in identical attitudes, tall and regal, their tails curled around their toes - counterclockwise this time. He wondered if the direction had any significance.

-Scene Four-

Place: The Toddwhistle Taxidermy

Studio in North Kennebeck

Time: The next morning

Introducing: MRS. TODDWHISTLE

IN MAKING HIS APPOINTMENT with Wally

Toddwhistle, Qwilleran asked for directions to the studio.

"You know how to get to North Kennebeck?" Wally asked. "Well, we're east of Main Street... I mean west. You know Tipsy's restaurant? You go past that till you get to Tupper Road. I think there's a street sign, but I'm not sure. If you get to the school, you've gone too far, and you'll have to turn around and come back and turn right on Tupper - or left if you're coming from Pickax. You go quite a ways down Tupper. There's a shortcut, if you don't mind a dirt road - not the first dirt road; that one dead - ends somewhere. There's another dirt road..."

A woman's voice interrupted - a throaty voice with a great deal of energy behind it. "I'm Wally's mother. If Wally stuffed owls the way he gives directions, he'd have the feathers on the inside. Got a pencil? Write this down: Two blocks past Tipsy's you turn left at the motel and go nine-tenths of a mile. Then left again at the Gun Club and we're the third farmhouse on the right - with a sign out in front. Pull in the side drive. The studio's out back."

On the way to North Kennebeck Qwilleran visualized Mrs. Toddwhistle as a large woman with football shoulders, wearing army boots. Wally himself always looked hollow-eyed and undernourished, but he was a nice kid - and talented.

He allowed an hour for lunch at Tipsy's and even had time to stop at the Gun Club. The pro shop, open to the public, was stocked with rifles, shotguns, handguns, shells, scopes and camouflage clothes. Here and there were mounted pheasants, ducks, and other game birds.

"Help you, sir?" asked the brisk man in charge.

"Just passing by and stopped for a look," Qwilleran said. "Are the birds Wally Toddwhistle's work?"

"Yes, sir! Certainly are!"

"The sign in the window says you teach the use of firearms."

"Certainly do! We don't sell anything to anybody unless they know how to use it. We have classes for children and adults, ladies included. Safety is what we stress, and care of the firearm."

"Do you sell many handguns?"

"Yes, sir! A lot of hunters are using handguns."

"Do you find people buying them for personal protection?"

"Our customers are sportsmen, sir!"

Qwilleran priced the handguns and then went on his way to the taxidermy studio. There was a neat, white farmhouse with lace curtains in the windows and the usual lilac bush by the door and a modem pole barn in the rear. That was the studio.

He was greeted by Mrs. Toddwhistle, with Wally two steps behind her. She was not what he expected, being short and chunky and aggressively pleasant. "Have any trouble finding us, honey?" she asked. "How about a cup of coffee?"

"Later, thanks," he said. "First I'd like to talk to Wally about his work. I saw the stuffed bear at the Hotel Booze last night."

"Mounted bear, honey," the woman corrected him in a kindly way. "We don't stuff animals any more, except birds and small mammals. Wally buys or builds a lightweight form and pulls the skin over it like a coat. It's more accurate and not so goshdarned heavy... is it, Wally? When they used to stuff animals with excelsior, mice got into them and built nests. My husband was a taxidermist."

"I stand corrected," Qwilleran said. "Be that as it may, the bear looks great! They've got it spotlighted."

"Very bad to have a mounted animal under a spotlight or near heat," she said. "Dries it out... doesn't it, Wally? And all the smoking in Gary's bar is going to ruin the pelt. It's beautiful work. A shame to spoil it! Wally didn't charge half enough for that job."

They were in an anteroom with several specimens on display: a bobcat climbing a dead tree, a pheasant in flight, a coyote raising its head to howl. Qwilleran directed a question to the silent taxidermist. "How long have you been doing this work?"

His mother was relentless. "He probably doesn't even remember... do you, Wally? He was only a few years old when he started helping his daddy scrape skins. Wally always loved animals - didn't want to hunt them - only preserve them and make them look real. I help him with scraping the meat off the hides, getting the burrs and straw out of the pelts - things like that."

"May I ask you a favor, Mrs. Toddwhistle," Qwilleran began amiably but firmly. "I have a problem. I've never been able to interview two persons at the same time, even though I've been a reporter for twenty-five years. I have an unfortunate block. Would you mind if I interviewed your son first? After that I'd like to sit down with you and get your story - and have that cup of coffee."

"Sure, honey, I understand. I'll go back to the house. "Just give me a buzz on the buzzer when you're done." She bustled from the studio.

When his mother had gone, Wally said, "I haven't heard from Fran. What's the club going to do about a summer show?"

"No summer show, but they plan to do a serious play in September, with rehearsals beginning in August. No doubt you'll be called upon to build the sets, although I don't know who'll design them. Jill is taking David to South America for a few weeks. He's having difficulty adjusting, and she wants to get him away for a while."

"I'm having a hard time accepting it, too," said Wally. "After I heard about the murder, I couldn't work for days; I was so nervous. I'm glad it's all over."

"I'm not convinced of that. New evidence may come to light."

"That's what my mother says. She used to work for the family when Mr. and Mrs. Fitch lived in Grandpa Fitch's house."

"She did?" Qwilleran patted his bristling moustache.

"She cooked for them after my dad died. That's why the murder hit me so hard, and then Mrs. Fitch's stroke and Mr. Fitch's suicide! It was terrible!"

Following this revelation. Qwilleran had to struggle to keep his mind on the interview. Wally conducted him into a barnlike area that was a bewildering combination of zoo, furrier's workroom, animal hospital, butcher shop, catacomb, and theater backstage. There were freezers, oil drums, a sewing machine, a wall of bleached animal skulls, a skeletonic, long-legged bird. A shaggy, white wolf, not yet fitted with eyes and nose, lay stiffly on its side, its forelegs wrapped in bandages. A brown bear hide was being stretched on a board to make a rug. Fox, skunk, owl, and peacock, were in various stages of dress and undress.

Some of the animals were alive: dogs with wagging tails, a cage of small fluttering birds, a menacing macaw chained to a perch. An orange cat was curled up on a cushion, asleep.

Wally was eager to show and tell: A box of glass eyes included eleven kinds for owls and twenty-three for ducks. "We have to be authentic," he said... Plastic teeth, tongues, and palates were for animals being mounted with open mouths. Real teeth, Wally explained, would crack and chip... There were ear-liners for deer. He showed how he turned the ears inside out and glued the liners in to stiffen them... Also in evidence were animal forms in yellow plastic foam. "They're manikins." Wally said. "They're good because I can sculpture the foam to fit the skin, then coat the manikin with skin paste, pull the skin over it, fit it and adjust it."

Qwilleran said, "You seem to do a lot with adhesives."

"Yes, it takes all kinds- glue, skin paste, and epoxy for things like putting rods in leg bones. I repaired a damaged eyelid by gluing on a piece of string and painting it. You could never tell anything was wrong."

The young man was an artist at reconstructing animals, making them lifelike, bringing out their natural beauty, but Qwilleran was impatient to see his mother again. The buzzer brought her running from the house with coffee and freshly made doughnuts. He edged into the subject of the Fitch family diplomatically.

"I was their cook for seven years," Mrs. Toddwhistle said with pride. "Practically a member of the family."

"I hear the house is a virtual museum."

She rolled her eyes in disapproval. "Grandpa Fitch was a collector. They have tons of stuff allover the house and it all had to be dusted and vacuumed. They even have a man come in to dust the books."

"Why did you leave their employ?"

"Well!" she said with an emphasis that promised a significant story, "The mister and missus moved to a condominium, and they wanted me to stay and cook for Harley and his bride, but I said no way! Belle was the girl who did the dusting, and I certainly wasn't going to take orders from her! All she liked was pizza! She had eyes set close together. Some men think that's sexy, but I say you can't trust anybody with eyes set close together, Harley only married her to spite his parents. He knew it would embarrass them."

Wally said, "Mother, do you think you should talk about that?"

"Why not? They're all dead. Everybody knows it anyway."

Quickly Qwilleran put in, "Why was Harley antagonistic to his family? He seemed like such an agreeable guy."

"Well, you see, Harley was away for a while, and when he came back he found that David had married his girl! Way back in high school it was always Harley and Jill, David and Fran - football games, proms, sailing and everything, It was quite a shock to everybody when Jill married David."

"How did Mr. and Mrs. Fitch feel about it?"

"It was okay with them! They paid for a big wedding. Jill's folks couldn't have afforded such a blast, although they used to have money. Jill comes from good stock."

"I wonder how Fran reacted to the switch."

"I don't know. She didn't come around any more after that, She's a nice girl, with a lot on the ball, but I guess the missus thought she wasn't good enough for David."

Qwilleran combed his moustache with his fingertips. "I didn't know parents dictated their kids' lives any more. It sounds archaic."

"Money, honey," said Mrs. Toddwhistle, making a "gimme" gesture with her fingers. "Mister and missus got the boys hooked on high living - boats and cars and all - then doled out just enough money so they'd heel and sit up," (One of the dogs trotted over and sat up, expecting a crumb,) "Yes, they gave Harley a big sailboat, but it wasn't in his name. The fancy house that Dayid and Jill live in - it's not theirs, not a stick of it."

"Wally says you don't subscribe to the Chipmunk theory about the murder."

"I sure don't! The police ought to talk to that old boyfriend of Belle's. He was plenty mad when he got jilted."

"The paperhanger?"

She nodded. "He's a quiet kind of fellow, but still watersrun deep... Another doughnut, honey?"

After his third doughnut, Qwilleran thanked them for the refreshments and the interview and left, saying, "That's a beautiful cat you have. I have a couple of Siamese at home."

"Oh, the orange one?" Mrs. Toddwhistle said. "It was killed on the highway, and Wally found it and brought it home. He didn't want to see such a beautiful animal wasted... did you, Wally?"

Later in the afternoon Qwilleran sat at his desk in the studio and tried to organize what he had learned about the art of taxidermy. There was something about salting fresh hides to draw out moisture and tie in the hairs, removing skunk scent with tomato juice or coffee grounds, freezing skins until they could be scraped and tanned. Yet, his mind kept returning to Mrs. Toddwhistle's gossip. It threw some light on the Fitch family and explained Francesca's ruined romance, but it did nothing to further Qwilleran's unofficial investigation. He was hearing conflicting tales from all sides, and he never knew whether his informants were lying or guessing or talking through their hats. Koko, his silent partner in so many previous adventures, seemed to be of no help in pinpointing the truth.

Yum Yum sensed his frustrated mood and sat on the desk with hunched posture and worried eyes. Koko was elsewhere, probably in the living room on the book. shelves.

Qwilleran said to her, "All that cat does is sniff book bindings and hang around waiting for an envelope to lick. I think your friend Koko is hooked! And it's affecting his senses."

"YOW!" came a loud comment from the living room, and Qwilleran went to track it down, Koko was perched on the back of the sofa, tilting the gunboat picture again.

Qwilleran patted his moustache with sudden comprehension, He would visit the decrepit antique shop in Mooseville, where a bogus sea captain had sold him an "original print" that was only a copy!

-Scene Five-

Place: The Captain's Mess, an antique shop in Mooseville

Time: Saturday afternoon

Introducing: CAPTAIN PHLOGG

ON SATURDAY MORNING Qwilleran took the gunboat print off the wall and drove to the resort town of Mooseville to follow up Koko's obvious clue.

The evening before, he had phoned Mrs. Cobb at the museum. "What do you know about The Captain's Mess?" he asked. "What do you know about Captain Phlogg?"

"Oh, dear, I hope you didn't buy anything from that old quack," she said.

Qwilleran mumbled something about wanting to write a column on the shop. "Do you know when it's open? There's no listing in the phone book."

"It's open when he feels like it. Saturday afternoon would be the safest."

"See you Sunday," he said. "I have two friends here who are looking forward to your pot roast."

Driving up to the lakeshore he recalled buying the gunboat print from the fraudulent Captain Phlogg. The living room needed a large picture over the sofa, and the two-by-three-foot print was the best he could find for the money. The captain's asking price was twenty-five dollars, but Qwilleran had talked him down to five, including frame.

The shop occupied an old building that was ready to collapse. Both the fire department and the board of health wanted it condemned, but local history buffs declared it a historic site, and the chamber of commerce considered it a tourist attraction. After all, "the worst antique shop in the state" was a distinction of sorts. Collectors came from miles away to visit the crooked little shop run by a crooked little sea captain. Only a town like Mooseville would take pride in an establishment famous for infamy.

Qwilleran arrived at noon on Saturday, hoping for a chance to talk with Captain Phlogg before customers started dropping in, but it was 1:30 before the proprietor approached the premises with unsteady gait and unlocked the door with shaking hand.

The interior reeked of mildew, stale tobacco, and whiskey. A lightbulb dangling from a cord illuminated : to the collection of dusty, broken, tarnished, water-stained, dirt-encrusted artifacts of marine provenance. Captain the Phlogg himself - with his ancient pipe and stubble of beard and battered naval cap - blended into the mess.

Qwilleran showed him the gunboat. "Do you remember this?"

"Nope. Never see'd it afore."

"You sold it to me last summer."

"Nope, it never come from here." The captain had an all-sales-final, no-money-back policy that caused him to disclaim everything he had ever sold.

Qwilleran said, "You sold it to me for five dollars, and I've just found out it's worth hundreds. I thought you'd like to know." Qwilleran enjoyed fighting falsity with falsity.

The captain took the foul-smelling pipe from his mouth. "Lemme look at it... Give ye ten for it."

"I wouldn't part with it. It's one of two very rare prints, according to art historians. The other is in the Cyrus Fitch collection. Does that name ring a bell?"

"Never heard of it."

"It's in West Middle Hummock. There was a murder there, week before last. A young sailor named Harley Fitch."

"Never heard of 'im."

"His boat was the Fitch Witch."

"Never heard of it."

"He docked around here and hung out at the Shipwreck Tavern."

"Never go there."

"He also built model ships."

"Never heard of 'em."

"Do you know a sailor by the name of Gary Pratt in Brrr?"

"Nope."

"If the model ships come on the market, would you be interested in buying any of them?"

"How much he want?"

"I don't know. He's dead. But the estate might be willing to sell."

"Give 'em ten apiece."

"Is that a firm offer?"

"Take it or leave it be." The captain poured an amber liquid from a flask into a mug and took a swig. Qwilleran departed with his gunboat picture, grumbling at Koko for giving him a false clue. It never occurred to him that he might have misinterpreted Koko's maneuver.

-Scene Six-

Place: The Goodwinter Farmhouse

Museum

Time: Sunday evening

Introducing: IRIS COBB, resident

manager of the Museum

QWILLERAN carried a wicker picnic hamper into the cats' apartment. "All aboard for the Goodwinter Museum!" he announced. The Siamese, who had been sunning drowsily on a windowsill, raised their heads-Koko with anticipation, Yum Yum with apprehension. While the male hopped eagerly into the hamper, the female - suspecting another visit to the clinic - raced around the room faster than the eye could see. Qwilleran intercepted her in midair, dropped her into the travel coop and closed the lid.

Koko scolded her with macho authority and she hissed with feminist spunk as Qwilleran carried the hamper downstairs to the energy-efficient two-door that served his transportation needs. He also transferred the cats' commodes to the car. They now had a matched pair of oval roasting pans with the handles sawed off to fit the floor of the back seat.

It was a half-hour drive to the museum in North Middle Hummock - out Ittibittiwassee Road and across the Old Plank Bridge, then past the Hanging Tree, where a wealthy man once dangled from a rope. Beyond were prosperous farms and country estates. At the end of a lane lined with maple trees stood the rambling farmhouse, sided with cedar shakes that had long ago weathered to a silvery gray. Qwilleran had visited the house before, when it was occupied by the socially prominent Mrs. Goodwinter. Now the property of the Historical Society, it had been restored to the way it looked one hundred years before.

He drove to the west wing and unloaded the two roasting pans. "Where shall I put these?" he asked without ceremony when his former housekeeper greeted him at the door.

"Oh, you have two litterpans now!" she said in surprise.

"A new arrangement - at the request of our Siamese princess."

"Put the pans in the bathroom," she said. "I put a bowl of water in there and a placemat for their dinner. They always loved my pot roast."

"Who didn't?" Qwilleran said over his shoulder as he returned to the car for the hamper. When he opened the lid two necks stretched upward and two heads swiveled to survey the scene. Then the cats emerged cautiously and began a systematic exploration of the resident manager's apartment.

With these important matters concluded, Qwilleran observed the amenities. "You're looking very well," he told his hostess. "'Your new responsibilities agree with you."

Her cheerful face, framed by a ruffled pink blouse, was radiant as she peered through the thick lenses of pink-rimmed glasses. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Q!"

"How are your eyes, Mrs. Cobb?"

"No worse, thank heaven." She was a plump and pleasant woman, overly good-hearted, inclined to be sentimental, and brave in the face of the tragedies that had marked her life.

"How do you feel about living out here alone? Do you have a good security system?"

"Oh, yes, I feel very safe. Our only problem, Mr. Q, is mice. We've been thoroughly inspected by the carpenter, mason, plumber, and electrician, and none of them can figure out how the mice are getting in. There's an ultrasonic thing, but it doesn't discourage them. I've set traps with peanut butter and caught three."

"I hope they haven't done any damage to the museum."

"No, but it's something we worry about... Would you like to look around the apartment while I wash the salad stuff?"

The focus of her living quarters was the country kitchen, where a round oak table and pressed-back chairs were ready for dinner. (Dinner for three, Qwilleran noticed. Nothing had been said about another guest.) There was a small bedroom with an enormous bed - the kind Lincoln would have liked. And there was a parlor with wing-back chairs in front of the fireplace, a rocker in a sunny window, and a large Pennsylvania German wardrobe that had been in the Klingenschoen mansion at one time. Koko soon discovered the sunny window. He even recognized the wardrobe. Yum Yum stayed in the kitchen, however, where the pot roast was putting forth tantalizing aromas.

Mrs. Cobb said, "I invited Polly Duncan because she helped with research for the museum, but she had a previous engagement. So I called Hixie Rice. She's been advising us on publicity, you know. She had a date to go sailing this afternoon, but she'll be here a little later."

"Hixie is always good company," Qwilleran said, wondering if Polly really had another engagement, or if she was avoiding him.

"You'll never recognize the main part of the house when you see it," Mrs. Cobb said as she twirled the lettuce in a salad basket. "Remember all that decorator-type wallpaper? When we removed it, we found the original w had been stenciled, so we did some research on stenciling and got the paperhanger to restore it for us. He was very cooperative. He's a nice young man but down in the dumps because his girl jilted him and married someone wealthy. I told him to forget his old flame and find a girl who appreciate him. He's almost thirty; he should get married... Now prepare for a surprise!"

She led the way into a section of the house built in mid-nineteenth century and now restored to the simplicity of pioneer days. Furnishings such as a rope bed, trestle table and pie safe had come from the attics of Moose County residents.

"We want it to look as if our great-great-grandparents still live here," she said. "Can't you just imagine them cooking in the fireplace, reading the evening prayers by candlelight, and taking Saturday night baths in kitchen?"

The floors sloped; the floorboards were wide; the six-over-six windows had some of the original wavy glass. Mrs. Cobb conducted the tour with professional authority while Qwilleran and Koko tagged along, the latter sniffing invisible spots on the rag rugs and rubbing his back against furniture legs. Yum Yum stayed in the kitchen, guarding the pot roast.

"And now we come to the east wing, added in 1890. We use these rooms to exhibit collections. Here's the Halifax Goodwinter Room with the doctor's collection lighting devices - from an early rush lamp to an elegant Tiffany lamp in the wisteria pattern - very valuable."

At this remark Qwilleran kept a close watch on Koko, but the cat was not attracted to art glass. He merely rubbed his jaw against the corner of a showcase.

"The Mary Tait MacGregor Room is all textiles. Old Mr. MacGregor gave us his wife's quilts, hooked rugs, jacquard coverlets and so on, all handed down in her family." Koko rolle;d on a hooked rug done in a distelfink pattern.

The Hasselrich Room featured Moose County documents, which Qwilleran said he would like to study at some future date: land grants, early birth and death certificates, journals of nineteenth-century court proceedings, and ledgers from old general stores, itemizing kerosene at a nickel a gallon and three yards of calico for fifteen cents.

"It breaks my heart to show you the next room, considering what happened," said Mrs. Cobb. "Nigel was president of the Historical Society, and he didn't even live to see it dedicated. That roll top desk belonged to Cyrus Fitch, and in one of the drawers we found a list of his bootleg customers. Imagine! He was smuggling whiskey during Prohibition! They're all dead now, except Homer Tibbitt."

The cut glass, she said, was donated by Margaret Fitch. A punch bowl, decanters and other serving pieces were dazzling under artfully placed spotlights, but not dazzling enough to capture Qwilleran's full attention. He was getting hungry. Nigel had contributed his collection of mining memorabilia: pickaxes, sledgehammers, miners' caps, lanterns, etc., and David had done pen-and-ink sketches of the shafthouses at the old mines.

Qwilleran tried to subdue his rumbling stomach and then realized that the disturbance was actually a low growl coming from Koko's chest. The cat had discovered a tiered platform exhibiting three model ships. He stood on his hind legs and pawed the air, weaving his head from side to side and looking exactly like one of the rampant cats on the Mackintosh coat of arms.

"Oh, look at him!" cried Mrs. Cobb. "Isn't that touching? Those models were made by Harley Fitch! The three-masted schooner is a replica of one that sank off Purple Point around 1880."

"I think Koko smells the glue," Qwilleran said. "He's a fiend for glue. We'd better get him out of here before he launches a naval attack."

A car drove into the yard, and Qwilleran grabbed Koko while Mrs. Cobb went to greet Hixie Rice.

Sunburned and windblown and clad in sailing stripes, shorts and deck shoes, Hixie breezed into the house. "I hope you don't mind how I look. I've been sailing with one of my customers. He has a catamaran. I never knew sailing could be so divine!"

"You should put something on that sunburn," Mrs. Cobb advised as she served Hixie a Campari.

Qwilleran said, "I wondered why the Black Bear Caf‚ was running such large ads in the Something. You've been cozying up to the proprietor. I hope you know he's descended from a pirate."

"I don't care if he's descended from a dinosaur! He has a beautiful boat. We're going out again next Sunday."

"He used to sail with Harley Fitch. Did he mention the Fitch Witch?"

"No, he talked mainly about himself... and how a blue skyful of sail and a whispering breeze touches the soul of a man."

The pot roast was succulent; the mashed potatoes were superlative; the homemade bread was properly chewy; the coconut cake was ambrosial. So said the guests, and Mrs. Cobb basked in their compliments.

Hixie summed it up. "Forget about the museum, Iris, and open a restaurant. Half the places that run ads in our paper are vile! The ethnic restaurants are the best bet. There's a super little eatery in Brrr called the North Pole Caf‚, where they serve the best zupa grzybowa and nerki duszone I've ever tasted. North Pole! Get it?"

"How about Italian food?" Qwilleran asked.

"There's a fabulous place in Mooseville that's a real mama-and-papa operation. He cooks, and she waits on table. When I went there to pick up their ad order, I went to the restroom and got locked in. I hammered on the door, and I heard Mrs. Linguini yell, 'Papa, lady locked in the toilet! Bring a toothpick!' After a while there was a picking sound in the lock, and Mr. Linguini opened the door, looking cross. He said, 'You do it wrong. I show you,' And he came into the washroom and locked the door. Of course, the mechanism didn't work, and I was locked in the ladies' room with Mr. Linguini!"

"How did you get out?" asked Mrs. Cobb, seriously concerned.

"He hammered on the door and yelled, 'Mama, bring a toothpick!' Oh, it's lots of fun selling ads for the Moose County Something."

Qwilleran said, "Hixie, you should write a guide to the restaurants and restrooms of the county."

"Don't think I haven't thought of it! All I need is a snappy title that's fit to print."

After coffee she excused herself, saying she wanted to get home before dark, although Qwilleran suspected she was going back to the Black Bear Caf‚. He walked her to her car.

"Since you're so keen on creative journalism," he said, "why don't you ask your sailing partner if he killed Harley and Belle in order to finance the remodeling of the hotel. A skyful of sail and a whispering breeze and thou might loosen his tongue."

"You want me to accuse him of murder while we're five miles out in the lake and I'm ducking the boom? No thanks!" She gunned the motor and took off.

Qwilleran chuckled. Hixie had always dated men on the shady side of respectability. He returned to the house where Mrs. Cobb was touching a match to the kindling in the fireplace.

"We'll have our second cuppa here," she said. "It'll be cozy. That Hixie is a clever girl, isn't she? And nice looking. I wonder why she doesn't get married."

They sat in the wing chairs. Koko, stuffed with pot roast, went to sleep on the hearth rug. Yum Yum still preferred the kitchen.

"Wonderful little animals," she said. "I miss them."

"And they miss your cooking... I do, too," he added with more feeling than he usually displayed before his former housekeeper. She breathed a heavy sigh that summed up all the misadventures they had survived at the Klingenschoen mansion. She was looking prettier than usual in her pink ruffled blouse, with the dancing flames lighting her face. He remembered the pink scarf and dashed out to the car for the Lanspeak giftbox tied with pink ribbon.

"Oh, real silk!" she cried. "And my favorite color. You remembered!" Her tear-dampened eyes were enlarged by the strong lenses in her eyeglasses, and Qwilleran felt a surge of compassion for her. She liked male companionship, and yet all three of her marriages had ended sadly. Although she claimed to be happy, he knew she was lonely. Sometimes he wondered about himself. He had been a bachelor for ten years, telling himself it was the best way to live. Life had been agreeable while Mrs. Cobb was his housekeeper, and the meals had been superb. Now he ate in restaurants and was constantly looking for a dinner companion. His best friend, Arch Riker, would soon be married and staying home evenings. Most of the women he knew were either too aggressive or too frivolous for his taste. The head librarian was the exception, but he and Polly had played their last scene, and he knew when to bring down the curtain.

He was quiet, lulled into contentment by good food, pleasing environment, and the domestic tranquility of the moment. Mrs. Cobb seemed to sense his mood, and her eyes smiled hopefully. Only the crackling of the fire and Koko's heavy breathing broke the silence. Qwilleran wanted to say something, but for once he was at a loss for words. She was an amenable woman, a comfortable companion. He had only to say "Iris!" and she would say "Oh, Qwill!" with tears streaming down under her thick glasses. Suddenly there was a rushing, bumping, scrambling, thumping burst of noise from the adjoining room. The man.and woman ran to the kitchen. Yum Yum was lying on her side at the base of the gas range with her famous paw extended under the appliance while her tail slapped the floor.

"She's got a mouse'" Qwilleran said. He reached for her and received a snarl in response.

"Leave her alone," Mrs. Cobb said. "She thinks you want to take it away from her."

"That's where the mice are getting in - where the gas lines come into the house," he said. "No wonder she was watching the range all evening. She could hear them."

"Oh, she's a good kitty - a real good kitty!"

"She's smarter than your plumber, Mrs. Cobb."

The tail-thumping slowed and then stopped, and Yum Yum wriggled across the floor, withdrawing her long foreleg with the prize clutched in the sharp claws of her famous right paw. Koko walked into the room and yawned. Mrs. Cobb looked at him in consternation. "Just like a man!"

Her comment took Qwilleran by surprise. It was out of character for the docile, male-worshipping widow he had known.

"Time to go home," he said, opening the picnic hamper. "It was a wonderful dinner, Mrs. Cobb, and you're to be complimented on the museum. Let me know if there's anything I can do."

With the hamper on the backseat and the two commodes on the floor, Qwilleran tooted a farewell to his hostess on the doorstep and headed the car toward Pickax. He was thankful that Yum Yum had caught her mouse at an auspicious time, saving him from an amorous slip of the tongue. He needed no more women on his trail - least of all, his former housekeeper, who was marriage oriented and tragedy prone. All three of her husbands had died violent deaths.

He drove past the Hanging Tree and across the Old Plank Bridge and then west on Ittibittiwassee Road. There was little traffic. The county had built the road - at great expense - to accommodate Exbridge's condominium development. Most motorists preferred the shorter, more commercial route, however, and the local wags called the new highway Ittibittigraft.

Darkness was falling as he passed the site of the old Buckshot Mine. It was here, he recalled, that he had suffered a serious bicycle accident a year before - a highly questionable accident.

And now... it all happened again.

-Scene Seven-

Place: A lonely stretch of

Ittibittiwassee Road

Time: Later the same evening

IT WAS LATE Sunday night, and the traffic on Ittibittiwassee Road was sparse. Westward bound, Qwilleran met no cars approaching in the opposite direction, and he drove with his country brights illuminating the yellow lines on the pavement. On either side darkness closed in over the patches of woods, abandoned mine sites and boulder-studded pastureland. Now and then a half-moon accentuated the eeriness of the landscape, then retired behind a cloud.

Eventually headlights appeared in Qwilleran's rearview mirror - country lights excessively bright until he flicked the mirror to cut the glare. The vehicle was gaining on him. Its pattern was erratic: swerving into the eastbound lane as if planning to pass - falling back into line - coming closer-swerving again to the left. It was a van, and when it came alongside, it was too close for a prudent driver's peace of mind. Qwilleran edged to the right. The van crowded closer.

He's drunk, Qwilleran thought, and he steered close to the shoulder and eased up on the pedal. The van loomed over the small car. Another inch and it would bump him off the road. He steered onto the shoulder... Easy! Loose gravel!... Skidding! Easy! Turn into the skid! Baby the brake!... And then the little car hit a boulder and flipped over... still traveling, sliding along the edge of the ditch... another jolt, another rollover, twice, before it came to a shuddering halt in the dry ditch.

There was a moment of stunned disorientation - pedals and dashboard overhead - seat cushions and roasting pans everywhere - a shower of kitty gravel.

Why was there no cry from the cats? Qwilleran unbuckled and climbed out of the door that had been thrown open by the impact. Then he crawled back into the dark car and groped for the hamper. It was lying on the upside-down ceiling, jammed under a seat cushion, its cover open, the cats gone!

"Koko!" he yelled. "Koko! Yum Yum!" There was no answer. He thought, They might have taken flight in terror! They might have been flung from the car! In panic he searched the ditch in the immediate vicinity, looking for small light-colored bodies in the darkness. He called again. Utter silence.

Then headlights illuminated the landscape as a car approached from the east, stopping on the shoulder of the road. A man jumped out and ran to the scene. "Are you okay? Anybody hurt?"

"I'm all right, but I've lost my cats. Two of them. They may have been thrown out."

The motorist turned and shouted toward his own car, "Radio the sheriff, hon, and bring the torch!" To Qwilleran he said, "Have you tried calling them? It's heavily wooded along here. They might be hiding."

"They're indoor cats. They never go out. I don't know how they'd react to the accident and unfamiliar surroundings."

"Your car's totaled."

"I don't care about the car. I'm worried about the cats." "The guy was drunk. I saw him weaving before he crowded you off the road. Seemed like a light-colored van."

The man's wife arrived with a high-powered flashlight, and Qwilleran started beaming it in the ditch and along the edge of the thicket.

The man said to her, "He had two cats in the car. They escaped or were thrown out."

"They'll be all right," she said. "We had a cat fall from a third-floor window."

"Quiet!" Qwilleran said. "I thought I heard a cry." The wail came again.

"That's some kind of night bird," the woman said. "Quiet!... while I call them and listen for an answer."

Headlights and a flashing red rooflight appeared in the distance, and a sheriff's car pulled up. The deputy in a brown uniform said, "May I see your operator's license?" He nodded when Qwilleran handed it over. "How did it happen, Mr. Qwilleran?"

The other motorist said, "I saw it all. A drunk driver. Crowded him off the road, and then skipped."

Qwilleran said, "I had two cats in the car, and I can't find them."

The deputy flashed a light around the wreck. "Could be underneath."

The woman said, "We'd better go, honey. The babysitter has to leave at 11:30."

"Well, thanks," Qwilleran said. "Here's your flashlight."

"Keep it," the man said. "You can get it back to me where I work. Smitty's Refrigeration on South Main."

The deputy wrote his report and offered Qwilleran a ride into Pickax.

"I can't leave until I find them."

"You could be out here all night, sir."

"I don't care. After you leave they may come crawling out of the bushes. I've got to be here when they do."

"I'll check back with you on my next round. We're watching this road. I nabbed four DWIs last night."

He left, and Qwilleran resumed his search, calling at intervals and hearing nothing except the night noises of the woods, as some small animal scurried through the underbrush or an owl hooted or a loon cackled his insane laugh.

He extracted the wicker hamper from the wreckage - out of shape but intact. He found the two commodes, also. The roasting pans had fared better than the body of his car. He was grateful for the flashlight.

Another vehicle stopped. "Anybody hurt?" asked the driver, walking over to view the car in the ditch. "Anyone call the police?"

Qwilleran went through the same script. "No one hurt... The sheriff's been here... No, thanks, I don't need a ride. I've lost two cats and I have to wait..."

"Lots of luck," the man said. "There are coyotes out there and foxes, and an owl can carry off a cat at night."

"Just go on your way, please," Qwilleran said firmly "When it's quiet, they'll come back."

The car left the scene, but the Siamese did not appear He snapped off the torch. It was totally dark now - totally dark with the moon behind a cloud. He called again in desperation. "Koko! Yum Yum! Turkey! Turkey! Come and get it!"... There was absolute silence. Once more he combed the ditch with the beam of the flashlight, each time venturing a few yards farther from the wreck. After half an hour of fruitless searching and calling, he groaned as another car pulled up.

"Qwill! Qwill, what are you doing out here?" a woman's voice called out. She left her car and hurried toward him. "Is that your car? What happened? Has anyone called the sheriff? I have a CB." It was Polly Duncan.

"That's not the worst," he said, shining the torch on the wreck. "The cats are lost. They may be hiding in the woods. I'm not leaving here till I find them, dead or aIive."

"Oh, Qwill, I'm so sorry. I know how much they mean to you." It was the quiet, soothing voice that had appealed to him during their happier days.

He recounted the entire story.

"But you can't stay here like this all night."

"I'm not leaving," he repeated stubbornly.

"Then I'll stay with you. At least you'll have some shelter and a place to sit. I'll turn my lights off. Maybe they'll sense your presence and come out..."

"If they're still alive," he interrupted. "The sheriff thought they might be pinned under the car. They don't answer when I call their names. Another guy said there are predators out there."

"Don't listen to those alarmists. I'll pull my car farther off the highway, and we'll sit and wait... No! I won't listen to any protests. There's a blanket in my trunk. It gets chilly after midnight at this time of year. Put those things in the backseat, Qwill." He put the commodes and hamper in her car, and then he and Polly settled in the front seat of the car he had given her for Christmas. His gloom was palpable. "I don't mind telling you, Polly, how much those two characters have meant to me. They were my family! Yum Yum was getting more lovable and loving every year. And Koko's intelligence was incredible. I could talk to him like a human, and he seemed to understand every word I said. He even replied in his own way."

"You're speaking in the past tense," Polly rebuked him. "They're still alive and well - somewhere. I have enough faith in Koko to know he'll be able to take care of himself and Yum Yum. Cats are too agile to let themselves get trapped under the car. Flight is their forte, and their best defense."

"But the Siamese have lived a sheltered life. Their world is bounded by carpets, cushions, windowsills, and laps."

"You're not giving them credit for their natural instincts. They might even walk back to Pickax. I read about a cat whose family took him to Oklahoma for the winter, and he walked back to his home in Michigan - over 700 miles."

"But he was accustomed to the outdoors," Qwilleran said.

The sheriff's deputy stopped again, and when he saw Qwilleran's companion, he said, "Do you need any potatoes, Mrs. Duncan?" They both laughed. To Qwilleran he said, "Glad you've got company. I'll keep an eye on you two."

As he drove away Polly said, "I've known Kevin ever since he was in junior high, bringing his homework assignments to the library. His family had a potato farm."

Gradually she talked him out of his pessimistic mood by introducing other subjects. Nevertheless, every ten minutes Qwilleran left the car and walked up and down the roadside, calling... calling.

Returning from one disappointing expedition he said to Polly, "You were out late tonight."

"There was a party at Indian Village," she explained. "I usually go home early when I'm driving alone, but I was having such a good time!"

Qwilleran considered that statement in silence. Don Exbridge had a condo in Indian Village.

"The party was given," she went on, "by Mr. and Mrs. Hasselrich, honoring the library board. They're charming hosts."

"I hear Margaret Fitch's place on the board will be filled by Don Exbridge," he said glumly.

"Oh, no! Susan Exbridge is a trustee, and it would hardly be appropriate to have her ex-husband on the board. Where did you hear that?"

"I don't recall," he lied, "but I noticed you were dining with him at Stephanie's, and I assumed you were briefing him on his new duties."

Polly laughed softly. "Wrong! The library needs a new roof, and I was trying to charm him into donating the services of his construction crew. But since you bring up the subject, I saw you dining with a strange woman after you told me you were dining with your architect from Cincinnati."

"That strange woman," Qwilleran said, "happens to be the architect from Cincinnati. You get two black marks for assuming the profession is limited to males."

"Guilty!" she laughed.

The sheriff's car was coming down the highway again, and it stopped on the opposite shoulder. When the deputy stepped out, he was carrying something small and light-colored. He was carrying it with care.

"Oh my God!" Qwilleran said and tumbled out of the car, hurrying across the pavement to meet him. "Brought you some coffee," the deputy said, handing over a brown paper bag. "From the Dimsdale Diner. Not the best in the world, but it's hot. Temperature's dropping to fifty tonight. Couple of doughnuts, too, but they look kinda stale."

"It's greatly appreciated," Qwilleran said with a sigh of relief as he pulled out his bill clip.

"Put that away," the officer said. "The cook at the diner sent it."

The kindness of Polly and the deputy and the cook at the diner and the motorist with the flashlight did much to relieve Qwilleran's depression, although he still felt a numbness in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to talk about the cats. He said to Polly, "They're always inventing games. Now their hobby is posing like bookends."

"Does Koko still recommend reading material for you?"

"He was pushing biographies until a few days ago. Now he's into sea stories."

"Has he lost interest in Shakespeare?"

"Not entirely. I saw him nuzzling The Comedy of Errors and Two Gentlemen of Verona the other day."

"Both of those plays involve sea voyages," Polly reminded him.

"I'm sure it's the glue he's sniffing. The subject matter is coincidental. But you have to admit it's uncanny."

"There are more things in Koko's head than are dreamt of in your philosophy," said Polly, taking liberties with one of Qwilleran's favorite quotations. And so they talked the night away.

Qwilleran said, "Now that I'm dropping out of the Theatre Club, Polly, I'm going to review plays for the paper."

"You'll make a wonderful drama critic."

"It means two passes to every opening night, fifth row, center. I hope you'll be my steady theatre date."

"I'll be happy to accept. You know, Qwill, your columns have been very good. I'm sorry I scolded you about your journalism. I especially liked your profile on Eddington Smith."

"Incidentally, when Edd and I were discussing the Fitch case, I mentioned the possibility of rare-book thieves, and he hemmed and hawed - never would say what was on his mind."

"Well, it's a possibility," she said. "I've heard that Cyrus Fitch owned some pornographic books that certain collectors would commit any crime to possess. They're said to be locked up in a small climate-controlled room along with George Washington's Farewell Address and Gould's Birds of Great Britain."

"If Edd lets me go to the mansion to. help him dust books, I'll check out the hot stuff," Qwilleran said.

And then she told him something that caused him to wince. "I'm leaving for Chicago Wednesday. A library conference. I'm catching the morning shuttle."

She added a questioning glance. It was customary for him to drive her to the airport, but... he and Fran were also leaving on the Wednesday morning shuttle! He thought fast.

"Wait! I think I heard something!" He jumped out of the car and walked a few paces, stalling for time. Here was a ticklish situation! He and Polly were rediscovering their old camaraderie; they had shared the blanket during the chilly hours before dawn; he had hoped for reconciliation. How would she react to a jaunt to Chicago with her rival? As far as he was concerned, it was a business trip to select furniture. Would Polly accept that explanation graciously? Did Fran - with her "cozy hotel" - contemplate it as a business trip? She had made the hotel and travel reservations and would add the charges to his bill - plus an hourly fee for her professional advice, he surmised.

It was awkward at best. One half of his brain ventured to suggest canceling the trip. The other half of his brain sternly maintained his right to schedule a business trip anywhere, at any time, with anyone.

The sky was beginning to lighten in the east, and he walked back to the car.. "You stay here. I'm going to lookaround," he said. "If they holed up for the night, they'll start getting hungry when the sun rises, and they might come crawling out. Watch for them while I go searching."

"Will the glasses help?" Reaching under the seat, Polly handed him the binoculars she used for birding.

The woods that had been a black, incomprehensible mass in the dark of night were becoming defined: evergreens, giant oaks, undergrowth. He walked along the highway to a spot where five, tall elm trees grew in a straight line perpendicular to the road. They were obviously trees that had been planted many years before, possibly to border a path or sideroad to some old farmhouse long since abandoned. He was right. An unused dirt road, almost overrun with weeds, followed the line of trees. If the Siamese had discovered it the night before, they might have sheltered in the remains of the old farmhouse.

A light breeze rustled the lofty branches of the elms and blew strands of spiderweb across his face. Everything was wet with dew. A faint, rosy glow appeared in the east. He found the site of the house, but it was now only a stone foundation tracing a rectangle among the grasses.

He stopped and called their names, but there was no response. He walked on slowly. Now he was reaching the end of the road. Ahead were the withered trees of a long-neglected orchard, rising in grotesque shapes from a field of weeds. He scanned the orchard with the binoculars, and his heart leaped as he saw a bundle of something on the branch of an old apple tree. He walked closer. The sky was brightening. Yes! The indistinct bundle was a pair of Siamese cats, looking like bookends. They were peering down at the ground, wriggling their haunches as if preparing to leap.

He lowered the field of vision to the base of the tree and his eyes picked up something else, half concealed in the grasses. A ghastly thought flashed through his mind. Could it be a trap? A trap like those that Chad Lanspeak used for foxes? In horror he edged closer. No! It was not a trap. It moved. It was some kind of animal! It was looking up in the tree! The cats were wriggling, ready to jump down!

"Koko!" he yelled. "No! Stay there!"

Both cats jumped, and Qwilleran fled back to the car, shouting to Polly, "I need your car! Radio the sheriff to pick you up! I've found the cats. I'm taking them to the vet!"

"Are they hurt?" she asked in alarm.

"They've had a run-in with a skunk! Don't worry... I'll buy you a new car."

-Scene Eight-

Place: Qwilleran's apartment

Time: The day after the accident on lttibittiwassee Road

QWILLERAN'S car had been towed to the automobile graveyard; Polly's cranberry-red car was at Gippel's garage, being deodorized; the Siamese were spending a few hours at the animal clinic for the same purpose. In his apartment Qwilleran paced the floor, chilled by the realization that they might have been lost forever in the wilderness. They might have suffered a horrible death, and he would never have known their fate. The sheriff's helicopter and the mounted posse and the Boy Scout troop would hardly go searching for those two small bodies. He shuddered with remorse.

It was all my fault, he kept telling himself. He was convinced that it was no drunk driver who ran him off the road; it was someone who was out to get him because he had been asking questions about the murderer of Harley and Belle. Why did he have this compulsion to solve criminal cases? He was a journalist, not an investigator. Yet, he was aware, few journalists accepted their limitations. The profession was teeming with political advisors, economic savants, critics and connoisseurs.

No more amateur sleuthing he promised himself. From now on he would leave criminal investigation to the police. No matter how strong his hunches, no matter how provocative the tingling sensation in the roots of his moustache, he would play it safe. He would interview hobbyists and sheep farmers and old folks in nursing homes, write a chatty column for The Moose County Something, read Moby-Dick aloud to the Siamese, take long walks, eat right, live the safe life.

And then the telephone rang. It was Eddington Smith calling. "I talked to the lawyer, and he said I should check the books against the inventory. You said you'd like to help with the dusting. Do you want to come with me tomorrow?"

Qwilleran hesitated for only the fraction of a moment. What harm would there be in visiting the Fitch library? Everyone said it was an interesting house-virtually a museum.

"You'll have to pick me up," he told the bookseller. "I've wrecked my car." When he turned away from the phone he was finger-combing his moustache in anticipation.

After lunch Mr. O'Dell drove to the clinic in his pickup and brought home two bathed, deodorized, perfumed and sullenly silent Siamese in a cardboard carton punched with airholes. When toe box was opened they climbed out without a glance one way or the other and stole away to their apartment, where they went to sleep.

"A pity it is," said Mr. O'Dell. "The good souls at the clinic were after doin' their best; but sure an' the smell will come back again if the weather turns muggy. It'll just have to wear off, I'm thinkin'... And is there anythin' I can do for you or the little ones, since you're lackin' a car?"

"I'd appreciate it," Qwilleran said, "if you'd go to the hardware store and buy a picnic hamper like the old one that was smashed."

The Siamese slept the sleep that follows a horrendous experience. Every half hour Qwilleran went to their apartment and watched their furry sides pulsating. Their paws would twitch violently as if they were having nightmares. Were they fighting battles? Running for their lives? Being tortured at the animal clinic?

Earlier Fran Brodie had telephoned. "I hear you rolled over last night, Qwill."

"Where did you hear that?"

"On the radio. They said you weren't seriously hurt, though. How are you?"

"Fine, except when I breathe. I get a stitch in my side."

"Now you'll have to drive that limousine you inherited." She enjoyed teasing him about the pretentious vehicle in his garage.

"I got rid of it. It was a gas guzzler and hard to park, and it looked like a hearse. It was only standing in the garage, losing its charge and drying out its tires, while I was paying insurance and registration fees every year. I sold it to the funeral home."

"In that case," Fran said, "we can drive my car to the airport Wednesday. We should leave about eight AM to catch the shuttle to Chicago. I made the hotel reservations for four nights. You'll love the place. Quiet, good restaurant - and that's not all!"

Qwilleran hung up the phone with misgivings. Burdened with other concerns, he had given no thought to this particular dilemma.

Shortly after that, Polly had called to inquire about the cats.

He said, "It's been a blow to their pride. They usually carry their tails proudly, but today they're at half-mast. Gippel is working on your car, Polly, but I want you to have a new one, and I'll drive the red job."

"No, Qwill!" she protested. "That's tremendously kind of you, but you should buy a new car for yourself."

"I insist, Polly. Go over to Gippel's and look at the new models. Pick out a color you like."

"Well, we'll argue about that when I return from Chicago. You can use the 'red job' while I'm away. What time do you want to pick me up Wednesday morning? I'll be staying in town at my sister-in-Iaw's."

Feeling like a coward, he said, "Eight o'clock," Not only had he failed to resolve his dilemma, he had compounded it with his dastardly acquiescence.

-Scene Nine-

Place: The Fitch mansion in West

Middle Hummock

Time: A Tuesday Qwilleran would never forget

WHEN EDDINGTON SMITH'S old station wagon rumbled up to the carriage house Tuesday morning, Qwilleran went downstairs with the new picnic hamper.

"You didn't need to bring any food," the bookseller said. "I brought something for our lunch."

"It's not food," Qwilleran explained. "Koko is in the hamper. I hope you don't object. I thought we could conduct an experiment to see if a cat can sniff out bookworms. If so, it would be a breakthrough for some scientific journal."

"I see," said Eddington with vague comprehension. Those were his last words for the next half hour. He was. one of those intense drivers who are speechless while operating a vehicle. He gripped the wheel with whitened knuckles, leaned forward, and peered ahead in a trance, all the while stretching his lips in a joyless grin.

"My car flipped over in a ditch on Ittibittiwassee Road Sunday night, and it's totaled," Qwilleran said and waited (or a sympathetic comment. There was no reaction from the mesmerized driver, so he continued.

"Fortunately I had my seat belt fastened, and I wasn't hurt except for a lump on my elbow as big as a golf ball and a stitch in my side, but the cats were thrown from the car. They disappeared in the woods. By the time I found them, they'd had an altercation with a skunk, and I had to drive them to the animal clinic. Did you ever spend fifteen minutes with two skunked animals in a car with the windows closed?"

There was no reply. "I didn't dare roll the windows down more than an inch or two, because the cats were loose in the backseat, and I didn't know how wild they'd be after their experience. I couldn't breathe, Edd! I thought of stopping at the hospital for a shot of oxygen. Instead I just stepped on the gas and hoped I wouldn't turn blue."

Even this dramatic account failed to distract

Eddington's concentration from the road.

"When I got home, I took a bath in tomato juice. Mr. O'Dell raided three grocery stores and bought every can they had on the shelf. He had to burn my clothes and the cats' coop. Their commodes were in the car when it flipped, and they rattled around like ice cubes in a cocktail shaker. One of them conked me on the head. I'm still combing gravel out of my hair and moustache."

Qwilleran peered into Eddington's face with concern. He was conscious, but that was all.

"The cats were deodorized at the clinic, but there's no guarantee it'll last. I may have to buy a gallon of Old Spice. I'm trying to keep them downwind."

After a while Qwilleran tired of hearing his own voice, and they drove in funereal silence until they reached the Fitch mansion. Eddington parked the car at the backdoor in a service yard enclosed by a high, stone wall.

If the murderers had parked there, Qwilleran observed, their vehicle would not have been visible from either of the approach roads; on the other hand, if they had stationed a lookout in the vehicle, he could not have seen David and Jill approaching. The lookout may have been patrolling the property with a walkie-talkie, he decided.

Eddington had a key to the back door, which led into a large service hall - the place where Harley's body had been found. Doors opened into the kitchen, laundry, butler's pantry, and servants' dining room. Qwilleran was carrying the wicker hamper; Eddington was carrying a shopping bag, and after groping in its depths he produced a can of soup and two apples and left them on the kitchen table. Then he led the way to the Great Hall.

Although lighted by clerestory windows 30 feet overhead, the hall was a dismal conglomeration of primitive spears and shields, masks, drums, a canoe carved from a log, shrunken heads, and ceremonial costumes covered with dusty feathers. Qwilleran sneezed. "Where is the library?" he asked.

"I'll show you the drawing room and dining room first," Eddington said, opening large, double doors. These rooms were loaded with suits of armor, totem poles, stone dragons, medieval brasses, and stuffed monkeys in playful poses.

"Where are the books?" Qwilleran repeated.

Opening another great door Eddington said, "And this is the smoking room. Harley cleared it out and moved in some of his own things."

Qwilleran noted a ship's figurehead, carved and painted and seven feet tall, an enormous pilot wheel, a mahogany and brass binnacle, and an original print of the 1805 gunboat, signed, and obviously better than his reproduction. There were several sailing trophies. And on the mantel, on shelves and on tables there were model ships in glass cases.

The hamper that Qwilleran was clutching began to bounce and swing.

He said, "Koko is enthusiastic about nautical things. Would it be all right to let him out?"

Eddington nodded his pleasure and approval. " 'Enthusiasm is the fever of reason,' as Victor Hugo said."

It was the liveliest display of spirit that Koko had shown since his ordeal. He hopped out of the hamper and scampered to a two-foot replica of the HMS Bounty, a three-masted ship with intricate rigging and brass figurehead. Then he trotted to a fleet of three small ships: the Ni¤a, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, all under full sail with flags and pennants flying. When he discovered a nineteenth century gunboat with brass cannon, Koko rose on his hind legs, craning his neck and pawing the air.

"Now where's the library?" Qwilleran asked as he returned a protesting cat to the hamper.

It was a two-story room circled by a balcony, with books everywhere. Although there were no windows - and no daylight to damage the fine bindings - there were art-glass chandeliers that made the tooled leather sparkle like gold lace.

"How many of these do we have to dust?" Qwilleran wanted to know.

"I do a few hundred each time. I don't hurry. I enjoy handling them. Books like to be handled."

"You're a true bibliophile, Edd."

" 'In the highest civilization, the book is still the highest delight.' That's what Emerson said, anyway."

"Emerson would have a hard time explaining that to the VCR generation. Let me close the doors and release Koko from his prison. He'll flip when he sees these books. He's a bibliophile himself."

Koko leaped from the hamper and surveyed the scene. On three walls there were banks of bookshelves alternating with sections of fine wood paneling, each with a curio cabinet containing small collectibles in disorganized array.

There were Indian arrowheads and carved ivories, seashells and silver chalices, chunks of quartz and amethyst mixed with gold figurines that might have been smuggled from an Egyptian tomb. (Amanda had said a lot of them were fakes.) Above each cabinet was a mounted animal head or a gilded clock or an elaborate birdcage or a display of large bones like relics of some prehistoric age. Koko inventoried all of this, then discovered the spiral staircase, which he mounted cautiously. It was different from any of the staircases he had known.

Meanwhile, Eddington had pulled a bundle of clean rags from his shopping bag. "You can start in that comer with S. I left off at R. Slap the covers together gently, then wipe the head and sides with a cloth. Dust the shelf before you put the books back."

By this time Koko was whirling up and down the spiral stairs in a blur of pale fur and using the balcony as an indoor track.

Eddington opened the shallow drawer of the library table, a massive slab of oak supported by four carved gryphons. He removed the drawer entirely, and, after groping inside the cavity, brought out a key. "The rare books are in a locked room with the right temperature and humidity," he said. " 'Infinite riches in a little room,' as Marlowe said." Carrying his shopping bag he unlocked a door in a paneled wall and stepped inside. Qwilleran heard the lock click.

As he started dusting he pondered how much of Eddington's time in the locked room was spent with Cyrus Fitch's torrid literature. He himself had to exercise severe self-discipline to resist reading everything he dusted: Shaw, Shelley, Sheridan, for starters.

Koko busied himself here and there, and his activity and excitement caused his deodorant to lose its effectiveness. "Go and play at the other end of the room," Qwilleran told him. "Your BO is getting a little strong."

At noon Eddington reappeared and said somberly, "Time for lunch." He looked worried.

"Anything wrong in there, Edd?"

"There's a book missing."

"Valuable?"

The bookseller nodded. "There might be more missing. I won't know till I finish checking the whole inventory."

"Could I help you? Could I read off the listings or anything like that?" Qwilleran had a great desire to see that room.

"No, I can do it better by myself. Do you like cream of chicken soup?"

Koko was now examining the far end of the room - the only wall without bookshelves. It was richly paneled, and it sealed off one end of the library under the balcony. Koko always discovered anything that was different, and this wall looked like an afterthought; it destroyed the symmetry of the room. "Start heating the soup," Qwilleran said. "I want to finish dusting this bottom shelf."

As soon as Eddington had left, he rapped the odd wall with his knuckles. This had been a bootlegger's house, and bootleggers were known to like secret rooms and subterranean passages. He studied it for irregularities or hidden latches. He pressed the individual sections, hoping to find one less stable than the others. While he was systematically examining the wall, the library door opened.

"Soup's ready!"

"Beautiful paneling!" Qwilleran said. "Just by touching it anyone could tell it's superior to the stuff they use nowadays."

He bundled Koko into the hamper, apologizing for his scent, although Eddington insisted he didn't notice anything, and the three of them went to the kitchen for lunch.

"It isn't much," the little man said, "but 'We must eat to live and live to eat.' Fielding said that."

"You are exceptionally well-read," said Qwilleran. "I suspect you do more reading than dusting when you disappear into that little room. What kind of books do you have in there?"

The bookseller's face brightened. "The Nuremberg Chronicle, 1493... a Bay psalm book in perfect condition-the first book published in the English colonies in America... a first of Foe's "Tamerlane"... the first bible printed in America; it's in an Indian language."

"What are they worth?"

"Some of them could bring a price in five or six figures!"

"If one were stolen, would it be difficult to sell? Are there fences who handle hot books?"

"I don't know. I never thought about that."

"Which book is missing?"

"An early work on anatomy - very rare."

"A family member may have borrowed it to read," Qwilleran suggested.

"I don't think so. It's in Latin."

"I'm amazed at your knowledge of books, Edd. I wish I could remember everything I've read and come up with a trenchant quote for every occasion."

Eddington looked guilty. "I haven't done much reading," he confessed. "I took Winston Churchill's advice.

He said: 'It's a good thing for an uneducated man to read books of quotations.' "

After the meagre lunch (Koko had a few bits of chicken from the soup) the party returned to the library. Eddington locked himself in the little room while Qwilleran resumed his dusting (Tennyson, Thackeray, Twain) and Koko resumed his explorations. The hush in the library was almost unnerving. Qwilleran could hear himself breathe. He could hear Koko padding across the parquet floor. He could hear... a sudden creaking of wood at the far end of the room. Koko was standing on his hind legs and resting his paws on the paneled wall that was different from the others. A section of it was moving, swinging open. Koko hopped through the aperture.

Qwilleran hurried to the spot. "Koko, get out of there!" he scolded, but the inspector general had found something new to inspect and was totally deaf. The secret door opened into a storage room - windowless, airless, stifling, and dark. Qwilleran groped for a light switch but found none. In the half-light slanting in from the library chandeliers he could see ghostly forms in the shadows: life-size figures of marble or carved wood, a huge Buddha, crude pottery ornamented with grotesque faces, a steel safe, and... a brass bugle! It was the one he would have used in the Theatre Club production if the show had not been canceled, and he resisted the impulse to Shatter the silence with a brassy blast.

In the close atmosphere Koko's unfortunate aroma was accentuated. He was prowling in and out of the shadows, and one of the items that attracted him was an attach‚ case. Qwilleran had learned not to take Koko's discoveries casually, and he grabbed the case away from the purring cat. Kneeling on the floor in a patch of dim light he snapped the latches, opened the lid eagerly, and sucked in his breath at the sight of its contents. As he did so, a shadow fell across the open case, and he looked up to see the silhouette of a man in the doorway - a man with a club.

Lunging for the bugle, Qwilleran raised it to his lips and blew a deafening blast. At the same moment the man came through the door, swinging the club. Qwilleran bellowed and struck at him with the bugle. In the semidarkness both weapons missed their mark. The club descended again, and Qwilleran ducked. He swung the bugle again with both hands, like a ballbat, but connected with nothing. The two men were flailing blindly and wildly. Qwilleran was breathing hard, and the stitch in his side felt like a knife-thrust.

Dodging behind a cigar store Indian he waited for the right moment and slashed again with all his strength. He missed the man, but he struck the club. To his amazement it crumbled! Instantly he swung the brass bugle at his assailant's head, and the man sank dizzily to the floor.

Only then did Qwilleran see his face in full light. "David!" he shouted.

Outside the door a hollow voice roared, "Stop or I'll shoot!"

Qwilleran froze and slowly raised his hands. From the corner of his eye he could see a handgun; it was pointed at the crumpled figure on the floor.

"Edd! Where'd you get that?" he gasped.

"It was in my shopping bag," said the little man, reverting to his usual shy delivery. For the first time in his life he had projected his voice.

"Keep him covered while I call the police, Edd. He might come around and start trouble again."

As he spoke, Koko emerged from the shadows and stalked the supine figure on the floor. He was purring mightily as he rubbed his head against the sprawled legs. He climbed on the man's chest and sniffed nose to nose. The man stirred and opened his eyes, saw two blue eyes staring into his own, caught a whiff of Koko's aroma, and passed out again.

-Scene Ten-

Place: Back at Qwilleran's apartment over the garage

Time: Later the same day

NO ONE TALKED on the way back to Pickax. Eddington Smith was frozen to the wheel; Qwilleran was still aghast at his recent discovery; and Koko was asleep in the hamper, which was placed at the extreme rear of the station wagon, with all the windows open.

"Thanks for the ride, Edd. Thanks for the good lunch," Qwilleran said when they arrived. "Don't forget to report that missing book to the lawyer."

"Oh, I found it! It was on the wrong shelf!"

"Well, it was an exciting afternoon, to put it mildly."

" 'Excitement is the drunkenness of the spirit,' as somebody said."

"Uh... yes. I'm glad you didn't have to use your gun."

"I am, too," said Eddington. "I didn't have any bullets."

It was then that QwiIleran noticed Francesca's car in the drive, and it reminded him that his troubles were not over. He carried the hamper into the garage. "Sorry, Koko. I've got to keep you down here until Fran leaves. You're smeIling pretty ripe."

As he climbed the stairs to his apartment, his nose told him that Yum Yum also needed another shot of deodorant spray, and his eyes notified him that something was missing in the hallway. The Mackintosh coat of arms was not leaning against the wall in its accustomed place.

"HeIlo!" he called. "Fran, are you here?"

When there was no reply, he checked the premises. In the living room, lying in the middle of the floor, was the heavy circle of ornamental iron. In the cats' apartment he found Yum Yum huddled in a comer, with a pathetic expression in her violet-blue eyes. In his studio he found a red light glowing on the answer-box. He punched a button, listened to the message and then hurriedly called Francesca at home.

"Qwill, you'll never believe what happened!" she said. "I wanted to incorporate the Mackintosh thing in one of your radiator enclosures, so I went over to measure it and. see how it would look. I was halfway across the living room with it..."

"You lifted that piece of iron?"

"No, I was rolling it like a hoop when I accidentally stepped on a cat, and it screeched like seven devils. I was so spooked that I rolled the damn thing over my foot!"

"Yum Yum's screech could raise the dead," he said. "I hope you're not hurt, Fran."

"Hurt! I was wearing sandals and broke three toes! A police car took me to the hospital. Dad will pick up my car later. But Qwill," she wailed, "I won't be able to go to Chicago tomorrow!"

Qwilleran heaved a sigh of relief that activated the stitch in his side, but he extended sympathy and said all the right things. After that he went to the cats' apartment, picked up Yum Yum and stroked her smelly fur. "Sweetheart," he said, "did you trip her accidentally, or did you know what you were doing?"

Immediately he telephoned Polly at the library to remind her that he was driving her to the airport in the morning. "I may board the plane with you," he added. "I know some good restaurants in Chicago."

He sprayed the cats and was serving them a small shrimp cocktail and a dish of veal Stroganoff when he happened to glance out the front window. A police car was in the driveway, and the burly figure of the chief was stepping out of the passenger's door and approaching Francesca's car with a bunch of keys.

Qwilleran opened the window. "Brodie! Come on up for a cup of coffee!"

The chief was more amiable than he had been when questioned about the Fitch case. He clomped up the stairs saying, "I hope it's not the same witch's brew you gave me once before."

Qwilleran locked the cats in their apartment, set the automatic coffee maker for extra strong, and handed the chief a mug. "You're in a better frame of mind than the last time I saw you."

"Arrgh!" growled Brodie. "Is that a comment on the coffee or the state investigation?"

"The case is settled now, looks like. So maybe I can talk without getting in hot water. That evidence you found in the closet cracked it wide open. It was the kind of evidence they were hoping for."

"You don't need to repeat this, but... it was Koko who found it! First, he discovered how to get into the secret closet."

"What did I tell you? I told you we could use him on the force."

"I never did buy the Chipmunk theory, and when I opened the attach‚ case, I knew it was an inside job. I figured that David had killed Harley, rifled the safe, and stashed the money and jewels and murder weapon in the closet, intending to pick it up later. That was a lot of cash for a banker to have in the house."

Brodie nodded. "The bank examiners are in town. They'll find a few shortages, I'll bet."

"I didn't know who it was when he attacked me in the dark storage room, but I knew I was fighting for my life. He had killed twice, and I had found the evidence. After I stunned him with his grandfather's bugle, I began to collect my wits, and I thought, Why would David kill his twin? What possible motive? At that moment Koko walked over to him, purring like a helicopter. When he sniffed the guy's moustache, I said to myself, That's not David on the floor; that's Harley." Qwilleran paused and caressed his moustache with satisfaction. "Koko could smell the spirit gum! The moustache was false-glued on the guy's upper lip."

"YOW!" came a stentorian cheer from down the hall.

"He knows we're talking about him," said Qwilleran.

Brodie said, "So you think you know the motive now?"

"I'm pretty sure. From what I've heard on the Pickax grapevine I've constructed a scenario. See if you think it'll play:

"Scene I: Margaret Fitch, a manipulative mother, encourages David to marry Harley's girl, while Harley is serving time in prison for criminally negligent homicide.

"Scene 2: Harley returns home and marries a tramp to spite David, Jill, and his meddlesome parent.

"Scene 3: Harley is still carrying the torch for Jill, however, and she realizes she's still in love with him. They can't afford to divorce their mates because

Margaret dominates them with an iron fiscal policy. She gives them a taste for luxuries but keeps them poor.

"Scene 4: Jill plots the embezzlement of bank funds, the murders, and Harley's exchange of identities with his twin.

"Scene 5: On the night of the murder David and Jill arrive at Harley's house at 6:30 as usual. Harley has already shot Belle, and he turns the gun on his brother. Then he exchanges their jewelry and wallets - and shaves off David's moustache. Meanwhile, Jill is staging the ransacking of the library and bedroom, packing the attach‚ case with money, jewels, and the murder weapon.

"Scene 6: Despite Harley's acting talent and his false moustache, his parents know he isn't David. His mother has a fatal stroke, and his father can't face the choice he has to make - either to inform the police that his son has been murdered by his twin brother, or to become an accessory after the fact and live with a heinous secret.

"Scene 7: Harley and Jill plan to disappear in South America, but their getaway is foiled."

The chief grinned and shook his head. "Even Lieutenant Hames won't believe the one about the cat and the glued-on moustache."

When the news of the showdown at the Fitch mansion, leaked out, the Pickax grapevine worked overtime, and Qwilleran's phone rang all evening.

Arch Riker said, "We're remaking page one for tomorrow's paper, but there's one statement from Edd Smith that won't wash. He says you were hit on the head with a club and it shattered. We all know you're a hardhead, Qwill, but even your skull isn't hard enough to shatter a club."

"It wasn't a club, Arch. It looked like the thighbone of a camel. It was one of the bizarre relics on display in the library. There we were - in a dark closet - lunging at each other like Hamlet and Laertes, only those guys had rapiers, and all we had was a bone and a brass bugle. We must have looked like a couple of baggy-pants comics. When I whacked the bone with the bugle, it crumbled, and I realized it was made of plaster. Amanda says they have a lot of fakes in that place."

When Amanda herself called, she growled, "This whole stink wouldn't have happened if that family hadn't been so damned stingy with their money - and so phony about everything! Mr. and Mrs. Perfect, they thought they were! And they conned the whole county into believing it."

Gary Pratt also telephoned. "Jeez! I'm glad it's over. I probably knew more about Harley than anybody else did, sailing with him all the time. When he came home from his year in the clink, he was full of hate. He couldn't forgive David for stealing his woman."

Pete Parrott's message was brief. "I hope that SOB gets what he deserves!"

Roger MacGillivray, who had written the breaking story on the murder, said, "You know, Qwill, if it's true that Jill planned it all, she had a neat script - almost too neat. The plumbing emergency... the vehicle going fast down the dirt road and throwing up a cloud of dust... all those convincing details!"

Polly Duncan was the last to call. "Your phone has been busy all evening, Qwill. Are the rumors true? How did you know it was Harley and not David?"

"It started at my birthday party, Polly. Koko took an instant liking to Harley, Edd Smith, and Wally Toddwhistle - and later, my paperhanger. This theory may sound farfetched, but... they were all men who regularly worked with adhesives, and Koko is a fiend for glue. When he saw Harley's model ships, he pranced on his hind legs like the Mackintosh cat. And at the Fitch library, when he I showed such an avid interest in the man on the floor, I knew it wasn't David."

Late that night, when the freight train whistled at crossings north of town, Qwilleran sprawled on the sofa and reviewed the events of the last two weeks. Yum Yum was asleep on his chest, and Koko was balancing on the back of the sofa.

"Why were you so interested in sea stories all of a sudden?" Qwilleran asked him. "Why did you keep tilting the gunboat picture? Did you sense the identity of the murderer? Were you trying to steer my attention to a sailor and builder of model ships?"

Koko opened his mouth in a wide yawn, all teeth and pink gullet. It was, after all, 2:30 A.M., and he had had a hard day.

"Was it a coincidence that you and Yum Yum started acting like bookends? Or were you pointing a paw at the twins?"

Koko squeezed his eyes sleepily. He was sitting tall but swaying slightly. He almost toppled off the sofa back.

"You rogue! You pretend you haven't the slightest idea what I'm talking about," Qwilleran said. "We'll try it j once more... Would you like some turkey?"

Koko's eyes popped open, and Yum Yum raised her head abruptly. With one accord the two of them jumped to the floor, yikking and squealing as they raced to the refrigerator, where Qwilleran found them arranged in identical poses, like twins, as they stared up at the door handle.