"We'll talk about that when we get home and settle down with a drink," Qwilleran said. "How's everything at the Flux?" "I'm just serving time until I can collect my pension." "Wait till you see the Pickax Picayune! You need a magnifying glass to read the headlines. They cover all the ice cream socials and chicken dinners." "What do you do for news?" "Fortunately the state edition of the Flux is distributed up here, and that keeps us in touch with reality - wars, disasters, assassinations, riots, mass murders, all the worthwhile news. WPKX keeps us informed of car accidents, hunting mishaps, and barn fires." He turned on the radio. "We've just missed the six o'clock news, I'm afraid." The announcer was saying, "... when she fell from a tractor on a farm owned by her father, Terence Kilcally, forty- eight. The tractor then entered a ditch and overturned. Sheriff deputies told WPKX that the tractor continued to travel until it entered a ditch and rolled over.... Present temperature in Pickax, a pleasant seventy-five degrees." "Pickax doesn't need air-conditioning," Qwilleran said as he pointed out the important houses on Goodwinter Boulevard. "These stone buildings stay cool all summer. They have walls two feet thick." And then they reached the K mansion. Riker, jaded after twenty-odd years of editing sensational news, was nonetheless stunned by its grandeur. "Nobody lives like this, Qwill! Least of all you! It's a little Versailles! It's the Buckingham Palace of the north woods!" "Quit writing headlines, Arch, and tell me what you want to drink." "I'm back on martinis, but I'll mix my own. Since you've been on the wagon you've lost your touch." Qwilleran poured white grape juice for himself and a thimbleful for Koko.
"He remembers me," said Riker as the cat rubbed against his ankles.
"He knows you have cats at home. How's old Punky? How's old Mibs?" "Let's go and sit down," Riker said with sudden weariness. They took their drinks to the solarium. "Well, it's like this," he said in a tremulous voice. "We had them put to sleep.. It was a rough decision to make, but Rosie didn't want them, and the house was up for sale, and I moved to a hotel. Nobody wants to adopt old animals, so... I asked the vet to put them away. They were beautiful longhairs, and he didn't want to do it, but... I had no choice." Both men were silent as Koko and Yum Yum sauntered into the room, nestled together on a cushioned wicker chair, and started licking each other.
"Where's Mrs. Cobb?" Riker asked finally. , 'She went to a meeting of the Historical Society. I was surprised to hear she'd sold her antique shop." "You were surprised? How do you think I felt? Rosie got a little inheritance, and next thing I knew, she bought out the Cobb business and announced she was going to live over the store - on Zwinger Street! That crummy neighborhood!" "What happened to Rosie, Arch? I knew she went back to school after the kids left home." "She took a few college courses and got in with a young crowd - got some new ideas, I guess. Young people have always liked Rosie; she's full of life. But there's something sad about mature people who suddenly try to return to their youth-especially a middle-aged woman with a young lover." Qwilleran combed his moustache with his knuckles. "What about middle-aged men with young partners?" Riker thought about it. "That's different, somehow." Qwilleran suggested the Old Stone Mill for dinner. "Don't expect great food, but the atmosphere's pleasant, and we can have a little privacy." They sat at a window table overlooking the great mill wheel, which still turned and creaked without benefit of a millstream. It was powered electrically, with taped sound effects giving the impression of rushing water.
Riker relaxed. "Bucolic tranquillity! Makes one wonder why we live in cities. Don't you miss the criminal activity Down Below? You always enjoyed a good murder." Qwilleran lowered his voice. "To tell the truth, Arch, there's a situation here that's got me wondering. A girl disappeared from the K mansion five years ago, and I've been getting the old familiar vibrations." He told Riker about the murals, the four notes played on the antique piano, and Koko's discovery of Daisy's luggage in the attic. "The real tip-off was a postal card supposed to be from Daisy but not in her handwriting. I found out the girl was pregnant and the guy wouldn't marry her." "Nowadays it doesn't matter a whole lot, does it? My daughter wants a child but no husband. We're an endangered species." "This case was different, Arch. Here was a girl from the wrong side of the wrong side of the tracks, and marriage would be a chance to change her name. Just as I was about to visit her mother and ask a few questions, the woman died of accidental substance abuse - or so the coroner decided." "You always get mixed up in these things," Riker said, "and I don't know why. Who played the piano? Don't tell me it was the cat!" "Who knows? I also heard the opening notes of Three Blind Mice. And if it wasn't Koko, we've got an apparition on the premises. Take your pick." They returned to the house shortly after dark. Flickering blue lights in an upstairs window indicated that Mrs. Cobb had retired to watch television.
"Nightcap?" Qwilleran suggested to his guest. At that moment they both heard four notes played on the piano in the drawing room: E, E, E, C - Ioud and clear.
Riker was startled. "What was that?" "Beethoven's Fifth," Qwilleran said. "Now will you believe me?" They sat at the kitchen table and listened to the eleven o'clock news on WPKX: "The annexation battle between city and county became a slugging match at a public hearing this evening when a township supervisor was assaulted by an angry resident. Clem Wharton declined to press charges against his assailant, Herb Hackpole.
"The school board tonight voted unanimously in favor of quality education. Board president Nimkoff told WPKX, 'We've put ourselves on the line in favor of quality education.' "It was earlier reported that a Pickax Township woman was killed in a fall from a tractor on her father's farm.
According to the coroner's report, Tiffany Trotter, twenty-two, was killed by a gunshot wound. Police are investigating."
10
QWILLERAN PASSED A sleepless night. He was concerned about his friend's marital breakup. He was apprehensive about hosting an ambitious dinner party. And he felt uneasy about the murder of Tiffany Trotter.
He had told Riker about her interest in Daisy, adding, "If there's a connection between her visit here and her murder, it means I'm on a hot scent." "It also means you could be on the hit list yourself," the editor had said. "Better cool it, Qwill." At an early hour the telephone rang, and Amanda Goodwinter plunged into the conversation with her usual brash- ness. "Got a problem. Got to find another painter to finish your apartment. Not easy to do these days. Nobody wants to work." "What happened?" Qwilleran asked in the early-morning stupor that followed an unsatisfactory sleep.
"Didn't you hear the news? Tiffany Trotter was shot." He was slow in putting two and two together. "Uh... yes... I heard it on the radio." "That's Steve's wife," Amanda shouted impatiently.
"Steve, my painter! He won't be back on the job for a while." "I didn't get the connection," Qwilleran said. "That's a terrible thing. We don't expect that in Moose County, do we?" "Tourists! That's what's wrong," the designer grumbled. "Coming up here in their fancy painted vans. They're all stoned, I tell you!" "Is that what the police think? I haven't heard any details." "Francesca says - that's my assistant; her father is chief of police-Francesca says they think it was a sniper - some psycho who just happened to be driving past the farm with a high-powered rifle. These kooks from Down Below have been known to shoot cows, but this is outrageous!" "Is Brodie handling the investigation?" "It's the sheriff's turf, but the Pickax police cooperate." As Amanda rambled on, conjectures raced through Qwilleran's mind: Not necessarily a tourist; everyone in the county has a hunting rifle.... The husband is always the first suspect. There could be a dozen different reasons why an enemy or a neighbor or even a relative might pull the trigger.... Who are these Trotters? Are they involved in anything shady?
Amanda was saying, "So I'm trying to get Steve's cousin to finish the job." "No hurry. It can wait till Steve comes back." "Shucks, I want the job finished so I can get my money! Carpet's waiting to be laid. The blinds are ready.... Say, I'm all excited about your party. Hope you've got some good bourbon." Qwilleran said, "I think you'll like our visitor from Down Below. Arch Riker is an editor from the Daily Fluxion." "I'll be on my good behavior, unless my cousins provoke me, and then look out!" "May we pick you up? I'll send Arch over with the limousine." "Hot damn!" said Amanda. Qwilleran and Riker took a walk downtown during the morning hours, to view the bizarre street scene - eight centuries of Old World architecture condensed into two commercial blocks. The department store posed as a Byzantine palace. The gas station looked like Stonehenge.
At the Picayune office they introduced themselves to Junior's father, owner and publisher of the newspaper. Senior Goodwinter was a mild-mannered man, wearing a leather apron and a square paper cap made of folded newsprint.
"Is it true you hand-set most of the type yourself?" Qwilleran asked.
"Been doing it since I was eight. Had to stand on a stool to reach the typecases," Senior said proudly. "It's the best part of the business." Riker said, "The Picayune is the only paper I know that has successfully resisted twentieth-century technology and new trends in journalism." "Thank you," said the publisher. "It hasn't changed in any way since it was founded by my great-grandfather." From there the two men walked to the office of Goodwinter & Goodwinter. Qwilleran apologized to Penelope for dropping in without an appointment. "I simply wanted to introduce Mr. Riker and request some information." "Come into the conference room," she said graciously, but her automatic smiles and dimples faded when he put his question: "Do you know anything about the Trotter girl who was murdered?'" "What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "Do you have any inside information about the young woman, her family, her activities? Any theories about the murder? Was it a random killing or is there some local intrigue, some shady connection?" "I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place, Mr. Qwilleran. This is a law firm - not a detective agency or a social services office." There was a sarcastic edge to her voice. "May I inquire why you ask these peculiar questions?" "Sorry. I should have explained," Qwilleran said. "My first impulse, on hearing about the murder, was to establish a scholarship for farm youth as a memorial to Tiffany Trotter. I'm assuming she was an innocent victim. If there is anything unsavory about her character or connections, my idea would not be exactly appropriate." The attorney relaxed. "I see what you mean, but I'm unable to give you an immediate answer. My brother and I will take it under advisement. We are both looking forward to your dinner tomorrow evening." Walking away from the Goodwinter office Qwilleran said to Riker, "I've never seen her quite so edgy. She's working too hard. Her brother spends half his time in Washington - doing God-knows-what-and she has to handle the practice single-handed." Exactly at noon the siren on the roof of City Hall blasted its hair-raising wail. At that signal everything in Pickax closed for an hour, allowing workers to go home to lunch. No taxes or traffic tickets were paid; no automobiles or candy bars were sold; no prescriptions or teeth were filled. Only emergency services and one small downtown restaurant, continued to operate.
Qwilleran and Riker went into the luncheonette for a sandwich and listened to the buzz of voices. There was only one topic of conversation: "They weren't married more than a year. She made her own wedding dress." "Tiff made more kills last year than anybody in the volleyball league." "My brother was Steve's best man. All the fellas wore white tailcoats and white top hats. Really cool!" When the two men returned home there was an unfamiliar truck parked near the garage, its body mounted high over the chassis.
"What's that ugly thing doing there?" Riker asked.
"Don't knock it," Qwilleran said. "A terrain vehicle up here has the ‚clat of a private jet Down Below. Farmers and sportsmen love 'em. I'll go and see whose it is." In the loft above the garage he found a substitute painter putting the finish coat on the doorframes. "Are you Steve's cousin?" "Yeah, I'm fillin' in till he gets back." "I feel very bad about Tiffany." "Yeah, it's tough. And you wanna know what? The police took Steve in for questioning! Ain't that a kick in the head?" "It's only routine," Qwilleran assured him. "The police think the sniper was a tourist." The painter looked wise and said in a lowered voice, "I could tell 'em a few things, but I know when to keep my mouth shut." Typical small-town reaction, Qwilleran thought. Everyone knows the answers, or thinks he does, or pretends to. But no one talks.
Riker had found a hammock in the backyard and was reading the Picayune. Mrs. Cobb was in the kitchen, pounding boned pheasant for the terrine.
"The police were here!" she announced. "They wanted to know if Steve was on the job yesterday afternoon, and I was able to give him an alibi. He was having a beer with me at the time of the shooting. He's a nice young man. I feel very sorry for him." "It's abnormally quiet. Where's Birch?" "Gone fishing. He's catching the salmon for the croquettes." "Is everything progressing to your satisfaction?" "Everything's getting done, but Koko's been acting funny, scratching the broom closet door and jumping up to reach the handle." "I put that musty suitcase in the closet, and he can smell it. He doesn't miss a thing. It's time I got rid of all that junk." Koko heard his name and came running, saying, "ik ik ik," in a businesslike tone.
"Okay, okay, I'm throwing the smelly things out." Qwilleran carried the large carton of Daisy's winter clothing to the trash bin in the garage and then returned for the suitcase. He was halfway to the back door when he heard an emphatic yowl. It was not the kind of cat-talk that meant "Time for dinner" or "Here comes the mail" or "Where's Yum Yum?" It was a vehement directive.
