As Qwilleran drove back to the barn, it occurred to him that the twistle-twig rocker might account for Koko's remarkable psychic ability. Qwilleran had always attributed the cat's foresight to his sixty whiskers - sixty instead of the standard forty-eight; but perhaps that crafty little animal had also been sitting in the bowl-shaped seat of the twistle-twig and thinking extraordinary thoughts.
The "Smart Koko" was dancing in the kitchen window when Qwilleran drove into the barnyard; it meant there was a message on the answering machine.
A man's voice said, "Qwill! Don't run anything in the paper about the reunion! We have some bad trouble here! This is Mitch."
Unable to believe his ears, Qwilleran listened to the message a second time. At the same moment Koko, who was right at his elbow, stretched his neck and uttered a howl that would chill the blood.
It started in his lower depths and ended in an unearthly shriek! It was not the first time Qwilleran had heard Koko's death howl, and he knew what it meant. Wrongful death . . . someone . . . somewhere.
Linking Mitch's cryptic message and Koko's doleful one, Qwilleran refrained from phoning the farmhouse for more particulars; he could imagine the frenzy that had replaced the happy scene.
Instead, he took a shortcut; he phoned the newspaper.
Chapter 10
The newspaper published no edition over the weekend, but a deskman was always on duty in the city room, answering the phone and listening to the squawking of the police-band radio.
Qwilleran recognized the voice that came on the wire. "Is this Barry? Qwill here. Any trouble reported in the North Middle Hummocks? I just received a queer tip."
"Yeah, the sheriff and his dog are searching for a missing person. Rabbit hunter. Probably some guy at a family reunion got lost in the woods."
"Or got shot by another rabbit hunter," Qwilleran said, thinking of Koko's anguished howl.
"Ain't it the truth, Qwill! Out where we live, there are so many rifle shots in the woods, come weekend, that it sounds like the Fourth of July. How they can avoid shooting each other is a mystery. . . . Hold it! . . ."
Qwilleran waited. But both he and Koko had the answers.
The cynical deskman came back on the line.
"What'd I tell ya? Another rabbit hunter bit the dust. Only ten thousand left. Gotta hang up."
Qwilleran preferred not to picture the scene at the goat farm, and he regretted that his friends would be deprived of good news coverage. As for himself, his time and recording tape would not be wasted. He could write an anonymous description of an ideal family reunion, where all the adults are happy and all the children are well behaved and all the conversation is upbeat and all the food is delicious.
On the other hand, he could cut his losses and scrap his notes. He and Polly discussed it on the phone that night. She had worked at the bookstore so that her assistant could entertain visiting relatives. She needed to rest up before a busy Sunday: church, then lunch with the Rikers, after which they would go to the Big Burning show downtown, and then there would be Wetherby's supper party.
Clarissa had dropped into the bookstore and was thrilled with her new job and looking forward to the pizza party but was worried about the health of Aunt Doris and Uncle Nathan. Clarissa wanted to return the valuable ring and explain the breakup with Harvey, but she could talk only with a housekeeper.
Qwilleran listened to it all with appropriate reactions but contributed no newsbites of his own. He merely said he would like to go into a trance on Sunday before switching identities with an imaginary nineteenth-century newscaster. He said he would see Polly at Joe's party.
"À bientôt," she said.
"À bientôt."
Once more Qwilleran played to a full house on Sunday afternoon. The audience reaction was always the same:
A woman sobbed audibly as she listened to accounts of family tragedies and remembered the stories told in her own family.
A man blew his nose loudly over the plight of the father trying to save his two children.
There was heavy silence as the audience pictured hundreds of victims taking refuge in the new brick courthouse, the same building where one now went to pay property taxes or apply for a marriage license.
"Devastating" . . . "unbelievable . . . "heartbreaking" were the words Qwilleran heard when he appeared in the lobby after the show.
He was glad to return to the barn and spend a quiet hour or two with the Siamese before leaving for Winston Park to pick up Clarissa.
When he arrived at her apartment, she was in a festive mood, but a cat of imposing size was sitting calmly in the centre of the middle seat cushion of the sofa.
"Hail to thee, Sir Jerome!" Qwilleran said with a grand gesture.
The cat observed him with large golden eyes and without a flicker of a whisker.
To Clarissa, Qwilleran said, "Magnificent creature! What language does he speak?" He was accustomed to the Siamese with their voluble responses and expressive gestures.
"He's awed by your moustache."
She explained, "I don't know why he always sits in the exact middle of a chair or cushion or rug - or anything."
"He's a Centrist," Qwilleran said with authority. "Many cats are Centrists. If they were humans, they'd be halfway between Republicans and Democrats."
Before they left Qwilleran complimented Jerome on his blue coat (which he still considered gray) . . . and slyly complimented Clarissa on her gray pantsuit (which was obviously blue).
Qwilleran noted that his passenger was carrying a large satchel-type handbag, reminding him of Thelma Thackery. Was this California style? He avoided dropping the usual masculine quips. (Bring your own dinner? Planning to stay overnight?) Later he would learn what it contained.
En route to the party he told her what new faces she would meet: Connie Constable was a vet at the pet hospital, especially good with cats . . . and Judd Amhurst was a retired engineer and now manager of special events at the bookstore.
Then he remarked, "I hear you have settled in at the paper."
"Yes, and everyone is so friendly! Roger MacGillivray introduced me around. . . . Is he married?"
"Not only married but father of three, whom he's helping to homeschool. You've met John Bushland - prize-winning photographer. Likes to be called Bushy. He and Roger and I were once marooned on a deserted island in a horrendous storm. The three of us are bonded for life."
During cocktails and while waiting for the pizza delivery, Wetherby outdid himself at the piano, playing Chopin's "Minute Waltz." Then Qwilleran was induced to compose an impromptu limerick about Jerome:
An out-of-town cat named Jerome
Says, "I never wanted to roam.
There's not enough sun
And the mice are no fun.
Show me the way to go home."
Then Judd asked Qwilleran if he could write limericks about dogs.
"I just happen to have one with me." He drew an index card from his pocket, having expected Judd to bring up the subject sooner or later. The card read:
There once was a hound with an itch
Who didn't know which end was which.
But he was no fool;
He went off to school,
And learned: Every dog has his niche.
Eventually the subject of the Heirloom Auction took the spotlight. Everyone agreed it was for a good cause and wanted to participate.