"I can't... I can't..."
"Then let me say it for you. VanBrook had written a will making Robin his heir. Is that right?"
"Yes."
"And when Robin dropped out of school, VanBrook threatened to cut him off entirely."
"How did you know that?"
Qwilleran passed over her question. This part of the scenario he had only deduced, but he had been right. He went on. "Robin had the bright idea of killing VanBrook before he had a chance to rewrite his will."
"No! No! It wasn't Robbie's idea!" she cried. "But they talked about it - him and Steve. They thought they could use the money and buy the farm... O-h-h-h!" she wailed. "They didn't tell me! I could have stopped it!"
"When did you find out?"
"Not till Robbie was... Not till they were wheeling him into the operating room. 'Mommy, am I gonna die?' he kept saying."
"Was Steve the shooter?"
"Yes."
"Did Robin ride along in the van?"
"Oh, no! He was in bed when I got back from the theatre that night. I told him I wouldn't go to the party. I got home about one o'clock."
"Are you sure Robin didn't sneak out after you returned home?"
There was a gasp followed by a breathless silence. "The police have Steve in custody, Fiona."
She groaned. "I turned him in. Robbie begged me to. He said there was a big reward. He thought he was going to die..." Her voice dissolved in a torrent of sobs.
Vicki returned to the line. "What will happen now?"
"Robin is an accessory, but he can turn state's evidence," Qwilleran told her.
Soon afterward, Arch Riker called the apple barn in high spirit. "It worked! It worked!" he said. "The reward brought in a tip to the police, and they've arrested the suspect. He'll be charged with murder. And Dennis is off the hook. Tell Koko he can stop working on the case."
"Good," was Qwilleran's quiet reply.
"It was someone from Lockmaster, just as you said from the beginning. It'll be in the paper tomorrow. For once, something big happened on our deadline... You seem remarkably cool. What's the matter?"
"I know the story behind the story, Arch, but it's not for publication."
"You rat!"
Fran Brodie was the next to call. "Dennis is cleared!" she exclaimed. "Isn't that wonderful?... But I hear the apple tree came down! Shawn will rehang it tomorrow."
As far as Qwilleran was concerned, the, VanBrook case was closed, but the Mystery Man of Moose County would remain a puzzle forever. He spent Friday with Susan and the attorney at the house on Goodwinter Boulevard, slitting red-dot boxes and shaking out the leaves of almost a thousand books.
On Saturday he wanted Polly to fly to Chicago for a ballgame; she wanted to go birding in the wetlands. They compromised on a picnic lunch - with binoculars - on the banks of the Ittibittiwassee River. When he called for her at her carriage house shortly before noon, he was in a less than amiable mood - after an abortive bubble-blowing session with two unresponsive and ungrateful Siamese, followed by a hair-raising incident involving Yum Yum and her harness.
On arrival, he handed Polly four clay pipes and a family-size box of soap flakes. "Now you can blow bubbles for Bootsie," he said grumpily. "Lori Bamba says cats like to chase bubbles."
"Well... thank you," she said dubiously. "Do yours chase bubbles?"
"No. They don't think they're cats... What do we have to pack in the car?"
"You take the folding table and chairs, and I'll carry the picnic basket. Did you remember to bring your binoculars?"
There was a maudlin scene as Polly said goodbye to Bootsie, causing Qwilleran to grumble into his moustache. Then they headed for the Ittibittiwassee - past the spot where he had fallen from his bicycle three years before, and past the ditch where his car had landed upside down the previous year.
As they unfolded the table and chairs on a flat, grassy bank at a picturesque bend in the river, Polly said, "Look! There's a cedar waxwing!"
"Where?" he asked, picking up the binoculars.
"Across the river."
"I don't see it. I don't see anything."
"Take the lens covers off, dear. It's in that big bush."
"There are lots of big bushes."
"Too late. It flew away." She was unpacking a paper tablecover and napkins. "It's breezier than I anticipated. We may have trouble anchoring these... Do you like deviled eggs?"
"With or without mashed eggshells?"
"Really, Qwill! You're slightly impossible today. By the way," she added with raised eyebrows, "I hear you spent the day at the VanBrook house with Susan Exbridge yesterday."
"Has Dear Heart been prowling with her telescope?"
"Quick! There's a male goldfinch!"
"Where?" He reached for the glasses again.
"On that wild cherry branch. He has a lovely song, almost like a canary."
"I don't hear it."
"He's stopped singing." Polly poured tomato juice into paper cups. "What were you doing at VanBrook's house?" she persisted. "Or shouldn't I ask?"
"I was helping Susan and the attorney from Lockmaster to open sealed boxes said to contain books. She's been commissioned to liquidate the estate."
"And what did you find in the boxes?"
"Books... but there's also some valuable Oriental art."
"We were all delighted to read in the paper that he bequeathed everything to the Pickax schools... Help yourself to sandwiches, Qwill."
He loaded a limp paper plate. with moist tuna sandwiches and hard-cooked eggs with moist stuffing, neither of which was compatible with an oversized moustache. "VanBrook was a complex character," he said. "I'd like to delve into his past and write a book."
"I hear his credentials were falsified."
"Where did you hear that?"
Polly shrugged. "The story is going around."
"I suspect he was a self-educated genius," said Qwilleran. "He had a couple of aliases, and that's probably why he avoided personal publicity in my column. He was in hiding - or in trouble... Hey!" A sudden gust of wind caught his paper plate and conveyed it across the river like a flying carpet, carrying part of a stuffed egg. "VanBrook spoke Japanese and was familiar with Asia. He might have tricked Americans into investing in fictitious enterprises in Japan."
"Isn't that rather a bizarre venture for a school principal?"
"Not for VanBrook." Qwilleran was thinking of some flimsy business agreements he had found in Memoirs of a Merry Milkmaid. He was thinking of the secret of the red dot. He had no intention, however, of telling Polly that books in fifty-two cartons were leaved with paper money - counterfeit paper money.
"Listen to that blue jay," she said. "Now there's a bird with decent visibility and audibility!" he said. "I'm for blue jays and cardinals. Face it, Polly. I can identify a split infinitive or dangling participle or hyphenated neologism, but I'm not equipped to spot a tufted titmouse or yellow-bellied sapsucker."
"Are you ready for coffee?" she asked, uncorking a Thermos bottle. "And I made chocolate brownies."
After several brownies Qwilleran was, feeling more agreeable. In a mellow mood he murmured, "This is supposed to be our last warm weekend."
"I've enjoyed our picnic," she said. "I've enjoyed every minute of it."
"So have I. We belong together, Polly."
"I'm happiest when I'm with you, Qwill."
"Say something from Shakespeare."
"My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite."
Qwilleran reached across the table and grasped her hand - the one with the birthstone ring he had given her. With brooding eyes intent on her face he said, "I want to ask a question, Polly."
There was a breathy pause as she smiled and waited for the question.
"What did you and Steve talk about at the wedding?" Up to that moment there had been no reference to Polly's brief fling with the trainer, nor had the subject of his arrest been mentioned.