Qwilleran opened the wicker hamper in the cats' parlor and invited two reluctant Siamese to jump out. Why, he asked himself, did they never want to get into the hamper? And when they were in it, why did they never want to get out? Koko and Yum Yum finally emerged cautiously, a performance they had repeated every night for the last year stalking the premises and sniffing the furnishings as if they suspected the room to be bugged or booby-trapped.
"Cats!" Qwilleran said aloud. "Who can understand them?"
He left the Siamese to their own peculiar occupations — licking each other, wrestling, chasing, biting ears, and sniffing indiscreetly — while he tuned in the midnight news in his sitting room.
"The offices and printing plant of the Pickax Picayune were destroyed by fire tonight. The building is a total loss, according to fire chief Bruce Scott. Twenty-five fire fighters, three tankers, and two pumpers from Pickax and surrounding communities responded to the alarm and are still on the scene. No injuries have been reported. Elsewhere in the county, the Mooseville Village Council voted to spend five hundred dollars on Christmas decorations — "
He snapped off the radio in exasperation. The same fifteen-second news item would be repeated hourly without further details. Listeners would not be told how the fire had started, who reported it, what records and equipment had been destroyed, the age of the building, its construction, the problems encountered in fighting the fire, precautions taken, the estimated value of the loss, the insurance coverage.
Without doubt the county needed a newspaper. As for the fate of the Picayune, it was regrettable, but one had to be realistic. The Pic had been a relic of the horse-and-buggy era. It was Senior's sentimentality and self-indulgence that had bankrupted his newspaper. Typesetting was his obsession, his reason for living, to quote Junior.
Reason for living? Qwilleran jerked to attention and combed his moustache with his fingertips. If the newspaper had truly been on the brink of failure, could Senior's accident have been a suicide? The old plank bridge would be a logical place for a fatal "accident." It was well known to be hazardous. Senior was a cautious, sober man — not one of the Friday-night drunks or speeding youths who usually came to grief at the bridge.
Qwilleran felt a tingling sensation on his upper lip, and he knew his suspicion was valid. There was something uncanny about his upper lip. A tingling, a tremor, or simply a vague uneasiness in the roots of his moustache told him — when he was on the right scent. And now he was getting the signal.
If Senior had intended to take his own life, a staged "accident" would avoid the suicide clause, provided the insurance policy had been in effect long enough. Didn't Junior mention that Grandma Gage had been paying the premiums for years?
An "accident" might pay double indemnity to the widow, or even triple indemnity, although that would be a gamble: There would be a thorough investigation. Insurance companies objected to being fooled.
Perhaps Senior feared something worse than losing the newspaper. He had taken desperate measures to keep the Picayune afloat — selling the farmland, mortgaging the farmhouse, begging from his mother-in-law. Did his desperation lead him into something illegal? Did he fear exposure? How about the man in the black raincoat? What was he doing in Pickax? Senior's death had occurred only a few hours before the stranger arrived on the plane. Did Senior know he was coming? And why was the visitor hanging around? Were others implicated?
And now the Picayune offices had been destroyed. It was curious timing for such a disaster. Was there something in the basement of the building besides presses and back-copy files? Was it incriminating evidence that had to be eliminated? Who knew what was there? And who threw the match?
Qwilleran roused himself from his reverie and flexed the leg that was going to sleep. He was getting some weird notions. What had Mrs. Cobb put in that cocoa?
From the cats' parlor down the hall came a muffled but recognizable sound: thlunk! It was followed by another thlunk — then again thlunk thlunk thlunk in rapid succession. It was the sound of books falling on a carpeted floor. Koko was bumping his private collection.
4
Wednesday, November thirteenth. “Continued cold, with overcast skies and snow showers accumulating to three to four inches.
“Overcast!” Qwilleran bellowed at the radio on his desk. “Why don’t you look out the window? The sun’s shining like the Fourth of July!”
He turned his attention back to Tuesday’s Daily Fluxion, which had given good space to the story about the Pickax Picayune. It was not entirely accurate, but small towns were glad of any attention at all in the metropolitan press. Then he tried to read about the disasters, terrorism, crime, and graft Down Below, but his mind kept drifting back to Moose County.
Snow or now snow, he wanted to drive out in the country, look at the old plank bridge, visit the Goodwinter farmhouse, meet the widow. He would take flowers, offer condolences, and ask a few polite questions. It was an approach he had always handled well on the newsbeat. Sad eyes and drooping moustache gave him a mournful demeanor that passed for deep sympathy.
In the county telephone book he found Senior Goodwinter listed on Black Creek Lane in North Middle Hummock. On the county map he could find neither. He found Middle Hummock and West Middle Hummock. He found Mooseville, Smith’s Folly, Squunk Corners, Chipmunk, and Brrr, which was not a misprint; the town was the coldest spot in the county. But North Middle Hummock was not to be found. He took his problem to Mr. O’Dell, who knew all the answers.
Mrs. Fulgrove and Mr. O’Dell were the day help at the K Mansion. The woman scrubbed and polished six days a week with almost religious fervor; the houseman handled the heavy jobs. Mr. O’Dell had been a school janitor for forty years and had shepherded thousands of students through adolescence — answering their questions, solving their problems, and lending them lunch money. “Janitor” was a revered title in Pickax, and if Mr. O’Dell ever decided to run for the office of mayor, he would be elected unanimously. Now, with his silver hair and ruddy complexion and benign expression, he superintended the Klingenschoen estate as naturally as he had supervised the education of Pickax youth.
Qwilleran found the houseman lubricating the hinges on the broom closet door. “Do you know the location of Senior Goodwinter’s farmhouse, Mr. O’Dell? I don’t find North Middle Hummock on the map.”
In a lilting voice the houseman said, “The devil himself couldn’t find the likes o’ that on the map, I’m thinkin’, for it’s a ghost town fifty year since, but yourself can find it, for I’m after tellin’ you how to get there. Go east, now, past the Buckshot Mine, where the wind will be whistlin’ in the mine shaft on a day without wind, and there’ll be moanin' from the lower depths. When you come to the old plank bridge, let you be wary, for the boards rattle like the divil’s own teeth. Keep watch for a lonely tree on a high hill — the hangin’ tree, they’re callin’ it — for then you’re comin’ to the church where me and my colleen got ourselves married by the good Father Ryan forty-five year since, God rest her soul. And when you come to a deal o’ rubble, that’s all that’s left o’ North Middle Hummock.
“I feel we’re getting warm,” Qwilleran said.
“Warm, is it? There’s a ways to go yet — two miles till you set eyes on Captain Fugtree’s farm with the white fence. Beyond the sheep meadow pay no mind to the sign sayin’ Fugtree Sideroad, for it’s Black Creek Lane, and the Goodwinter house you’ll be seein’ at the end of it. Gray, it is, with a yellow door.