A tremor on Qwilleran’s upper lip alerted him. Was the Picayune’s double tragedy the result of a conspiracy? He had no clues — only the sensation in the roots of his moustache. He had no clues and no logical way to investigate.
Years before, as a prize-winning crime reporter, he had developed a network of anonymous sources. In Moose County he had no sources. Although the natives were notorious gossips, they avoided gossiping with outsiders, and Qwilleran was an outsider even after eighteen months in their midst.
He glanced at the calendar. It was Wednesday, November thirteenth. On the evening of November fourteenth he would have seventy-five certified gossips under his roof — all the best people, drinking tea and socializing.
“Okay, old sleuth,” he said to Koko. “Tomorrow night we cultivate some sources.”
5
Thursday, November fourteenth. The weather was cooperating with the major social event of the season — not too cold, not too windy, not too damp. On Thursday evening seventy-five members of the Historical Society and Old Timers Club would view the Klingenschoen mansion for the first time, and the residence would become officially the Klingenschoen Museum.
Ever since inheriting the pretentious edifice Qwilleran had considered it an absurd residence for a bachelor and two cats. He proposed, therefore — with the cooperation of the Historical Society-to open the mansion to the public as a museum two or three afternoons a week. When the mayor announced the news at a council meeting, the citizens of Pickax were jubilant, and the guests invited to the preview felt singularly honored.
Qwilleran's day began as usual in his garage apartment. He tuned in the weather report, drank a cup of instant coffee, dressed, and walked down the corridor to the cats' parlor.
"'Commuter Special now leaving on track four," he announced, opening the wicker hamper.
The Siamese sat nose-to-nose on the windowsill, enjoying the thin glimmer of November sunshine and ignoring the invitation.
"Breakfast now being served in the dining car." There was no response, not even the flicker of a whisker. Impatiently Qwilleran picked up one animal in each hand and deposited them unceremoniously in the hamper.
"If you act like cats, you get treated like cats," he explained in a reasonable voice. "Act like courteous, cooperative, intelligent beings, and you get treated accordingly."
There were sounds of scuffling and snarling inside the hamper as he carried it across the yard to the main house.
It was Mrs. Cobb's idea that the Siamese should spend their days among the Oriental rugs, French tapestries, and rare old books of the mansion. "When you have valuable antiques," she explained, you have four things to fear: theft, fire, dry heat, and mice."
At her urging Qwilleran had installed humidity controls, a burglar alarm, smoke detectors, and a direct line to the police station and fire hall. Koko and Yum Yum were expected to handle the other hazards.
When Qwilleran arrived at the back door with the wicker hamper, the housekeeper called out from the kitchen, "Would you like a mushroom omelette, Mr. Q?"
"Sounds fine. I'll feed the cats. What's in the refrigerator?"
"Sautéed chicken livers. Koko would probably prefer them warmed with some of last night's beef Stroganoff. Yum Yum isn't fussy."
After he had finished his own breakfast — a three-egg omelette with two toasted English muffins and some of Mrs. Cobb's wild haw jelly — he said, "Delicious! Best mushroomless mushroom omelette I've ever eaten."
"Oh dear!" The housekeeper covered her face with her hands in embarrassment. "Did I forget the filling? I'm so excited about tonight, I don't know whether I'm coming or going. Aren't you excited, Mr. Q?"
"I feel a faint ripple of anticipation," he said.
"Oh, Mr. Q, you must be kidding! You've worked on this for a year!"
It was true. To prepare the mansion for public use, the attic had been paneled and equipped as a meeting room. A paved parking lot was added behind the carriage house. Engineers from Down Below had installed an elevator. A fire escape was required in the rear. For barrier-free access there were such accommodations as a ramp at the rear entrance, a new bathroom on the main floor, and elevator controls at wheelchair height.
"What's the order of events tonight?" Qwilleran asked Mrs. Cobb. She had chaired the Historical Society committee on arrangements.
"The members will start arriving at seven o'clock for a conducted tour of the museum. Mrs. Exbridge has trained eighteen guides."
"And who trained Mrs. Exbridge? Don't be so modest, Mrs. Cobb. I know and you know that this entire venture would have been impossible without your expertise," "Oh, thank you, Mr. Q," she said, flushing self-consciously, "but I can't take too much credit. Mrs. Exbridge knows a lot about antiques, She wants to open an antique shop now that her divorce is final."
"Don Exbridge's wife? I didn't know they were having trouble. Sorry to hear it." Qwilleran always empathized with the principals in a divorce case, having survived a painful experience himself.
"Yes, it's too bad," Mrs. Cobb said. "I don't know what went wrong. Susan Exbridge doesn't talk about it. She's a very nice woman, I've never met him."
"I've run into him a couple of times, He's an agreeable guy with a smile and a handshake for everyone."
"Well, he's a developer, you know, and I take a dim view of them. We were always fighting developers and bureaucrats Down Below. They wanted to tear down twenty antique shops and some historic houses."
"So what happens after the tour of the museum?"
"We go up to the meeting hall, and that's when you make your speech."
"Not a speech. Just a few words. Please!"
“Then there'll be a brief business meeting and refreshments."
"I hope you didn't bake seventy-five dozen cookies for those shameless cookie hounds," Qwilleran said, "I suspect most of them attend meetings because of your lemon-coconut bars, Will your friend be there?"
"Herb? No, he has to get up early tomorrow morning. It's the start of gun season for deer, you know. How about the cats? Will they attend the preview?"
"Why not? Yum Yum will spend the evening on top of the refrigerator, but Koko likes to parade around and show off."
The telephone rang, and Koko sprang to the desk in the kitchen, as if he knew it was a call from Lori Bamba in Mooseville.
Lori was Qwilleran's part-time secretary, a young woman with long golden braids tied with blue ribbons that tantalized the Siamese.
"Hi, Qwill," she said. "Hope I'm not interrupting something crucial. Isn't this the big day?"
"You're right. Tonight we go public. What's the news from Mooseville?"
"Nick just phoned me from work and said I should call you. Someone's camping on your property at the lake. On his way to work he saw an RV parked in the woods there. He wondered if you had authorized it."
"Don't know a thing about it. But is it all that bad? There's a lot of land there that isn't being used." Qwilleran had inherited the lake property along with the mansion in Pickax: eighty acres of woodland with beach frontage and a log cabin.
"It isn't a good idea to encourage trespassers," Lori said. "They could leave a lot of litter, cut down your trees, set the woods on fire..."
"Okay, okay, I'm convinced."
"Nick said you should call the sheriff."
"I'll do that. Appreciate your interest. How's everything in Mooseville? How's the baby?"
"He finally said his first word. He said 'moose' very distinctly, so we think he'll grow up to be president of the Chamber of Commerce... Do I hear Koko talking in the background?"
"He wants to have a few words with you." Qwilleran held the receiver to Koko's ear, which flicked and swiveled in excitement. There followed a series of "yows" and "iks" and purrs of varying intensity and inflection.