Reaching for a pad of paper he jotted down some options, commenting on each to faithful Koko, who was loitering sociably. Yum Yum was on the bed, wretchedly nipping at her flanks and tearing out tufts of fur.
Move back to a large city. "Which one? And why? Pm beginning to prefer small towns. Must be getting old."
Buy a newspaper. "Now that I can afford one, I no longer want one. Too bad."
Travel. "Sounds good, but what would I do about you and Yum Yum?" he asked Koko, who blinked and scratched his ear.
Teach journalism. "That's what everyone says I should do, but I'd rather do it than teach it."
Try to get into acting. "I was pretty good when I was in college, and television has increased the opportunities since then."
Build a hotel in Pickax. "God knows it needs a new one! We could go six stories high and call it the Pickax Towers."
He had been so intent on planning the rest of his life that he failed to hear a car pulling into the parking lot, but Koko heard it and raced downstairs. Qwilleran followed, descending the stairs lamely. Through the glass of the French doors he could see the top of an umbrella, ploddingly ascending the twenty-five steps. It reached the veranda, and Qwilleransloppily attired, unshaven, and leaning on a canerecognized the last person in the world he wanted to see.
CHAPTER 13
Qwilleran recognized the hat waiting outside the front doora large one with a brim like a banking planeand wished he could slink back upstairs, but it was too late. She had caught sight of him through the glass panes.
"A thousand pardons!" she cried when he opened the door in his grubby condition. "I'm Vonda Dudley Wix. I'm calling at an inopportune time. I should have telephoned first. Do you remember me?"
"Of course." He remembered not only the hat but also the young-old face beneath it and the scarf tied in a perky bow under her chin. "Come in," he said, exaggerating his limp and his facial expressions of agony.
"I won't stay," she said. "Colin told me about your misfortune, and I brought you some of my Chocolate Whoppers to boost your morale." She was holding a paper plate covered with foil.
"Thank you. I need a boost," he said, brightening at the mention of something chocolate. "Will you come in for a cup of coffee?"
"I don't drink coffee," she said as she parked her umbrella on the veranda. "It goes to my head and makes me quite tipsy."
"I don't have tea. How about a glass of apple juice?"
"Oh, feathers! I'll throw discretion to the winds and have coffee," she said airily, "if it isn't too much trouble."
"No troublethat is, if you don't mind drinking it in the kitchen. My computerized coffeemaker does all the work."
Leaning on his carved walking staff he conducted her slowly to the rear of the house, while she chattered about her last visit to Tiptop, and how it had changed, and what delightful parties the Hawkinfields used to give in the old days.
Qwilleran pressed the button on the coffeemaker (the dial was set permanently at Extra Strong) and unwrapped the cookies: three inches in diameter, an inch thick, and loaded with morsels of chocolate and chunks of walnuts.
"They're a trifle excessive," said his guest, "but that's how my boss liked them. I used to bake them for J.J. once a week." Qwilleran thought, That's why he let her keep on writing that drivel. "This is the first time I've made them since he died," she added.
"I feel flattered." He poured mugs of the black brew.
"Are the rumors true, Mr. Qwilleran?"
"What rumors?"
"That you're going to buy Tiptop and open a bed-and-breakfast?"
"I'm a writer, Ms. Wix. Not an innkeeper. By the way, the cookies are delicious."
"Thank you . . . Oooooh!" Taking her first sip of coffee, she reacted as if it were turpentine. Then, composing herself, she said, "This is the kind of coffee I used to prepare for my late husband. Wilson never drank alcohol or smoked tobacco, but he adored strong coffee. The doctor warned him about drinking so much of it, but he wouldn't listen." She sighed deeply. "It was almost a year ago that he had his massive heart attack."
Qwilleran set down his mug and touched his moustache with misgivings. "Was your husband overweight?" he asked hopefully.
"Not at all! I have his picture right here." She rummaged in her handbag and produced a snapshot of a broad-shouldered, muscular man with close-cropped gray hair. "He worked out at the gym faithfully and was never sick a day in his life!" Mrs. Wix found a tissue in her handbag and touched her eyes carefully. "He died not long after J.J. They were business associates, you know."
Qwilleran thought, It would be interesting to know what kind of stress triggered the attack. Shock at the murder of his colleague? Fear for his own life? Anxiety about his financial future? Guilt of some kind? . . . Stalling for time while he formulated a pertinent question, Qwilleran changed the subject. "You spell your name W-i-x, but there's a street downtown spelled W-i-c-k-s and an animal clinic spelled W-i-c-k-e-s. Any connection there?"
"Are you interested in genealogy?" she asked with sudden animation. "All three names go back to my husband's great-great-grandfather, Hannibal W-i-x-o-m, who settled here in 1812 and operated a grist mill. He had several daughters but only one son, George, who married Abigail Lumpton and earned his living by making furniture. He shortened the name to W-i-x, and some of his descendents became W-i-c-k-s or W-i-c-k-e-s, because they weren't careful about the spelling on county records in those days."
Qwilleran nodded, although his mind was elsewhere.
"Interestingly," she went on, "I've been able to trace families by the name of W-i-x in Vermont, Indiana, and recently Utah. Actually the name originated in England, the family being founded by Gregory W-i-c-k-s-h-a-m, who fought in the War of the Roses. Subsequent branches of the family altered it to W-i-c-k-s-u-m or W-i-x-x-o-m, one of the latter being quite high up in the English court. Don't you find this intriguing?" she asked.
Qwilleran blinked and said, "Yes, indeed. May I fill your cup?"
"Only halfway. It's very strong. But so good!" She adjusted her hat primly.
"That's a handsome hat, Ms. Wix, and you wear it very well. Not every woman could carry it off."
"Thank you. It's supposed to enhance my best profile." She tilted her head coquettishly.
"How long was your husband associated with Hawk-infield?"
"Ever since the beginning of Tiptop Estates. J.J. thought highly of Wilson as a builder and was instrumental in getting him elected to the city council. Of course, my husband knew how to handle him," she said with a sly, conspiratorial smile. "Wilson simply let him have his own way!"
An ideal pair, Qwilleran thought. The quintessential yes man and the quintessential apple polisher.
"May I remove my scarf?" she was asking. "It's a trifle warm."
"By all means. Make yourself comfortable. Are you sure you won't have a cookie?"
She whipped off her scarf with evident relief. "No, I made them expressly for you."