"Sabrina brought in the plants and accessories to make it look more comfortable," he explained.
Sherry had changed into white pants and a white blouse with a red scarfa striking complement to her pearly white skin and shiny black hair. It was a severe cut shoulder-length like Sabrina's, with bangs like Sabrina's, and she tossed it back with a gesture he recognized.
Qwilleran served drinks in the living room, which Sherry studied minutely as if inventorying the accessories and estimating their retail price. After he proposed a toast, she said, "Thanks for getting me out of that scrape."
"One good turn deserves another," he replied. "You recommended the potato in the restaurant, and it was the best potato experience I've ever had. Why haven't I been served one before?"
"This is turnip country. Most of the commercial potato crop is shipped to gourmet centers in New York and California"
"where they're called Potato potatoes, no doubt," he said, hoping to get a smile, but she was still stiffly out of sorts.
Losing no time in getting down to business, she said, "So you're interested in the painting." She nodded toward the foyer.
"That's why I phoned you. Is it for sale?" "Everything's for sale."
"What are you asking for it?" He recalled that Sabrina estimated it would bring $3,000.
"Well, it's been appraised at $5,000, but you can have it for $4,500."
"It's a good painting," Qwilleran said, "but isn't that a trifle steep for the work of an unrecognized artist?"
"Ordinarily it would be," she said, "but this is no ordinary situation. It was painted by a convicted murderer, and the painting has notoriety value. I suppose you know what happened."
Qwilleran nodded sympathetically, but he thought, My God! She not only sent an innocent man to prison, but she's profiteering from her treachery. Wasn't the original price $300, including delivery? To Sherry he said, "I'll give your offer some serious consideration."
"What about the Fitzwallow chest? You said you were interested. I'd let that go for $1,000."
"It's a unique example of folk art. The question is: What would I do with itunless I bought the inn?"
"The way things are going in the Potatoes," she said, "Tiptop will be a good investment."
"It needs a lot of work, though, chiefly lightening and Brightening. The veranda makes the rooms dark even in broad daylight, as you must know. Today's vacationers ike sunlight."
"You could take off the veranda and build open decks all around the building," Sherry suggested, showing some animation. "That's what my mother always wanted to do."
"It would be a costly project," Qwilleran objected.
"The building's listed for $1.2 million, but if you want to buy from me direct, I'll let it go for a million. You can use the difference for remodeling."
"Is that ethical? Dolly Lessmore has the listing."
"She's had it for almost a year and hasn't done a damn thing. I'd like to unload it so I can concentrate on my retail business."
"Your shop has a clever name," Qwilleran remarked. "Did you think of it?"
"Yes," she said, looking pleased. "Glad you like it." She held out her glass. "Is there another one where this came from?"
"Forgive me. I'm being an imperfect host," Qwilleran apologized. "But only because I find our conversation so engaging."
When he carried the tray to the kitchen, both cats were in the foyer in their listening positionextremities tucked under compact bodies, ears pointed toward the living room. "You two behave yourselves," he said quietly as he passed.
Sherry was beginning to relax, and she accepted her second manhattan with more grace. "You mix a good cocktail, Mr. Qwilleran," she complimented him.
"Call me Qwill," he reminded her.
"What are you drinking?"
"Just the straight stuff. I never combine the grape and the grain." He clinked the ice cubes in his white grape juice. "Incidentally, white looks very good on you."
"Thank you," she said. "I wear it a lot. Well, tell me about you. What do you do?"
"I'm an author," he said with an appealing display of pride mixed with modesty and a hint of apology.
"What have you written? Your books must be selling pretty well, but I never saw your name."
"I write textbooks," he said, exercising his talent for instant falsehood. "They're rather dull stuff, but they pay well."
"What's your subject?" "Crime."
"Oh," she said, and her eyes were momentarily downcast. "That must be fascinating. I'm afraid I don't have much time to read. What brought you to the Potatoes?" "I was looking for a mountain retreat for the summer, where I could work without distractions, and the Potatoes were recommended by a friend who had camped here. I didn't expect to rent anything this large, but I wanted to be on the summit of the mountain." He decided it was unwise to mention the cats again. "Are you accomplishing anything?" "As a matter of fact, I've decided on a new project. I'm planning to write a biography of your father."
"No! Do you mean it?" Qwilleran thought her surprise was tempered by qualms rather than enthusiasm.
"Yes, he was a remarkable man. I don't need to tell you that. He made a great contribution to the growth and well-being of the community. He practiced an aggressive, adversarial style of journalism that is rare in these times, and his editorials were blockbusters. Yet, there was a warmly human side to him as well." Qwilleran thought, I can't believe I'm saying this! "I'm referring to his love of family, his deep sorrow at the loss of his sons; the pain he must have suffered over your mother's illness ... I suppose you were a great source of support and comfort to him." Searching her face for reactions, he found her attempts to assume the right expression almost comical. "The city is planning to name a scenic drive after your father. Do you think he would approve?"
"I think he'd rather have the city named after him," she said in a burst of candor brought on by the second man-hattan.
"Did you have a good father-daughter relationship?" he asked innocently.
"Well, to tell the truth, Qwill, I was one of those early mistakes that happen to young couples. My parents were still in college when I was born, and my father was not too happy about it. Besides, he preferred sons to daughters. But in recent years we developed a real friendship. That happens when you get older, I guess."
Or when the prospect of an inheritance looms on the horizon, Qwilleran thought.
"We'd reached the point," she continued, "where he'd confide in me and I felt free to discuss my problems with him. So his death was a terrible loss to me ... What's that?" She stiffened with fright and looked toward the foyer, where sounds of thumping and muttering and whimpering could be heard.
Qwilleran said, "The cat's talking to himself. He's faced with some kind of problem. Excuse me a moment."
Koko was on the floor, writhing and biting his paw, and Qwilleran released him from the entanglement of a long hair, thinking as he did so, This is the second time! Most unusual!
"He had something caught in his toes," he explained to his guest when he returned.
She had been sitting on the sofa with her back to one of the folding screens, but now she was walking around to inspect the rented furnishings. It appeared to Qwilleran that she kept glancing at the secretary desk at the far end of the room.
He said, "How do you like Sabrina's idea for foreshortening the room with folding screens?"
"Neat," she said without enthusiasm. She sat down again and helped herself to cashews.
"Gray was apparently your mother's favorite color. Sa-brina said she had beautiful gray eyes."
"Yes, she liked gray. She always wore it."
"You have your mother's eyes, Sherry."
"I guess I do," she replied vaguely as if preoccupied.
"Sorry to hear about her illness." Sherry was fidgeting, and Qwilleran was working hard to engage her attention. "I haven't been able to find Lake Batata. Is it a myth?"