Finally he said: "It's an April Fools' joke." Goodwinter said: "I assure you it is legitimate. The problem, as I see it, might be that the bequest will be challenged by the numerous organizations expecting generous sums." "They were verbal promises that Fanny made to everyone in town," Penelope reminded her brother. "Mr. Qwilleran's claim is the only legal one." "Nevertheless, one might foresee a class action suit on behalf of the Pickax charities and civic institutions, questioning Fanny's testamentary capacity, but I assure you…
"Alex, you neglected to mention the proviso." "Ah, yes. The assets — bank accounts, investments, real estate, etc.- are held in trust for five years with the entire income going to you, Mr. Qwilleran, provided you consent to make Pickax your residence for that period of time and maintain the Klingenschoen mansion as your address — after which time the trust is dissolved and the estate is transferred to you in toto." There was silence in the room, and stares all around.
A window slammed in the guest room.
Goodwinter looked startled. "Is there someone else in the house?" "Only Tom," Qwilleran said. "He's fixing a broken window." "Well?" Penelope asked. "Don't keep us in suspense." "What happens if I decline the terms?" "In that case," Goodwinter said, "the will specifies that the entire estate goes to Atlantic City." "And if it goes to Atlantic City," Penelope added, "there will be rioting in the city of Pickax, and you will be lynched, Mr. Qwilleran." "I still think you're pulling my leg," he said.
"There's no reason why Fanny should make this… this incredible gesture. Until a couple of weeks ago I hadn't seen her for forty years or more." Goodwinter reached into his briefcase and drew out a paper covered with Fanny's idiosyncratic handwriting. "She claims you as her godchild. Your mother was a friend she regarded as a sister." Penelope giggled. "Come on, Alex, tie your shoelace and let's go. I have a dinner date tonight." Tom's pickup truck had already gone when the attorneys drove away, following handshakes and congratulations. Penelope had staggered a little, Qwilleran thought. Either she had been celebrating something, or she had been drowning her disappointment.
Thu-rump… thu-rump… thu-rump. It was the familiar sound of a cat jumping down from the moose head in three easy stages.
"Well, Koko," Qwilleran said, "what do you think about that?" Koko rolled over on the base of his spine and licked his tail assiduously.
16
In a daze Qwilleran prepared a dish of turkey for the Siamese. He was so preoccupied with the bombshells dropped by Arch Riker and Alexander Goodwinter that he prepared a cup of instant coffee for himself minus the essential ingredient. Then he carried his coffee mug to the lakeside window and sipped the hot water without noticing that something was lacking.
Foaming white breakers pounded the shore; the beach grasses rippled in the wind; the trees waved their branches frantically; even the little wildflowers bobbed their heads bravely under the tumultuous sky. He had never seen anything so violent and yet so beautiful. This could be mine, he thought. Had anyone ever faced such a crucial career choice? His two selves argued the case: The Dedicated Newsman said: It's the opportunity of my entire career. Investigative reporting — what I've always wanted to do.
The Canny Scot countered: Are you crazy? Would you pass up Fanny's millions for a job with a midwestern newspaper? The first time the Fluxion gets slapped with a lawsuit, Percy will change his mind. Then where will you be? Back on the restaurant beat — or worse.
But I'm a newsman. Reporting is my life! It's not a job; it's what I do.
So buy your own newspaper with Fanny's money. Buy a chain of newspapers.
I never wanted to be a newspaper tycoon. I like to get out in the field, dig up stories, and bang them out with two fingers on an old black manual typewriter.
If you own the paper, you can do anything you damn please. You can even set the type, like the guy at the Picayune.
And I don't need a lot of money or possessions. I've always been satisfied, with what I earned.
But you're not getting any younger, and all you've got in the bank is $1,245.14. Forget the Fluxion pension, it won't keep the cats in sardines.
I'd have to live in Pickax, and I need the stimulation of a big city. I've never lived in a small town.
You can fly to New York or Paris or Tokyo any time you feel like it. You can even buy your own plane.
"YOW!" cried Koko in his most censorious voice. He was still waiting for his evening meal. Qwilleran had absent-mindedly put the plate of turkey in the cupboard with the telephone.
"Sorry, kids," he said. He waited for Koko's reaction to the food. Twice this remarkable cat had rejected turkey from Stanley Hanstable's farm — until he succeeded in getting his message across. Now he devoured it with gusto. "Yow… gobble gobble… yow," Koko said as he gulped the white meat, leaving the dark meat for Yum Yum.
Qwilleran felt the need to talk to someone with a larger vocabulary and he telephoned Roger MacGillivray. "What time are you through at the office?… Why don't you run out here for a drink?… No, don't bring Sharon. Not this time. I want to speak to you privately." Koko had finished his repast and was doing his well-known busybody act — restless meandering accompanied by grunts and chirps and squeals and mutterings. He inspected the fireplace, the stereo, the bathroom faucets. He pressed two keys on the typewriter (x and j) and sniffed a title on the lowest bookshelf (the bird book). When he ambled into the guest room, Qwilleran followed.
The lower berth of the double-decker was the spot where Koko and Yum Yum liked to sleep. During Rosemary's visit they had been banished to the upper level. Now Koko explored the lower bunk, muttering to himself and pawing the bedcover industriously. The bunk abutted the log wall, and soon he was reaching down between the mattress and the logs, trying first one paw and then the other, stretching to the limit until he dredged up a prize — a pair of sheer pantyhose. Still he was not satisfied. He fished in the narrow crevice until he retrieved a gold chain bracelet.
Qwilleran grabbed it. "That's Mildred's! How did it get down there?" Mildred had said it might have fallen off her wrist when she delivered the gift of turkey the week before. Mildred had been there on that occasion with someone who smoked Groat and Boddle, although Buck Dunfield claimed he had never visited the cabin.
Qwilleran found Fanny's green leather address book, still in his jacket pocket, and flipped it open to the page indexed H.
HUNT, R.D. — Bought three farms while commissioner; sold for airport six months later.
HANSTABLE, S — Low bidder for prison turkey contract. Too low.
HANSTABLE, M — Sleeping around. Qwilleran turned to the page indexed Q and found himself described as a former alcoholic. There was nothing under M for Roger, but Dunfield was labeled a womanizer, and there were two pages of Goodwinters, who appeared to have committed every sin in the book.
Qwilleran tossed the thing in the fireplace, emptied his wastebasket on top of it, added some twigs from the coal scuttle, and opened the damper. Just as the brass bell clanged at the back door, he struck a match and threw it in the grate. Almost immediately he had second thoughts about losing such a choice compendium of scandal. If he decided to move to Pickax, it might be useful. Too late! The tremendous draft of a windy day had whipped the debris into an instant blaze.