Finally he said: "Well, everything seems to be under control here. Are you sure there's nothing we can do to help?" "There is one little matter that Alex said I should discuss with you." She paused dramatically. "We don't have Fanny's will." "What! With all that money and all that real estate — she died intestate? I can't believe it!" "We are positive that a holographic will exists. She insisted in writing it herself to protect her privacy." "Is that a legal document?" "In this state, yes… if it's written in her own hand and signed and dated. Witnesses are not required. That was the way she wanted it, and one didn't argue with Fanny! Naturally we advised her on the terminology to avoid ambiguity and loopholes. Its location should have been noted in her letter of instructions, but unfortunately…" "And now what?" Penelope looked hopefully at Qwilleran. "All we have to do is find it." "Find it!" he said. "Is that what you want me to do?" "Would you object strenuously?" Qwilleran looked at Rosemary, and she nodded enthusiastically. She said: "Fanny gave me a tour of the house yesterday, and I don't think it would be difficult." "Call me at the office if you have any problems," Penelope said, "and don't answer the phone; it will only prove a nuisance." Then she left them alone, and Qwilleran confronted Rosemary. "All right! If you think it's so easy, where do we begin?" "There's a big desk in the library and a small one in Fanny's sitting room upstairs. Also an antique trunk in her bedroom." "You're amazing! You notice everything, Rosemary. But has it occurred to you that they might be locked?" She ran to the kitchen and returned with a handful of small keys. "These were in the Chinese teapot I used for the tea. Why don't you start in the library? I'd like to tackle the trunk." That was a mistake, considering Qwilleran's obses- sion with the printed word. He was awed by the rows of leather-bound volumes from floor to ceiling. He guessed that Grandfather Klingenschoen tucked away a few pornographic classics on the top shelf. He guessed the library housed a fortune in first editions. On one shelf he found a collection of racy novels from the Twenties, with Aunt Fanny's personal bookplate, and he was absorbed in Five Frivolous Femmes by Gladys Gaudi when Rosemary rushed into the room.
"Qwill, I've made a terrific discovery!" "The will?" "Not the will. Not yet. But the trunk is filled with Fanny's scrapbooks as far back as her college days. Do you realize that dear Aunt Fanny was once an exotic dancer in New Jersey?" "A stripper? In burlesque houses?" Rosemary looked gleeful. "She saved all the ads and some 'art photographs' and a few red hot fan letters. No wonder she wanted you to write a book! Come on upstairs. The scrapbooks are all dated. I've just started." They spent several hours exploring the trunk, and Qwilleran said: "I feel like a voyeur. When she told me she was in clubwork, I visualized garden clubs and hospital auxiliaries and afternoon study clubs." Actually her career had been pursued in Atlantic City nightclubs, first as an entertainer, then as a manager, and finally as an owner, with her greatest activity during the years of Prohibition. There were excerpts from gossip columns, pictures of Francesco's Club, and photos of Francesca herself posing with politicians, movie stars, baseball heroes, and gangsters. There was no mention of a marriage, but there was evidence of a son. His portraits from babyhood to manhood appeared in one scrapbook until — according to newspaper clippings — he was killed in a mysterious accident on the New York waterfront.
But there was no will.
Qwilleran telephoned Penelope to say they would continue the search the next day. He made the chore sound tedious and depressing. In fact, the excitement of Fanny's past life erased the sadness of the occasion, and both he and Rosemary were strangely elated.
She said: "Let's do something reckless. Let's eat at the Dismal Diner on the way home." The boxcar stood on a desolate stretch of the highway with not another building in sight — only the rotting timbers of the Dimsdale shaft house. There were no vehicles in the pasture that served as a parking lot, but a sign in the door said OPEN, contradicting another sign in one window that said CLOSED.
The side of the boxcar was punctuated with windows of various sorts, depending on the size and shape available at some local dump. The interior was papered with yellowing posters and faded menus dating back to the days of nickel coffee and ten-cent sandwiches. Qwilleran raised his sensitive nose and sniffed. "Boiled cabbage, fried onions, and marijuana," he reported. "I don't see a ma?tre d'. Where would you like to Sit, Rosemary?" Along the back wall stretched a worn counter with a row of stools, several of them stumps without seats. Tables and chairs were Depression-era, probably from miners' kitchens. There was only one sign of life, and that was uncertain. A tall, cadaverous man, who may not have eaten for a week, came forward like a sleepwalker from the dingy shadows at the end of the diner.
"Nice little place you've got here," Qwilleran said brightly. "Do you have a specialty?" "Goulash," the man said in a tinny voice.
"We were hoping you'd have veal cordon bleu. Do you have any artichokes?… No?… No artichokes, Rosemary. Do you want to go somewhere else?" "I'd like to try the goulash," she said. "Do you suppose it's real Hungarian goulash?" "The lady would like to know if it's real Hungarian goulash," Qwilleran repeated to the waiter.
"I dunno." "I think we'll both have the goulash. It sounds superb: And do you have any Bibb lettuce?" "Cole slaw is all." "Excellent! I'm sure it's delicious." Rosemary was eyeing Qwilleran with that dubious, disapproving look she reserved for his playful moments. When the waiter, who was also the cook, shambled out of his shadowy hole with generous portions of something slopped on chipped plates, she transferred the same expression to a study of the food. She whispered to Qwilleran: "I thought goulash was beef cubes cooked with onions in red wine, with sweet paprika. This is macaroni and canned tomatoes and hamburger." "This is Mooseville," he explained. "Try it. It tastes all right if you don't think about it too much." When the cook brought the dented tin coffeepot, Qwilleran asked genially: "Do you own this delightful little place?" "Me and my buddy." "Would you consider selling? My friend here would like to open a tearoom and boutique." He spoke without daring to look at Rosemary.
"I dunno. An old lady in Pickax wants to buy it. She'll pay good money." "Miss Klingenschoen, no doubt." "She likes it a lot. She comes in here with that quiet young fellah." When Qwilleran and Rosemary continued their drive north, she said: "There's an example for you. Fanny made irresponsible promises to the poor man, and you're just as bad — with your jokes about tearooms and artichokes." "I wanted to check his voice against the cassette," Qwilleran said. "It doesn't fit the pattern I'm looking for. When you stop to think about it, he doesn't fit the role of master criminal either… although he could be arrested for that goulash. My chief suspect now is the guy who owns the FOO." When they turned into the private drive to the cabin, Rosemary said: "Look! There's a Baltimore oriole." She inhaled deeply. "I love this lake air. And I love the way the driveway winds between the trees and then suddenly bursts into sight of the lake." Qwilleran stopped the car with a jolt in the center of the clearing. "The cats are on the porch! How did they get out? I locked them in the cabin!" Two dark brown masks with blue eyes were peering through the screens and howling in two-part harmony.