Qwilleran was haranguing the cats and dragging the rug back to its rightful position in front of the captain's bed when there was a knock on the door, and — despite a promise he had made to himself — his heart flipped when he saw Joy standing there. Her hair was hanging down to her waist, and she was wearing something filmy and apple green. Although her eyes looked puffed, her composure had returned.
She smiled her funny little smile and peeked into the apartment hesitantly. "Do you have company? I thought I heard you talking to someone."
"Just the cats," Qwilleran said. "When you live alone, it's sometimes necessary to hear the sounds of your own voice, and they're good listeners."
"May I come in? I tried to call you, but your phone isn't connected."
"Mrs. Marron said she'd call the phone company."
"Better do it yourself," Joy said. "There's been a tragedy in her family, and she's still in a daze. Forgets to put potatoes in the potato pancakes. Puts detergent in the soup. She may poison us all before she gets back to normal."
She and her gauzy gown fluttered into the apartment, accompanied by a zephyr of perfume, suggesting cinnamon.
"Look at those beautiful cats!" She gathered Koko and in her arms, and he permitted it, much to Qwilleran's surprise and pleasure. Koko was a man's cat and not used to being cuddled. Joy scratched the sensitive zone behind his ears and massaged the top of his head with her chin, while Koko purred, crossed his eyes, and turned his ears inside out.
"Look him! The old lecher!" Qwilleran said. "I think he likes your green dress . . . So do I!"
"Cats can't distinguish colors," Joy said. "Did you know that? Raku's vet told me." She sighed and hugged Koko tightly, burying her face in the ruff around his neck. "Koko's fur smells like something good to eat."
"That's the aroma of the old house we just moved out of. It always smelled like baked potatoes when the furnace was on. Cats' fur seems to pick up house odors."
"I know. Raku's fur used to smell like wet clay." Joy squeezed her eyes shut and gulped. "He was such a wonderful little friend. It kills me not to know what's happened to him."
"Did you advertise?"
"In both papers. I didn't get a single call — except from one crackpot — some fellow trying to disguise his voice . . . Be sure to keep your cats indoors, won't you?"'
"Don't worry about that. I kept hem under lock and key. They mean a lot to me."
Joy looked out the window. The river flowed black between two lighted shorelines, and she shuddered. "I hate water. I was in a boat accident a few years ago, and I still have nightmares of drowning."
"It used to be a beautiful river, they tell me. It's polluted now."
"In our apartment I'm always dropping the blinds to shut out the river, and Dan's always raising them."
Qwilleran took the hint and lowered the Roman shades.
Still carrying Koko over her shoulder, Joy moved about the apartment as if looking for clues to Qwilleran's personal life. She touched his red plaid bathrobe draped over one of the carved Spanish dining chairs. She admired the Mackintosh coat of arms propped on top of the bookcase. She glanced at titles on the shelves. "Have you read all of these books? You're such a brain!' At the desk she examined the antique ebony book rack, the ragged dictionary, the typewriter, and the sheet of paper in the machine. "What does this mean? These initials — BW."
"That's Koko's typing. He's ordering his breakfast, I think. Beef Wellington."
Joy laughed — a long, musical trill. "Oh, Jim, you've got a wild imagination."
"It's good to hear your laughter again, Joy."
"It's good to laugh, believe me. I haven't done it for so long . . . Listen! What's the matter with the other cat?"
Yum Yum had retreated to a far corner and was calling in a piteous voice, until Koo jumped from Joy's arms and went to comfort her.
"Jealous," Qwilleran said.
The cats exchanged sympathetic licks. Yum Yum squeezed her eyes shut while Koko passed a long pink tongue over her eyes, nose and whiskers, and then she returned the compliment.
Joy stopped circling the apartment and draped herself over the arm of the big plaid chair.
"Where's Dan tonight?" Qwilleran inquired.
"Out. As usual! . . . Would you like a tour of the pottery?"
"I don't want to cause trouble. If he doesn't want — "
"He's being ridiculous! Ever since we arrived here, Dan's been mysteriously secretive about our new work. You'd think we were surrounded by spies, trying to steal our ideas!" Joy jumped off the arm of the chair impulsively. "Come on. Our exhibition pots are lock up, and Dan's got the key, but I can show you the clay room and the wheel and the kilns."
They went downstairs to the Great Hall and along the kitchen corridor to the pottery. A heavy steel door opened into a low-ceiling room filmed with dust. Like a veil, the fine dust covered the floor, work-tables shelves, plaster molds, scrapbooks, broken pots, and rows of crocks with cryptic labels. Dust gave the room a ghostly pallor.
"What's the old suicide mystery connected with this place?" Qwilleran asked.
"An artist was drowned — a long time ago — and some people thought it was murder. Remind me to tell you about it later. I have an interesting new angle on it." She led the way into a large, dismal area that smelled damp and earthy. Everything seemed to be caked with mud. "This is the clay room, and the mechanical equipment is all very old and primitive. That big cylinder is the blunger that mixes the clay. Then it's stored in a tank under the floor and eventually formed into big pancakes on the filter press over there . . . after which it's chewed up by the pug mill and formed into loaves, which are stored in those big bins."
"There must be an easier way," Qwilleran ventured.
"Every step has its purpose. This used to be a big operation fifty years ago. Now we do a few tiles for architects and some garden sculpture for landscape designers — plus our own creative work." Joy walked into a smaller room. "This is our studio. And this is my kick-wheel." She sat on a bench at the clay-coated machine and activated a shaft with a kick-bar, spinning the wheel. "You throw a lump of clay on the wheel and shape it as it spins."
"Looks pretty crude."
"They had wheels of this type in ancient Egypt," Joy said. "We also have a couple of electric wheels, but the kick-wheel is more intimate, I think."
"Did you make that square vase with the blobs of clay on it?"
"No, that's one of Dan's glop pots that your critic didn't like. Wish I could show you my latest, but they're locked up. Maybe it's just as well. Hixie came in here one day and broke a combed pitcher I'd just finished. I could have killed her! She's such a clumsy ox!"
The next room was dry and warm — a large, lofty space with windows just under the ceiling and an Egyptian-style mural running around the top of tall four walls. Otherwise, it looked like a bakery. Several ovens stood around the room, and tables held trays of dun-colored tiles, like cookies waiting to be baked.
"These tiles are bone dry and ready for firing," said Joy. "the others are bisque, waiting to be glazed. They'll be used in the chapel that the Pennimans are donating to the university . . . And now you've seen the whole operation. We live in the loft over the clay room. I'd invite you up, only it's a mess. I'm a terrible housekeeper. You should be glad you didn't marry me, Jim." She squeezed Qwilleran's hand. "Shall we have a drink? I've got some bourbon, and we can drink in your apartment, if you don't mind. Is bourbon still your favorite?"
"I'm not drinking. I've signed off the hard stuff," he told her. "But you go and get your bottle, and I'll have a lemon and seltzer with you."