Going home to feed the cats was an excuse that was never challenged.
-2-
Qwilleran drove home to Indian Village in his four-wheel-drive vehicle, considered advisable for winter in the country. Having traded in his compact sedan for a medium-size van, he was pleased to find it convenient on many occasions, such as trips to the veterinarian with the cats' travel coop. It was almost new - only thirty thousand miles - and Scott Gippel had given him a good trade-in allowance.
Indian Village on Ittibittiwassee Road was well outside the Pickax city limits. It was debatable whether the drive was more beautiful in summer's verdure or winter's chiaroscuro, when bare trees and dark evergreens were silhouetted against the endless blanket of white. Along the way was the abandoned Buckshot mine and its ghostly shafthouse, fenced with chain-link and posted as dangerous. Just beyond was the bridge over the Ittibittiwassee River, which then veered and paralleled the highway to Indian Village and beyond.
Geographically and politically the Village was in Suffix Township; psychologically it was in a world of its own, being an upscale address for a variety of interesting residents. At the entrance, a gate gave an air of exclusivity, but it was always open, giving an air of hospitality. The buildings were rustic board-and-batten, compatible with the wooded site, summer and winter, starting with the gatehouse and the clubhouse. Apartments were clustered in small buildings randomly situated on Woodland Trail. Condominiums in strips of four contiguous units extended along River Lane, close to the water that rushed over rocks or swirled in pools. Even in winter a trickle could be heard underneath the snow and ice.
As Qwilleran neared his own condo in Building Five, he began to think about his housemates. Would they greet him excitedly? - meaning hungrily. Would they be dead asleep on the sofa, curled together in a single heap of fur? Would they have pushed the phone off the hook, or upchucked a hairball, or broken a lamp during a made chase?
Before unlocking his own door, he delivered the groceries he had picked up for Polly. He had a key to her unit at the other end of the row. Even while unlocking her door he began talking to her watchcat, Bootsie, explaining that he was there on legitimate business and would simply refrigerate the perishables and leave.
His own Siamese were in the window overlooking the riverbank, laying contentedly on their briskets, listening to the trickle beneath the snow and ice. The wintry sun bounced off the white landscape, making a giant reflector that illuminated their silky fawn-colored coats and accentuated their seal-brown points. "Hello, you guys," Qwilleran said. "How's everything? Any excitement around here? What's the rabbit count today?"
Languorously, both cats stood up, humped their backs in a horseshoe curve, and then stretched two forelegs and one hind leg. The male was Kao K'o Kung (Koko, for short) - the "smart cat" in Brodie's book. He was sleek and muscular with a commanding set of whiskers and intense blue eyes that hinted at cosmic secrets. Yum Yum, the female, was delicate and outrageously affectionate. Her large, limpid blue eyes were violet- tinged. Being Siamese, they were both highly vocal, Koko yowling a chesty baritone and Yum Yum uttering a blood- chilling soprano shriek when it was least expected.
Qwilleran brought in the gift-wrapped packages from his van, read the mail picked up at the gatehouse, made some phone calls, fed the cats, and changed into a tweed sports coat over a turtleneck jersey. Polly had told him he looked particularly good in turtlenecks; their simplicity was a foil for his handsome moustache. He was half pleased and half annoyed by everyone's preoccupation with his unique facial adornment. Fran Brodie called it a Second Empire moustache, as if it were a piece of furniture.
What no one knew, of course, was its functional significance to its owner. Whenever Qwilleran suspected that something was false or out-of-order in any way, he felt a tingling sensation on his upper lip. Experience had taught him to pay attention to these signals. Sometimes he would tamp his moustache, pound it with his fist, comb it with his knuckles, or merely stroke it thoughtfully, depending on the nature of the hunch.
Polly, who was in the dark about this phenomenon, would say, "Are you nervous about something, dear?'
"Sorry. Only a silly habit," he would reply. He did, however, heed her suggestion about turtlenecks.
Tonight, Qwilleran took one last look in the full-length mirror, said good-bye to two bemused animals, and drove to Onoosh's Mediterranean Caf‚ in downtown Pickax.
Onoosh Dalmathakia and her partner had come from Down Below to open their restaurant, and it had received good coverage from the Moose County Something and the Lockmaster Ledger in the adjoining county. According to the publicity, the atmosphere was exotic: small oil-burning lamps on brass-topped tables. Mediterranean murals, and hanging lights with beaded fringe. In the kitchen Onoosh herself was training local women to roll stuffed grapeleaves and chop parsley - by hand - tabbouleh. The reporter who interviewed her for the Something said she spoke with a fascinating Middle-Eastern accent that seemed just right with her olive complexion, sultry brown eyes, and black hair. Her partner had a Middle American accent, being a sandy-haired native of Kansas.
Qwilleran had not tried the restaurant before suggesting it to the banker. When he arrived, he felt transported halfway around the globe by the aroma of strange spices and the twang of ethnic music. Two waitpersons were hurrying about, wearing European farmer smocks but looking like students from the community college.
Carmichael waved from a corner booth, where he was sipping a Rob Roy. "Hard day!" he said. I needed a head start. You're my guest tonight. What would you like to drink?"
Qwilleran ordered his usual Squunk water on the rocks with a twist, explaining that it was a local mineral water, said to be the fountain of youth.
"It must be true," Carmichael said, "because you certainly look fit. How dies it taste?"
"To tell the truth, Willard it could be improved by a shot of something, but I've sworn off shots of everything."
"Call me Will," the banker said. "I should give up the hard stuff myself. I gave up smoking two years ago, but do you want to hear something stupid? I never travel in a plane without two packs of cigarettes in my luggage - for luck."
"If it works, don't apologize."
"Well, I haven't been in a plane crash, and they never lost my luggage!"
"How's your lovely wife?" Qwilleran asked. It was the polite thing to say and in no way reflected his personal opinion.
"Oh, she's all involved in decorating the new house, and Fran Brodie is really taking her for a ride. That's okay with me. Anything to keep peace in the family!"
"A wise attitude!" Qwilleran gave the sober nod of one who has been there.
"Were you ever married, Qwill?"
"Once, Period... You bought the Fitches' contemporary house, as I recall."
"I'm afraid I did - the one that looks like the shafthouse of an abandoned mine. No wonder it was on the market for three years! It's ugly as sing, but Danielle likes anything that's modern and different, so I acquiesced."
Qwilleran thought, She's spoiled; she has a mouth made for pouting, and a voice made for complaining. He asked, "How long have you two been married?"
"Not quite a year. My first wife died three years ago, and I was living alone in a big house. Then I went to Baltimore on business and met Danielle in a club where she was singing. It was love at first sight, let me tell you. She doesn't have a great voice, but she's one gorgeous woman! So I brought her back to Michigan."
"What made you move up here?"
"That's a story! I'd been wanting to get away from the fast track and the pollution and the street crime. I'd been mugged twice and had my car hijacked once, which was par for the course. But then I was robbed by a fast-food restaurant, and that was the clincher. I was ready for River City, Iowa."