Qwilleran grabbed both cats. "We don't want any sound effects on the tape." He carried them upstairs and shut them in their apartment.
"Will they stay there? Jet-boy knows how to operate the door handles."
"So far, they haven't figured it out, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed."
After the recording was completed and played back, Wetherby said he wouldn't mind witnessing the confrontation. "I could hide in a closet."
"You wouldn't fit. They're hardly deep enough for a coat hanger. Better to be concealed in the bedroom upstairs, with the door ajar. They'll be here at two-thirty."
"I'll be here at two. Shall I bring my handgun?"
"Whatever makes you comfortable... And one more favor, Joe. Do you happen to have any tequila?"
"No. Sorry. Only bourbon."
Late that evening WPKX broadcast a flash-flood warning. The dam on the Rocky Burn had been breached by rushing water and constant battering by tree trunks, boulders, and other debris, Und the Rocky Bum was now pouring billions of gallons into the old riverbed, through No Man's Gully and into the Ittibittiwassee. The giant waterwheel at the Old Stone Mill, dry and weakened after years of disuse, had been wrecked and the timbers swept downstream.
Immediately Don Exbridge and his staff started phoning residents, assuring them there was no need for evacuation under present conditions, but the situation was being monitored by the Disaster Commission. The manager's office would be open all night to answer questions, and the clubhouse was available as a shelter for anyone desiring company in the emergency. In the event that evacuation became advisable, the siren at the gate-house would sound and state troopers would be on hand.
Qwilleran phoned Polly. She and the Cavendish sisters planned to sit up together. "Interesting women," she said. "They're natives of Moose County, but their teaching careers have taken them all over the country. What do you think of Don's handling of the emergency?"
"He does that better than he builds condos," Qwilleran said. He himself retired to his bedroom but slept halfdressed. His valuables and basic clothing were in his luggage near the front door, along with the cats' carrier and their essentials. In the emergency he left the doors open to both balcony rooms, and sometime during the night two furry bodies climbed into his bed and were not discovered until morning.
It was the roar of the water that caused him to wake. The river was turbulent but not dangerously high - as yet. Now and then a tree sailed past like a galleon with sails furled. Over his morning coffee, Qwilleran recalled how convincingly Carter Lee had postponed publicity on his endeavors and how artfully he had introduced their post-honeymoon plans. They would sit for their portraits, work together on restoration projects, visit his mother in France, buy a summer place on Purple Point... and Lynette innocently anticipated all of it.
The first mission of the day was to find ingredients for margaritas. In his lean years, Qwilleran had moonlighted as a bartender; in this, the affluent period of his life, he took pride in his well-stocked bar and ability to mix a variety of drinks. He was not prepared, however, for margaritas. He had only salt for the rim of the glasses.
Using the phone he confirmed his fear that the liquor store in Pickax was closed, along with every other establishment. The clubhouse bar was locked because the barkeeper was marooned by the Rocky Burn deluge. When Qwilleran called Hixie Rice, she referred him to Susan Exbridge, who referred him to her ex-husband. From Don Exbridge he learned the surprising information that the Cavendish sisters had lived in southern California and had brought home a fondness for margaritas. When Qwilleran rang their doorbell, he was greeted as a hero and supplied with everything he needed for the drinks.
Wetherby Goode arrived at the promised time and was sequestered in the bedroom, with the door ajar. "Try not to sneeze," Qwilleran told him. The Siamese, glutted with a substantial meal that would slow them down, were shut up in their own apartment with the television turned on, minus audio.
Shortly after two-thirty, the Land-Rover pulled up in front of the condo, and Qwilleran greeted his guests with the right mix of solemnity and hospitality. Carter Lee was subdued, but Danielle was her usual giddy self.
"Ooh! Look!" she said, pointing at the display of weaponry on the foyer wall. Her cousin turned away in a silent rebuke.
The cordial host took advantage of the situation. Craftily he said, "Those are Scottish dirks from Gil MacMurchie's collection. He had five, but the best one was stolen during that epidemic of thievery a few weeks ago." He unhooked one from the frame and continued his lecture while ushering them into the living room. "The dirk is longer than a dagger and shorter than a sword - a very useful weapon, I'm sure. It's interesting to know that the grooves in the blade are called blood grooves. This hilt has a thistle design, which is an emblem of Scotland, but the most desirable is a lion rampant." He placed it on the coffee table in its scabbard, hoping that its presence would arouse their guilt. Then, having chafed the subject long enough, he asked, "May I offer you a margarita? I've been told I make a good one."
Both faces brightened. They were sitting on the sofa, facing the windows, and Qwilleran would be able to study their countenances. He wondered if Wetherby Goode was enjoying his performance. He proposed a toast to Lynette's memory, causing the bereaved husband to nod and look down woefully. Danielle pouted and studied the salt on the rim of her glass.
"You're wise to come home and plunge into your commitments," Qwilleran said in his avuncular style. "Work is said to be a great healer."
"It's painful but therapeutic in the long run," Carter Lee agreed. "I know Lynette would want me to carry on. I have dreams of making Pleasant Street a memorial to her, perhaps calling the neighborhood the Duncan Historical Park."
"A beautiful gesture," Qwilleran murmured, feeling hypocritical. He knew that neighboring property owners, though outwardly friendly, would resent such a designation. "I hope you're aware," he continued, "that this county has enough historic property to keep you busy for a lifetime. There are two projects in which I have a personal interest. A great deal of money is being budgeted for their restoration. First is the historic Pickax Hotel downtown, boarded up since an explosion last year."
"I've seen it," Carter Lee said. "What are the interior spaces?"
"Twenty guestrooms and many public areas, including a ballroom. The other project is the Limburger mansion in Black Creek, slated to operate as a country inn... May I freshen your drinks?"
So far, so good, Qwilleran thought as he mixed two more margaritas. The guests were relaxing. They talked easily about the flooding, and Danielle's role in the play, and the future of the gourmet club. They listened receptively to the plans for Short and Tall Tales and said, yes, they would like to hear one.
"I like ghost stories," said Danielle, wriggling in anticipation.
They listened to "The Dank Hollow" and called it sensational. As Qwilleran served another round of drinks, he said, "And now I'm going to play one that no one else has heard. It hasn't even a name as yet. I want your opinion."
A hundred years ago, when Moose County was booming and ten mines were in operation, the wealthy mine-owners built mansions in Pickax and lived in grand style on Goodwinter Boulevard. But they had an annoying problem. Their houses were haunted by the restless spirits of dead miners, buried in cave-ins or killed in underground explosions. Ghostly noises kept the families awake at night and terrified the children. A newspaper Down Below went so far as to send a reporter to Pickax by stagecoach; after investigating, he wrote about the moaning and coughing and constant chip-chip-chipping of invisible pickaxes. Shortly after the story was published, a man by the name of Charles Louis Jones drove into Pickax in a covered wagon, accompanied by a pretty young woman in a sunbonnet, his sister Dora. He said he possessed the gift of conjury and could rid the neighborhood of ghosts. He said he had worked the miracle for many communities Down Below. There was a sizable fee, but the harassed mine-owners were willing to give him anything. To do the job he asked for a pickax, a miner's hat, and several burlap bags filled with sand. The contracts were signed, and he and his sister went to work - at night, after the families had retired. She carried the pickax and chanted spells, while her brother wore the miner's hat and scattered sand in attics and cellars. After two weeks, clients reported the condition somewhat relieved and signed new contracts at a higher rate. All the while, the two strangers were treated royally, being a friendly and attractive pair. Charles Louis was particularly charming. No one wanted to see them leave, least of all Lucy Honeycutt. Her father owned Honey Hill mine. Though not the prettiest girl on the boulevard, she had the largest dowry. When Charles Louis asked for her hand in marriage, Mr. Honeycutt was flattered and Lucy was thrilled. With her handsome and gifted husband she would travel far and wide, helping other distressed communities. Dora would teach her the conjuring chants. So the marriage took place - rather hurriedly, the gossips said.