As the tape unreeled in the silent room, with only the sound of the rushing river to distract, Qwilleran observed the visitors. Danielle was enjoying it; her cousin was listening more critically. At the mention of Charles Louis Jones, his eyelids flickered. As the story went on - Lucy's dowry, the gifted husband, the hasty marriage - he uncrossed his knees, set down his glass, glanced at Danielle. He was gradually getting the point, Qwilleran thought. There was more to the tale:
After the wedding the nightly sand rituals continued; so did the partying and the payments, although there was grumbling about diminishing results. Then, one night, after eating a mullet stew prepared by her sister-in-law, Lucy became ill. The same night, Charles Louis and Dora disappeared in the covered wagon, along with Lucy's dowry and certain silverplate and jewelry from the haunted houses, probably in the burlap bags. It would be easy to chuckle about this tale of haunted houses, gullible countryfolk, a glib con man, a woman posing as his sister, and a clever swindle - if it were not for the tragic ending. Lucy died, and the cause of death, according to the post mortem, was not mullet stew but arsenic.
Carter Lee's jaw clenched and he stared wordlessly at Qwilleran, who said amiably, "Did you enjoy that? Would you like to hear it again?"
The man on the sofa turned to his companion and thundered, "Go to the car!"
"Why?" she whined, pouting at her unfinished drink.
"Go and get in the car! Do as I say!"
Reluctantly she went to the foyer to put on her boots. "Forget the boots! Get our of here!" Then, as the door slammed, he said to Qwilleran, "Very funny! What kind of game are you playing?"
There was a click overhead as the levered door handle of the cats' apartment unlatched. The other door squeaked.
"An old Moose County game known as `Call the Prosecutor.' "
With one swift movement Carter Lee was on his feet and reaching for the dirk.
Qwilleran jumped out of his chair. "Hold it! There's a witness up there!" He pointed to the balcony. Koko was teetering on the railing. Wetherby was coming out of the bedroom.
In the split second that Carter Lee hesitated, a flying object dropped down on him like an eagle on a rabbit. He screamed as claws gripped his head. Half blinded by trickles of blood, he staggered toward the foyer, falling over furniture, groping for the front door, with Koko still riding on his head and howling. Qwilleran was yelling at him to get down; Yum Yum was shrieking in alarm; Wetherby was bellowing as he pounded down the stairs. It was one minute of chaos until Koko swooped to the floor and Carter Lee made it out the front door.
"Let's follow him!" Qwilleran shouted.
"We'll take my van! It's in the drive!"
They grabbed their jackets and left Koko licking his claws.
The Land-Rover splashed down River Lane and turned left to the gatehouse, then left again on Ittibittiwassee with Wetherby' s vehicle not far behind.
"Where do they think they're going?" Qwilleran said as he reached for the car phone.
"She's driving. Look at that van weaving!"
On the phone he said, "Qwilleran reporting. Suspected murderer and accomplice headed west on Ittibittiwassee in white and red Land-Rover. Male suspect has head injuries. Female driving erratically. Now three miles east of bridge. This report from pursuit car. Over."
The reply was inaudible as their tires whined through floods. Plumes of spray from the car ahead hit their windshield, and the wipers worked frantically to maintain visibility.
Qwilleran shouted above the racket, "If they get across the bridge, they'll run right into the police!"
"I'm gonna hang back a bit, Qwill. This is suicide!"
They covered the next two miles without talking. Then Qwilleran shouted, "It worked! The trick worked!"
"I heard every word."
"Let's hear it for Koko!"
"The bridge is around the next curve," Wetherby said.
"Stop on the hill."
On the crest they pulled over and parked on a muddy shoulder. From there they could see the fugitive vehicle approaching a bridge submerged except for the rails. The river was churning and roaring.
"They'll never make it."
"They're gonna try."
As they watched, a surge came downstream - a huge wave bringing tree trunks, a chunk of concrete from a culvert, and timbers from the shattered mill wheel. It was the kind of debris that would collect at a crook in the river, then suddenly let loose. The surge hit the bridge like a battering ram as the Land-Rover put on speed.
"Stupid!" Wetherby yelled.
The bridge-bed cracked and heaved and pitched the white and red van over the guardrail to be swept along in the turbulent water until it snagged on the branches of a fallen oak. There it hung, trapped between the crotch of the ancient tree and an enormous boulder.
"Can you see them, Joe?"
"No sign of life. I hope their seatbelts were fastened." The flashing lights of police vehicles came into view across the river, and the far-off sirens of rescue equipment wailed above the crashing tumult. Qwilleran called his newspaper to send a reporter and photographer. Wetherby said it would take a crane to release the trapped van, but the rescue squad could probably reach the passengers with a cherry picker.
Qwilleran said, "Let's go home and see if the surge is doing any damage."
"Yeah... and I could use one of those margaritas." The water was running high past the condos, but there was still no threat to the buildings.
While Wetherby mixed himself a drink Qwilleran checked in with Polly.
"Qwill! Where have you been?" she asked anxiously.
"I've been trying to reach you!"
"I had to go out for a while."
"They just announced that a surge coming down-stream from the Rocky Burn was diverted by a cave-in at the Buckshot mine, at least temporarily. That's why we're not flooding."
"Stay tuned," he said. "You may hear some more surprising news."
Wetherby called to him, "Shall I pour you a Squunk water?"
"No, I need something stronger," Qwilleran said.
"Open a ginger ale."
-19-
Moose County's last square inch of snow melted at 2:07 P.M. on February 15, an all-time record. The rain stopped falling; the flood waters receded; and soon the farmers would be worrying about a summer drought. On the air the weatherman said, "Come, gentle spring! ethereal mildness, come!"
"Lynette would have loved that quotation," Polly said to Qwilleran.
"It sounds familiar. Who wrote it?"
"Coleridge... I believe."
Since meeting Wetherby Goode, he had stopped making needling remarks about his literary allusions. The two men now shared a secret. They had agreed not to reveal their role in the entrapment and flight of Carter Lee James. When Brodie questioned him, Qwilleran shrugged it off. "I simply confronted Carter Lee with what I thought was the truth; he threatened me; and Koko chased him out of the house."