Why are you interested, Qwill?" "Just curious... Did Mrs.
Hasselrich ever mention any disagreement about Irma's funeral?" "Good heavens, no!" "She was buried, but Melinda said she wanted to be cremated. How come no one else knew Irma favored cremation?" "Qwill, dear, I'm afraid to ask what's on your mind." "Nothing. Just talking off the top of my head. Is there any more cake?" "Of course.
And may I fill your cup?" After a period of silence, which his hostess attributed to gustatory bliss, he said, "They say vitamin C is good for fighting colds. What kind did you take to Scotland?" "High-potency capsules, but they were too large for me to swallow comfortably." "Want me to take them off your hands?" "I'm afraid I didn't keep them, but you can buy them at the drug store," Polly said.
"Irma was complaining of a sore throat, so I offered them to her." "Did she take them?" "I don't know. I left them in the bathroom for her and never saw them again. Do you think you're catching cold, dear?" "I have a slight cough." He coughed slightly.
"This is very good cake. Did you make it?" "I wish I had time to bake. No, I bought it at Toodle's.... By the way, you didn't tell me how well the Olson girl performed." "She was scared stiff, but she knew her lines. She'll be better tomorrow night if Melinda doesn't make it." He noticed Polly glancing at her watch.
"Well, I'll pick you up tomorrow morning, same time.... What's that?" They heard sirens speeding down the boulevard, and they caught glimpses of flashing lights.
"Sounds like an accident," he said, moving toward the door like the veteran reporter that he was.
"I'll go and check... See you tomorrow!" He ran down the stairs, jogged the length of the driveway, and found neighbors standing on porches and looking westward. Walking rapidly toward the end of the street, he met a couple standing on the sidewalk--the city attorney and his wife.
"We were just coming home," said the woman, "and this car was speeding down the boulevard. There was a terrible crash." "Going eighty, at least," her husband added.
"The driver must have been crocked. Obviously didn't know this is a dead-end street, although it's posted." "Here comes the sheriff's wagon," Qwilleran said.
"They've got to cut someone out of the wreckage." He hurried toward the scene of the accident. Police floodlights were beamed on the small park, the granite monument, and the car crumpled against it.
Running back to his car, he drove home to call the newspaper. He could hear the phone ringing as he unlocked the door, and he caught it before Riker hung up.
"Qwill, I'm phoning from a gas station. If you can rustle up some Scotch, I'll be right there, with some breaking news." "Come on over," Qwilleran said.
"I've got news, too.
" Within minutes, Riker walked in, his ruddy face unusually flushed, and he was beaming. The drink was waiting for him, and the two men took their glasses to the lounge area.
"What do you think about Mildred Hanstable?" the publisher asked.
"Nice woman." "She doesn't like living alone, and neither do I. We get along very well. What do you think?" "I'd like to see you two get together," Qwilleran said with sincerity.
"It would be good `=5
" Riker tipped off the night desk in his newsroom, then said, "Any idea of the motive, Qwill? Don't tell me she died for love of you, old chum!" "I don't kid myself that it was anything like that. No, she had personal problems. Lady Macbeth was a metaphor for what was happening in her own life, in my opinion." He declined to divulge the rest of the story to the press, even though Riker was his best friend. If he discussed it with anyone, it would be with Brodie. The next morning, the opportunity presented itself. The only person in Moose County who would dare to phone Qwilleran before eight A.M. was the police chief.
He seemed to take sadistic pleasure in rousting his slow-starting friend out of bed.
"Rise and shine!" Brodie shouted into the phone.
"It's daylight in the mines! I'm on my way over to see you." Groaning and spluttering a few comments, Qwilleran pulled on some clothes, ran a wet comb through his hair, and started the coffeemaker. In short order the chief strode into the barn, looking bigger than ever as the importance of his mission added to his stature.
"Weel, laddie," he greeted his reluctant host in familiar Scots style, "the dead is risen and the mighty is fallen!
Did you hear about Dr. Melinda?" "I heard, and I saw. I was on the boulevard when the ambulance arrived. How about some coffee?" "Tell you what, pour half a cup and fill it up with hot water, and I'll be able to drink it without having a stroke... Got some more news, too.
They picked up your bus driver in London, but the loot was smuggled out of Scotland, gone to chop shops on the continent. He admitted the theft but not the murder. Do you still think he drugged her?" "No, I think Melinda was responsible for Irma's death. It was guilt that drove her over the edge." "Hmmm, interesting notion," Brodie mused.
"She left a suicide note in her apartment that didn't make much sense--all about the smell of blood and a damned spot she could never wash out." "Those were her lines in the play. It's a confession of murder." "What did she have against Irma?" "It was an accident, but she lied to cover up, saying Irma died of natural causes. She wanted the body cremated to conceal the evidence.
Then it appears that she destroyed Irma's medical records. No doubt they'd indicate that Irma did not have a heart condition." "Did you figure this out yourself? Or did your smart cat stick his nose in the case?" "Andy, you wouldn't believe what he's been doing!" "I'll believe anything after what Lieutenant Flames told me Down Below." "First, Koko let out a bloodcurdling howl at the exact moment Irma died in Scotland, and he wasn't even there! Then he shredded her obituary--another indication that something was wrong--and kept pointing his paw at Melinda. He threw a fit when he heard her voice on tape and also destroyed photographs of her. There's something else remarkable, too. Let me play you a tape if I can find it." Koko, having heard his name, came ambling out from nowhere and stationed himself between the recorder and the police chief, with an ear cocked in each direction. Fast-forwarding the tape, Qwilleran picked up fragments of his own voice: "another historic inn. I suspect.
hundreds of pictures on this trip... medical school at Glasgow..." He said, "Okay, Andy. Listen to this: his... the infamous Dr. Cream was a Glaswegian. He was the nineteenth-century psychopath who became a serial killer in England, Canada, and the United States--not as legendary as Jack the Ripper but noted for pink pills..." Koko interrupted with a stern "Yow-will-will" like a yodel, and Qwilleran snapped off the recorder, saying, "Now let me play another tape recorded on the eve of Irma's death, when Melinda came to my room, uninvited." After a few stops and starts, the following dialogue was heard: his... So I'll make you a proposition-since one has to be conventional in Moose County. If you will marry me, you can have your freedom at the end of three years, and our children will resume the name of Goodwinter. We might even have a go-o-od time together." "You're out of your mind." "The second reason is... I'm broke! All I'm inheriting from my dad is obligations and an obsolete mansion." "The K Foundation can help you over the rough spots. They're committed to promoting health care in the community." "I don't want institutional support. I want you!" "To put it bluntly, Melinda, the answer is no!" "Why don't you think about it? Let the idea gel for a while?" "Let me tell you something, and this is final. If I marry anyone, it will be Polly. Now, if you'll excuse me..." Qwilleran pressed the stop button, relieving Koko's anguish. He had accompanied the dialogue with a coloratura obbligato particular to Siamese vocal cords.