'It's a genuine expression of my feelings. Is there anything I can do?' Qwilleran asked.
'I'd like to tell you about a conversation Violet and I had during our last afternoon together. Would you have a few minutes?'
'By all means. We're living at Indian Village now.'
He gave Alden instructions for reaching the Willows and gave Koko instructions in how to behave.
'The poor guy has just lost his wife, Koko! Try to show some warmth, some understanding.'
Koko crept away with head and tail lowered and was not seen for the next few hours.
When Alden arrived, Qwilleran gripped his hand with feeling and ushered him to one of the loungy sofas.
The guest declined refreshments and launched into his report: 'You probably know that Violet's grandfather liked to entertain. He's the one who built the lavish guest house down the hill in the rear. It's now referred to as the Old Rock Pile - affectionately, not disrespectfully. His guests would stay two weeks or more, enjoying the outdoors during the day, then dressing up and reporting to the main house for a formal dinner and an evening of table games. Are you a card player, Qwill?'
'I'm afraid not. As a kid I played a yelling, screaming, table-thumping card game called Pit, but that's all.'
'Well, Geoffrey offered his guests a Games Gallery with a choice of a hundred table games - everything from chess to mahjongg. The young people had a choice of Old Maid, Flinch, Chinese chequers, and the like. Old-timers could play dominoes or whist. There was backgammon, Parcheesi, Monopoly -everything. This was between 1900 and 1950, you know.'
'It sounds as if you have a museum there, Alden.'
'That's what Violet said. Even the regular playing cards are in beautiful boxes: carved, hand-painted, or inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She thought a description of the gallery could be included in the text, but you'd have to see it.'
'Gladly! How about tomorrow?'
Arrangements were made. Alden went on his way. And Koko came sneaking out from underneath the sofa.
'What's wrong with you?' Qwilleran demanded.
Arriving at Polly's for dinner that evening, Qwilleran was met by Brutus, the security guard, and Catta, who had the manner of a shy hoyden.
They supervised while he set up the butterfly table along the window wall, laid it with two place settings, selected the dinner music, and fixed the cat food. Then Polly served a casserole of mixed leftovers (his not to question what) enhanced by a sprinkling of parsley and toasted almonds.
While the music system played Chopin nocturnes, they discussed the approaching weather (stormy) and the newly questioned status of Dundee.
`You see,' Polly said, 'people come in to see him and they end up buying a book. The Green Smocks swear that Dundee's professional charm accounts for fifty per cent of purchases, Tax-wise, that means we can take his food, litter, valet services, and vet fees as business expenses. Or we can make him a salaried employee and let him pay for his own upkeep and health insurance. In that case, should he have his own Social Security number and file a tax return?'
She seemed quite serious about it, so he replied seriously, `I'd hate to see the bookstore or Dundee get into trouble. Ask your accountant to take it up with the Internal Revenue Service.'
After dinner they turned off the music and discussed readings for Violet's memorial service.
Polly said she might read Byron's short poem 'She Walks in Beauty, Like the Night'.
Qwilleran said Violet reminded him of Portia in The Merchant of Venice. He could read her famous oration: The quality of mercy is not strain'd.
It was the kind of bookish evening they both enjoyed - the kind that had been missing from their lives during Polly’s indoctrination in the book business.
All at once there was a flash of electric blue that lighted the night sky surrounding the Willows. It illuminated the interior for half a second through the window wall.
'Sheet lightning,' Qwilleran said. 'Joe has been predicting violent weather for the last couple of days. I'd better go home before we get a drenching downpour.'
As he walked towards Unit Four, a van pulled up alongside the kerb, and Wetherby Goode called out, 'Want a lift?' He was on his way home from his eleven-o'clock stint at WPKX.
'Want a nightcap? After your hard work on the airwaves,' Qwilleran retorted.
'Thanks. I'll stable my horse and bounce right over there.' The sky flashed electric blue again. 'Sheet lightning,' he said.
In a few minutes he reported to Unit Four. 'Where are the cats?'
`Koko's upstairs predicting the weather. He plans to apply for your job. Yum Yum's under the sofa.- She doesn't care for lightning.'
'Who does? I gave a talk on lightning at the clubhouse last year and asked how many people enjoy electrical storms. Not one hand went up. A few said they found thunderstorms exciting provided it wasn't too loud and one had something to drink!'
'Is it true that you shouldn't stand under a tree during an electrical storm?'
'Absolutely! Lightning goes for tall targets. Trees are tall. The intense heat boils the sap and explodes the tree.'
'One more question, Joe. What exactly is sheet lightning ?'
'Sometimes the lightning flash is obscured by clouds, which are then brightly illuminated. During sheet lightning, the flash seems to come from everywhere, lighting up the whole sky. That's what we've been getting for the last hour . . . But enough of that. I learned something electrifying in Horseradish this week. I raced over there for a birthday party following my forecast, and I met the girl who was going to marry Ronnie Dickson this fall. You remember his fatal accident, Qwill?'
'I remember. The official report blamed the use of drugs plus alcohol.'
'Well, according to this girl, Alden Wade was the one who suggested uppers to Ronnie, saying they were in common use for stage fright. She and her friends think Alden wanted to get rid of Ronnie. There was a whispering campaign in Horseradish about the sniping of Mrs Wade. Alden's stepson and Ronnie were the instigators. No one knows what happened to the stepson, but Ronnie sure is out of the picture.'
'Interesting,' Qwilleran said. 'Do you buy that story, Joe?'
'Well . . . she's an intelligent girl - very serious, very sincere. Thanks for the drink, Qwill.' He jumped up. 'Gotta get home and talk to Jetboy. He's a big, strong tomcat, but when there's an electrical storm, I have to sit and hold his paw.'
'Does you credit, Joe,' Qwilleran said as he accompanied his neighbour to the front door.
When he returned, Koko and Yum Yum were sitting in the middle of the floor, regarding him intently. Their bedtime snack was past due.
Chapter 24
Qwilleran marched the Siamese up to their sleeping room on the balcony, said goodnight, and closed the door. The latter was merely an end-of-the-day gesture; Koko could open the door whenever he felt like going downstairs to watch the nightlife on the riverbank.
In the adjoining quarters, Qwilleran completed his bedtime ablutions and was settling down for a few pages of the Wilson Quarterly before lights-out, when he heard a crash downstairs and the sounds of a minor riot! He rushed up to the balcony railing and heard snarling and growling.
Qwilleran's first thought was that Koko had teased a coyote into crashing through the window wall and creating panic . . . but no! It was only Koko having a catfit, as he always did before a major storm. He swooped around and around, knocking down lamps, decorative objects, side chairs, kitchen utensils, and everything on Qwilleran's writing table.
'Koko! No!' he thundered in a voice intended to slow the cat down. Koko went on looking for havoc to create.
'Treat!' came the magic word. Koko went on rolling in the lush pile of the shag rug that was now littered with salted almonds from the nut bowl.