"First, let's sit down and talk for a while. I've seen them, and I've heard them," he said dryly.
"You should hear them before a race! They love to hit the trail, and they go wild when they're waiting for the starting flag."
They entered a small mobile home where they were greeted by a large, friendly, all-American, farm-type, cork-colored mongrel whose wagging tail was wreaking havoc in the tight quarters.
"Good boy!" Qwilleran said while being lashed by the amiable tail.
"This is Pop's dog," Nancy said. "Where would you like to sit?" She brushed debris from a couple of chair seats and hastily picked up litter from the floor.
"Is it okay if I tape this interview?" He placed a small recorder on a nearby table, and a swipe of the tail knocked it off.
"I'd chain him outdoors, but he'd drive the other dogs crazy," she said apologetically. "Corky! Go in the other room!" She pointed, and obediently he walked six feet away and stretched out with his chin on his paw.
"You have a way with dogs," Qwilleran complimented her. "How did you get into this specialty of yours?"
"Well, I spent a couple of years in Alaska, and when I came home I bought a sled and a pair of huskies - Siberians. They're smaller than Alaskans but stronger and faster." Her small, wavering voice became stronger as she warmed up to her subject.
"Then you're the one who started the sport here?"
"It was easy. When somebody tries dog-sledding on a beautiful winter day, they're hooked! I'll take you for a ride after we get some snow."
"How do you accommodate passengers?"
"You ride in the basket, and I ride the runners."
"Hmmm," he murmured, thinking he'd feel foolish sitting in a basket pulled by a pack of dogs. "Are all sled dogs as frisky as yours?"
"If they're good racers. A high attitude is what they should have. Mine are born to be racers, not pets, but I love them like family."
"What else makes a good racer?"
"Hard muscles in the right places. A good gait. And they have to like working in a team."
"Training them must be a science," Qwilleran said. "I don't know about that, but it takes a lot of patience."
"I believe it. How many dogs make a team?"
"I've seen as many as twenty in Alaska. I usually run eight."
"How do you drive them?"
"With your voice. They learn to take orders. Would you like a cola, Mr. Qwilleran?"
He said yes, although it ranked with tea at the bottom of his beverage list.
Nancy went on with enthusiasm as she opened a can. The shy, inarticulate, almost pathetic young woman became self-possessed and authoritative when talking about her vocation. "Each dog has a partner. They're paired according to the length of their stride and their personality. They become buddies. It's nice to see."
"Isn't it a great deal of work?"
"Yes, but I love feeding them, brushing them, socializing, cleaning up after them. Do you have dogs?"
"I have cats. Two Siamese. When do the race meets start?"
"After Christmas. We're training already. You should see us tearing around the back roads with the dogs pulling a wheeled cart! They know snow is on the way. They're getting so excited!" She showed a picture of a dog team pelting down a snowy trail; out of a total of thirty-two canine feet, only four seemed to be touching the ground.
"I believe they're flying!" Qwilleran said in amazement.
His willingness to be amazed, his sympathetic manner, and his attitude of genuine interest were the techniques of a good interviewer, and Nancy was relaxing and responding warmly. He could read her body language. Take it easy, he told himself; she's vulnerable. In businesslike fashion he asked, "Did you attend veterinary school?"
"I wanted to, but I got married instead - without telling my parents."
"How did they react?" She looked at the tape recorder, and he turned it off.
"Well... Pop was furious... and Mom got cancer. I had to be nurse for her and housekeeper for Pop." Shrugging and wetting her lips, she said, "Dan didn't want a part-time wife."
"And that led to your divorce?"
She nodded. "When Mom died, I went to Alaska to get away from everything, but dog-sledding brought me back."
"And your father - how did he react to your return?"
"Oh, he was getting along fine. He had a housekeeper three days a week and a new truck and a harvester with stereo in the cab and half a million dollars' worth of drain tile. He was a lot nicer to me than before, and he gave me a piece of land for my mobile home and kennels... I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I guess it's because you're so understanding."
"I've had troubles of my own," he said. "One question occurred to me: Is your father a gambler?"
"Just in the football pool at the tavern. He never even buys a lottery ticket... Would you like another cola?" Corky had just rejoined the group, and a swish of his tail had swept Qwilleran's beverage off the table.
"No, thanks. Let's go out and see what a sled looks like."
The seven-foot sled, like a basket on runners, was in a small pole barn, where it shared space with a snowplow, snow blower, and other maintenance equipment.
"It's made of birch and oak," Nancy said. "This is the handrail. That's the brake board down there. It's held together with screws and glue and rawhide lacing. I varnish it before each sledding season."
"A work of art," Qwilleran declared. "Now let's meet your family."
The dogs anticipated their coming. Puppies in a fenced yard were racing and wrestling and jumping for joy. The adults raised a high-decibel clamor that Nancy quieted with a secret word. They were lean, handsome, high-waisted, long-legged animals in assorted colors and markings, with slanted blue eyes that gave them a sweet expression.
"These two are the lead dogs, Terry and Jerry. They're the captains, very brainy. Spunky and Chris are the wheel dogs, right in front of the sled."
Both Qwilleran and Nancy turned as a police vehicle pulled into the yard. It was a sheriff's car, and an officer in a wide-brimmed hat stepped out.
She shouted, "Hi, Dan! This is Mr. Qwilleran from the newspaper."
Qwilleran, recognizing the deputy's reticent and almost sullen attitude, said, "I believe we've met. You rescued me after a blizzard a couple of years ago."
The deputy nodded.
"Mr. Qwilleran is going to write up my dog team, Dan."
"But we'll hold the story until after snow flies. I'll work on it and call if I have any more questions... Beautiful animals. Interesting sport. Good interview." He moved toward his car.
"You don't have to leave," she protested.
"I have to go home and feed the cats," he explained, making an excuse that was always accepted.
Nancy accompanied him to his car. "Gary says you're living in Mrs. Gage's big house."
"That's right. I'm renting it from Junior Goodwinter, her grandson." He noticed a flicker in her eyes, which he attributed to memories of the high school prom, but it was something else.
"I've been in that house many times," she said. "It's huge!"
"Did you know Mrs. Gage?"
"Did I! My mother was her housekeeper for years and years. Every year Mom took me there for Christmas cookies and hot chocolate, and Mrs. Gage always gave me a present."
"That was gracious of her," Qwilleran said. "What did you think of her?"
"Well, she didn't fuss over me, but she was... nice."
Now he had one more adjective to describe the enigmatic Euphonia Gage, and another reason to call Florida and quiz her talkative neighbor.
"Do you like apples?" he asked Nancy before leaving. He handed her a brown paper bag.
Back at the mansion he submitted to the Siamese Sniff Test. After an afternoon with Corky and twenty-seven Siberian huskies, he rated minus-zero. Their investigation was cut short by a ringing telephone.